#the summary is still helping though i think

[vid-sold-to-the-saja-boys]

Never Come to a Fansigning Aroused...(Incubus Saja Boys x Reader, NSFW)

Part 1: 

Words: 5.4k

Tags: First person, gangbang, p in v, anal, blowjobs, no protection, multiple fucking creampies, reader is having her guts rearranged, dirty talk, degradation, brief instances of spanking, teratophilia, demons and incubus. Jinu is the meanest. Mystery is the neediest.

Summary: After coming to a fansigning aroused, you attract the attention of more than one demon…but rather all five of the Saja Boys. 

A/N: I will be honest. I have never written a gangbang before. There might be an imbalance between the Saja Boys. Nonetheless, I hope ya'll still enjoy the fic! It is slightly proofread but not beta read.

MINORS DNI

READER

With the note held in my hand, I frowned. What the heck did Jinu mean? I’m a delicacy that they want to eat up?

Before I could think anymore about it, hands wrapped around my waist. I gasped and dropped everything. My posters scattered everywhere in a papery whirlwind. I moved my head at the same time a chin rested against my shoulder, forcing me to press my lips against the cheek of the person who held me. 

Not just any person. 

It was Jinu. 

Jinu’s hands held my waist, his thumbs pressing gently against the dips in my hips. I’m caught off guard.

“Ji-Jinu, what are you doing?” I gasped, my body…it’s tingling with the man’s very presence. 

“You walked off before I could ask about something important.” Jinu’s nose pressed against my neck and I heard him take a deep breath in. I felt the twitch in his nose as he took the deepest inhale that I had ever heard. Was he smelling me? 

“You have a very nice perfume on. What’s it called?”

My perfume was that important to creep up behind me and scare me?

I gulped and tried to think but Jinu was so damn close that I couldn’t. There was a growing fog in my brain, like there was something in the air. Some kind of drug that was making it hard to do anything.

“I…I can’t remember, Jinu. I’m sorry. I know it’s a strawberry pomegranate scent though, if that helps.”

Jinu tsked next to my ear and shook his head. “Actually…That’s not what I’m smelling right now.”

“What…Are you smelling?” 

Jinu’s hand touched my stomach, and instinctively I straightened my back. The warmth of Jinu’s chest against my back makes me completely aware of how close Jinu is to me. Every part of him was somehow pressed against me. That’s including his crotch region. Did…He have a boner against my ass?

The hand on my stomach traveled down, slightly pushing my shirt up before traveling further. Along the way, I swear his fingertips grow longer and sharper. 

A pathetic whimper escaped my throat. “What are you doing, Jinu?”

“Finding the source of the smell, my sweet.”

Jinu’s hand plunged into my shorts. I cried out as his fingers instantly dove into my panties next. The bulge in my shorts from his massive hand forces the button of my shorts to pop off, making my clothing much looser and slip down, especially as I squirm and struggle against his body. His hand slides through my slick folds, sharp nails pressing into me before pulling out. 

“Jinu!”

I jerked, trying to pull out of the man’s arms before he finally took his hand out of my pants. I see his tongue pop out of his mouth out of the corner of my eyes, licking at fingers that looked more purple than skin-toned. Sharp yellow eyes snapped down to me, and I realized very quickly that Jinu didn’t look like Jinu anymore. Deep purple scars lined his face. I couldn't tell how far those scars went, but they dipped down his neck as well. 

I felt both scared and turned on at the sight of this more demonic-looking form. 

“Don’t worry, sweet one, I’m not the only one who looks like this,” he chuckled.

Jinu grabbed my cheeks with his wet fingers before turning my face to look to the side. With horror, I realize that the rest of the Saja Boys stand there with the same demonic get-up. How quickly had they changed before meeting me out here? How? It had been literal minutes. 

In all their pants, there were bulges of various sizes. However, Abby’s stood out particularly the most for two reasons. 1). He was fucking massive. Probably a shower rather than a grower.  2). There was a wet stain directly over the massive bulge. Oh god, was that from when I sat on his lap earlier?! Oh fuck!

I squirmed but Jinu merely chuckled against my ear. His hold on me tightened. “You see what you do to us?” The hand on my hip drags me closer and I can feel his bulge press against my ass even more. “What you do to me? Now they’re going to watch as I fuck you, and then maybe if they behave, they can have a turn with you as well.”

I couldn’t stop him as Jinu grabbed my shorts, violently yanking them down with inhumane strength. But I could still protest.

“We’re still at the meet and greet, Jinu…!”

“Who cares?”

My panties were torn off next, thrown at the other Saja Boys. Baby caught them with a smirk before he held them to his nose and mouth. 

“We could be caught!”

“Then we better give them a good show. I need everyone to see who owns you.” Jinu’s hand went to my throat, holding me up enough that I was on my tip toes now, barely able to hang onto the arm that held me. I could breathe, but barely.

He left my shirt on for some reason but my entire bottom half was exposed.

I couldn’t see it but I heard something unzip behind me. Then something large and warm prodded between my legs. Jinu made a few adjustments before warmth spread my cunt apart. 

Gasping, I looked down and could see the tip of Jinu’s cock poking out from between my legs. It was massive and purple with the same scars, and when Jinu lowered my body I watched helplessly as my oozing lips straddled the shaft. Ginormous veins nearly the same size as my pinky finger and the flesh of his cock was a different sensation grinding against me and my clit 

Erotic whimpers escaped my throat.

“You’re so wet that I don’t think you even need any lube. Besides, you can handle a little pain, can’t you?”

“Jinu, please, I…” 

“Shut up, slut.”

Jinu grabbed my upper arms on both sides, dragging me back and forth so his shaft caressed all parts of my cunt. He took another deep inhale.

“That’s what I was smelling. Your fucking cunt as it bled for us. You know, I smell when most girls come to our fansignings aroused, but yours? You smell the best of them all. I could barely wait for you to make it down that line. I almost fucked you on that table you know?” He laughed, continuing to drag me back and forth until I felt a rising orgasm. 

“Jinu, please…” I begged, my head becoming more murky. All I could think about was how good it would feel to have his cock deep inside me. How much I wanted to cum.

“There’s no begging allowed, slut. I’ll let you cum whenever I feel like you earned it,” he threatened. 

Across the room, the other Saja boys were taking turns with that pair of underwear Jinu had graciously thrown at them. They were tugging at the lacey pair like they were a pack of hungry hyenas fighting over meat. Their pants were down and all were jerking it as they smelled and licked at the wet spots. 

“Eyes forward, or on me, slut.” Jinu growled. My head snapped back forward. 

Jinu pulled his cock back, making the tip brush against my clit. 

Then he slams inside of me, bottoming out instantly. 

I shriek, my hands balling out into fists beside me. I bowed my head, panting and trying to adjust to the new burning sensation that came with his thick cock being buried deep inside my pussy. Sweat beaded down my temple and my spine, and my cunt clenches around Jinu. 

“That’s the fucking stuff…” Jinu moaned.

Pulling my arms back more until I was in a perfect arch, Jinu pulled out then slammed back inside of me, moving fast right off at the start. 

His pace is brutal and unrelenting, like a man who was starved.

His pelvis slams against my ass, his cock reaching the very end each time, punishing my cervix. I can feel as our combined juices gather at my cunt, dripping down onto the floor. The smell would rise to my nostrils. The air around us was already filled with the smell of sex. Mostly me…Fuck, that was all me wasn’t it? I was wetter than I had thought.

Small moans escaped my throat. Jinu split my cunt open like no other man had done before. 

I reached my orgasm and bit my lip, whining as I clenched around Jinu so hard that the man grunted. It must have been okay because he didn’t snap at me for cumming.

Jinu released one of my arms and instead grabbed at my shoulder. He grounded himself before slowly shoving his cock all the way inside me. He fills me with his seed with a grunt that sounded more like an animalistic growl. 

“Don’t think about it.” Jinu snapped. 

My heart jumps. I think he’s snapping at me first, until I looked at the other Saja Boys. Mystery had taken a step forward, his hand wrapped around his cock. Mystery looked to be the thickest of them all with his foreskin pulled back from the position of his hand. 

Jinu pointed a clawed at him warningly. “One more step forward and I don’t let any of you fuck,” he threated. 

Romance yanked Mystery back with one hand, his other wrapped around his thinner but still thick cock. I couldn’t tell if he had foreskin. 

Jinu pulled out of me and I whined at the loss. My legs nearly give out from the rough fucking but Jinu catches me and holds me up with one strong arm. My head rests back against his upper chest, head close to his shoulder. He moves me so I face the Saja Boys. His fingers spread my cunt open, his long taloned middle finger pushing in and then out, allowing for a flow of his cum to drip out of me. 

“Look how needy you made them, sweetheart. Should I hold you up while they take turns fucking you?”

“I…” I’m at a loss for words. 

I watched between my legs helplessly and then looked back up at the others. Romance seemed the most calm and collected which said a lot since he had a tight jaw and a focused furrow in his brow as he jerked himself off. 

Baby was hogging my panties and had them wrapped around his cock, jerking himself off directly over the former wet spot. Now those panties were completely soaked, showing off how much they had all used them. He had another lollipop in his mouth, and his eyes were focused not on me…but my cunt.

Mystery was practically frothing at the mouth like a rabid animal. I could tell that he was the one that was holding himself back the most. His cock jerked needily and he wasn’t even touching it. That thing would destroy me. 

Abby was furiously stroking himself off, hand rubbing at his head and then back down to the base. He didn’t have any foreskin so I could see his bare head, poor and swollen with precome at the slit. Cum was already spread across his abs, showing that he had jerked himself into an orgasm without even touching me. 

I gulped. 

I didn’t realize that my death would involve having sex with a group of pop idols. My cunt pulsed around Jinu’s fingers as he plugged his cum inside. 

“Fuck…She just clenched around my fingers. She loves the thought of being destroyed by us.I guess dinner is served~” Jinu cooed at the Saja Boys. 

They all exchanged glances like they were double checking their permissions. 

Mystery was the first to approach. Well, it was more of a sprint. He grabbed at my legs, lifting them off the ground before wrapping them around his narrow waist. Jinu wrapped both arms around me and lifted me, helping Mystery hold me up and suspend me in the air.

I whined as I felt Mystery’s hot cock against my abdomen before he adjusted himself. He holds the base of the monster before pressing the tip against my entrance. 

As he pressed inside me, I hissed. Jinu hadn’t even been big enough to fully prepare my poor hole for the stretch of my cunt as Mystery shoved himself inside me. I came the moment he was half inside, nearly squirting over the two men holding me. 

Jinu chuckled next to my ear. “That’s a beautiful sight. I can see right where he’s inside you.” His talons are unusually delicate as he tickled over the slight bulge in my stomach, moving in circular motions. The sensation causes my post-oragasmic body to clench and jerk against the cock inside me. The extra lube from my cum causes Mystery to slip the rest of the way up, pushing Jinu’s fingers up a little higher. 

Jinu scoffed. He spoke directly to Mystery with a dark tone, “I shouldn’t even be letting you go first, considering the stunt you pulled earlier.” 

“Sorry,” Mystery replied in a monotonous, uncaring tone. 

“Are you really?”

“No. I need to fuck her cunt before I go crazy.”

“Have at it, but don’t break her before the others get a turn.”

Don’t I get a say in this?

Mystery shifts his whole body, his hairy happy trail meeting my cunt with each thrust. He barely gave me time before he began to pound inside me, his happy trail slapping against me now.

Jinu chuckled. With every thrust from Mystery, my back was slamming against the man behind me. I could feel his still hard cock each time. 

“Nnnh…Mphm…” I whined, head thrown back against Jinu’s shoulder.

Mystery gets in my face, his body slightly bending over mine. Romance, Abby, and Baby are all standing behind him. Their yellow eyes glow with hunger.

Romance and Baby move on either side of me. They grab on both sides of my shirt, tearing it open. Their hands roam all over my body, kneading, pinching, and pulling on my breasts and my stomach. Baby is the first to lean down and wrap his mouth around my nipple, his eyes staring straight up at me. 

“She’s even more beautiful covered in sweat,” Romance sighed dreamily. He fondles my breast and pulls my nipple. 

“That she is…”

Jinu turned my face toward him. He doesn’t just kiss me, he consumes my mouth. His tongue is much longer than earlier and slides down my throat, almost making me gag.

“I can’t wait to taste that cunt,” Abby groaned from over my right shoulder, having moved there at some point. Things were happening so fast, that you could barely keep up with anything. 

“Trust me, it tastes fucking amazing.” Jinu groaned as he pulled away from my mouth, spit connecting us. 

Plap, plap, plap.

Mystery’s thrusts become more sloppy and uncoordinated. He digs his sharp nails into my thighs, his body arching more, his hips angling to thrust deeper inside me. His balls slam against my ass, wet droplets of my slick and Jinu’s cum splattering everywhere. When he pulls back, I can catch a glimpse of his face as he was angled above me. Fuck, I knew it would be beautiful.

Romance moves his face to mine, his lips pressing to mine before he shoves his tongue inside my mouth, exploring me. I let my tongue run along his, spit getting everywhere. His mouth suctions against mine, slurping up my spit before he pulls away. He lets his slender fingers travel down my nape to my clit, stroking it up and down as Mystery destroys my fucking cunt. The slick gets all over Romance’s fingers with each slam forward from Mystery. 

The thrusting lasts a few more seconds before Mystery finally growls. He shoves everyone else out of the way (except for Jinu, who was still helping him keep me up). Romance is removed from my cunt and Baby from my breast. The wetness against my nipple cools, making the flesh harden. 

Mystery shoves his cock all the way inside me, cum exploding from his cock against my sensitive walls. 

At the same time, I cum, my knees shaking. A burst of cum shoots out of my pussy, getting all over Mystery’s lower abdomen and mine. I also feel it cascading down my ass. 

“Please…! Mercy!” I sobbed as I pleaded.

Jinu scoffed. “What did I say about begging, slut? Shut your fucking mouth.”

“You’re far too rough, Jinu dear.” Romance scoffed. 

The male with the pink hair shoves Jinu by his arm, bravely pushing his leader out of the way. My body shifts before Romance takes over holding me. He holds me differently from Jinu, softly. Like I was a delicate flower that would wilt without love and care. He presses his lips against my neck, then to my cheek. 

“I would still love to have you as my model…Especially after little sessions like this,” he cooed to me. 

One of his hands disappeared under me. I tense when I feel a cock rub against my asshole. Romance shoves the leaking cum from my cunt down down before sliding deep into my asshole. 

“AHH!!” I screamed, throwing my head back. 

Romance shushes me. “Shhh, it’ll be uncomfortable, but the more you relax it’ll feel better. Just relax your body, okay love?” He whispered calmly against my ear. He was a more gentle presence next to my ear than Jinu had been. 

“I want to go again.” Mystery mumbled, hands tightening on my hips. I could tell that he was eager to continue but was waiting for Romance. 

Abby groaned. “Seriously? But you just went!” he complained.

“Let the man get it out of his system,” Jinu responded. “You know what kind of dog Mystery becomes when he doesn’t cum as much as he needs to.”

Abby groaned. “Fine.”

My mind spun. How many rounds would each man last?

Mystery didn’t have to wait much longer for his bandmate to bottom out. Romance closed the last inch of his cock inside my ass with a single hard thrust, his pelvis flush against my ass. My fingers and toes curl.

Mystery grunted and began to trust again. Romance joined him, the two silently finding a rhythm. When Romance pulled out, Mystery thrust forward. Then Romance would thrust in and Mystery pulled out. 

Drool slips out of the side of my mouth as the males use me for a while longer. Abby leans down and licks it right up. His tongue brushes against my teeth and lips.

“I wonder what it’s like to have her sucking on our cocks.” Baby leans his cheek against my chest. He takes his drenched piece of candy and draws on my flesh with it, then licks the flavorful spit trail up.

Mystery lasts for only a while longer. His sloppy thrusts become the telltale sign of being close to cumming again. Sure enough, he slams inside and cums another large load that is barely able to fit inside my already stuffed cunt. 

Romance paused for a moment, balls deep inside me but he was nowhere close to finishing himself. Panting, Mystery pressed his palm on my stomach before he pulled out, my knees shaking as he did so. If it wasn’t for Romance holding me, I would have fallen to the ground. 

Abby took Mystery’s place a second later. The tall and buff male smirked down at me. He ran a clawed finger up my inner thigh before hooking into my cunt. Mystery’s and Jinu’s cum oozed onto the finger. He admired it. 

“Now it’s my turn. I hope he stretched that fucking cunt.” Abby snarled and pumped his cock. My eyes widened at the sight of the massive cock with veins that pulsed. At this point, I was getting it mixed up on who was larger than who.

Abby pressed inside me and his cum coated pelvis met mine in an instant. There was a lewd squelch as he sheathed inside me. 

At this point, I couldn’t feel my cunt. I couldn’t feel anything as Abby bulged me worse than Jinu and Mystery did. 

“Oh sweet thing, you take us both so well,” Romance chuckled. 

“I’ve never had a cunt stretch like this without breaking.” Abby smirked. 

Romance kissed my cheek in a failed attempt to comfort me. Abby and Romance met eye contact. They smirked before they adjusted me between them, pressing closer together until I’m pretty much folded in half between them. My head is on Romance’s shoulder and my ankles up on Abby’s shoulders. 

“Fuck, you’re swallowing me, baby girl.Your cunt’s so hungry for me.” Abby smirked and started the pace. Romance and Abby aren’t as in sync as Romance and Mystery were, but they eventually find a flow that makes me see stars, another orgasm being coaxed out of me. 

Abby and Romance pressed their faces into my neck. They lick, suck, and bite the flesh until my neck was covered with so many hickies that it was just pure dark purple. Abby licks a stripe up the center of my neck before kissing me on the lips. His tongue plunges into my mouth, Romance and Abby slamming in and out of me mercilessly. 

I could barely keep my eyes open. At some point, I think I had passed out and woke up when Romance shoved his thumb into my mouth. 

“Hnng…!” Romance grunted and hilted all the way inside my asshole, releasing his seed in long quick spurts. He digs his teeth into my neck, holding me to the spot as he thrusted upward. Once he was fully inside my body, he stopped and rested inside me, plugging all his cum inside my ass. 

Abby continued his thrusting, his hands stroking up and down my legs in a soft, caressing manner. He smirked down at me. 

“Mmmm, babe, you look so sexy in my arms. You think that you can fit more of my cum inside you? You already have so many loads inside you.” His eyes flicker down to my cunt. “I’m getting it all over myself babe…Might have to press your face against my cock and let you lick it all off me.” 

Romance nuzzled his face next to my ear. He bit behind my ear and chortled softly. “He will make you do it too, baby girl, so don’t tempt him.” He rocked his hips but wasn’t fully thrusting inside me anymore. Abby was doing all the work now.

“Th-Thank you, Romance. Thank you, Abby.” I whined. I couldn’t think of anything else to say. Words stopped functioning inside my brain.

Abby chuckled. Some beads of sweat dripped down the tip of his nose, falling onto my body. He grunted and thrusted inside me, his hips shakily pounding inside me. There was a messy overflow of cum that rushed from my body when Abby came, his load lasting longer than Mystery’s, which meant that there was a lot of it. 

The male smirked and pulled half way out, watching the way the cum could barely fit inside with an entertained expression.

“See? What did I tell you? Getting all that cum all over my abs.” Abby pressed my hand against his body, forcing my fingers to spread the sticky cum, drenching his happy trail. 

Both Romance and Abby pull out, leaving me breathless. Abby holds my cheek against his chest, holding me up while my legs wobble and nearly give out again.

Romance grinned and bent over, looking as his cum and his bandmate’s cum leaked out of my body, having nowhere else to go while my womb was already so stuffed full of them all. Well, almost. Baby still had yet to be inside me. 

A hand came down on my ass. 

“Hnng!” I whined and turned my face so my cheek was still pressed against Abby but I could see what was going on behind me. Every other Saja Boy was behind me, sneering. I couldn’t tell who had spanked me, but I had a feeling that Jinu was the perpetrator since his smirk was more devilish.

Abby moved me and laid me out on the cold floor of the stage, finally letting me rest. My heels are pressed into the floor and my legs spread.

I closed my eyes, thinking I would have a moment to breathe. I just felt my own body for a moment. The sting in my vagina and in my asshole was noteworthy, and the cum leaking out of me was neverending. 

A body climbed over me, and my eyes shot open. 

Romance was on top of me. Pink hair flowed down his face and got in mine. He stroked my cheek and tucked hair behind my ear as he stroked my inner thigh straight up to my core. “We’re not quite done with you, beautiful sweet thing.” He chuckled, his pelvis slamming into mine as he thrusted into my cunt. He filled me within seconds. 

I whimpered, unable to fully moan. My throat felt too shredded and ached from screaming. 

Romance pushed my legs up by my knees, stroking the sensitive part that was on the underside of my knee. Someone grabs my ankles, and when I look up it's a smug Abby, his cock close to my face.

How many times were they going to use me…?

Baby kneels next to me, his fingers pressing against my lips. He opens my willing mouth and shoves a piece of sour candy into my mouth. I cringe, closing my eyes at the flavor. Almost immediately, a cock is shoved into my mouth. It’s stubby compared to the other males but still larger than any other regular man, still reaching the back of my throat with hardly any effort.

When my eyes opened, it had been Baby who had done the deed. He had pulled my head to the side, holding onto my hair as he thrusts in and out, spreading the taste of salt and sour back and forth over my tongue. I struggled to not swallow and choke on the candy as he used my mouth.

I clawed at the ground as Romance pounded into my cunt and Baby slid in and out of my mouth. My hands are grabbed and cocks fill them. Abby and Mystery forced me to cup them as they thrusted, using my fingers as their own personal cocksleeve. Abby now held my ankles with one hand. All of my holes, except my asshole, were being used. If only Jinu had laid down first before Romance had pounced on me…

Fuck, I’m such a fucking whore. 

Romance doesn’t last long before he cums again. He barely has time to lean down and kiss me before Jinu pulls him away by his hips. 

“Hey!” Romance snarled. 

“If you step in the way of me being inside of her, I will rip your fucking head off,” Jinu snarled back at the male, pointing a clawed finger at the man. 

This made the other Saja Boys back off from me. My legs fell back down on the ground, shaking.  

Baby pouted. “I still haven’t been inside her. When is it going to be my turn?”

“You can have her after me. Just shut up right now.” 

Jinu grabbed my hips. I am weak as he pulls me to my hands and knees. I’m barely able to hold myself up even with my hands bracing on the ground. Jinu pulled my ass into the air and slammed into my sopping cunt. 

“You’re stretched out, my little slut.” Jinu smirked and shoved his thumb into my asshole, using it as leverage for his brutal thrusts. He pulls me back and forth against his cock, forcing the entirety of it inside before pulling out. 

My flushed cheek feels amazing against the cool ground but it doesn’t last long. Baby grabbed my face and yanked me off the floor. He shoved his cock back into my mouth. Jinu and Baby spit roasted me right there. I propped myself on Baby’s thighs, holding them as he thrusted back and forth, his cock hitting the back of my throat. I tasted the leftover sour candy on his cock. 

Mystery came closer, kneeling next to Baby. He stroked his cock back and forth, pushing his foreskin back and forth. Baby paused briefly and smirked down at me as Mystery brought the tip of his cock toward my mouth, shoving it inside as well. 

“Look at that…she can take two cocks in her mouth at once.” Jinu laughs. He brings a hand down against my ass again. “That’s something special.”

“I’m just glad it’s my cock,” Mystery mumbled.

I gag. I drool. When Jinu thrusted forward, it forced me to take the two cocks further. Tears welled at the overwhelming sensations that came from every direction, especially when Jinu added fingers to my clit, swiping it back and forth. 

How was it that the more they all fucked me, that they got more energized?

Romance and Abby took my hands and placed it on their cocks. They pull my hands back and forth on them. My arms are weak but eventually I got the message and stroked them myself. Now. I was somehow pleasuring each of the Saja Boys at the same time.

Nothing was going to be normal after this. 

I would never be the same after having the Saja Boys in all my holes. 

My holes would always be wrecked for anyone else. 

Cum comes from everywhere. It floods my mouth, it gets on my back and my hair, and Jinu fills me up again. 

This time, no one catches me when I collapse to the ground as the three men pull away. 

I whined when Abby dragged me closer to him, pulling me into his lap. “Don’t worry babe…I have at least one more load in me for you…” He stroked my cunt, flicking it until I was almost convulsing in his lap.

“Hey!” Baby snapped at the man, who paused his ministrations on my clit. “I still haven’t been inside her cunt once. If you’re going to use her, you better use your ass, because I need a fucking turn.” The male growled. 

“That’s fine with me,” Abby compromised calmly. 

Abby pushes into my asshole, spreading my legs open for Baby, who positioned himself between my legs before thrusting inside me. Baby moaned and pressed his lips against mine, happily thrusting and using me alongside Abby. I was mush but I did my best to kiss Baby back, my tongue swirling with his, tasting all the candy he had eaten that night. 

My hands are filled, each Saja Boy taking turns having their cocks on or in me. It’s all a messy blur as they switch out. One cock is in my hand before suddenly it’s another. I couldn’t keep up.

Abby cums before Baby and pulled out. Baby grabbed at me and flipped me so I straddled Abby’s abs. Baby thrusts back inside me but inside my ass this time. As he thrust forward, he forced my cummy cunt to spread against Abby’s abs, making a bigger mess and spreading it all over himself. 

“Fuck babe.” Abby rested both arms cockily behind him as he watched me with glee. 

Cum hits my back. It gets everywhere all over me, covering me in a thin sheet of sexual fluids. It fills my mouth, forever changing my tastebuds. 

When my eyes lock forward, I see Jinu standing next to Romance. Both their cocks are half hard. The males were smirking, nowhere close to being done with me. “Maybe we should take her home and keep her.” Jinu crossed his arms. “She can be our constant supply of sex and powers.”

“I agree.” Romance held his chin. 

My eyes were torn away from them when Mystery shoved himself into my mouth again, holding the back of my head as he thrusted in and out of me. I close my eyes and suck on his cock. I don’t have any other choice.

I don’t know when I pass out. But when I wake up, plugs are in my holes but otherwise I’m clean and no longer covered in fluids. 

I’m also somewhere else entirely. An arm is draped across my chest, and when I look - The Saja Boys are all in one bed, asleep next to me. 

Main blog/Commissions/Social Media

Tags: @amery-benson-cvii @pinkpuppipawz @moonjellyfishie @the-wild-tomato @alleakimlala @cheyplayss-blog (if I tagged the wrong person or forgot you I’m so sorry. I like triple checked myself because I’m so paranoid.)

[shortnspidey]

BED CHEM

Bob Reynolds X Female!reader || WC: 10.4K

SUMMARY: Thanks to your ever-so-helpful teammates, the charity Gala is long forgotten. Now, all you and Bob can think about is getting back to the tower, to finish what you started, with every intention of making up for lost time… over and over again.

WARNINGS: INCLUDES SMUT (18+) Essentially porn with a plot, unprotected p in v (wrap it up), fingering, body worship, multiple orgasms, lots of sexual tension, cursing, slight praise kink, lots of pet names, possessive!Bob, oral (fem receiving), slight dirty talk, lots of fluff, slight angst if you squint, lovesick idiots making up for lost time!

A/N: The long awaited part two to miss possessive, but can still be read as a standalone! Second time writing smut, I’m still on the fence about it… I am open to suggestions and recommendations on how I can make this better! Also, I'm way too single to be writing this! Thanks for all the love on the first part!! Divider by @luxifrv <3

➩ main masterlist

➩ bob reynolds masterlist

The sexual tension between you and Bob hung heavy in the air, thick and humming with electricity, the kind that made the skin prickle and the breath catch. It was the kind of tension that made conversations falter and eyes linger too long. Anyone paying even half attention could see it; anyone oblivious might chalk it up to flirtation, but this was something far more dangerous, far more desperate. It was need, barely caged.

After being caught on the balcony, flushed, breathless, clothes just slightly disheveled, you and Bob had mustered just enough restraint to play it cool. At least on the surface. But it was a performance, and not a very convincing one. You sat side by side back at your table, posture composed, smiles polite, but beneath the surface, it was chaos. Bob’s hand had migrated beneath the white linen of the tablecloth, firmly anchored to the bare skin of your thigh through the slit in your dress.

His touch wasn’t subtle, not really, fingers splayed possessively, thumb occasionally pressing into the soft curve of muscle like he needed a reminder you were real. Every now and then, he gave your thigh a slow, deliberate squeeze, as though testing your resolve. The action earned him a sharp inhale from you each time, barely concealed by a sip of champagne or a forced laugh at some irrelevant conversation.

His eyes, usually such a calm, clear blue, had darkened, smoldering with gold under the warm lights of the gala. The glint of restraint flickered in them like a fuse burning toward the end. You saw it in the tightness of his jaw, the way his tongue flicked over his bottom lip, the way he blinked just a second too long when your skin shifted beneath his hand. Your own hand was lazily sprawled atop his, manicured nails lightly dragging over the thick veins that snaked across the back of his hand.

Your fingers dipped beneath the cuff of his suit jacket, brushing just above his wrist, feeling the thrum of his pulse, fast, heavy, barely contained. That midnight black suit hugged him in all the right places, tailored to perfection and doing absolutely nothing to cool the fire raging between you. “Oh my god.” Yelena scoffed under her breath, tipping back the rest of her champagne with the finesse of someone deeply unimpressed.

Ava snorted beside her, trying and failing to contain her laughter. “They’re gonna combust before dessert.” Walker grimaced, eyes darting between you and Bob. “Do they even remember we’re here?” You heard the whispers, barely. Something about eye-fucking and what have we done, but none of it mattered. Bob’s fingers had flexed just a little tighter against your thigh, and your focus had tunneled down to just him.

His hand on your thigh, his scent, and the faintest growl in his throat when your fingers ghosted over a particularly sensitive spot near his wrist. Then came the unmistakable sound of keys jingling, the break in your lust-drunk haze. Your eyes flicked up, still hazy, to find Bucky on the other end of the table, pinching the bridge of his nose like he was physically in pain. “For fuck’s sake,” He muttered, digging the car keys out of his pocket like they personally offended him.

His tone had the weary edge of an exasperated dad catching his kids making out at a dinner party. Bob didn’t even flinch. He just kept his hand on you like it belonged there. “It’s blatantly obvious neither of you want to be here,” Bucky grumbled, eyes narrowing. “I can’t believe I’m even saying this, but do not have sex in the SUV.” He tossed the keys across the table, a smooth arc of silver and sound, and Bob snatched them out of the air with an effortless one-handed catch, his eyes never leaving yours.

The way his fingers closed around them, all calm and sure and controlled, sent a thrill down your spine. That shouldn’t have been hot. But oh, it was. Walker groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “Please, for all our sanity, just get it out of your systems before we get back to the tower. I’m begging you.” You opened your mouth, a biting retort halfway to your tongue, but Bob moved first. Smoothly, he rose from his chair and reached for your hand, lacing your fingers together like it was the most natural thing in the world.

The keys disappeared into his pocket with one practiced motion as his other hand settled on the open back of your dress, the heat of his palm searing against your bare skin. “C’mon, pretty girl. We have a lot of lost time to catch up on.” He coaxed low, voice brushing against the shell of your ear like velvet-wrapped in sin. Your heart slammed against your ribs as he guided you away from the table, past the stares, the laughter, the not-so-quiet commentary. His grip on your back was firm, possessive, leading you through the crowd with one goal in mind.

As soon as you made it to the car, Bob’s self-restraint snapped like a rubber band stretched to its limit. Before you could blink, he was on you, all heat and hunger, lips crashing against yours in a kiss that was anything but gentle. It was searing, raw, full of all the want he’d been choking down for hours. He pressed you against the side of the SUV, one hand cupping your jaw, the other planted firmly on your hip, dragging you flush against him. Your back hit the cool metal, but the chill didn’t register.

Not when he was devouring your mouth like he’d been starved for you. His lips were soft but demanding, moving with a kind of desperation that sent your pulse skyrocketing. You gasped against his mouth, and he took full advantage, slipping his tongue past your lips to deepen the kiss. It was messy and intoxicating, a perfect reflection of the tension that had been simmering between you all night. His tongue moved with purpose, sliding against yours in a rhythm that had your knees buckling and your fingers digging into the lapels of his suit.

A low, guttural sound rumbled in his chest when your hands slid up and tangled into his hair, gripping the soft, thick strands. You tugged, just enough to tilt his head back, to pull him away for a breath of air and a half-second to think straight.“B-Bob,” You muttered between kisses, breathless, dazed, your lips swollen and tingling. You looked up at him through heavy lashes, trying to speak, trying to anchor yourself in the chaos of his touch. His lips ghosted along your jaw, trailing hot kisses to the corner of your mouth, to the pulse hammering in your throat.

“Sweetheart,” You finally breathed, your voice barely more than a whisper. “The car.” The cold metal of the SUV groaned faintly beneath your back, the frame flexing under the sheer force of him. You could feel the weight of him, the power behind his restraint, the way the vehicle almost yielded to it, and God, it made your breath hitch. His forehead fell to yours, and for a moment, he just stood there, panting, trembling slightly, trying to collect himself.

“S-Sorry.” He muttered sheepishly, though the arm still wrapped around your waist betrayed zero intention of letting you go. You let out a breathless laugh, your fingers still threaded through his hair, tugging just enough to make his eyes flutter shut. "We’re still in public, and you look about two seconds from taking me right here.” He groaned, pressing a kiss to your neck, one that lingered a little too long to be innocent. “Two seconds is generous.” You cupped his face, forcing him to look at you. “Take me home, Bob."

He didn’t need to be told twice.

It was a miracle the SUV didn’t end up wrapped around a streetlight on the drive back to the Watchtower. Every red light was a special brand of hell, a cruel interruption in a ride already strung so tight with tension it felt like the air itself might snap. Bob’s hand never once left your thigh. It slid up, then down in a slow, maddening rhythm, each pass of his fingers dangerously close to the hem of your dress, skimming the soft skin there like he was memorizing it.

Your breath hitched with every movement, your jaw clenched tight to keep from moaning out loud. You bit down on your lower lip until it stung, desperate not to make a sound, knowing that if you did, it would all be over. You’d climb into his lap and Bucky’s warning would become a distant memory. You could feel the restraint radiating off Bob, and you could see it too. His knuckles were bone white against the steering wheel, veins raised and pulsing. His jaw flexed again and again, clenched so tight you worried he might crack a molar.

Every time a car in front of him slowed or braked unnecessarily, he swore under his breath, chest heaving, thigh jumping beside yours like the tension was crawling beneath his skin. The SUV dipped into the underground parking garage and the second the tires cleared the ramp, Bob was throwing it into park, slightly crooked, barely between the lines, and unbuckling with a speed that bordered on reckless. He was out of the driver’s seat before the engine had fully shut off, the slamming door echoing against concrete walls.

You blinked, dazed and burning, as your door flew open. Bob stood there, tall and flushed and wrecked, his tie askew, hair mussed from your fingers, eyes blown wide with hunger. He extended a hand toward you, palm open, fingers twitching like he needed to be touching you again. You didn’t hesitate. Your fingers slid into his and he pulled you from the seat like you weighed nothing. The moment your feet hit the ground, regret surged, your heels bit into the soles of your feet, muscles screaming from the long night.

You winced, hissing under your breath as your ankle wobbled slightly. Bob didn’t miss it. He didn’t miss anything when it came to you. Before you could protest, his strong arms wrapped around you, and with effortless grace, he scooped you up bridal style. “Bob! I can walk on my own!” You gasped, half-laughing, half-mortified, fists lightly pressing against his chest. “You’ve done enough of that tonight.” His tone was low, rough around the edges, frayed from everything he was holding back.

One arm cradled your back, the other slipped beneath your knees, holding you securely against his chest as he strode toward the elevator. His scent was everywhere, clean soap and something sharp and male that made your thighs clench involuntarily. Even inside the elevator, he didn’t let you go. You took advantage of the moment, snuggling deeper into him, arms thrown around his neck as your lips found the warm skin beneath his jaw. You nuzzled into the hollow there, open-mouthed kisses marking a trail from the hinge of his jaw to just below his ear.

You felt his pulse quicken beneath your tongue, the throb of it hammering against your lips. He cursed under his breath, his grip tightening around you. Your smirk deepened against his skin as you continued your assault, slow and deliberate, your teeth scraping just enough to make him groan, low and barely audible, the sound echoing in the small space between you. By the time the elevator chimed for the eighth floor, both of you were practically vibrating.

The doors slid open. Bob stepped into the hallway with purpose, but before he could take another step, he paused. Carefully, he lowered you to the floor like you were the most precious thing he’d ever held. You blinked up at him, chest rising and falling, lips still parted from where you’d been about to kiss him again. Then he dropped to one knee. Your heart stuttered, but it wasn’t what you thought. His hands found your calves, large and gentle, and he slid them upward slowly, just until he reached the buckle of your heel.

He undid it with quiet precision, then repeated the action on the other side. The shoes dropped to the floor with twin clatters, and the relief in your feet was immediate. But your breath caught for a different reason. He rose slowly, until he stood at full height, towering over you again, body solid and commanding, eyes molten. One hand found your arm, sliding up slowly, leaving goosebumps in its wake. When he reached your cheek, he cradled it, thumb sweeping over your flushed skin as if grounding himself with the feel of you. He didn’t speak. He didn’t need to.

His other arm circled your waist, and before you could inhale, your feet left the floor again. You gasped, arms tightening around his shoulders, instinctively wrapping your legs tightly around his waist. “Bob!” You squeaked through laughter, your voice high with surprise, but laced with something else, want, thick and trembling in your throat. He didn’t stop. His hands found your thighs as he adjusted your weight, pressing you tighter against him. You could feel him, hard and hot and pulsing through his slacks, pressed right up against the very center of your aching core.

You swallowed a moan, head falling forward to rest against his. Your bodies molded together as he moved down the hall, pace steady, steps heavy with intent. The door to his bedroom loomed ahead, and the second it swung open, there’d be no holding back. The second Bob crossed the threshold into his bedroom, the last threads of restraint disintegrated. The door slammed shut behind him with a solid thud, and before you could even gasp, your back hit it, hard enough to rattle the frame.

A startled breath flew from your lungs, but it was immediately swallowed by his mouth crashing against yours. His hands were everywhere. Hot, greedy palms slipped beneath the slits of your gown, fingers splaying wide over your thighs, dragging upward, bunching the silky fabric at your hips. The grip he had on you was filthy, possessive, almost primal, like he needed to remind himself that you were here, in his arms, wrapped around him with no more interruptions.

You moaned into the kiss, arms clinging to his broad shoulders, nails digging through the material of his suit jacket. Your fingers found his hair again, thick and soft, brown strands slick with sweat from the heat between you, and you yanked, desperate to pull him even closer. He groaned into your mouth, deep and wrecked, hips bucking forward as your legs locked tighter around his waist. The movement ground his hardness right against your aching core, and the jolt of pleasure that shot through you made your entire body tremble.

“This dress…” His voice cracked as he pulled back just enough to look at you, his gaze raking down your body like it physically hurt him to not be touching every inch of you. “Fuck, Y/N. It’s been torturing me all night.” You rolled your hips against him, slow and deliberate, the friction igniting sparks behind your eyes. “You like it?” You ran a hand slowly down the front of the gown, over the curve of your breast, down your stomach, to where the slit exposed your thigh, as his eyes tracked every movement.

“I do,” He whispered immediately, reverently, like you were the only thing in the world that mattered. “But right now?” His lips brushed the corner of your mouth, hot and needy. “I want it on my bedroom floor.” Then he kissed you again, and this time, it was filthy. There was no hesitation, no careful build-up. His mouth crashed into yours, tongue sliding deep, claiming and demanding. He kissed like a man drowning, all teeth and tongue and panting breaths between moans.

You answered with equal fervor, lips parting willingly, tongues tangling as your hands clawed at his jacket, yanking it off his shoulders. He groaned when your nails scraped down his arms, leaving raised lines in their wake, and he practically ripped the dress up over your hips, hands groping your ass with both palms as he lifted you higher. Your back arched, pushing your chest into him, and his mouth broke from yours to trail down your jaw, then your throat, where he bit down just hard enough to make you gasp, a mark left behind as proof.

“You don’t even know,” He growled into your skin, voice dark and trembling. “How long I’ve been waiting to get my hands on you like this. To taste you. To worship you.” He pressed you harder against the door, hips grinding up between your thighs, and your head tipped back with a moan that echoed off the walls. His mouth found the swell of your chest, exposed where the neckline of your gown dipped low, and he licked a path across your skin before biting down lightly, tugging the strap down with his teeth.

You gasped, hips bucking into him. “I’ve got you.” He breathed against your collarbone, licking the mark he just left. The dress slipped off your body like it had been waiting for this moment, pooling at your feet in a ripple of midnight silk, forgotten the instant it left your skin. Bob took a single step back, just enough to look at you, really look. The breath caught in his throat like it hurt to hold it. You stood there, back pressed to the door, bare but for a pair of barely-there baby blue lace panties, the delicate kind that clung to you like a whisper, nearly transparent.

The gown had been backless, which meant no bra, your breasts exposed to him in the soft amber light of the room, nipples peaked and sensitive from the friction of the dress and the weight of his stare. Bob’s gaze raked over you like he might die if he blinked. The blue in his eyes vanished, swallowed by molten gold as pure hunger overtook him. His chest rose with a slow, shaking breath, and then all at once, the dam broke. A low, feral growl tore from his throat, and he was on you again, pinning you back against the door with his full body, heat radiating from every inch of him.

One hand grabbed the back of your thigh, hiking your leg around his hip, while the other moved to cup your breast, thumb brushing over the soft skin, then circling your nipple with aching slowness. “Fuck—” He breathed, voice wrecked, eyes never leaving your chest. “No bra. You were walking around all night like this.” You smirked, breath hitching when he bent his head to capture your nipple in his mouth, sucking hard enough to make your knees buckle. He growled, switching sides, giving the same treatment to your other breast, his tongue lapping over the sensitive bud.

You whimpered, fingers threading through his hair again, holding him close as he devoured your skin. His hands were everywhere, sliding up your ribs, down your sides, gripping your hips hard enough to bruise. He dropped to his knees in front of you, big hands dragging slowly down your thighs, lips brushing over your stomach with featherlight kisses that made your belly twitch. His mouth hovered just above your waistband coming face to face with the baby blue lace.

His nostrils flared, the gold in his eyes burned. “Were you trying to kill me?” He rasped, voice thick with disbelief and pure, unfiltered lust. Your head hit the door with a soft thud, chest heaving, hands still buried in his hair. “Maybe a little.” He exhaled a shaky breath against the inside of your thigh. “You have no idea what you’ve done to me.” Then he hooked his fingers in the waistband and dragged the lace down your legs slowly, reverently, like it was a sacred act.

He kissed the inside of your knee as he helped you step out of them, then trailed a line of open-mouthed kisses all the way back up, tongue flicking teasingly across the crease where your thigh met your core. He stood again, eyes roaming every inch of your bare body, worship in every line of his expression, even as lust darkened it beyond recognition. “I’ve waited months for this,” He muttered, voice trembling as he reached for you. “To touch you. To taste you. To make you come so many times you forget your own name.”

You didn’t resist when he picked you up again, just wrapped your legs tight around his waist and kissed him like you were starving, moaning into his mouth as his hands roamed over every inch of you. His lips broke from yours only to mouth down your neck, teeth dragging gently across your collarbone, over the swell of your breast again, like he couldn’t get enough. Then he was laying you down on the bed, lowering you onto the cool sheets like you were something precious.

He hovered over you for a moment, eyes drinking you in, chest shuddering with the effort it took not to lose control. But that control was long gone. All the tension of the last few months, the glances, the brushes of hands, the stolen moments and the aching silence, it all snapped loose in a flood of raw need. Bob settled between your thighs like he’d done it a thousand times in his dreams. His large hands slid under your thighs, hooking just beneath your knees to gently tug you closer to the edge of the bed until you were right where he wanted you, legs parted, exposed, breath stuttering in anticipation.

He paused for a moment, not out of hesitation, but reverence. You felt the weight of his stare like a touch, his golden eyes devouring the sight of you spread out before him. Lips slightly parted, brow furrowed like he was trying to memorize every detail. “You’re perfect,” He murmured, voice hoarse, wrecked. “So fucking beautiful.” Before you could even process a response, his mouth was on you. It started with a kiss, soft and slow, lips parting over your center, tongue flicking out to taste you like he’d been starved for it.

He groaned low in his throat the second he did, the sound vibrating straight through your core. It wasn't rushed. Bob kissed you like he had all night to be between your thighs, like the only thing on his mind was unraveling you with his mouth. One of his arms wrapped under your thigh, hand splayed across your stomach, keeping you grounded as he began to work. His tongue moved deliberately, broad strokes through your folds, gathering every bit of slick, savoring it.

Every now and then, he pulled back just to blow a soft breath over your soaked flesh, smirking when you whimpered and bucked your hips toward his face. “S-Shit!” You breathed, hips lifting instinctively. He growled again, the sound raw and full of pride, before diving back in with a new kind of focus. His mouth closed around your clit and sucked, hard, pulling a cry from your throat that echoed off the walls. He circled the sensitive bud with the tip of his tongue, relentless and devastating, alternating pressure and speed until your back arched completely off the bed.

One of your hands flew to his hair, fingers digging in deep, trying to ground yourself, but he didn’t falter. If anything, it only spurred him on. Bob shifted slightly, flattening his tongue and lapping at your entrance, slow and filthy, like he was drinking you in. Then he slid two fingers inside you without warning, thick, calloused, curling just right as his mouth latched back onto your clit with unwavering purpose. Your moan shattered into a broken sob. The stretch was perfect. The rhythm was deadly.

His fingers pumped in time with his tongue, and the wet sounds filling the room were obscene, echoing between your own breathless cries and the soft curses spilling from his mouth between licks. “That’s it,” His voice was nearly feral. “Give it to me, baby. Let me have it.” Your vision blurred. Your thighs trembled. The knot in your belly tightened so fast and so hard it nearly hurt. He flicked his tongue faster, precise and merciless, while his fingers curled with every thrust, pressing against that sweet, devastating spot inside you that made your entire body clench.

“I’ve got you,” He growled against your clit, the words muffled by how tightly he kept his mouth on you. “Let go, pretty girl. Give it all to me.” You shattered. The orgasm tore through you like lightning, stealing the breath from your lungs as your hips jerked off the bed, thighs trembling around his head. You cried out, legs threatening to close around his face, but Bob didn’t stop. If anything, he held you open, arms wrapped around your thighs to keep you spread, tongue still lapping at you gently as you rode out every last pulse of pleasure.

He groaned, pressing kisses to your twitching inner thigh, breath hot against your soaked skin. “Fuck, you taste heavenly.” Your chest heaved as you tried to blink your vision back into focus, muscles trembling, heart pounding somewhere near your throat. And when he finally rose up, mouth still glistening, hair wild from your fingers, eyes burning molten gold, he looked completely wrecked. “That,” He rasped, voice like sin, dragging his mouth along your thigh as he slowly climbed up your body. “Was just the beginning.”

You collapsed back against the pillows, body still trembling, lungs working overtime to drag in oxygen. Your bare chest rose and fell in uneven waves, skin dewy with sweat, tingling from every place his mouth had touched, every place he hadn’t yet. Your thighs were slick, still twitching from the force of your orgasm, but Bob was nowhere near finished with you. He knelt at the edge of the bed like he was praying, gaze dark and heavy, locked on your naked form sprawled out across his sheets. He hadn't stopped looking at you since he'd dropped to his knees.

There was awe in his eyes, like he couldn't quite believe you were real. Your mouth curved into a dazed, breathless smirk as your eyes dragged down to take in his clothes. The rumpled white button-up still clung to his broad shoulders, sleeves rolled halfway up his forearms, top few buttons undone from the drive over. The charcoal slacks hung low on his hips, belt gone, zipper down, the outline of his cock still straining against the fabric beneath. “You’re sill wearing too many clothes,” You murmured, voice rasping in your throat. “Not exactly fair.”

You gestured lazily to your thoroughly ruined, fully nude body. That grin, the slow, crooked one that always made your stomach flip, spread across his flushed face. “Guess I am.” He pushed off the bed and stood at the edge, hands moving to loosen his already-untied tie, slipping the silk from his collar and tossing it aside with a flick of his wrist. Next came the shirt. One button at a time, deliberate, teasing, he undid it, eyes locked on yours the entire time. When he shrugged it off his shoulders, the fabric fell to the floor like a whisper.

You sat up slightly, unable to stop your eyes from drinking him in. God. You’d seen Bob shirtless before, a handful of stolen glances during training sessions with Bucky or Walker, but never like this. Never for you. His chest was broad, golden skin stretched tight over firm muscle, each line cut with effortless definition. His abdomen was all ridged planes, dusted with a trail of dark hair that led down past the waistband of his slacks. His forearms flexed as he moved, thick with muscle and veined, the kind of arms you wanted wrapped around you forever.

You licked your lips without thinking. “You’re staring.” He teased, voice low, pleased. “Can you blame me?” Your voice was hoarse, eyes slowly trailing up from the sharp V of his hips to the deep curve of his pecs, the freckle on his left shoulder you always wanted to kiss. “You look like sex and sin and everything I’ve ever wanted.” That grin faltered, only slightly, replaced with something deeper. Rougher. His eyes darkened again, chest rising with a sharp inhale. Then he dropped his slacks, leaving only his boxers between you and everything.

The bulge there was impossible to ignore, thick and heavy, pressed tightly against the fabric, a dark wet patch beginning to form where the tip strained. But he didn’t rush. He climbed back into bed like a man approaching holy ground. Kneeling beside you again, his hands found your ankles, thumbs sweeping slow circles along your skin as he gazed up at you, hair wild, lips swollen, cheeks flushed. “You know…” He murmured, voice roughened to gravel. “No one else will ever make you come like that.” You arched a brow, both intrigued and ruined. “Confident, are we?”

He climbed up your body with delicious slowness, kissing a path up your leg as he went, calf, knee, thigh, inner thigh, skipping your core just to hear you whine again. When he reached your stomach, he lingered, tongue flattening to lick a hot stripe up the center of your torso, before placing open-mouthed kisses between your ribs, across your hip bones, over the softness of your belly. “Not confidence,” He murmured, lips brushing over your sternum. “Just stating a fact.” He hovered over you now, forearms bracketing your head, his weight suspended but radiating heat.

One hand trailed up the length of your arm until his fingers laced with yours, grounding you. His other hand slipped down between your bodies, cupping your core again, this time with reverence. “Only I know what you sound like when you fall apart,” He rasped, fingers finding your slick folds. “Only I get to taste you, hear you beg, feel you clench around my tongue.” His fingers circled your clit slowly, featherlight, maddening. “Only I get to watch you lose your mind like that.”

Two fingers slipped inside again, this time smoother, easier, the afterglow of your orgasm leaving you soft and warm and wet for him. He pumped slowly, deliberately curling them deep inside you, watching your expression shift as he mapped every reaction. You gasped, hips twitching, nails clawing into his bicep as his mouth returned to your breasts, this time slower, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his fingers worked you with aching precision.

He pulled back just far enough to watch your face, to see every tiny twitch of your mouth, every arch of your back, completely drunk on your pleasure. “Yeah. That’s it. You’re mine like this, baby. No one else gets this.” You nodded, barely coherent, thighs already starting to tremble again. The pressure inside you curled hot and tight, your body helpless to resist him. He kissed up your chest, your neck, your jaw, finally claiming your mouth in a kiss that was slow and deep and intimate. His fingers didn’t stop.

They moved faster now, finding that perfect spot again as his palm ground against your clit, relentless, wicked. “Come for me again,” He whispered against your lips, voice thick with devotion. “I need it. Need to feel you fall apart around me one more time before I lose my fucking mind.” And you did. Harder than before, messier, deeper, thighs clamping around his hand as your vision blanked out completely. Your second orgasm hit you like a freight train, tearing through your already-used nerves, your entire body curling into his.

Bob didn’t stop holding you. Didn’t stop kissing you. Didn’t stop worshipping every twitch, every moan, every breathless sob of his name. Your body was still trembling when his fingers slipped free, slow and careful, as if he were afraid to overstimulate you, but the look in your eyes said otherwise. Lashes fluttering, lips kiss-bitten, breath still ragged in your throat as you blinked up at him. “Your turn.” You breathed, voice saccharine sweet, laced with every ounce of affection and hunger you felt for him.

Your hand moved between your bodies, fingers brushing his abs, dipping lower toward the waistband of his boxers. Bob caught your wrist before you could get there. Not rough. Gentle. But firm. Your brows lifted, confused, until you saw the way he looked at you. His thumb brushed the inside of your wrist, warm and grounding. “Next time,” He promised, voice low and full of something deeper than just desire. “You’ll have all of me. Every inch. But right now, I need to be inside you before I combust.”

The promise in those words, next time, made your stomach flutter. Your lips parted around a soft gasp, eyes flickering down to where his hand held yours. You bit your lip, smile pulling at the corners of your mouth as anticipation sparked in your chest. You leaned up, pressing a kiss to his jaw, letting your lips linger against his stubbled skin. “I’m gonna hold you to that.” His body shifted, slow and deliberate, hovering over you as he finally, finally, peeled down his boxers, freeing himself.

Your eyes dragged down between your bodies, and what you saw had your breath stalling in your throat. Thick. Long. Hard. Flushed dark at the tip and already leaking. You whimpered, spreading your legs wider as he settled between them, your hips tilting up to meet him. Bob grabbed his cock, ran it through your slick folds, coating himself in your arousal. His hand gripped your hip, the other fisting the sheets beside your head, knuckles white. “You ready for me, pretty girl?” His voice cracked around the edges, like even he couldn’t believe how long he’d waited for this.

"Please," You nodded, breathless, lips parting. “I need you, Bob.” His mouth crushed against yours as he pushed in, slow and thick and deep, stretching you open inch by inch until he was fully seated inside you, buried to the hilt. You both moaned into each other’s mouths, the sound ragged and desperate, bodies shuddering at the feeling of finally being connected like this. “Fuck,” He groaned, lips dragging down your neck. “So tight. So fucking wet.” Your nails raked down his back, thighs tightening around his waist, holding him deep. “You feel so good,” You whimpered.

“So full. Bob, please move.” His hips rolled, long and slow strokes that filled you to the brim, each one dragging against your walls with devastating precision. The pace was steady, deep, designed to feel. To make it last. To make you feel everything. The moans spilling from your lips were helpless, loud, and unfiltered. Each thrust had you gasping, praising, crying out his name like a prayer. He swallowed every sound with kisses, mouth trailing over your cheek, your jaw, your throat. “Who’s this pussy belong to?” He rasped, hips pistoning into you so deep your vision blurred.

“Say it. Let me hear it.” You cried out, nails digging into his shoulders. “You. Only you, Bob, fuck, it’s yours.” He growled, pace picking up slightly, the angle changing just enough to make your back arch. “That’s right, nobody can fuck you like this. Nobody can have you this way but me.” Your mouth dropped open in a broken moan as his hand slipped between your bodies again, thumb finding your clit with practiced ease, rubbing tight circles as he continued to fuck you deep, steady, relentless.

“Takes me so fucking well. You’re perfect.” Your entire body tensed, pleasure building fast again, his praise pushing you closer with every filthy, worshipful word. “Look at you,” He breathed, mouth brushing yours. “So beautiful, taking every inch of me like you were made for it. Prettiest girl I’ve ever seen, and all mine.” Your moans turned into sobs, overwhelmed by the fullness, the stretch, the heat, the emotion. “I love you,” You gasped, tears pricking at your eyes as your walls clenched around him. “God, Bob, I love you.”

He froze for half a second, cock twitching deep inside you, then he kissed you with everything he had. "Fuck, baby, I love you too,” He whispered into your mouth, voice shaking. Your legs tightened around him, holding him impossibly closer as his thrusts turned frantic, deeper, harder, your release barreling toward you like a wave. “That’s my girl,” He groaned, thumb pressing harder against your clit. “Come for me, baby. Let me feel it, one more time.”

You came with a cry of his name, full-body shaking, toes curling, nails clawing down his back as you shattered underneath him. Bob’s rhythm faltered, thrusts turning sloppy as your orgasm clenched around him, dragging him right to the edge. With a low growl, he buried himself to the hilt and spilled inside you, body trembling, mouth locked against your skin as he moaned your name over and over. When the tremors faded, he collapsed onto you, bracing his weight on his forearms so he wouldn’t crush you.

His forehead pressed to yours, both of you slick with sweat and tangled up in sheets and each other. Bob stayed inside you for a long moment after the last shudder rolled through him, his chest flush against yours, breath warm on your cheek. Neither of you moved, both unwilling to let go just yet. You could feel his heart pounding against your breastbone, still racing, as if he were stunned by what just happened. Your own body was limp beneath his, legs still wrapped lazily around his waist, limbs boneless from the overwhelming pleasure and emotion.

His thumb traced slow circles along your jaw, eyes never leaving your face. The softness there was disarming, no less intense than before, but quieter now. A reverent kind of peace. You pressed a kiss to his shoulder, lips barely brushing his damp skin. “Don’t move yet.” A low hum rumbled in his throat as he buried his face in your neck, nuzzling the spot just below your ear. “Not going anywhere.” You stayed like that, joined, still, warm, until your breathing evened out.

When he shifted, it was slow and careful, hips rolling back just enough to slip from you, a low groan caught in his throat at the overstimulation. You whimpered softly at the loss, the emptiness making your thighs clench instinctively. Bob pressed a kiss to your temple, then your cheek, before slipping from the bed entirely. “Hold on, baby.” He murmured against your skin, voice low, thick with affection. Before you could ask what he meant, he bent down and scooped you up again, arms cradling you effortlessly.

You melted into him, cheek resting against his chest, lulled by the steady beat of his heart and the heat of his skin against yours. He carried you to the bathroom like you weighed nothing, careful not to jostle your sore body. The warm light flickered on, golden and soft. Bob used one hand to turn on the tap in the large walk-in shower, adjusting the temperature until the steam began to rise. He set you gently on the edge of the tub, kneeling in front of you. His hands moved with quiet efficiency, not rushed, but thoughtful.

He grabbed a clean cloth, soaked it in the warm water, and brought it to your thighs, swiping gently. You winced, just a little, and he immediately looked up, thumb brushing your knee. “Too much?” You shook your head, brushing his damp hair back from his forehead. “You’re being perfect.” He exhaled softly, then returned to the task, careful, thorough, reverent. He cleaned between your legs with the kind of focused tenderness that made your chest ache.

You leaned into his chest again, eyes fluttering shut as his lips brushed your forehead. After a few more quiet moments, he scooped you into his arms once more and carried you back to bed. The sheets were still warm, tangled from before, but neither of you cared. He climbed in behind you, pulling you into his arms with your back pressed to his chest, one leg tangled with yours, one arm wrapped around your waist, hand splayed possessively over your belly. His chest molded to your spine like he was made to fit you.

You reached for his hand, intertwining your fingers, resting them just beneath your breast. His lips found your shoulder. Then your neck. Then the back of your ear. He didn’t speak. Just kissed you, soft, steady, endless. The silence stretched, but it was the good kind, weightless, heavy with meaning. Eventually, you shifted slightly to face him, curling into the heat of his chest, tucking your head beneath his chin. He held you like if he let go, even for a second, you might vanish.

A smile tugged at your lips. You shifted in his arms, eyes glinting with mischief beneath heavy lids. “Your girl, huh?” His entire body tensed, the muscles in his chest going tight, the arm around your waist locking for a half-second in panic. His voice cracked just enough to make you grin wider. “I–uh—I didn’t mean to—” You pressed a single finger to his swollen, kiss-bruised lips, shushing him before he could spiral any further. His breath caught as you leaned in closer, nose brushing his, your voice soft but firm.

“Shh, relax, Bob,” You gave him a smile he could feel, warm and content as your hand slid slowly down his abdomen, tracing the hard lines there with a lazy, affectionate drag. “I was just teasing.” The tension in his chest eased instantly, and you felt the low rumble of a laugh in his throat as his lips curved against your temple. “I really like the sound of that.” You whispered, eyes fluttering shut again as your fingers splayed across the dips of his stomach. “I really like it too.” He murmured into your skin.

His voice thick and full of quiet joy as he pulled you even closer. His hand moved up your ribcage, slow and possessive, resting just beneath your breast. You nuzzled into his chest with a soft hum, heart swelling so much it ached. His thumb traced along the edge of your rib, over the faint thudding of your heart. You had a feeling Bob could lie there all night, holding you like this, like you were everything he’d ever waited for. And he’d be right. Because you were his girl now, and he was completely, helplessly yours.

The following morning, golden sunlight filtered lazily through the curtains, casting soft patterns across the sheets. The room was quiet, save for the muffled hum of the busy New York bustle outside and the gentle, rhythmic sound of Bob’s breathing behind you. You blinked awake slowly, not quite ready for the moment to end. The sheets were warm with shared body heat, and your body still hummed faintly with the memories of last night.

The way his hands worshipped you with reverence, his lips exploring you like he was memorizing every inch, his voice hoarse and low as he whispered your name like a prayer. Even now, hours later, your skin seemed to remember the way he held you afterwards, tucked safely against his chest, his thumb tracing lazy, absentminded circles on your shoulder as he kissed the top of your head and breathed in your scent like he never wanted to forget it.

You shifted slightly beneath the weight of the blankets, careful not to disturb him. Bob was still asleep, one strong arm draped around your waist, hand splayed across your stomach like even in dreams he couldn’t bear to let go. His bare chest was pressed to your back, warm and steady. You could feel his breath on the nape of your neck, soft, even, and comforting. You smiled to yourself, heart full to bursting. Slowly, you turned in his embrace, moving gently so as not to wake him.

Your legs tangled naturally beneath the covers, bare skin brushing against his in a way that felt both effortless and electric. You settled into him like you were made to fit there, like you’d been doing this for years. His face was utterly unguarded in sleep, peaceful in a way you rarely saw during waking hours. His lashes, impossibly long, cast faint shadows across his cheeks. The light caught in the strands of his messy brown curls, making them look kissed by gold.

One unruly lock had fallen across his forehead, and you reached up without thinking, brushing it away with the backs of your fingers. You let your touch linger, dragging lightly down the side of his face. His stubble scratched faintly against your fingertips, grounding you in the intimacy of the moment. You traced the curve of his jaw, the dip of his chin, the faint freckling across the bridge of his nose, familiar now, like constellations you’d memorized with reverence.

The same freckles that were scattered like stars down his shoulders and across his back, and last night, you'd kissed every single one you could reach. You studied him in silence, committing every detail to memory. His soft, kiss-bitten lips were parted slightly, a small, adorable snore slipping out with every breath. The sound made you smile again, fond, amused, completely in love. You’d tease him for it later, and he’d pretend to be embarrassed, but his ears would flush pink and he’d secretly love that you noticed.

Then, after a few quiet moments, you watched his expression shift, his brows twitching ever so slightly before his eyes fluttered open, heavy-lidded, and full of sleep. Those blue eyes blinked a few times, adjusting to the light, before they focused on you. Just like that, the world stopped. There was something in the way he looked at you. Like you were the only thing that existed. Like he was still trying to figure out how someone like you had chosen him, and still couldn't believe you were here, tangled up in his arms, in his bed, in his life.

“Hi.” He whispered, voice still gravelly with sleep, thick with something deeper, emotion that made your chest ache in the sweetest way. You smiled softly, the kind of smile that only he ever saw, and tucked your head further into the crook of his neck as if it were second nature. You breathed him in, letting the familiar scent of him settle in your lungs. Sun-warmed skin, clean cotton, the faint trace of his cologne still clinging to his pulse points. “Mornin’, sleepyhead.”

Your arms looped lazily around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. One hand began to scratch gently at his scalp, nails grazing through his curls until he gave a barely-there sigh of contentment. The other hand drifted down, fingertips brushing the back of his neck, twirling the soft hairs there with lazy affection. His body reacted without thought, his breath hitching slightly, his arms tightening around your waist. “Staring is rude, you know?” He teased, the corners of his lips twitching up into a crooked smile.

You felt his hands snake under the blanket, calloused fingers gliding across your skin until they found purchase at your bare waist. He tugged you fully against him, your chest flush with his, legs still tangled together. The heat between your bodies was intoxicating, a mix of leftover passion and quiet love. “Good thing I wasn’t staring,” You murmured with a smirk, “I was admiring my handsome boyfriend.” Bob rolled his eyes with a dramatic sigh, but the way the color rose faintly to his cheeks betrayed him.

He ducked his head slightly, burying his grin against your hair like he couldn’t quite handle being looked at that way. Then his expression shifted, eyes softening, brows drawing together with the weight of a different kind of feeling. His thumbs brushed slow circles into your hips, grounding, tender. “How are you feeling? I didn’t hurt you, did I?” He asked, his voice low and laced with concern, even as sleep still clung to the edges. Your heart clenched a little at how gentle he always was with you.

“I’ve never been better,” You assured him, pressing a kiss to his shoulder. “Last night was…” You paused, cheeks flushing warm, lips stretching into a dazed smile. “It was amazing.” His eyes closed for just a second, like he was holding onto your words, letting them sink into him. “Yeah… it was.” He opened them again, locking eyes with you, his gaze earnest and full. “Still can’t believe you’re officially mine.” You shifted slightly, propping yourself up just enough to tilt your head toward him. Your noses brushed, breath mixing in that soft, sacred space between a kiss and a promise.

“Better believe it, Reynolds,” You whispered, lips barely grazing his. “You’re stuck with me.” He chuckled, a low, husky sound that vibrated through your chest where it pressed against his. He reached up, knuckles brushing your cheek as he tucked a loose strand of hair behind your ear, his thumb trailing along your jaw with a feather-light touch. Then he leaned in, capturing your lips in a kiss that was chaste, but slow and lingering in meaning, full of every unspoken thing he didn’t have the words for yet.

He kissed you like he’d never stop finding new ways to say I love you. You hummed into the kiss, your hand fisting gently into the curls at the base of his neck. When you finally pulled back, his lips chased yours for half a second, a quiet, endearing pout tugging at his face. You laughed softly, brushing your thumb over his bottom lip. “As much as I would love to continue this, we better get up before we never make it out of this bed.” His brows furrowed dramatically. “Is that really a bad thing?” He scoffed, eyes narrowing playfully.

You shrieked out a soft laugh as he rolled you back onto your back, nuzzling into your neck with exaggerated determination. “Bob! I’m serious!” You giggled, squirming, but making no real effort to escape. “And I’m seriously not letting go yet,” He murmured, voice thick with sleep and muffled where his lips brushed against your collarbone. You could feel the faintest curve of a smile against your skin as he pressed a lazy kiss there, breath warm and soft. “Just five more minutes.” He added, words vibrating gently through you.

You sighed with theatrical exasperation, but the way your fingers slid instinctively back into his hair betrayed you, curling into the soft, messy strands at the crown of his head. He made a quiet, satisfied sound at your touch, nuzzling even closer like a content housecat refusing to be moved. “You know,” You murmured, voice hushed against the crown of his head. “We’re going to have to face our friends eventually.” You felt the shift in him immediately, the way his whole body tensed just slightly where it was molded to yours.

“Y-You really think they heard us?” He asked, voice pitched higher in panic, already wincing as he tucked his face deeper into the crook of your neck. The tips of his ears flushed a deep shade of pink, his arms tightening around your waist like you might shield him from the embarrassment. You couldn’t help the soft burst of laughter that escaped you. “Bob, sweetheart…” You began, dragging your fingers lightly through his hair in soothing strokes. “The walls are pretty thin, and we weren’t exactly… quiet.”

He let out a groan, an honest-to-god full-body groan of mortification, as he buried his face deeper against your skin like he might actually disappear into you. “Oh God.” He groaned, the words low and miserable as they vibrated against your throat. His face was still tucked against your neck, lips brushing your skin with every groaned syllable, his arms clinging to you like he could shield himself from the sheer mortification of what you’d just confirmed. You grinned wickedly, unable to resist twisting the proverbial knife, in the most loving way possible.

“Hey,” You whispered, your tone mock-soothing as your fingers scratched gently at his scalp. “At least now they won’t tease you about being vanilla in bed. Because what I experienced last night was far from it.” You snickered at the memory, voice lilting with amusement. It was only a few days ago you'd passed the training room and overheard John and Bucky giving Bob the most immature, wildly incorrect teasing, muttering things like “Bet he apologizes during sex.” and “Bob probably asks permission to take his shirt off.”

You had to bite your lip not to laugh out loud at the time, especially because you'd already had very real proof that Bob Reynolds in the bedroom was anything but soft and bashful. He was attentive, passionate, unrelenting when he wanted to be. He touched you like you were made of glass and sin all at once, reverent one moment, greedy the next. Nothing about last night had been vanilla. Bob gasped, finally pulling his face back just enough to look at you, ears red and eyes wide. “Jesus, you are not helping!” He half-scolded, the corners of his mouth twitching up despite himself.

You let out a full, delighted laugh now, tossing your head back against the pillow. “I’m sorry sweetheart, but I had to. You should’ve seen the look on your face.” Bob groaned, dragging a hand over his face and flopping onto his back beside you with a thud, the sheet slipping slightly down his chest. You rolled onto your side, propping yourself up on your elbow and resting your chin in your palm, eyes lazily raking down his now pink-tinged chest. “You know,” You drawled in a mock-serious tone, trailing a finger down the center of his sternum, feeling goosebumps litter his skin.

“You could just embrace it. Walk out there with your head high and your chest out, let ‘em know exactly who made what noise and why.” He whined again, dragging the pillow over his face like it could erase the image. His voice came out muffled, “I can never look any of them in the eye ever again.” You giggled and leaned over, pressing a kiss to the corner of his mouth where it peeked out from under the pillow. “You’re adorable,” You murmured, lips brushing his cheek as you spoke. “And last night? You were perfect. You have nothing to be embarrassed about.”

He peeked out from under the pillow at that, blue eyes softening instantly at the sincerity in your voice. “You mean that?” He asked, voice quieter now, more vulnerable. You nodded, brushing a stray curl from his forehead. “Of course I do. You were everything, Bob. I’ve never felt more wanted, more loved.” His throat bobbed as he swallowed hard, gaze flicking over your face like he was trying to memorize you all over again. Then he reached for you again, arms circling your waist and pulling you flush against him once more. "I'm still not going out there for at least another ten minutes.”

You smiled, your cheek pressed against his chest, listening to the steady rhythm of his heart beneath your ear as your hand ran soothing patterns on his forearm. It had definitely been more than ten minutes, closer to thirty, when you finally sat up, stretching and smacking Bob lightly across the chest as you caught him ogling your bare torso without even the decency to look ashamed. He offered an unapologetic grin, completely unbothered, eyes glued to the soft curve of your back as you slipped out of bed.

“You’re so not helping us get out of here.” You teased, grabbing one of his crumpled sweatshirts from a chair nearby. It hung loose on you, the hem nearly reaching your thighs, the sleeves falling past your hands. You dug through his drawers until you found a pair of soft, worn-in boxers and pulled them on, wiggling into them as you heard Bob groan dramatically from behind you. He flopped back against the pillows, one arm slung over his face, the other trailing limply over his bare stomach.

“Do you want me to pass out?” He mumbled, peeking through his fingers as he admired how good you looked in his clothes, better than he ever had. “Up and at 'em, loverboy.” You smirked, tossing a balled-up sock at his chest. With a grumble, he peeled himself out of bed, dragging his boxers from the floor and stepping into them. He then reached for a black short-sleeved tee, tugging it over his head. The fabric hugged his biceps in a way that made your brain short-circuit for a moment.

“God, that shirt should be illegal.” You thought-aloud, biting your lip, eyes trailing over the exposed vein on his forearm as he ran a hand through his sleep-tousled curls. “Please, don’t start.” He groaned again, voice barely above a grumble. You grinned, lacing your fingers through his and tugged him toward the door. Hand in hand, you descended the stairs, the scent of coffee and cinnamon rolls wafting from the kitchen. The moment you stepped inside, all eyes turned to you, some expectant, others amused, one deeply unamused.

“Morning, everyone!” You beamed, entirely unfazed as you walked into the kitchen still holding Bob’s hand. Bob, on the other hand, shrank slightly beside you, his eyes trained firmly on the floor as if he could will himself invisible. The moment you reluctantly released his hand, he darted toward the counter, busying himself with the new matcha powder he’d proudly sourced from the farmer's market just to make your morning lattes perfect. He didn’t look up once, every movement precise and distracted.

Like if he focused hard enough on the milk frother, he could pretend he wasn’t the topic of everyone’s internal monologue. You felt your heart swell in your chest, watching him move with such quiet intent, still so him despite the current chaos. You crossed the room and wrapped your arms around him from behind, pressing your cheek between his shoulder blades. Your hands slipped beneath his shirt, fingers trailing across the warm planes of his stomach, feeling the way his muscles jumped under your touch.

You dragged your nails gently along his abs, and when you pressed a kiss between his shoulders, the blush that lit up the tips of his ears was impossible to miss. Behind you, a loud groan shattered the moment. “Oh hell, what have we done?” Walker’s voice was laced with the sort of exhausted disbelief. You turned just in time to see him dramatically dragging his palms down his face, visibly cringing like a man forced to confront the raw auditory evidence of your night together. “Oh, grow up.” Ava snorted, barely looking up from her half-eaten croissant as she kicked him under the table.

“At least they didn’t do it in the car.” Bucky muttered around the rim of his coffee mug, flipping a page of the newspaper without lifting his gaze. The deadpan delivery landed like a grenade. Bob choked mid-scoop, the bamboo spoon slipping and sending a puff of matcha powder into the air. He coughed violently, fanning the air with his hand while your shoulders shook with silent laughter behind him. “I, for one, am delighted,” Yelena purred, one leg swinging lazily, her smirk stretched slow and lethal.

“Look at them. Disgustingly in love and all domestic. It’s adorable, I want to gag.” Alexei, who had been seated in a kitchen chair in what appeared to be the same tracksuit from two days ago, clapped his hands once, startling everyone. “This, this is perfect picture of love. You can see it in the way she touches him, and the way he looks like he’s about to faint from her touching him.” Bob let out a long, muffled groan, slumping forward against the counter. His hand blindly reached back behind him, finding yours and squeezing it with quiet desperation.

“I hate everyone.” He grumbled, forehead resting against the cupboard like he was seconds away from abandoning his body. “And yet,” You whispered, rising on your toes to kiss the shell of his ear. “You’re still making me my matcha in the kitchen full of onlookers.” He sighed like a man accepting his fate, but turned toward you anyway, slow and deliberate. When his eyes found yours, the world seemed to soften around the edges. There it was again, that same quiet awe, the stunned affection that hadn’t left his face since sunrise.

Like every time he looked at you, he was still wrapping his head around the fact that you were really his. “Well, yeah,” He breathed, voice low and thick, like the words were too full to hold back anymore. “Because I love you.” It wasn’t dramatic or flashy, it was soft. Steady. Certain. Your heart skipped a beat, then soared so fast it hurt a little. You leaned in, kissing the side of his cheek with a smile, but before you could pull away, Bob turned his head and caught your mouth with his, stealing another kiss, slow, deep, and full of that unmistakable tenderness you’d fallen for.

Walker groaned so loud it bordered on theatrical. “That’s it. I’m moving out. And I’m ordering industrial-strength noise-canceling headphones and bleach for my eyes.” Laughter rippled through the kitchen, Ava snorting into her coffee, Bucky hid a grin behind his coffee cup, Yelena clapped victoriously, and Alexei muttering something in Russian that suspiciously sounded like “romance is not dead.” In that moment, none of it mattered. You and Bob stood wrapped in each other, untouched by the noise, by the teasing, by the chaos of your odd little family.

In that moment, it was just the two of you, and the kind of love that didn’t need to shout to be real. The kind that whispered forever. No matter how long it had taken to get here, the missed chances, the hesitations, the slow burn of uncertainty, neither of you would’ve changed a single second. Every detour, every almost, had led you to this. And you knew, with every soft press of his lips and every blush that bloomed on his skin, that you’d never get tired of this. Of him. Together, exactly as you were always meant to be.

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[pls-do-crimes-to-me]

This argument again backs up my belief that many people are mainly anti AI because "new is scary". Cheating in school absolutely means that you don't learn property. Having someone or something else do an entire essay for you means that you have learnt nothing from the assignment. But also having someone pr something else do part of an assignment for you also means you're not building the thinking skills you need. Its why schools are against cheating.

In your example you gained no skills in reading and comparing media. And this does show the harm the internet on our learning. In our parents age they would not have had the option to look it up online. If they "just couldn't read it" they would've forced themselves to or gotten an F. (Also imagine someone saying that they used chatgpt to write an essay because when they had in class time to do it they fell alseep)

You used sparknotes and stole their conclusions on the differences between the book and the movie instead of creating them yourself. This is the same as another student asking chatgpt to summarize a book so they don't have to read it. You did still build some critical thinking skills in writing by writing the essay but it's important to remember that your teacher gave you that assignment to build both skills. And interacting with the conclusions that sparknotes wrote did probably help your understanding of analyzing media but it did not build the critical thinking skills to actually analyze media on your own.

You have to remember that there are different ways students are using chatgpt. In some of my classes profs have not only allowed but even had assignments specifically including chatgpt. If a student hates writing for the life of them so they read the book and watch the movie and analyze it and then plug their conclusions into chatgpt to write an essay, yes that's cheating and it's not letting them build proper writing skills but it's also basically the same as what you did. I think chatgpt can be a great tool to give feedback on written assignments so that students have to chance to take the feedback and actually improve their writing (note: sometimes you can go to a teacher or on campus resource for this and that is better but if you don't have that chatgpt can be better than nothing but do think critically about the feedback it gives you and whether that feedback actually improves your writing (but also don't blindly accept feedback from teachers or on campus resources unless they will be the one marking the assignment))

In summary: cheating is bad. Just because you built some skills even though you cheated they doesn't make it completely fine. How bad it is depends on how much work you avoided doing and not what tools you used.

Whenever I think about students using AI, I think about an essay I did in high school. Now see, we were reading The Grapes of Wrath, and I just couldn't do it. I got 25 pages in and my brain refused to read any more. I hated it. And its not like I hate the classics, I loved English class and I loved reading. I had even enjoyed Of Mice and Men, which I had read for fun. For some reason though, I absolutely could NOT read The Grapes of Wrath.

And it turned out I also couldn't watch the movie. I fell asleep in class both days we were watching it.

This, of course, meant I had to cheat on my essay.

And I got an A.

The essay was to compare the book and the movie and discuss the changes and how that affected the story.

Well it turned out Sparknotes had an entire section devoted to comparing and contrasting the book and the movie. Using that, and flipping to pages mentioned in Sparknotes to read sections of the book, I was able to bullshit an A paper.

But see the thing is, that this kind of 'cheating' still takes skills, you still learn things.

I had to know how to find the information I needed, I needed to be able to comprehend what sparknotes was saying and the analysis they did, I needed to know how to USE the information I read there to write an essay, I needed to know how to make sure none of it was marked as plagerized. I had to form an opinion on the sparknotes analysis so I could express my own opinions in the essay.

Was it cheating? Yeah, I didn't read the book or watch the movie. I used Sparknotes. It was a lot less work than if I had read the book and watched the movie and done it all myself.

The thing is though, I still had to use my fucking brain. Being able to bullshit an essay like that is a skill in and of itself that is useful. I exercised important skills, and even if it wasnt the intended way I still learned.

ChatGTP and other AI do not give that experience to people, people have to do nothing and gain nothing from it.

Using AI is absolutely different from other ways students have cheated in the past, and I stand by my opinion that its making students dumber, more helpless, and less capable.

However you feel about higher education, I think its undeniable that students using chatgtp is to their detriment. And by extension a detriment to anyone they work with or anyone who has to rely on them for something.

[hederasgarden]

Under the Influence (Pt. 1)

Summary: While investigating a suspicious pharmaceutical company, you and Clark find yourselves exposed to an interesting new drug. Pairing: Clark Kent x F!Reader  Word Count: 4.9K Warning: 18+ only, explicit sexual content. Dubious consent (reader and Clark are exposed to sex pollen), unprotected PIV, size kink, humor, and other untagged themes.  A/N: This takes place before the events of the movie. There are no spoilers. Thank you @ryebecca @clairewritesandrambles and @a-reader-and-a-writer for your help with this.

Masterlist ♡ David Corenswet Characters Masterlist

It’s late, and the glittering skyline of Metropolis stretches out beyond the windows of the Daily Planet’s top-floor conference room. The usual hum of activity is absent tonight – it’s just you, Clark, and an intimidating stack of boxes that seem to multiply with every passing minute. A decent number of your Clark-related daydreams have started just like this. Though in those versions, there was usually a lot less paperwork...and a lot more kissing.

You stifle a yawn, reaching for your coffee, only to nearly choke when you realize it’s gone cold. Grimacing, you set the offending mug aside and try to wash away the stale taste with water. The sound catches Clark’s attention and pulls him from his work. He looks at you over his thick-rimmed glasses, the corner of his mouth lifting into a wiry smile. Even under fluorescent office lighting, he still looks devastatingly handsome. It was unfair. 

“I’ll put on a fresh pot,” he offers, stretching as he stands. 

Despite shedding his oversized suit jacket earlier and with his tie hanging a little crooked, he somehow still looks annoyingly fresh. Like he was immune to exhaustion or just politely pretending not to feel it. You, on the other hand, look exactly like someone who’s had a twenty-hour work day: crumpled, wilted, and one coffee away from a breakdown.

Leaning back, you pass him your mug, your stiff muscles protesting. They ache from hours of sitting and sorting. He gives you a sympathetic smile as one of his large hands comes to rest on your shoulder in a brief, consoling pat. You can feel the warmth of his touch through your dress and sigh. 

“Back in a jiffy,” he promises, disappearing down the hall. 

By now, the two of you have been hunched over documents for nearly ten hours. Half of them are so technical they might as well be gibberish, but you’ve found a few leads in the financial papers. Unfortunately, your current stack of documents is so aggressively redacted that they’re practically useless. You groan in frustration and face-plant onto your arms, silently questioning whether a byline is really worth this much torture.

You remain like that until Clark returns, carrying the rich, intoxicating scent of freshly brewed coffee.

“I take back all the mean things I was just thinking. You’re officially my savior,” you declare.

You accept the mug eagerly, only to quickly set it on the table when the warmth that seeps through the ceramic nearly burns your fingers. Not for the first time, you wonder how Clark managed to get the ancient coffee machine to percolate so quickly. For everyone else, it typically spewed out lukewarm sludge.

“Regretting volunteering for this assignment?” Clark asks. 

“Not for a moment,” you reply honestly. “You’re still sharing that byline with me, right?” You question, squinting up at him.

“I always keep my promises,” he says with such earnestness that you’re reminded once again why Perry liked to call him a Boy Scout. 

“I’ll hold you to it because this story’s turned into a beast.”

Clark sighs, one hand on his hip as he surveys the cluttered table covered in file boxes and scattered papers. With the other, he lifts a mug to his mouth and takes a deep sip of hot chocolate, the homemade mix something his mom sends all the way from Kansas.

“It really has,” he says quietly.

When Perry asked for a volunteer from the junior editor pool to assist on an exposé about Salvation Pharmaceuticals, you jumped at the chance. And not just because Clark Kent was the reporter assigned to it. Most of your days were spent copyediting crime reports and waging a quiet war over AP versus Chicago style. You were desperate for some real, hands-on investigative work, although neither of you expected an investigation into government kickbacks and dubious congressional dealings to rapidly evolve into something far more unsettling. 

Salvation Pharmaceuticals’ R&D department was embroiled in deeply questionable research, from a gas capable of erasing memories to a potent drug they called a truth serum. All of their projects had frankly terrifying side effects, particularly the latter, which worked by lowering inhibitions but also triggered something they called sexual psychosis. 

Clark’s freedom of information request resulted in your current predicament. Clearly, someone at the company thought they could drown you both in paperwork before you could find anything useful. Unfortunately for them, Clark Kent was one of the most determined reporters you’d ever met, and you were just desperate enough to get out of the editing pool to help him. 

“Well…once more unto the breach,” you quote, holding up a fresh box of files.

As you lift the lid, Clark offers you a small smile, his cheeks dimpling. For a moment, you’re too distracted by him to notice the cloud of yellow dust rising from the box. It quickly expands, swirling into a thick mist that engulfs you both. Immediately, your lungs begin to burn, and you gasp for air. You push your chair back and struggle to stand as your vision blurs. 

A strong arm around your middle hauls you back, dragging you across the carpet. Somewhere along the way, your heels slip off. Clark doesn’t stop until you reach the edge of the room, and you lean into him, trying to clear your lungs. Behind you, he grunts, his fingers spasming against your hip. It takes several moments for the air to clear, but when it does, you watch in horror as the yellow dust seems to melt into your skin.

“What was that?” You ask, voice hoarse.

Clark is silent and looks grim when you turn to face him. “I think that was the truth serum. The reports described it as yellow dust.”

You blink, baffled. “Why would they keep it in those files?”

“I don’t know,” he says with a grimace. “But I can guess.”

You rub your chest and take a hesitant step back. “I don’t feel any different. Do you?”

“No.” He presses his lips together, a muscle in his jaw twitching with tension. “Are you sure you don’t feel anything?”

You exhale slowly, taking stock of your body. “Maybe?” Your response is more of a question than a definitive answer. You feel oddly warm, but it could just be the adrenaline from the situation. You also feel a little nauseous, but that might be from the cold coffee you tried to poison yourself with earlier.

“You’re sweating,” he observes, pressing the back of his hand to your forehead. The warmth of his touch makes you shudder, and you can’t help but notice how good he smells. “Your body temperature is elevated.”

“Huh?” You look up at him, momentarily lost in his gaze. “You’re hot, too,” you blurt out, mortified when the words leave your mouth.

“I feel fine,” Clark replies, either misunderstanding what you meant or choosing not to acknowledge the slip. Bless that midwestern politeness. 

You step away from him, body buzzing. Sweat dots your brow, and you’re halfway out of your thin cardigan before you can stop yourself. As you pace the room, you realize Clark might be right. The powder could be affecting you, and much faster than documents suggested. You try to shake off the disorienting feeling that lingers, while Clark tracks your progress with sharp blue eyes.

“Should we call someone? Isn’t there, like, a protocol for mysterious powders? Hazmat? Ghostbusters?” It’s hard to think straight when your entire body feels like it’s trying to cook itself from the inside out. “Clark?” you ask.

His nostrils flare, but otherwise, he doesn’t respond until you say his name again. “Yeah. There’s uh, an anthrax protocol. Perry’s got it in his office.”

Time gets weird after he leaves, moving in fits and starts. At one point, you find yourself rubbing your chest, and you have to forcibly yank your hand away. You’re not sure how long Clark is gone, each minute dragging as the heat within intensifies and your thoughts become increasingly muddled. There’s a growing pressure in your stomach, too, something that radiates down. It’s not exactly painful, but it’s persistently irritating, a prickling feeling that needs to be soothed. 

“I made the call,” Clark announces, reappearing. “They said it’ll be 30 minutes until they get here with everything they need. We just have to sit tight.”

“Thirty minutes?” you repeat, voice edging on panic. “What are they doing, walking from Gotham?”

Clark doesn’t respond, and you quickly turn away, not trusting yourself to say anything else.

If it really was the truth serum, and you’re starting to believe Clark might be right, there’s no telling what might come out of your mouth next. Even now, as you pace back and forth, you feel a pressure under your tongue, as though the words are lurking just beneath the surface, eager to spring out. The absolute last thing you need right now is to blurt out your dumb, awkward crush on him. Or tell him how nice he smells. 

“God, it’s hot,” you groan, staring at the window. You press your palms to the glass. It’s cool to the touch, and you lay your forehead against it, almost moaning in relief. If you could peel off your dress and melt straight into the glass, you would. Happily. No questions asked.

“Here.” Clark’s voice comes from closer than expected, and you flinch at the sudden touch of his hand on your lower back.

He turns you around to face him and presses a glass of water to your lips. You grasp his thick wrist as he urges you to drink it all, your gaze never leaving his. The moment you finish, your mouth feels dry and your throat itches. 

“You have the bluest eyes,” you whisper. “You shouldn’t hide them behind your glasses.” You reach for them because apparently, your self-control has left the building. Clark stops you gently, his hand covering yours.

You freeze. Oh god. Did you just say that last part out loud?

Yes. Yes, you did. Fantastic.

You slap your hands over your face, wishing the floor would open up and swallow you whole. Or that you could merge with the building and become a ghost who only haunts Perry’s office because this was definitely his fault. Somehow. 

“This is no one’s fault but Salvation Pharmaceuticals,” Clark says quietly.

Your hands slide down just enough to peek at him through your fingers. “I said that part out loud, too, didn’t I?”

He nods, eyes sympathetic.

“Cool. Cool, cool, cool. I don’t know what’s happening.”

“It’s the drug,” he says sympathetically, pulling your hands down from your face. “It lowers inhibitions. Heightens emotional impulses.”

“Well, it’s doing an excellent job,” you reply, trying not to get distracted by how absurdly big his hands are compared to yours. Or how warm they feel. It takes serious effort to meet his eyes again.

“Why aren’t you affected?” you ask. “You should be blurting out embarrassing things, too.”

“My biology is different from yours,” he says, almost absently, and then immediately freezes, like the words slipped out before he could catch them. He presses his lips together and clenches his jaw. For the first time since you met him, Clark looks genuinely unsettled. 

“The reports said it affected women quicker,” he adds before stepping back.

“What a time to be a woman,” you mutter, hands falling limply at your side. 

Clark tugs at his already loosened tie, stretching his neck with an audible crack that makes you wince. A flush creeps up his neck and stains his cheeks, and okay, apparently you’re now hallucinating too, because the skin around his eyes looks like it’s faintly glowing. He turns away and lets out a harsh breath through his nose.

“Maybe I should wait in the other room,” he says tightly, voice strained.

“Yeah,” you say quickly. It was probably for the best that he wasn’t around for the next wave of weird, unfiltered thoughts that were no doubt waiting in the wings. 

Clark barely makes it to the door before a sharp, unexpected wave of searing pain rips through your stomach, sending you crashing to your knees. The impact jolts your entire body, but that discomfort is overshadowed by a deep gnawing ache between your legs. You pitch forward onto all fours, struggling as your cunt flutters around nothing. 

“Oh,” you whimper, voice small and panicked, as your brain chooses now to recall the adverse event report in perfect, horrifying detail.

Following an increase in basal body temperature, patients exposed to the drug exhibit symptoms of full-blown sexual psychosis. This condition necessitates achieving climax to alleviate symptoms. Patients who are unable to reach climax experience a marked increase in heart rate and blood pressure, which in some cases progresses to cardiac arrest and death.

Every muscle in your body tenses, as a fierce, relentless pressure builds. Then, like the tide, it recedes, leaving you curled into a ball on the floor. Through half-closed eyes, you meet Clark’s gaze. You whimper his name. 

“I know,” he says quietly, kneeling in front of you. His hands hover at your shoulders for a moment before finally settling firmly on your body and turning you on your back.

You blink up at him, feeling like you might come out of your skin.

 “Help me, please,” you whisper, the words escaping between clenched teeth. 

You’re too hysterical to feel ashamed about what you’re asking him to do. Details from the report keep replaying in your mind. Clark looms over you, a sheen of sweat on his brow. You stare up at him, your breath coming in short, ragged gasps as the need in your core pulses and builds. The ache in your body is all-consuming, overriding everything else. Worse is the feeling of emptiness that you know he could fill. 

“Please.”

Your voice fizzles out as a strong wave of pain slams into you. It leaves you reeling and disoriented. You claw at his arms, fingernails digging into his skin. Somewhere deep inside, the part of you that’s still sane and not a sex-starved maniac convinced you’ll die if Clark doesn’t fuck you, knows what you’re asking is utterly insane. But you can’t stop yourself.

“I can help you.” He says to your relief, his gaze lingering on you as he runs his tongue along his bottom lip. “If-if you want me to,” he adds, and a hysterical laugh bubbles up inside you.

Of course you do, you’ve dreamed of him since the day you met him in the breakroom. You just never imagined it would unfold like this.

Another cramp rips through you, leaving you panting. You grit out a desperate, “Yes. God, yes.”

His large hand encircles your calf, the touch light as he pulls your legs apart so he can kneel between them. The cool air makes you groan, and you try to curl in on yourself again, but Clark stops you. With shaky hands, he drags your dress up, eyes fixed on your face, expression searching. When he finally exposes your simple black underwear, the sight seems to transfix him, and you watch his chest rise and fall with quick, shallow breaths that mimic your own as he stares.  

“I have to ah, I have to…” He closes his eyes, inhaling deeply. When he shakes his head, his glasses slide down his nose. “I need to get you ready.”

“I don’t care,” you pant. “Fuck me, please.”

You’re mortified by how desperate you sound. You’ve never spoken to anyone like this in your entire life, but once it starts, you can’t seem to stop. Even though the embarrassment is there, it can’t compete with the overwhelming need surging through your body. You keep begging, voice wobbly and insistent, your dignity long gone. You sound like a cat in heat, you think deliriously.

“It’s okay,” Clark soothes, the calm tenor of his voice betrayed by the way his hand trembles against your thigh. 

He tears off your underwear with an ease that would give you pause if you were in your right mind. You watch him stuff the tattered fabric into his pocket, too focused on making sure he fucks you to linger on that fact. 

Shame is a thing of the past as you spread your legs even further, allowing his hungry gaze to drink its fill. He parts your folds and draws two fingers through the wetness gathered there, starting with light, teasing strokes that quickly build to more. When his thumb finds your bundle of nerves, he rubs slow, soothing circles until the pain in your stomach eases a fraction. 

“You’re doing good,” he encourages, sounding breathless. “Doing so good for me, honey.”

You moan his name and he shifts closer, bent forward to watch himself work. Soon, one kind of pressure recedes and another begins. You gasp as Clark continues his slow assault, building in its intensity. When your legs thrash, his other hand settles on your hip, holding you still as he works a thick finger inside. Your cunt clenches in response to the intrusion. Above you, he groans, and his thumb moves faster. 

“More, oh god, I need more,” you beg, keening when Clark pushes a second finger inside. 

The stretch of them both burns, but that’s eclipsed by the pleasure you feel. You rock forward, trying to take more of him, but he doesn’t let you, controlling the pace. You can hear yourself babbling, nonsensical words streaming from your mouth as he draws you closer and closer to your orgasm until, all at once, it overwhelms you completely. It’s almost painful, and your hands curl into fists, your body contorting in response. The room blurs around you, and every fiber of your being is consumed by the relief you feel. 

When it passes, you’re left trembling on the floor, avoiding Clark’s gaze. He hovers over you, his arousal hard to miss with the way it tents the front of his gray slacks.

You touch his chest, inhaling when his dark blue eyes snap up to meet yours. “Do you…” 

He shakes his head, withdrawing his fingers. You wince, rubbing your thighs together. 

“No, I-” he starts, but whatever he is about to say is abruptly cut off as he grunts and hunches forward, a visible shudder running through him. 

Hesitantly, you reach out and touch his face. When your fingers brush over the curve of his cheek, he moans and surges forward, capturing your lips in a searing kiss that steals your breath. He forces his tongue inside, and the heat of him is almost unbearable. You curl your arms over his shoulder, drawing him closer. His hands travel up and down your sides, and you feel that familiar pressure return to your core. It builds slowly, like the spark of an ember that will soon flare into a blazing fire. 

You shift under Clark, drawing your legs up as he swallows down your needy whine. By the time he pulls away, you’re feeling dizzy.

“We need to,” you begin, squeezing your eyes shut as your body trembles.

“I know,” Clark replies.

He fumbles with his pants, and you stare up at the ceiling as he pulls himself free. It feels like a violation to look, but you find your gaze drifting down. Your mouth goes dry at the sight of his cock, just as big and thick as the rest of him. Your cunt aches, and god, you want him. Need him. 

Clark plants a hand near your head while he lines himself up. He pushes inside slowly. It hurts, but you need more of him, and you need it now. Wrapping his tie around your hand, you pull hard, urging him closer. He snaps his hip forward with enough force to jar your bones, and you wail in response. For one blissful moment, everything is quiet. Your buzzing mind and aching body are finally filled in a way they’ve been craving.

“Fuck.” The curse that falls from Clark’s lips is jarring and brings you back to the moment. You’ve never even heard him use language like that; he always expresses himself in oddly charming, old-fashioned phrases. 

“You feel so good. You feel…” he trails off, his words bleeding into one long, low moan that has you clenching around him. 

His handsome face contorts, his lips pressed tightly together. Tension lines the muscles of his jaw, and his dark brows furrow in an expression that teeters between ecstasy and pain. Pleasure skitters along your nerves as he drives into you over and over again to reach some unknown place hidden deep inside. Your second orgasm rises to the surface just as swiftly as your first and Clark is relentless as he fucks you through it. 

There isn’t even time to catch your breath before his hands encircle your hips, and he leans back, drawing you with him. The backs of your thighs drag over the fabric of his slack as he moves your body to meet his thrusts. As one orgasm fades you feel another spring to life, hastened by the feel of his calloused thumb on your clit. The need inside you burns even brighter, and a litany of pleas spills from your lips. 

“You feel,” he pants, “just like I imagined.”

When you gasp his name, he curls his body over yours, the new angle allowing him to move even deeper. You hold onto his biceps and listen to the desperate little noises that escape his chest with each thrust. His lips find the soft skin of your throat as his fingers dig into the neckline of your dress. He pulls hard and buttons scatter, giving him access to your shoulder. Teeth scrape over tender flesh, and your back arches as another orgasm blooms in your stomach.

Waves of pleasure ebb through your body, and your fingers tangle in the thick hair at the nape of his neck. Clark doesn’t falter even when you fall still beneath him. Your muscles ache, and your body feels tense and exhausted, but that frenzied need that’s driven you since the dust melted into your system slakes away until you’re left feeling everything. 

Clark groans, and you realize he’s still in the throes of the drug's effects. The ceaseless rhythm of his hips continues, and he hitches your leg over his waist to push himself deeper. You let him use you, all too aware of the primal, intense need flooding his body. 

He shudders, gasping, “like that, just like that.” 

Then he finally stills, and you feel a rush of intense warmth flood you. Your breath comes in short little pants, your heart fluttering in your chest. After a few moments, Clark stiffens, and you know he’s come back to himself. He shifts, and you can’t stifle your whimper. His gaze jumps to your face. 

For a moment, all you can do is stare at each other silently. He looks absolutely wrecked above you, dark, sweat-soaked hair sticking to his forehead, and his pink lips swollen and red from your attention.

The hand gripping your hip loosens, then lifts to hover near your cheek without touching. He swallows and seems to struggle with his words for a moment. 

“Are you…”

“I’m okay,” you whisper, suddenly very aware of the fact that he’s still inside you.

He seems to realize the same thing, his face flushing scarlet. He slips out of you with a quiet exhale and passes a trembling hand over his mouth. You look away as he tucks himself back into his pants. A moment later, he tugs your dress down, and you press your thighs together, your skin sticky and wet. 

Clark says your name, and you realize he’s standing in front of you, hand outstretched. After a beat of hesitation, you take it, and he pulls you up. When he drapes his jacket over your shoulders, you feel a rush of gratitude for his Midwestern manners. You let him guide you carefully to a chair, and you wince as you settle in.

He clears his throat and tells you, “The response team is downstairs.”

“Okay,” you say, too out of it to ask how he knows that. 

Clark rubs the back of his neck, seeming to search for something today. Honestly, what could either of you say right now? This wasn’t exactly covered in the employee handbook. If it was, you definitely missed the chapter titled, “How to Apologize After Having Sex at Work While Drugged Out of Your Mind by a Pharmaceutical Company You’re Investigating.”

“I’m…I’m so sorry,” he whispers. 

“It’s okay,” you say automatically. Clark’s brow furrows, and the silence that follows makes you realize just how unhinged that must’ve sounded. You scramble to clarify. “I mean, you didn’t dose us with truth serum. It was an accident.” You manage a watery grin that feels more like a grimace.

“This wasn’t some accident,” Clark says, the uncertainty from moments ago gone, replaced by something steadier. Anger flickers behind his eyes. “Someone deliberately planted that dust in the files. It wasn’t just meant to scare us off; it was meant to compromise us. Discredit the story. Discredit us.”

He takes a breath, fists clenched at his sides. “We’re going to find out who did this. We’re going to expose them.”

You wish you could summon some of that righteous, cornfed fury Clark’s channeling right now, but you're a little preoccupied with the uncomfortable, mortifying sensation of his cum slowly sliding out of you, and the embarrassing realization that your coworkers were almost definitely going to find out what went down here tonight. Reporters were the worst kind of gossips. 

“That’s…great,” you reply lamely. 

Clark looks like he wants to say something more; his lips part slightly, but nothing comes out. Instead, silence settles between you, heavy and strange. He stands half a step in front of you, his tall frame blocking most of your view. You find yourself staring at the curve of his shoulder, the way his shirt clings to his back in wrinkled lines, half-tucked in. His hair is still a mess from your fingers.

When the team in hazmat suits finally arrives, he’s the one who greets them. You only catch snippets of conversation as his eyes flick toward you more than once. You wonder if they can all read what happened just by looking at the two of you.

After introductions, you and Clark are promptly herded through separate decontamination processes that involve surrendering your clothes and scrubbing away what feels like the top six layers of your skin. You mourn the loss of your favorite dress when you're informed it’s headed straight to incineration, especially after you’re handed scratchy paper scrubs. Next, you’re escorted into a plastic tent that smells vaguely of bleach. Inside, a nurse with a clipboard asks you a series of deeply personal questions in a tone that suggests this is just another Tuesday for her.

“Did you use protection?”

You nearly choke on your own breath. The nurse doesn’t blink.

You swallow down the first response that jumps to your tongue, something sarcastic and vaguely unhinged, like ‘Oh yeah, we absolutely took a moment mid-drug-fueled breakdown to practice safe sex.’ Instead, you clear your throat and mutter, “I’m on the pill.”

The questions continue, and you want to crawl out of your own skin. Somehow, you force yourself to endure the invasive interview and the not-so-gentle pricks of needles, nodding along as they talk about test results.

“We’ll follow up in a few days,” the nurse says briskly, pulling off her gloves. “In the meantime, we strongly advise you to quarantine at home. Avoid contact with anyone else.”

Before you can ask what “quarantine” entails, a man in a standard-issue government black suit appears at your side. He doesn’t say much, just gestures toward the exit like this is all normal.

You stop once you reach the hallway, the first soft rays of dawn filtering through the tall windows. Golden light spills across desks and papers, and outside, you can hear the birds. The city is waking up, bustling to life as usual, while you feel disoriented and off-kilter. With little choice but to follow your new friend, you head towards the elevator, drawing up short when you see Clark there.

A few feet behind him stands his own government escort, a man who, despite the black suit and stiff posture, looks comically small next to Clark. The four of you stare at each other until the elevator dings and the doors begin to close. Clark halts their progress with one hand.

“Thank you,” you say automatically as you step in beside him. 

You sound borderline insane, thanking him for holding open the elevator when just a few hours ago he was inside you, saying all kinds of not-mild-mannered things that you didn’t expect from Clark Kent of all people. 

Clark gives you a small nod, jaw tense, like he’s not sure what expression to wear. You glance at the guys in the black suits and wonder what they must be thinking. Maybe this was just another day for them or more likely, your story was now officially part of their crazy catalog of weird shit they’ve seen. You can already hear it being told over beers on a Friday night, somewhere in a dive bar with terrible onion rings and sticky floors. 

Fantastic.

The four of you file out of the elevator as it opens into the quiet bullpen. Without a word, you and Clark are steered toward separate black cars waiting at the curb. He pauses, glancing back at you over the open door. His hand lifts hesitantly, offering you an awkward wave.

You return it, just as uncertain, before the door swings shut between you with a soft, final click.

--

Please comment or reblog if you enjoyed this and want to see more. Or scream at me in my inbox. That always makes my day.

[tellingtell5]

The Blood is the Life 《Remmick, sinners x reader 》

PetRemmick x witch femreader

Summary: So… some witches have black cats as pets. You? You’ve got a vampire who keeps showing up across eternity. Maybe he’s not just a clingy little pet after all?

A/N: This story was literally born on the bus and during dead hours at work lol. It’s not really a finished thing… I think? I just wanna keep writing little moments between the witch and the vampire who thinks he’s just her pet. Lmk if you’d wanna read more <3 Thanks for the love—every like and comment is a tiny blessing fr 🖤

I don't know just how it happened. I let down my guard. Swore I'd never fall in love again. But I fell hard

The air was heavy, tainted. As if the sky itself was bracing for something to fall from its heights. You’d felt it since the first light touched the canopy: a crawling tension beneath your skin, the breath of the forest caught in its throat. A warning.

Your instincts never failed you, not once in all the years you’d wandered the edges of ruin and rebirth. You didn’t cast a single spell that day. The cauldron remained cold, the runes untouched. Instead, you moved quietly through your home, gathering ingredients, moss for binding, root for clarity, ash leaves to ward what you couldn’t see.

You remembered the mother who had come to your threshold only a week before, trembling and tear-soaked, her hands clutching a locket with her child’s hair inside. The village healer’s leeches had done nothing. The sickness still clawed at the girl’s chest. The villagers whispered you spoke to the devil. Said your cabin breathed with the souls of the damned. And still, this woman crawled to your feet and begged you for mercy.

You’d taken nothing in return. Only handed her a balm to smear across her daughter’s brow, watched her vanish into the trees without promise or payment.

They always called it witchcraft when they couldn’t name it. Your tinctures. Your knowledge. Your hunger for what pulsed beneath the skin of things.

Men had come before. With torches, with blades, with the fury of the Church in their eyes. None remembered why they left without ever raising their weapons. They only remembered the nausea, the blood loss, the confusion. Some returned missing pieces of themselves.

Morning broke slowly, sunlight stretched thin and soft. You’d just fastened your cloak and were reaching for your satchel when you heard it: something collapsing against your door. Heavy. Human, maybe. Not quite.

Everything around you stilled. Even the wind seemed to withdraw. Birds vanished from the branches. Not a single leaf stirred. The forest leaned in, and waited.

Then came the knock. Weak. Hesitant.

You neared the door, fingers brushing the carved runes embedded in the frame. A pressure pushed through the wood—faint, fraying energy, like breath dragged through water. You heard it then, clearer this time: a voice.

"Please... help."

Every instinct screamed. But your curiosity had louder teeth. You cracked the door.

He was on his knees, body crumpled just beyond the threshold. Not quite man. His skin blistered in patches, flaking where the sun had licked him. Blood had dried across his arms in dark rivulets. Filth clung to every inch of him.

And yet—

The scent. It hit you like lightning to the chest. Rot, yes, but not decay. Death, but alive. Blood and lilacs and something darker. Dangerous.

You knew what he was.

He hadn’t looked at you yet. His face angled downward, as though listening to the forest behind him. Fingers buried in dirt, like it might anchor him.

When he did lift his head, you saw the cost. Hair stuck to skin, soaked in sweat and gore. His eyes, black wells. Bottomless. Empty of hunger, for now.

“Please...” he rasped, barely breathin’. “They were on me heels. They killed—fuck—please, a bit o’ mercy, yeah?”

You could taste his weakness. It made your magic hum. It would be so easy. Let him in. Drain him slow. You’d never tasted vampire blood. Not raw. 

And he saw it. The shift in your gaze.

He straightened, almost imperceptibly. Took in your cottage now with fresh eyes, its markings, its warmth, its breath. You saw the moment he recognized it wasn’t just a home.

The house was alive. The forest too.

His lips parted. A bitter laugh, or maybe a prayer swallowed too late. His head fell forward again. He muttered something, nearly inaudible.

The hounds. You heard them then, far but closing fast.

He turned toward the sound, dread coating every inch of his broken body. He was deciding how to die. And who should do it.

His voice cracked like dry bark.

“If yer gonna end me,” he said, eyes dull and dark, “do it quicker than they would’ve.”

His voice was ragged, almost broken, as he looked up at you from the dirt. There was no strength left in his limbs, no fire in his glare. Only surrender. Only a plea.

You opened the door a little wider. Let him see you. He didn’t know how he’d missed it before, the way the power coiled in your limbs and shimmered just beneath your skin, the darkness that filled every breath you exhaled. His eyes caught yours, and something in his expression shifted. Curiosity, maybe. Or calculation.

Something twisted in your chest, a soft, unfamiliar ache that tugged at memory more than conscience. It had been decades since you’d felt anything like pity, since you’d allowed yourself to acknowledge that soft flicker inside you. You’d built this solitude to keep yourself safe, sealed your life off from the rot of the outside world. And still, it had crept in.

You remembered the panic of your own hunted nights, the sound of men’s boots crashing through the underbrush behind you, the smell of fire licking at the corners of your home. It had taken everything to survive. To grow roots here. 

Your knuckles whitened against the doorframe. He looked so fragile now. Not quite man. Not quite beast. Something in between, curled on your threshold like a dying animal. You thought of the fox once caught in a trap near your garden, its leg mangled, its eyes bright with pain. You’d freed it. It had bitten you.

Would he do the same?

“You may enter,” you said at last, your voice low. And something deep in your chest hummed when you watched him crawl forward, dragging himself on his knees into your house. He didn’t even have the strength to stand. Not yet. The moment he crossed the threshold, the shadows closed around him like a second skin.

He collapsed just past your hearth, chest heaving, fingers clutching at his side. His eyes squeezed shut against whatever pain was devouring him from within. You stood above him and watched. Long enough to weigh your options. Long enough to consider if you should bind him, bleed him dry, and harvest the old magic that clung to the marrow of his bones.

But the forest shifted.

A murmur rolled through the roots and branches outside your home. You felt it in your bones. Intruders. Unwelcome. Boots slamming against wet earth, pushing into your sanctuary with reckless haste. The trees did not greet them. They punished them. Raking sharp branches across cheeks and arms, splitting open skin, drawing blood. Every drop that hit the forest floor was devoured. Given to you.

Your blood. Your earth.

You didn’t move at first. Just stood there, letting the forest whisper secrets into your skin. Letting it feed you.

He stirred on the ground behind you. Opened his eyes. You could feel him watching, not with fear, but with something else. Awe, perhaps. Reverence. Or just hunger. He drank in the sight of you as though he hadn’t seen light in years. As if your magic was the only warmth he’d known in centuries.

To him, you must have looked like a sunrise.

“Hide,” you said without turning. “I’ll deal with them.”

You heard him shift, dragging himself deeper into the house, into the breathless dark that waited beneath the floorboards. Into the place no one but you ever walked.

He only managed a nod, dragging himself deeper into the cabin on his knees, limbs trembling, the wooden floor groaning softly beneath him, like the place had begun to breathe again.

When you greeted the men who had followed him, something close to pity stirred inside you. You saw it instantly, the fury in their faces, laced with grief. You didn’t need to ask to know what had driven them. The creature you’d taken in had surely torn through many of them before they'd turned the tide. Their rage wasn’t baseless. You’d tasted it in the blood your forest had swallowed from their wounds, still pulsing in the soil beneath your bare feet.

You considered ending them. Letting the earth consume them whole, letting it feed for a few years on their bitterness and loss. It would have been easy. But then you brushed the edges of their thoughts, glimpsed the lives that waited for them beyond the trees, small children with wide eyes, wives whispering prayers at shuttered windows, brothers waiting with ale and silence. You’d never been cruel. You only took what was needed.

So instead, you whispered to them, soft words carried on your breath like smoke, slipped behind their ears like lullabies. They would forget the creature they had chased into the so-called cursed woods. Forget the hunt. Forget the fangs. They would remember deer, a rogue animal, a wound that bled more than they liked to admit. Close enough to the truth.

The magic cost you. Your head ached sharp and deep, exhaustion dragging at your limbs. Still, as you turned back toward your home, a sound caught you off guard, delicate, high-pitched. Glass.

You frowned, following the noise with slow, heavy steps, already suspecting something you didn’t want to confirm. When you reached your hearth room, the breath caught in your chest.

He was seated. Not collapsed or barely breathing like before—but reclined, sprawling, draped across your wooden chair as if he’d grown from it. Empty glass jars littered the table like careless footprints. His head lolled back, a nearly-finished jar tilted against his mouth, throat moving in a lazy rhythm. The sound—faint, obscene—was somewhere between a groan and a purr.

He drank like it was pleasure.

When the jar emptied, he blinked at you slowly, drunk on what he’d taken, eyelids heavy, mouth slack with satisfaction. His smile was languid and unapologetic—full of teeth. His chin and throat were smeared with blood, thick streaks of red glistening against skin that had already begun to heal. He looked alive again. Whole. Greedy.

You took a sharp step forward.

“Do you have any idea how long it takes me to gather that blood?” Your voice cut through the space like a blade. “And you just drink it, like it’s cheap ale in a tavern?”

He turned his gaze lazily away, as if the rebuke barely touched him. You noticed the difference instantly. The raw burns and open blisters were nearly gone. The sickly scent of decay had burned off his skin. That same energy that had come off him weak and broken before now surged, vibrant, electric, maddening. It pressed against your senses, thick and wild.

He reached for another jar.

Held it up to the firelight. Studied it like a connoisseur might a fine wine. When it met his approval, he uncorked it with a practiced flick and tossed the lid over his shoulder. It clattered against the floor, forgotten.

Then he dipped a single finger into the thick, dark red. Brought it to his mouth. His eyes never left yours.

The moment the blood touched his tongue, his lashes fluttered shut, breath hitching in the center of his chest. His entire body sagged into the chair, muscle by muscle, a visible ripple of ecstasy washing over him.

You didn’t breathe.

Not until he moaned.

A low, guttural sound that made something deep in your gut twist. Your whole body tensed, your fingers curling against your sides. And you knew—you knew—which jar he was holding before he spoke.

“This one's yers,” he murmurs, the rasp in his voice thick, vowels dragged like old secrets through dark earth. His eyes, now bled full crimson, never leave yours as he lifts the jar to his lips. You watch, helpless, as your blood meets his mouth. It’s like watching the ocean consume flame.

A sound rises from you, unbidden. Small. A gasp.

Because you felt it.You felt the way your own blood took hold inside him. How it surged through his veins, coiling like magic reborn. Your magic. His lips parted just slightly with the next breath he took, and it wasn’t a man who looked back at you now—it was something feral and worshipful all at once.

And you hated the way it made your chest flutter. You hated that your knees felt suddenly unsteady. You hated that it felt like power.

You cross your arms tight against your chest, pretending it’s anger, but really, you’re holding yourself together. Trying to silence the crawling heat beneath your skin, the pulse in your belly, sharp and slow and shameful.

He drinks like it’s the first thing he’s ever tasted. Slow. Reverent. Groaning now and then, low and guttural, like the act borders on prayer or pleasure. The kind of noise you shouldn’t be hearing from something half-dead. The kind that makes your thighs press together.

Part of you—the part that remembers restraint, reason—wants to rip the jar from his hands. Smack it against his head until he’s the one bleeding all over your stone floor.

But the other part. The old one. The one buried deep with roots and shadows and old tongues, she wants him fed.

He finishes, finally. Breath deep. Eyes heavy. He looks as if he might drift to sleep in the chair, but what’s in his gaze is something else. Recognition. As if some part of him has found home.

He rises. Slow, unhurried. Like a man approaching an altar. His feet drag, the floor creaks under his weight, until he stands before you.

You smell yourself on him.

And something inside you, something dark and feral, hums: He smells like mine.

He lifts his hands. Those clawed, bloodstained hands cradle your face with a gentleness that makes your breath catch.

“Seen it all, I have, Ban Draoid,” he murmurs, and his voice is wet peat and winter fire. “The loneliness ye wear like a second skin. Yer rites in moonlight tha' never answers. That hunger ye shove down, day after day, ‘cause yer afraid what’ll happen if it spills out.”

Your heart slams so hard it aches. His eyes dip to your chest, reverent.

No one’s ever spoken to you like that.

Ban Draoid.

The name lands like a blessing. No one has ever called you that, not like it meant something. You’ve hidden yourself for so long, convinced you didn’t belong to the witches, nor to anything else. But this creature, soaked in your blood, sees you. Knows you.

“So alone ye’ve been, mo chroi,” he says softly. 

He presses his forehead to yours. You grip his wrists, claws and all, just to stay upright. His power hums through you, steady and warm and merciless.

Then, he lets go.

You nearly collapse with the loss. He turns, without a word, and walks to the door. You think he’s leaving. That he’s gotten what he needed. But the sun is high, and no matter how much witch’s blood burns in his veins, sunlight will still scorch him into ash.

He pauses at the doorframe, staring out. Then, slow and deliberate, he slashes his palm.

The scent of fresh blood curls through the cabin. He crouches low, still within the shade, and presses his bleeding hand into the dirt just beyond your threshold.

The sun kisses his skin. He shudders. Smokes. Flesh sizzles.

You see it happen,  pain and rapture written into every tendon. His blood—his gift—seeps into your soil.

And you feel it.

Your roots wake. Hungry. Ancient. They drink. They know.

Your knees weaken. You feel yourself unraveling—split open by something older than lust.

The vampire’s hand trembles. The ground drinks more. The trees above hiss with delight.

And then, you feed. Not from his neck, but from the earth he’s blessed with his blood. Through your veins, his magic hums, like hot wind through hollow bone. The forest wants more. Demands more.

You almost let it.

But then your human mind claws back—stop.

You do.

He collapses backward, landing on the stone floor, bloodied arm cradled in his lap.

You stare at each other. No breath. Just pulse.

“Wha’…” you start.

He grins, mouth red as berries.

“Blood for blood, Ban Draoid,” he says, the words thick and reverent. “Ye gave me shelter. Fed me. This—” He nods toward the trembling trees. “—this is me repayin’ yer forest.”

You still feel it in your veins. The magic he gave back to your forest. The gift. His blood, seared into your roots, still pulsing beneath your feet like fire in the deep.

You hadn’t known anything could feel that overwhelming.

And then he stands. Rises slow from the floor like something ancient shaking off dust and death, and when his eyes find you again, there’s something else in them now. Awe. Hunger. Recognition. He watches you like he’s watching something sacred and forbidden all at once.

He steps closer—closer than you meant to allow—and lifts a hand to touch your cheek again. Fingers soft, reverent, like he’s trying to soothe the beast he’d just fed. There’s a murmur on his lips, low and lulling. A lullaby, maybe. You can’t tell if it’s in his tongue or yours.

And gods help you… you let him.

You, who haven’t let anyone lay hands on you in decades. Who’ve sworn that solitude is enough, that you don’t need soft words or warm skin or company that might see you.

But his touch doesn’t feel like possession. It feels like a memory. Like something you lost in a fire long ago.

Still, vulnerability leaves a bitter taste in your mouth, burns the sweetness out of the moment like rot in fruit.

You snap back. Break the contact like it scorches.

He blinks. His hand hovers in the air where your face was. Surprised. Maybe even… wounded.

“I hope you’ve had your fill,” you say, sharp. “You’ll leave when night falls.”

That stuns him. You see it.

Blood still binds you, yours in him, his in the soil—and it opens him to you for just a blink. In that heartbeat, you see it: the long years he’s wandered, alone and lost, dragging his hunger through cold earth and colder nights. You see how, for just a second, he thought he’d belonged somewhere. Here.

You turn your back before it can crack something deeper.

You crouch to gather the mess, glass jars sticky with drying blood, some shattered. Muttering curses under your breath. The air is thick with magic and spilled need.

“And if you touch anything of mine again,” you snap, without looking up, “I’ll skin you alive, leech.”

Your voice rings with something old. The house hears it. It shudders slightly in response, shadows curling tighter in the corners.

“I don’t keep pets for a reason.”

But of course—of course—you hear his footsteps draw close again.

Too close.

“Oh, but I’d be a good one, Ban draoid,” No bitin’ ‘less y’asked me to.”

His voice is a purr now. The kind that makes your bones itch and your skin hum.

He reaches out, slow, as if daring you to slap him, and brushes his fingers across your hand. They’re human again, warm and smooth.

“If y’feed me like that again,” he murmurs, voice rough silk, “I’ll be whatever y’want me to be. Pet. Acolyte. Demon. Ghost. I’ll bloody bark for ye, if that’s what gets me another taste.”

A shiver rides your spine, uninvited. You hate how easily his words slide into your bloodstream.

But you don’t show it.

You lift your chin, arms crossed, face a mask of disgust. “Disgusting.”

He grins like he’s won. Like he always does.

“And yet,” he says, leaning in, his breath brushing your neck, “here y’are. Still lookin’ at me like y’wanna bite.”

You scoff. Loud. Dismissive.

But your hands won’t stop trembling. And your mouth, goddess help you, is starting to water.

❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉

200 Years Later

You had forgotten what it felt like not to be cold. The ache in your bones had become so familiar it was almost part of you. Your feet throbbed, and you were so exhausted that lifting your legs felt like dragging iron weights. That’s why you didn’t think twice before stepping into the building that promised warmth.

The heat wrapped around you like a forgotten memory the moment you crossed the threshold. The scent of beer and some slow-cooked meal you couldn’t quite name filled the air, rich and inviting. And then came the heartbeat of the place — strong, too fast, stirred by laughter and the murmur of voices.

Your ears filled with the rushing blood of villagers who had offered you shelter. You had to breathe deeply, centre yourself, keep that thing inside you in check — the one that had been unleashed without your permission long ago, and had grown wilder since you’d been driven from your woods.

A sharp pain bloomed in your chest at the memory, flames licking your skin, the silent scream of your trees. You still hadn’t grown used to the grief. The rage boiled beneath your skin like a second bloodstream. You’d learned to live with it, but healing was still a distant, impossible thing.

You let yourself collapse into a chair, half-hidden by the cloak you wore — the same worn thing that shielded your face more often than not. You didn’t order anything. Not right away. You let the warmth gather around your limbs, let the sound of conversation ease the sting of solitude. You only looked up from the wooden bar when you sensed someone waiting for your attention.

When your eyes met those of the round-faced man drying a mug with a tattered rag, something in you stirred. A feeling you thought you’d buried. His expression shifted slightly, a flicker of recognition in his features. You were about to say you just needed to rest your feet, that maybe you’d order something later, when he opened his mouth and said it.

“Ban draoid.”

The breath caught in your throat. A shiver traced your spine. It wasn’t fear — it was hunger. Longing. That name awakened something in you that had been sleeping for far too long.

Decades. It had been decades since anyone had called you that. Only one person — one creature, ever had. And it was impossible for this man to know unless—

“He’s goin’ to be real glad to see ye, little witch.”

You didn’t need to ask who he meant. Your whole being screamed the answer. You could almost taste his blood again, call it up from memory. A soft sigh escaped your lips, like someone who had been lost for far too long and had finally found the way home.

“I’ll take ye to him.”

And despite the pain in your muscles, the weariness, the cold clinging to your skin like soaked cloth , you followed the man who had said only a handful of words.

You walked in silence through the village. You didn’t want to waste a single breath before you saw him. Before you knew this wasn’t some cruel trick.

He led you to the doors of a brothel. You huffed a laugh through your nose, a smile tugging at the corners of your lips. Of course.

The air inside changed the moment you stepped in — thick, heavy, warmer than the tavern had been. Eyes turned toward you. Breath held. You didn’t recognise a single one of them, yet they all looked at you like they’d known you once — like they remembered.

As you passed, some lifted their hands slightly, as if they might touch you, confirm you were real. By the time you reached the centre of the room, you felt… shy. Exposed. A young man stepped forward and tucked a strand of hair behind your ear, and you startled at the tenderness.

“Don’t be afraid, Ban draoid. We won't harm ye.”

A young woman touched your shoulder with the same careful reverence — a comfort you didn’t realise you needed. You didn’t know who they were, but all of them seemed to hum with the same energy — yours.

You’d heard whispers of hive minds, the kind some vampires could create. You hadn’t believed it. Not really. Not until now, surrounded by strangers who remembered things only he should have known.

“He’s missed you so much.”

The voice came from a velvet divan, soft, delicate, wrapped in nostalgia. And beneath the feminine tone, you heard him. As if the words had passed through her but came from him.

You were surrounded — by glances, hesitant touches, held breath. Somehow, in this strange twisted way, you felt worshipped. The beast inside you stretched, purring under the attention. Then the circle of people parted. A corridor opened in their midst , and there he was.

Unchanged.

Exactly as he had been when you’d let him into your home, let him feed on your forest, let him find shelter in the bones of your magic. Your heart stumbled at the memory of your grove, of what you had lost, and you nearly wept. The way emotions bloomed inside you in his presence… it was terrifying.

He looked delighted, a smile that lit his whole face. When he reached you, he took your cheeks in both hands and brought your forehead to his. You let yourself fall into the scent of him: death, blood, and uprooted lilacs.

“But just look at ye, Ban draoid.” His nose brushed against yours, gently, almost affectionately. You clung to his hands on your face, gripping him like an anchor. “Wearin’ eternity better than anyone I’ve ever known. Ye look older, love. It suits ye.”

You nearly sobbed,  you’d been strong for too long. You hadn’t noticed the way time had settled on you until now. It hadn’t been much — just a few years — but you felt them. Your magic had suffered when your home burned, and it had marked you.

“What are ye doin’ so far from home, love?” he asked, pulling back just enough to look into your eyes. In his gaze: worry, yes. But also that steel you remembered. That fire.

“They burned it all.”

The words barely left your lips before the memory scorched its way through your mind again, flames devouring bark and bone, ash dancing like snow. You’d tried. Gods, you had tried. But all your power had done was delay the inevitable. The only thing you’d saved was the seed pressed tight to your chest now, the last breath of your forest, the final whisper of a home.

He was watching you. Not blinking. Not breathing. Your eyes darting, unsettled, not knowing where to land. You knew that if you met his gaze, really met it, the quiet strength you'd clung to for decades would shatter at your feet like glass.

A breath trembled past your lips. Quiet, but not quiet enough. It hit him like a strike to the ribs. You saw it, the way his shoulders pulled in, the way he flinched with your sorrow as if it lived inside his own body.

His hands still cupped your face. Rough palms, cold fingers. He lowered your head gently, just a few inches, and then, his lips brushed your forehead. Barely there. Barely real. But you felt it. The hush of his breath, the stillness of his mouth, the aching reverence in the way he lingered too long and inhaled the scent of your skin like it was holy.

You closed your eyes, locking every part of yourself down so you wouldn’t come undone in his arms.

And when he looked at you again, you let yourself look back.

Your lips trembled—traitorous, aching—and you pressed them together, hard, as if the pressure could keep you whole. His thumb was there in an instant, soothing, still. As if he could stop the quake beneath your skin with a single touch.

“Our poor witch,” came a second voice. Silken. Male. To your right.

You flinched. Eyes snapping sideways.

Remmick leaned toward your neck, the movement barely perceptible. You felt his breath just before his lips, soft and wet against the skin where your pulse betrayed you. Your head tilted without permission, baring your throat to him in a gesture that felt ancient.

“What did they do to ye…” the new voice hummed, a slow trace of a fingertip gliding down your arm.

“We’ll mend it,” came another, almost a whisper.

Heat stirred inside you, curling like smoke. The frost that had built a cathedral in your chest melted in an instant. What lived inside you—coiled and feral—woke at their words like it had been summoned. Magic pulsed, hot and slow, down through your chest, pooling low in your belly.

Remmick’s mouth climbed higher, over your cheekbone now, his breath catching ragged in his throat. You turned just slightly, just enough, and felt the cool kiss of his exhale against your lips. You leaned forward, barely an inch. A tease. He lunged.

You pulled back.

He missed, brushing your cheek, and let out a frustrated sound that was too close to a whine.

You smiled. Sharp and pleased.

At some point, his hands had locked around your hips. Possessive. Hungry. You barely noticed. You reached up, tangled your fingers in his thick, dark hair, and yanked his head back. Hard.

He didn’t fight.

His throat stretched before you, bare and waiting. You watched the bob of his swallow, the faint tremor in his breath, the thrum of something alive beneath his deathless skin. You lowered your mouth to him and scraped your teeth across the exposed flesh. He groaned, deep and guttural, a sound that vibrated through your spine.

You had held back for so long. Held yourself in, stitched yourself shut. But his blood—his scent—was too much. The restraint snapped.

“How are you gonna fix this, Sweetfangs?” you asked, teeth grazing his throat.

You knew you were no match for him. Not now. Not like this. But he didn’t push you off. Didn’t resist. His hand found the back of your neck and pulled you closer, pressing you into him like a lover offering his heart.

“We’ll make ye strong again,” he breathed. “Blood for blood, remember that, Ban draoid…”

The words echoed, from him… and others.

Murmurs threaded through your skull like silk-wrapped chains. You could feel them. Their presence, their will. Your mind began to fog.

No.

You narrowed your eyes and looked around. Faces, yes. All of them echoing Remmick’s desire. Mirrors of his ache.

You dragged a single fingertip across his throat. He hissed at the contact. And they all hissed with him, every one of them, exposed and waiting.

You swallowed.

"Do you control them?"

His grip in your hair softened, not letting go.

“Nah, lass,” he said low. “No one controls anyone here. They feel what I give ‘em. They remember what I remember. If they offer themselves to ye, it’s ‘cause they know what I felt… kneelin’ at yer feet that mornin’.”

“Yes, Ban draoid,” another voice whispered. “We want you strong.”

Almost. You almost let it take you.

But no. You’d felt his memories before. That never meant surrender.

And then his mouth—his goddamn mouth—was back on your face, tracing over your cheek with reverence.

"Don’t think so much, ban droid. Let yourself be cared for. I’ll handle the rest. We all will."

He pressed closer, breath ghosting over your skin as he whispered promises meant for your hatred, but they curled into your bones like comfort. You felt your thoughts blur again, thick and heavy as fog. His hand found the back of your neck, fingers threading through your hair as he guided your mouth to his throat. You wet your lips without meaning to, instinct moving before thought, just a slow, teasing flick of your tongue against his skin.

Another sound tore from him, low and broken, and that was it.

Your heart stuttered, then surged. Control disintegrated. The second your lips found him, everything inside you caved. You tasted his skin, warm and strange, and when you finally sank your teeth into him, you expected relief—but the taste didn’t come. Not right away. That moment of absence left you nearly frantic. You considered drawing harder, faster—but the thought vanished the instant the first drop touched your tongue.

It was like drinking him.

Not his blood. Him. His essence. His being.

Thick and alive and ancient. His magic slammed into you like a tidal wave, unfurling in your chest, blooming in your veins. It took root, it spread, through your belly, your lungs, your throat. You could feel the trees again. The hum of the forest. The fluttering of leaves above you, the rustle of small lives moving in branches. You didn’t know if the tears spilling from your eyes were from shock or fever. Maybe both.

Your head spun, and you let go, let him hold you, press you against him. You thought you heard a lull, a soft murmur. You weren’t even sure when he'd lifted you, when your legs wrapped around his hips. Nothing was clear anymore. You couldn’t tell where you ended and he began. Every emotion inside you tangled with his—raw, starving—moaning into his neck as you drank something you hadn’t even known you craved.

You were just beginning to claw your way back to sense, remembering you could kill him if you didn’t stop, when you felt his mouth against your shoulder—his teeth this time. Real. Sharp. No longer hidden. He didn’t speak, didn’t ask. But you nodded anyway. You didn’t stop drinking.

Around you, you could hear sounds—moans, shudders—but the one that rippled through every nerve in your body came from him. It wasn’t pain. It was relief. Something like release. And it crawled into your brain, wrapped around your spine, and ignited everything. You couldn’t help it—you moved your hips, seeking contact, friction, anything that let you feel more of him.

When you were nearly full, when the heat of his blood and your magic crackled beneath your skin like lightning, you pulled back. Your tongue ran over the wound to keep a single drop from going to waste. Your hands slid over his shoulders, feeling the strength coiled beneath the layers of fabric, and you bit your lip as you felt him drinking.

And then, you felt it.

His heart. Beating.

Just faintly. A rhythm where there had been stillness. Life where there had been nothing. It hit you like joy, like always, and you grabbed his face, pulled him back so you could see him. 

Colour floods his cheeks like a sunrise breaking through centuries of night. Not just a flush—life. His lips are parted, red and trembling, drawing in breath that fogs the air between you, hot and human.

You’ve never seen anything so terrible. So beautiful.

“I almost forgot what this felt like,” he murmured, voice slurred and dreamy, as if the tide had pulled him under and he was only now surfacing.

His lashes flutter. His eyes—those cold, endless eyes—now seem to flicker with something familiar. A glint. A hint of what once was. Who once was. It steals your voice. It steals your thoughts. All you can do is stare, mouth parted, the taste of him still on your tongue as if even your body doesn’t want to let him go.

And then he breathes.

A full breath.

One that shakes his chest and yours along with it, and it undoes you.

You leaned in, and he followed, thinking—hoping—you’d kiss him.

But you tilted your head and pressed a soft kiss to the tip of his nose instead. His eyes fluttered shut at the touch, and for a second, you swore he purred.

“So, what do you say then, ban droid?” he whispered. “Will you let us care for you?”

Everything in you wanted to say yes. To surrender. To rest.

But you didn’t. Not yet.

“I’ll let you feed me, sweetfangs,” you rasped, voice low and fraying at the edges. “Just for now.”

You ran a finger along his still-glinting canines, wet with your blood, the touch somehow tender in its quiet savagery. And then,you let him kiss you.

Your breath hitched the moment your lips met, as if this was what you’d really been waiting for all along. As if the blood hadn’t been enough. As if you needed this, his mouth on yours, his hunger turned to fire, to need. You let him devour you, let him claim your mouth like he belonged there.

And for now… you let him believe that he did.

❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉❉

200 Years Later

You thought you might disintegrate the moment the fabric touched your skin.

It was almost laughable, how in all your long life, you’d never touched a cross before. You had no idea what would happen if your fingers curled around one of those amulets the acolytes liked to wear. Would your hands burst into flame? Would your magic recoil in disgust? Likely not. You were older than their god, after all.

Still, you hesitated.

You smoothed the coarse cloth of the novice’s habit over your body once more, fidgeting with the veil that pressed too tightly around your ears, muffling sound, pressing your face into modest obedience. Everything about it itched, physically and spiritually. You weren’t built for meekness, not anymore.

But you’d come too far to turn back now.

Six months ago, you had crossed paths with Lorenzo Priuli, the gilded Cardinal of Venice, a man whose robes dripped with vanity and the stink of ambition.  You wanted to know what happened when you pulled the divine out of the devout. When you bled them dry, not just of life, but of the tether that bound them to their god. Acolytes, monks, whispered priests who hid behind gilded walls and velvet confessions. You sliced open their veins, drank their faith, and sifted through their memories for power.

The result had been disappointing.

The acolyte whose blood you'd taken had been just as dull as the city he came from, humid, grey, and stinking of rot. Their blood lacked depth, like wine left out in the sun.  You could barely squeeze two spells from his veins before it turned sour in your mouth. He was riddled with what men like him called sin. Spoiled by guilt, riddled with shame. You called it waste.

But there had been something.

Buried in his memories, half-faded, soaked in candlelight and incense, were whispers. Quiet conversations about a beast caged in the bowels of a fortress they called the Vatican. You’d heard the name before, whispered behind burning pyres and sharpened swords. The seat of the little man who commanded wars in the name of the divine. They called him the hand of God.

But if what they held below ground was real, then they didn’t worship God. They feared the devil.

They hunted your kind mercilessly for centuries. Burned, bled, butchered, never understood. But this was new. A captured creature, not for execution but for "study." You could only imagine what that meant in the language of faith.

It could’ve been any monster. But the description chilled you to the bone.

A demon with an Irish tongue and black eyes. A throat-ripper. A blood-drinker.

You told yourself it couldn’t be him. There were others like him. Others who tore and drank and laughed in the dark. But something in you, the old thing he once touched and woke, quivered at the thought of him rotting in some damp holy tomb.

So your hunt began.

Acolyte after acolyte. You drained them, rifled through their memories like parchment, whispered spells until one of them unwittingly opened a door. You left no trace, only hollowed bodies and muddled prayers.

Eventually, the trail led to a Mother Superior.

She looked at you the first time like she already knew what you were. Her eyes narrowed. Her nostrils flared. She sniffed out the blasphemy in your blood, the wrongness in your bones. She was stronger than the others—mentally, spiritually. She couldn't be bent easily.

So you didn’t bend her. You stayed close. You donned the veil. Played the penitent. A novice on the cusp of taking her vows, eyes lowered, lips always murmuring.

Night after night, you slipped into her mind. Not to break it, but to plant seeds, tender suggestions, dreams of purity and divine purpose, visions that always led to the same thing: that she must bring you below, down into the depths where the Church kept its greatest shame.

To him.

The creature who couldn’t walk in the daylight. The one whose blood once tasted like thunder and lilacs.

So when the Mother Superior whispered that they were here for more than just praising God, you forced your face into a mask of innocence and fear. You widened your eyes, lowered your gaze, and played the part of a naive girl devoting her body and soul to the divine.

She spoke of shadows. Of evil made flesh. She called it a war, not just a devotion. That by taking the vows, you were not only offering yourself to the Almighty but becoming His soldier. His blade against the dark things hiding beneath the world.

You nodded through it all. Pretended to tremble when she pressed the rosaries into your hands, tucked wooden stakes into your belt, strapped vials of holy water to your thighs. You whispered the sacred rites with dry lips, tasted ash in every vow. Not once did you feel the sting of power. The words were hollow. Magicless. Just sounds echoed into cold stone.

And when they gave you the blood of the so-called savior, when they placed his flesh on your tongue, nothing burned. Your skin did not blister. Your breath did not catch fire.

It should have scared you. That you could walk so deep into their temple, wear their habits, speak their sacred tongue, and remain untouched.

But it didn’t.

What scared you was the thing that had driven you here.

A beast.

Your beast.

It had started as nothing. A curiosity. A creature caged beneath your woods centuries ago, snarling and half-starved, the earth bleeding black beneath his feet. He should’ve been a pet, a passing fancy—a stain on your long, winding life. But now you were burning churches and gutting acolytes just to follow whispers of his name through corridors of marble and gold.

You kept telling yourself it wasn’t love. That you were only retrieving what was yours. You didn’t like when people touched what belonged to you, especially if they broke it.

The truth of it nested deep in your bones, rotting quietly. You’d dressed it up in possession, in revenge, but it reeked of something far more dangerous. Far more human.

When the day finally came, the nun laced your fingers with more beads and crosses. As if they would save you. As if they could save anyone. You remembered Remmick once idly twisting a rosary around his fingers, murmuring that the smooth beads calmed his nerves. It hadn’t saved the girl who wore it, not from him. The memory clung to you like perfume.

Now you stood at the gates of their Vatican. You, draped in holy robes, with a stake strapped to your thigh and murder in your heart. The Mother Superior repeated again and again what a privilege this was—to be allowed into the lower catacombs. To walk the path only chosen men were allowed to tread.

You didn’t say a word.

Every thought had vanished the moment the scent of his blood thickened the air. You had feared it, feared that you’d recognize it the instant it touched your lungs, and you had been right. Every suspicion, every whisper of dread clawing at your ribs had proven true. The monster they kept chained beneath the earth wasn’t just any beast, it was yours.

Magic crackled under your skin like a storm waiting to burst. You clenched your jaw, fighting the urge to bring this wretched place to the ground in a wave of fire and ash.

You reached the iron door of his cell. The nun—her voice sharp, shaking—warned you not to listen to him. “He’ll twist your mind with his viper tongue,” she muttered, clutching her rosary like a lifeline.

You nearly laughed.

She had no idea the things that tongue could do to you. Confusion was hardly the worst of it. You bit your lower lip, holding back the urge to say it aloud. Let her keep her ignorance. Let her die with it.

but you’d had enough of her. Months of pious instruction and venomous sermons against your kind. Months of hiding beneath linen and lies, swallowing down every urge to end her. So when she turned her back, you didn’t hesitate. You snapped her neck in silence. Her body hit the cold floor with a dull thud, and something deep in your belly purred with satisfaction.

Your fingers trembled as they touched the iron latch. Anticipation. Fear. Containment. You weren’t sure which feeling owned you anymore. When the door creaked open, your knees nearly gave out.

There he was.

They had him suspended by the wrists, iron cuffs scorched into his skin, the stink of burned flesh rising constantly from the wounds. His feet didn’t touch the floor, he was hanging, his entire weight yanked down by the chains. His body was ravaged with cuts and bruises, his skin a tapestry of cruelty. They’d stripped him of everything but the tattered cloth around his waist. His head hung low, hair soaked in sweat, plastered to his face. He hadn’t seen you. He didn’t have the strength to look up.

You didn’t know what to do. You’d seen him powerful, smirking, fanged, ruthless. Seeing him like this made something in you curl and break.

And then you saw it.

Around his neck, barely gleaming in the faint candlelight, still hung a golden chain. Your breath caught in your throat. That ridiculous little trinket, the one you had given him so long ago. They’d taken everything else from him. But not that. Why?

Your hand reached for the chains. The moment they clinked, he stirred. He lifted his head slowly, like it hurt to move. His eyes narrowed, straining to see through blood and haze. You didn’t stop working the shackles, your fingers desperate now, and that’s when you heard it, a rasp, more breath than voice, right at your ear.

“Ban draoid…”

Your heart clenched at the sound of it.

“Yes, sweetfangs. It’s me. I’ve come to take you home.”

He gave a hoarse, broken sound. Maybe it was a laugh, maybe a sob. It dissolved into a cough that wracked his body.

“F-fuckin’ hell… I’m sorry, mo chroí…” he mumbled, barely audible. One of his hands came free, and his entire body collapsed against you, limp as a corpse. You dropped to your knees to catch him, arms wrapping around his waist, his chin finding your shoulder, breath warm and incoherent against your skin.

“You shouldn’t… y’shouldn’t see me like this…” he whispered, words slurring. “I think they… they took it… took everythin’... I can’t…”

He buried his face in the curve of your neck, clinging to you with the last of his strength. One wrist still chained, body swaying like a broken puppet.

“Remmick?”

He stirred. Pulled back just enough to look at you, eyelids heavy but eyes searching. When your gaze met his, it was like something ancient ignited between you.

“You… called me by m’name.”

He looked stunned. As if he'd forgotten he had one.

“How else would I call you?”

“Leech. Pet. Sweetfangs. Never… Remmick.”

He wasn’t wrong. Even in your thoughts, you’d always called him the creature, the vampire, your beast. Never by name.

“Mmm. I like it,” he said, nuzzling back into your neck. He sounded drunk on you, disoriented, like a man clinging to the only thing that still made sense.

“Yeah? Then if you want me to say it again, you’ve gotta help me, sweetheart. I need you to stand.”

A low growl rumbled in his throat, a complaint, not a threat. He snuggled deeper, like a child refusing to rise from bed.

You tapped his side gently, coaxing. “Come on, love. I need you.”

He groaned but moved, feet hitting the stone floor, wobbling, but standing, barely.

While he leaned on you, you worked at the other cuff. His gaze was heavy on you, hungry. His face pressed against yours again, nose nuzzling into any exposed skin he could find. He mumbled nonsense, words from a fever dream.

The moment the last shackle fell, you both collapsed.

He didn’t let go.

Instead, he clung to you with both hands now free, roaming your body like he didn’t believe you were real. Like he had to memorize you with touch before the vision faded.

You try to lift him.

You brace your legs, plant your feet, dig your fingers into his arms and try with everything you have to pull him up. But his weight won’t shift. His body is too heavy with pain and time and everything they’ve taken from him. It’s like trying to carry a cathedral’s worth of ruin in your arms. His knees buckle the moment you try to straighten, and he drags you down with him.

You both end up on the cold floor again, stone biting into your knees, your shoulder, your ribs. His arms curl around you like instinct, and you can feel the tremble in him, buried deep in his bones.

“Why won’t you move?” you whisper, not angry. Just aching. Just desperate.

He lets out a sound like a breath caught on broken glass. Then laughs. Dry, too hollow to be real. “Because yer not real.”

Your breath catches.

He lifts his head, just enough to look at you again. “You’re in m’head, same as always. Dreamin’ y’ve come to fix me… that y’ve come to fuckin’ see me.”

“Remmick.”

“You never said my name like that, ban draoid. Not when it mattered.” His voice cracks, but he smiles like it’s all some grand joke he’s playing on himself. “I was always your pet,” he murmurs. “Wasn’t I? Your good little monster. Guarded the necklace, bit anyone who tried to take it off. They kept trying, y’know. Could smell your magic on it, and they didn’t like it one fuckin’ bit.”

Your stomach turns.

You look down, at the bruises on his wrists, at the necklace still hanging from his throat. That ridiculous little charm you gave him centuries ago, when you never thought you'd see him again. And he still has it. Worn and bent and bloodied. 

“You bit them?” you whisper. “You fought for it?”

“Didn’t want ‘em to touch it.” His eyes flutter closed. “Didn’t want ‘em takin’ you off me. S’stupid, I know. You never belonged to me.”

“No.” Your voice cracks. “No, Remmick. I didn’t.

He flinches. “That’s what I said.”

Your hand goes to his face. Gentle. Real.

“I’m not a dream,” you say, your voice cracking on the edges. “Look at me, Remmick. Look at me.”

His gaze flickers, fogged and wavering, but it holds.

“I didn’t come for my pet. I didn’t come to leash my monster.” You press your forehead to his. “I came for you. For the only fucking thing that’s ever felt like home in this endless life of mine.”

He doesn’t say anything.

So you go on. “You think I’d wear these rags, swear vows to a god I don’t believe in, kneel for weeks beside their altars—bleed for it—if you were just some plaything to me?”

Still, nothing. His eyes glisten. His throat tightens. But he won’t speak.

“I’m not here because you’re mine,” you whisper. “I’m here because I’m yours.”

A muscle jumps in his jaw. His lips part. Still no sound.

You lift your hand, shaking ,and without hesitation, drag your fingernail across your palm. A clean, straight line. Blood wells up fast and dark, thick as molten iron. It smells of night and wild earth. Of every root you ever grew and every fire you ever lit. Of you.

His head jerks toward it. Not by choice. By need.

“I want you to drink,” you say, bringing your hand to his mouth. “No games. No servitude. This is a gift. I want you stronger. Because I need you alive. Because I can't—I won’t—lose you.”

His eyes flick up to meet yours.

Then, carefully, reverently, his mouth parts.

You place your bleeding hand, then, softly, reverently, his lips close over the wound.

The first pull is shallow, like he’s testing the edge of a dream. But when your blood hits his tongue, something shifts. His hands twitch. His breath hitches. His body jerks like it’s waking up after years of drowning. His eyes flutter shut, and a low sound escapes his throat, something between a growl and a sigh.

He drinks.

And drinks.

You hold your hand to him, even as your knees wobble, even as your head spins. His mouth is hot now, his breath warming. You feel his grip strengthening where it clings to your arm. His fingers dig into your waist like he's anchoring himself back to life.

You feel him coming back to you.

“Slow down,” you whisper, dizzy. “Take only what you need.”

But he growls softly, shakes his head. “I need you, mo ghrá. I need all of you.”

Your other hand cups his face.

“You’ve always had all of me,” you whisper. “Even when I wouldn’t admit it. Even when I tried to leave you behind.”

His lips slow, soften. His jaw slackens, but not in weakness, this is reverence now. When he finally pulls away, your blood stains his mouth like wine and war. His eyes open again, and they're no longer dulled by pain.

He rests his forehead against yours, both of you trembling from what just passed between you.

“We’ll find somewhere,” he murmurs. “A place with trees. Quiet. Hidden.”

Your breath catches.

 “Somewhere y’don’t have to pretend to be anyone else.”

Your heart cracks wide open. For him. For everything that could still be.

You nod, barely able to speak.

He smiles, weak but real. “I’ll help y’put your roots down again, love. This time, I’ll guard the fuckin’ soil myself.”

[charmedntruer]

FORTRESS — clark kent x reader

summary: tasked to take clark to the safest possible place he can recover from the pocket universe, you come to a few new revelations of your own upon seeing where clark was raised in the countryside.

content warnings: contains light spoilers from superman (2025), some spoilers but like one-off mention style so you should be ok, established (?) relationship, semi-proofread writing, not the biggest fan of the ending but writer’s block hit

authors note: this could either be really bad or subpar, but bear with me i’m only on my first watch 💔 this is also technically my first fic. will be going back to see it again tho dare i say peak superhero film in recent years???

wc: ~1.4k

The Kent family farm feels isolating in the best way.

It’s something you’d come to notice instantly. You’ve never been too deep into the country; Metropolis, as it stands, was all you’d ever really known and probably ever will know—a place with its downs and ups, sure, but nevertheless the big city in which all your dreams had flourished since before you could even really see them.

And yet, even despite the circumstance—that is, hauling the 6’4 brick wall that was a mostly immobilized Clark Kent up the path to his parents’ front door—you could take even the briefest of moments to appreciate the silence, the tranquility of the farm. There wasn’t the whisper of crowded noise for miles upon miles, and you liked it. Stillness was something hard to come by in your life back home, whether that be due to the demands of heralding upcoming events back to back at the Daily Planet, or even trying to wrap your head around this not-quite-relationship between you and Clark for the last few months, you were kept on your toes. Being raised here, though, you thought, how wasn’t Clark supposed to become the humble, honest person he was today? It wasn’t all about being metahuman.

You introduced yourself briefly to his parents upon exiting the shuttle, explained as best as you could the situation from which you both crash landed from without giving them too much more to worry about. Johnathan and Martha were quick, unraveling Clark’s form from your caving shoulders as you all walked to the front door. They ushered you both with gentle words that reassured your own ears as the four of you made your way down the hall towards his childhood bedroom.

God, his room. Sometimes you had trouble imagining what life was like before for Clark. You knew some of what he told you about his adoptive parents, about what life was like here on the farm. He’d even mentioned taking you to visit someday. You were certain it was something he’d shrug off, but he’d insisted he meant it. And though the circumstances could’ve been better, sure, as you walked around slowly observing the figurines, posters, and books that made him him, you couldn’t help but smile thinking about how similar you both were.

You watched on as the Kent’s continued to comfort their son, replying with all the calm reassurance you could offer when Johnathan asked if their boy would be okay, until both of them stood, Martha with the intention to bring you back a cup of tea. You thanked her with a smile, watching as she left until the room grew silent.

Then you heard a rumble.

“Geez, don’t act so shy”.

The words almost made you jump a bit, regardless of how strained they sounded. You looked over at the previously presumed to be knocked out Clark making the effort to stare back at you, and the sight brought an awkwardly breathy laugh past your lips. “Sorry,” you apologized quietly, straightening from your position beside a bookshelf. “I wasn’t expecting you to wake back up”.

“Neither was I,” Clark’s grin is a mere raise of one corner of his mouth, but it’s enough to warm you just like it always does. “You don’t have to stand so far, y’know. Come sit down”.

He tries to pat the (little to nothing) space beside him on his childhood bed, and you grin at the effort. You make your way over, the bed dipping beneath your weight as you settle against his side. You fold your hands in your lap, then unfold them, pacing in your mind over what to say, if you should even say something more to begin with—he’s barely conscious after all.

You find some words finally when you feel his eyes burning into your skin. “I really like your parents,” you offer, turning to him slightly. “You can just…feel how much they really care about you. That’s really special”.

Clark gives something between a grunt and a hum of agreement, tilting his head on the pillow to look at you better and offering you a real smile. “Yeah. They’re incredible”.

And though his words are kind, certain, you feel like you can sense a sadness behind his eyes as he looks away from you. You think you know why, but you won’t pry on it, not now. You’d heard his heartbroken whisper to Martha about his birth parents, more resigned than how he’d spoken to you about the same thing before leaving to turn himself in. About how their message wasn’t what it seemed—how he wasn’t who he thought he was. And then Clark looks at you again and says your name softly, forcing your thoughts away from all of that. “I’ll be alright”.

“I know,” you nod swiftly, “I heard Terrific—“

“No,” Clark shakes his head in a definitive whisper. Then, he extends one of his hands to take yours where it rests on your side, his palm swallowing the back of your hand, encouraging you to really look at him and not speaking again until you do. “I don’t mean just my body. I know what you’re thinking, and I’m telling you now. I’ll be alright. All of me”.

You blink at him for a moment, your brows softening, but you don’t try to pull your hand away. It’s like the simple enough words are all it takes to ease that nagging in your brain, not just about this and all that had happened not even an hour before, but all that’s to come when he recovers and faces the world again.

“I know that it might not be much comfort at this point,” you start suddenly, “but I believe you. I meant to say it back at the apartment, before you left, but I—“

You pause, trying to find the words to explain your way of going about all of this but coming up short. If you were being honest you thought you took it all really well, but maybe you hadn’t. You knew Clark wasn’t a monster, but what did your word matter in a pool of hundreds of thousands?

It meant everything.

Clark is silent for enough time after you’ve spoken that you start thinking that he might’ve fallen back asleep. Then he asks, “That’s all you meant to say back then?”

You know what he’s referring to instantly, you just hadn’t thought that despite how battered up and drained of practically all of his energy sources he’d still manage to bring something like that up. His confession (confession? It didn’t feel very confession-like. It felt like a statement, the most normal thing in the world. Clark Kent somehow managed to make “I love you” feel like the least conditional thing in the universe). You could groan about now, but you don’t. You keep holding his hand.

“You know it’s not,” you say, your voice barely above a whisper.

He can’t tell whether or not you meant for him to hear it, but Clark does. He squeezes your hand once. “Ok. That’s good. I won’t make you say anything, but…that’s good to know”.

You hum, nodding softly. You think that finally might be the end of it.

“Give me a sign?”

You raise a brow. “A what?”

“A sign,” he repeats casually. “ Don’t say the words until you’re ready, but give me a sign that you reciprocate, maybe. If you want. If you do”.

You’re not really sure how to respond at first. And then you feel your heart flutter. Here he was, as he’d always been. Letting you do things at your own pace. Letting you know that superheroes needed reassurance, too.

Your lips curve up into a faint smile as you look down at him to see he’s already smiling lazily as well. You’ve had your sign since the second he asked, and now Clark knows for sure.

“The Mighty Killjoys,” you say finally, lifting your opposite hand to brush a stray curl away. “They’re not trash”.

In the dim light it’s like Clark’s eyes begin to glimmer before they flutter shut, full of content. “Yeah. That’s a good one”.

You manage a small laugh, shaking your head at him. Then you lean forward, just enough to plant a soft, lingering kiss to his forehead. “Sleep, Clark,” you say against his skin, not leaving any room for further discussion or debate. “I’ll be here”.

Clark’s eyes remain closed when you pull away, and he obliges you. With another squeeze to your hand, the gentle swipe of his thumb, he takes an exhale that signals that he’s finally succumbed to the weight of slumber.

It’s then that you really get it. The fortress that is this home, this whole farm. The kind of place that could only nourish good and wholeness. Could nourish a hero.

[corpseontheloose]

A whisker away II ── .✦

Pairing: Nam-gyu x f!reader

Summary: you and Nam-gyu are basically the parents of the stray cats <\3

A/N: I love soft Nam-gyu :'((( this is part two of this!!! Also Y/N and Nam-gyu aren't dating, they're just going out and taking things slow, but they do like each other and they know both know that. Like I said, they just want to take things slow :3

Warnings: mentions of drugs, cigarettes

At this point Nam-gyu knew how much the music from the club was distracting half of your class during lessons

You told him, obviously. It was kind of funny to explain how your classmates groan almost all the time because of that

He found it funny, too, of course. But he also wanted to make sure you're able to concentrate during your studies

You assured him that you're doing just fine with your headphones and the notes from the board, so he didn't have to worry too much

Although you were pretty moody whenever you didn't have your headphones on and had to listen to, not only the teacher, but also whatever singer the club brought this time

Whenever the club was increasing the volume of the speakers, Nam-gyu couldn't help but think about you

He made sure the cats were okay during those times when you were still in class, knowing you were almost done with the lessons and coming straight to them. And him.

As soon as you finished, you packed your stuff and made your way out of the building, not before grabbing leftover granola bars from the cafeteria.

He liked those. You knew that; you took notes on that.

And you liked him. So naturally, you always made sure to bring him some. You'd even save yours throughout the evening in case the cafeteria didn't have any left, so you could give him that instead. If they did have leftovers, you'd grab one more just to munch along with Nam-gyu

Most of the time he'd wait outside for you, already on the ground, playing with the cats. Other times he'd kick open the door and close it in a rush before apologizing for being late (he was late for just 2 min max 💔💔)

You'd chuckle and brush the hair away from his face, assuring him that it was okay and that you just got there anyways

Today he was there, though. He sat with the kittens and scolded some of them for playfully fighting against each other until you popped right from the corner

"Heyy! Sorry for running a bit late; traffic was crazy. I almost got run over by a car," you giggled, letting the bag slip from your shoulder.

You picked up the kibble sack from inside it, earning desperate meows from the familiar rustling sound the sack made.

"That's all good; I actually got out of there earlier just to breathe for a bit. Anything to escape from the boss for a little while," he joked, picking up one of the bowls and holding it up so you could pour the kibbles

Nam-gyu helped you out with the other few bowls before you let the furry friends eat in peace

You sat down on the concrete next to him, searching in your bag loudly for the granola bars. The pens would crash against each other, making soft sounds until you pulled out the two snacks, handing one to him

"How was class today?" he asks, tearing the packaging and taking a bite of his bar

"I don't even know what word I'm looking for. It was... apathetic."

He listened to your complaints and frustrations attentively, scoffing at some of the things that didn't sound right to him either

"You can't just announce a project last minute, especially for the final semester. It takes at least three days to write a decent document. Maybe I had plans for the weekend; who knows? Either way, I think that's just stupid."

Nam-gyu nods, agreeing with you. Although he never went to college, the situation seemed frustrating, and he could tell how much it affected you based on how aggressively you munched on the granola bar.

"I don't even—I don't even know what to do. It's extremely frustrating, and I'm already in a time crunch. And I do have plans tomorrow; I can't miss that."

"What plans do you have tomorrow?" he asked curiously, snapping his head at you. You simply sighed, moving your head to the side for a moment.

"I... signed up for volunteering. They already reviewed my form; they want to meet me tomorrow."

Nam-gyu's eyes grew big at the news, his lips curling into a genuine smile.

"That's cool! And also, very... you," he added, nodding while chuckling slightly. "What are you volunteering for exactly?"

You simply nodded towards the cats in front of you before returning your gaze back to him

"feeding the animals around the city. Not just cats, dogs too."

Nam-gyu's heart was basically doing flips in his chest. Why were you so sweet godSHHHHH it was TOO TOOTH-ROTTING FOR HIM

"Figured. I wouldn't imagine you pick anything else," he smiles, shoving the granola bar's packaging in his pocket

Ever since you two started going out, Nam-gyu has restrained himself from smoking weed next to you. Or do drugs, for that matter.

You'd still see him high; he just wouldn't do the whole process with you anywhere near him.

So he only limited himself to cigarettes, knowing you'd also take a drag or two.

It's the least he could do for putting you in such tight spots whenever he came to your apartment after work, high as hell, in the middle of an extra study session. He'd usually fall asleep on the couch, standing on his butt with an arm around your waist as you held your head on his chest and your eyes on your notebooks.

He promised he'd try to get better, but he couldn't do it. Not yet. And you accepted that, somehow

Everyone had their vices.

"If I start volunteering on the weekends, I'm going to need a favor, though," you say, slowly turning your head to him and smirking widely

He looked at you with a grin and a raised eyebrow before rolling his eyes.

"Would you spare two minutes of your life to feed the buddies in here if I'm not able to make it?"

Nam-gyu scoffed in amusement, avoiding your eyes and looking everywhere else but your face

"What am I? Is the cat security not enough? Now I have to become a personal chef for them, too?"

"Oh, come on, Nam-gyu. You can have the kibble sack wherever your bags go during your shift, and if you run out, you can just give me a text, and I'll go buy some more and bring them to you."

You pleaded, fake-pouting while placing your head on his arm, which was hooked around his knees

He didn't answer the first time, making you take his attention with something else

You bit him. Softly. But you still bit him.

"Ouch, you crazy lady!" You chuckled, placing your chin back on his arm, looking up at him

He looked at you so lovingly before rolling his eyes, "Fine! Fine. I'll feed your damn cats. But this doesn't come on my paycheck!"

"No, you're right. It doesn't," you started, looking at the ground. "It comes on every time you disturb my studying hours, though."

"At least now I know how to pay for that instead of just apologizing like a maniac," he mumbled as you kicked him in the arm

It went well for a few days. You started haunting the streets, feeding every creature you found until you needed to head to class and right back home, sleeping your ass off

Whenever you had time, you'd actually text Nam-gyu to come to the front doors of the club just to see him shortly before you go home and sink yourself in your bed

Most of the time he'd be right outside after you texted him; sometimes he'd reply with 'Can't right now. Go rest. The cats are fed ❤️'

It was truly heartwarming, and it made you happy knowing he was putting in the effort to help you.

It also made you happy knowing you were helping hundreds of other hungry bellies and that you were provided with (almost) unlimited kibble from the volunteering program. They even let you get some to supply Nam-gyu whenever he ran out for his cats.

Did I say 'his' cats? Nah, it wasn't a misspelling.

They became clingier over him now that you weren't around as often as before.

At first it was a bit weird for him, but with time, he just softened around them.

He'd proudly call himself 'cat dad' whenever he crashed onto your couch like he always did, telling you about his night at work and how the cats are doing.

You'd laugh at his words, teasing him about his new role. He just looked offended. "I'll have you know cats ADORE me. You're just jealous."

You were making plans together on how to change up their place for a bit, since winter was right around the corner and you didn't want them to get cold.

He'd give you silly ideas most of the time, since the only time you got to be together was when he came to your place, high, and held you against his chest on your couch.

Some of them were useful, though. You made a list and decided on a day to not attend class just to be able to put together a safer space for your and his cats.

He'd also call the same day off just to help you.

AWWWWWWW

[to-the-stars8]

The Game

Bruce Wayne x Reader

Summary: Bruce comes home after a gala, looking to get you upstairs and in bed.

AN: Sorry for any mistakes, I wrote this on my phone while at work and will be posting it to Ao3 later for anyone who would like to read this that way! Also slight NSFW so MDNI

⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙ ⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙ ⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙ ⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙ ⋆˙⟡♡⟡⋆˙

It’s past midnight by the time Bruce rolls in, the smell of cigar smoke heavy on his long black wool coat. As ventures further into the den he sheds his overcoat and charcoal suit jacket, throwing them across one of the armchairs.

You’re poised on the couch with your legs tucked up and a book cradled in your arms. You hardly look up from your book as he moves about, only mumbling a greeting before getting back to the plot. It was getting good, and you weren’t going to distract yourself by asking how yet another gala went.

Bruce makes his way over to the bottle of scotch that sat up on a high shelf on the far side of the room.

As he poured himself a glass, he asks, “Kids in bed?”

You hum. “Yeah.” After flipping a page, you gently add, “Tim needs new shoes for school, by the way.”

Bruce chuckles, the sound echoing in the quiet room. As he crosses over to you in three strides, he mutters, “He tears them up on that damn skateboard.” He sighs. “I’ll get him new ones tomorrow.”

After a second, he drops down next to you, drink sloshing around in the crystal glass as he settles. Bruce stretches an arm behind you on the couch, eyes going between you and the book in your lap.

You know what he wants, and, though you’re more than willing to, you’re not giving in that easily to him. Lately, you’ve been giving it to him far too willingly, and, though you enjoy it immensely, you find it more fun to watch him squirm a little.

Bruce rests the glass on his knee, swirling a little, as he whispers, “Let’s go upstairs.”

You finally look up, trying not to show how much of a good idea you think that sounds. “I want to finish this chapter.”

Tutting, you see his hand around the glass twitch a little. It takes everything in you not to smile. After being together for over ten years, you manage to catch the small ways he shows his annoyance. A hand twitch? That meant he’d love nothing more than to take the book from your sweet hands and toss it across the room.

But, Bruce Wayne was raised a gentleman and he knew your anger at that would far worse than anything else. His eyes look towards the door like he was looking for the kids—Bruce always looked for them before doing something particularly nasty. Not that anyone would know it, but he was embarrassed when his more intimate side was exposed. Every nonchalant, cool brag made to the media was a front that often kept Bruce’s face buried in his hands afterward.

When he decides the coast is clear, he whispers again, “That book will still be there after I eat you out and fuck you.”

You finally look at him and you can’t help but smile a little. Despite being a bit commanding, which you expected from an only child with too much money, he’s sweet.

“And, I hope, you’ll still be here after my chapter.”

Bringing his hand to the back of your neck, he holds you there—Not in a mean way. No, never in a mean way, just a way to ground himself to you so that he might admire your face a bit longer.

“Of course,” he says softly, thumb rubbing gentle strokes against the skin right under your ear. When he leans closer, you can feel the power radiating off of him. Bruce practically owns the world, and, with the way he is spread out, you can feel that. There’s a bit of pride blooming in your chest that comes from the fact that this man is your husband and he’s the one staring at you like you own him. “But wouldn’t you like me to pull those pretty panties to the aside and let you bounce you on my cock?”

His desperate brashness makes you blush and giggle as you shake your head. “You’re…”

Bruce smiles. A real smile that’s reserved just for you and the kids. “What?”

“I can’t think of the word right now,” you admit, going to look back down at your book. When the words weren’t comprehending, you shut it, looking at him.

He sets down his glass down onto the coffee table, knowing he’d won. “And here I thought the chapter was getting good by how well you brushed off my attempts to seduce you.”

You shook your head. You might have lost the game, but you were don’t yet. Putting your hand on his thigh, where you then noticed the very obvious bulge in his tailored trousers, you looked up at him through your lashes.

“Don’t get too rough this time, please?”

Both of you know you like it when he’s a bit mean—when he grips the softness of your hips hard enough to leave bruises, holding you down by pressing on your back as he rams into from behind, and when he nips at all his favorite places enough to leave marks the next day. Every bit of it you love, and you’ll ask for it later.

Right now, you’re wanting to see how easily he’ll fold for you.

Pressing his lips to your shoulder, he hums a yes. He won’t risk you being uncomfortable for a stupid unspoken game—not when there’s a chance you’re actually serious about the request.

“Of course. However you want it, you’ll have it.”

Putting your book down on the side table, you kiss his lips and wrap your arms around his strong shoulders. Within the blink of an eye, Bruce has wrapped his arms around your waist and hauls you up with him. Your grip on his shoulders tighten as you kick your feet about.

“You should have led with this,” you exclaim as you press another kiss to his lips.

Giving your ass a playful smack, making you laugh harder, he says, “Next time.”

[ilyasorokinn]

good taste , clark kent

note, okay, guys wow you really enjoyed the last little thing i wrote. i love you all, thank you so much!! i've now seen the movie, so expect more stuff!! pair, clark kent / superman (2025) x reader summary, clark can't get drunk, so whenever you go out with friends, he's always there to make sure you're okay. warnings, drinking, alcohol, getting drunk word count, 1024 words (sorry it’s shorter)

(gif not mine)

The cup in his hand was beginning to get slippery as the ice melted. He set it down, wiping his hand on the napkin before his eyes went back to the dance floor.

This was not how Clark imagined his Friday would go. He wanted to get home, put his feet up, throw a pizza in the oven, or order if you were feeling fancy, watch movies still you fell asleep, and that would be his night.

Instead, he found himself sitting in the back of some bar, drinking a lukewarm cup of whatever, watching you to make sure no one got too close to you or your friends.

He didn't have to come; in fact, he invited himself.

When you walked through the door with Clark trailing behind, your friends moaned and groaned because it was supposed to be a girls' night. But, Clark managed to convince them to let him stay with the promise of driving everyone home. And how could they say no to a Clark Kent smile?

So, he sat in the back of the bar, sipping a lukewarm drink, eating some stale chips, and watching you. He couldn't help the smile that was growing as he watched you dance freely with your friends.

He straightened up in his seat as you headed over to the bar. You greeted the bartender with a polite smile, ordering your drink, then going back to your friends.

He deflated when you got back safely, going back to his stale chips. With all his attention on you, he totally missed the girl walking over to his table until she put her hand on his shoulder.

He flinched, almost jumping out of his seat as he whipped around to her. He stared at her with wide eyes, "Hiya, hotstuff." Clark winced at her bad pickup line, trying to push her hands off of him.

"Ma'am." He nodded, trying to find you in the crowd. He cursed to himself when he couldn't find you.

"Who're you looking for?" The girl pushed her hands onto his shoulders, messing around with his shirt.

Clark ignored her, pushing her hands off and standing to his full height. He fixed his glasses and straightened out his shirt before walking away from the table he had been sitting at and leaving the girl behind.

"What the hell?" The girl outraged, running back to her friends. He could hear her complaining about what a douchebag he was, but he didn't care about any of it.

His eyes moved around the bar, trying to find you. He was losing hope, and honestly, he was beginning to panic. He looked away for maybe 5 seconds, and he managed to lose you.

"Clark?" He heard a familiar voice, and suddenly, calm washed over him, and everything returned to normal.

When he turned around to your confused and worried face, he let out a relieved noise and wrapped his arms around you. You let out a noise in surprise when he picked you up and lifted you off the ground.

"Oh!" You wrapped your arms around his neck, clinging to him, "Are you okay? You looked kinda worried." You pulled away and looked into his eyes.

"'S nothing." He shook his head, "Just happy you're here." He hummed happily.

"All right," You were still confused, "I got you a shot, though. I was trying to find you, but you weren't at the table."

"Yeah..." He scratched the back of his neck, pulling away from the hug and setting you back down on the ground. "Just needed to stretch my legs." He didn't want to bring up the girl because while he might have been nice about it, you wouldn't be if you had found out.

"Huh." You nodded, raising a brow and studying him, but letting it go, "Here you go." You handed him the shot.

He shot it back, putting on a show of wincing before looking back to you, "So, do you girls think you'll be done anytime soon?"

"Why? Don't tell me you're getting tired on me, Clark." You joked, crossing your arms with a teasing smile.

"No, ma'am." He shook his head with an equally teasing smile, "Just wondering when I'm gonna have the become the chauffeur." He joked.

"Soon, probably." You reassured, glancing back at your friends who barely even noticed you were gone, "They're all sort of far gone." You could feel a buzz in your head, but you weren't fully drunk yet.

"All right, I'll wait over at that table." He pointed to a different table in the opposite corner.

"Did something happen at the other table that I should know about, Clark?" You raised a curious brow.

"No," He shook his head, "Go have fun." He kissed your head, sending you on your way back to your friends.

He took a seat on the empty stool that would give him the best view of you. People probably thought he was a creep, just sitting there and watching you, but he didn't mind.

His smile brightened when you made your way over and plopped yourself onto a stool right next to him. "Tired of dancing?" He asked.

"My feet hurt." You moaned in pain, lifting your foot up and taking off your shoes. He reached down wordlessly, lifting one of your feet into his lap and helping you take your shoe off.

"So, what happened at the other table?" You leaned your head into the palm of your hand and looked at him.

"Nothing." He shook his head.

"Clark, I know you." You tilted your head to the side, "What happened?"

He took a breath, beginning to rub your foot that was in his lap, "There was a girl." You nodded. "I ignored her, and that's why I moved tables." He shrugged.

"Okay," You nodded.

"Okay?" He looked surprised. "That's all you have to say?"

"Clark, you sat here all night watching me and my friends, and now you're rubbing my feet. I think we're pretty stuck together." You joked, leaning forward and cupping his chin, "But, I have to admit, she has good taste." He rolled his eyes.

-

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[jordanswwe]

Kiss Me

nam-gyu x f/reader

summary: you met the most beautiful man you’ve ever seen in the games you were brought to. he’s cruel, dark, and wicked to everyone. everyone but you. he takes a liking to you. an obsession. he doesn’t know how much you crave him until an intense game sets the wheel spinning for an explosion.

namgyu. that was the name of the guy that had seemed to catch your attention. you had overheard thanos say his name.

“namgyu” you said to yourself and you liked how his name rolled off your tongue. the man had something about him. something that intrigued you. you were set on getting to know him.

as the games rolled on, the number of players dropped. the money increased which made the players want to stay for one more game. you were terrified though. you didn’t know how you made it this far, but your glad that you did.

glancing over at namgyu, you were glad he was still alive. ever since you first saw him, you couldn’t stop thinking about him. thinking about how good you’d look begging before him.

you must’ve gotten lost in your thoughts because someone bent down and whispered in your eye. “you’ve been staring at me for the past 20 minutes” you looked up shocked. there he was. “i wasn’t staring” you tried to convince him and yourself. he had a wicked but cute laugh to him. “okay princess” he teased.

princess. you couldn’t help but bite your bottom lip. god this man was tempting. he noticed that and leaned into you hovering his lips over yours. you leaned in more, attempting to connect with his mouth. instead, he leaned to the side. he brought his hand up to the side of your neck and whispered in your ear. “if you want me so bad all you had to do was ask” he left a small kiss under your ear before pulling away. you were left speechless. in awe that he is bringing feelings out of you that you didn’t know you had. had you thinking thoughts, you’ve never thought.

“i’ll see you tomorrow” he winked at you before walking back to team thanos, is what they called themselves. you went to bed that night dreaming of namgyu. dreaming of him. in you. dreaming of him worshipping you until your awaken by the buzzers in the overhead speakers.

the next game was set to begin. mingle. after breakfast the guards had guided you all up to the platform. you were scared. you didn’t really know anyone and this game was based on alliances.

rounds passed and you had managed to make it this far. you looked over at namgyu and only him, minsu, and thanos remained of his group. the platform spun again until the overhead called out TWO.

everyone began running for a door. most of us were going to die this round. there were 100+ of us and only 50 doors. namgyu immediately ran for you. when you guys safely mad it into your door, you thanked him. “i told you that i’d protect you princess” he said walking up to you. “i owe you namgyu” you said. “i can think of one way you can repay me” he smiled. confused with a smirk you looked up at him.

“kiss me” he said. you pulled him in and his lips hovered over yours. with your lips nearly touching, he picks you up by your thigh. you wrap your legs around his waist before he presses you against the metal wall in your door room. your lips collide in an instinct. your lips are crashing and your tongues are fighting for dominance.

namgyu removes one of his hands from your waist and places it on your throat. kissing you with hunger, pinning you with dominance. you moan into his mouth as the kiss deepens. his hands roam up your shirt and he squeezes your breasts. “oh princess” he chuckled. “your mine” and you didn’t argue. you were his. he was yours.

authors note: this was rushed because my phone is about to die and i am more into writing shorter stories for now. thank you!

[foodiegoogie]

too much (just enough)

bob reynolds x new avenger!reader | 3.4k

summary: the three (3) times bob tries to ask for some advice from his friends. and the one time he unexpectedly gets yours. your advice, he means. not that “yours” meant anything else or anything. cw/tags: fluff! underlying angst bc these are the thunderbolts*, duh. bob is shy at first but gets confident over time. everyone's supportive and trying their best. reader is gender-neutral, and closed off. bob-centric pov (no pun intended). lmk if i missed any <3 note: the prophets have spoken. a bob oneshot we shall Have. dine well, my fellow bob subjects.

If there was one thing he could be sure about, it’s that Bob knows he’s had crushes before. 

Though his memory serves him blurry, and brief glimpses of the past, Bob knows that some people have made his heart stammer at some point in his life. That a girl might have brushed hands with him in a hallway and it made him trip over air. Maybe a guy had given him the impression of looking way too illegal to just be passing by while on his way to something.

So, he’s sure that he knows what a crush feels like.

Bob just isn’t quite sure if that’s how he’s feeling whenever he looks at you. So naturally, he turns to his dearly beloved friends for some help. 

Otherwise known as the rest of the New Avengers—minus you, of course. And Bob.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈. A word of advice from Yelena Boleva and Bucky Barnes.

On an unassuming Monday morning, Bob was tagging along with whatever Yelena was up to. Nothing new, nothing out of the ordinary. At least, not yet.

Bucky was there, too. The four of you were hanging out in the old O.X.E. Laboratory, where Valentina had manipulated Bob into becoming the Sentry. He called the lab ‘old’ because that’s what Yelena called it. And what Yelena does, Bob takes after.

So the four of you were in the old lab, overseeing (but not really) whatever it was that scientists did on an unassuming Monday morning.

Oh, right. You were there, too. But Bob is trying not to think too hard about that. He’s trying very hard not to think too hard about anything.

“Bob?” The man in question hears Yelena from beside him.

He blinks out of his haze, just now realizing that he had been staring blatantly at you. Like he was some creep. Bob does not want to be a creep. But it seemed like you didn’t notice, continuing your silent exploration of the laboratory.

“You okay?” Yelena asks him when he faces her. 

Bob gulps first, throat suddenly dry. “Yeah, I’m fine.”

“You sure? Is the lab too much for you again?”

“No, no. It’s— it’s fine, really.”

Just then, in his periphery, Bob sees Bucky take a quick glance at him. Though not moving from his spot beside a flustered scientist.

“Y’know we can talk about it, right, Bob? Not right now, but—” Bucky inhales, then drops a soft sigh through his nose. “We can talk about it.”

For the second time, Bob gulps. His eyes go from Bucky, to Yelena, to you for a split second, to the floor, and to everything else all at once. Maybe he’ll think about it, just a little hard, before he decides to do something about it.

“Um…” He makes a sound, scratching the back of his neck. “Well… actually, there— there is something I wanna talk about…”

Almost instantly, Yelena and Bucky stop whatever they were doing and turn to Bob, ready to listen to him.

“Do… do you guys think…” Bob starts, fidgeting with his fingers. “That Y/N’s kind of…”

Both Yelena and Bucky wait patiently for him to continue, remaining still and looking oddly like his parents for a moment.

What could Bob even possibly say about you? You’re… everything. You’re kind of mean. You have a resting bitch face. You grunt and murmur and say so little, it makes Bob lose sleep. 

You’re also pretty. Really pretty. Well, Bob finds Yelena to be pretty, too. But in the purely admiring, in-awe kind of way. Not in the lowkey lovesick, a bit too cheesy kind of way that you have going on with him.

Not that there was anything going on with you and Bob—

“Bob?” Bucky calls out gently. “You still with us, bud?”

The man in question blinks rapidly out of his haze again. This is driving him nuts, respectfully speaking. And he’s been addicted to meth before.

“Yeah. I am,” He sighs, deflating like a sad balloon. 

Afterwards, Bob doesn’t notice Yelena and Bucky share a concerned glance with each other. And he also doesn’t notice you stealing a quick glance at the three of you—him, Bucky, and Yelena— from your corner in the lab.

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐈. A word of advice from the Red Guardian and the U.S. Agent

The penthouse in the Watchtower has a really nice view if you pay close enough attention. Also if you aren’t afraid of heights.

Bob likes to just… chill there, when he can. Most of the time, he’s either following Yelena around and asking about what he can do to help. Then, he sets off to do his task once the blonde woman assigns him one. They’re all minor, really. Sometimes, he vacuums the penthouse floor. Most times, he’s in his room by himself.

Today though, on just another Wednesday afternoon, Bob’s reading a book. He’s in his comfiest attire, accompanied by a milkshake, and a small bowl of chocolate bark that Ghost surprisingly made for the team one night. 

Not to mention, he’s lounging in a chair similar to a La-Z-Boy recliner that his dad once had back in the day. Not that he remembers much of that time. Weirdly enough, he feels a little alarmed by the sudden thought of a La-Z-Boy recliner.

But that all goes out of the window the moment the doors of the elevator opens. Walking out of it with instant chatter and a certain pep in their steps were you, Alexei, and John ‘the Asshole’ Walker. 

The three of you were out for a long overdue hangout session. Bob has no idea why you’d choose to hang out with two of the most egoistic men ever out of the team. But if it made you happy, or they made you happy, then who was he to complain about that?

Not like you were his… something or anything. Why can’t he remember that word?

“Ey, Bob!” Alexei’s ever-booming voice greets him, startling Bob in his seat. The Red Guardian, still in his awfully tacky costume, walks closer to the man in question with that dopey smile on his face.

“How is Bob doing today, eh?” He asks him, putting his hands on his hips. Alexei looked like he was posing for a moment. “Still no Sentry or… other side of Sentry, I hope?”

“Uh, no,” Bob shakes his head, stringy hair swinging around in his line of vision. “Not— no Sentry or the other side today.”

“Mm, shame, that is,” Alexei grumbles slightly, but he tries to keep it subtle. “You… still remember my dream of flying someday, right? Not on weak, small helicopter. But on top of Sentry—”

“Oh my god, Alexei. Didn’t we talk about that just a few weeks ago now?” John Walker’s voice interrupts, the sound of liquid pouring into a glass following after.

The Red Guardian sighs heavily, rolling his eyes as he throws John an annoyed glance. 

“Yes, yes. No more talk about Red Guardian riding on top of—”

“Just don’t listen to him, Bob,” John advises, tilting his head to send Bob a tight-lipped smile. “You’ll learn to tune him out soon enough.”

Asshole, Bob unapologetically thinks. But he chuckles slightly as Alexei continues to share with him his personal fantasy about riding off into the sunset or whatever that meant. 

In his periphery, while switching his view from Alexei to John, you’re standing by the bar just near the U.S. Agent. Bob assumes you were waiting for a drink of your own. He didn’t know you could drink.

But then again, he didn’t know a lot of things. So… here goes nothing.

“Uh… Alexei, sir?” Bob quietly interrupts.

The Red Guardian beams at him, happy to be called by his friend. “Oh, how many times I have to tell you, Bob? Just Alexei is fine!”

“Oh, okay. Uh… Alexei—?”

“Yes! Yes, what is it? Do you have idea about the sunset riding? Or how about the skydiving entrance into… what is it… Coach-Ella?”

“No, no,” Bob chuckles, slightly sheepish. He catches John raise an eyebrow from afar, grab his freshly prepared drink, and walk “subtly” closer to him and Alexei.

“I was just… I was gonna ask you something.”

“Oh? Bobby has question to ask? Then, ask away! The Red Guardian knows everything.”

“Pfft, sure he does.” John mutters from behind the Red hero himself. 

“Um… do you guys think that Y/N…”

“Y/N?” Alexei asks, slightly surprised, but delighted still. “What about Y/N?”

“Nothing! Just that… I don’t know… I feel like—”

“Oh. I get it, Bob,” John stops beside Alexei, taking a slow, loud sip out of his drink. “You’ve got a crush, don’t ya?”

“What?” Bob flubs, looking everywhere around the room but at John and Alexei. “N-No, I don’t—”

“OH!” The Red Guardian shouts, excited in the way he always was when it came to personal matters. “OH, I understand now! Bob has little crush on little Y/N!”

“That—” Bob laughs nervously, brushing his clammy palms against his sweats. “That isn’t what this is.”

“No, no. That was definitely what this is all about.”

“YES! Finally! Now, we can make Avengerz… real… legacy!”

Feeling down on his luck, Bob sighs for what might be the first time that day. Or the hundredth, he isn’t really keeping count. But what he does as Alexei and John argue in front of him of what’s real and not real about ‘Bob’s little crush’ is bury his face in his hands.

With that, though, he fails to notice you sipping your drink quietly while seated at the bar. You’d been watching him— them, the entire time. 

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐈𝐈. A word of advice from Ghost— Ava 

Bob feels hungry… or so he thinks as his stomach grumbles loudly as he enters the kitchen.

The kitchen in the Watchtower isn’t a closed-off space, though. It’s sharing space with the penthouse, actually. A kitchen kept in a tight, but cozy little corner where the New Avengers (and Bob) can eat whatever they like, and make whatever they want to eat.

It’s late at night, though, and while Bob knows he isn’t supposed to be up this late… he’s hungry.

“Okay… not here… not here…” Bob mutters under his breath as he searches the cabinets and drawers for a snack. He can’t remember exactly where Yelena put the “easy access” snacks; the Pop Tarts, the Cheetos, and whatnot. But he isn’t gonna give up that easily, because his stomach will keep him up all night.

After the unfortunate search for snacks in the cabinets, Bob steps back and leans against the kitchen island in the middle of the area. Then, he sighs, cheeks puffed out and lips slightly pouted. Now, he’s really hungry.

Bob sighs, again, because he just remembered that his stomach’s empty. And now he’s imagining his stomach with a sad face—

A figure phases into reality right in front of him, out of the blue, sending Bob into a fright—

“AHH!” He yelps out loud. Maybe a little too loud. And a little unmanly.

“Calm down, Bob, it’s just me,” Her voice sounds familiar to Bob’s ears, smooth and silky. “Ava Starr? ‘Ghost?’”

He tries to slow down his breathing, eyes still wide with fright as he thinks about her name. ‘Ghost,’ she said… Yelena did tell him something about a ghost one time—

“Oh! You’re the ghost lady!”

Ghost just stares at him, deadpan, for a long almost-minute. Then turns to face the cabinets, muttering, “Unbelievable…”

“No, no, no— Yelena told me that there’d be someone with like… ghost powers in the team?”

Ghost makes an interested sound. “Did she, now?”

“Yeah! And that sometimes, she’ll appear and then disappear out of thin air.”

“Well, she’s not wrong,” The she in question replied, opening a cabinet overhead and scrutinizing its contents.

“I… I don’t think she was, either,” Bob chuckles slightly, pulling the sleeves of his sweater down to his palms. “I don’t think she ever is, actually.”

That’s when Ghost pauses, a pack of Chips Ahoy cookies in hand, and slowly turns back around to face Bob. Meanwhile, he’s looking at the pack of cookies in her hand. Bob remembers that he’s very hungry right now.

They both speak at the same time, at the same speed—

“Where’d you get that?

“D’you have a crush?”

—and both questions give them equal surprise.

“Uh… I got this from… up here,” Ghost answers him, pointing overhead at the middle cabinet. Slowly, she circles Bob and stops beside him, leaning against the kitchen island. “That’s where the snacks are…”

“Oh,” Bob chuckles, unsure-sounding with his low voice. “S-So that’s where they were…”

“Bob?”

“Mm-hmm?”

“...do you like Yelena—”

“It’s not Yelena,” He answers too quickly, wincing slightly at the high pitch of his voice. “It’s not… her… I have a crush on.”

“Huh,” Ghost rips open the Chips Ahoy pack, eyes still on Bob. “So if it’s not Yelena, who is it then?”

Well…

“It’s Y/N,” Bob answers, looking timid and tense. “Please don’t tell anyone.”

Ghost tilts her head as she looks at him and just… watches him for a moment, a small smirk on her face. “Y/N… interesting. Your secret’s safe with me, Bob.”

An imaginary wall of bricks lifts off his shoulders. “Thank you—”

“On one condition, though.”

“A condition? What—”

“My name isn’t the ‘ghost lady.’ Though technically I am the Ghost,” She starts, pulling a cookie out of the pack in her hand. “But I do have a name, and I’d like it if you called me by it.”

Bob straightens his posture, taking her condition seriously as he nods. “Yeah, of course. What’s your name?”

“Ava,” Ghost— Ava, introduces herself. “Ava Starr.”

“Okay. Miss… Ava—”

“No. It’s just Ava, Bob. Just Ava.”

“O-Okay,” He nods, smiling slightly. “Just Ava.”

“Good. Now I can keep your secret,” Ava smiles, then places the Chips Ahoy pack between them on the kitchen island. 

“Now eat,” She tells him. “I couldn’t hear you from how loud your stomach was grumbling.”

── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ──

𝐈𝐕. Your word of advice to Bob

There’s a secret sort of room in the Watchtower that only the New Avengers get exclusive access to. It isn’t the penthouse, or the hangar all the way up in the building.

But it’s a simulation room, kind of. Presumably one of Stark’s old tech facilities, but everyone calls it the Simulation Room. 

Why? Because that’s exactly what it does—simulates the user’s active thoughts of a certain place, or moment. Then it’s projected out into an actual, physical reenactment. It’s… a trippy place, for sure. But if used correctly and responsibly, it could make for a place of relaxation.

There’s this one moment that Bob likes to picture whenever he wants to head to the Simulation Room. A time where he could remember being so at peace and happy. At… home.

It was a game night in the penthouse, and everyone was miraculously there. And Bob. And so were you. Alexei was trying to comfort Yelena after she lost in the game. Bucky was snickering while watching everyone have fun. John and Ava were bickering as usual, and Bob… he was sitting next to you.

You were quiet, back then. Still a little new to the team but… just starting to warm up to the dynamics and whatnot. Bob had offered you some popcorn from his bucket, and you thanked him with a quiet murmur.

Maybe that’s how it all started for Bob, with you and your… quietness. He just wishes he wasn’t so awkward.

He’d been so lost in thought, letting his feet take him to the Simulation Room, that he didn’t realize somebody else was already in there until—

“Uh… occupied?” You speak, seated on a bed.

The room that Bob accidentally entered was… warm. There were fairy lights strung in a zig-zag pattern across the low ceiling of what seemed like a wooden cabin. There’s pictures plastered on the wall, a bookshelf filled with worn-out books, and memorabilia that Bob didn’t know the significance of. There was also this corner-bed situation where you sat with a gloomy window behind you. But the bed makes up for the gloomy mood. 

It all made Bob feel… very at home, all at once.

“S-Sorry, I didn’t know where I was going,” He apologizes to you.

You push yourself up by your hands, shifting to sit on the edge of the bed instead of just on it.

“S’okay. It’s just me,” You shrug, sending him an unsure smile before looking away from him. Bob’s heartbeat falters a little from your brief eye contact.

He murmurs a weak okay, shifting his weight in his spot by the door, not sure what to do. Bob can’t think of a quick dad joke like John, and he can’t make quick decisions like Bucky. He’s kind of hopeless on this one.

But then, you speak up again, “D’you wanna come in?”

Bob looks up at you, eyes wide with surprise. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” A breathy chuckle leaves your lips. “You can sit here.”

You pat the spot beside you on the bed, scooting aside to make some space for him there. Bob feels lightheaded and light-footed all at once because of it.

But he can’t find it in himself to say no, no matter how selfish this all seemed to him. So, he takes small steps forward, bringing him closer to you, and says, “Thanks.”

“No problem,” You smile at him, albeit a little awkwardly. Bob steals a glance at you from sideways and catches you doing the same. You both look away from each other at the same time.

This time, it’s Bob who breaks the silence, clearing his throat. 

“So, what is this place anyways?”

“Oh… it’s my uh…” You trail off, looking around the room with nostalgia in your eyes. “My dad’s old cabin. He used to take me here before I—”

You stop yourself, catching Bob’s attention. Not that he wasn’t already paying attention to you. He kind of has a sixth sense for just about anything that concerns you.

“Eh, not important,” You brush the detail off, crossing your arms. “It’s just a room I like to be in when I wanna be alone.”

“Oh,” Bob nods, smiling slightly at you, then he realizes what you just said. “Wait… oh. Wait—”

“Bob?” You ask him, looking worried as he stands up abruptly from the bed. 

“I’m sorry, I didn’t realize you wanted to be alone. I–I can go, it’s really fine—”

“No, please. Stay,” Quick words fall out of your mouth, and you’re nearly standing up from the bed, too. Bob wonders why that is.

But he says okay, anyway, then sits right back down beside you on the bed.

“Sorry for scaring you off.”

“Sorry for misunderstanding.”

The both of you almost speak at the same time. Almost. But you both mirror the slight surprise on your faces.  

And then you both laugh, the tense air dispersing into lighthearted feelings.

“I’m…” You start, still chuckling slightly as you glance at him. “I’m not very good at this… talking thing. Like, at all.”

“Oh, no worries. So am I,” Bob replies, smiling.

You let out a soft snort from your nose at that, still donning that awkward little smile. It renders Bob oh-so-hopeless. 

You clear your throat, shoulders relaxed. “Well… a word of advice, then?”

“Sure,” Bob answers. “I’m all ears.”

“Don’t, uh… hesitate to talk to me next time. From one socially awkward person to another.”

A genuine laugh comes out of Bob’s mouth, and he doesn’t realize he’s grinning so wide. 

“Deal.”

if you'd like a part 2 (because bob and r's convo doesn't just end there...), please leave a reblog, comment, or an ask in my inbox! they're always open <3

[tortillamastersblog]

Where Light Bends Wrong - Part 21 | Wednesday Addams

Pairing: Wednesday Addams x reader

Warnings: violence

Summary: You’ve kept your secret buried and your power quiet, until Wednesday Addams came to Nevermore and turned your whole world upside down.

Previous Part | Next Part | Masterlist

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“Tyler?” 

Wednesday nods almost as if in a trance and moves back until her back is resting against the headboard. Her eyes flicker to my hand which is still holding onto hers, but she doesn’t pull away.

“I saw flickers of your interactions with him and… I felt his emotions. That anger brewing inside him. And then there was the monster at the Gates mansion. It had the same energy as him,” she explains, making my heart drop.

The fact that she felt Tyler’s emotions in her vision the way I can makes me think it has something to do with our bond, but that’s not what disturbs me.

No, what unnerves me is the fact that Xavier was literally arrested for being the monster only an hour earlier even though it’s not him.

He’s not the monster… I should have known.

“But, how?” I ask. “Tyler’s… He’s not an outcast.”

“He has to be,” she says, her hand absentmindedly squeezing my own. “At the Rave’N he was there when we talked about staking out the monster’s cave, so he warned Kinbott who torched it. I also asked him about the old Meeting House, and lo and behold, the monster shows up there while we’re out there.”

It makes so much sense, if I wasn’t as shocked as I am, I’d be outraged for not realizing it sooner.

Of course. He was always angry. I always felt it radiating off him, but I never thought twice about it– never connected it to the monster.

Shit. We made a huge mistake with Xavier. He’s innocent, just like he said he was, and he’s rotting in jail while the real monster is still out there.

The question of why he killed Kinbott remains, but it doesn’t matter right now. What matters is putting an end to the killing by capturing him. 

“We have to stop him,” I say gravely. 

Wednesday nods, a frown pulling at her lips, and squeezes my hand again, this time consciously. 

“What is Kinbott, or should I say Laurel Gates, using you for?” Wednesday asks, impatience lacing her voice.

Tyler, who’s chained to a chair, breathes heavily, having just been tased. “Wednesday, please.”

After a restless night’s sleep, Wednesday and I spent the entire day scheming and coming up with a way to trap Tyler. We eventually decided she would lure him to the forest, where she’d met him alone while I’d stay hidden.

I wasn’t the only one hiding though. We explained everything to Bianca and the Nightshades, who after being confronted with our overwhelming evidence that included medical records of Tyler’s mom having been diagnosed as a hyde, agreed to help us.

Bianca used her syren powers to hypnotize Tyler, allowing us to drag him to Xavier’s shed where we chained him up and waited for him to talk.

As soon as Wednesday pulled out her taser though, along with a hammer and a saw, the others bailed, saying this wasn’t what they signed up for when they agreed help.

I must say, I don’t like it either, every time he groans in pain when Wednesday tases him, but he’s literally killed people and we have to get him to talk. My pendant pulses every time Tyler fights against the chains, but I stay behind Wednesday, letting her do the talking and not moving unless he tries something.

I have a rusty screw in my hand behind my back, driving the tip of it into the palm every few seconds to make sure I’m still invulnerable, because if not, if the soulbond flares up again and makes me vulnerable, and Tyler shifts, then Wednesday and I are both screwed. 

“The body parts in the Gates mansion. What was she collecting them for?” Wednesday asks, unaffected by his pleading.

His eyes find mine for a second and I feel a wave of hatred wash through him even though his expression doesn’t change. I step closer to Wednesday and glare at him, my earlier empathy gone in an instant since that one look was enough to affirm that he is, in fact, the hyde, even though he’s still trying to deny it.

“I don’t understand. Why are you doing this?” Tyler begs again, playing the part of the intimidated boy who’s never done anything wrong perfectly.  

I’m just glad Wednesday isn’t buying it, the same way I’m not buying it either. She huffs in frustration and turns, putting the taser down on the table next to her before picking up the hammer.

I swallow, but don’t move, watching her raise it as she says, “Let’s test your reflexes.”

She goes to bring it down on him as I avert my eyes, but then the creaky shed door flies open, and Sheriff Galpin steps in with his gun drawn.

It’s giving me a sense of deja vu because the exact same thing happened not even twenty four hours ago when he stormed in to arrest Xavier, only this time, he’s got the gun trained on Wednesday who’s frozen mid strike.

“Get away from my son! Drop it!” he orders.

Wednesday lowers the hammer slowly and turns around, her face blank but frustration radiating off her. She drops the hammer as a deputy brushes past us to unchain Tyler who exhales in relief.

“On your knees. Both of you,” Galpin snaps, waving his gun at Wednesday and even though we both do what he says,  I only get down after positioning myself between him and her. 

I know rationally he’d never shoot because we’re doing what he’s asking us to, but you never know.

He’s Tyler’s father and he just found us torturing him. He also definitely knows, or at the very least suspects Tyler is the hyde, and has been trying to cover it up this entire time. 

He stares us both down for a moment, his jaw twitching before he holsters his gun and pulls out handcuffs.

He cuffs Wednesday first, telling both of us our rights, just like he did with Xavier before pulling her to her feet. His grip is harsh and I see her wince ever so slightly, which makes me snarl, “Watch it!”

Wednesday’s eyes meet mine for a split second before she’s lead outside by the deputy who unchained Tyler and took him outside a moment earlier.

“You’ve got some nerve telling me what to do,” Galpin barks as he cuffs me next and even though he’s being harsh, maybe even harsher than he was with Wednesday, it doesn’t hurt because I’m still invulnerable.

I don’t say anything else and let him drag me outside where Tyler’s leaning against the deputy’s squad car with his arms crossed.

His eyes shine with satisfaction when he sees me and I glare him down before being shoved into the backseat of Galpin’s pick up truck. 

The flashing red and blue lights illuminate the outside of the shed and the dark forest around us as Galpin goes to talk to Tyler and his deputy. I know I could tune into what they’re saying, but I turn to focus on Wednesday instead, who's writhing in her seat and looking uncomfortable with her hands cuffed behind her back.

“Did he hurt you?” I ask, feeling my insides burn at the thought of it.

“No,” she replies, voice laced with frustration as she shifts in her seat to find a somewhat comfortable position, “But this is not how I imagined I’d end up in handcuffs for the first time.”

I know it’s really not the time and place, but I can’t help but snort and raise a teasing eyebrow. “Oh?”

She pauses and glares at me, a hint of color creeping into her cheeks. “That is not what I meant and you know it.”

“I know,” I give in and smile softly. “Just thought I’d try to lighten the mood a little.”

We haven’t spoken about our kiss since it happened and even though I keep catching her staring at me, and brushing against me, there’s been this weird tension between us ever since it happened.

It’s made me realize it might have been just a one time thing, but then I catch her staring at me again with shining dark eyes, and I know it wasn’t. 

It’s just not the right moment to talk about everything though, what with everything that’s going on, so I’ve decided not to bring it up again until everything’s over.

Wednesday rolls her eyes and goes back to straining agains the handcuffs for a moment, until I’ve had enough.

With ease, I pull on my own cuffs, snapping the chain between them in half before reaching for her.

“Turn around,” I order softly. She does and I reach for her cuffs, breaking them as well so we’re both just wearing them like two bracelets with pieces of the broken chain dangling off each of them. “Better?”

She nods and rubs her wrists just as Galpin gets into the truck. He looks back at us and frowns when he sees the broken cuffs, his eyes narrowing slightly,  but he doesn't comment on it.

He simply starts driving, following the squad car of his deputy after the deputy and Tyler have gotten in.

I expect him to take us to the station, but then Galpin turns off the road and drives to Nevermore, the taillights of the deputy’s squad car vanishing in the night.

I frown, but don’t say anything until we come to a stop in front of the school’s gates where Weems is waiting for us, wearing one of her white headscarves to ward off the chill of the night.

“What’s going on?” I ask, but Galpin doesn’t answer.

He simply gets out of the truck and opens the door on my side. “Get out.”

“What?”

“You heard me.”

I share a look with Wednesday who looks just as confused as I am, but get out nonetheless. When he closes the door again behind me, I go to protest, but Weems is already stepping forward with a displeased look.

“The Sheriff and I agree that what happened tonight isn’t your doing, so he’s agreed to let you go,” she explains.

“But what about Wednesday?” I ask a little breathless, jerking my head back toward the truck.

“She’s coming with us to the station,” Galpin answers shortly. He sounds not at all happy with this arrangement, but he gets back into the truck without another word.

“Wait, no. You can’t do that,” I exclaim, turning to Weems. “Tyler is the monster! She can’t be alone with him. She–”

“You’ve done enough for the night,” Weems cuts me off impatiently. “Just go to your room and be grateful you’re getting off easy.”

“What? No! This isn’t fair. It wasn’t just Wednesday who–”

“Shut it, Y/N.”

My mouth snaps shut and I glare at Weems with tears burning in my eyes. Does she know what she’s doing? She’s putting everyone in danger.

“Go to your room. It’s time this influence Miss Addams has over you comes to an end,” she snaps and before I can argue, she gets into the passenger seat of Galpin’s truck.

They drive off, leaving me standing outside the gates of the school with my heart in my throat and my hands shaking.

A knock on my door makes me set down my pen and turn in my chair. “Come in.”

Enid enters with slumped shoulders and a sad look on her face. 

After being left at the school last night, I went to my room like I was told, pacing around until I literally couldn’t stand any more and collapsed onto my bed, still wearing my shoes and jacket.

I texted her what had happened and she promised to keep me posted, which she did. When I woke up earlier, I saw that she’d sent me a text in the early hours of the morning after I’d already fallen asleep, saying that Wednesday had been released with a warning because Tyler and Galpin decided against pressing charges. 

I rolled my eyes because of course they wouldn’t want to press charges because that would mean an investigation would uncover the truth, though her fate at the school was still undecided.

I wanted to talk to Wednesday directly at breakfast earlier but because I didn’t want to run into Weems after how she yelled at me last night, I decided to stay in my room. She also doesn’t have a phone, so I can’t text her and Enid told me she wasn’t allowed to leave their room, so she offered to come by with some breakfast and let me know what’s going to happen next.

“So?” I ask, my stomach rumbling at the sight of the French Toast wrapped in a bunch of napkins Enid is holding.

She crosses the room and gives it to me, watching me take a bite before taking a seat at the edge of my bed and saying, “Wednesday is getting expelled.”

I pause chewing and look away. Of course she is. I should have seen it coming. She was already on thin ice with Weems after the Gates mansion. What I don’t get though is why Weems isn’t punishing me too.

I was at the Gates mansion, too. I helped kidnap Tyler, and yet, she’s the only one getting punished. Don’t get me wrong, I don’t want to be punished, but it just doesn’t seem fair.

“She’s packing as we speak,” Enid adds sorrowfully.

I sigh and put down the French Toast, brushing some crumbs off my lips. I don’t feel like eating any more even though I’m hungry.

“When’s she leaving?” I ask quietly.

A sympathetic look crosses Enid’s face. “In an hour. Weems is personally taking her to the trainstation.”

I nod numbly and avert my eyes, staring out of the window. The sky is gray, and the trees of the forest beyond the school grounds sway in the wind.

“You know… I don’t know what exactly is going on between you and Wednesday, but since she got here, you’ve come out of your shell a little and… I don’t know. I kind of like this version of you,” she rambles quietly.

I look back at her and send her a sad smile before getting to my feet. “I think I’m gonna go find her and say goodbye.”

Enid gets to her feet too. “O-Okay.”

We leave my room together and I make my way to Ophelia hall while she heads for the Quad. 

The door of Enid’s and Wednesday’s room stands ajar when I get to it, so I push it open gently and knock on the doorframe when I see Wednesday hunched over a bunch of trunks.  

Her side of the room is completely bare now, no more record player, typewriter, or morbid memorabilia, and the sight of it feels like a gut punch.

She stiffens for a second but softens when she looks up and sees it’s just me, so I enter slowly, letting my eyes roam over her packed things.

“I’m so sorry. I know how unfair this is,” is the first thing I say as I come to a stop next to her. 

She stops fretting with the clutches of her trunk and looks up, her eyebrows pulled together. “It’s not your fault.”

“Still, I—”

“No.” She steps closer and exhales slowly. “I knew this was coming. It’s not your fault. To be honest, I never planned on staying at Nevermore for long anyway.”

I look away, my heart hurting, but then she adds, “Until I met you.”

I look back at her, surprised when I see a bittersweet smile on her lips. “Wednesday–”

“Say, what are your plans for Christmas?” She raises her hands to straighten out my tie and collar. 

My breath stutters, the skin on my neck where her fingers graze against it tingling pleasantly. “Nothing, really. Why?”

She hums and lets her hands rest on my neck. “Good because I’d rather not spend the entire holiday with just Pugsley.”

I let out a surprised chuckle and  tentatively wrap my arms around her waist. She lets me, and steps closer, her eyes flickering down to my lips.

“Are you actually inviting me to spend Christmas with you and your family?” I tease which makes her glare softly.  

“Is that a problem for you?” she asks and I’m quick to shake my head.

“No. God no. Of course not. I mean, it’s not like my parents would care either way, so…”

She quirks an eyebrow and I just shake my head again, mumbling, “That’s a story for another time.”

Her right thumb grazes the underside of my jaw, making my eyes flutter, and when she moves her other hand to the back of my neck to tug me down, I let her.

She kisses me, the same way she did last night and I lean into it, matching the pace at which she moves her lips against mine. It sets all my nerve endings on fire, and I know, there won’t ever be anyone else who makes me feel this way.

I’m hers, in every sense, and by the way she breaks the laugh softly, a sound I’ve never heard from her, I know she knows it too.

We part way too soon for my liking, but I know Wednesday has to finish packing. Now that I know she wants to keep me in her life even though she’s leaving, it makes things a little less painful, but I still don’t like it.

“Here,” she says after pecking my lips one last time and reaching into her pocket. She pulls out a piece of paper and hands it to me, watching as I unfold it.

Written on it in her neat handwriting is an address and a phone number. I smile and fold it back up before sliding it into my pocket.

“Don’t do anything stupid once I’m gone,” she warns quietly when I pull her into a hug. 

I huff out a laugh and press a kiss to the top of her head, taking in her smell of cedar wood and linen one last time. “Says you.”

She scoffs, but doesn’t say anything else. We continue hugging for a moment longer before I hear the telltale sound of Thing scuttling into the room. 

He climbs onto one of Wednesday’s trunks and I smile sadly, giving him a fistbump. “I’m gonna miss you, buddy.”

He signs, I’ll miss you too, before turning to Wednesday and tapping, Weems is waiting for you.

Wednesday sighs but nods. She opens the top of her leather backpack and lets Thing climb inside. Then, she closes it again and carefully puts it on. 

“See you at Christmas,” she says to me.

I swallow the lump in my throat and nod, stepping closer to press one last kiss to her forehead. 

She closes her eyes and tugs on the lapels of my jackets before finally stepping back. Then she turns and leaves.

I don’t have it in me to follow her and see her drive off with Weems, so I stay right where I am, letting my finger trace over the edge of the case her typewriter is in.

It’s been almost four hours now since Wednesday left, and all I’ve done since then is lie in my bed with my headphones on, listening to music although it’s not in a angsty-teen-romance kind of way. I’m just listening to my favorite songs, trying to take a break from the real world. 

The real world where Wednesday is gone, Tyler is still at large, and I’ll have to somehow find a way to stop him without Wedensday by my side.

I guess the only two good things that came out of her being expelled are the fact that I won’t be vulnerable again now when I fight the monster, and the prophecy Rowan’s mother drew involving Wednesday and Crackstone won’t come true.

I stretch when the chime of my phone makes me open my eyes and pick it up to see a text from an unknown number.

If Lara’s life is worth anything to you, come to Crackstone’s crypt. Alone. No police. 

I bolt out of bed and stare at the text, immediately dialing Lara’s number. My call goes straight to voicemail, and even though I know it’s of no use, I try again. And again, and again. 

There’s no answer though, which is very unlike her because she’s basically glued to her phone like every other teenager, especially at this time.

“Fuck!”

I yank off my headphones and grab my jacket and the dagger Wednesday once threw at me before darting out of my room without a second thought.

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Showdown incoming…

Tag list: @sunshinez4 @protozoario @automaticpatroltragedy @mamas-evil-hag @theallseer97 @hellenheaven @iwshemj2 @jizzuo308 @trashcannotbealive @gloriousvariant @brocoliisscared @1863rdorv-reader @fck-this-name @iamprodigious

[bbywhitefox123]

Rafe and Catherine the next day after fucking and the kids are curious asking why mommy kept screaming daddy’s name and stuff and Catherine being flustered and rafe finding the whole thing amusing

Summary: for his 10th birthday, bradley wanted to go camping so the cameron's went camping. and even though they knew the tent, rafe somehow managed to build, wasn't soundproof - they still had sex.

Warnings: NSFW (smut), p in v, praise, breeding kink, lots of fluff and humor

Masterlist

For his 10th birthday, Bradley had a plan.

It wasn’t just a camping trip. It was a mission. For scouting prep. For survival training. For full Boy Scout readiness. And Rafe, despite trying to bribe his way out with a vacation and the words “I’ll just sign you up, buddy,” had gotten steamrolled by one look from his ten-year-old.

So, they went camping.

Catherine stood at the edge of the grass clearing, arms crossed, bug spray in one hand, iced coffee in the other.

She watched her son and her husband unfold a tent that definitely came with a YouTube tutorial they did not watch.

Rafe’s shirt was already clinging to his back, hair a mess, one of the tent poles smacking him in the shin. “Okay. This... definitely doesn’t look like the picture.”

Bradley was dead serious. “Dad, the corners are supposed to be staked first. That’s what the handbook says.”

“The what?”

Catherine smiled behind her cup. “He read a Boy Scout handbook cover to cover last night. In bed. With a flashlight.”

“I’m raising a tiny general,” Rafe muttered, half proud, half winded.

And God, it was like déjà vu.

Catherine could see it—her seventeen-year-old self, standing in the woods with Rafe Cameron, who had no idea how to pitch a tent but a lot of ideas about sneaking off into it with her. She had freaked out when she found a spider in the bungalow that night. He had freaked out more than she had.

And now here they were. Older. Dirtier. Married. With four kids and two tents and a little boy who wanted to catch his own dinner.

Twenty-five minutes later, both tents were standing. Mostly.

Rafe flopped onto the grass, panting. “That was a full-body workout.”

“You did two,” Catherine said, sipping again. “Want a cookie?”

Bradley didn’t even pause. “Alright. Let’s fish now. Dinner doesn’t catch itself.”

Rafe groaned. “I forgot about the dinner part.”

Catherine raised a brow. “You thought I didn’t plan ahead?”

She opened the cooler, revealing neatly wrapped sandwiches, juice boxes, and little bags of diffrent snacks.

“I made turkey for you, ham for Bradley. There’s peanut butter for the girls. And watermelon slices. I’m not letting you eat some sun-warmed fish you may or may not catch.”

Bradley looked mildly betrayed. “But I brought bait.”

“We can still fish,” she said, walking past him. “Just not for food. For fun. And so your dad doesn’t die of heat stroke.”

“Bless you,” Rafe muttered, sitting up.

She winked. “I’ve been married to you long enough to know what kind of ‘camping’ you’re capable of.”

He grinned at her, the kind of grin that still made her stomach flip. “Hey, I was very capable when we were in high school.”

“Yeah, thank God we didn't have to sleep in tents because there was no way you were building one without Brad's help.”

He stood up, brushing dirt from his shorts, walking slowly toward her with that look. The one that said: I still remember the way you looked that night. I still think about it.

Catherine held her ground, only lifting her brows when he got close.

“You’re looking at me like that again,” she whispered.

“Like what?”

“Like we’re not surrounded by children and mosquitoes.”

“I’m just admiring,” he said, resting a hand on her hip, “how good you look with dirt on your knees.”

She rolled her eyes, biting back a smile. “You’re lucky I packed sandwiches.”

He leaned down, pressed a soft kiss to her cheek. “I’m lucky you’re mine.”

Behind them, Bradley yelled, “Dad! Bring the rods! We’re wasting daylight!”

Catherine stepped back, laughing. “Go. Your general needs you.”

Rafe sighed dramatically. “If I die by fish hook, tell everyone I went out doing what I loved.”

“Getting bossed around by a ten-year-old?”

“No,” he called back over his shoulder, “watching you laugh in the middle of a damn forest.”

And Catherine—sweaty, mosquito-bitten, with dirt on her legs and a frog nearby she refused to look at—just shook her head and smiled.

He still had her heart. Forest or not.

⛅️

“Okay,” Bradley said, standing like a tiny commander at the edge of the lake, “according to ‘Fishing for Scouts 101’…” —he held up a spiral-bound manual— “we have to cast away from the shore and stay quiet so the fish don’t scare off.”

Rafe squinted at his rod like it was a math problem. “Right. Yeah. Makes sense.”

“No talking,” Bradley whispered.

“I’m whispering,” Rafe replied in a stage-whisper that was definitely louder than talking.

Catherine sat on a folding chair a few feet back, Maisie climbing onto her lap with graham cracker fingers. Lara stood beside her, wearing a sparkly pink princess gown and rubber boots, frowning at the “fish water.”

“I’m not touching anything slimy,” Lara announced.

“You’re literally touching a gummy worm right now,” Catherine pointed out.

“That’s candy,” Lara snapped. “It’s cute.”

Catherine just leaned back and watched the scene unfold: her husband struggling to untangle fishing line, Bradley correcting him with far too much confidence, and Mason sitting beside them, muttering to his Switch—

Until there was a splash.

Mason froze. Then screamed. “NO. NO-NO-NO-NO-NO—”

“What happened?” Catherine stood up, heart in her throat.

“My Switch!” Mason wailed, pointing at the lake. “It fell! It fell in the water! It was RIGHT on my lap and it SLIPPED!”

Rafe turned immediately. “Oh damn. Okay. Alright. Deep breaths. We’ll get you another one—”

“No! All my games are saved on that one! My Animal Crossing village, Dad! My villagers will think I died!”

Catherine stifled a laugh. Barely.

“I’m serious,” Mason sniffled. “I can’t start over. You don’t understand. You’re old.”

And just like that, Rafe sighed, dropped his fishing pole, and stepped toward the water. He was already regretting coming here one day.

“Where’d it fall?” he asked, already kicking his shoes off.

Mason pointed. “Right there! It didn’t float! It just sank like immediately.”

Rafe muttered something under his breath, and then—off came the shirt.

Catherine blinked.

Because listen—yes, she’s married. Yes, she’s seen Rafe Cameron shirtless more times than she can count. But something about the way he peeled it off, muscles flexing, sun glinting off his shoulders like God himself decided to give her a little treat—yeah. She was watching.

Hard.

Even Maisie paused mid-graham cracker to whisper, “Daddy’s strong.”

“Mmhm,” Catherine muttered, sipping her iced coffee like it was wine. “Daddy’s very strong.”

He waded in, muttering to himself, and Mason stood at the edge of the lake like a worried widow. “Don’t drop it deeper, please don’t drop it deeper.”

Bradley, still holding his fishing book, sighed. “Dad’s not even using the buddy system. That’s rule number one.”

Lara wrinkled her nose. “He’s swimming in the fish toilet.”

Rafe popped up from the water, soaked and victorious, Switch held above his head like a war trophy. “GOT IT.”

Mason screamed in joy. “YOU’RE THE BEST DAD!”

“You’re lucky your mom packed the sandwiches,” Rafe gasped, trudging out of the water. “Because I am done fishing.”

Catherine stood there, arms crossed, biting her lip. “So… no fish, no dinner, and you ruined your shirt.”

He smirked at her, dripping and smug. “But I’m a hero.”

“You’re hot,” she said under her breath, low enough only he could hear.

His grin widened. “You wanna go check the tents?”

“Bradley’s watching,” she whispered.

“I’ll give him five bucks to turn around.”

“Rafe,” she warned, trying not to laugh.

“Come on.” He leaned in, brushing wet lips across her cheek. “Tent’s looking real good right now. And I need to warm up.”

“Mmhm,” she said, pretending to think. “I’ll consider it… if you start the fire.”

“Done.” He kissed her temple, handed Mason the soggy Switch, and grabbed the flint like it was his life’s mission.

It was not done, and Rafe realized that when he went to gather sticks and berries with Bradley and Lara.

“Okay,” Rafe said, squinting at a bush with all the confidence of a man who definitely did not read the survival manual. “These look like blueberries.”

Bradley didn’t even look up from his worn, dog-eared handbook. “Those are pokeberries, Dad. Literally page 14. Toxic.”

Rafe flinched. “What about these mushrooms?”

“Dad,” Bradley deadpanned, “they’re glowing.”

Lara, in a sparkly tutu and a pink Barbie windbreaker, gasped. “Like fairy food?”

Bradley shoved his glasses up his nose. “Fairy food means death, Lara.”

Rafe dropped the mushroom like it burned him. “Okay. No berries. No mushrooms. Let’s just find firewood.”

Back at camp, Mason was hunched over Bradley’s backpack, aggressively rifling through it.

“Where is it?” he muttered. “I just wanna check my turnips and see if Bones moved out—BRADLEY! Where did you put your dumb Switch?!”

Catherine didn’t look up from her seat. “Baby, he didn’t pack his Switch. He's not you.”

Mason groaned like the world had ended. “All he packed were BOOKS! Like four books and a bug identification guide! He’s insane!”

Catherine chuckled softly, rising from her chair. “I’ll look. Maybe it’s stuck at the bottom with his underwear.”

But as she dug through Bradley’s meticulous bag—organized with labels, dividers, a color-coded pocket system, God help her—her fingers brushed something… familiar.

She pulled it out slowly. A beat-up old digital camera, wrapped in an extra t-shirt for protection.

Her heart stopped.

No. No way.

It was that camera.

From that trip.

The camping trip. Kook Academy. The one where they were “roughing it” with sneaked in alcohol, in a bungalow, and no adult supervision. Where Rafe whispered filthy things in her ear under the stars. Where she told him she loved him as he fucked her.

Where she let him hit it raw. And nine months later, she gave birth to Mason.

Oh.

Oh no.

“Mason, sweetheart,” she said quickly, pushing the camera back into the bag with military precision. “Yeah, no Switch. But… Bradley did bring some really great books you could read. You want the one about frogs or knots?”

Mason stared at her like she’d grown a second head. “…Do I look like I care about knots, Mom?”

Catherine forced a smile. “You look like someone who could use a moment of reflection, baby.”

He squinted suspiciously. “Are you hiding something?”

“Just my slow descent into madness,” she muttered, kissing his head.

When Mason stormed off to find something “less boring than this dumb bookbag,” Catherine sat back in her chair, the camera now on her lap, silent and heavy with memories.

She opened it.

Battery still worked.

First image: seventeen-year-old Rafe grinning in the thrift store where she made him steal it, middle finger up.

Second: her, with that white sundress in her hand, flipping him off back.

Then twenty-four pictures of her by the firepit, with their classmates side-eying her.

And then came the pictures from the inside of the bungalow.

She hesitated.

Her thumb hovered.

Did he delete them?

Her heart raced. Part of her hoped—prayed—he had the sense to do it years ago.

But God help her… part of her really hoped he didn’t.

Just then, a voice behind her: “You’re not going through that camera, are you?”

She gasped and snapped it shut, twisting in her chair.

Rafe stood there, with a flannel over his shirt, holding a stick that was somehow on fire, Bradley behind him lecturing about safe fire-starting practices.

“I—maybe,” she said, cheeks warm. “You packed that?”

Rafe smirked. “Didn’t even realize it was still in there. Thought we lost it.”

Catherine arched a brow. “Did you delete the evidence?”

He walked closer, leaned down, and murmured in her ear, “Not a chance. That bungalow night was the best twenty minutes of my life.”

“Twenty?” she teased, a slow grin forming.

“I’m giving myself credit. There were… breaks.”

She laughed, biting her lip. “You’re lucky I didn’t smash this thing with a rock.”

“You’re lucky I didn’t show Mason his true origin story.”

“Rafe!”

He grinned wider and kissed the top of her head, then walked back toward the kids, the fire finally blazing.

Catherine sat back, the camera safe in her lap again, legs crossed and heart racing. God help her, she still wanted him just as bad as she did under that old blue bungalow roof.

The fire pit was still just a pile of hopeful sticks and Rafe was on his knees in the dirt, huffing like a man on the verge of his villain origin story. Catherine snapped a picture.

“Bradley,” he panted, “you sure this book isn’t messing with us?”

Bradley, all business, flipped the page in Fire Safety for Scouts. “You need to blow, Dad. Just lightly. It says steady airflow encourages ignition.”

Rafe gave him a slow look. “Brad.”

“What?” Bradley asked, totally oblivious.

Catherine bit her lip and raised her camera.

Rafe turned to her with a smug, crooked grin. “Hear that, babe? Gotta blow gently. Steady airflow.”

Click.

“You’re disgusting,” she said, even as she snapped another picture.

He winked. “You married disgusting.”

Click.

Bradley blinked at them. “...Why are you guys being weird?”

“No reason,” Catherine said sweetly, zooming in on her husband’s arms as he reached for more twigs.

No reason at all.

⛅️

Lunch was a quiet kind of messy. Mason stole Lara’s juice box. Maisie dropped half a sandwich into the dirt and tried to eat it anyway. Rafe made everyone laugh by pretending to eat a pinecone. And Bradley… well, Bradley was already drawing survival diagrams on napkins like he was born for this life.

After they ate, Mason wandered off, Switch-less and aimless, until Bradley roped him into a “skills tutorial.”

“So,” Bradley said seriously, holding out a compass like it was sacred, “if you ever get lost—”

Mason yawned. “I’ll just call Mom.”

“There’s no signal in the forest.”

“I’ll use a flare.”

“You won’t have a flare.”

“Then I’ll flirt with one of the scout girls to rescue me.”

Bradley made a face. “That is not a viable plan.”

Mason smirked. “You’re telling me girls wouldn’t dig the whole ‘I know how to filter stream water’ thing?”

Bradley paused. “...Okay. That might work.”

By the time the sun dipped behind the trees, Catherine was slicing veggies near the cooler, prepping the world’s most basic camp stew, and humming to herself. Rafe wandered back from god knows where, arms full of useless sticks and a mouth full of compliments.

“You’ve been wearing that shirt all day?” he murmured, leaning behind her as she chopped. “It’s driving me crazy.”

“Baby,” she warned, elbowing him lightly.

“What?” he asked, brushing his hand over her hip. “Just saying you look really—”

“Hot, yeah, yeah,” she teased. “So hot I’m cooking over a fire and fending you off.”

He kissed her neck, warm breath making her shiver. “You could use a break. Ten minutes. Tent. Real quick.”

“You are such a menace,” she whispered, even as her smile gave her away.

But before his hands could slide lower, they both heard it.

“Mama...”

Maisie. Barefoot, hair tangled, holding her stuffed lamb upside down and rubbing her eye.

“Baby girl,” Catherine cooed, wiping her hands. “You tired?”

Maisie nodded solemnly. “My eyes feel like sleeping.”

Rafe stepped in, scooping her up with ease. “C’mon, princess. Let’s get you tucked in.”

She wrapped her arms around his neck and murmured, “I like your hugs.”

He softened, forehead against hers. “I like yours too, baby.”

And just like that, he carried her over to the kids’ tent, carefully tucking her into her little sleeping bag next to Lara, who was playing with her dolls.

Catherine watched him from the fire pit, her chest tight with the kind of love that made everything ache—in the best way.

Rafe came back a few minutes later, rubbing the back of his neck and shooting her a look.

“Rain check?” he asked softly, eyebrows raised.

She smiled. “Depends. You gonna blow the fire right this time?”

He chuckled low. “Only if you watch.”

“Always do.”

⛅️

Dinner around the fire was its own kind of magic.

The stew turned out better than anyone expected—mostly because Catherine had snuck in pre-seasoned packets and Rafe swore it was her “love” that made it taste so good.

“I think I’m gonna cry,” Rafe said dramatically, licking his spoon. “This is better than anything from The Wreck.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “You literally say that every time I cook.”

“Because it’s true,” he said, leaning closer so the firelight caught his smile. “You’re the reason I don’t starve.”

“I’m the reason you’re still breathing most days,” she muttered.

Bradley was organizing the spoons by size. Lara was using hers as a pretend microphone. Maisie was already snoring in the tent. And Mason?

Mason sat up suddenly, eyes wide. “Can we do scary stories now?”

“No,” Bradley said, in that voice that always tried to sound mature. “You won’t sleep.”

“I never sleep,” Mason argued. “That’s Mom’s problem.”

Catherine gave him the mom-glare but sighed. “Fine. One short story. Then marshmallows. Then bed.”

Mason clapped like he just won a prize.

They roasted marshmallows—Rafe burned his on purpose and swore it was the only way to eat them, Lara cried when hers caught on fire, and Bradley made the perfect golden-brown ones like it was a competition.

And then the stories began.

Mason told a dramatic tale about a haunted scout leader with an axe and a squirrel army. Lara gasped at all the wrong parts. Bradley insisted on telling one based on a historical event. Catherine told a story about a girl who got lost in the woods and was raised by raccoons, which made Lara cry again and Mason laugh so hard he choked on a marshmallow.

But Rafe…

Rafe just kept watching her.

The way her hair shimmered in the firelight. The way she curled up in his jacket, tired but still smiling. The way she licked marshmallow from her thumb like she wasn’t slowly driving him insane.

He needed a moment. Just them.

So he leaned forward, poking the fire with a stick.

“You guys wanna hear something real?” he said, voice low.

Bradley perked up immediately. “Like what?”

“Like… Outer Banks real. Like happened in the woods near the marsh. A long time ago.”

Catherine raised an eyebrow. She knew that tone.

“What happened?” Mason asked, eyes wide.

“Well,” Rafe started, voice dipping into storyteller mode, “this guy—he was your age, Mason. He went camping with his friends. Thought he was so brave. But that night? Something started calling his name from the trees.”

Lara gasped.

“It sounded like his mom,” Rafe whispered. “But she was back home. He followed the voice… deeper and deeper into the woods…”

Bradley grabbed a flashlight like a weapon.

“Then what?” Mason breathed.

“Then—” Rafe’s voice dropped to a growl, “he saw it. A face. Just barely human. And when he tried to scream? It smiled and said…”

He paused dramatically. The fire cracked.

“‘You should’ve stayed in your tent before it's mouth opened and it swallowed him whole. They say that face is still haunting the woods, looking for little boys to eat.’”

Lara shrieked and dove into Catherine’s lap.

Bradley muttered something about irrational fear.

Mason looked like he was thrilled and slightly traumatized.

“Okay,” Catherine said, kissing Lara’s head. “That’s enough horror. Everyone to the tent.”

“But—” Mason started.

“Nope,” Rafe cut in, stretching his arms. “Gotta rest. Big survival day tomorrow.”

Bradley muttered something about finishing his knot-tying guide. Mason grumbled about wanting to summon the marsh ghost. But soon enough, the two boys crawled into the kids’ tent, Lara tucked in beside Maisie.

And then it was quiet.

Catherine exhaled deeply, staring at the dying fire.

“Nice trick, Cameron,” she murmured.

He smirked. “You liked my ghost story?”

“I know your ghost story was just made up to scare the kids into bed.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?”

She leaned back, legs stretched out toward the fire, hoodie zipped halfway up. “You’re lucky they didn’t ask for a sequel.”

Rafe leaned in behind her, hands settling low on her waist, lips brushing her ear.

“Wanna hear my sequel?”

She shivered. “Is it… spooky?”

“Oh, it’s terrifying,” he murmured, trailing his hand up her thigh. “Tent. Ten minutes. No kids. Just you. Me. A sleeping bag. And maybe… that camera.”

She turned to face him, half-laughing, half-blushing. “You’re impossible.”

“And you’re everything I want.”

The fire crackled.

The woods were quiet.

And for once, they had a moment.

The kids were finally out. Really out.

Bradley was softly snoring. Mason had muttered something about “ghost scouts” before faceplanting into his pillow. Lara and Maisie were little lumps tangled in their sleeping bags.

And Catherine?

She was lying on her back in their tent, in the dim orange glow of the lantern, staring at the nylon ceiling.

Until Rafe crawled in.

Slow. Quiet. Smirking.

“Locked them down,” he whispered, zipping the tent behind him. “Bradley’s got his flashlight in one hand and his fire safety book in the other.”

Catherine rolled her eyes. “So romantic.”

He grinned. “I’m just saying—if we’re quiet…”

She gave him a look. “We have four kids, Rafe.”

“Exactly. Four.” He was already climbing over her, hand sliding under the hem of her hoodie. “And yet… you still make me want more.”

She didn’t stop him. Not when his fingers teased the waistband of her leggings. Not when he pressed his forehead against hers and whispered, “You know what you do to me?”

“Apparently, enough to make you ignore the fact that we’re five feet from our children.”

“Hey,” he murmured, mouth brushing hers. “You’re the one moaning in the woods earlier when I touched your waist. Don’t blame me now.”

Catherine swatted his shoulder. “That was not a moan.”

“That was definitely a moan.”

“You’re delusional.”

He leaned in, tongue tracing her bottom lip. “I’m about to be if you keep looking at me like that.”

She opened her mouth to reply—maybe to sass him, maybe to cave—but then his hand slid between her thighs and her breath caught.

“Rafe,” she warned.

“Shhh,” he whispered, lips at her ear. “Small tent. Gotta be quiet, baby.”

His fingers moved slow, wicked, and precise.

“Then stop touching me like that."

He smiled against her throat. “You want me to stop?”

She grabbed his wrist. “I didn’t say that.”

Outside, the forest hummed with nighttime sounds—crickets, the distant croak of frogs, leaves rustling in the breeze.

Inside, the tent was warm and tense and too small for the way Rafe’s body moved against hers.

“Rafe,” she whispered, breath stuttering. “You’re not being quiet.”

“You’re the one gasping, baby,” he growled softly, dragging his teeth along her collarbone. “You want me quiet, you better bite your tongue.”

She did. Tried to. Failed a little.

When he finally sank into her—slow and deep, mouth at her throat, arms around her like he was trying to bury himself inside her soul—she bit down on the inside of her wrist to keep the sound in.

He whispered everything into her ear. How good she felt. How warm. How he still couldn’t believe she was his. How every part of her was made for him. How she already gave him four kids but he still dreamed about giving her more. How he’d fill her up every night if she’d let him. How he wanted her always.

Her breath hitched, body trembling beneath him as she clung tighter, legs wrapped around his waist, heels digging into his lower back. Rafe moved slow, deep — every thrust a quiet promise, every breath shared between them in the thick, tented heat.

His hands framed her face, thumbs stroking her cheekbones like she was something sacred.

“Look at me,” he whispered.

Her eyes fluttered open, wide and glassy. She was trying so hard to stay quiet — the kids were only feet away — but the way he touched her made silence impossible.

He kissed her again, swallowing her soft whimpers, and when her nails sank into his back, he groaned low in his throat.

“Catherine,” he breathed against her jaw, moving deeper, filling her in a way that made her whole body shudder. “God, baby, you feel like home.”

She bit down on his bicep — hard — not to hurt him, but because she had to. Her thighs were shaking, her back arched, and he was hitting that spot that made her see stars behind her eyelids. The sharp sting of her teeth only spurred him on.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, breathless, “I can’t—”

“Don’t,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to hers, hips rocking against her slow and steady. “Don’t say sorry. Just give it to me.”

She clung to him like she was afraid he’d disappear, every part of her trembling under him. It was too much — too intimate, too deep, too them.

He kissed her temple. “You’re doing so good, baby”

Her fingers tangled in his hair. Her lips were at his ear now, whispering his name like a prayer, like a curse, like a plea.

“Rafe…”

He groaned again, trying to keep it in — but he was just as gone, lost in the tight heat of her wrapped around him, the feeling of her coming undone right underneath him.

And when she did — when her legs locked tighter, her body tensed, and her breath hitched into a moan she tried and failed to hide — he followed. No pulling out. No second thoughts. Just the two of them, wrapped up in everything they’d ever been.

He stayed there, buried inside her, both of them catching their breath in the heavy quiet.

Only the crickets dared make a sound.

“I hate camping,” she whispered, cheeks flushed and glowing in the lantern light.

He grinned, still breathless, kissing her swollen mouth. “No, you don’t.”

She sighed, still trembling, eyes falling shut as he pulled her closer.

“Maybe not right now, but in general.”

⛅️

The morning sunlight filtered in through the tent flap like some cruel joke from the gods of camping.

Catherine groaned as she sat up. “Oh my God.”

Her lower back protested, her thighs ached, and her neck was kinked from sleeping half on Rafe’s chest and half on a rolled-up hoodie. The ground? Not her friend. And neither was the man currently humming outside the tent while cooking.

She pulled on his sweater and stepped out of the tent, blinking against the bright light. Rafe was by the little firepit, shirtless, flipping scrambled eggs with way too much confidence.

“Morning, sunshine,” he smirked without looking at her. “Sleep good?”

She squinted at him. “My spine is gone. There’s no spine left. It disintegrated somewhere between thrust four and five.”

He grinned, cocky as hell. “Thrust five, huh? I’m flattered.”

Before she could smack him with the nearest spatula, a high-pitched scream echoed through the campsite.

“MOM!”

Bradley came barreling out of the woods, wide-eyed, holding his survival book in one hand and a stick like a sword in the other.

“Are you okay?!” he shouted, skidding to a stop. “Last night—I heard this noise, like something was attacking the tent, and then you yelled ‘RAFE!’ real loud and I thought it was a bear but then I figured you were the one in trouble, and I was just about to come save you but I remembered Dad could fight it— He's not a good scout, but he does punch good.”

Catherine blinked.

Rafe bit down on his lip so hard to keep from laughing. “A bear, huh?”

Bradley nodded, dead serious. “I knew it wasn’t good. But then I heard you say Dad’s name and I was like, ‘oh okay he’s got it.’”

Catherine looked at Rafe. “Say something.”

“What can I say?” he shrugged, smug as ever. “Daddy saved you from the big, bad… bear.”

Before she could hurl the eggs at him, Mason trudged out of the kid’s tent, rubbing his eyes. He looked at Catherine for a moment too long.

Then looked at Rafe.

Then sighed.

“Oh my God. You two seriously have no shame.”

“Excuse me?” Catherine blinked.

“I heard you,” Mason said flatly, grabbing a juice pouch. “Also, you owe me therapy and new headphones.”

Rafe laughed into his hand.

Lara pranced out next, still in her sparkly princess dress and pink rain boots.

“I heard it too,” she said brightly. “It sounded like when you do gymnastics at home.”

Catherine froze.

“I told you before!” Lara added. “When I asked, Daddy said Mommy was trying to do the splits but wasn’t very good at it.”

Catherine turned slowly toward Rafe, eyes narrowed.

“Did you seriously tell her I was—?”

“Trying to stretch, yes.” Rafe nodded, serious. “You were… incredibly stiff.”

“You are such an ass—”

“Daddy’s strong!” Maisie suddenly shouted, running out of the tent with her blanket dragging behind her.

Everyone turned to look at her.

Maisie smiled proudly. “He makes Mommy loud.”

Dead. Silence.

Rafe choked.

Catherine turned and walked straight back into the tent.

It was official, she was never going camping again.

[buck-star]

linguine

pairing — sugar daddy!andy barber x sugar baby!fem!reader

summary — a drunken and unexpected confession. leading to silent treatments. angst. and another unexpected confession.

warnings — angst. daddy kink. dom!andy. sub!reader. fluff. slight smut. mention of fingering. mention of thigh riding.

wordcount — 3.200 words

authors note — part of the pasta collection. collaboration with @gremlin-girly. shout-out to @writing-for-marvel for proofreading! linguine for love confession.

pasta collection

“You know, we should talk about that, honey,” Andy murmurs as he leans backwards. His lower back rests against the counter behind him as he looks at you.

Intensely.

You huff slightly, shaking your head. Meanwhile, you poke your fork into the scrambled eggs on your plate.

Scrambled eggs he makes for you. Only for you.

As he always does. Making breakfast so you won’t just skip it.

“Honey,” Andy says with more authority in his voice. Low. Almost a warning tone.

Both of you know what he's talking about. And yet, you refuse to start a conversation with him. At least as long as he tries to bring up that topic.

Andy sighs. Heavily.

“So, you just want to sit here and ignore me?” Andy asks, clearly annoyed by your behavior and refusal.

He takes another deep breath, crossing his thick arms in front of his muscular chest. The action only causes the muscles to bulge, his t-shirt fitting tighter around him. Hugging his body just right.

He tries to stay calm. He really does.

But you're testing his patience. And even though he tries to stay calm, he can't help but feel his annoyance growing slowly.

Those special three words. They slipped past your lips last night.

First he wasn’t sure if he heard you right. But when the realization hit him like a freight train, he wanted to know how much you meant it.

If it was just in the heat of the moment. Or if those words meant more than emptiness.

“It was in the heat of the moment. I was drunk and I couldn’t think straight,” you try. Though, you know he won't buy it with how your voice shakes and you avoid eye contact.

Of course he won’t buy it.

Andy knows you. And unfortunately, he can read you like an open book.

In every other situation you would have loved it. But at that very moment, you absolutely hate it.

“Try again. Maybe more convincing,” he says, his voice rougher than before.

Andy watches your evasive gaze. The way you push the eggs over your plate but don’t even care about eating it.

He crosses his legs slowly, waiting for you to respond to him.

“I-it was the—”

“No,” he interrupts you. He can see straight through you.

You would come up with the same lame excuse. But you wouldn’t mean it.

Not when you’re unable to look at him. It doesn’t have to be eye contact, but you're not even glancing at him. Not even in the slightest.

“I said try again. Not repeat your words and give me that shit of an excuse again. Because I understood what you said. Damn well,” he huffs, shaking his head slightly.

Disappointed at you.

“Now. Try. Again.”

You stay quiet. Head lowering even more.

The scrambled eggs are way more interesting than anything else. Even if you just push them from one side to the other, off the plate or just poke at them.

As long as you avoid his stare, his disapproving look, you can’t feel bad. Maybe when you look away long enough he will just let it go and forget about the accident.

Andy hates being lied to. But you still did it. Over and over again, only to hide the truth behind your words. To not face the possible consequences of what you said to him.

“You're just sitting here, and pushing your food around? Giving me the silent treatment, now, honey?” Andy asks, pushing off the counter, leaning over the coutner you’re sitting at instead.

You shrug. Slightly. Almost invisible.

But you stay quiet. Still avoiding his gaze, as well as a conversation with him.

Andy takes a deep, dramatic breath. Holding it in for a moment. Three seconds to be exact. Then he exhales.

“Fine,” he says, pushing away from the counter completely as he turns to leave.

And then he walks away. Out of the kitchen. Out of your sight.

The silence stretches. Thick. Leaving you alone with your running thoughts and your heavy heart.

You swallow the lump in your throat, the food long forgotten. You’re not even hungry anymore, not since he tried to start a conversation.

You just want to run away. And hide from him for a bit.

Hiding all the feelings. All the words you said. And the ones you didn’t say. Maybe just act like it never happened.

You turn around in the chair. He really left the kitchen. Leaving you alone there.

Your thoughts become louder. Screaming. Running. It’s like shouting voices in your mind, trying to be heard. Trying to be the loudest.

Tears burn in your eyes. Slowly rolling down your cheeks as you try to blink them away. Though, they keep escaping the corners of your eyes, leaving wet trails down your cheeks.

‘Fine.’

It’s all he said. He didn’t even try harder to get you to talk to him. He just let it go.

As you wished. But not as he did.

Andy isn’t one who gives up on something. He would even force it out of someone. As long as he gets the answer he’s looking for.

And right now it’s the truth. And an answer.

A true answer. Not some lame excuse.

But maybe you fucked it up. Badly.

You push the chair back, slipping off it to walk around the counter. With one hand on the edge of the plate you slide it over the counter.

Throwing away all the scrambled eggs you didn’t eat, and placing the plate and fork in the dishwasher, you sigh. Heavy. Deep.

It’s quiet. Too quiet without Andy around.

Usually you would hear the television. Or Andy talking on the phone when he’s working from home. Or he would talk to you.

But it’s never as quiet as now. No voices. No noises except your breathing. And your heart is thrumming in your ears.

Guilt creeps to the surface slowly. Leaving your heart heavy and hurt. Broken into pieces.

Broken in a way only Andy managed to fix. With nothing but his presence. With his care and attention. The softness he’s showing you takes away all the fears and doubts, leaving you bare and happy with him. And especially for him.

“Andy?” You whisper into the room, too afraid to cut through the silence. Though, you know he won’t hear you when he's not in the hallway, and you're pretty sure he isn’t.

And yet, you try it anyway. Hoping to get a reaction from him. Or to get him to make a noise.

No response. Of course.

You swallow the hurt that bubbles up. The pain you caused him. Only because you’re afraid to say the truth out loud.

He might be the one for you. But you’re too scared to admit it to him.

Maybe you’re not the one for him. And if you say your feelings out loud, they will be real. They will make you vulnerable.

If you don’t say them out loud, he doesn’t know. He can’t reject you. He can’t push you away.

But Andy also can’t tell you the way he feels. If he even does feel anything except disappointment and hate toward you now.

But where did he actually go? You didn’t hear the front door opening. Not closing.

So he still has to be in the house.

Or maybe you were too lost in your thoughts to even notice him walking through the front door. Or the clinging of his keys, his shoes or jacket.

You stop in your tracks, holding your breath.

Then you hear it. It’s like a whistle in the air. But you notice it.

The faint movement of something upstairs. Footsteps. Quiet and careful.

It has to be Andy. Hopefully. Probably.

Then again. More footsteps. Louder this time, followed by a slight crack.

A crack too familiar. The door of your wardrobe sounds exactly like that when you open it.

Is he packing your stuff so he can throw you out of his house?

Andy barely walks into your room. He said it's yours. Your safe space. Your place.

At least for the time you’re living at his house while the apartment you were living it gets renovated after it got flooded. And since your arrangement with Andy, and the constant meetings, he offered you to move in with him.

His house is big enough. You both have your own spaces but still can do things together.

And he has you around for every meeting and dinner he needs you at. Plus, Andy can spoil you easier like that, taking you on shopping trips.

Sometimes he only has to walk past you or sit next to you and you show him things online. You don’t even ask for them, he gets them for you anyway.

You’re his. His honey. And he loves to spoil you as much as he can, as much as you allow him to.

It's because of the arrangement, is what you tell yourself.

But the truth is: the arrangement went further than you both thought when you started it.

At first it was easy. You go out with him for business meetings. A few evenings or afternoons where you were just relaxing with him. And he will pay for it.

As well as for your apartment. For your needs. And whatever you were looking at and wanted to have. He provided it, without any questions or judgments.

And then the sex sneaked its way into your relationship with Andy.

Late nights with romance movies or sometimes action movies. They led to cuddles and kisses until the two of you ended up in his bed.

It was still easy. It was just sex. No meaning behind it.

Andy even offered to see it as a one time thing.

Instead, the two of you just added it to your contract. More or less. Not officially, but you both agreed that having some fun isn’t bad.

Until it changed. Until it became bad.

Last night to be exact.

Last night when you came home drunk. After a party with your friends you sneaked back into the house, trying to get to your room before he noticed.

You were supposed to be home by one in the morning. But it was way past three when you came back.

Andy was waiting, though. That typical dad glare on his face as he sat on the couch with his arms crossed in front of his chest.

Followed by a lecture of his and a glass of water, before he tugged you into your bed.

Or at least he tried.

Because he only managed to sit down on the edge of the bed with you straddling his lap. Rubbing yourself on his thigh, moaning into his ear and begging for him to make you cum.

To make you his good girl while he plays with you.

The continuous rubbing of your slick panties along his sweatpants left a dark mark on the fabric.

The grip on your hips was tight, trying to stop your movements but he couldn’t deny you completely. He never could.

And he probably will never be able to deny you anything when you beg in that sweet voice of yours.

Plus you weren’t drunk out of your mind. So, he let his hand slip down between your body’s so he was able to rub your clit in slow but steady circles.

And when he pushed you to the edge, over and over again, he stopped. Not allowing you to come, instead he left you begging. Like he’s used to.

You suddenly confessed something that made you both stop in your tracks.

‘Fu-fuck, daddy! I-I love you.’

You pushed yourself off his lap. Stumbling out of the room, you locked yourself in the bathroom until you were sure that Andy was already in bed.

Only then did you go to bed too. Knowing he would try to bring the topic up later. But you hoped he might forget about it or try to act like it didn’t happen.

Just, he didn’t forget, nor pretended that it never happened.

You walk out of the kitchen, slowly up the stairs. Your heart thrumming in your chest, your breath quickens when anxiety builds in your chest. In your stomach.

You’re not even sure how to approach Andy. But you need to. One way or the other. You need to know if he’s going to throw you out or break the contract. Maybe he’s even doing both.

When you hear him huffing and shuffling, your chest clenches. Fear grows in the pit of your stomach.

You shouldn’t have said all that. You shouldn’t have ignored him, but facing him with the truth wasn’t an option either.

“A-Andy?” You ask quietly when you stop in the doorframe.

You look everywhere but him. Too afraid to see the anger on his face. The disappointment.

Your fingers are shaking as you play with the hem of your shirt. Shifting from one foot to the other.

His head snaps toward you. His eyes widen for a moment. He didn’t hear you walking upstairs, nor walking into the room.

For a moment you let your eyes wander over his frame, still avoiding looking into his face, though.

Andy holds a pair of your panties in his calluses hands. Neatly fold.

You swallow harshly, shifting once more. The lump in your throat grows with every passing moment. The silence thick in the air.

Andy’s focus is completely on you. His ocean blue eyes roaming your face as he waits for you to speak up.

But you don’t. You only shift back and forth. From one foot to the other. Before you scratch your toes along the hardwood floor.

A habit you have. Especially when you’re nervous. It’s one of the first he picked up on.

He takes a slow but deep breath, taking in the furrow of your brows. And that cute crinkle that forms on your forehead when you’re concentrated, unsure or mad.

But this time it isn’t madness. Or any kind of anger. It isn’t even confusion or concentration.

It was concern. Worry. Maybe even fear.

“Yes, honey?” He interrupts your running thoughts and breaks the silence when he notes that you’re too lost in your thoughts to keep talking. “You didn’t come upstairs to say my name, did you?”

You shake your head slightly. Tears well up in your eyes. You try to blink them away before he notices them.

You don't want to look pathetic. Or get his pity because you're crying.

Andy shouldn’t comfort you if he doesn’t really want to.

“D-do you—” you take a shaky breath, pulling at the hem of your shirt. “Are you throwing me out?”

Andy’s eyes widen. Really widen in confusion at your words.

“What?” He asks, titling his head like he doesn’t quite understand what you said. He must have heard you wrong.

His blue eyes roam through the room, then back toward you and he shakes his head.

There’s no indication that he wants you out of his house. He didn’t mention or say anything like that, nor did he think about it.

Andy didn’t do anything that would give you a reason to think that he's going to throw you out of his house.

“You really have that little trust in me? Of course, not. How did you even get that idea?” Andy asks, as he sits down on the edge of your nearly made bed.

“Y-you just left the kitchen. And you-you’re in here and uhm—” you start, looking at your wardrobe and at Andy as you try to piece the puzzle together. “Taking my clothes out of the wardrobe?”

You frown further. There’s a piece of your puzzle missing. The most important: what is he even doing if not throwing you out?

“You ignored me,” he states, his voice soft as he keeps talking. “Doesn’t make much sense to push you. I know you, honey, you don’t talk, not even under pressure.”

You nod. He’s right.

Sometimes — most of the time — pressure only makes you shut out everyone even more.

“And you're not a case of mine. I might be enforcing and pressuring during work, but not with you. You’re my girl,” Andy explains, his eyes holding yours. His expression tender and loving as he speaks. “And I'm putting away your freshly cleaned clothes. I wanted to keep myself busy until you're willing to talk to me about what you said last night. Not some lame lies, but the truth.”

Andy pats his thick thighs. He hopes you listen to him, but also knows that you may refuse to sit down on his lap.

But you push yourself off the door frame after a moment. A moment that you needed to consider his words, let them sink in.

You take a few steps closer until you're standing in front of him.

When you’re about to lower yourself between his thighs he stops you by placing both of his calloused hands on your waist, shaking his head slightly.

“No. Not yet, honey,” he mutters, pulling you into his lap so you straddle him. “It’s not about dominance right now. Though, I might spank that pretty ass of yours later for lying and ignoring me. But right now I just want to talk about last night.”

You whimper at his words. You don't fear spankings, you love him. Even when he's delivering a hard spanking until you’re crying and begging him.

“I’m sorry,” you mutter, shifting in his lap.

Andy’s hands remain steady around your waist to keep you from moving too much.

“I know. Did you mean it?” He asks, his eyes soft and holding a warmth only Andy can provide.

You nod. Your eyes moving away from him to not have to see the hate and anger in them at your admission.

“No… no, you don’t get to look away, honey,” he mutters, bringing one of his hands to your chin. His fingers curl underneath to tip your head back.

“I-I didn’t mean too. I’m sorry, I-I didn’t want to ruin anything,” you whisper, tears burning in your eyes once more.

If you could take those words back, you would. Maybe. Saying them out loud took away some of the pressure you carried around because of the feelings lingering in your heart and gut.

“Honey,” Andy mutters, his thumb brushing over your cheek to wipe away the tears. “You didn’t ruin anything. I just needed to know that the feelings aren't one sided.”

You gasp. Then you narrow your eyes.

Hope. Confusion. It all comes together in your mind.

Did he just say he loves you too?

“Huh?” You blurt out, earning a pinch to your thigh from him. “I-I… I don't understand, Andy.”

“I love you, too. I didn’t want to be a creep, but hearing you say that last night... I wasn’t sure if you meant it, I hoped you did,” he mutters, leaning closer until your lips are only a few inches away from yours. “It’s gonna be so much fun to spank that bratty little ass and get the surplus energy out of us.”

comment and reblog to support content creators. divider made by @/saradika-graphics.

taglist — @ballorawan740 @phineas-is-chaos @princesschyanne @sergeantbarnessdoll @thenameswinter99 @carlossainzapologist @multiversefanfics @rogersbarber (added cevans characters so if you don’t wanna be tagged in these please let me know)

[cerisereids]

𝗜𝘀𝗻’𝘁 𝗦𝗵𝗲 𝗟𝗼𝘃𝗲𝗹𝘆- 𝗦.𝗥. (𝗡𝗶𝗴𝗵𝘁 𝗖𝗵𝗮𝗻𝗴𝗲𝘀 𝗣𝘁. 𝟳)

Pairing- Dad!Spencer x Mom!Reader

WC- 0.7k

Summary- Diana Jane arrives.

Contains- descriptions of birth, pain that comes with giving birth, contractions, etc.

A/N- as always, divider from my homie @thecutestgrotto

Night Changes Masterlist | Previous Chapter | Birthday Event

Your stomach is being torn apart. At least, that’s what it feels like when your contractions are only 3 minutes apart. You practice your breathing, in-out-out, just like your birthing coach told you to. It doesn’t help. You scream in agony, nails biting into Spencer’s forearm as he punches the speed a little harder.

“I know, I know,” he soothes, it’s a weak attempt, but it’s all he can manage as he maneuvers through rush hour traffic.

“Spencer, I think I’m dying!” You wail, hands clutching the demon in your stomach, forcing its way out. Tears stream down your face, mixing in with sweat. You can only imagine how you must smell. You’ve been pregnant for 40 weeks, you knew this was coming, it still doesn’t make it any less painful.

Everything moves so quickly once you make it to the hospital– you’re being wheeled off to a room, your OBGYN enters, you push. The baby still won’t come out.

“She’s stubborn, I’ll tell you that,” your doctor says. You manage a breathy laugh, your eyes finding the exact culprit to blame for that. Spencer smiles sheepishly. “Keep breathing, I’ll be back in 15 and we’ll try pushing again, okay?”

You nod, even though nothing is okay, you’re terrified, you’re in pain, and you want a cheeseburger so fucking badly.

Spencer’s not much better, his palms slippery from the sweat that’s accumulated over the past three hours. He was there when your water broke, you had just stood up after dinner, the splashing sound accompanied by a look of sheer panic in your eyes. He was quick on his feet, muscle memory kicking in as he grabbed the hospital bag, making quick work to the car.

He stands here now, clad in scrubs, under the fluorescent lights of the hospital room, utterly terrified. He’s thought a lot about his ability to be a father, whether it should be a privilege granted to him at all. You’re too good to him, though, insistent that he’d be more than perfect. He believed her for a while, but now that it’s actually happening, he’s never been more terrified. He’s been kidnapped three times, stared down serial killers in the face, yet fatherhood is the scariest threat of all.

Another wail from his wife rips him out of his self pity as he rushes to your side. He signals the nurse to grab the doctor once more. There’s a fire in your eye that he hasn’t seen before, a fierce need to get this baby out. You sit up, legs propped up and ready to go.

It takes about 10 pushes, a lot of tears, and some loud shrieks before Diana Jane Reid wails herself into the world. Spencer is in complete and total awe. She’s tiny, sitting at about 6 pounds 6 ounces. He’s still as he watches you cradle the newborn in your arms, tears streaming down your face at her beauty. His own eyes start to gloss over when a nurse touches his arm slightly.

“Do you want a turn, Dad?” The name nearly knocks the wind out of him, and he nods his head. She hands him the baby, scooping her into his big arms.

She snuggles into him instinctively, and Spencer vows then and there that he’ll do anything within his power to protect her, keep her safe, love her. He thought he’d reached his capacity to love, that it couldn't get stronger. He was wrong, he was so, so wrong. Now, with this tiny human in his arms, he thinks he can conquer the world.

He looks at you, your eyes shining with that same, fierce love. You chuckle together, unbelieving that you’d really done this. You brought this child into the world together. You’re going to raise her together. You’re going to give her siblings together.

He places the infant in her small glass crib, his finger swooping down the slope of her nose before moving to his wife. He kisses you on the cheek, the nose, the lips. He takes your hand in his, squeezing it tight.

“Do you want that cheeseburger now?” He asks, and you guffaw a laugh.

“Yes, yes I do,” you respond, “but first, give me the baby.”

[magical-reid]

Hi, can you make like doctor bucky x reader or doctor reader x patient bucky and it starts when one of them starstruck by another like a slow burn but they got happy ending .... Lol, sorry for the messy writing, but it never leaves my minds, so i hope you can think about this one, thanks

Steady Hands

Pairing: Doctor!Reader x Patient!Bucky Barnes

Rating: T (slow burn, emotional whump, medical themes, hurt/comfort)

Content Warnings: PTSD, medical recovery, emotional vulnerability, past trauma, mild injury description. All handled with care.

Word Count: 6.1 K

Summary: In the sterile quiet of the med bay, Bucky found an unexpected kind of solace in the steady presence of the new trauma doctor, someone who treated him with care instead of caution. What began as routine checkups slowly became something deeper, as her quiet compassion unraveled his tightly wound walls and reminded him that healing wasn't just for the body, but was for the soul, too.

The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead, casting a pale halo across the hospital corridor. Stark Tower’s private med bay was sleek and clinical, all metal edges and antiseptic chill, but there was a warmth to the way you moved through it. Confident, quiet. A steady heartbeat in the middle of chaos.

Bucky noticed the second you walked in.

He was sitting up on the exam table, a little too tense to look relaxed but too proud to admit the pain in his ribs. His shirt was long since shredded, soaked with dried blood and discarded by the nurse. Stark had brought him in half-limping, half-grumbling, and promptly left without ceremony.

Then you stepped in. Clipboard in hand, white coat swishing. He didn’t expect someone so composed. So calm. So… startlingly human in a world where everything felt like it was either burning or breaking.

Your eyes met his, and for a second, he froze.

You smiled politely. “Mr. Barnes?”

He blinked. “Bucky.”

You nodded, moving closer, scanning his chart. “Okay, Bucky. I see you took quite the hit. Mind if I take a look at those ribs?”

He didn’t answer right away. He was still staring—trying not to, really, but failing. The clinical lights behind you made your features glow soft, warm. You looked like safety.

Like something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to have.

“Sure,” he rasped, voice low and a little hoarse. “Go ahead.”

You were careful when you touched him. Gloved fingers pressing gently along the side of his ribcage. He winced, breath hitching, but didn’t flinch away.

“You’ve got at least one cracked rib, maybe two,” you said gently. “No punctured lung, though. That’s good.”

You leaned back, stripping the gloves off, and reached for the gauze.

“You’re the new trauma physician,” Bucky said, voice quieter now. “They brought you in after that mission in Prague, right?”

You looked surprised. “I didn’t realize you kept tabs on us doctors.”

“I don’t,” he said quickly. “I mean—I didn’t. Steve mentioned you.”

That wasn’t exactly true. He had kept tabs. Or rather, he’d asked. Once. Maybe twice. There was something about the sound of your voice over comms during emergencies—steady, reassuring—that had stuck with him.

“You’re good,” he added, awkwardly. “At this. The patching people up thing.”

You smiled again, and this time, it reached your eyes.

“Thanks,” you said, wrapping the gauze gently. “I’ve had practice.”

There was a beat of silence. You focused on your work. Bucky focused on not watching you like you were something untouchable. He wasn’t sure what unsettled him more—the pain in his side or the flicker of warmth he hadn’t felt in years.

When you were done, you stepped back and gave him a small nod.

“You’ll need to rest. No combat for at least a week. I’ll write it up, but you’ll have to fight Stark on enforcement.”

“I’ll manage.”

You lingered at the door for a second longer than necessary.

“If you need anything—pain management, help sleeping—just page me. Night or day.”

And then you were gone.

Bucky exhaled. Slow. Controlled.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Three days later, Bucky was back in the med bay. Not because he had to be—he could’ve lied through his teeth and walked it off—but because he hadn’t stopped thinking about you.

Well, that and his ribs still ached like hell when he breathed too hard.

You noticed him the second he stepped inside, wearing that same vaguely annoyed expression he used to mask discomfort. You set down your tablet and tilted your head.

“Didn’t expect to see you so soon,” you said lightly. “Did something feel off?”

“No,” he said too fast. Then, after a beat, “Maybe.”

You approached, expression softening. “Let’s take a look.”

He climbed back up onto the exam table, slower this time. Less bravado, more honesty in the wince he didn’t quite hide. You noticed.

“You’ve been resting?” you asked, raising an eyebrow.

He gave a dry little laugh. “Define ‘rest.’”

You let out a small sigh, not scolding, but not amused either. “Bucky, cracked ribs don’t just vanish because you decide you’re fine. They need time.”

“Time isn’t something I usually have.”

You were quiet for a moment, fingers ghosting over the edge of the wrap you’d done days ago. “If you keep pushing your body like this, eventually it’ll stop keeping up. You know that, right?”

He did. God, he did.

But he didn’t say anything. Instead, he stared straight ahead—at the sterile cabinets, the neatly coiled IV lines—anything but your eyes.

You didn’t press. You just began to unwrap the bandages, gentle as ever.

He hated how aware he was of your touch. It wasn’t even like that—not really. It was just… it had been so long since someone touched him with care. With intent that wasn’t violence or protocol.

Your hands paused briefly on his skin. “You’re still bruised pretty badly. There’s swelling. I can feel a lot of tension in your back too—are you sleeping?”

“Yeah.”

“Honestly.”

“…No.”

You didn’t react. No surprise, no pity. Just a soft nod.

“Do you want something to help?”

He hesitated.

“I don’t like meds,” he said. “Too many bad memories.”

You nodded again, slower this time. “Okay. Then we find another way.”

That startled him.

“You don’t have to fix everything tonight,” you continued. “You’re not a machine, Bucky. You’re allowed to heal.”

It hit harder than it should’ve.

He turned his head away slightly, jaw clenched. You didn’t apologize for saying it, and that mattered more than he could explain.

You redressed the injury in silence, and he let you. Trusted you, without realizing that’s what he was doing.

When you were done, you didn’t walk away right away.

“I’m here late most nights,” you said gently. “If you ever want to come in. No pressure.”

He looked at you then. And something in his chest shifted.

A tiny breath of warmth in the cold room he’d gotten used to.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later that night, long past midnight, Bucky found himself standing just outside the med bay again. He didn’t go in.

But the light was still on.

You were still there.

And that was enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

There wasn’t a set schedule to when Bucky stopped by the med bay.

Sometimes it was under the guise of a follow-up. Other times he claimed he “just happened to be passing through.” You didn’t call him on it. You let him come and go as he pleased, offering only what he’d take.

A cup of water.

An offered seat while you updated charts.

Silence, sometimes. Comfortable silence, if a little weighted.

You learned quickly that Bucky wasn’t the type to fill a room with words. He spoke like every sentence was a test, like he was measuring the safety of every truth before it left his mouth. But when he did speak—really speak—it meant something.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twelve

He sat quietly while you reset the cabinet locks and muttered under your breath about new inventory codes.

“You’re too calm for this place,” he said, after a long silence.

You glanced over your shoulder. “You think I should be yelling at the walls?”

He shrugged. “Everyone else does.”

You chuckled. “Well. Someone has to keep the temperature down.”

You didn’t see it, but he smiled.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Seventeen

He brought you a coffee.

Didn’t say much about it, just handed it over with a quiet: “You looked tired last time.”

You didn’t ask how he remembered your order. You just took it, fingers brushing his glove.

“Thanks, Bucky.”

He looked away like the words had more weight than he could handle.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twenty-Four

You caught him in the hallway. He wasn’t heading to you this time—he looked like he was trying to disappear.

“Rough day?” you asked gently.

His eyes were a little darker. The circles under them deeper.

He paused. Then gave a one-shouldered shrug. “Just tired.”

You didn’t push. But you did say: “If you change your mind, you know where to find me.”

And then he disappeared into the elevator, the doors closing too quickly for you to read his face.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Day Twenty-Five

2:46 a.m.

The knock was soft.

You weren’t even sure you heard it at first—just the faint shuffle of movement past the glass. You were reviewing scans, half-asleep on your feet. But then it came again. A gentle knock, barely there.

You opened the door.

And there he was.

No jacket. T-shirt damp with sweat. Left hand gripping the doorframe just a little too tightly.

“Bucky,” you breathed. “What—”

“I just—” he cut off. Voice hoarse. Strained. “Can I sit here? Just for a bit?”

You stepped aside immediately. “Of course.”

He walked in like someone unsure of the floor beneath him. Sat on the edge of the nearest chair, back stiff, jaw clenched. His metal hand flexed in his lap.

You didn’t ask. You didn’t need to.

You just turned on the electric kettle you kept for late shifts and moved quietly around the room, giving him space to breathe. The quiet wasn’t awkward—it was fragile. Sacred.

After a while, you handed him a mug of tea. Chamomile and peppermint. He didn’t drink it at first. Just stared into the steam like it held back a tide.

“It was a dream,” he said finally. Voice rough. “Same one I’ve had since Bucharest. Different sometimes. But it always ends the same.”

You sat down across from him. Close, but not too close. You didn’t speak. You let him have the silence.

“I was fine for a while,” he said. “But I—I heard something this morning. On the radio. Russian. Just a word. And it was like…”

He trailed off. Breath catching.

You waited. Patient. Steady.

“I know it’s stupid,” he muttered. “It’s just a sound. But it stuck in my head, and then I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t—” He broke off again, jaw clenching harder. “I didn’t know where else to go.”

Those last words barely registered above a whisper.

You felt your heart ache.

“You did the right thing,” you said softly. “You’re safe here.”

His hands shook a little, just a tremor, but enough for you to see it.

You reached out—slow, careful—and rested your fingers over his. Not gripping. Just there.

“Let’s just breathe for a while, okay?” you said. “You don’t have to talk. Just stay.”

And he did.

He didn’t let go of your hand.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Morning crept into the med bay like it was afraid to disturb the peace.

You sat on the edge of the couch across from the chair where Bucky had finally fallen asleep—not deeply, but enough to soften the lines around his mouth, to let his shoulders drop a fraction. The tea sat untouched. His hand, the one you’d gently held for a while before he drifted off, had gone still in his lap.

He looked younger like this. Or maybe just less haunted.

You didn’t wake him. You just sat in silence and watched the early light settle across the floor like a blanket.

When he finally stirred, it wasn’t abrupt. No sharp startle or swinging reflex. Just a slow blink, the kind that comes after too many sleepless nights finally surrender to exhaustion.

His eyes found yours immediately.

“Hey,” you said softly.

He looked around like he wasn’t sure how he’d gotten there. Then he ran a hand through his hair and exhaled, long and low.

“I didn’t mean to stay,” he muttered. “I thought I’d leave after a few minutes.”

“I’m glad you didn’t,” you said, with a small, honest smile. “You needed the rest.”

He didn’t answer that. Just looked down at his hands. One flesh, one metal. Both trembling slightly.

You reached for your thermos on the table and offered it toward him. “There’s still some coffee left. It’s not great, but it’s warm.”

He took it like it weighed more than it should.

“You okay?” you asked, voice still low. Still careful.

“Not really,” he admitted, almost immediately. It surprised both of you. “But I’m… here.”

It was the kind of statement that sounded simple, but wasn’t.

You nodded slowly. “That’s enough for today.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

After that night, something changed.

Not dramatically. Not with fireworks or declarations. But it was there—in the way Bucky lingered a little longer when he came by. In the way he let his guard down in pieces.

Sometimes he’d bring you news from the field—briefings, updates, occasional sarcastic commentary on Stark’s latest upgrades. Other times, he’d just sit and read in the chair by your desk while you charted vitals or typed notes. Once, you caught him watching you with an unreadable expression when he thought you weren’t looking.

You never called attention to it. You never asked him to explain.

Instead, you built something with him in the quiet.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Six

You found a small packet of Turkish delight on your desk. No note. Just the candy, wrapped carefully.

He wouldn’t admit it was him, but he watched your reaction with a flicker of pride in his eyes when you opened it.

You smiled. “You know this stuff’s addictive, right?”

He shrugged, feigning innocence. “Thought you liked challenges.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Seven

He walked into the med bay with blood on his temple and a gash across his arm, and instead of brushing it off like usual, he sat down without a word and let you clean the wound.

“Wasn’t even a mission,” he muttered. “Just an accident. Barnes Classic.”

You stitched in silence for a moment, then glanced up at him. “You know, it’s okay to come here even when you’re not bleeding.”

His lips twitched. Not quite a smile. But close.

“I know.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Week Eight

He brought you a book. Worn cover, dog-eared pages. A spy thriller from the ’40s.

“It’s kind of dumb,” he said. “But I read it before… everything. Figured you might like it.”

You looked down at the cover, then up at him. “You brought me a piece of who you used to be.”

“Yeah.”

“You trust me with that?”

He swallowed hard. “Yeah.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The next night, he showed up again. No injuries. No mission. Just him.

You were surprised, but you didn’t let it show.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked gently.

He nodded, then hesitated. “Can I sit with you again?”

You smiled and patted the seat next to you. “Always.”

And this time, when he sat, his shoulder brushed yours. Deliberately.

He didn’t move away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky didn’t come to the med bay every night.

But when he did, it was different now.

He sat closer. Let you read over his shoulder. Once, he fell asleep on the little couch while you worked, head tilted back, arms crossed, metal hand unclenched.

You’d covered him with your spare hoodie and turned the lights down low.

You weren’t sure he noticed that you always made tea when he arrived. Or that you kept his favorite mug—the navy one with the chipped handle—tucked away in the back corner of the cabinet, just for him.

But maybe he did.

Maybe he noticed everything. Just like you did.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You didn’t think anyone else had picked up on it. The tower had its own rhythms, its own chaos. People passed in and out of the med bay all the time, and Bucky always slipped in with quiet ease. Never too long. Never too loud.

Until one afternoon, when Natasha Romanoff walked in.

You were finishing up a routine exam—Bucky had taken a minor blow to the ribs again, and while it wasn’t serious, you insisted on checking him out. He’d given in with the usual half-sigh, half-smile that had started creeping into his visits lately.

He was sitting on the table, shirt off, arms loose at his sides. You stood in front of him, gently palpating his ribs, speaking softly.

“Any sharp pain when I press here?”

“No. Just a bruise.”

Your hand lingered a second longer than strictly necessary.

That’s when Natasha stepped through the door.

You didn’t hear her at first. Neither did Bucky.

She leaned against the doorway with her arms folded, one eyebrow arched.

“Well, well,” she said casually. “Should I come back later, or are we having a moment?”

Bucky flinched. Just slightly. His spine straightened like a snapped cord.

You stepped back, suddenly very aware of the space between you.

“Nat,” you said, clearing your throat. “Didn’t see you.”

She smirked. “Obviously.”

Bucky rolled his eyes. “It’s not what it looks like.”

Natasha gave him a long, amused look. “Sure it isn’t.”

You turned away, trying to compose yourself, but Natasha’s voice followed.

“You’ve been in here a lot lately, Barnes. Didn’t realize you were that prone to getting injured. Or… maybe the doctor’s just good company.”

She wasn’t being cruel. Teasing, maybe. But underneath it—curious. Watching.

You met her eyes, steady. “He’s been doing regular follow-ups. Standard protocol.”

“Mm,” she said, like she didn’t quite buy it. “Right. Standard.”

Bucky hopped off the table with more speed than necessary, grabbing his shirt.

“I’ll, uh… catch you later,” he muttered, avoiding both your gazes.

You watched him leave. The room suddenly felt too quiet.

Natasha’s voice softened. “Hey.”

You looked back.

“He trusts you,” she said.

You nodded slowly. “I know.”

She tilted her head. “You like him.”

It wasn’t a question.

You hesitated. Then answered, quietly, “Yeah.”

There was a beat of silence. Then:

“You’re good for him,” she said. “He needs someone who doesn’t treat him like a ticking bomb.”

You exhaled, tension easing a fraction. “Thanks.”

Natasha pushed off the wall and headed for the door.

“Just don’t let him run from it,” she added, glancing over her shoulder. “When it starts feeling real, he’ll want to.”

And then she was gone.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night, Bucky didn’t come by.

Neither did the next.

But on the third night, just as you were about to turn off the lights, there was a soft knock.

You turned.

There he was.

Eyes tired. Shoulders tense. But there.

“I didn’t mean to disappear,” he said, voice low.

You just nodded. “I figured you’d come back when you were ready.”

“I wanted to,” he said. “I just… I got scared.”

He didn’t say of what.

You didn’t need him to.

You stepped forward slowly, not reaching out yet—just being there.

He looked at you like he was still waiting for the sky to fall.

It didn’t.

“Come in,” you said softly.

And he did.

This time, when he sat beside you, his hand brushed yours.

And he didn’t pull away.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

It had been twenty-two minutes since Bucky walked through the med bay doors again.

Not that you were counting.

He sat beside you on the couch like he belonged there now. Like the space wasn’t sterile and cold, but safe. His knee brushed yours—barely—but it stayed there. A silent anchor.

Neither of you had said much. The TV was on low—some late-night documentary about ocean currents that neither of you were really watching.

He hadn’t met your eyes since he sat down.

You waited.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t loud. It wasn’t confident. But it was honest.

“Nat cornered me.”

You looked over. “Yeah?”

“Said I was hiding.” He gave a wry, humorless chuckle. “She’s not wrong.”

You didn’t rush to respond. You knew better than to fill silence with fluff when something real was coming.

“She said I trust you,” he added after a pause.

You glanced at him. “Do you?”

He finally turned his head. Met your eyes.

“Yeah,” he said. “Scares the hell out of me.”

Your breath caught. Not from surprise—but from the weight of it. The truth of it.

“Bucky…” you started, then paused. “I never wanted you to feel pressure. You don’t owe me anything. Not trust. Not time.”

His brow furrowed. “It’s not pressure. It’s just—new.”

You nodded slowly. “That makes sense.”

He shifted, fingers lacing together, then unlacing. Restless.

“I’ve spent years trying to be something safe. Something stable. Something not… broken.” He exhaled, sharp. “And then I met you.”

That made your chest ache in the best, worst way.

“You don’t have to be fixed,” you said softly. “You just have to be real.”

His jaw tightened, eyes flickering down to the floor.

“Sometimes I think if someone looks too close, they’ll see it. All of it. Everything I’ve tried to bury.”

You leaned closer, not touching, but close enough for him to feel your presence like a pulse.

“I see you, Bucky,” you said. “And I’m still here.”

His eyes lifted.

And for the first time in a long time, he believed you.

He swallowed hard. “Do you ever wonder what this is? Between us?”

You felt your heart skip. Then settle.

“I do,” you said. “But I think I know.”

He blinked, expression tight with uncertainty. “And what if I can’t be good at it? What if I mess it up?”

“You probably will,” you said gently, with a small, knowing smile. “So will I. But if it’s real, it’ll survive it.”

He let out a shaky breath. Then, finally, finally, let his hand rest over yours.

Not fleeting. Not tentative.

Certain.

“You make it feel… possible,” he said, barely above a whisper.

You turned your hand, lacing your fingers with his.

“Then let’s find out.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

That night, he didn’t leave when the lights dimmed.

He stayed. In the chair beside you, hand still in yours.

No kisses. No confessions shouted across rooms.

Just steady breathing.

Two people who had been broken by the world, quietly deciding to rebuild—together.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The call came in at 1:03 a.m.

An extraction in Slovakia had gone sideways. Bucky had been among the team deployed—standard recovery mission, in and out. Nothing unusual. Nothing that should’ve gone wrong.

But then the report hit your console:

“Unidentified triggers. Psychological compromise. Winter Soldier protocol proximity suspected. Barnes unresponsive during comm check.”

You dropped everything.

By the time the quinjet landed, you were already waiting in the emergency wing, heart thudding with a rhythm that felt too fast for calm, too slow for panic.

When the ramp lowered, Steve was the first off, looking grim. Natasha followed close behind.

Then you saw him.

Bucky was walking under his own power, but just barely. Shoulders rigid. Gaze unfocused. His fists clenched so tightly his knuckles were bloodless—one flesh, one metal. He didn’t speak. Didn’t even glance around.

Like he was still somewhere else.

Somewhere cold.

Steve approached first. “He won’t talk,” he said quietly. “Not to us. Not yet.”

You stepped forward without hesitation.

“Bucky?”

His head turned slightly. Just enough to see you.

His eyes locked onto yours—and something cracked.

He walked straight toward you.

Didn’t speak. Didn’t pause.

Just reached for you like he was drowning.

You caught him. Arms around his shoulders, grounding him. He buried his face into your neck like it was the only safe place in the world. His breath came in ragged gasps. Shaking. Silent at first—then not.

You felt the tremor before you heard the sound. A raw, muffled sob, choked into your shoulder.

You held tighter.

“It’s okay,” you whispered. “You’re safe. You’re here.”

He didn’t answer. Just clung harder, like letting go would undo him.

Steve and Natasha backed away without a word, leaving you both alone in the hallway.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You guided him back to the med bay slowly, his weight leaning into you more than he realized. He didn’t say a word. You didn’t ask for one.

You helped him sit on the edge of the exam table and knelt in front of him, keeping your touch gentle.

“Do you want to talk?”

He shook his head, throat working like it hurt to breathe.

You nodded. “Okay. Then just sit with me.”

Minutes passed.

Then he spoke. Just a whisper.

“He said the words. The trigger ones. I knew they wouldn’t work. I knew—but I couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe. Just heard them echoing in my head. Like I was back there. Like I was him again.”

You reached for his hand. Waited for him to let you take it.

He did.

“You’re not him,” you said. Firm. Clear. “You’re here. You’re with me. That part of you isn’t in control anymore.”

He swallowed hard. “But it still lives in me.”

“So does the part that came back. The part that fought to come back.”

He looked at you like he didn’t deserve that truth. Like it hurt more than the memory.

“I don’t know how to carry it.”

“Then don’t carry it alone.”

His breath hitched.

You stood, moving slowly, and without asking, gently eased him back onto the table. He didn’t resist. Just followed your lead, eyes flickering between fear and something deeper. Something more vulnerable.

You sat beside him and curled one hand around the back of his neck. The other rested against his chest—right over his heart.

It was racing.

“You’re not broken,” you said, barely above a whisper. “You’re hurting. That’s not the same.”

He closed his eyes. And for the first time, let himself fall into you fully. Head resting against your shoulder, breathing shaky but steadying.

You stayed like that for a long time.

No words.

Just presence.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The med bay was still and quiet when you woke.

It took a moment to remember why you were even lying on the small cot near the wall—why your arm was sore, why the fabric of your hoodie was slightly damp against your shoulder.

And then you turned your head.

Bucky was there.

Curled in the recliner beside you, long legs awkwardly bent, arms crossed, eyes closed. His hair was a mess of waves against his face, one lock falling across his brow. He looked… peaceful.

And so heartbreakingly tired.

But more than that—he looked safe.

You shifted slightly, and his eyes cracked open.

There was no panic this time. No tension.

Just the quiet settling of recognition.

“Hey,” you said, voice low and husky with sleep.

He blinked once, then rubbed his face with his metal hand. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to crash here.”

“You didn’t crash,” you said gently. “You rested.”

He swallowed, jaw flexing. “I should go. Didn’t mean to—”

“Stay,” you said, before he could finish. “If you want to.”

He hesitated.

And then—slowly—nodded.

You sat up and passed him the coffee you’d poured earlier from the machine in the hallway. It had cooled slightly, but he took it anyway, cradling it between both hands like it meant more than warmth.

There was silence for a moment.

Then: “I don’t usually let people see me like that.”

You glanced over. “I know.”

“But I didn’t feel… ashamed,” he added, almost to himself. “That’s new.”

You smiled. Not big. Not smug. Just soft. “Good.”

He looked at you then—really looked. The gaze that lingered. That pressed its weight gently into your chest and made it harder to breathe.

“You make it feel… okay. Just existing.”

“I’m glad.”

Another silence. But this one had tension in it.

Not the bad kind. Not fear.

Possibility.

Bucky turned his mug slowly between his hands. “I’ve been trying to figure out what this is. What’s happening. Between us.”

Your throat went dry.

“And?” you asked, quieter now.

His eyes met yours.

“I think I care about you.”

The words hung there.

Fragile. Exposed. Heavy with truth.

You let them settle. Let them breathe.

Then you reached over and took his hand again. That same quiet gesture he’d come to recognize as safety.

“I care about you too.”

A long breath escaped him—like he hadn’t known he’d been holding it.

He nodded once. Then leaned forward, pressing his forehead to yours.

Not a kiss. Not yet.

But a promise.

And it was more than enough.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

You started seeing him in the daylight now.

Not just during late-night panic spirals or quiet graveyard shifts in the med bay, but during actual hours of sunlight. He’d knock on the door like he always had—soft, almost hesitant—but when you opened it, there was a little less tension in his shoulders. A little more light in his eyes.

Today was one of those days.

He stepped inside, hands tucked into the pockets of his hoodie. He’d shaved. His hair was damp, like he’d just showered.

“You busy?” he asked.

“Never too busy for you,” you said, not even thinking about it.

And for once, he didn’t flinch at your honesty.

He smiled.

“Can I stay a while?”

You gave him a look. “You don’t have to ask that anymore.”

He nodded, then walked over to the couch and dropped onto it with a quiet sigh. He looked tired in a way that wasn’t haunted—just… human.

You sat beside him.

Close.

Your knees touched.

He didn’t move away.

In fact, after a minute, he shifted slightly. His thigh pressed against yours. Then his arm—warm, solid—brushed your shoulder. You turned your head, heart skipping a beat.

He was looking at you. Really looking.

“You always smell like tea and antiseptic,” he murmured.

You huffed a laugh. “Occupational hazard.”

He didn’t smile this time.

He reached up, slowly, and brushed a strand of hair behind your ear. His fingers lingered for a second too long. Barely there. But enough.

The silence between you stretched and pulsed.

“I keep thinking about that night,” he said quietly. “Not the part where I broke. The part after.”

You waited.

He looked down. “The way you held me. Like I wasn’t dangerous. Like I wasn’t… a mess.”

“You weren’t,” you said, just as softly. “You were hurting. That’s not the same thing.”

His throat bobbed.

“I keep wondering if I can ask for more.”

Your breath caught.

“More?”

His hand moved—hesitating—then rested over yours on the couch cushion. His thumb brushed the back of your knuckles.

“More of this. Of you.”

You turned your palm slowly, letting his fingers intertwine with yours. “You can always ask.”

He leaned closer.

Not all the way.

Just enough that you could feel the question between you. On his breath. In the slow, deliberate way his forehead came to rest against yours again.

“I want to kiss you,” he whispered. “But I don’t want to mess it up.”

“You won’t.”

You saw it in his eyes before he moved.

That flicker of courage.

Then, finally, finally, his lips touched yours.

Soft. Careful. Like he was afraid you might vanish if he held on too tightly.

You kissed him back with the same reverence.

Not rushed. Not hungry.

Just present.

When he pulled back, he rested his head against your shoulder and exhaled shakily.

“I didn’t think I’d ever have something like this again.”

“You do,” you said, threading your fingers into his hair. “You have me.”

He didn’t speak after that. He didn’t need to.

He just curled closer into your side, hand still in yours, heart steadying against your ribs.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Bucky didn’t mean to fall asleep.

He hadn’t even realized he’d drifted off until the pale light of dawn slipped through the blinds and warmed the back of his neck. The med bay was quiet—too quiet for how often he used to wake up in places just like it, sweating and gasping, the world blurring between then and now.

But not this time.

Because he wasn’t alone.

He was on the narrow cot, one arm draped around your waist, his metal fingers resting gently over the curve of your ribs. Your hand was tucked against his chest, and your breath moved steady beneath his collarbone.

Safe.

Real.

His first instinct was to move. To pull away before he made it strange or uncomfortable. Before the fragile spell of last night broke in the daylight.

But then you shifted—just slightly—and your arm tightened around him.

“Mornin’,” you mumbled into his chest.

He relaxed again instantly.

“Morning,” he said, voice scratchy from sleep.

You tilted your chin up to look at him, your hair a little messy, your eyes soft and still half-lidded with dreams. You didn’t move away. If anything, you leaned closer.

“How long have you been awake?” you asked.

“A few minutes.”

“You okay?”

He paused.

Then nodded.

“Yeah,” he said. “I think I am.”

You smiled, and it was brighter than any sunrise he’d ever seen.

He watched you for a while in the quiet. The way your fingers traced small circles on his shirt. The way you didn’t look afraid of him—didn’t look like you were waiting for him to disappear.

“I never thought I’d get to wake up next to someone like this again,” he said suddenly. “Like I wasn’t some weapon stored on a shelf between missions.”

“You’re not,” you said gently. “You’re a person. You always were.”

He didn’t respond right away. Just leaned in and pressed his lips to your temple.

It wasn’t a hungry kiss. It wasn’t desperate.

It was home.

“I want more mornings like this,” he said, words muffled against your skin. “With you.”

You looked up at him, and the way you smiled—it cracked something open in him, something tender and unguarded.

“You can have them,” you whispered. “As many as you want.”

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

Later, you sat together on the edge of the cot, coffee in mismatched mugs, your knees bumping. The tower was slowly waking up, the distant sound of Tony arguing with someone echoing faintly through the floor.

“You ever think about the future?” Bucky asked suddenly.

You glanced sideways at him. “Sometimes.”

He hesitated. “Does it ever… include me?”

You reached over and linked your fingers through his again.

“It always did.”

He looked at your joined hands. Then back at you.

And for once, he didn’t look afraid of the future.

He looked like he was ready to live it.

─── ⋆⋅☆⋅⋆ ───

The sun filtered through the kitchen window, casting long golden lines across the hardwood floor. It was quiet—just the low hum of the fridge, the faint chirp of birds outside the balcony, and the occasional soft clink of a spoon against a mug.

Bucky stood barefoot at the counter, shirt rumpled from sleep, hair falling into his eyes. He was stirring sugar into your tea the way you liked it—two spoonfuls, not stirred too long, always in that chipped navy mug.

He didn’t need to ask anymore. He just knew.

He turned around and found you leaning against the doorway, arms folded, smile blooming sleep-slow and soft.

“You watching me again?” he asked, eyebrow raised.

You shrugged. “It’s a good view.”

He huffed a laugh and handed you the mug, brushing a kiss across your temple as you took it.

“You sleep okay?” he asked, voice low, gentle.

You nodded. “Yeah. No nightmares.”

“Me either.”

It still felt a little like a miracle when he could say that. And mean it.

You moved to sit at the little table by the window—the one he’d insisted on fixing himself when one of the legs got wobbly. The sun warmed your back as he joined you, sitting sideways so his knee pressed against yours under the table.

You watched him watch the light play across the surface of your tea.

“Y’know,” he said after a long moment, “for a long time I thought I didn’t get to have stuff like this. Mornings. Kitchens. You.”

You reached for his hand. His flesh hand. Warm and calloused and steady.

“You do,” you said. “You fought for it. You let yourself want it. That counts for something.”

He looked at you like you were still a little unreal. Like you were the first good thing that hadn’t slipped through his fingers.

“Every morning I wake up next to you,” he said, voice quiet and clear, “I remember that I made it out.”

You leaned over and kissed him—slow and familiar and home.

When you pulled back, he rested his forehead against yours, just like he had the first time. Only this time, there was no fear behind it. Just love.

“Stay with me,” he whispered. “Not just here. Always.”

You smiled.

“Try and get rid of me.”

He didn’t laugh. Not really. But he smiled so wide you could see the lines around his eyes, and he kissed you again like he’d waited lifetimes for this, because maybe he had.