#there are so many swear words in this shirt

[boypied]

𝚏𝚒𝚏𝚝𝚎𝚎𝚗 𝚖𝚒𝚗𝚞𝚝𝚎𝚜...

𝚒𝚖𝚊𝚐𝚒𝚗𝚎 𝚜𝚞𝚌𝚔𝚒𝚗𝚐 𝚘𝚏𝚏 𝚢𝚘𝚞𝚛 𝚝𝚎𝚊𝚌𝚑𝚎𝚛;

CHARLIE COX x M!READER

MDNI + FDNI, mature content ahead.

WARNINGS: age gap, oral sex (r!giving), cum swallowing, swearing, hair pulling.

SUMMARY: you return to school after leaving so many years ago, and you visit your favourite teacher. one thing led to another, and you're on your knees in the very class that you were taught in.

After a medical emergency a couple of weeks ago, you received a letter in the mail that your medical bills have started to build up, you only know one person who could help you out and try to make these unfairly high bills some how lower and actually manageable and that person is your old high-school teacher who you had a major crush on the entire time, it was obvious to everyone who even thought to pick up on it. Your heart races practically pounding out your chest as you park up at the school and make your way inside.

You walk through the old hallways that you used to walk down every single day only a couple of years ago. It didn't long for you to realise where you want to go... well, it's more like who you wanted to visit. “Afternoon Sir.” You say in a low tone, not wanting to entirely disrupt his class. “Oh! Long time no see...” he chuckles to himself while the rest of the class just stares at him as they are waiting for him to give them the signal that they can leave.

“The class was just finishing up anyway, take a seat... I'll be with you in a moment.” he mumbles to you in his usual calm tone, which strangely sends shivers down your spine and makes your knees weak. You are immediately drawn back into the trance you were in all those years ago when you first had him as your teacher. After Charlie sends his students to lunch, he turns his attention over to you, “So, what brings you back to my classroom, mister?” he smirks as he sits down behind his desk, leaning back to crack his back and his shirt lifts up ever so slightly revealing his happy trail that drives you wild, and you pull up the chair to get closer to him.

“I've been having some trouble with some bills and being overcharged and stuffed... you know, adult stuff... and I was just wondering if you could possibly help me out with that? It's just that I remember that you talked about this in one of our lessons, and you were skilled and stuff.” I start blabbering on about my reasons for even being here as I don't want to come across as a creep that peaked in high school and is desperately trying to relive those moments.

He just smiles at you as you stumble over your words, he leans forward and places his hand on your thigh giving it a slight squeeze, “Of course I'll help you.. you always were my favourite student.” he chuckles as he spins his chair round to face his computer as he starts working on his way to help you out whilst you stare blankly at him as your face reddens.

After a rough forty-five minutes of research, emails and phone calls you finally manage to get through to the hospital and get your bills lowered to a manageable amount that you can pay over a month or two. “Thank you! Thank you so much.” You gasp down the line in relief as you hang up and Charlie celebrates as he throws his fists up in the air, and jumping up to give you a hug but before he could do that you place your hand on his chest and you push him down against his chair without even saying a word you begin unbuckling his belt, “w-what?” he mumbles out in confusion as he watches you do this, his eyes widen as you pull down his trousers as well as his underwear letting his cock spring free

Your eyes dart up to meet with his as you lean down and take his semi-hard cock into the warm wetness of your mouth and the moment that it happens his cock immediately becomes grows in your mouth hitting the back of your throat which causes you to gag slightly. Charlie's head falls back slightly as he feels the warmth of your mouth coat his entire cock, his hand shakily grabs his glasses and he throws it onto his desk which knocks off a bunch of his students papers, you pull off his cock and lean up, “Should I pick those up?” You say softly, and he grips your head and pushes you back down on his cock.

“No! It's fine... just keep sucking. They can all have a B anyway...” he chuckles, which turns into a breathy moan. Charlie's eyes flutter open slightly after being shut from the blissful pleasure that was your mouth around his cock and he sees the time, “F-Fuck! We only have fifteen minutes.” he smirks as he runs his hand through your hair and gives you a helping push you down helping you take more of his cock into your throat. A smirk grows on his face, feeling your throat contract around his length because of how long it's been so long since he's had any sort of sexual encounter with someone in months.

You let his cock pop out of your mouth as you trace kisses along the side of it whilst using your hand to pump it up and down inching him closer and closer to the climax that he's been waiting for. “You taste so good” you mumble out before you take his cock back into your mouth all the way allowing your throat to coat his tip. “I never would've thought an o-old student would be giving me the best blowjob... i-i've ever had...” he rubs his temples whilst laughing, which quickly turns into low grunts.

You wrap your hand around his base as you continue to swirl your tongue around his base and pump his cock to give him the ultimate feeling of pleasure and helping him build up to possibly the best orgasm of his life.

“Keep sucking!” Charlie practically begs you as his eyes flutter back, and his toes curl as he nears his release and his cock is buried deep in your throat. Your hand reaches up and begins gently squeezing away at his balls, and that was enough to completely send him into overdrive as his cock starts squiritng his thick ropes of cum down your throat as he slightly bucks his hips up into your mouth pushing his cock deeper than before, his load just running down.

He pulls on your hair and you throw your head back as his spit glistening cock pops out of your mouth. Your lips are all puffy from the intense blowjob you just gave, and Charlie runs his thumb across your lower lip as he breathes heavily, “Finished with five minutes to spare.” Charlie says in a playful, celebratory tone, which causes you both to laugh.

You help him pull his trousers up and look some-what presentable for his next class. You lick your lower lip, tasting the residue of pre-cum and you just smirk “Tasty” You mumble out with a wink and he just smirks as he grabs your waist and pulls him closer to his body, “Some of my students are probably on their way...” he whispers to you as he grabs his phone and sends you his address.

He leans even closer and whispers right in your ear “The key is under the flower pott... be there in my bedroom, ass up. I'll make sure to right after this class.” he gently places a kiss on your neck and pulls away letting go of your waist, “See you soon, baby.” he says to you as he watches you walk out, “I'll be waiting... Sir.” You say with a wink and he just bites his lip.

taglist ' @starboye @dqrkhold @mailmango @ghostking4m @kingchaospostsstuff @crispysoup318 @inhumanshadows @its-ares @gayaristocrat @cronasluvr @twinkedupman @gaefaeyae @sluttyhusband @sleep-0-deprived @lucerowrites1

[wayward-dreamer]

Drop The Charges

Pairing: Joel Miller x F!Plus size!Reader

Word count: 4.1k

Summary: After a car accident a few weeks prior, you were determined to make the asshole that hit you pay. Unfortunately he was incredibly handsome and convincing as he comes up with a pretty enticing way to get you to not press charges. (no outbreak!au)

Warnings: 18+ MDNI, swearing, mention of minor car accident/damage to vehicle, reader being unnecessarily mean and stressing Joel out but girlie's going through some shit okay?, mention of past relationship/bad breakup, minor mention of body insecurity, age gap (reader in her early 30s, Joel in his early 40s) heated argument, ultimatum, Joel's assertive and reader is into it, strangers to lovers, smut: dirty talk, oral (f! receiving), Joel's a capital M Munch™️, using panties as a gag, apologies, fluff. Reader described with female anatomy, no use of y/n.

A/N: This was written for @clubsoft's Have You Ever Tried This One? Writing challenge. This was such a fun prompt to write, I hope you like it, Dulsè! I may or may not already have thought about part 2 for this! Happy reading everyone! <3

Main Masterlist | Pedro Pascal Characters Masterlist

You walked through the foyer of the courthouse, your purse slung over your shoulder and your light gray trench coat fluttering from the wind in the large expanse of the vaulted space, as you followed behind the lawyer that had been assigned to you from the court. Your black heels clacked against the marble floor as he led you towards a hallway, with doors on each side all marked with numbers engraved on the dark wood. He stopped in front of a door marked ‘6’ and twisted the door handle, holding it open for you and allowing you to step in first. You walked in and dropped your purse on one of the chairs at the conference table, turning around and folding your arms across your chest as you waited for the man that followed behind you.

Joel Miller stepped through the threshold, rubbing his palms together as he looked around the room and avoided looking at you. You glanced between him and your lawyer, giving him a small nod to let him know that you were okay for him to leave.

“You’ve got ten minutes,” he reminded you before he closed the door behind him.

An awkward silence fell in the room as you glared at Joel, watching as he rubbed the back of his neck with his hand, his other sliding into the front pocket of his dark jeans. He was wearing an olive green shirt that was tucked into the denim, his sleeves rolled up his forearms which he had clearly done on the walk from the courtroom to this empty conference room you now occupied. Unfortunately for you and this situation, he was incredibly attractive, with specks of grey in his dark locks and salt and pepper stubble across his jaw. If you didn’t have unnecessary beef with him, maybe you would’ve asked if he was interested in having dinner with you.

“So, you’re the one who asked to talk this out,” you said, your sharp tone startling him a little. “Start talking, Miller.”

“Hey, you’re the one who’s got it out for me, sweetheart,” he countered, taking a small step towards you. “For no good reason, I’ll add, so why don’t you tell me why you’re doing this.”

“I don’t have to explain myself to you,” you argued.

“Okay, you know what? You don’t but you gotta stop this, alright?” he reasoned, holding his hands up in defence. “I stopped and helped you out, gave you my information, just like I was meant to. So I don’t understand how we even got here.”

Honestly, you had no idea how you got there, either. It all started with that fateful morning a few weeks ago, when you were driving to work with red, puffy eyes that your make-up did nothing to cover up. You had just broken up with your boyfriend the night before, well, he had broken up with you. It had been awful, you screamed yourself hoarse as you tried to make sense of why and of course as was the case with so many men, he didn’t give you a good reason. He had never said it outright but you knew he had issues with your appearance, subtly referring to your weight or the way you dressed. In hindsight, you had never been happier to be out of that relationship, but at the time it felt like your whole world was crashing down around you.

The morning after he broke your heart, you had decided work would be a good distraction and had left a little earlier than you normally did. Little did you know, you would be at a red light and then rear ended by the black truck behind you. You had cursed up a storm inside your car as you found a spot to pull over, slamming the door shut as you met the guy halfway and started hurling insults at him. You remembered him apologizing, he gave you a “seriously, I have no idea what happened, I’m an idiot” and then took out his phone to exchange information with you for both of your insurance companies. You had reluctantly gone ahead with it, but inside you had been fuming. You weren’t in the right headspace for days after, far too scarred from the breakup and you just wanted some type of justice brought. Your car had been dented but the damage wasn’t all that bad, but you still managed to find a way to a lawyer and then to a court date. You were surprised you had managed to drag it that far.

When you stepped into the courtroom earlier, the overwhelming feeling of guilt swept over you as you waited for your case to be called. You could see Joel across the aisle, hands clasped as his jaw clenched and didn’t meet your gaze even when it was time to stand in front of the judge. The older, white haired man behind the bench tried to make sense of the situation, but when he also expressed the fact that this could’ve been handled outside of his courtroom, you knew you had been caught in your exaggeration of the situation. You felt your heart sink into your stomach as you learnt that Joel was just a simple man, a contractor with his own business he had with his brother, a single father to a 14 year old girl and just living a quiet life in their Austin home.

Blaming this all on your broken heart was not going to hold up in court, and you had no idea how to salvage this. Just when you were about to admit your wrongdoing and ready to face the consequence, Joel had cleared his throat, briefly made eye contact with you before addressing the judge.

“Your honor, if we can find a way to sort this out, even just ten minutes-”

With a declaration of a recess and a small beat of his gavel, that was how you found yourself in that room with Joel standing across from you. His gaze was oddly penetrating, as if he was trying to figure you out and you didn’t miss the brief once over he gave you, his eyes taking in your curves before looking back at you. You couldn’t help but admire him either, your annoyance mingling with another feeling, something you never would've thought was possible to feel towards someone you barely knew.

“I’m not gonna attempt to make you tell me why you did this, you had your reasons, as messy as they might be. I’m just asking you to drop the charges. That’s all.”

You knew that you should. There was just no way to do that without admitting your fault in all of this, though. You pressed your lips together, gulping nervously as you began to feel your heart beating rapidly in your chest. Slowly, he walked towards you as he no doubt sensed your hesitation. There was a strange charge in the air between you as neither of you glanced away from each other, his intense gaze making you squeeze your thighs together under your black dress.

“How ‘bout an ol’ fashion deal between adults?” he suggested, raising his brow.

“You can’t offer me any tempting way to settle this, cowboy,” you frowned. Despite your words, you had to admit your curiosity for what he had up his sleeve.

“Sure ‘bout that? ‘Cause I can think of a few things that have been on my mind since I saw you in that dress that might convince you,” he stated, a smirk pulling at his lips as something twinkled in his eye. “And I think they’ve been on your mind, too.”

You might’ve slapped any other man for attempting a line like that on you, and yet with him standing in front of you looking like every fantasy you had ever had, you couldn’t ignore the heat that radiated through your body, wrapped around your spine before settling deep in your core. Your arms dropped down at your sides as he was mere inches from you, staring down at you. 

“Like what?” you asked, your eyes flicking up to meet his.

He slowly lifted his hand, lightly cupping your cheek as his thumb stroked your chin. “We got about…” he briefly glanced at the clock on the wall before looking back at you, “six minutes before we gotta be back in that courtroom. If I can make you cum on my tongue before then, you drop the charges. Judge doesn’t even need to know you made this a bigger thing than it was. Deal?”

“Seems like you get the better end of this deal. What’s in it for me?” you countered, trying to stand your ground but the tremble in your voice gave you away.

“You’ll see when you let me between those gorgeous thighs of yours, darlin’,” he breathed, his voice deep and husky.

You weren’t sure what made you believe him considering you weren’t used to compliments like that. It was hard for you to accept them in relationships let alone from people you had just met, but there was a sincerity in his gaze that gave you a reassurance you weren’t insane. Maybe it was just delusion, maybe it was the heat that burned low in your stomach, but either way you found yourself holding his gaze as you shrugged your trench coat off your shoulders. You dropped it on the chair with your bag, allowing him to take your hand in his large, calloused one and lead you away from the table.

Joel held your waist firmly in his strong grip as he walked you back towards the wall. Your breath hitched just as you pressed up against it, your eyes locked on his as he continued to take in every feature of your face. You felt his hands dig harder into your soft flesh just as he leaned down, capturing your lips in a rough, fervent kiss. You gasped as your arms draped over his shoulders, the sound opening your mouth slightly for his tongue to slip in, mingling with yours and eliciting a deep groan from you. That noise alone was enough to make your thighs squeeze together, feeling the familiar tingle up your spine as you clenched around nothing. He pushed himself closer to you, one of his hands sliding up the curve of your body and cupping your cheek, his lips still fused tightly to yours in an overwhelming embrace. Despite the unfortunate circumstance of how you met, it had still only been a few weeks since the incident, which still made him a stranger. This man shouldn’t be kissing you and caressing you in a way only familiar to lovers that found their rhythm over time, couples that spend years learning everything about each other. Yet there he was, his thick calloused hand sliding over your ample breast and squeezing, causing a surprised moan to escape your lips as you tugged at the collar of his olive green shirt.

His hand continued to drift down your body, finding its way between your legs over the fabric of your dress. He cupped your mound, causing you to pull away with a whimper, staring deep into his eyes. You saw the dark glaze in his brown orbs and you knew that you probably held a similar look, the tension between you both reaching a point of return. Suddenly, the urgency of what he promised you, the deal he was trying to cut, had him pulling away and taking your hands in his, raising your arms up and pressing them against the wall, clasped above your head.

“Keep ‘em there, y’understand?” he muttered against your lips.

You frowned briefly but nodded, pulling your bottom lip between your teeth.

He dragged his hands over the fullness of your curves as he sank to his knees, gazing up at you as they rested over the hem of your dress, thumbs brushing over the soft skin at the edge of it. A soft hum left you as he pushed the material up, a smirk pulling at his lips as he revealed the delectable thickness of your thighs. You pressed your lips together as his rough palms slid up your smooth flesh and gripped your full hips once again, leaning closer to your covered sex, concealed from him in light pink lace.

“So fucking beautiful,” he husked, lightly nuzzling his nose over you. “Can’t wait to taste you, darlin’...”

You didn’t know where the boldness to speak came from, especially in such a brash way, but in that moment all you needed was for him to deliver on his own proposed solution to this mess you had found yourselves in.

“Then hurry the fuck up, Miller, unless you want my lawyer walking in on us.”

He chuckled as he looked up at you, his fingers hooked into the lace of your panties. “Someone’s eager.”

“Please,” you scoffed, meeting his gaze. “I just want this over with so I never have to see you again.”

“Really? ‘Cause…” he started, harshly tugging at your underwear and pulling it down your legs, taking them off from each foot as he took in the sight of a light sheen of your arousal over your pussy. “I think she’s protestin’ to that, sweetheart.”

He tucked your panties into his back pocket before he nudged your knee and parted your legs without another word, making your muscles seize up at how exposed you were to him. A soft whine left you as he shifted closer, grabbing your hips in his firm grip as he sat down completely and crossed his legs, making himself comfortable as he nestled between your spread legs. Your brows pinched together as you couldn’t figure out why he had done that, but you got your answer very quickly as a long swipe of his tongue over your folds had you gasping loudly. Hearing your reaction had him repeating the move before dipping the muscle between your folds and running tight circles over the bundle of nerves, a small groan from him vibrating against you and sending a shiver through your whole body.

“Joel,” you moaned, softly, glancing down at him.

“So perfect,” he muttered against the inside of your thigh, kissing your skin softly. “All dripping and swollen just for me, aren’t ya?”

You watched on as he moved back to the apex of your thighs, your hips in his hard grasp as he slid his tongue along the seam of your sex, alternating with paying attention to the swollen nub, radiating shockwaves through your whole being. You bit down on your lip, trying to keep quiet and not alert anyone outside the room of what was happening, knowing you didn’t have much time before your lawyer would come back and tell you your ten minute recess was over. As much as you had tried to deny it before, you didn’t want it to be over now, with Joel slowly winning you over with every stroke of his talented muscle.

“J-Joel,” you whimpered, licking your lips as you continued to look down at the top of his head, his luscious graying curls looking incredibly pullable. “Fuck, f-feels so good.”

You heard and felt him chuckle against you as he pulled back slightly, enough to meet your lustful gaze with his own. “Knew you were lyin’ before, darlin’. Taste so fucking good, gonna make a mess of you.” 

Before you could conjure up any kind of response, his plump lips sealed around your clit and a sharp moan, one far too loud for someone not to hear, escaped you as one of your hands flailed against the wall and fell into his hair. You grasped the strands between your fingers, holding him in place but as another cry left you, he pulled back from you entirely, his lips and part of his stubble glistening with your arousal. You whined in protest but gulped in surprise as he suddenly stood up and stared deep into your eyes, his brown ones ablaze with desire. He took your hand and roughly placed it back up against the wall, above your head to once again meet the other.

“Do as I say, darlin’, and just so this isn’t over before we’ve even started,” he ordered, reaching into his back pocket and taking out your panties. He rolled them up and brought them to your mouth, stuffing them between your parted lips as your eyes widened. “Now no one’s gonna hear those screams of yours.”

He wasted no time as he dropped down to his original position on the floor, situating himself once more as he dragged your dress up and dipped his head between your thighs. You squirmed and whimpered as you felt his lips around your clit again, his stubble scratching at the flesh of your inner thigh, the sensation of it all at the same time making you moan wantonly, the sound muffled by the lace in your mouth. He continued his ministrations, alternating between licking over your folds and circling your bundle of nerves, burying himself deeper into you and taking you apart like a man starved. You breathed heavily as your squeezed eyes shut, feeling the familiar tug in your core, your thighs quivering as you tried to remain steady while he devoured you but it was too overwhelming.

You couldn’t even remember the last time your ex had made you feel this good, let alone a man you just met through an unfortunate incident weeks ago. You never did this, never let strange men take hold of you in such a way that you never wanted them to let go. This wasn’t you; and yet, you never wanted it to stop. You wanted to grab onto him, tug at his hair and scream for him to give you that euphoric bliss you haven’t felt in a long time, but the gag between your lips wouldn’t allow that. Then, through some luck you hadn’t wished for but were grateful to receive, it turned out you didn’t have to say a thing.

He moved back a little, kissing over your mound as he looked up at you, a smirk pulling at his lips. “Cum for me, darlin’, wanna feel you soak my face and remember what you taste like…”

He grabbed onto your thighs and dove back in, as your hips undulated against his face. A rumbling groan escaped him as he continued to lick and suck, faster and harder with each muffled noise of pleasure from you. His hands slipped around to the curve of your ass, pulling you further into his mouth, making you scream behind the gag as you felt the coil tighten with each stroke of his skilled tongue over you. With a few more swipes, you wailed and fell apart, feeling your wetness coat his lips. You dipped forward slightly, your hands dropping to his shoulders to support yourself as you came down from the highest peak you had ever experienced. He lapped at everything you had to give him, groaning into your center as held you close, savoring the taste of you.

Slowly, he shifted back and let your dress fall back into place as you leaned back against the wall, pulling your rolled up panties out from between your lips. You breathed deeply as you came down from your high, chest heaving as he stood up in front you, the back of his hand swiping over his mouth before he pulled you close. Your eyes locked on him with your hands still on his shoulders, his arms sliding around your waist as his gaze flicked down to your lips briefly, down further to your breasts, enticing him with the deep v-neckline. A soft moan fell from your lips as he moved down, kissing the top of your cleavage, gasping as his tongue licked a trail up your clavicle to your neck, nipping softly at your pulse point. Your head craned back as you offered him more of yourself, unable to recognize yourself through these actions, but you couldn’t help yourself when he was making you feel so good. How could a stranger make you feel so seen? So wanted, so sexy.

Just as he reached your lips he stopped, a mischievous glint in his eye as he looked down at you. “So? What’s the verdict?”

You smiled softly, leaning in close and brushing your lips against his. “You got yourself a deal, cowboy.”

“That easy, huh?” he smirked. “Maybe I should’ve struck this deal on the side of the road all those weeks ago.”

“Maybe it wouldn’t have been so easy then,” you countered, laughing lightly.

You shook your head as you remembered how enraged you had been at him, dragging him all the way to a court date just because he slightly dented your car. He had been so apologetic and exchanged details as was the norm, but you just couldn’t get past your anger, projecting it all onto him. He hadn’t deserved you blowing the situation out of proportion, and maybe you owed him an explanation but you didn’t think you could cope with it right then. You still had a lot to deal with.

So you just apologized for your overreaction.

“Joel, I’m sorry for how I handled this,” you said, sighing heavily. “It’s just… I was upset about something else that day and I took it on you, the next thing to piss me off and I shouldn’t have.”

He nodded, slowly, a small smile pulling at his lips. Lips that had just done sinful things to you. “I appreciate that, darlin’.”

“I’ll talk to the judge,” you added.

A look of understanding passed between you as neither of you moved out of the very intimate embrace. The longer you stood there, as the seconds dragged on, his eyes darkened once again just as yours did. You weren’t sure what was happening, but you couldn’t deny that what had occurred between you was the most electric, the most erotic, the most alive you had ever felt. You had to wonder if he was feeling it, too.

And he was. Joel wanted nothing more than to turn you around and throw you down on the conference table, ignore the fact that they were due back in the courtroom any minute and absolute ravish every inch of you. Even on the day of the incident, he couldn’t help but take a second to think about how beautiful you were as you screamed and cursed at him. Just as he was about to open his mouth and possibly ask you if you wanted to grab a beer with him, the hope died on his tongue as a loud knock came at the dark mahogany door. Your lawyer called out both of you by your last names, making Joel pull back from you, losing the warmth and the feeling of his bulge against your leg.

“Are you both ready?”

“Almost,” you answered, voice raised.

With one last look passing between you, a look that you delusionally thought to be longing, you fixed your dress and fluffed your hair to make it look decent again. Just as you stepped up to the chair you left your trench coat and purse on, you looked down at your hand, your pale pink lace panties still in them. You bit your lip as an idea came to you, shaking your head at your ridiculousness, but you took the chance. You turned around, seeing Joel waiting for you by the door. Picking up your belongings, you sauntered over to him, your eyes never leaving his. You stopped in front of him, and with a smile that was a mix of mischief and innocence, you reached forward and slipped the lace into his jeans pocket. He stared down at your hand, eyebrows furrowed by an aroused glint in his eye as he looked back at you.

“Something to remember me by,” you whispered against his lips.

You leaned in, pressing a soft kiss against his lips and tasting the remnants of your arousal. Before your confidence could slip away and make you question your actions, you pulled the door open and stepped out of the room, following behind your lawyer as you told him you were dropping the charges. You added an extra swing in your hips as you walked away, Joel’s gaze undoubtedly on you as you heard his heavy footsteps behind.

Later, when all was said and done, you both went your separate ways without another word.

Just the memories of what happened in that empty room would occupy your every thought from that day forward, and the hope that maybe your paths would cross again someday.

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[luvendiary]

aftermath / f. weasley

fred weasley x reader

summary: after the battle of hogwarts, st. mungos is left in chaos. you -amongst your other duties- are tasked with taking care and rehabilitating your former classmate, fred weasley. a/n: i got carried away with this one. i'm sorry. i cornered my med-friends, and made them tell me everyhting about how their internships work. this might be the last fic out for a short while. idk. also, for the sake of any misunderstandings, i want to say clearly that there is in fact no beauty in war. the beauty is found in the humanity regular civilians show with each other (and not the polititians who do not care about the people). warnings: not proofread. no use of y/n. 11k words.

There was no beauty in war.

Most people could agree on that.

You however, found that, whilst this was true, there was a twisted sort of beauty in how it pushed people to be better.

Better for the sake of others.

You found it ironic how in such desperate times, St. Mungos was flooded with speeding healers. Not to get out, but to get to the people that need them.

You felt it in the air, amidst all the despair and sadness. Something full of light, heavy and somehow the lightest thing emerging from all of this. A sort of energy that propelled you forward. 

To keep on giving even when you thought you were empty yourself. 

No one gives what they don’t have, you had to remind yourself as you rushed through the halls of the hospital to attend to the newly ingressed patient.

After the attack on Hogwarts, St. Mungos had become a center for chaos. Injured people were being rushed in like ants to a nest. Rooms were at double their capacity, and some of the halls had been closed off so that the healers could work on the patients lying on makeshift stretchbeds.

You were not a healer, not by any means. You had been studying to become a healer for barely two years, but desperate times called for desperate measures.

No one can give what they don’t have.

It was like a mantra, repeating in your head over and over again. You would keep giving, until you were physically unable to. You gave what you could. Your hands. Your focus. Your body, moving even when your mind lagged a half-step behind.

“Room 9,” your supervisor barked beside you, brisk and commanding in that no-nonsense tone she had adopted since the war began. “Critical injury. Blunt force trauma, internal bleeding, possible paralysis. Triage reports loss of consciousness, delayed pulse. You assist, I lead.”

You nodded once, not trusting your voice.

As you reached the double doors, you could already hear it — the noise.

Voices. Too many. A sharp argument. A stifled sob. Shuffling feet. Someone swearing softly under their breath.

You pushed into the room and stopped dead.

Red hair.

Everywhere.

A sea of it.

Some standing, others pressed tightly together in the corner — pacing, holding hands, murmuring prayers. One woman, pale with grief, clutched the arm of a man whose eyes were red-rimmed and hollow. A girl with hair the color of flame had blood on her shirt. A boy with wide shoulders and a trembling jaw stood guard at the door like he couldn’t move if he tried.

Your stomach dropped.

You recognized them.

The Weasleys.

Your supervisor didn’t falter. She pushed through the gathered crowd like a current, cutting straight to the center of the room where a stretcher floated — and on it, barely conscious and covered in dust and blood, lay Fred Weasley.

You froze. Just for a second.

The air around him buzzed with unstable spellwork — holding charms layered clumsily by field medics trying to keep him together until someone more experienced could take over. His shirt was soaked dark at the ribs. His legs hung limply. Blood trailed from his temple into his ear.

He looked nothing like the boy you remembered from Hogwarts.

And yet, it was him.

Fred.

You could still hear the echo of his laugh from the back of Charms class. Still remember how he used to lean back in his chair until Flitwick told him off. Still remember him and George — always George — like a matched set.

George.

Your eyes searched the crowd — and landed on him.

He was standing near the stretcher, face pale beneath the grime, a hand braced on the edge of the bed as if holding his twin there by force of will.

And as soon as he saw you, he stilled.

Recognition flickered behind his eyes.

You hadn’t spoken much at Hogwarts — but enough. Enough to know you were in the same year. Enough to know what Fred’s absence would do to him.

And George must have known you were here to work, because his eyes widened and he mouthed one word:

Please.

Your throat tightened, but you nodded. Then turned to your supervisor.

“I’ll clear the family.”

“Do it fast,” she replied, already lighting the tip of her wand and muttering diagnostic spells. “He’s bleeding into his abdomen. If we’re lucky, the lung’s only partially collapsed. We need space.”

You moved quickly. Efficiently. Gently laying a hand on Molly Weasley’s shoulder. She flinched, eyes wet and wild.

“I need you all to step into the hallway,” you said, your voice low and firm. “We’re going to take care of him. I promise.”

Arthur helped his wife up. Ginny followed, reluctantly. Bill put a hand on Ron’s shoulder to guide him out. You murmured reassurances, not lies, but not quite truths either.

George didn’t move.

“George,” you said firmly, stepping close. Your eyes said everything your mouth didn't have time to. 

We’ll do everything we can. 

His jaw clenched.

“You need to let us work.”

His gaze flickered to Fred. Then to you.

You didn’t say anything else — you just looked at him, steady and calm and holding your fear back because he couldn’t bear yours too.

Finally, he exhaled shakily and let go of the stretcher.

And as he walked out, his fingers brushed your wrist. A silent plea. 

Then the door shut behind him.

And you turned back toward the stretcher.

Fred lay deathly still, face slack, breath shallow.

Your supervisor was already working, wand moving in tight, efficient arcs.

“Hold this,” she ordered, conjuring a steadying brace over Fred’s side.

You moved forward — and didn’t hesitate.

Fred Weasley was bleeding.

And you were going to make sure he didn’t die.

The days that followed the battle blurred together like smoke.

St. Mungo’s never truly slept anymore. The halls remained full, even as the chaos started to ebb. Some patients were discharged. Others were moved to long-term wards. The air still buzzed with grief, and those who worked there, yourself included, were stretched thinner than a helping flashcard for a final exam.

Healers walked like ghosts between rooms. Some hadn’t changed robes in days. Others wept silently into their sleeves when no one was watching.

You didn’t cry. Not because you weren’t exhausted. Not because you weren’t grieving. But because you couldn’t. There was no time.

After the surgery — after the bleeding was stopped and the enchantments sealed his ribs — he had been placed in a shared ward, but eventually moved to a private recovery room. Too many people knew him. Too many stared.

It became your job to monitor his potions. His pain levels. His progress.

And his silence.

He hadn’t woken up in the first three days.

His vitals were stable, but his body was worn down — more than you’d realized at first glance. When you changed the bandages across his chest, you saw the bruising from the wall that had collapsed. You saw the way his legs twitched when touched, like the nerves weren’t quite reconnecting properly.

You wrote down everything. Monitored spells. Adjusted doses. You were careful. Steady.

You also started talking to him.

Soft, pointless things. How the tea was always too bitter in the staff lounge. How the lift on the east wing kept jolting between floors. How the portraits in the hallway outside his room complained about the groaning at night.

You weren’t sure why you did it.

Maybe because silence made the wounds feel bigger. As if they hadn’t closed yet.

You were also the one who received the Weasleys when they came to visit. You kept them informed. Made sure they had water. Chairs. Tissues.

Molly Weasley cried every time she saw him. Arthur held her hand like it was the only thing anchoring him. The others came in shifts. Bill brought books and read aloud. Ron sat with his head in his hands. George never stayed long.

He lingered outside the room more than inside it. Sometimes you’d pass him in the hallway. He’d look at you — hollow-eyed — and nod. Not with familiarity. Not even with trust. Just… desperation translated into hope. The silent plea that you wouldn’t let him die.

And you hadn’t.

Fred Weasley didn’t wake on the fourth day either.

You checked his legs for movement, gently rolling the damaged joints. You administered Skele-Gro and Stabilizing Draughts. You wiped the sweat from his brow and replaced the charm on his sheets to keep them cool.

You didn’t expect the change when it happened.

It was early morning. You were doing your rounds, charting his numbers on a clipboard. Your fingers were halfway through counting his pulse when you saw his eyes flutter open.

Just a sliver. A twitch.

Then more.

He blinked blearily up at the ceiling.

You froze — your breath caught somewhere between shock and relief — before leaning forward immediately.

“Fred?”

He blinked again. Swallowed. His voice rasped like it had clawed its way out of gravel.

“...Great,” he said with effort. “An angel.”

You let out a breath that was half a laugh, half a sob, your hand pressing lightly to your chest as your heart knocked against your ribs.

“You’re awake,” you said softly, as if saying it too loud might undo it.

“Only halfway,” he croaked, squinting up at you. “The ceiling’s still spinning.”

“It’s your brain. And the concussion.” You smiled in spite of yourself, voice tight as you checked the charm readings again. “Don’t try to flirt.

He closed his eyes, a pained crease forming between his brows. “Shame.”

That was enough to do it.

You turned your face away, biting down on the sudden stinging in your eyes. It wasn’t the flirting — not really — it was the life behind it. The voice you hadn’t heard in days. The tone that meant he was there, even if battered.

“Don’t go anywhere,” you said quickly, the words leaving you in a rush as you turned and stepped out of the room, closing the door behind you with trembling fingers.

You heard him mutter something along the lines of “funny”.

You didn’t make it far. Just to the alcove near the nurse’s station — barely out of sight. You pressed the heels of your hands to your eyes, breathing through it. You gave yourself sixty seconds. No more.

And then you wiped your face, straightened your robes, and floo-called the family.

When you stepped back into Fred’s room a few minutes later, he was still awake — barely — and trying very hard to sit up with a determined frown on his face.

“Oh, no you don’t,” you said, sweeping forward to place a firm hand on his shoulder. “If you strain the spellwork on your spine, I’m going to put your bed on a permanent incline.”

You noted the tension immediately — the way his fingers twitched against the blanket, the way his head turned slightly, looking for you. Like he was trying to catch his bearings through a fog. “You’re cruel.”

“I’m doing my work,” you replied.

Fred narrowed one eye at you, already slipping lower on the mattress. “You always this bossy?”

“Only with idiots who have the patience of a tea kettle.”

You could tell he was trying to suppress a smile as he turned his head away from you. 

“You got a name, or should I keep calling you ‘angel’?” he said after a while.

You raised an eyebrow despite yourself and moved to the side of the bed.

“You should try resting instead of flirting,” you said, voice neutral but not unkind. “The nerve damage in your lower back was extensive. You’re straining already.”

His smirk cracked for just a second. You saw the flicker of pain behind his eyes before he blinked it away.

“So angel it is?”

You didn’t answer, instead you checked his vitals in the silence and gently charmed his pillow higher so he could lie at a better angle.

That’s when the yelling started down the hall.

You didn’t need to look.

You met them in the hall before they could burst through the door. Loud. Red-haired. And utterly frantic.

“Is he—? Can we—?” Molly Weasley’s words tangled together.

You held up a hand gently, but firmly.

“He’s awake. Talking. A little weak, but aware.”

The hallway seemed to exhale.

You continued quickly, before the relief turned into assumptions. “But—he’s not ready to go home. The impact did extensive damage to the lower part of his spine. He… can’t feel or move his legs right now.”

Silence.

You gave them a moment, then said gently, “He’ll need extensive rehabilitation. Magical therapy, possibly nerve regeneration. It’s going to be a long process.”

Arthur nodded, face pale but steady. Molly clutched at his sleeve.

You looked toward George last.

He stared at you. Jaw set, unreadable.

“Is he in pain?”

“No. We’re managing that.” You paused, then added, “He’s in good spirits.”

George swallowed. Then gave the smallest, sharpest nod you’d seen all day.

You turned to the door and opened it, stepping aside so the family could filter in.

And for the first time in days, the room wasn’t quiet.

It was full — of laughter, of tears, of hands touching shoulders and kisses to foreheads and Fred’s voice muttering, “Bloody hell, stop fussing, I’m not dead.”

You stepped back into the hall and let them have their moment.

But even as you turned away, you felt eyes on you.

And when you glanced back, Fred was looking straight at you over the shoulder of his mother.

He smiled.

You didn’t smile back.

But the tears still came.

You waited until his bruising had faded.

Until the swelling in his ribs had gone down and he could sit up without gritting his teeth. You waited until the bandages were gone, until the spells holding his bones in place no longer hummed faintly beneath his skin. Until his vitals held steady even when he laughed too hard at something George said.

And only then did you bring up the next step.

“So,” you said one morning, casually flipping through his chart. “I had a chat with your attending healer. We’re ready to begin rehabilitation. If you’re up for it.”

Fred, who had just finished muttering something rude about the texture of his breakfast porridge, perked up immediately.

“Rehab?” His eyes lit. “As in — out of this bed rehab?”

You nodded, lips twitching. “That’s part of it, yes.”

He beamed like you’d just told him the Canons were naming a stadium after him.

“Well, then what are we waiting for?”

You took a small step back as he hastily shoved aside his blanket like he was about to sprint a marathon. Of course, his legs remained stubbornly still beneath him.

He caught the look on your face and sobered slightly. “Right. Okay. Bit overconfident. But still—anything’s better than being trapped in here.”

You hesitated.

“It won’t be easy,” you said carefully, gently. “The spell damage to your spine was severe. The initial stages may not feel like progress.”

Fred gave you that same lopsided grin he’d been perfecting since he was fifteen. “I’m stubborn by genetic design.”

You arched a brow. “That’s not a medical trait.”

He winked. “It’s about to be.”

The first few days were surprisingly smooth.

He cracked jokes through the posture tests. Mocked the magical resistance bands. Named the spell-laced chair that helped him sit upright (Bertha).

You helped guide his hands when his grip shook. Stabilized his torso when he swayed too far to the left. Every time the faintest spark of sensation returned to his feet, you both looked at each other like you'd just seen magic for the first time.

But then came the harder days.

The ones where nothing changed. Where the spells didn’t tingle. Where the potions tasted metallic and useless. The days where Bertha wouldn’t budge no matter how hard he strained.

By the second week, the shine had dulled.

“Is it supposed to feel like this?” he snapped once, his voice uncharacteristically sharp as he flung the charm-assisted brace to the side. “Like I’m trying to move a mountain with my bloody eyelids?”

You didn’t flinch. But you didn’t reach for the brace, either.

You just said calmly, “Yes. That means you're doing it right.”

He exhaled hard, head falling back against the cushion. “Then why does it feel like I’m going nowhere?”

He didn’t look at you when he asked. That was new. He always looked at you.

You watched him closely. The sweat on his brow. The tension in his jaw. The way his hands — the parts of him that still worked — kept curling into frustrated fists.

“You’re not going nowhere,” you said softly. “You’re moving. It’s just slower than you want.”

“That’s rich,” he muttered. “You try sitting still for sixteen hours a day while your body forgets how to function.”

Your mouth opened — then closed again. You didn’t say anything. Not about your own long shifts. Not about the way your legs shook sometimes after standing too long in surgery. Not about the ache in your own spine from sleepless nights bent over charts.

Because that wasn’t what this was about.

This was about him.

So instead, you bent down, picked up the brace, and set it gently back on the table.

“I’ll come back in an hour,” you said, voice neutral. “We can try again. Or not. Your call.”

You turned to leave, hand on the doorknob.

Before you stepped out, his voice caught you — a little hoarse, a little small.

“I’m trying,” he said.

You looked back.

“I know,” you replied.

The next few days were measured in breaths he didn’t want to take.

Fred was trying — he was — but trying meant facing failure every morning and calling it progress. It meant forcing himself to smile through clenched teeth. It meant hearing his own voice crack when another spell failed to stimulate the nerves in his legs. It meant pretending it didn’t matter when it did. So much.

You never pushed. Not once.

You offered, instructed, encouraged — and when he got short with you, snapped at his own body like it had betrayed him, you simply nodded.

You were kind.

That made it worse.

He would’ve rather you yelled. Got mad. Shoved it back in his face that he was being impossible.

But you never did.

One afternoon, he threw the cane you’d helped him balance with across the room. It hit the far wall with a clatter and dented the plaster. He didn’t say anything after. Just stared at the space where it had landed, jaw locked, chest heaving.

You crossed the room silently, picked up the cane, and leaned it against the table.

Then you walked out.

Not angrily. Not in defeat. But like you knew — finally — he needed a moment where his failure wasn’t seen.

He hated it.

He hated how empty the room felt when you were gone. How quiet everything became. Not the good kind of quiet. Not peace.

Absence.

When you came back twenty minutes later, he didn’t look at you right away. Just muttered, “Sorry.”

You paused at the door.

“I know you are.”

That was all.

You didn’t ask anything of him. Not even an explanation.

He didn’t mean to say it — he really didn’t — but it broke loose before he could swallow it back.

“I don’t want you to leave.”

Your eyes lifted, surprised, but you didn’t come closer.

He leaned back against the padded chair, exhausted and sweaty from a session that had ended in nothing but anger.

“I know I’m being… hard to work with,” he muttered, lips twisting bitterly. “And you shouldn’t have to put up with it. But you being here—” He broke off, swallowed. “It’s the best part of my day. The only part that makes me forget I can’t bloody walk.”

Silence.

He had never been a fan of silence, but he hated it now.

You walked over — not with pity, never with pity — and knelt in front of him. Carefully, deliberately. Not looking away even when he did.

“I’m not leaving.”

He looked at you then.

“I was never going to,” you said. “But I’ll give you space if you need it. You’re allowed to be angry. You’re allowed to feel this.”

Something flickered in his eyes. Guilt. Relief. Something close to breaking.

You reached for his hand — not in sympathy, but as an anchor.

“I’ll stay,” you said. “If you keep trying.”

His fingers curled around yours, slow and tight.

“I will.”

You smiled.

“Deal.”

It changed after that.

Not all at once. Not with any dramatic shift.

You started staying longer.

Not just for rehabilitation sessions or medical charts. Not just for leg stimulations or potion rounds. You came by in the late afternoons too — when the ward had quieted and the other healers were in the break room, feet up and heads back. When the sun filtered through the windows, making Fred’s bed feel less like a sickbed and more like a quiet place to sit. To talk.

Sometimes you brought your lunch and sat cross-legged at the end of his bed. He made a game of guessing what you’d packed.

“Leftovers,” he’d say without even glancing. “Smells like disappointment and cold peas.”

You’d laugh, show him the curry your father had made the night before.

“Wrong. Smells like love and spices. Try again tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow I’m bribing someone in the kitchens to sneak me biscuits. I can’t keep living like this, angel.”

Once, you caught him staring at your sandwich until you tore it in half and offered him a piece.

“I don’t need charity,” he said, but took it anyway. “But I will need your father’s recipe.”

“Don’t push it, Weasley.”

Some days you’d come in later, after shifts, just to sit for a few minutes while the potions settled in his system. He noticed the lines under your eyes then. The way you stood like your spine was one wrong move away from collapsing. The way your fingers ached as you rubbed your temples.

“You’re working too hard.”

“Says the man who got crushed by a castle.”

He didn’t laugh — not right away. But his eyes crinkled. The corner of his mouth pulled.

Touché.

You told him once that your parents were worried. That your mum had written three letters in one week, asking if you were eating, sleeping, “seeing anyone — not romantically, just to talk to.” You rolled your eyes and said you were fine.

Fred looked at you for a long moment.

“You can sit with me,” he said eventually. “Whenever you need to not talk.”

You blinked.

“I mean, I’ll probably still talk,” he added, teasing again. “But you can ignore me if it helps.”

You didn’t ignore him. Not once.

He started keeping track of things. Not medically — emotionally. Like how many cups of tea you’d had that day (he scolded you if it was more than four), or what color robes you wore most often (he claimed blue made you look intimidating, “but in a hot, terrifying way”).

You began bringing small things to help pass the time.

A deck of cards. A soft, squishy ball you could toss back and forth. He caught it with both hands at first, awkward and slow, but determined.

He missed often.

You didn’t laugh. Just tossed it again.

After a few days, he got faster. Grinned when he caught it one-handed and tossed it right back with a bit of flair.

“Finally,” he muttered. “Some dignity.”

“Don’t get cocky.”

He started calling it your game. Insisted no one else was allowed to play it with him.

“It’s catch Fred. I’m pretty sure everyone has played it at one time or another.”

“When I get out, I’ll patent it and it’ll be our game.”

You showed him how to roll his shoulders without straining the rest of his torso. Sometimes, while you were talking, you’d adjust the pillow behind his back or check his leg splints mid-conversation — like it was second nature now. He’d murmur thanks, barely even noticing.

Sometimes he did notice. Like when your hands lingered a second longer than usual, or your eyes lingered on the way his freckles crept over his collarbone.

He’d glance at you.

You’d pretend not to see.

Once, during one of your evening check-ins, you found him asleep. The ball you’d brought rested at his feet. Your book — the one you’d been reading aloud on breaks — lay open beside him. His head lolled slightly toward the light, mouth parted just slightly.

You didn’t wake him.

Instead, you sat beside him in the darkened room and read aloud anyway. Just a page or two. Quiet and slow.

When you marked the spot and stood to leave, his voice broke the stillness.

“Keep reading.”

You froze.

Turned.

He didn’t open his eyes, but there was a faint smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“I sleep better when I hear your voice.”

You sat back down.

You kept reading.

And slowly, day by day, the ward stopped feeling like a ward.

It became a halfway place. A sort of purgatory between what he’d lost and what he was still learning to become.

You were part of that, now. The part that tethered him when nothing else did.

“I think if I ever walk out of here,” he said one rainy evening, as you were playing chess, “you’ll have to come with me. I would have left a part of me here if not.”

You didn’t answer right away.

He turned his head then, eyes meeting yours.

You stared at him for a moment, his gaze unwavering. 

“Check, Weasley,” you said finally.

He grinned, staring at you through squinted eyes. 

George came by more often, now.

Not regularly. Not in any predictable rhythm. But he would appear — sometimes at dusk, sometimes midmorning, sometimes at the tail end of visiting hours — like he was still trying to get used to the idea that his brother was here. Alive. Whole in ways that defied all logic, and broken in others that logic couldn’t mend.

You always tried to give them space when he came.

You’d tidy up, pretend to be busy reorganizing potions or updating charts that didn’t need updating. Sometimes you’d quietly excuse yourself — “I’ll just step out,” — but Fred would shake his head lightly.

“You don’t have to,” he’d say.

But for George, you did.

At least at first.

The first few visits were painfully quiet. George would sit by the window, arms crossed tight across his chest, as if keeping something inside from shattering. Fred would make a comment here or there — light jokes, like pulling thread through scar tissue — and George would answer in monosyllables.

Once, when Fred made a joke about his potions tasting like troll sweat, George huffed a laugh.

It startled both of them.

Later that week, you came in to find George already sitting at the edge of the bed, one foot bouncing, staring at the game ball in his hands.

You opened your mouth to quietly leave, but Fred’s voice cut through.

“Angel,” he said simply. “Stay. Don’t ruin my progress.”

George looked up at you then. There was something almost unreadable in his expression. Like he was trying to figure out what you were to Fred, and what Fred had become since he last saw him whole.

You offered a small nod and sat in the chair across the room. Didn’t say anything. Just watched.

They talked.

It was light, and strained at times, but better. George complained about the shop. About how everything felt wrong now — too quiet, too easy, too hard, all at once.

Fred asked if he’d replaced him yet.

George rolled his eyes. “You’re irreplaceable,” he muttered. “Unfortunately.”

Fred grinned.

You looked away after that. Not because it hurt — but because it felt like something sacred.

But George noticed. He turned toward you after a pause, his voice low.

“He talks about you a lot,” he said, almost like it was nothing. “Says your tea’s awful. But you make up for it with good aim.”

Fred scoffed. “Don’t let her ego inflate. She already thinks she’s smarter than me.”

“I am smarter than you.”

George chuckled — a sound more whole than the last.

He came back more after that.

He started bringing things from the outside — magazines, Honeydukes bags, ideas for their next invention written on scraps of parchment…

You still gave them space. But less now.

Sometimes, George would stay while you worked on Fred’s stretches. You’d press on tight muscles while Fred tried not to flinch, as George recounted his day at the joke shop whilst bouncing the foam ball against the wall.

You always stayed a bit later after his visits. Not because Fred had asked you too. He wouldn’t, not knowing how thinly you were spread. But you knew he needed it. He never said anything, but the way he looked after you was confirmation enough. Eyes tired but steady.

“Thanks for staying.”

You shrugged, not looking up from the chart. “He’s your brother.”

“He’s half of me,” Fred said, and the weight of those words settled in the room.

You looked up then. You nodded, once. 

George started talking to you more.

It was subtle at first — a nod that lasted a little longer, a quip aimed your way instead of just Fred. He didn’t speak to many people at the hospital, and you knew why. The weight of everything sat on his shoulders in a way that no one else could truly understand.

But he spoke to you.

“You always come back,” he said once, catching you outside the room as you wiped your hands on your robes after a shift.

You glanced up, startled. “Would you prefer I didn’t?”

George tilted his head, thoughtful. “No. I just… don’t know how you do it.”

You offered a tired smile. “I ask myself that every day.”

His eyes flicked over your face — searching again, the way he always did — before nodding once, as if satisfied.

“Fred’s different with you.”

Your stomach fluttered, unsure of how to respond.

“I mean that in a good way,” George added, shifting on his feet. “He’s... lighter. You’re good for him.”

“I don’t know if I’m good for anyone lately.”

“Tell that to the guy in there who throws a fit when you’re ten minutes late with his lunch.”

You snorted. “He’s dramatic.”

“He’s a Weasley.”

Fair enough.

After that, George started sitting closer when he visited. Sometimes he’d bring two coffees instead of one — and hand you one without comment. Other times, he’d walk with you partway through the ward when he was leaving.

You never spoke about Fred directly. But it was understood between you.

Then one day, you walked into Fred’s room late.

Only by fifteen minutes. But late nonetheless.

You looked like a wreck.

Hair half-pulled back, smudges beneath your eyes, and your usually straight posture had curled in on itself like a wilted stem. You didn’t even try to smile when you walked in — you just dropped the chart on the side table, rubbed your face with both hands, and sank into the chair by the window.

Fred watched you from the bed, eyes narrowed slightly.

“Rough day?” he asked gently.

You made a sound — not quite a laugh, not quite a groan.

“My mentor snapped at me in front of the full staff. One of my patients yelled because the bandages were too tight. Another cried because they didn’t want to do another round of physio. And my parents floo-called to tell me they think I should take a break. For my ‘sanity.’” You mimed air quotes. “And then I spilled pepper-up potion on my sleeve, so now I’m itchy and jittery.”

Fred raised a brow. “That’s it?”

You let out a shaky breath, a helpless smile threatening your mouth. “That’s all before lunch.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then Fred reached to the side of his bed, fiddled with something out of sight — and produced the little foam ball you two used for catching practice.

He lobbed it gently toward you. You caught it on instinct.

“Ten points to the decaying healer.”

You looked up at him — half annoyed, half charmed. “You’re a menace.”

He shrugged. “Your words. Personally, I think I’m a delight.”

You tossed the ball back at him. “You’re lucky I’m too tired to hit you harder.”

“I’m lucky you come here at all,” he said, quieter this time.

And something in your chest pulled tight at that.

Fred watched you for another second, then patted the bed beside him.

“Come on,” he said, “five throws each. Winner gets bragging rights. Loser has to admit I’m objectively better looking than Lockhart.”

You snorted. “I’d rather be hexed.”

But you joined him anyway — perching at the foot of the bed, legs dangling, tossing the ball lightly back and forth. The rhythm settled something in you. Predictable. Easy. Safe.

After a while, your shoulders started to loosen.

You didn’t win the game — mostly because he cheated with a well-timed distraction — but you didn’t care. Not really.

And later, as you leaned back in the chair with your eyes half-closed, Fred watched you.

You didn’t see the way his expression softened. How his smile dropped into something quiet and sincere. How his thumb absently traced the edge of the ball in his lap, like he was holding something fragile. 

He didn’t say it yet.

But he was starting to fall for you.

Perhaps he had been falling for a while now.

Hard.

Rehab had been brutal.

Fred had tried to put on a brave face. Had thrown out his usual snark when the mediwitch asked him to try the support bars again. But he’d barely lasted a minute before the tremble in his arms turned into a full collapse, knees buckling beneath him as his legs gave way.

You’d caught him before he hit the floor — arms tight around his waist, easing him back into the chair. But it had taken everything in you not to show what it felt like to watch him fall.

He didn’t say anything as you helped guide the chair back into the room.

Didn’t look at you when you adjusted the angle of his brace.

Didn’t thank you when you handed him water.

So, you gave him space.

You finished the notes in silence. Asked if he needed anything. When he shook his head, you stepped out — quietly, gently — and told yourself it was what he wanted.

You didn’t expect him to knock on the ward’s glass an hour later.

It was late. Past curfew. Most patients were asleep, and the halls had gone still.

You looked up from the chart you were reading and blinked in surprise.

Fred was sitting in the wheelchair at the door to the staff wing. Alone. Slouched slightly, with a blanket thrown haphazardly across his lap. He looked tired.

“I told the nurse I had to pee,” he said when you opened the door. “Then I bribed her with a Honeyduke’s chocolate bar from my drawer.”

You stared at him. “Fred—”

“I know. But I needed air.” His eyes flicked up to yours. “I needed you.”

The breath caught in your throat.

You stepped out into the hall.

The light was dim. The usually fluorescent lights, now a bit softer on the eyes. 

You sat on the floor across the halfway, knees pressed up to your chest. He wheeled his way next to you.

He rested his forearms on the armrests, silent for a long beat.

“I’m not angry at you,” he said quietly.

You blinked. “I didn’t think you were.”

“I wanted to be. When you stepped out earlier.” His jaw flexed. “It’s easier to be angry at someone than it is to admit I’m… failing.”

You shook your head. “Fred—”

“I know. I know it takes time. I know I’m lucky to be alive. I know it could be worse. But sometimes I sit in that bed and I feel like… like my life has been cut in half and I’m meant to smile through it.”

He swallowed hard. His hands were clenched tight in his lap.

“And then you walk in and ask me what kind of soup I want, or throw a bloody ball at my head, and for a few minutes, I forget how broken I feel.”

You didn’t say anything. Just watched him.

“I don’t want you to go when it gets hard,” he continued. “I know I’ve been an arse. And I’ll probably keep being one. But if you stay... I’ll try. Even when I want to quit.”

You moved then — slowly — standing from your chair and walking the short distance to him. You crouched beside the wheelchair, resting your hand lightly on his.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you said softly.

His hand turned beneath yours, fingers curling around your wrist.

You stayed like that for a moment — quiet and steady — before you stood up and opened the door to the healer’s ward once again.

“Tea?” you offered with a small smile.

Fred snorted. “You’re an angel.”

You didn’t feel like it, not with the heavy bags beneath your eyes. “Your words, not mine.”

He drank. You did too.

And when you finally escorted him back to his room, he didn’t ask for help to the bed. He shifted himself, slowly but determined, and gave you a look that made your chest feel too full.

“Sleep well,” you said at the door.

“Only if you promise to come back tomorrow.”

“When have I not?”

You hadn’t slept much.

The night before replayed in your mind on a loop — the words he said, the way his voice had cracked just slightly, like he’d been holding that weight in his chest for too long. The way he’d looked at you like you were something steady. Something safe.

It haunted you, in the best and worst ways.

You’d turned it over again and again in your head — what he needed, what he wanted, what might help even if it didn’t feel like help at first.

By the time morning came, you’d made up your mind.

You found your senior healer in the apothecary wing, elbow-deep in the delicate task of rebalancing nerve-healing draughts. You waited until she was done pouring and cleared your throat softly.

“I think Fred Weasley might be ready to go home,” you said, voice quiet but certain.

She looked at you over her spectacles. “You think so?”

“He’s physically ready. The wounds are closed, and he’s managing his pain. The paralysis won’t change overnight, but he’s stable. Emotionally…” You hesitated. “He needs to be around his people. Somewhere familiar. I think it’s the next step in his recovery.”

She was silent for a moment, then gave a slow nod. “Bring it up. If the family agrees and we can organize home support, I’ll sign off.”

And just like that, the idea was real.

You had no idea how Fred would take it.

He’d said he wanted you to stay. That he didn’t want to face the hard parts without you. And yet… you couldn’t ignore the spark that lit in his eyes whenever George showed up. Or the fact that no matter how steady you were, there were things family could give that you couldn’t.

So, you walked back through the familiar halls, ready to talk to him.

You didn’t expect the smell of burning toast.

The closer you got to the room, the clearer the sound became — clattering, muffled curses, and something that suspiciously resembled a pan hitting the floor.

You paused in the doorway.

Fred was sitting in his chair, grinning like a madman, a lopsided apron tied around his waist. George was by the counter in the little kitchenette of the room, waving a dishrag like a flag and coughing dramatically.

“I said keep an eye on the toast, not burn it!” Fred barked, laughing.

“I was multitasking!” George wheezed.

There was a bowl of eggs that had definitely once been scrambled, but were now a strange rubbery texture which you were sure was not edible to anything with a pulse. A pan full of what may have once been tomatoes sizzled on the stovetop, and there were suspicious splashes of something orange on the wall.

You couldn’t help it — you burst out laughing.

Fred looked over and caught you in the doorway. His eyes brightened immediately.

“Just in time for breakfast!”

“Did you set something on fire?” you asked, stepping in and surveying the kitchen.

“Technically no,” Fred said. “Everything was contained. There was a brief emotional fire when George forgot the salt—”

“Emotional fire?” George scoffed. “You threw a spoon at me!”

You were still laughing as you shook your head, brushing a stray curl back from your face.

“I was actually coming to talk to you about something,” you said, glancing toward Fred as you moved to open the window and let some of the smoke out.

Fred turned toward you, wiping his hands on the apron. “This sounds serious.”

“It’s not bad.” You leaned against the windowsill. “I think you might be ready to go home.”

George froze, halfway through peeling a very sad-looking banana.

Fred’s smile faded. Not immediately, but gradually, like sunlight slipping behind a cloud. “Home?”

You nodded, keeping your voice steady. “You’re strong enough. We’d set up home care, rehab would continue with a specialist visiting daily. Your family’s willing. It’d… be a change of pace. Maybe help.”

Fred was quiet.

You could see the gears turning behind his eyes.

“I thought you said you weren’t going anywhere,” he said, not unkindly.

Your throat tightened, but you managed a small smile. “I’m not. You are. And I think it'll help you. You need a familiar space. A burnt breakfast every morning if that’s what it takes.”

He looked down at his hands.

You didn’t press.

Instead, you gave them a soft nod. “I’ll let you two talk. Take your time. I’ll check back in later.”

You stepped back, gently shutting the door behind you.

You didn’t go far — just outside the room, where you leaned against the wall and tried not to feel like the rug had been tugged from beneath you. It had been your idea. You knew it was right. And yet… it ached.

Inside, you could hear their voices, lower now, more serious.

You couldn’t make out the words, but you could imagine.

And still, even through the ache, a small part of you smiled.

Because for all the setbacks and scars and late-nights… Fred was alive.

And he was loved.

And you had helped him get here.

That, you reminded yourself, was more than enough

The last night in the ward was a quiet one.

Too quiet.

You had made your rounds as usual, marking notes on your clipboard, double-checking potion times, restocking bandages. Most of the long-term patients were asleep or sedated. Those who weren’t were staring blankly at the ceiling, or out the windows, waiting for morning.

Waiting for something to change.

Fred was scheduled to go home just after breakfast. You were told the Weasleys would be arriving early. Arthur had insisted on it, claiming Molly wouldn’t sleep a wink until they had him under their roof. George had promised pancakes. Ginny had apparently insisted on bringing tea from her personal stash.

You’d smiled when you heard all of that.

You weren’t smiling now.

You stood outside Fred’s room with your hand on the door for a good thirty seconds before you pushed it open.

He was already awake.

Sitting in bed, propped up on one elbow, staring down at his lap. His hair was slightly damp from a recent wash. The tray of food you’d left earlier sat untouched on the small rolling table near his side.

The air felt strange. Still, but tense. Like a storm brewing in reverse.

You tried to keep your voice light. “That porridge must be particularly bad today for it to be untouched.”

He didn’t answer.

You stepped in, setting your clipboard down gently. “Mind if I do your check-up now?”

He just shrugged. A single shoulder, lifted without effort or interest.

You moved quietly. Checked his vitals. His pulse. Asked if he’d been feeling lightheaded, any sharp pain, nausea. He gave one-word answers or nodded. Didn’t meet your eyes once.

You tried again, a little smile tugging at your lips. “Tomorrow, first thing, you get to breathe real air. Try not to miss the smell of antiseptic too much.”

Still nothing.

You exhaled softly. “Alright. I’ll just—”

“I’m angry.”

The words came suddenly — not snapped, but solid. Firm.

Your hands stilled over the cuff you’d just fastened around his arm. You looked up, heart slipping sideways.

“I can tell,” you said quietly.

Fred’s jaw tightened. “You didn’t even ask me.”

“I talked to my senior. I had to—”

“I didn’t say ask her. I said me.”

The silence stretched.

You straightened slowly, lowering your hand and giving him your full attention. “My work is to take care of you. To do what’s in your best interest. You’ve been needing this — your family.”

He finally looked at you. There was no humor in his eyes now. Just something sharp and tired and burning underneath.

“I meant what I said,” he told you. “About not walking out of here whole.”

You tried to diffuse it with a small smile. “Technically, you're not walking anywhere. Not yet, anyway.”

But the moment the joke left your mouth, you wished you hadn’t said it.

Fred didn’t laugh. He didn’t even smirk.

Instead, he turned his face away. “You always do that.”

You blinked. “Do what?”

“Make it easier for you. Easier for me. Like if we don’t say it out loud, it won’t hurt as much.”

There was a long, full pause.

You crossed your arms, pressing your lips together for a moment. Then said quietly, “I am sorry you’re angry. But I’m not sorry for doing what was best for you. That’s my job, Fred.”

He let out a humorless breath. “I don’t need a specialist. I don’t need more strangers in white coats. I need you.”

You looked down at your hands. “I can’t be with you all the time.”

“I’m not asking for all the time,” he said, frustrated now. “I just don’t want it to be work for you. Because it sure as hell was not just rehabilitation for me. ”

You felt your chest tighten.

“I don’t want to go back to waking up without anyone to talk to,” he went on, voice quieter now. “Or being told how to feel about everything. You… you just sat with me. Even when I was a mess. Especially when I was a mess.”

“I only did what anyone would’ve done—”

“No, you didn’t.”

The words cracked like a whip.

You looked up. His eyes were glassy, but there were no tears. Just weight.

“No one stayed the way you did,” he said. “George tries, and I love him for it, but he’s grieving too. My mum walks in and sees me as a boy again. The rest of the world looks at me and sees someone who should be dead.”

His hand clenched on the blanket. “But you… you looked at me like I was still me. Even when I wasn’t sure I was.”

You didn’t know what to say. So you didn’t. You stepped closer, sat gently on the edge of the bed.

“I’m scared,” he said after a moment, the anger softening into something quieter. “And I don’t want to be scared alone.”

You reached out and, for the first time that night, let your hand rest on his.

“I’ll visit,” you said. “I’ll owl before I come. I’ll check in. I’ll bring that ridiculous throwing ball if you want me to.”

Fred sniffed. “I hate that ball.”

You gave a small smile. “I thought it was supposed to be our game.”

He chuckled. “Alright,” he said. “But I’m holding you to it. You’ll come by.”

“Regularly.”

“And you won’t make it weird.”

“When have I ever?” you replied, though you avoided his eyes as you smiled.

Fred laughed again, for real this time.

You sat there in the soft glow of the moonlight slipping in through the high window, your fingers still resting against his knuckles.

You’d get up in a moment. You’d finish your rounds. He’d leave in the morning.

But just for a moment longer, you both let yourselves sit with the anger. With the ache. With whatever was happening between you two. With this thing that didn’t demand answers, just presence.

It took you two weeks to go.

Not for lack of invitation. Fred had owled the day after he left St. Mungo’s — his handwriting barely legible, the ink smudged in spots like he’d pressed too hard. He said the house was loud, chaotic, smelled like cinnamon and broom polish. Said George had already stolen his pillow and Ginny threatened to hex his tea if he kept bossing people around.

He signed it simply: "Still waiting for that visit. Don’t make me throw the ball at myself."

You had smiled, reread it three times, then folded it neatly and tucked it into your coat pocket like it was something fragile.

But still, it took you a week.

Because seeing someone in a sterile room under white sheets was different from seeing them home.

Because something about crossing that threshold — stepping into his world instead of him being tucked away in yours — felt… enormous.

But you went.

The walk up to the Burrow was just as strange and crooked as you remembered from childhood stories. Smoke curling from the chimney. Gnomes scampering under hedges. Someone laughing somewhere near the garden.

The front door was already open when you reached it.

You raised your hand to knock anyway.

“I was beginning to think I wouldn’t see you again.”

Fred’s voice floated from the sitting room.

You turned, startled, and there he was — wheeling into view from the corner, dressed in a soft jumper, his hair slightly mussed like he’d been trying to fix it and given up halfway. He looked better. Healthier. Not completely healed. His movements were still stiff, one hand resting over his leg like it didn’t quite belong to him, but the color in his face was warmer. There was light in his eyes again.

“Still dramatic, I see,” you said.

He smirked. “Only on Mondays.”

“It’s Thursday.”

“Then you’re lucky.”

You stepped inside slowly, blinking at how the house seemed to breathe. It wasn’t just lived in — it was loved in. Blankets strewn on couches. Socks tucked half under the coffee table. A plant hanging sideways from a bent curtain rod.

You smiled. “It looks like it’s about to collapse.”

“It almost has. Several times,” Fred said cheerfully. “Mum says if the magic ever gives out, we’re going down with it.”

He motioned to a chair. You sat, smoothing your coat. He watched you carefully, without saying anything for a minute too long.

Then, “You look tired, angel.”

“Work didn’t stop when you left.”

“I’d like to think I was more than work.”

You smiled, then looked away, your fingers curling together in your lap. “I wasn’t sure if I should come. I didn’t want to… overstep.”

Fred tilted his head. “Why would you think that?”

“I’ve seen people leave St. Mungo’s and never want to look back. Sometimes they don’t want reminders. Or… witnesses.”

Fred’s expression softened.

“You’re not a witness,” he said. “You’re a person I want around.”

Your throat tightened slightly.

Before you could answer, the sound of heavy footsteps echoed on the stairs.

George appeared, hair damp from a shower, sleeves rolled up to the elbows. He paused when he saw you, one brow raising like he wasn’t expecting you so soon.

You waved. “Hi, George.”

He gave a nod that wasn’t unfriendly, just slightly cautious. “Hey.”

Then he looked at Fred. “Mum’s finishing lunch. You want to come into the kitchen?”

Fred glanced at you, then back to his brother. “We’ll be there in a minute.”

George didn’t say anything for a second, but then he nodded again and turned to go.

“See? I’m a reminder.”

“He’s just figuring you out,” Fred said. “You scare people. In a good way.”

You huffed. “I’d say the ward lights wash me out. Make me look sick rather than scary.”

“Intimidating,” he deadpanned. “Truly terrifying.”

There was a beat of silence.

Then, softer: “I missed you.”

You looked up, your throat suddenly thick again. “It’s only been two weeks.”

“I know.” Fred gave a small shrug, his fingers picking absently at a loose thread on the arm of his chair. “Still felt too long.”

The moment hovered before you offered a soft smile, one he returned, a little lopsided, a little shy. For all his wit, for all his easy humor, Fred could still be earnest in a way that tugged at something deep beneath your ribs.

You leaned back in your seat. “The owl helped.”

“Yeah?”

You nodded. “I kept it. It’s still in my coat pocket.”

Fred leaned back on his chair. “I knew I would grow on you eventually.”

“Hard not to, Weasley.”

There was a pause, but this one was comfortable — filled with the low hum of magic in the walls, distant clinking from the kitchen, and the occasional thump of someone moving overhead. You watched as Fred’s gaze drifted to the window beside him. Sunlight spilled in, catching the faint auburn in his hair and warming the pale skin of his cheek. He looked peaceful, or as close to it as you’d ever seen him.

You opened your mouth to speak — maybe to ask how he’d really been sleeping, maybe to admit how strange it was to be here and feel like you’d never left — when George’s voice rang out again.

“Oi, you staying for lunch?”

You startled slightly, blinking as you registered the words.

Fred looked smug.

“I was getting to it,” he called back.

There was a muffled snort, followed by the unmistakable clatter of a spoon hitting the floor. Someone — possibly Ron — swore loudly in the background. You could just barely hear Molly’s exasperated “Language!” echoing from the kitchen.

Fred turned back to you. “So? Are you staying?”

It was a loaded question, as if there was more on the table than just food. “I wouldn’t want to intrude.”

Fred’s eyes didn’t waver.

“You know you’re not.”

You glanced toward the kitchen, where you could still hear soft chatter and the scrape of chairs.

“I didn’t bring anything,” you said, a little lamely. “Not even dessert.”

The Burrow became a second home before you ever realized it.

At first, you had thought your visits would taper off — that Fred would settle into his recovery and you’d fall back into your usual rotations, long days at St. Mungo’s, long nights collapsing into bed. But somehow, your feet always found their way to the crooked path leading to the Weasleys’ door.

The first time you arrived uninvited — with an old book under your arm and half a plan to read it in Fred’s room while he ignored the pages and made sarcastic commentary — no one batted an eye. Molly had handed you a mug of tea, murmured, “You’re in time for supper,” and Arthur had already started setting another place at the table.

From then on, it just… kept happening.

You were there for Ginny’s birthday in August. She roped you into a backyard Quidditch match you had absolutely no business participating in, and you nearly tripped over a garden gnome during takeoff. Fred hadn’t stopped laughing about it for a week. You threw cake at him in retaliation. George joined in for the second round.

You were there when Bill brought his daughter to visit and introduced her to the whole family for the first time. Fleur had insisted on brushing her hair while you held her, and Fred had whispered, “You’d be terrifying with one of your own.”

You’d arched a brow. “That sounds dangerously close to a compliment.”

He’d shrugged, trying not to smile. “Blame the baby. They bring out my softer side.”

And then there was the summer afternoon that stuck in your mind long after it ended.

It was late July, the sky a pale, hazy blue, and the garden buzzing with lazy bees and bursts of laughter. Someone — likely Percy — had enchanted the radio to play soft jazz, and you were lying on a blanket in the grass with your shoes off and your head tipped back to soak in the sun. Fred sat a few feet away, sketching patterns in the dirt with his wand and occasionally flicking it toward unsuspecting gnomes. His legs were stretched out in front of him, slightly stiff but stronger — the kind of stronger that came from months of stubbornness and sheer grit.

“Reckon I could walk to the shed,” he mused aloud.

You turned your head toward him. “That shed is a death trap. Pick a different goal.”

He looked over at you. “Fine. Walk to you, then.”

You raised a brow, amusement curling in your chest. “That the new benchmark?”

He tilted his head thoughtfully, then grinned. “It’s always been the benchmark.”

You rolled your eyes but didn’t deny it.

That was the summer you started leaving a toothbrush at the Burrow.

You stopped knocking when you came in. Molly started calling your name when she needed help peeling potatoes. Ginny nicked your nail polish. Arthur grinned every time you brought up something Muggle-related just to watch his eyes light up with curiosity.

And Fred… Fred started asking if you’d be there tomorrow before you’d even said goodbye for the night.

By autumn, your jumper was hanging on a hook by the kitchen door. Halloween arrived with carved pumpkins bobbing in the orchard and enchanted skeletons that chased Ron around the kitchen. You helped Molly string bewitched cobwebs over the windows while Fred supervised from just outside the kitchen, providing you with the most useless kind of commentary. George charmed every apple in the bobbing barrel to shriek like banshees, and you caught Fred watching you laugh.

Somewhere, as the weather became colder, the space you took up in the house shifted— from guest to something else entirely. Not official or labeled. But known. When Fred was too sore to come down for breakfast, you were the one Molly handed the tray to without being asked.

When Christmas came, you received a handmade jumper with your initial stitched in gold thread.

When New Year’s arrived, they asked you to bring your family.

You hadn’t expected it, honestly. You’d mentioned your parents once or twice, but never in detail. Still, the invitation came in the form of a cheerful note from Molly, complete with a floo address, a time, and a subtle but unmistakable, “We’d love to meet the people who raised you.”

Your parents came. It was awkward at first, your mother clutching a tin of biscuits like a peace offering, your father blinking at the enchanted cookware, but quickly swept into the warmth of the Burrow like they belonged there. Arthur cornered your dad to discuss plug sockets. Your mum helped Ginny in the kitchen and was thoroughly impressed by her wandwork with icing.

And you?

You found Fred near the edge of the living room, watching the chaos unfold with a fond sort of exasperation.

“You made it,” he said, straightening when he saw you.

“Of course I did,” you said. “Wouldn’t miss it.”

He was standing — with a fair bit of effort — but standing nevertheless. He leaned slightly against the frame of the door, a cane in one hand and something careful in the way he held himself. 

You blinked at him, taking it in. “Fred…”

“It’s New Year’s,” he said casually. “Figured I’d start it standing.”

You didn’t answer right away.

Instead, you crossed the room slowly, until you reached him. Your hands snaked around his waist, steadying him without making it obvious. 

He glanced down at you, expression unreadable for a moment, before a quiet smile tugged at the corner of his mouth.

“Hi,” you said softly, tilting your head up to meet his eyes.

“Hi.” His voice was warm. Steady, despite the cane in one hand and the slight tremor in his knee.

For a moment, neither of you moved. You could hear George laughing behind you, the low thrum of the wireless switching into something slow and familiar. Fred’s fingers twitched at his side, his eyes flicking briefly toward the center of the room where Arthur had just pulled Molly into a waltz that was more affection than grace.

“Dance with me?” he asked.

You blinked. “Are you sure?”

He tilted his head, mock-offended. “Are you saying no?”

“I’m saying your Healer’s going to be very cross with you if you faceplant into the soup.”

Fred snorted. “Good thing she’s off-duty tonight.” His voice dropped just a little. “And mine, apparently.”

You stared at him for a second longer, then held out your hand.

He took it without hesitation.

You helped him into the center of the room. His free hand found your waist with surprising familiarity, and your arm curled lightly around his shoulder, careful of the still-healing muscle beneath his jumper.

The music was slow. A string-heavy tune that didn’t require any real movement, just soft swaying and shared breath.

Fred leaned in slightly. “You’ll have to do most of the work.”

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” you murmured.

That earned you a grin.

You swayed together, the world narrowing a little. Not in a dizzying way, but rather in a peaceful one. Like all the noise of the Burrow, all the flying candles and floating paper stars and loud Weasley laughter, had dropped to a quiet hum.

“This is nice,” Fred said eventually, his chin brushing your temple.

“It is.”

“Mum’s probably getting suspicious.”

You blinked, drawing back just enough to see his face. “Suspicious of what?”

He smirked. “That you’re not just performing healer duties anymore.”

You laughed, quick and involuntary, your forehead pressing briefly to his chest. “You think?.”

He hummed.

“What makes you say that?”

“You keep showing up for one,” he whispered back.

You laughed and carefully ran your fingers through his hair. You decided against reminding him how he would owl you every time you went more than two days without visiting. 

“I think the way you kept making mistletoe appear under every door during Christmas and kissing me, might have tipped her off as well.”

He grinned down at you. 

You bit back a smile. “You’re lucky I like you.”

Fred pulled back just enough to meet your eyes. “I know.”

The music faded, replaced by a more upbeat tune, and someone behind you — George, by the sound of it — whooped loudly and dragged Percy into a clumsy two-step.

You started to step away, but Fred’s hand held firm at your waist.

“Don’t let go just yet,” he said.

“So you like me too,” you teased, but didn’t pull away.

Fred gave you a look, one of those crooked, lopsided half-smiles that always seemed to undo you a little. Mischief around the eyes, affection under the surface.

“I’ve been told it’s fairly obvious.”

You raised a brow. “Oh? By whom?”

“Mum. George. Ginny. That one weird mirror upstairs that whispers truths when you walk past it too fast—”

You snorted. “That thing’s cursed.”

“Cursed and correct,” he said, grinning.

Your heart tugged, just a little, at the ease of it all. The comfort. The slow, stubborn way he folded you into his life and refused to let you back out.

“And here I thought you were just using me for my medical expertise,” you said lightly.

“Oh, absolutely,” Fred said, mock-serious. “The way you check my bandages? Riveting. Can’t get enough.”

You stayed there with him in the middle of the room, just swaying a little to music that no longer matched your pace, his cane braced lightly against the side of your foot, your arms looped around each other like muscle memory.

And then, with the timing of someone who’d clearly been lurking and waiting for it, George called from across the room: “Oi! Should we start planning the wedding now, or are you still pretending this is about physical therapy?”

Fred didn’t miss a beat. “It’s intensive therapy, George. Leave us be.”

You giggled, pressing a hand against Fred’s chest and helping him reach for his cane.

“Do you see what you’ve done?” you murmured.

“I do,” he said, clearly pleased with himself.

Fred took the cane from you with practiced ease, but didn’t move right away. His hand lingered at your waist, thumb brushing a small, absent pattern against your side.

“C’mon,” he said at last, nodding toward the doorway. “Let’s go before George ropes Percy into a conga line again.”

You smiled and moved with him, matching your steps to his pace without thinking. You’d long since stopped counting it as effort.

Just as you reached the edge of the room, he paused, fingers still laced loosely with yours.

You turned to look at him.

He was already watching you.

“Thanks for showing up,” he said. 

You tilted your head, sneaking your arms around his waist once again. This time, stepping on your tippy-toes to press a chaste kiss to his lips.

“When have I not?”

That made him smile. He pulled you closer by the waist and pressed a kiss on your jaw, which tickled you.

“Happy New Year, angel.”

You didn’t say anything back. Not because you didn’t have a thousand things you could’ve said, but because in that moment, none of them needed saying.

[novaimperia]

★ asking roommate!sukuna if he’ll pretend to be your boyfriend

“What? No?”

At the moment, you’re both at a frat party you didn’t know the other would be at. If you knew Sukuna would be here you still would have gone but, judging by the look of complete and utter irritation on his face, he probably wouldn’t say the same. Actually, it was pretty funny to walk into the party, make eye contact with him and watch that ‘You’ve got to be fucking with me’ look manifest in his body language. 

What isn’t as funny is the weird guy in your lecture who can’t take a hint and keeps touching you. He’s here now and the shudders running up and down your body tells you very clearly he’s aware of your presence and has plans to do something about it. 

“Sukuna, please. I’ll owe you one.”

Sitting on a packed sofa, legs spread, he scowls up at you, piercings glinting with the movement. “I don’t need you to owe me one.”

“Sukuna, come on. You’re a scary motherfucker, just be touchy with me for a second and intimidate him.”

He takes a swig of his beer. “Put your big girl panties on and tell him to fuck off.”

Okay, so clearly he’s not going to change his mind anytime soon. Groaning, you stomp away from him and to your friends. You both walk over to the kitchen, intent to enjoy this party to the fullest. Shots go down in flashes, music blares and deafen, you sway and grind and laugh. Nothing will take away this burst of youth where recklessness meets lack of conceivable consequences. 

That’s what you think, anyway, until sweaty hands start rubbing your shoulders. You stiffen. 

“Aw, you didn’t need to wear something so slutty for me. You’ve already got my attention.”

You can’t see your friends anymore – there are too many people, too tightly packed together, the lights are too dim and the music too loud to do something about the body pressed up behind you. Hairs on your arm standing on end, you fight the disgust recoiling deep in your bones and firmly say, “I’m sorry, I’m really not interested. Please leave me alone.”

“Don’t be like that, baby. I see the way you look at me.” Gripping your hips, he tugs you hard back into him when you try to shuffle away. His clutch is punishing and his nails dig into your skin. You hiss. “Let’s go back to my place and I’ll show you a good time.”

Pulling you away with him, your friends disappear in the crowd. you’re powerless against his strength. He’s too eager, too clumsy, too drunk to even have any semblance of sense. Guys like him are dangerous. Guys like him get what they want. Guys like him don’t stop at ‘no.’ “Let me go! Let me fucking go!”

“Don’t be a bitc–”

“You hard of hearing or something?” Sukuna yanks the guys away by his collar, snatching him up like a puppy. “Get the fuck outta here before I beat your ass.”

The guy scoffs, forcing a bravado on. "Who the h-hell are you? This is none of your business; she's my girl."

Sukuna takes a step forward. A cruel sneer twists his face into something dark, something sinister, practically malevolent. "Yeah? Explain to me how she finds her way into my bed then."

People are whispering; they've noticed the scene playing out. Some are already getting their phones out to record, hoping for a fight. Others are taking a step back. They whisper your roommate's name like it's a curse. It reaches your creepy classmate even through his drunken stupor.

"S-shit." He raises his hands in surrender. "Listen man, I didn't know she's with you. I swear. I'll go, alright? Just forget about it."

Personally unsure why he switched up so quickly when he was doing a fine enough job pretending Sukuna's height itself wasn't pissy pants-inducing, you don't dare say a word that might bring his attention back to you. Instead, you huddle a little closer to your roommate, who doesn't shake you off when you pinch his shirt for comfort. Just like that, the guy that's been bothering you for weeks fades in the background, never to be seen again. Hopefully.

You sigh. “Thanks, Sukuna.”

He grunts. He’s about to leave, to go back to minding his own business and pretending he doesn’t know you, but then, as if he can’t really help it and he hates himself for it, he eyes you up and down. In that moment, whatever he sees, whatever assessment he makes of your appearance, contrasted with the scene you two find yourself in, urges him to say something that almost sounds painful, so unnatural, so alien to him it brings a shit-eating grin to your face. 

“I’m bored with this place. Let’s go…” He winces, rolling his shoulder back. “Let’s go home.”

[melobballin]

residue. juju watkins

✶ warnings ✶ 1.6k ish words count. black!fem reader. +18 minors dni. smut. y’all are so fucking toxic. reader is dumb af for staying. toxic!juju. pussy eating. fingering. tribbing. reader got a smart mouth. flirty!juju. wlw.

SHE SWEARS SHE’LL NOT BE STAYING. Always mumbles it against your neck, as she tugs your shirt up, heart still pumping from whatever argument pushed her back into your arms tonight.

“They’re waiting for me,” she says, hoodie half-off but her hands are already on your thighs, already wanting to lift you like she didn’t ghost you for a week. Like she wasn’t just post up at some party, grinning next to Mariah —who happened to actively hate you.

You don’t say shit. You’ve stopped saying shit. What’s the point when she’s never listening ?

You’ve stopped asking her where she’s been. Stopped hoping the knock meant anything more than what it always did : she needed something she wouldn’t name, and for whatever reason, you were the only one who could give it to her.

Juju always showed up late—smelling like somebody else’s perfume, the taste of liquor on her lips and her hoodie pulled low like guilt can hide her—and you always let her in. Every time. No questions. No judgment. No begging her to stay. Just quiet. Just space. Just you.

Her hands were already on your waist. Already tugging at your shorts like they were in her way. Like she was starving and you were the only thing that’s ever fed her right.

“I missed you,” she said between kisses. “Missed this.”

You laughed bitterly. “Yeah ? You always say that.” You murmured, breath catching as her lips kissed behind your ears.

“I always mean it,” she whispered.

Before you could answer, she was already dropping you onto your bed with that same lazy confidence that’s been driving you insane since freshman year. You hated how easy it was for her. How good she looked in your low lighting. Sweats hanging off her hips. Bra strap peeking from under her tank top. Jaw clenched like she was mad at the world but still needed to melt into you to survive the night.

“To how many girls have you said that tonight ?” You saw her eyes flicker. But she didn’t stop.

Just slid her hand down your stomach, kissed you deeper like she was trying to shut you up with her mouth.

“You know it ain’t like that with them.” She climbed on top without hesitation. One knee between your thighs, one hand at the base of your throat. Just enough pressure to remind you who’s in control. Just enough softness to keep you wanting more.

That’s what she always did. And maybe you were having it.

You looked up at her and said what you always say when you’re trying not to cry before she’s even touched you properly : “You seeing her again?”

Her jaw ticks. “Mariah doesn’t matter.”

“She matters enough to show up on your story.”

Juju leans in, nose brushing yours. Her voice drops low. “You still checking that shit?”

You weren’t dumb. She knows you weren’t. She knew you had seen the likes. The tags. The flashes of her with somebody new, arm slung around some soft-eyed girl who probably thinks she’s different. Who probably hasn’t tasted the part of Juju that comes out when she’s desperate and ruined and whispering “please” against your mouth like you’re the last fucking prayer she has left.

Her hips grind into your pussy slow—too fucking slow for someone who said they were just “stopping by.” She kissed down your chest like she’s worshiping something she was too ashamed to claim in the daylight. Her voice is low and rasped and so familiar when she says your name.

And still, it’s you. Always you.

The one she comes back to.

The one who knows where she likes to be touched without needing to ask.

The one who holds her afterward, even when you swear you won’t.

“I hate you so much for this, ju.” you breathe, tugging at the hairs on the back of her head when she slipped her tongue over your pussy, sucking it slowly.

She groans against your thighs. “Yeah ? but you always let me in though, baby.”

And that’s the thing. You always do. Because no one else makes you fall apart like this.

No one else makes you whisper that soft, dangerous, nasty talk in the dark, when your walls drop and your voice breaks and she holds you like maybe this time, she’ll actually stay.

She moans when she tastes you. Deep and low and possessive.

“Shit,” she breathes, dragging her tongue up your slit like it’s the first time again. “I missed this pussy.”

You arch, grip her curls. “You don’t even deserve it.”

“Don’t gotta,” she mutters, fingers sinking into your cunt slowly. “You still give it to me.”

And maybe that’s the worst part. Maybe it’s that you want to. That no one else gets you like this. That even when she hurts you, her hands are home. Her mouth is poetry. Her body is the only place you ever feel known.

She fucks you slow.

Not gentle—never that. But deep. Deep like she tryna climb inside and live there. Like she knows exactly how to take you apart and put you back together just enough to make you let her stay the night.

You come once. Then twice. Legs shaking, voice gone, heart thudding too loud in your ears.

And still she’s not done.

Still she’s kissing your ribs, your stomach, your neck—like you’re the only thing keeping her tethered to this earth.

“I fucking hate you,” you breathe, tears hot in your eyes.

She lifts her head, eyes blown, lips slick and swollen.

“Yeah ?” she whispers, kissing the corner of your mouth. “But you still love me.”

You choke on a laugh. Or a sob. You don’t even know anymore.

Juju then pulls you on top of her like she needs to feel your weight to believe you’re real. Your knees on either side of her hips. Her hands gripping your thighs. Her eyes not leaving yours.

She guides you down onto her pussy like it’s nothing—like you were always made to sit there.

“Take it, baby,” she murmurs, voice husky. “Let me have you.”

You do. Because you always do.

Because no one makes you feel like like she does. No one looks at you like they need you to survive the night.

Her hands slide up your ass as you move. Slow. Steady. Raw.

Your bodies sticky with sweat and something unspoken.

She leans up to kiss you. This time softer.

And that’s when you feel it—that shift. That tenderness she tries to hide under ego and bravado and too many mistakes.

She kisses you like she knows she fucked up. Like she don’t know how to fix it but she wants to. Like she’s scared to ask you to stay because she knows she doesn’t deserve it.

Her fingers lace with yours.

She lets you ride her pussy slow. Lets you set the pace. Her body trembling under yours. Her voice cracking when she whispers, “No one else feels like you.”

You freeze.

And for a second—just a second—you let yourself believe she means it.

“Say it again,” you whisper.

Juju cups your cheek. “No one else feels like you. Nobody else is you.”

Tears burn your throat again. But you don’t stop.

You keep rocking your hips. Keep holding her close. Keep letting her say shit she never says in the daylight.

“I try to forget you,” she confesses, head tilted back. “I try. I swear I do.”

“Then why are you here juju ?”

“Because I can’t.” Her voice is broken. Honest. “I can’t stay away. I don’t want to want you like this. But I do.”

You kiss her before she can say more. Swallow her words. Pour yourself into her like maybe if you give enough, she’ll stay.

You come again. Louder this time. Shaking in her arms. She follows. Low moans against your skin, arms wrapped around your waist, face buried in your neck like she’s trying to disappear inside you.

And after ? Like always : it’s quiet.

Just heavy breathing and tangled limbs. Sweat-damp sheets and flickering shadows from the streetlight outside your window.

You don’t ask her to leave.

She doesn’t say she will.

She just holds you. Soft now. Bare now. Her forehead pressed to your shoulder, her fingers drawing circles on your back.

“I wish I knew how to love you right,” she whispers.

And you don’t answer. You just close your eyes.

Because this—this is the only version of her you ever get.

The 2am version. The “I hate myself for needing you” version. The “maybe tomorrow” kind of girl.

And maybe that’s all she’ll ever be.

But tonight? Tonight she’s yours. And you’ll take it.

Even if it breaks you later.

© written by melobballin | inspo is free, but copying is lazy. keep it cute y’all

[cloudedangels]

Extended Leave ♡ Part 5 (18+)

📖 Pt One 📖 Pt Two

📖 Pt Three 📖 Pt Four

▪ Fem!Caleb x Fem!Reader ▪ AU ▪ 18+ ▪ minors pls do not interact ▪ part 5 of my Extended Leave series ▪︎ 3,237 words

Blue light and relief. Worship. Crashing into each other at last.

cw/tags: fem!Caleb, fem!reader, AU, pilot!caleb, childhood friends to what are we?, slow burn, domestic intimacy, yearning, tension and tenderness, soft butch x soft femme, mutual pining, emotional repression, unspoken feelings, pining gone feral, watching/listening (mentioned), voyeurism (mentioned), soft dom!Caleb, service top, smut, sapphic romance, mutual obsession, quiet intensity, emotional intimacy, yearning, flirting, sapphic angst, possessive energy, low-key yandere!Caleb, jealousy, self-doubt, dirty talk, freak4freak, snapped tension, crying, edging, oral(f), fingering(f), pet names (pips[queek], baby, pretty/sweet girl, princess)

bunnie's looped songs for this part 🎧here🎧

full fic playlist 🎧here🎧

Although it's not necessary I do recommend playing the looped playlist while you read if you can (:

She exhales, and there's ten years in the way she kisses you then, her fingers reaching for the place that's been aching for them for days on end.

☆☆☆☆☆

Time folds. To your dismay, she still hasn't touched you yet. You are already soaking wet, waiting for her touch.

Caleb pulls back and tugs you down by the waist, so gently it feels like a cradle.

“Forgive me. I'm not going to make you wait much longer... I just... I need you just like this... if you'll let me do this right,” she murmurs, lips brushing the shell of your ear. Kisses there. Your throat, collarbones.

Your whimper under them, your hips buck, desperate.

"I've dreamt of this, so so many times... Just let me show you what I can do for you, okay?"

She shifts her weight and the bed shifts beneath you. Filtered through the curtains, light spills around you, a pale blue cast, an underwater dream, a piece of sky. The slats of the blinds paint stripes onto Caleb's shoulders and neck, your chest. She looks cut open by the light.

"You look so pretty I could cry," she whispers into your jaw. "I would keep you like this if I could, hanging, breathless. I've never seen you want me so bad."

You whine. "Caleb..."

"Shhh." She leans down to kiss you again. Every kiss is less clumsy than the last, but still a crashing wave of so much beyond the surface.

"You're too good to be tortured... I swear, I just want to savour you... is that okay, pretty girl?"

Your eyes shut and you nod. She's different. Not by much, but you like it. Even if she's wrapping you around her finger.

"I'm going to take your shirt off... I want to see you."

The shirt peels off before you can speak. You look at her as she takes you in. "So perfect..." She grips the shirt, balled in her hands. "This shirt used to be mine... were you wearing it when you came last night, pips?"

Your eyes shut and you're blushing hard as you bob your head in confirmation. She presses it to her face and breathes it in. She's snapped out of self control, and you get wetter as it happens.

She presses the shirt to her face again and breathes in like it’s a drug, like she could drown in it.

“Oh fuck,” she whispers, muffled against the fabric. “I shouldn’t like this as much as I do.”

You can’t tell if she’s talking to you or herself. You wonder if she’s going to keep it. Hide it somewhere. Sleep with it under her pillow when she leaves again.

Then she looks back down at you, shirt still in her hands. Her voice is hoarse. "I’ll never stop thinking about that. You, wearing me while you—” She shakes her head.

“Saying my name like you did... You knew I’d find out, didn’t you? You wanted me to know.”

You shake your head, breath caught, but your thighs squeeze together involuntarily. Her eyes go there.

“You little liar,” she murmurs, and there’s no malice in it. Just tender, yet filthy, worship. You’re in disbelief.

"You're ready for me to open those pretty legs? Show me what you have for me?"

Good god, she's making you dizzy. Your legs open, light shining between them. Your pink panties are soaked. You can feel it.

"You and these lacy things... I've taken care of 'em for you, n now they're soaked because of me? You'll drive me crazy... I don't even have to touch you there, it's wet, I can see... you must be aching, pips aren't you?"

She kisses down your stomach, slow and hungry, like she’s trying to memorize the shape of you. You twitch when her lips graze just below your navel.

Your breath catches. Her hair brushes your inner thighs.

Then she stops. Rests her cheek against your hip bone. Eyes closed.

“Do you know how many times I thought about this?” she says, almost absently. “You, begging me. Your pretty thighs shaking. My name in your mouth and nothing to brace you but my hands.”

You whimper. Your hips arch, but she presses her palm flat on your pelvis. Not yet.

“I used to touch myself sometimes when I was alone in the cockpit, you know, at the base too, in that lonely fucking bed.” she murmurs, almost like she’s confessing a sin. “Quiet, careful... Thinking about you laying in my old bed, in this fucking shirt. Sucking your fingers because you missed me.”

You let out a sound you can’t name. It breaks in your throat. Mostly because you know she's not wrong.

“Shhh, shhh, I know,” she says, eyes finally open again, wide and wild. “Me too. It’s too much, isn’t it?”

Her fingers hook into the waistband of your panties.

“I’m gonna see you now. I’ll be good. I’ll be gentle. But I’m gonna look, and you’re not gonna hide.”

The fabric drags down slow—wet, clinging to your lips—and you swear she moans under her breath as it leaves your skin. She keeps them around your knees, not even bothering to take them off fully. Her fingers ghost down the inside of your thigh like a prayer. You twitch. She watches you, (always watching) then her eyes swallow you.

"S-so pretty..." she whispers, and you feel small and wet and pulsing.

"Please..."

"You're so good to me, poor thing... I'm gonna make it all better, mkay? You just gotta tell me, do you want my hands or my mouth? I can't promise it'll be perfect, I've saved everything for you... but I'll keep going until it feels like heaven, you've just gotta ride it out with me. You're brave, you can use your words..."

She brushes over your panties just once with two fingers and gasps out a moan at the same time as you. Your hips buck into it, you feel so desperate.

"Oh my god... is that for me, princess?"

"Yes," you rasp out. It's been for days, she had yet to claim it.

"Careful, you can't take that back..."

Your lips are pressed together, your legs are shaking. The waiting is torturous despite her earlier promise not to. You eyes lock onto hers. You can feel the look on your face, and you know it's pathetic, she doesn't have to tell you. But you beg, again, just like always.

"Caleb..."

Her moan is more of a whimper when you pull her name from your mouth like that.

"Please... I can't—"

She looks at you, blue, dashed by the lights. She looks so pretty, so strong, so wild and just for you, that you can hardly take it.

"My hands or my mouth? I can't until you choose, I know it's hard to think like this—I can't choose for you..."

You try to speak but only breath comes out. You reach for her wrist, try to guide her—but she stops you again.

“Say it,” she murmurs. “I need to hear you pick.”

“...Your mouth,” you whisper, the words so fragile it’s like breaking a spell.

Her eyes widen. “You sure?”

You nod, and this time she doesn’t ask again.

She kisses your jaw, then all the way down your body, from your neck to your belly. Wet, sloppy, greedy kisses.

The stripes of blue light shift across your thighs, her shoulders. She kisses down your stomach in slanted shadows, each press of her lips a new stroke across your skin. You swear the sunlight is holding you both down. Your breath shudders, hips and fingers twitch.

Her breath is warm and damp when she descends to the space between your legs, lying on her belly, propped up by her forearms. Her left hand slides to your hip to press you down, the other reaches to hold your hand.

"If I get too lost and you need me to stop, grip your nails into my hand as hard as you can, okay? I can't guarantee anything else is gonna pull me away from you once I start."

You blink. You don't want to have to hurt her.

As if reading your mind, she squeezes your hand. "I'm a strong girl, pipsqueak, you won't hurt me."

Her head hangs just above your core, and you swear you feel her shake.

“You smell like you’ve been waiting for me your whole life,” she whispers. Then her lips part, and she presses the softest kiss to your clit—like it’s sacred.

You cry out without meaning to. Her hands tighten—one at your hip, the other still interlocked with yours.

“Shhh, I’ve got you, baby,” she breathes against you. “I’ve got you now. I’ll never let anyone else see you like this. I swear on everything.”

Her lips finally descend, and it’s like a gasp gets pulled out of your soul.

Her mouth moves slowly, lovingly, and it’s unbearable how gentle she starts. Licking like she’s trying to write something inside of you. Like she wants to live there.

☆☆☆☆☆

It’s slow, so slow. She licks like she’s testing the temperature of a flame. Your thighs jerk. You moan.

“That’s it, sweet girl,” she murmurs, eyes flicking up. “You don’t even know how good you taste. I could stay here forever.”

You can’t answer. You can only clutch the sheets. The light paints her shoulder blades in ribbons. Her hair brushes your thighs like silk. You forget what day it is. What year it is. You could drown in the feeling of her.

You try to hold on—to what, you’re not sure. Your breath, your sanity, some last shred of yourself before she completely takes it.

The Caleb you're used to is patient. This Caleb is not. She's slow but taking, she kisses you like time doesn’t exist. Like this was what clocks were built for.

She doesn’t say anything for a while. Just breathes, licks, worships. And when her lips wrap around you—when her tongue flicks like she’s spelling her name—you cry out again. You think you feel your heartbeat in your throat, your toes, your scalp.

Her grip on your hand tightens.

“You’re so sweet,” she murmurs between licks, “and so loud… You never used to be this loud. Is this who you are with me now? Do I get to keep her?”

Your hips arch up, but her arm locks you down.

“I knew it,” she groans, almost in disbelief. “You were made for me.”

You pant her name. You’re unraveling. She moans into you.

Your legs begin to shake. She doesn’t stop. Won’t. Not until you say her name again.

“Caleb—Caleb—” you sob, voice gone thin. “I—”

Her eyes snap up. The obsession in them is glassy and you want it, you want it so bad it swallows you.

“That’s right, baby. Let me hear it.”

She suckles you, slowly, then deeper. Her nose presses against your skin. Her hand leaves yours just long enough to reach between your thighs, and when she pushes a finger in, slow but sudden. You jolt like you’ve been struck by lightning.

You cry out her name again, and she laughs, shaky and low and broken.

“Oh my god. That’s it. That’s what I needed. You saying my name like that. You… taking me like this.”

She kisses your thigh. Adds a second finger. Your body’s unspooled thread.

“You’ve got no idea what I’ve saved up for you,” she whispers. “What I’d do to make you cum for me. I’d—”

She falters. Her head drops back down. She licks again.

You’re not going to last. You can feel it.

And she can, too.

“Don’t hold it,” she pleads, almost angry. “You don’t have to hide anything from me. I need it. Let me feel you fall apart. Let me have it.”

You reach for her wrist again. This time she lets you. Holds you. Fingers buried deep, tongue gentle, too gentle—

But only for a moment.

Then her rhythm changes. Becomes purposeful. Consuming. Curling. Her teeth graze you and you scream.

She groans like she’s the one climaxing.

☆☆☆☆☆

The light splits around you.

There’s too much of her—mouth, fingers, breath, voice, Caleb Caleb Caleb—you can’t hold it anymore.

You try to say her name. It comes out as something else. A sob. A vow. A confession.

There’s a second where you don’t know who’s holding who.

The sound of your name is still ringing in her mouth.

Your thighs are trembling. Her hands won’t let go.

She’s still between your legs, forehead pressed to your thigh, like she’s praying.

Her fingers haven’t moved. Neither have you.

“I’m still here,” she murmurs.

Your eyes are prickled with tears. Hers are too, her fingers move out of you with the lewdest wet sound, a near-pop.

"God, Caleb... Where did you learn how to do that?"

She doesn’t answer right away.

Just breathes against your thigh, her fingers sticky where they rest against your hip, her mouth swollen, her chest rising with something wild.

Then:

“I didn’t,” she says. Her voice sounds dazed. Wrecked. “I just thought about it. Constantly.”

She kisses your leg. Another. Slower.

“I thought about what it would sound like,” she murmurs, voice trembling now. “How soft you'd be. How sweet you'd taste. What you’d look like when you came for me. I just… paid attention.”

Your chest heaves. You can feel the flutter of her breath between your thighs still, and her fingers are twitching like she’s resisting the urge to go again.

“I didn’t even know I’d be good at it,” she adds, finally lifting her head. Her face is pink. Her eyes are glassy. “I just knew I’d never forgive myself if I got it wrong.”

You can barely breathe.

“You didn’t,” you whisper.

Caleb stares at you, like your praise is too much, another wave she’s about to drown under.

“I want to stay here,” she says, softly. “I want to stay inside of this. I want to sleep in the sound of you falling apart.”

You reach for her face. Thumb brushing her cheekbone, fingers tracing the side of her damp jaw.

“You can,” you whisper. “For as long as you want.”

She laughs—quiet, breathless, half-collapsed against your thigh like she’s resting there. Her voice is hoarse when she speaks again.

“I... saved it all for you.”

The words fall like a confession. Her breath is still warm on your skin. You feel raw and kissed open and so full of her you think you'll burst. She sucks her fingers clean.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you whisper, flushed, trembling.

She just hums, fingers slipping free of her mouth. “Like what?”

“Like you’re still starving.”

She shifts, pulls herself up and forward, crawling until she’s kneeling between your legs, until her face is level with yours again. Her expression is unreadable for a second, wild, tender, broken, but still soft.

Then she says, “I am.”

You don’t know what to do with it, so you reach for her. Her arms wrap around you immediately, strong and warm, and she holds you like she thinks you might disappear. Your breath shudders against her neck.

Neither of you speaks for a while. There’s no sound but the birds outside. The slow drip of her breath. The whisper of her fingers stroking your body under the blankets. You don’t know how much time passes. Minutes, maybe. A whole hour.

You don’t move.

Until, “Pipsqueak?”

You tilt your head, eyes still closed. “Mhm?”

“You’re shaking.”

“I know.”

“Are you cold?”

“No.”

She adjusts you, presses herself tighter to your chest, like she could shield you with her ribs. Like she could rebuild the entire world with her body to keep you inside it.

Then, “Was it too much?”

You blink. “No. God. No.”

She kisses your hair.

“I didn’t mean to…” she starts, but trails off.

You pull back enough to look at her. Her face is open, bare in the pale light. Her lips are swollen. Her eyes are red.

“Did I do something wrong?” she asks.

The question is so quiet it nearly breaks you.

You reach up, cup her cheek.

“No,” you whisper. “You did something right.”

Her eyes flutter shut under your touch, like she’s in pain. Or relief. Or both.

Then she opens them again.

“You said my name like it meant something new,” she says. “You don’t know what that did to me.”

Your throat tightens.

“I think I do.”

She leans in again—this kiss is softer, quieter. Just a brush. A thank-you. A promise. Her hands never leave your waist.

Her eyes close. Her lashes flutter against your hand.

“I’m scared,” she says, finally. “It’s too much. It’s always been too much with you.”

You nod. Your throat is tight.

“I know,” you say. “Me too.”

When she finally lays her head on your chest, it feels like your whole world exhales.

She’s trembling again.

You bury your fingers in her hair. Her breath steadies. Then slows.

You think she’s asleep until she murmurs—

“I’m not done with you.”

You blink.

“Not today,” she clarifies. “Not ever. You understand?”

"Is that a promise?"

She doesn't reply right away. Her arms wrap tighter. You kiss her head.

In your arms, she feels small and like the whole world at the same time. A dream within a dream. The galaxy within a girl. Your undoing and the person you know best.

Her face is damp on top of you, she trembles a little.

"Caleb? Are you crying?"

She nods. Doesn't move.

She mumbles into you.

"Now that I've had you like this, I will be lost if I can't come back to you. Everything I've ever done was holding the fact that I would need to come back around to you. There's no other way now. I really will never be able to return to anything else."

Again, you're crying with her.

You wonder where she gets all of this doubt from, all this fear. You can still feel her all over, inside of you.

The light has moved. Shadows stretch differently now. You think it must be past two, maybe three.

"Remember when I was a kid, what you would do during storms when the power went out? I wouldn't move, I was so afraid of the dark... I'd cry and cry but I was scared to call for you. So you’d run around the house yelling 'lighthouse, lighthouse! Mei mei lost at sea!' with a flashlight in your hands. Until you'd find me. Or until I was brave enough to follow the sound of your voice or the light beams."

She laughs raspy, breathy, and small, "Yeah. Of course I remember... Why would you bring that up now?"

"I think... I'm brave enough. Brave enough to look for you now. If you can't make it to me on your own, I'll clear the path." You lift her face and she looks at you tear-stained and awestruck. "Even though lighthouses don't move." You mock, a smile blooming on both your faces, giggles erupting. A break in the seriousness. A pearl inside the shell of time.

“I’ll be good,” she whispers. “I’ll be normal. I’ll try.”

You laugh, breathless. “Don’t. I like you like this.”

She blinks, then smiles, hiding her face inside of your chest.

“God help us both,” she mumbles.

🏷taglist: @chewbrry @grlpartdoll @jetterdonna @starryeyed-apple @mephisto-with-a-knife @er0da @dream-gardener

If you'd like to be added to the taglist for this series lmk in comments or reblogs! (Must have age in bio)

[wanderingxrivers]

I've done it! I have a finished object! Finally seamed together the panels for the Peek A Boo Tee (https://www.kniftyknittings.com/the-peek-a-boo-tee-free-pattern/) just in time to wear it for mandatory fun at my job in a couple of weeks. Slowly bit surely working my way through all my WIPs so I can cast on even more things.

[exopelagic]

i said i wouldn’t do it this time but it’s 3am and mods asleep. boy

[artficlly]

his girls [one-shot]

marvel au bucky x reader alpine barely tolerates anyone but bucky, so when she curls up in your lap without a second thought, the team is left reeling—especially when it leads to the not-so-subtle revelation that you and bucky have been sneaking around for months.

Warnings: fluff, so much fluff, alpine is a troublemaker, secret dating, swearing, kissing, alcohol, tony knows all, natasha too, no use of y/n, lmk if i've missed anything

Word Count: 2.2k

A/N: hello! once again a fic no one asked for lol. i'm supposed to be on hiatus buuut i took some time this afternoon to write this because i'm procrastinating a uni assignment. i'm sure this concept has been done before, but i was thinking about that scene in rivals with the dog (iykyk) and yeah! step away from the usual angst and heartbreak i normally provide you all with. sorry for any typos - not proof read.

main masterlist

You were careful.

Or at least, you thought you were careful.

For months, you and Bucky had kept your relationship under wraps. It wasn’t that you wanted to keep secrets from the team, but there was something thrilling about stolen moments and hushed conversations. About Bucky’s hand on the small of your back as he guided you through a crowded room, or the way he’d brush a kiss against your temple before disappearing down the hall.

You figured no one had noticed.

Until today.

It all started with one of many white hairs stuck to your t-shirt.

Natasha plucked it off you mid-conversation one morning in the kitchen while you were praying—desperately—to whatever all-seeing god might finally make the coffee machine work faster. Between the groaning, spluttering sounds and the blinking lights, it felt like the damn thing was possessed. With flawlessly manicured nails, Natasha held the hair up to the morning light filtering through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the compound.

“Is this Alpine’s fur?” she mused aloud, twirling the long, pale strand between her fingers.

“Probably.” you replied absently, more concerned with the coffee machine’s latest refusal to cooperate. You jabbed the buttons harder, ignoring the way Natasha’s eyes flickered with something dangerously close to amusement. 

“For all of Tony’s money, you’d think we’d have a coffee machine that actually works,” you grumbled.

“Turn around?” Natasha asked. There was a particular lilt to her voice, that barely concealed intrigue she tried—and failed—to mask whenever she was onto something. It set you on edge instantly, the tone that meant she was clicking a mystery into place, giddy with excitement beneath a thin veil of indifference. You didn’t trust it for a second.

“No, just—” You smacked the machine in frustration. It whined pathetically before the lights blinked off entirely. You let out a long, exasperated groan. “Why won’t this stupid fucking thing ever work—”

“Jesus, you’re covered in it—”

You froze mid-motion as Natasha yanked at your shirt, effectively grooming you like a monkey. Her sharp lips had turned up into a wicked smirk, the type of smirk that made dread pool in your gut. 

“Everything is covered in her fur,” you said quickly, still trying for casual. You reached for the plug, praying Natasha would drop it. “She sheds everywhere, especially on the couch.”

“Mm.” Natasha tilted her head, her smirk deepening. “And yet, I thought Tony hired cleaners for that? Especially with Kate always bringing Lucky around?”

You yanked the plug from the socket a little too forcefully. “Honestly, Nat, I don’t know. I just want this damn machine to work.”

Right on cue, a familiar voice rumbled behind you.

“Machine giving you trouble again?”

Your heart stuttered in your chest before resuming its normal rhythm—though maybe a little faster. You turned just as Bucky strolled in, looking frustratingly good despite the early hour. His hair was a little dishevelled, sleep still clinging to him in a way that made him look too soft for someone who could snap a man’s spine in half.

“There’s a trick to it, remember?” He stepped in close beside you, skin brushing yours as he reached for the machine. The scent of his aftershave lingered, warm and familiar. You tried—and failed—not to watch the way the muscles in his forearm tensed, veins shifting beneath his skin as he pressed a series of buttons.

“Barnes, you’ve got cat hair all over you,” Natasha noted, not even bothering to be subtle. You didn’t dare look at her. Instead, you busied yourself wringing your hands, pretending you weren’t hyper-aware of Bucky standing so damn close.

“Huh?” Bucky barely spared a glance at his shirt, where Alpine’s fur was unmistakably clinging to the fabric. “Oh. Yeah, guess I do. She always wants attention in the morning.”

Then, with one final smack, the machine roared to life. The rich aroma of coffee filled the air as liquid finally poured into your mug. You sighed in sheer relief.

“There you go,” Bucky said, looking down at you with a small smile, a few strands of dark hair falling across his forehead.

Your stomach did a stupid little flip. You smiled back, warmth creeping into your face. “Thanks.”

The machine beeped again, snapping you back to reality. You quickly grabbed the mug with both hands, muttered another thanks, and let Natasha tug you away.

“What was that?” She hissed, voice low as she turned to you with narrowed eyes.

“Huh?” You weren’t entirely listening to her words. You found yourself glancing over your shoulder, a ghost of a smile tugging at your lips. You could still see Bucky standing in the kitchen, both hands braced on the counter as he waited for his own coffee. His back was turned, but even through the thin material of his fur-covered t-shirt, you could see the way his muscles shifted beneath it—

Natasha didn’t even humour your innocence. She crossed her arms. “You and Barnes?” 

“What about him?” You mumbled, pulling your gaze away as the elevator dinged, doors sliding open.

Her lips twitched, amusement clear. “Are you two—?”

You made a face at her. “What are you on about?” 

Natasha didn’t look convinced, but she let it go.

For now.

As the elevator hummed and Bucky was cut from your view as the doors shut, you took a sip of coffee, the liquid a few degrees between too hot and burning. It scalded your tongue, and with the phantom smell of Bucky’s aftershave no longer haunting you, you felt your mind snap back into action.

Right. Focus.

“We’re going to be late for the meeting,” you declared, shaking your head. “And that damn machine is the reason. You know what? Let’s take a detour to Stark’s lab and demand a better one.”

Natasha chuckled, pressing the button for a different floor.

“I like the way you think.”

—

You knew Alpine would be your downfall.

The little white menace was notoriously selective. If you weren’t Bucky, she wanted nothing to do with you. Everyone at the compound had suffered her wrath at least once—Sam even had the scars to prove it. Alpine liked to play dangerous games that usually ended in blood or a yowl of pain. You swore the Avengers bled more dealing with the feline than fighting aliens, wizards, or whatever else tried to obliterate Earth every other week. She was a cunning little creature, lurking around corners, hiding under tables, prowling along bookshelves. And just when you least expected it—bam. Teeth and claws bared, she would pounce, latching on like a tiny, vengeful spectre. This was her idea of fun. The Avengers had learned to tread carefully, tip-toeing around the compound whenever they knew she wasn’t safely curled up in Bucky’s room, where she ruled with an iron paw.

So, when you sat down on the couch one evening, and Alpine immediately hopped onto your lap, you knew you were fucked.

She didn’t hesitate, didn’t so much as sniff at you in consideration before curling right up, purring loud enough to be heard over the football game droning on in the background—which you were only half paying attention to. 

You stiffened, caught between awe at the rare privilege and sheer dread at the witnesses currently gaping at you.

Bucky, for his part, had been sitting at the other end of the couch, flirting with danger in his usual way—stolen glances, conveniently placed touches as he shifted in place. Alpine, just as obsessed with him as you were (Bucky had taken to calling you both ‘his girls’ in private, which always managed to make you swoon.), had immediately perched in his lap when he sat down. Only when he carefully pried her off to grab another round of beers did the little white she-beast decide you were a worthy substitute, strutting over with lazy, languid confidence before settling down, blissfully unaware of what she had just unleashed.

The room fell into stunned silence. Several pairs of eyes locked onto you, breath collectively held. They were waiting for the yowl, for the inevitable attack, for you to tense up and leap to your feet in pain. But to your horror, the little sadist simply settled in. Cosy, unbothered, as if this had been the plan all along.

“Okay, what the hell is this?” Sam finally demanded, pointing an accusing finger.

You blinked down at Alpine, then up at Sam, stroking the soft fur like nothing was amiss. “Uh… a cat?” 

You were foolish and desperate enough to pretend this was completely normal, to gaslight the others into believing Alpine was a perfectly gentle and affectionate cat. A sweet, loving companion. Not a tiny, vengeful menace who had terrorised them all—and definitely not a creature who had only warmed up to you in recent months because you spent more time in Bucky’s bed than your own.

“The same cat that tried to claw out my eyeball for getting too close? And now she’s just—” He gestured wildly at Alpine, who flicked her tail with the smugness of a queen on her throne. “—cuddling with you like you’re her best buddy?”

“She likes me, I guess.” You blinked innocently, turning back to the TV, hoping he would drop it, but Sam, ever the dramatic, was not satisfied.

“Are you kidding me? That cat has tried to kill me.”

Natasha snorted into her drink. 

Alpine smugly licked her paw before resting her head upon your thigh and blinking her wide blue eyes at Sam, who shook his head with an exaggerated shudder.  “This is bullshit, and you know it—”

“Maybe she just doesn’t like you, Sam.” You huffed, scratching Alpine behind her ears. “She’s always been fine with me.”

“That is not true!” 

“She took a chunk out of my arm once,” Natasha added, ever the instigator.

“Remember when I gave her a treat and she bit me?” Steve piped up.

Bucky returned at that moment, frowning as he saw the conversation unfolding before him. You turned to him with wide, desperate eyes, silently pleading for help. Alpine, the little traitor, merely pressed her pink nose to your hand, rubbing her face against you with a contented sigh.

“She only likes people she’s comfortable with,” Bucky offered, setting the beers down with a clink, but his pitiful attempt to be helpful only added fuel to the fire.

The room exploded into a series of overlapping voices.

“I didn’t realise you spent so much time with Alpine?” Natasha’s sharp gaze flicked between you and Bucky, her smirk primed to taunt you both. 

“Buck, doesn’t she spend all her time in your room—?” Steve leaned forward, forearms braced against his thighs, invested now.

Sam jolted upright like he’d just solved a murder case. “Now, hold on a second—”

“You have been covered in cat fur a lot lately,” Natasha mused. “And you two have been suspiciously close—”

As you glanced over at Bucky, you couldn’t tell if his repeated blunders were intentional or borne out of genuine panic. He cleared his throat, his brows raising as he casually popped off the cap of one of the beers with his vibranium thumb in faux nonchalance.

“Coincidence.” He muttered with a shrug, tipping back a mouthful of the brew. 

Alpine, completely oblivious (or entirely aware of the chaos she’d caused), didn’t budge as Bucky sat back down beside you, levelling you with a look that screamed we are so screwed.

“You two aren’t even going to try to lie?” Natasha pressed.

“Lie about what?” You feigned innocence, but the act was flimsy at best. The jig was well and truly up.

Bucky, clearly done with this little charade, let out a long-suffering sigh that might’ve sounded exasperated if not for the telltale smirk tugging at his lips. Without another word, he slung an arm around your shoulders, pulling you effortlessly against his chest, Alpine still coiled contentedly in your lap. The smug little she-beast didn’t even stir. She just purred loudly—too loudly, like she was taking credit for the entire thing.

“Wait a second!” Sam pointed a dramatic finger between the two of you. “How long has this been happening?”

“How long has what been happening?” Tony strolled into the room, a glass of amber liquid that looked suspiciously like whiskey in hand.

“Her,” Steve announced, gesturing between the both of you. “And Barnes.”

Tony didn’t even blink. “Oh, I already knew that. You didn’t know that?”

Bucky turned so fast you were surprised he didn’t give himself whiplash.  “You what?”

“Oh, come on,” Tony drawled, making himself comfortable on the armrest of the couch like this was all just another day at the office. “You really thought I wouldn’t notice her sneaking out of your room at ungodly hours for the past six months? F.R.I.D.A.Y. kept flagging intruders, and, shocker—it was just you two, utterly failing at stealth.”

Sam threw up his hands. “Did you say six months?!”

Bucky rolled his eyes, but instead of answering, he just turned to you and, without hesitation, kissed you.

It was sudden but warm, his lips soft against yours like he’d been waiting for an excuse. The room erupted into even more noise, Sam shouting something unintelligible, Natasha making a sound of smug satisfaction, and Steve groaning like he should’ve known, but it all faded into the background.

You laughed against Bucky’s lips, breathless but entirely unbothered. “This is definitely her fault.”

Alpine, still purring in your lap like the devious little mastermind she was, flicked her tail.

Bucky just hummed, brushing his nose against yours. “Yeah,” he muttered. “Not complaining, though.”

And, truthfully, neither were you.

[bejeweledinterludes]

i was made for lovin' you.

OR after years of unsaid emotions, supressed feelings and goddamn urges— you and dean finally confront the thing you'd both been avoiding: how there's so much you wanna do in the darkness. and you're gonna make all come true. tonight.

my masterlist

「 pairing 」 : dean winchester x fem ! reader

「 word count 」 : 5.6 k.

「 content / warnings 」 : MINORS LOOK AWAY !!!, lateish seasons (if you squint) dean winchester x reader's first time (not virgins though), unprotected (mostly) soft sex with feelings, feelings, feelings!, aka porn WITH plot!, p in v, handjob, dean being a munch ofc (this is canon. go argue with the wall.), swearing. please let me know if i missed anything!

𖤐 ────────────────────────

from the moment you first met dean winchester while working a case, you knew you wanted to fuck him.

which was a little strange, because you didn't think like that outright about too many men— not ones you knew in real life, anyway.

but here the stupid bastard was, with his annoyingly pretty face and those stupid, big, rough fightin' hands that could touch you everywhere, pull the prettiest sounds right from you—

oh, we're getting way too far ahead of ourselves. you shoved those thoughts away. come on, this was a freakin' case. lives were at stake.

and once the initial secret lust you had finally went away, you realized you were experiencing something much greater than some stupid crush on dean.

because the more hunted with him, you got to see not just the tough, hard-as-nails side of him— but you saw the other side.

his people side.

you got to see the way he interacted with every single person he encountered on a case, not resting until the threat was completely gone and ganked. and sometimes, when a case hit too close to home, he treated victims and affected family no less than his own fuckin' family.

and you knew from your own personal experience that he'd do just about damn near anything for the family he did have. saw the way he got all soft and sweet around kids— and after a good while, even around you.

and that's when you knew you were in trouble.

you'd known dean for years now. and nothing had ever come of you two except him being one of the greatest friends you'd ever had.

but god help you if you didn't want more.

and nothing like a quick fuck, either. no, you wanted to be there for everything— even on those deathly-quiet nights when dean's thoughts got too loud and the debilitating weight he was carrying all alone just got too heavy, you wanted to be the one keeping him afloat.

it was something dangerously close to love.

you tried to ignore it at first. push it down. and it did work-- for a while. until fucking dean started acting weird around you, too.

and now things were... complicated.

you didn't know exactly when things had shifted so much to the point that it almost became unbearable to even be in the same room as dean without either of you knowingly holding back just spilling your guts-- but god, it was worse than dying.

inevitably, one night, it all just snapped.

there was no dramatic fight, or screamed confessions from either of you. no, it happened late in the darkness, when you both were sharing a motel room.

which would have made you fond of all the times you guys had shared motel rooms in the past— you would've smiled at the thought of younger you trying to make the most out of the fact that you had to share a room with a fucking boy.

but dean was now much more of a man than ever before now.

thank god there's two separate beds, you initially thought.

now, though? there wasn't a need for two beds anymore.

because you still somehow ended up in dean's that was closest to the window.

in his lap.

and kissing him.

you were sure you were in just another one of your dreams or fantasies you conjured up to get off— but you could feel dean's hands on you through your shirt, grasping at the fabric. so this had to be real— but just for precaution, you roll your hips into dean's a little.

yeah. that sound he made when he grinds his hips up into your own was definitely real— and right in your mouth.

you knew you were probably moving too fast— but fuck if you cared. your hands sneak in between you both and trail downward on the front of dean's shirt, not stopping until you reach the hem— and your voice is a whisper against dean's kiss-swollen lips.

"arms up, de."

and dean obliges in a heartbeat, raising his arms up over his head immediately— and he's silently praising the fact he decided to just wear a t-shirt to bed.

you actually somehow had only seen dean shirtless once or twice over the years— the latest being last summer when the air conditioning in the bunker was broken, and you conveniently and hurriedly stated that you had to stay in your room the entire day—because it was so much more skin than you were used to seeing.

but now?

you're staring.

dean's looking at you looking at him— and if the motel room wasn't so dark, you could've sworn his face got a little pinker under your gaze.

but you don't dwell on that for too long. because your hands are itching to reach out and just touch— and the moment your fingers start to graze on dean's biceps first, his eyes flutter shut and he lets out a shaky exhale, fighting to keep himself under control.

because it's you that's touching him.

you're still touching him when you lean back and kiss his lips again— and dean is very aware of the fact that you still have your shirt on.

but you have to break the kiss after a while to get stupid air— and your hands are reluctantly taken off of dean's skin, much to his protest. but the words he was about to say die in his throat when he sees where your hands were going.

you grasp the hem of the oversized shirt you were wearing, tearing it over your head and discarding it in the same motion— all while you were silently thanking whatever had possessed you not to wear shorts to bed.

or a bra.

and now, dean thinks he might die.

it was his turn to stare, eyes raking and flicking over every inch of you as you're straddling his lap like he didn't know where to look first— and dean's just so in awe, he says what he was thinking out loud in a barely-audible.

"god, you're beautiful."

you can feel a blush burning your cheeks at dean's words-- and judging by the way his eyes widened ever so slightly when he uttered those words, you knew he meant it. you smile softly down at him, your voice just as quiet as his once was.

"you're not so bad, yourself.''

and that makes the corner of dean's lips turn up in a small, soft smirk. god, he loves you. and he's gonna show you that.

all night long.

dean starts with his hands, the rough callouses trailing up your thighs, hips, waist, stomach, tits, arms, back— fucking everywhere on your bare skin as he stares up at you.

but your hands move on dean, too— touching him everywhere you could reach before you go lower, your fingers grazing on the waistband of his boxers— but you look back up at him again, a silent question in your eyes.

dean looks confused for half a second— until he realizes you're asking for permission. then he nods, his heart feeling warmer than it was before.

you tear his boxers off in one fell swoop— and holy goddamn.

you stare— again. and dean's fighting the urge to roll you over onto the mattress and just taking you.

instead, he forces himself to stay still under you— because the urge to do that and see what you do next is stronger.

dean's smirking up at you. the damn idiot. and then he quietly murmurs out—

"your turn."

you'd almost forgotten you still had your underwear on— oh, but dean didn't forget. the speed at which you yank down the fabric and discard it somewhere in the motel room should be a world record.

you look back down at dean again when you get situated back on his lap— but he's not looking at you anymore.

no, the man gulps at the sight of your pussy being exposed to him— and it takes him a while to look back up at you, his voice low and rough.

"c'mere."

you obliged, one of your hands reaching down and grasping dean's own that had been resting on your thigh.

this was new. oh, so new. dean wasn't new to you by any means, and that familiarity, that bond was still there— but he was new in this sense. this was different.

this was real.

dean was a man who rarely ever got what he really wanted— so you wanted dean to get whatever he wanted out of what was about to happen between the two of you.

"tell me what you want, dean," your voice is a mere whisper. "tell me what you want me to do, and i'll do it."

dean really thinks you should be illegal. you're all he's ever wanted—and you're asking him what he wanted.

he doesn't answer right away— dean's eyes rake over your naked form in his lap, and he's got his hands resting on your thighs as he meets your gaze once more.

"touch me."

you knew what dean meant by that. dean knew what he meant by that. and you both were fully aware of the line you were about to cross. but you weren't even nervous. and neither was he.

so take your hands, reaching down and trailing a path on dean's lower torso before you take him all in your hands.

and dean thinks he might die.

again.

because you start stroking him slowly— you weren't an idiot, you knew if you went too fast at first, it would hurt dean like a motherfucker rather than feel good.

and you're just looking at him, reading his reactions, making sure that it feels good.

all dean can get out at first is your name. he had opened his mouth to say something, but that's all that came out in a broken groan. he's letting out these little broken noises of pleasure— and his head has to fall back on the shitty motel room’s headboard so he doesn't cum right there.

you keep your pace of your hand on dean's dick steady, only increasing the intensity after a few moments when you can tell he needed more— by the way he gripped onto your hip, his rough fingers curling into the meat of your skin— and by the way he was fighting back the moans that had been treating to escape his throat.

it was definitely embarrassing how close dean was to cumming already, he knew that. but he also knew it was because it was you who was bringing him there. not some quick fuck with a chick he'd met that night, or his own hand— no.

it was yours.

and that thought combined with the way you're still looking at him— in awe, like he's something out of a museum, gets him way closer to the edge you were guiding him to.

"i'm— fucking christ, jesus—"

your name along with the man upstairs' son had come out of dean's mouth in a desperate attempt to warn you that he was right there, all because of you.

"i gotcha, dean," you whisper, and your free hand not jerking him off reaches to cup the side of his face as his head's tilted up towards you.

"just let it happen."

and that does it for him.

dean cums hard, his hands clutching on your thigh and part of your hips with all he's got, gasping and groaning, letting little out broken moans the whole way down.

you just guide dean through it with your hand, watching him under you as his skin was all flushed and red now, hair sticking up everywhere (courtesy of your hands), his pupils blown out and half-lidded before shutting fully.

"y'okay?" you whisper, your eyes flicking over dean under you. his own eyes continued to be closed— and you take that time to grab a tissue from the nightstand, wiping your hand clean before looking back and giving dean your full attention.

your other hand was still on his face, your thumb grazing on his cheek now, and for a split second, you almost think dean must not have liked it, or you went too far, because he wasn't saying—

"holy shit."

the curse leaves dean's mouth as his eyes open— and all he can do is reach his free hand up that wasn't grasping yours between the two of you already and rest it on the one cupping his face.

you can't even open your softly smiling mouth to respond, because the next words are coming out of dean's mouth, his voice still raw and rough from the way you just broke him apart.

"you know what i wanna do right now?"

you tilt your head a little to the side, still looking down at dean below you with his back resting against the headboard as you so desperately wanted to know.

"what?"

dean's downright devilish smirk reappears— and his eyes flick down to your almost dripping pussy that was spread as you straddled his legs before looking back up at you, his voice still rough as ever.

"I wanna taste you."

and a strangled sound gets stuck in your throat at the mere thought of dean eating you out. maybe it was a little embarassing how breathless your voice sounded when you leaned just a fraction closer to him.

"then go ahead."

an actual growl escapes dean at that— and you don't need to tell the man twice. he's got you flipped over and pinning you down, your scorching back hitting the cold motel sheets before you can even blink. you stare up at him when he hovers over you, both hands on the sides of your head, holding him up— and he's just looking at you.

but dean doesn't stay like that for too long. his lips hit your neck immediately after he leans down enough— and he starts just attacking at your skin, nipping, biting, sucking— he draws a path all the way down, until he reaches your now sopping pussy.

dean changes his position when he does, spreading your slick inner thighs further apart and settling between your legs, wrapping a strong arm around the meat of your thighs.

but he hesitates for a brief moment. he likes eating out pussy, but did you enjoy it? his pussy-drunk eyes flick up to yours— and you're a sight all spread out for him, your back against the pillows and sitting up a little so you could watch.

"i ain't gonna be gentle. y'know that, right?"

you knew that dean had always been considerate of you, long before this night— for as long as you'd known him, for that matter. but hearing him tell you that he didn't want to be gentle made your gaze soften and a smile tug on your lips as you nodded in response.

"yeah, i know."

and in that moment, dean thinks he loves you.

well, in all actuality, dean knows he loves you— but seeing you all soft and just so goddamn pretty in the moonlight that's filtering in through the motel room window, he's well aware of the blessing that's before him.

dean gives you one last smile— softer this time. then he dives in, burying in his face and going at you full force, his tongue flat and working against your puffy, slick folds before letting out a groan that vibrates everything.

and dean was right.

he was not gentle about it.

your eyes threaten to flutter shut as dean's tounge works on you— but you force them to be half-lidded as you look down at the sight of dean eating you out like a starved man.

and he's looking right back at you as he does it.

your hand flies to grasp onto dean's that was still resting on your thigh as his mouth continues to attack you— and he gladly takes it in his, not faltering his pace once.

you couldn't help but bite down hard on your bottom lip, attempting to contain the moans and noises that were threatening to spill out of you— and dean isn’t having it.

“nuh uh, darlin’,” dean shakes his head between your thighs, talking right into your pussy between flicks of his tongue on your clit. “i wanna hear you— wanna hear how goddamn good i’m makin’ ya feel right now.”

and with that, your mouth drops open almost immediately. it's like a switch flipped in you— and the first moan you let out is his fuckin' name.

"dean..."

christ on a cross. dean had wanted to hear just anything come out of your pretty mouth, but his name being the first thing on the tip of your tongue does things to him.

dean's imagined you moaning his name countless times, of course, but nothing can compare to the real you right now— tits heaving, groaning and eyes fluttering a little each time he brushes on a few sensitive spots on your pussy with his tongue.

now, it's embarrassing how close you are to cumming on dean's tongue. and oh, he notices. he holds your bucking and writhing hips down with his free hand that's not grasping and holding onto yours—

and goes to fuckin' town.

"fuck— dean!" you think you're gonna pass out— because you could barely hear the sounds of dean slurping up your juices and sucking on your clit when you cum without warning, back arching off of the sheets and grinding into his tongue, your grip on his hand becoming almost bruising as the pleasure cascades over you in waves.

dean doesn't look away from you for a second as your pussy flutters on his tongue, moving his mouth slower once more to not let a drop of you go to waste, making sure you're completely spent, pulling soft groans and gasps from your lips.

your legs tremble and shake under the arm that dean had wrapped around your thigh— and he takes a second to just watch you in the post-orgasm state you're in.

"y'okay?" dean's voice is rough but soft at the same time, looking up at you from his position between your legs like you're the night sky itself.

you open your eyes again, lifting your head off of the pillows just enough to see dean's eyes looking right back at you— and oh, he's a sight, his lips, nose and chin absolutley covered in your slick— and his hair's even more messy than before now.

"yeah", you breathe out softly, managing a nod against the pillows. "yeah, i'm all good. c'mere."

dean sees the soft look in your eyes— and his own gaze melts as he obeys, lifting off of the mattress and out from between your legs to hover over you, your faces just inches apart again.

dean can't look away.

and he never wants to.

"you're goddamn gorgeous, y'know that?" dean murmurs as he looks down at your moonlit face.

at that, you reach your hand up in the distance between you two, cupping the side of dean's face— and his head immediately leans into your touch before you whisper back.

"and you're perfect, dean."

dean's chest tightens at that— and his gaze somehow softens even more. no one's ever called him perfect before, and he couldn't think of one person in his life who even believed that to be true.

but you were looking at dean like he was.

you notice dean's reaction immediately— it was hard not to with how close you were.

you meant those words you said to dean— because being perfect wasn't about having absolutely no flaws or weaknesses.

it was about knowing that, and still carrying on anyway.

and then it clicks. because you could talk all you wanted to dean.

or you could show him how perfect he was.

"lemme show you," you whisper before dean could even open his mouth to deny it. "let me show you how perfect you are, dean."

and those words are completely breaking down what little resistance dean had left. his eyes actually get a little misty as he’s looking down at you— because he can't believe you're here, telling him everything he's never heard before.

dean nods— and his voice is shaking with anticipation mixed with pure awe.

"yeah. yeah, okay."

and that's all you needed. you look at dean's face one last time before lifting your head to close the little distance between the both of you, kissing him with everything you had to give him.

you didn't kiss dean like before— that was in a state of pure lust, desire, and want. now, you're kissing him softer, slower, and with purpose.

and purpose was exactly what dean needed. he tries to keep himself upright and hovering over you, but the way you're kissing him has his arms trembling as you're literally melting him.

you only take my lips off of dean’s when the air he and you had been breathing through your noses wasn’t enough— and your thumb grazes on his cheek again as his forehead rests on top of yours, eyes fluttering a little as i whisper against his lips.

“lay down for me.”

you don't have to say it again. dean obliges in a heartbeat, lifting off of you and rolling onto his back in one fluid motion— and you follow behind, tossing your leg over his to straddle him once more

dean’s hands go to your hips once you’re straddling him, looking up at you now— he still looks a little wrecked from earlier, and his chest is rising and falling in a slower, steadier rhythm than before, like he’s trying to calm himself down.

but seeing your naked form straddling him like this once more is just making his heart start to thump against his chest— again.

your hands find dean’s own on your hips,your fingers trailing on his skin, grazing past his wrists and up his arms— you're not exactly slow, but you're also not very fast with it, either.

no, you take your time touching dean all over again, fingertips tracing over every scar and dent you could see and feel as you're straddling him. your eyes flick up to his face, meeting his gaze once more— but you just keep touching him.

"oh, look at you," your voice is an awed whisper while your hands move on dean’s chest, grazing on the anti-possession tattoo he had on his skin. "see? you’re perfect."

and dean can’t help the little shiver your touch brings him right now, even though he's literally just laying below you, half-propped up by the pillows like you once were. he just can’t help it, because you’ve always been able to get the best reactions out of him.

dean swallows hard as your hands continue their journey over his body— your fingertips roaming over his skin, tracing all the scars he’d earned, right across his chest and down to his stomach.

and his breath actually hitches when you touch his anti-possession tattoo again.

your fingers trace on dean’s tattoo, watching and loving his reactions to just your freakin' hands.

and your hands stay resting on dean’s chest, but a little closer to his shoulders, shifting closer to him in his lap, pressing the entirety of your bare body completely against his.

your voice is still a whisper when you talk again, searching his face as you ask him to do what you've always wanted to.

because you needed to show dean how much you wanted him.

"can i ride you?"

if dean was hard before, it's nothing compared to the way his dick almost hurts now, throbbing at the way you asked permission to ride him.

"god, yes" is what comes out from dean's clenched jaw, and his gaze is locked onto yours as his hands rest on your hips.

a soft smile tugs on your lips again, your gaze flicking down for a brief moment when you hear how strained dean’s voice was— and the sight of him hard for you sends a wave of heat that pools in your stomach, making you clench around nothing.

because you needed dean just as badly as he needed you.

your eyes flick back up to dean’s green ones. and you notice that neither of you are nervous for his to happen. this was dean, after all. you'd wanted him in the least friendly way possible for as long as you could remember— and now? it was actually going to come true.

you didn’t have to ask dean anything else, or even say something. he wanted all of you— and you were going to give it to him.

so that’s why you shift a little, reaching down and guiding yourself to sink onto dean, keeping his gaze while your hands are still on his shoulders.

a broken groan escapes dean when you start to lower yourself down on him— and his own body’s reaction to your walls sucking him in just makes him want you even more.

dean lets his gaze travel all across your face— and he’s still looking right into your eyes when he lets himself go completely slack underneath you, letting you take the lead.

your fingers dig a little into dean’s shoulder at the burning sensation of your pussy being stretched— and your breath hitches, hard. your head falls forward a little as you screw your eyes shut.

your mind had felt like it was going over a thousand miles per second, but when your legs finally hit dean's and your pussy hits the base of his dick, everything just... goes away.

and dean couldn’t keep himself completely still anymore. he actually growled a little when he felt you fully sink down on him, and the sound that left him when he feels your tightness around him was a little more primal-sounding than he’d like to admit right now.

"oh, fuck," he breathes out your name, "you’re tryna kill me."

you can only respond to dean’s words with a strangled noise as the burning sensation was becoming full-throttle now, your grip on dean’s shoulders a little tighter, your head still hung as you try to keep my breathing steady.

because you literally couldn’t move yet. it was still the best feeling you'd ever felt— but you had to get used to dean's dick being buried deep inside of you before you could actually start to move on top of him.

and the way you’re holding on to his shoulders right now and how you’re trying to hold back little noises is driving dean insane.

he’s gripping your hips so tight that it has to be almost painful, and his eyes are fixed on you, still watching you while he tries to stay still for you. but it was taking a hell of a lot of effort on his part.

dean's chest is rising and falling fast, and he can’t help it when he finally chokes out your name in a whisper, unable to keep it in anymore.

"move. please."

at dean’s plea, you flick your hips just a little to see if you were adjusted yet.

and oh, were you ever. your fingers finally release their death grip on dean’s shoulders, one of your hands finding and grasping one of his own that was on your hip— and you finally start to move on top of him, rocking your hips into his.

the groan that escapes dean is the deepest one yet, his hand clutching onto yours and his eyes shutting for a moment as he feels you moving, his free hand tightening on your hip again.

"oh, god," dean gasps out, "jesus—"

you let out a raggedy exhale mixed with a moan, attempting to stop your eyes from rolling back into your head as you continue to ride dean's dick. it was hard, but you managed to keep your eyes open and half-lidded and on him, wanting to see his face— and you grind your hips into his faster and harder.

seeing you like this was getting to be borderline unbearable for dean.

your tits are bouncing a little in dean's face, and you're just not letting up, and you're so tight and warm, and he just fuckin' loves you—

dean realizes he's gonna cum if you keep this up.

and the embarrassing part is you barely even started riding him.

so it’s a damn good thing he’s still got a shred of control over himself right now.

"je— s— slow it down for a sec, darlin'," dean manages to get out, gritting his teeth as his eyes screw shut. "please."

the moment those words leave dean’s mouth, you immediately do as he says— you don’t abruptly stop, instead gradually slowing your movements to allow for an easy transition.

your hand trails up from dean's shoulder to cup on the side of his face while your're still on top of him— your eyes then search his when you breathlessly whisper to him.

"you okay?"

dean opens his eyes when you ask him if he’s okay right now, knowing that was pure concern in your words. he’s taking a moment to let his body level out a bit, since you stopped like he asked you to. and when he does, he manages a nod once he’s able to somehow form words.

"yeah, 'm good, darlin’—" dean swallows and takes a big gulp of air. "just got a 'lil too close to the edge for a second there. don’t wanna blow it right now."

an exhale of relief you didn’t know you were holding in was let out at dean’s confirmation— and your thumb almost absentmindedly grazes on the skin of his cheek as your hand was still on the side of his face.

"oh," you also nod, gaze softening as you look down at dean under you still. his words make you feel warm inside, along with a little sense of pride, too— but you still had to confirm. "it doesn’t hurt, though, right?"

"doesn’t hurt,” dean responds immediately. and that’s a bit of a complete understatement, because being inside of you right now felt like heaven. his own hand comes up to where yours is, his fingers skimming over your skin as he smiles softly up at you once more. "just wanna be able to last a 'lil bit longer for you, 's all."

your eyebrows scrunch together at that, and your expression is almost goddamn melted at this point as you look down at dean. you weren't sure why those words impacted you so much, but your chest tightens with emotion before you speak again.

"oh, de," you literally whisper, your thumb still skimming back and forth on dean’s cheek. "y'know you don’t have to do that."

"yeah, i do," dean murmurs immediately in response, looking right into your eyes the whole time he talks. "i've wanted this— you for goddamn years. i'm not lettin' this end yet."

so you don't.

you nod, leaning in and pressing a kiss on dean's lips before you talk again.

"okay," you nod against his forehead. "just move me when you want to, alright?"

dean gratefully nods, too, appreciating your understanding. his hands find and hold your hips again—this time, with less of a death-grip. and after he takes a steadying breath, he starts to move you.

you just let dean work and grind your hips into his own, holding his shoulder and face with your hands, allowing him to take what he needed and set the pace.

after a while, though, dean lifts you up off his dick by your hips a few inches before setting you back down fully, repeating the motion— starting to actually fuck you a little.

you'd been quiet for the most part so far— but once the head of dean's dick brushes against that spongy spot deep inside of you, a string of broken moans and gasps spill from your lips.

and that just spurs dean on.

you'd both waited long enough now. it's been years of stolen looks, suppressed jealousy, unspoken thoughts and feelings— and tonight, you're making it all come true in the darkness of the motel room.

thank god dean's hands had been guiding your hips— because you're starting to unravel faster than you can comprehend. and so is dean.

dean's fucking up into you now like he'll never be able to fuck you again— which you both know wasn't true. and after tonight, you know you'd happily sleep with dean's dick buried inside of your pussy.

it takes only a whimper falling from your lips for dean to know that you're close— and your hand flies down to one of his on your hips again. he gladly takes it, wanting to hold your hand when he cums inside of you—

wait. is he allowed to do that?

"y— oh," dean groans out your name— he has not been silent throughout this entire ordeal, either. broken noises of pleasure and little groans of your name escaped his lips whenever your walls clenched around him. "can i— god—"

you didn't have to ask what dean meant by that. you nod almost frantically as his hand are still gripping your hips, guiding your pussy up and down his dick— and you squeeze his other hand tighter, the one you were holding.

and only then does dean let himself go, again.

your orgasm comes at the same time dean's does— and you both arch into each other and trembling as your moans echo off the motel room's walls. dean's face buries between your tits and groans into the skin while he spills up into you, your juices mixing with his.

you both stay like that for a while, naked, sweating, slick and gasping for air for god knows how long— until dean's raw and breathless voice vibrating on your breasts breaks the silence.

"i think i was made for you."

──────────────────────── 𖤐

you now have two ( 2 ) new message from the author ! ↓

oh heyyy... are any of y'all still here ??? but seriously, on a real note— if you have stayed to the very end: first, THANK YOU for reading! and second, if you enjoyed, please consider SHOWING ME THAT ( reblogs / comments / etc ) because this took me FOREVER to write, and i want to know if my efforts are worthwhile!

OH i also used a very special headcanon from @figthoughts' mastermind brain for this one because mr. dean winchester holding your hand while he eats you out is very much and totally 100% canon for me as well. fig you match my freak like no other and i hope to one day write as good and absolutely filthily as you do HEHE smooches to you my pookie <3

my master taglist (so far): @blossomingorchids @bluemerakis @ambiguous-avery @maddie0101 @titsout4jackles @deansbeer @sunsbaby @emeraldcrs @h8aaz @honeyryewhiskey @supernotnatural2005 @cowboysandcigarettes @soldiersgirl @figthoughts @mostlymarvelgirl @amaris444 @kaz-2y5-spn @littlesoulshine + if i missed anyone OR if you want to be added/taken off, please let me know! <3

[kateschi]

the katsuki bakugou effect

synopsis: where your husband, katsuki, has a way of calming your daughter like no one else can.

pairing: timeskip!bakugou katsuki x f!reader

katsuki’s ability to calm your daughter is nothing short of magical.

it doesn’t matter how fussy or inconsolable she gets; the moment he holds her, everything changes.

her tiny fists are no longer clenched in frustration, her loud cries slowly taper off, and her little body relaxes in his arms. his presence soothes her in a way no one else’s can.

you’ve lost count of how many times you’ve been at the end of your rope, trying everything you can think of to calm her.

you’ve rocked her gently, hummed her favorite lullaby, even tried a little soft talking, but nothing works.

when your baby’s tears start to escalate, and her little body trembles in distress, you find yourself on the edge of exhaustion.

but then katsuki walks in.

he steps over to you, and with a quick kiss to the top of your head, scoops her from your arms, then instantly, the tension in the room lifts.

his rough hands gently cradle her, and he murmurs something too quiet for you to catch.

you can’t help but watch in awe as she goes from wailing to calm in just a few seconds, her little face nuzzling against his chest. it’s like a switch flips, and you swear you can see her sigh in relief.

it’s always the same. as soon as katsuki’s around, she settles. she looks at him with a calmness that’s impossible to ignore, her tiny lips pouting slightly as she stares up at him.

her little hands grasp weakly at his shirt, her body relaxing into his hold as if everything is suddenly right with the world. and katsuki just holds her, always.

“you’re a softie,” you tease one day as you watch him rock her back and forth.

katsuki shoots you a glare, but it’s softened by the sight of your daughter curled peacefully in his arms. “shut up,” he mutters, but there’s no real heat behind it. and you can’t help but smile.

you cross the room, leaning in to plant a kiss on his cheek. he stiffens for a moment, but the warmth in his eyes tells you everything you need to know.

“I’m serious,” you say. “you’re the softest guy I know.”

he lets out a gruff chuckle, his scowl deepening, though it's clear he's enjoying your attention as he places a gentle kiss on your forehead.

a few weeks later, you’re all at a class 1-a reunion, gathered at the old dorms. the atmosphere is lively, with the familiar banter of your old classmates filling the air.

midoriya’s sitting on the couch, holding your daughter carefully in his arms, cooing softly at her as the rest of the group laughs and talks around them.

but suddenly, the peaceful mood shifts. your girl begins to fidget in midoriya’s arms, her little face scrunching up in that all-too-familiar way before the whimpers start.

a soft cry escapes her lips, and then it builds, escalating into the full-blown wail you know so well. midoriya looks startled, glancing around as if searching for some way to calm her.

“uh, uh, it’s okay,” midoriya says, trying to gently rock her in his arms. “it’s okay, sweetheart."

but your baby’s cries only seem to grow louder, her face turning red as her hands flail helplessly. you glance at katsuki, already knowing what’s coming next.

without a word, katsuki stands up from his seat, the others giving him a bit of space as he walks over.

his eyes lock on your daughter, and there’s something about his gaze that makes everything else fade into the background. he’s not rushing, not frantic.

he just calmly steps in, his arms outstretched.

midoriya silently hands the little girl over. as soon as katsuki has her, everything shifts. he holds her against his chest, and his rough hand gently pats her back.

his thumb brushes against her little arm, his voice soft. “it’s me,” he murmurs, his tone low and steady. “it’s okay.”

your little girl hiccups, her cries fading almost immediately, and then she stops. her lips jut out in a pout, still a little upset, but no longer in distress.

she stares up at him, her wide eyes searching his face as if recognizing him. and then, she settles into the crook of his arm, her tiny hands grasping weakly at the fabric of his shirt.

the room is silent for a moment, everyone watching in awe as your girl rests peacefully in katsuki’s arms. he doesn’t even seem to notice the attention.

his focus is entirely on her, his expression softening as she calms.

you smile to yourself, watching him from the sidelines. even after all this time, katsuki never ceases to surprise you with how much he’s grown, how much he’s learned.

you remember when he first found out he was going to be a father, and how nervous he’d been (though he would never admit that).

but now, here he is, effortlessly calming your daughter.

“man, you’re a real softie now, huh?” kirishima teases from across the room, a wide grin plastered on his face.

katsuki’s eyes narrow immediately, and he glares at his friend. “shut the hell up, red.”

but the teasing doesn’t stop there.

kaminari, who’s been silently watching the entire scene, leans forward with a smirk. “I can’t believe it…the ‘explosion hero’ is actually the baby whisperer now?”

katsuki frowns, and his glare remains trained on the two of them. but there’s a slight restraint in his movements—one that’s only noticeable to you.

he’s trying to stay calm, and it’s all because he doesn’t want to wake your little girl up. you can practically feel the tension in the air as his patience wears thin.

sero, naturally, chimes in with a smirk of his own. “I’ve gotta hand it to you, man. I never thought I’d see the day when you’d be ‘aww’ing over a baby like some mushy ball of fluff.”

katsuki’s mouth opens, ready to fire back, but then he glances down at your sleeping daughter, her little chest rising and falling peacefully, and he shuts it again.

for a split second, his fierce expression softens. he takes a deep breath, holding the baby a little tighter.

“you’re lucky she’s asleep, or I would've blasted your asses to oblivion,” he grumbles, but the threat is half-hearted.

kaminari lets out a nervous laugh. “jeez, man, alright, we get it.”

you can’t help but chuckle softly, leaning against the doorframe as you watch them. 

katsuki’s eyes narrow in warning, but despite his frown, there’s a warmth to his expression that doesn’t go unnoticed when he looks back at d/n.

it’s moments like these when the rest of the world seems to disappear, and it's just him, her, and the quiet calm they share.

sighing in resignation, he shifts slightly, walking over to you. you watch as he makes his way across the room, still cradling your daughter in his arms, her tiny hands gripping his shirt as she drifts into a deeper sleep.

you don’t say anything at first, but as he gets closer, you meet his gaze with a soft smile.

there’s no denying the softening effect he has when it’s just the two of you—well, the three of you, if you count the tiny bundle in his arms.

he leans into you as he steps to your side, his broad shoulders brushing against yours, and without a word, he tilts his head slightly toward you, seeking the quiet comfort of being beside you.

“I told them to shut up,” katsuki mutters, his voice lower now, quieter. his usual fiery energy is subdued, and he seems content to just be in your presence.

he exhales slowly, letting the weight of the situation fade away. you reach up and gently touch his arm, a soft laugh escaping you.

"she's lucky you’re her dad," you murmur, your eyes flickering down to where your daughter is curled against his chest. "you’re so patient with her."

katsuki scoffs lightly, rolling his eyes, but the smile tugging at his lips betrays his true feelings.

“I’m not some damn pushover,” he mutters, but there’s a softness in his tone that makes you want to kiss him.

and you do.

kofi — navigation — masterlist

do not copy, translate, or plagarize

[sceletaflores]

I COULD PLAY THE DOCTOR (I CAN CURE YOUR DISEASE)

pair: logan howlett x fem!reader

wc: 4.1k

contains: 18+ SMUT MDNI, swearing, established relationship, logan's pov, written with origins!logan in mind, nat veering dangerously closer to a/b/o territory with every passing day, rut cycles, oral sex (fem!receiving), fingering (fem!receiving), multiple orgasms, gratuitous amounts of dirty talk, p in v, rough sex, biting, hair pulling, size kink, belly bulging, pussy pronouns, one (1) single use of the word daddy, scent kink, pain kink, breeding kink ofc, knotting (don’t look at me…), squirting, porn w/ plot, no use of y/n.

nat’s note: don’t look at me…i don’t know how many times i swore up and down i’d never write something like this but i’m a confirmed liar apparently so…here. i mean i just figured i'm in a rut artistically so therefore the only answer is writing logan in a rut physically...i can do what i want and i don't need to explain myself or my horny thoughts. also, i debated posting this in the wake of everything that's gone down over the past two days that is still escalating and will continue to escalate in the coming weeks, but i think everyone could use a little escape from how scary things may seem right now. take a break from all the terrifying news sites and read about logan wanting to breed you :) kisses!

divider by angel @saradika-graphics!

it's been another six months, and logan needs your help...

The burn starts on the walk home from work, a pulse of heat deep in Logan's gut that grows with every step.

It spreads slowly, sinking into his muscles and seeping up his spine as he rounds the last corner, your place less than a block away now.

It caught him off guard this time, an itch burying itself under his skin earlier in the day only to get worse and worse as he worked.

He usually knew the signs well enough to feel them start creeping in, and he was dead sure it wasn't for another few weeks.

Apparently, he was wrong.

Logan’s jaw clenches as he picks up his pace, every nerve ending in his body straining to break into a full blown sprint at the thought of you, all alone and waiting for him.

His fingers curl into tight fists, nails pressing into his palms to ground himself, though it’s hardly enough. The faint scent of you drifts up from his shirt, not even a long day at the lumberyard enough to drown it out.

By the time he reaches your door, his heartbeat is a heavy thud in his ears, syncing with the building ache of desire wracking through his body like the earth rattling boom of a raging thunder storm.

He fumbles through getting his key into the lock, hands unsteady as he tugs the door open with a little more force than necessary and finally steps inside.

The second he closes the door behind him, the heat surges, thrumming through his veins and flooding his chest. Your scent fills the air completely, stronger now, wrapping around him so thick and sweet.

"Darlin'?" His voice comes out rougher than he intends, but he's beyond caring.

Your voice floats from the other room, casual, warm enough to send a jolt through him. Logan drops his axe from his shoulder, leaning it against the door as he starts down the familiar path to your bedroom.

You're spread out on his side of the bed—oblivious, curled up with a book, wrapped in one of the flannels he must have left the last time he stayed over.

Just the sight of you does something to him, like a match dragged against a strike pad, damned on setting everything ablaze.

You glance up, and the soft smile on your lips falters as you catch sight of him.

Logan knows what he must look like, his eyes all dark and predatory, chest heaving as he rakes his hungry gaze over you like a wolf watches a lamb grazing too close to its den.

He doesn’t say anything at first, just stalks toward you with a purpose that’s as undeniable as the heat pouring off him in waves.

The book slips from your fingers, forgotten, as you lean back, the small sound of your breath hitching under the weight of his gaze is music to his ears.

Logan pauses at the edge of the bed, towering over you, letting himself drink in the way you look. So soft and serene, like some kind of invitation that begs him closer. His flannel draped loosely over your shoulders–shrouding you in his scent. 

The urge to pounce on you fights against his normal instinct to savor every second, to draw it out until the heat pooling in his gut becomes downright unbearable.

“Been thinkin’ about you all damn day,” he mutters, voice thick and dark as molasses, rough from restraint he’s quickly losing. His knuckles brush against your thigh, then tighten, holding you in place as he leans down, his breath hot against your neck. “Thinkin’ about what I was gonna when I finally got my hands on you.”

Your skin blooms with warmth beneath his touch, and he grins against your neck, the edge of his teeth grazing you just enough to make you squirm. He growls low in his throat, that itch he’s been fighting nearly all day clawing its way up to the surface with a vengeance.

The primal urge inside of him screaming to claim claim claim take take take mate mate mate breed breed breed.

You tilt your head to the side with a soft sigh, freeing up more space for him to nose along your skin. “Is it time?”

Logan's breath catches as your question hangs in the air, thick with anticipation. The soft simplicity of it ignites the wildfire burning in his gut, every ounce of restraint slipping away like sand through his fingers.

“Yeah, baby,” he growls, slipping his fingers under the worn cotton of your shorts, feeling the bare skin beneath. “It’s time.”

You shift, hands going to the buttons of his flannel like you’re going to take it off. Logan stops you, taking your wrists in his free hand.

“Don’t,” he breathes, shaking his head hard enough that his hair flows with it. “Leave it on.”

The thought of you covered in his scent, of his scent mixing with yours to claim you on a level only he can discern sends his mind buzzing.

You look up at him with those wide, trusting eyes, and something in him cracks wide open. The tenderness of your gaze pulls at him, like a tether pulling him back from the edge, but that heat still smolders in his blood, fierce and unyielding.

Logan runs his thumb along the racing pulse of your wrist before he drops them. His hands venture lower, fingers pressing against the inside of your thigh, tracing a deliberate path that makes your body tremble under his touch.

You let out a shuddering breath, the scent of your arousal swirling through the air is enough to make him crave more.

In one rough tug, Logan yanks you towards the edge of the bed as he falls to his knees. Your hips held tight in his hands as he lurches forward, burying his nose in the soft junction where your leg and inner thigh meet.

He inhales deep, greedy lungfuls of your scent. A guttural growl rumbles through his chest, his eyes screwing shut at the sheer amount of too much that courses through him. He feels dizzy with it, high on the pheromones pumping from you in waves.

You’re soaked already, the wet fabric of your shorts melded to the shape of your cunt. He can’t help but run his nose along the slick seam of you, reveling in the way your legs twitch on either side of his head, in the short gasp you let out.

“Logan.” Your voice is nothing but a mewl, pleading and desperate.

“Missed you,” he rasps, his voice rough, almost unrecognizable. The edge of need in him makes his hands shake, sliding up your thighs, urging them even further apart as he settles between them.

Logan’s fingers dig into your skin, he lets his thumbs brush up, hooking them into the waistband of your shorts to tug them down your legs in one sharp yank. He groans at the sight of you completely bare, no underwear.

“Fuck, look at you,” he grates, his thumb coming down to slip through your dripping cunt. Your hole flutters desperately around him, needy little clenches like it’s trying to suck him in. “She’s all ready for me, huh? Been waiting for me to come home and give her some attention?”

“Please,” you whimper, your voice thick with longing, the sound going straight to his head, clouding his thoughts. 

Logan’s pulse races as he watches your body arch instinctively toward his touch, the desperate need in your eyes igniting the raw urges coursing through him.

He can’t deny you; he never could. You’re a feast laid out before him, and he’s starving.

Logan leans closer, letting his tongue flick out to taste you like he’s wanted to since he left for work this morning. 

“Fuck,” he breathes, closing his eyes and losing himself in the moment. He licks a broad stripe from your entrance to your clit, savoring the way your body responds, the way your legs tremble and your hips twitch against his mouth, seeking more. “Tastes like fuckin’ heaven, sweetheart.”

The taste of you is intoxicating—sweet and tangy, flooding his senses with every drag and swirl of his tongue.

Logan can’t help but moan against you, the sound vibrating through your body as he dives deeper, his nose nudging against your slick entrance as he shakes his head back and forth like an animal—rubbing the plush skin of your inner thighs red and raw with each rough drag of his coarse beard.

Every flick of his tongue sends a shockwave through you, and he revels in the sounds you make—each whimper, each moan, a siren’s call urging him deeper. He laves his tongue around your clit, sucking it gently, pulling at it with his lips as you writhe beneath him, begging for more. 

He keeps your thighs spread wide, two strong hands pinning them to the mattress so he can devour you just the way you deserve, the sharp dig of your heels into his shoulders only spurs him on.

Your hands bury themselves in his hair, tugging him closer, and he groans into you, letting his tongue delve deeper, seeking out every bit of sweetness he can coax from you. 

It’s pure sin, each sound you make, each shiver that runs through you as he takes his time, drinking you down like a man starved. 

The ache in him intensifies, his own need growing, pulsing. He’s hard, has been hard since he walked through the front door.

His cock strains against the zipper of his jeans, need pulsing in time with each pump of his blood through his shaft, circling around the base, threatening to expand even without the tight grip of your pussy surrounding him. His hips jerk up on their own volition, desperate for any friction.

“Just like that, Logan,” you gasp, voice breathy and trembling with pleasure. 

The way you say his name—raw, desperate—makes his blood run hotter. He grips your thighs tighter, anchoring you to the bed as he drinks you in, wanting to lose himself in you completely.

Logan pulls away just long enough to catch his breath, looking up at you with lust-drunk eyes, drinking in the sight of your sweaty cheeks, your heavy-lidded gaze, the way your chest rises and falls with each shuddering breath.

The pulse of his cock intensifies, urging him to speed things along. The base desire of his own instincts is getting harder and harder to ignore under your adoring stare.

He feeds his fingers into your clenching hole with no warning, a satisfied smirk tugging his lips up at your sharp gasp. He runs his tongue along his bottom lip, the entire lower half of his face still shining with your essence.

Your cunt swallows him, two thick fingers sinking into the velvety heat like it’s nothing.

Logan groans as he feels you clench around him, your walls fluttering and drawing him in deeper. “That’s it, baby,” he mutters, his voice hoarse with need. “So fuckin’ ready for me, so ready for daddy’s fingers in your pussy.”

Your mouth drops open in another devastatingly desperate noise, your hands twist his hair roughly, soft breasts rising and falling each time you gasp for air. The dim light of the sunset filters in through the blinds, highlighting the curves of your body, slick and shining with a thin sheen of sweat.

Every clench of your walls around his fingers shoots a thrill straight to his cock, making him ache with the urge to bury himself inside you. The overwhelming need to take you completely, to mark you and fill you, pulses through his veins until he feels like he might explode.

But he’s not done tasting you yet. Not until you’re practically dripping onto the sheets.

He lowers his mouth back to your core, sucking your clit into his mouth as his fingers pump faster. The sudden intensity makes your thighs shake around his head, and he grins against you. He wants to see you fall apart—wants to feel it.

“Logan—please, I…” You can barely get the words out, voice breaking as your whole body strains against him, desperate and needy.

The wet slap of his palm against your spit soaked cunt is loud in the quiet of your bedroom, blending with the loud keens that fall from your parted lips. He crooks his fingers, rubbing at that soft, spongy spot inside of you.

“Come on,” he mutters, slick lips brushing against your clit as he speaks. “Give it to me, baby. Show me you're ready for my cock."

He drags the sharp edge of his canine against your pulsing clit with barely any pressure, and you're coming.

Your whole body tenses, back bowing off the mattress as you let out a broken cry of his name. The bite of your nails digging into his scalp feels harsh enough to draw blood, a feeble attempt at grounding yourself against the onslaught of pleasure. 

Your trembling thighs tighten around his shoulders, gripping him like a vice as your shaking cunt gushes around his fingers. Logan groans at the feeling, eyes slipping shut as you drench his wrist and chin in your juices.

Even then, he doesn’t let up, fingers pumping relentlessly as he draws out every pulse, every aftershock of your climax, every tiny spray of your release splashing against his wrist. 

He’s lost in the feel of you—slick and trembling under his hands, the scent of your release filling his lungs, thick and intoxicating.

You slump back against the bed, body limp and spent. His own need is a driving, aching force now, clawing at his insides, demanding more.

He slips his fingers free from your dripping heat, dragging them through the wetness coating his chin as he licks them clean with a growl, savoring every taste.

“Good girl,” he purrs, voice thick with pride and satisfaction as he pulls back, leaving your thighs twitching in the wake of his touch. But he still isn’t finished. Not even close.

You barely have time to catch your breath before Logan crawls up the bed, his eyes locked on you, pupils blown with need. He looms over you, hands planting on either side of your head. His cock grinds against you through the rough denim, and you can feel just how thick and hard he is, throbbing through the fabric, demanding to be freed.

With a low groan, he shifts his hips, dragging his bulge along your soaked cunt, sending another jolt of pleasure racing through you. His hands are all over you, gripping your waist, hot and possessive.

“Feel that?” he asks, pressing his lips the wild flutter of your pulse, the need to sink his teeth in the soft skin of your neck raises the hair on the back of his neck. “That’s what you do to me baby. Got me hard as a fuckin’ rock, just aching to be inside you.”

Your arms circle his shoulders, clawing at the fabric off his shirt. “Need you inside me, Logan. Please, want it so bad.”

The pure need lacing your words, your scent calling out to him, the way he can feel the front of his jeans getting soaked through with the slick pouring from your cunt all pull him deeper into the recesses of his hind-brain. 

The mounting desperation to stuff you full of his cock finally reaches a fever pitch.

With a deep growl, Logan rears back as far as he can bear, just enough to tear his shirt over his head before he fumbles with the heavy buckle of his belt to free his aching cock.

He shoves his jeans down, boxers quickly following until there’s nothing separating him from the cool air of your bedroom. His cock springs free, hot and flushed an angry red color, drooling from the tip enough that it drips down to stain the pretty floral sheets of your bed.

Your eyes zero in on him, mouth dropping open at the sight. His cock so heavy it doesn’t curve upward to slap against his stomach, instead it hangs down to sway between his thighs as he moves closer. 

Your legs spread as he nears, slick covered thighs parting to make room for him to slot between them. So obedient, so good, so well trained.

Logan takes himself in his hand, nearly wincing at the blazing temperature of his skin. He secures his hand around the base, squeezing where his knot threatens to pop before he’s even got in you.

He slips the angry head through the folds of your cunt, slapping it against your clit with a wet ‘thwack’ sound. He can feel the way it twitches and shakes, just as desperate as him.

“Look at that,” he mutters darkly, eyes glued to where he’s laid his cock flat against your stomach, leaking pre-come all over your soft skin. “How’s it gonna fit, baby?” He shifts his hips, sawing his length back and forth to see just how deep in you he’ll be.

Your glassy eyes drop, a broken moan passing through your slack lips when you take in the sight. Your hips rise off the bed, grinding your cunt along the seam of his heavy balls, along the prominent vein trailing up the underside.

“Don’t worry, baby,” Logan grits out, eyes hooded and dark as he watches you grind against him. “You’re gonna take it all. Gonna make you feel every last fuckin’ bit of me.”

He groans, gritting his teeth as he presses in further, each inch a battle against the tight, molten heat that grips him like a vice. Your body shudders as he fills you, your slick warmth pulling him deeper and deeper, and he sinks down until he’s fully seated, his hips flush with yours. 

The pressure is mind-numbing, your walls clenching around him in rhythmic pulses that make his vision blur. He stills for just a second, savoring the way your body stretches around him, hugging him in a way that feels like it was made for him alone.

Logan watches your face as you adjust to the stretch, your brows pinched together, each breath coming fast and shallow, your eyes glazed with pleasure.

Then, your hands come to his shoulders, nails digging little crescent moons into his skin as you nod your head, ready.

It’s all the confirmation he needs. His hips pull back before he slams in again, the force of it jolting your whole body. He presses his forehead to your shoulder, teeth bared as he muffles a snarl against your skin.

Logan thrusts again, and again, and again, hips setting a merciless pace as he watches the way your breasts bounce with each thrust, each little shudder.

His mouth waters with the need to taste, to sink his teeth into your supple skin hard enough to pierce clean through, hard enough to scar.

Sweat drips down the length of his spine, across his brow. It mats down the hair scattered over his chest, his dog tags slick with it when they bounce off his skin with each thrust. The grip of his hands tightens on your hips, it’s taking everything in him to hold back and yet he knows you’ll still bruise tomorrow. 

Pretty hues of dark purples and yellows in the shape of his fingers, ones he’ll catch you admiring in the bathroom mirror, pressing your own fingertips into them to feel the dull ache—to remember this moment.

“Made for this, aren’t you?” he rasps, his voice dark and possessive. “Made to take me, to be mine.”

The words barely leave his mouth before he’s bending down to capture your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your cries as he drives into you, pushing you both closer to that sweet edge.

“Fuck, Logan,” you gasp, breaking the kiss as your body trembles under him. “Can–ah!–can feel you in my stomach…”

Your hand drops from his shoulder, slipping between your bodies to rest over the sweaty expanse of your belly. Logan’s eyes follow your path, a feral growl bursting from his chest before he can stop it.

He’s transfixed by it, sure that if he pressed his hand to the soft skin of your lower stomach right over your own, that he’d feel it. Feel the way his cock punches up against your insides, so deep it's like he’s rearranging your guts to make room.

“Fuck.” His voice is nothing but a gravelly rumble, hoarse and dark as midnight. His hips speed up impossibly faster, chasing the feeling of your clenching walls choking the length of his cock so tight he thinks it might snap off at the base.

The flimsy headboard of your bed slams against the wall, creaky mattress springs screaming under his ministrations.

You feel like salvation, like the first rays of light after too many years spent in the dark.

He feels it with each kiss of his cock against your cervix, in the way your lips fit in the junction of his neck, in the red welts your nails leave on the skin of his back. He feels alive, truly alive, for the first time in decades.

“Say my name,” he grates, his hand cupping the back of your neck, coaxing you to look up at him, lips close enough to taste the heat radiating from his skin. “Tell me who you belong to.”

"Logan," you gasp, your voice breathy, edged with desperation as he pushes you closer to the brink. "Yours. Only yours."

A broken, shaky noise falls from his lips as he buries his face in your neck. He mouths at your skin desperately, presses his nose to where your scent is the strongest. 

Flashes of his release spraying your insides play behind his closed eyes, thoughts of drenching you so thoroughly that it has to take only forcing his hips to slam against the rippling muscle of your ass like you have your own magnetic pull. He feels it building, the slow swell of his knot presses against your folds, ready to burst.

“Come on, honey,” he begs, thumb coming down to rub slow circles over your slick clit. “Come with me, soak my cock. Show me how much you love it, how much you love me.”

Pathetic little uh uh uh’s fall from you with every thrust, broken up only by the breathy whines of his name as he pounds into you hard enough to push your body higher up the mattress. Finally, with a loud roar, he stuffs his growing knot inside of your cunt. 

Logan’s teeth sink into your neck before he can even think twice about it, the thick spray of his come filling you as his hands pull your hips down even further over his cock. He needs to be as deep in you as possible, to press forward until he can’t anymore, until his aching balls are flush with your gushing cunt.

He watches with rapt attention as you come with a loud wail, just from the feeling of his knot slotting into place. The clamp of your thighs over his hips is nearly as tight as the way your cunt seizes around him like it’s scared he’ll leave.

He groans at the over stimulation of your cunt milking his cock. Your slick leaks around the base of him, your shaking hole plugged so full it can only slip along the creamy ring to splash weakly against his thighs and hips.

Logan licks along the spot where his teeth pierced your skin, planting one last kiss before he’s taking you in his arms and rolling onto his back atop the mattress. The plush comforter sticks to his skin, your own sweaty body slipping against his as he tries his best to not jostle you too much while keeping you stuffed full of his cock.

He holds you to his chest until your breathing evens out, until your body stops trembling on top of his, until you’re nosing along the column of his neck.

“Logan?” Your voice is tiny, hoarse and scratchy. He feels your hand drawing absent minded shapes along the skin of his stomach. A circle, a star, a figure eight, a heart.

“Yeah baby?” he says, pressing his lips to the crown of your head, eyes slipping shut at the content feeling that spreads through him.

“Love you,” you murmur, voice soft but sure, the words slipping out without hesitation.

It’s the first time you’ve said it today, and hearing those three words from you sends warmth flooding through him.

Logan shifts slightly, pulling you even closer, his hand moving to the back of your head, cradling you with a kind of tenderness he used to think he’d never be capable of. “I love you too, darlin’. More than you know.”

Your body relaxes against him, the lingering effects of your shared intimacy still buzzing through your limbs, but now there’s a sense of peace, of safety, and a deeper connection.

He can feel the way your fingers curl lightly against his skin, the quiet smile that must be tugging at your lips as you press a kiss to the side of his neck.

And in that moment, with everything settled around him, Logan knows that this, right here, is everything.

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[silverskyeline]

ੈ♡˳ 'baby fever' - 18+ logan x f!reader

summary: after your first baby is born, logan realises he doesn't want to stop at just one. (4.4k) tags: erm no one look at me, logan has baby fever, fluffy beginning, established relationship, breeding kink, blowjob, p in v, wet & messy, nipple play, overstimulation, creampie (lots of them oops), lots of dirty talk, clit play, missionary + doggy style, dom!logan & kind of sub!reader, crying from pleasure, rough sex, kind of body worship, for the 'home' prompt for logan promptober.

logan swears he’s dreaming, he must be. there’s no possible way he got this lucky, right? he’s holding his own baby girl in his arms, bouncing her on his hip by the bedroom window, watching on in awe as she eagerly takes in the world around her.

the light dances in her eyes while the world passes by behind the glass, birds singing, trees swaying gently, autumn leaves twirling in their yearly gentle dance. everything is new to her, and logan can’t help but be struck by such a profound love. everything feels new to him now too.

he never thought he’d have this, never thought he’d deserve it. still doesn’t believe he deserves it but accepts the role with more honour than any other role he’s been bestowed before it. a father, him, logan, a father.

her eyes droop, and his smile widens more than he thought possible. he makes his way through to her room as he mumbles sweet little words of affection to her in a voice so high pitched that no one would recognise it's his.

you watch on from the bed, a warmth spreading in your chest. you could watch him like this all day. he was a natural, the paternal instinct coming so easily to him. logan had always felt this deep-seated need to protect. though he spent so many years in solitude with no path and insisted he preferred it that way, you knew differently from the moment you met him. logan was a pack animal, through and through.

his eyes land on you as he returns to the bedroom and approaches you, standing at the edge of the bed, reaching out to cup your cheek in a loving gesture. thumb tracing across your soft skin, he speaks, “you look tired too.”

you smile, eyes closing as you lean into his touch, “maybe a little.”

parenthood hadn’t been entirely easy, but you couldn’t have anyone better by your side.

logan carefully makes his way into bed beside you, pulling you against his firm chest as his hand finds your hair and begins to thread through the strands. you hear the steady beat of his heart beneath your ear, soothing you, lulling you, though he could achieve that with his presence alone.

his eyes settle on the window, head tilting to the side. you can practically hear it, the cogs turning. logan might have seemed like a steel trap to others, but he may as well be translucent to you. “what’s up?“ you ask sleepily.

“oh,” he murmurs, he shouldn’t be surprised at this point that you’re alerted by his silent mannerisms, “just. . . thinkin’.”

and he was, thinking about you, about the baby.

“‘bout what?” you yawn.

logan pauses, “. . .would you ever want another one?”

your eyes shoot open and you lift your head to look up at him, you find his expression and realise he’s serious.

he flushes, just a little, but you notice, “never mind.”

a small laugh of disbelief leaves you, “logan howlett, do you have baby fever?”

he flushes deeper, what did that even mean? logan scoffs and you visibly see him retreat into that shell inside his mind.

“oh baby,” you grin, cuddling against his chest as you lean your chin against his shirt to continue gazing up at him lovingly, “you want another baby, huh?”

groaning, he rolls his eyes, “quit it.” he’s beetroot red now, a sight he only reserves for you, though it’s not as though he can help it.

but damn, the baby was only born a few months ago - he was already thinking of your second? the thought fills you with warmth, but more prominently, need. your eyes land on his flushed face as you bite your lip, wondering if he is thinking about filling you up right this very second.

". . . what'cha thinkin' 'bout?" you ask sweetly with feigned naivety as your hand slides down his torso to find the- oh. oh. he's already hard. you know what he's thinking about.

logan groans and tilts his head back when your hand makes contact, his adams apple bobbing as he swallows thickly. "nothin'," he lies, his hand covering yours making you squeeze around his length through the material.

your breath catches in your throat, a heat rising in your chest. "is that right?" you whisper, trying to stay in control. the thought of him taking you, hard and deep, whispering filth about how he's gonna make you a momma again over and over is making it hard to resist rolling over onto your back for him.

and he can sense it, can see it in your face, the way your brows twitch as he grows harder under your touch. it's so cute, actually, how hard you try, knowing he's going to pounce any minute.

but he plays your game, he lets you remain 'in control', though you're anything but.

slowly, you sit up on his lap and begin to unbuckle his belt. time isn't exactly a luxury you can both often afford, what with a newborn baby, but you're too in the moment to care about speeding things up just yet.

his hands rest on your hips, digits digging into the skin as he practices restraint. he wants nothing more than to buck up into you, to throw you on the bed and take you. but he waits. like a good boy.

once he's freed from the constraints of his jeans and underwear, you hum softly at the sight of him, long, thick and ready. your mouth waters at the view, and his eyes widen when you begin to lower your head towards his begging, leaking tip. slowly, oh-so slowly.

logans large hand cups the back of your head, easily engulfing you in his grasp as he guides you lower until he feels it. your tongue. it teases across the tip before you're suddenly wrapping your lips around him. his eyes widen further, letting out a grunt as you take him by surprise.

"holy fuck," he huffs in a grin, "hungry for my cock, huh baby?"

you know now that your control is gone, given up happily and submissively. you know it in the grip he has on your hair, the way he's easing you up and down on his cock. and you'd give him everything if you could, the stars in the sky, the whole world if it were possible.

"that's it, get me nice and ready. . ." he mumbles, losing himself a little in the pleasure, the words dripping from his tongue like honey.

you're not sure what deal logan made with the devil to have the ability to talk as sweetly yet as filthy as he does, as well as he does, but you feel entirely grateful as his sinful words serve to dampen your underwear. you moan against his hardening cock, savouring the way every prominent vein feels against your soft tongue.

he pulls you back, looking into your lustful hazy eyes. you look so pretty like that, he thinks, lips red and swollen from sucking so well, eyes hooded and unfocused because you're thinking about how good that cock would feel stuffed deep somewhere else.

"c'mere," he coos, a hand on your hip guiding you forward to sit closer on his lap, "we need to get you nice and ready too, don't we?"

a growl rumbles from the back of his throat as his eyes travel down the path of your body, resting at the apex of your thighs. he purrs in delight when he notices you're already soaked through to your shorts. "wow, that worked up just from suckin' my cock, baby? you really do want me. . ."

you're bright red, shifting needily on his lap. it's always like this, he drives you to the brink of insanity with need before he's even started. you crave him, crave that thick length filling you so perfectly like it always does, and fuck, you'd give him a baby, you'd give him a hundred babies if it meant you get to experience this over and over again.

"shh," he whispers, his thumb snaking down to tease you through your shorts, applying just enough pressure to have you panting, "there we go, gettin' you nice and ready for my cock, my pretty girl. . ." his eyes flit to yours before returning his gaze to the soaked fabric.

"i am ready," you whine through a choked moan. you're literally dripping.

logan shakes his head, tutting, "tsk, tsk. . . need you extra ready for what i'm gonna do to you, you think i'm just gonna cum in you once?"

holy fuck. your head spins, reeling at his words as you feel your pussy clench around nothing. the ache between your legs grows, almost unbearable, pleading to be filled, used. his name leaves your lips in what can only be described as a needy mewl.

"no," he continues, grabbing your chin and pulling you closer, "see baby, i'm gonna cum in you, over and over. 'till you're nice and full, it's all i've been thinkin' about." his breath ghosts against your lips, "and you're gonna take it like a good girl, aren't you? gonna give me another baby?"

you moan breathlessly, how can you even respond to that? instead you nod quickly, swallowing hard as you try in a futile effort to stop your head from spinning.

but he loves you like this, needy, panting, desperate for his cock. sure, he might have been the one blushing earlier, but you're certainly a pretty shade of red now.

"use your words," he whispers against your lips, teasing you with the promise of a kiss, and a whole lot more.

you feel yourself clench again, his thumb still rubbing soft circles against your clit through your shorts, "please."

"please what?" logan grins, loving how your face twists in frustration.

a whine, "please fill me up, want to give you another baby, please? please, fuck, just fuck me."

he can't help but laugh softly at the needy words spilling from your lips in a desperate attempt to coax him inside. and it's working. his body thrums with pleasure as he remembers how good you feel, how he fits inside you like you were made for him, how good you take it when he gets a little rough.

"that's a good girl. . ." he hums, gripping your hips and flipping you over onto your back. his towering muscled form looms over you, your body opening up automatically, legs spreading and hands by your head. you want him to take you, take all of you. now.

"love this body, was made for me y'know. . ." logan mumbles lovingly as he kisses his way down the column of your throat, hands rubbing at your hips before they begin to inch up your shirt. it rises until it covers your face, and he keeps it there as he nips at your chest. "hm, no bra?" you feel his devious smirk against your skin, tongue beginning to flick teasingly at a nipple.

your back arches, the sensations amplified by the loss of sight. fuck, he loves to watch you squirm like this, and those noises you make. . .

he gives equal attention to both nipples, licking and sucking and kissing your breasts with increasing intensity, smirking all the while. finally, he pulls the shirt from your head, your breath catches in your throat as you look down at him and meet his hungry gaze.

logan begins kissing along your tummy, nuzzling against your soft skin, so close to where you want him yet so far. you want to beg, but you don't get the chance, because soon he's pulling down your shorts along with your underwear. he's greedy too.

kissing the skin that's exposed to him, his kisses trail down your mound, ending at the top of your glistening slit. "ah," he grins, eyes glowing like a man of great discovery, "there she is, she's missed me huh?"

all breath escapes your lungs as he licks a stripe along your pussy, groaning at the taste as he does so. he buries his face in you, licking and nudging your clit with his tongue as he devours you. logan swears it feels better for him than for you, could eat you out all day, but that's not what he's here for this time.

"you're so wet, holy fuck," he swallows, panting softly against your skin, "so good for me, so good, just-" giving a few quick kisses to your pussy, he pulls back and removes his shirt, "don't move."

you almost laugh, why would you want to go anywhere? with a man like logan who worships the ground you walk on, kisses you like it's the first time every time and fucks you within an inch of your life every time - you'd be crazy to want to be anywhere else but here, beneath him, where you belong.

he's worked himself out of his jeans and boxers too, admiring the view beneath him as he takes his cock in his hand, slapping it against your slit. with each squeak that escapes you, his smirk grows wider, "love those noises you make, just for me."

you gasp and arch your back as he begins to rub his tip against your wet folds. you're not sure who he's teasing more, himself or you. a moan slips from your lips each time his cock glides up against your clit, sending sparks to your core.

"that's it, feel how hard i am?" he whispers, "yeah, gonna cum so hard in that pretty little pussy, baby, is that what you want?"

you can hardly take it anymore, "god, yes."

he grins, positioning himself as he hooks your knees on top of his arms as he presses down, almost folding you in half. you gasp and grip the sheets at this new position, and gasp even louder as he quickly and easily slips inside of you. "fucking hell," logan huffs, "i hardly even had to move, you want it so fuckin' bad don't you? feel how deep i can get like this?"

and god, you can. you're not sure you've ever felt him this deep. all you know is how good it feels, his cock straining against your tight velvet walls, finally filling you.

when he begins to move, it's like nothing else. he starts at a slower pace, slow deep strokes as his hips meet yours, driving his cock even deeper as you open up to him. his eyes flutter shut and you admire him above you, knowing you're making him feel as good as he's making you feel.

you find your voice again, and speak up, "your cock feels so good baby, don't stop. . ." you get what you secretly wanted, a moan sneaks from his lips. it's soft, wanting, mirroring the need in your own voice. "fuck, love it when you moan for me. . ."

his eyes snap open, a flash of vulnerability and then his lips are crashing against yours. he kisses you with a deep passion as he moves inside you. logan loves the man he becomes when he fucks you, loves that he can let go, be soft, be rough, be whatever he feels. you'll accept him either way, because you're always a spent mess in the end. all for him.

"takin' my cock so well, always do," he huffs against your lips, driving himself a little deeper, wet sounds filling the air as he slips in and out, "gonna feel even better when i make you cum a few times, when you're so sensitive, taking every last drop i give ya."

you moan and pant, nodding, wordlessly begging him to continue.

"and you'll take it, huh, baby? take it cus you wanna make me a daddy again?" he growls, pace increasing as he fucks you harder, primal instinct taking over, "wanna make me proud and let me fill you as many times as i can? many times as i want?"

holy fuck, you can hardly think straight. in fact, you can hardly think at all. there's one thing, one thought swirling around the base of your skull, you don't want him to ever stop.

you clench around his thick cock and his brows lower, pressing his forehead against yours as he pounds you into the mattress. the bed is squeaking, begging for mercy as he continues, but you feel too good for him to hold back anymore. "baby please-"

"baby please what?" he snaps back, panting as he leans further into you, pushing your legs back until they're almost at your ears. you'd be shocked at your own flexibility if you could think at all. "please fill you up? please make you a mommy again? please what, huh? speak, baby, i can't hear you."

gasping at his tone, you feel your pussy flutter around him. he's gonna make you cum, fuck, you're gonna cum so hard. "i- baby i'm-"

but he doesn't let you finish your sentence, not that you'd make much sense at this point anyway. his cock twitches inside you, almost begging to be milked, begging to fill you until you can't take any more. "gonna cum?" logan whispers, already knowing the answer.

and you can't answer, because you're a mess, gasping and moaning and writhing as his cock makes light work of your wet pussy. his thick length glides in, and out, driving deep to meet your cervix with every thrust.

"cum on this cock," a firm command punctuated with a deep thrust that knocks the air from your lungs, "c'mon, make me cum, you wanted it, didn't you? want me to knock you up nice and good."

your orgasm approaches, a warmth spreading through your lower stomach, rising and rising each time his hips meet yours in his relentless pace. you want to tell him that it feels so good, but your words get caught in your throat. and all at once, your climax rips through you.

it comes in waves, building until your walls are spasming around him and he's cumming too, hot white ropes of cum pushed deeper and deeper as his pace quickens. you're both cursing, panting as his cock pushes it deeper and deeper as your pussy flutters and gushes.

even as the climax fades, he doesn't falter. "told you," logan growls, leaning up to grip your thighs, lifting your lower half to the perfect angle as he keeps it suspended in the air in his tight grip, "gonna cum in that pretty little pussy as many times as i can, 'till i know you're carrying my baby."

it's so overwhelming, in the best kind of way. you wriggle as he begins fucking you again, the new angle causing your eyes to roll back as he hits a certain spot that has you sobbing. it feels so fucking good, both his words and his actions causing you to throb.

"that's it, i know you can take it," he soothes you, "that's my girl, c'mon. . ."

tears prick at your eyes, the pleasure once again building to a crescendo. you don't want him to stop, don't want him to ever stop. though you're so very sensitive, and so very tired, you don't fucking care, all that matters right now is him and the messy love you're making.

he feels a tightening in his gut, his mind spiralling, obsessed with the idea of having another child with you. "you like it when i breed you?" he whispers suddenly, testing the waters.

fuck, that word. did he just say he was. . . breeding you?

logan feels the way you clench around him at the mention of the word and he grins, "yeah, you like that don't you? take that fucking cock like a good girl, let me breed you."

"please-" you beg, feeling his cock twitch inside of you. he's really into this, and so are you, unlocking a whole new side to one another as he fucks you fervently.

how can he resist when you beg so sweetly? he's so sensitive, but his need for release chases him, overwhelming him with how intense his second orgasm is. he spills into you, gasping and grunting as his grip on your thighs tightens. "oooooh f-fuck," logan groans, "feel that? feel me fucking my cum even deeper?"

you're both lost in pleasure now, and with his stamina you know he's not done yet. he grips your hips, flipping you onto your tummy as he grabs your ass, pulling it up for him. keeping his cock nice and warm inside you, he pauses for a few moments.

"can you take another one?" he asks, panting. he'd never push you past your limits, leaning down against your back to give you a gentle kiss on your neck.

your second release is coming, and though you're exhausted, you need more. "yes," you reply, gripping the pillow as he immediately begins to move.

his head tilts back, his palm sliding down your spine, feeling your soft skin beneath his calloused hand and the sensation of your body bouncing back against him. one hand grips your hip as he begins his movements, slowly fucking you, taking his time.

he knows you're close, and he knows your second release will have him cumming a third time, so he focuses on your pleasure. "that's it baby, taking it so well. . ."

you groan into the pillow beneath you, muffled by the fabric. it all sounds so wet, both your release and his dripping from your aching cunt. you know you'll be sore tomorrow, but who the fuck cares? he's fucking you so good you're not sure you'll ever be able to think clearly again.

he's reduced you to a puddle, wet and begging for more.

"such a good girl for me, lettin' me breed you. . ." his hand trails around your front, tickling down along your tummy until he finds your clit. it's swollen, sensitive, and as soon as he begins to play with you, you're a squealing mess.

he grins against your ear, groaning roughly, "you can take it, know you can, make me cum one more time."

you bounce back against him, feverishly chasing each movement, each time he pounds you sending you spiralling further and further into pleasure.

"gonna fuck a baby into you," he kisses behind your ear, "feel all that cum?"

a whine is all you can manage, sweat causing your hair to cling to your forehead, whole body hot and desperate. all for him, always for him.

"yeah you do, take it," he snarls, huffing as he feels his own release build once more. oh god, this one might destroy him. you feel too good wrapped around him like that, the way your wet pussy takes him in so gladly, cause it's his. you're his.

"'m gonna cum-" you cry, sobbing into the pillow as your thighs shake till you can't take it anymore. you're flat against the bed now, his body behind you, taking, pounding against you relentlessly like a man deprived.

but he can't speak, can only communicate in growls and gasps as he explodes inside you, sending you propelling towards your orgasm. it hits you like a bullet, deep, hard, teetering on painful but quickly replaced with so much satisfaction that your screams sound like howls.

he continues working your clit beneath you, slowing his pace until you're both a sweating, panting mess of limbs.

it takes him a while before he can find words, bringing a hand to your face, tucking your hair behind your ear so he can see those features of yours he loves so much. "you alright?" logan asks with that rare soft voice he adopts when he's caring for you. his warm baritones make everything better, voice alone better than any sex.

"mh," you nod, world slowly returning to you in bits and pieces. he pulls out of you, taking a second to admire how very full of him you actually are. he can't help but bite his lip at the sight, watching as his cum leaks from your tight hole, fluttering from the loss of contact.

"didn't go too hard?" he asks, carefully and tenderly turning you onto your front as he grabs some spare pillows.

you shake your head, a smile curling on your lips as you bask in the afterglow, loving how sweetly he takes care of you. he lifts your hips with ease, placing some pillows below.

your eyes lock on one another and he grins, "what?" he asks, "said i was gonna get you pregnant, didn't i? gotta keep your hips elevated, keep me inside."

a flush falls upon your cheeks and you laugh breathlessly as he relaxes into the bed beside you, nuzzling into your neck. he fits against you so perfectly, arm wrapping around your waist while he presses gentle kisses to your skin.

but you feel a mischevious smirk tug on his lips against you, "what is it, logan," you ask in a drawl, grin taking over your features.

"well, was just thinkin'-"

"never a good idea, you, thinking. just leads to trouble," you tease.

he scoffs, "shut up," before continuing, "what're we gonna name out third baby?"

your eyes widen, "third?" he must have made a mistake, maybe he's too fucked out to think straight. you know you are.

"yeah," he grins, his hand snaking from your waist to rest on your tummy, giving it a gentle pat, "after this one."

"more?!" you gasp, slapping his hand with a giggle. "logan howlett." ugh, he's the worst.

he loves that reaction from you, he thinks it's cute you assume he's joking.

except, he isn't joking.

"yeah, c'mon, you think i'm gonna be able to stop at just two?"

you flush deeper, feeling his warm palm splay across your stomach as you tilt your chin down to look into his eyes.

"need names. lots of 'em." logan's eyes sparkle, he's trouble, always has been, and you love it. but you start to wonder if you should have bought a bigger house.

"start makin' a list. now."

[em1i2a3]

Crying Lightning

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Lab Tech!Fem!Reader!

Summary: You have been studying a flower that Bucky brought back from one of his missions. When Bob comes to visit you in the labs to bring you lunch and messes with the unbloomed item you realize the sinister effects of it very quickly.

Warning: 18+ Minors DNI! Ahem…We got a sex pollen fic, so there is smut, and fluff afterwards, and aftercare as well. Reader and Bob are close, and both of them have feelings for one another but it has all gone unspoken…Until now at least lol. There is swearing too.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (…Y’all know what I’m gonna say. Wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Handjob, There’s a little bit of dominance from Bob/Sentry…And he talks you through it ahhahahahahah (oh god), Messy/Sensual Sex, There are like hints of primal energy sprinkled in here, but nothing too major, there’s mentioning of pheromones and stuff like that, Praise/Worship Kink, Spitting, Dirty Talk, Scratching, Some Choking (not rough), Cum eating, Aftercare.

Author’s Note: Woot Woot! We love a good sex pollen fic lol. Did I expect to be writing one? No. But I’ve always liked the concept and I’m so glad @mccinnamon-bun asked me to do this! Thank you <3, I really loved writing it! So so fun! Enjoy!

Word Count: 15,684

“I brought you something,” Bucky announced, stepping into your lab just as the doors slid open with their usual quiet hiss.

You didn’t look up right away. Perched cross-legged on the edge of your workbench, you were half-buried in mission reports that were a week overdue, scribbling notes with one hand and nursing a cold cup of coffee in the other. Your head snapped up, however, the second you heard the rustle of fabric and gear–a familiar sound you’d grown used to distinguishing in crowded hallways.

Bucky stood in the entryway, wind-tousled and still in partial tactical gear. The sleeves of his black shirt were pushed up to the elbows, revealing the flex of muscle and dull gleam of vibranium beneath. He had a look in his eye that was hard to read–half sheepish, half pleased with himself–and he was already fishing through one of the many compartments in his bag. He didn’t speak again until he pulled something out with a sort of slow care.

”Ta da.” You raised an eyebrow at him, seeing him pull something from his bag like it was a treasure he’d smuggled across enemy lines. You hopped off the bench with a soft thud and crossed the room toward him, curiosity instantly piqued–mostly because Bucky Barnes was not one to say ‘ta da’. Not unless he was hiding something behind that half-smirk of his.

Your eyes immediately caught sight of what he was holding.

The flower hadn’t bloomed yet, but even in its dormant state, it was breathtaking. The outer petals were tightly furled, each one smooth and iridescent like the type you would find on shells of certain mollusks–but it was shaded in a gradient you couldn’t quite place. They started as an inky, oil-slick blue at the base, then rippled out into smoky violets and blushing wine tones near the tips. Delicate veins shimmered faintly across the surface, catching the lab lights with a strange metallic luster, almost like the petals were dusted in powdered silver.

The stem curved gently, a deep green tinged with gold, and the leaves were narrow, slightly translucent, and lined with fine threads of coppery red. Even when it wasn’t fully bloomed, it had an energy to it. A heat, almost. As if it were responding to the proximity of warm skin and breath. You squinted at it.

”Bucky, if this is your idea of asking me out on a date, you really need to brush up on your courting skills.” He let out a sharp bark of laughter, head dropping forward briefly with a grin.

“Hey,” He said, handing the flower over to you carefully, “You’re the one who told me, if I saw anything weird, unknown, alien, or otherwise ‘botanically suspicious,’ I should bring you back a sample.” You gingerly accepted the stem, trying not to touch the tightly closed bud itself.

”Yeah, I meant specifiers, not some interstellar looking thing.” You shot back. He leaned against a nearby counter.

”Don’t say I never do anything for you.” He commented back. You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your mouth betrayed your fondness.

”You absolutely broke every rule of containment protocol by walking this thing straight into my lab, but…” You gave the top of the flower another slow once-over, still entranced, “Thanks for thinking of me.” You turned, crossing to your bench and plucking a clean beaker from the rack. You filled it with a few inches of distilled water, and set the flower inside, watching it float just enough to stay upright. The petals didn’t open, but they flexed slightly–like they were stretching, or drinking the water you had put the stem in.

”So,” You started, glancing over your shoulder to where Bucky was still leaning, “Where’d you find it?” You asked, watching him give you a small, casual shrug.

”There was a patch of them, right off the tree line. I spotted them on my way back to the quinjet. Figured I’d snatch one up before anyone else trampled it.” You hummed, turning your head away–not noticing the way his gaze lingered on the flower for a beat too long. You were too busy cataloguing the possibilities in your head. It was too vibrant to be terrestrial, but it wasn’t necessarily alien. Possibly hybridized. The energy you felt coming off of it could’ve been psychosomatic–but you weren’t one to write something off without running tests.

“And you’re sure no one else touched them?” You asked, looking back over at him to see if you can spot any of the tells he had when he was lying. His brow lifted toward you.

”I mean…I touched one obviously.” You gave him a pointed look, and he immediately held up both hands.

”Didn’t eat it. Didn’t stick it up my nose. I was the only one that touched anything. Scout’s honor.” You snorted, and shook your head.

”Alright, Barnes…I’ll bite. I’ll run some diagnostics. Spectrograph, chemical composition, basic pollen analysis when it blooms…All the sciencey things that you don’t understand, then I’ll get back to you.” He gave you a mock salute and pushed himself off the table he was leaning against, going toward the door.

”Just make sure you name it after me if it ends up trying to kill you.”

”Noted,” You called, “But if it ends up giving me superpowers instead, I’ll be naming it after myself.” He was still laughing as the door slid shut behind him. You turned back to the flower, now gently swirling in the water–its petals flexing once more, as if hearing your voice. You leaned in just a touch, and breathed in slightly.

You could’ve sworn it hadn’t smelled like anything before, but now…

Now it smelled faintly of summer rain, citrus, and the soft trace of jasmine. It was warm, soft, and inviting, like it was trying to beckon you to come closer to it. You straightened slowly, then reached blindly across the workbench for a spare sheet of scrap paper, grabbing the pen you had tucked behind your ear.

”Initial scent: None. Notable change after water exposure–New profile: humid, citrus notes, floral base (jasmine like). Unsettling–shift occurred in under two minutes.” You tapped the end of your pen lightly against your chin, your gaze never leaving the beaker. The flower was still half-closed, petals fluttering slightly in the water like they were breathing–like they were aware. The surface tension of the liquid shimmered faintly around the base of the stem, as though reacting to something within the plant.

You didn’t like that.

Flowers didn’t just change their chemical profile that fast. Not unless they were highly volatile. Not unless they were engineered.

A muscle tensed along your jaw.

You slid the note aside and moved quickly now, grabbing a glass containment dome from one of the side drawers–a heat-tempered cloche you typically used when running long-term decay tests on bio-samples. It wasn’t hermetically sealed, but it would be enough to contain most airborne particulates.

Just in case.

You placed it gently over the beaker and the flower with practiced care, watching as the edges sealed against the bench with a soft thunk. The scent dimmed immediatel-ybut didn’t vanish. It clung to the air like it had already soaked into the fibers of your clothes, your skin.

You took a step back, and another, suddenly aware of the way the heat of the room felt a degree too warm.

Your eyes narrowed. You made another note.

“Mild thermal increase noted (subjective). Investigate potential volatile compounds. Possible synthetic ancestry. Unknown reaction to water exposure–possible activation trigger?”

You stood still for a moment longer, arms crossed over your chest now, staring at the flower like it might start humming.

Then you exhaled through your nose, gave your head a small shake, and muttered, “Okay, mystery plant. Let’s see what you’re hiding.”

You turned on your heel and crossed to the far side of the lab, grabbing gloves, pipettes, and a test slide. You didn’t see the way the petals quivered beneath the glass dome. Or the way the center of the bud pulsed–slowly, rhythmically–as if something within it had begun to wake.

You were too busy prepping your tools.

You’d get your first sample from the outermost edge of the petal, where a small amount of condensation had begun to form–right where the flower had interacted with the water. It wasn’t much. Just enough to suggest a subtle chemical discharge. A secretion, maybe. Or pollen.

Your gloved fingers hovered just beside the dome.

You paused.

A thought scratched quietly at the back of your mind, the way instincts sometimes do when they’re not fully formed.

You didn’t ignore it.

You stepped back again.

Instead of removing the dome outright, you retrieved your small fume extractor arm—used mostly for soldering–and wheeled it over until its head hovered just above the cloche’s apex. You flicked the switch, and a soft hum filled the room as the extractor began to filter the air directly above the sample.

Another note:

“Smell is still detectable after containment. Strong. Possibly psychoactive. Proceeding with caution.”

Still, despite your wariness, you found yourself walking back toward the glass.

One more glance. Just to be sure.

The flower was still closed–but now its bud looked fuller. Like it had begun to swell. One of the petals had unfurled the tiniest bit. Barely a sliver.

But just enough for you to see a glint of gold pollen resting in the shadows of its center.

It shimmered like dust caught in a sunbeam.

You stared.

And then, carefully, you reached over to your comm unit and tapped the call button for your assistant team over in the biocontainment lab.

“Hey,” You said when the line clicked open, voice low. “I’ve got a…Weird one. Found by Barnes. It’s stable, but I want a second containment unit prepped in case things escalate.”

A pause on the line. Then:

“Escalate how?”

You glanced back at the flower. That scent. That impossible shimmer. You didn’t know yet.

“Just…Prep it,” You replied. “I’ll send over a sample in a few.”

And then you muted the line.

You looked down at the flower one more time.

It was no longer just beautiful.

It was waiting.

———————

It had been three days since Bucky dropped the flower off, and by this time it had bloomed. Not delicately, and certainly not in the way flowers usually did–with gradual graceful predictability. No. This thing had opened like it knew it was being watched and studied by you.

When you came down to your lab the morning after Bucky brought you the mysterious flower, the petals had fully unfurled–broad, sweeping things with a high-gloss sheen and hypnotic gradients that shifted from gold to scarlet to bruise-dark purple depending on the light. The stamen in its center now pulsed visibly, a slow inhale-exhale rhythm that made the entire structure look…Alive. The pollen shimmered every time it moved, a near-invisible cloud that never seemed to settle but floated in still air like it was defying gravity. Or logic.

You had kept it sealed tight under the reinforced cloche, and had the triple-filtered vents on and the entire section of the lab cordoned off with containment protocols. Your notes had doubled in size, and still, nothing definitive had come back from the biocontainment team. There were just vague updates telling you that they were behind on other specimens and that they would get around to it when they could.

So you worked around it. You monitored. You wrote. You catalogued symptoms–your own included, though they were still annoyingly ambiguous: mild temperature spikes, random surges of adrenaline, difficulty concentrating in bursts. But no rash, no lesions, no hallucinations. There was a kind of pressure, similar to urgency but just on the cusp of it, desire maybe–but for what, you had no clue. You had only inhaled a bit of the pollen and hadn’t been exposed since, so you didn’t dwell on it–not with your schedule stacked, and not with your own lab being as backed up as it was.

You were just rinsing a pipette when the door to the lab slid open with a soft hiss.

”H-Hey,” Came the voice you’d come to recognize more easily than your own thoughts lately. You didn’t need to look up to know that it was Bob, but you did anyways, just to catch a glimpse of him.

He was towering and soft-shouldered in a dark grey hoodie with the sleeves shoved up to his elbows, worn sweatpants hugging the curve of his hips, and his crown of light brown hair was in absolute disarray, like he had it tied up and decided to let the locks fall free in front of his face. He looked like someone who didn’t have the slightest clue what he did to people around him, and he truly didn’t know.

The plastic takeout bag in his hand swung gently as he stepped inside, smiling at you like it was the easiest thing in the world.

“Brought y-you lunch.” Your stomach growled at the word lunch, and it echoed through the moment of silence that settled between you, which only made Bob’s grin stretch wider.

”Let me guess,” You started, pulling off your gloves and throwing them into the biohazard bin, “You timed this perfectly because you knew my stomach would start making monstrous noises, didn’t you?”He shrugged, with a small smirk on his face, setting the bag down on your cleared desk near one of your monitors.

”You skipped b-breakfast.” You held out a finger.

”No no…I postponed breakfast.” He shook his head.

”You always p-postpone breakfast,” He said, moving past you to pour you a cup of water from the cooler, his big hands making it look smaller than what it actually was, “And if I d-dont show up with something d-decent by 2 p.m, you would just end up inhaling the vending machine c-crackers and freeze-dried apple s-slices…Which is not s-sustainable i-in the slightest.” You couldn’t help but let out a laugh at his comments.

”Seems like someone has been watching me a bit too closely.” He turned and handed you the water, fingers brushing yours as he didn. His hands were boiling as usual, and it left the paper cup feeling warm from where his fingers had been holding it. His eyes lingered on your face a beat longer than necessary.

”I-I always watch you c-closely,” He said softly, like it slipped out before he could catch it. Immediately his eyes glanced down away from you, dropping to the floor for a second, before flicking away toward the cluttered end of your bench like he suddenly remembered a far more interesting smudge on the tile. His cheeks were red–not just a flush, not just a tinge, but a slow bloom of color climbing from the collar of his hoodie up to the tips of his ears.

You said nothing in response. Not because you didn’t notice–because you did. More because if you said anything, if you so much as looked at him with any kind of expression that acknowledged the truth buried in his voice, he might self-destruct on the spot. So instead, you took a slow sip of the water he handed you, letting the quiet hum of the lab fill the air between the both of you.

Then you turned on your heel toward the takeout bag.

”So what’s on the menu today, Chef Bob?” You asked lightly, pulling the plastic open and peeking inside, “Please tell me it’s not another one of your hot dog stir-fry’s.” He let out a groan.

”Listen…I-It was one time, I-I know nobody was a fan of it.” You grinned as you pulled out a tinfoil-wrapped container, unraveling it with careful fingers. A rich, savoury scent wafted up–soy and sesame and something sweet under it, like cane sugar with more of a freshness that was unexpected, “So what am I looking at?”

”Sticky rice, soy-glazed chicken, uh…” He rubbed the back of his neck, “T-There’s some grated g-granny smith apple in the glaze…C-Cause I didn’t have honey.” You raised your eyebrows.

”Pretty decent alternative.” You replied.

”Yeah,” He said, shoving his hands into his pockets like he wasn’t sure what to do with them, “You know how S-Sentry gets with processed s-sugars in his system. Makes him a-all buzzy.” You let out a soft laugh.

”So this is officially Sentry-approved, then?”

“F-For the most part,” He mumbled, “I-I think you’re the real t-test though.” That made you pause, glancing up at him, still holding the half-unwrapped meal in your hands, finding his gaze had landed on you again. This time it held something quiet but vulnerable. Expectant, even. Like he really cared what you thought.

And that was the difference between Bob and everyone else–you knew he didn’t make things just to impress. He made them because it gave him joy to offer them. He brought you food not because he wanted credit–but because he worried you wouldn’t eat otherwise. He brought you books because he remembered which ones made your eyes light up. He let you take his blood every month without protest, even when the Sentry made his pulse unpredictable or his veins hard to find, because he trusted you with every part of him–even that. And because of those little things, you always made sure to praise him.

Even when he burned the eggs.

Even when the pasta came out overcooked.

Even when the hot dog stir-fry almost gave you heartburn.

You forked a bite of the rice and chicken, chewed, and let your eyes widen a bit as the warmth hit your tongue. “Okay. Wait. This is actually good.”

He blinked, caught between shock and a smile. “Y-you don’t have to lie.”

“I would lie,” You said, pointing at him with your fork. “But not this convincingly. This? Bob. It’s delicious.” He looked like he didn’t quite know what to do with the praise. He rocked back slightly on his heels, running a hand through his already-messy hair, trying to hide the shy little grin that was pulling at the corners of his mouth. You watched the way his fingers threaded through the strands, the way his forearms flexed under the soft stretch of the hoodie.

You took another bite and leaned against the counter beside him, letting out a hum of satisfaction.

“Y’know,” You said between chews, “If Val found out you were secretly good at this, she’d start expecting meals during debriefs.”

”She’d want a report first,” He said, playing along, “T-Then she’d make Walker taste it for poison.” The both of you laughed lightly. The silence that followed was companionable. Safe. You brushed your shoulder lightly against his as you leaned forward to set the food container down beside the monitor.

His body went still at the contact.

Not because he didn’t want it. But because he did. You knew that reaction well by now–the micro-freeze, the way he’d let the warmth of your hand or arm settle into him like he was still learning he could have it. That it was for him.

You let your arm linger against his for just a second longer.

Then you pulled back, slow and easy.

He looked at you from the side of his eye. His voice was low when he spoke.

”H-How’s the flower?” You glanced toward the containment dome instinctively. The petals shimmered under the harsh lab light, colors shifting in slow gradients like they were part of something fluid, something still breathing. It looked even larger today. Full-bodied. Restless.

“Still haven’t heard anything back from the biocontainment lab,” You said, turning back to Bob and picking up your fork again. “Apparently they’re still backed up from the Skrull fungus incident.”

His face pulled slightly. “God…D-Don’t remind me of t-that.” You nodded grimly.

“I won’t…But this?” You took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. “No movement. Just… opened. Big. Loudly. Like it knew I was looking at it.” Bob followed your glance as you continued to speak, “I breathed in a little bit of the pollen when I first got it–just a trace. It made me really warm. Flushed. But otherwise nothing dramatic. No side effects. No changes. So I think it was just my body reacting to whatever compound it’s putting off–probably a weird hybridization. Something experimental maybe.” Bob’s brow furrowed at this comment.

”You s-should’ve been wearing a m-mask.” You huffed a laugh, nudging your shoulder into his again.

”Please, I’m pretty sure I’ve been exposed to worse.”

“S-Sure,” He said quietly, his gaze fixed on you now, “B-But definitely not like this.” There was something layered in his voice—concern wrapped around protectiveness, softened by something you didn’t dare name.

You didn’t say anything to it. Just took another bite of the meal he made, let the flavor distract you from how closely he was watching you now. He shifted beside you, and you knew it was only a matter of time before–

“How’s the Golden God doing, by the way…Totally forgot to ask.” Bob rolled his eyes, “You know you’ve got bloodwork today, and I know how much he looks forward to that.” He grimaced.

”D-Darn…I f-forgot that was today.”

“You always forget,” You mumbled between bites, mockingly stern in tone, “Even though we’ve had the same schedule for, what–eight months?”

“Nine,” He corrected, “You count too?”

“Only because I have to track your blood chemistry, Bob.” He gave you a crooked smile, “Stick around,” You said waving your fork at him, “Let me finish this delicious lunch and I’ll get everything set up.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He gave you a faux salute, backing off to give you space. You watched him for a moment out of the corner of your eye as he wandered slowly around the perimeter of the lab, hands in his pockets, shoulders soft beneath his hoodie.

Bob moved like someone who didn’t want to disturb anything. Not just the tools and data, but you–your space, your rhythm, your day. Even now, when he stopped in front of the containment dome, he didn’t lean close or peer in like most people would’ve. He just stood there, quietly watching.

The flower didn’t move. But the pulsing in its center seemed to slow, slightly. Steadying. As if recognizing something.

Bob tilted his head faintly.

But said nothing.

You finished your lunch in a few final bites, wiped your hands on a cloth, and pulled on a fresh pair of nitrile gloves.

“All right,” You called, walking over to the locked cabinet beside your centrifuge. “Time to sacrifice a little plasma for science.”

Bob grumbled playfully as he headed back toward the stool you always set aside for him during these sessions. “Sentry’s gonna make it d-difficult again. Last time you had to chase the vein for like five minutes.”

“Oh how could I forget,” You said playfully, drawing the phlebotomy kit from the drawer, “I’ve never met a God who’s afraid of needles. He flared your heart rate on purpose and kicked the adrenaline response. Your veins were literally jumping.” Bob winced at the memory and sighed.

”I-I don’t think he m-means to be a jerk a-about it.”

“No, he just is,” You turned with a teasing smile and raised your brow, “You listening in there Sentry, I called you a jerk.” A flicker of gold passed through Bob’s eyes, and his expression shifted just slightly. A pressure just beneath the surface of his calm exterior. You saw the way his jaw flexed. The way his breath caught on the edge of a heartbeat. It was gone just as fast as it appeared. You gestured to the stool.

”Alright, you know the drill.” Bob sighed and tugged his hoodie over his head with one hand, letting it fall across the nearby stool in a heap of worn fabric and static-charged threads.

Your breath caught for just a second–not that you’d ever admit it.

He was wearing a plain white t-shirt underneath. Simple, but it didn’t leave much to the imagination. The fabric clung in all the places that mattered: broad shoulders, a narrow waist, the gentle taper of his torso. His arms were sculpted, the muscle built from the serum and his own training he did on the side with Walker–solid biceps veined faintly beneath pale skin, his forearms thick and freckled with golden hairs. Even through the shirt, you could see the subtle rise of his chest when he breathed. His body wasn’t exaggerated or showy like some of the other enhanced agents. Bob’s strength was honest, clean and quiet. The kind that didn’t beg to be seen–just was. He sat on the stool, leaned slightly forward, and offered you his right arm without hesitation–palm up, wrist relaxed, fingers curling just slightly where they hung over the edge of your tray. As always, he was warm. Always a degree or two above everyone else. Like the Sentry lived just beneath the surface, pulsing against the skin.

You pulled your chair close and gently cradled his arm in one gloved hand, “You good?” He nodded, jaw ticking faintly.

”Sentry’s a-already getting stirred u-up.”

“I figured,” You murmured, swabbing the crook of his elbow with an alcohol pad, watching the way the fine blond hairs on his arm caught the light, “You twitched when I called him a jerk.” Bob exhaled a shallow breath, half-laugh, half-wince.

”Y-Yeah he–uh–didn’t like t-that.”

“Well, tell him to behave,” you said, voice softening as you spoke, instinctively adjusting your tone. You’d found, over time, that it wasn’t just what you said–but how. The Sentry didn’t respond well to authority. But he did respond to calm. To care. To you.

“I’m going to insert the needle now, okay?”

“Y-Yeah,” He said quietly, “Keep talking through the process, t-that would help.” You gave him a smile–genuine and soft.

“All right…Just a little pressure here…” You slipped the butterfly needle in with smooth, practiced hands, watching the dark blood flood into the first vial like a ribbon of garnet. He didn’t flinch. His fingers curled just slightly, but that was it. You could feel the tension in him, though–not fear, not even discomfort, really.

Just a heightened presence.

You always felt it when the Sentry was nearby. Like a third set of lungs had begun breathing somewhere in the room. Like the molecules in the air shifted their charge.

“I’m taking five tubes,” You said gently. “You’re doing fine. Your blood flow is nice and steady today.”

“Y-Yeah,” Bob said, watching you with his head slightly turned. His voice had dropped to something deeper. Thicker. “That’s because o-of you.”

You glanced up.

He blinked, quickly. “Your voice. It…I-It helps.” You kept working, carefully switching out the first full tube for the second, then the third, eyes flicking to him only briefly.

“I’ll take that as a compliment. Or a cosmic honor. One of the two.” That got a smile out of him, even if it was small. The rest of the draw passed in familiar quiet–soft beeping from your equipment, the slow, gentle swirl of the containment fans, the hum of the overhead lights. His blood was warm in your hands. You didn’t realize you were holding your breath until you reached the fifth tube and carefully capped it.

You retracted the needle in one smooth motion, placing it in the sharps container before gently pressing a cotton ball to the puncture site.

“Pressure here, please.”

Bob complied, two fingers resting lightly over the spot. You retrieved a bandage, peeled it open, and pressed it into place over the cotton. Your hand lingered a second longer than it needed to. His skin was flushed warm beneath your glove. He smelled faintly of cedar and limes, probably from his shampoo. Then you leaned back in your chair and gave him a mock-serious look.

“So,” You said, cocking your head, “Does Sentry want a lollipop for his troubles?”Bob groaned, dragging a hand down his face.

“D-Don’t get him riled up…” You laughed at the way his cheeks turned rosy again, as he attempted to hold back a smile, which failed.

”You sure?” You teased, “You don’t want me to pull out the glittery sticker chart?”

“W-We talked about this…He remembers t-things like that.” You both burst into soft laughter again, the kind that curled at the edges of your ribs and left everything just a little lighter.

And somewhere behind you, the flower twitched.

The petals shifted.

The pulse in its center matched his heartbeat.

But neither of you noticed.

——————

The next day, just after 2:00 p.m., the soft hiss of the lab doors made your head snap up again.

You were halfway through a long-winded notation on the flower’s latest chromatographic analysis when you heard the now-familiar rustle of footsteps and the unmistakable creak of someone cradling a takeout bag with too much care.

“Brought you lunch!” Bob announced.

He looked warm again–an oversized hoodie only blue this time, the same worn sweatpants from yesterday, and hair pulled back messily like he’d tied it in a rush. His free hand shoved deep into his pocket, but the other held a paper bag from a café you liked downtown. He wore the same small, crooked smile that made it difficult to think straight.

“Careful,” You warned playfully, turning in your seat to face him, “If you keep feeding me, I’ll start to expect this kind of treatment.”

Bob shrugged, walking in slow, casual steps toward your workstation. “M-might be worth it…Just to s-see you eat.”

You smiled at that–too caught up in the rare softness between you to notice the way the flower behind its containment dome had begun to stir.

Not much. Just a twitch of its outermost petals. A subtle change in the shimmer of its stamen. But you were facing Bob. You didn’t see the way it reacted to his voice.

“I-I got you the g-grain bowl you like. The one with roasted squash, the f-feta, that spicy vinaigrette you always try to recreate in your lab notebook–”

“I do not take vinaigrette notes in here,” You interjected, grinning.

Bob set the bag down gently on the corner of your cleared space shaking his head at you, glancing over at the dome just as the hum of your equipment shifted slightly. The air changed. Subtle, at first. Like something pressurizing behind glass.

He leaned over–only just–peering closer at the flower inside.

That was all it took.

The dome fogged instantly with a pale gold haze. Then–without warning–the containment glass shuddered with a sharp, pinging sound, like internal pressure had snapped a seal.

Then it ruptured.

The top of the cloche blew off with a muted pop, and a cloud of glittering golden dust erupted from the flower in a slow-motion burst. It expanded like fog, like breath in cold air–drifting, floating–straight into Bob’s face.

You froze for half a second. Then your instincts kicked in hard and fast.

“Shit—Bob!” You yelled, already leaping from your stool and hitting the emergency switch on the wall.

Red lights flashed as the isolation protocols kicked in. Vents slammed shut with a metallic clank, and the air filtration units hummed to life. Your console blinked through a security override as the lab sealed itself airtight. Your heart thudded in your chest like a drumbeat.

Bob had staggered back, coughing hard and pawing at his face, blinking rapidly. The golden dust coated his cheeks, his lashes, the curve of his nose, and clung to his stubble like cosmic pollen. It shimmered with a strange, otherworldly sheen–like it was alive, almost.

“Hey–hey–Bob, come here.” You grabbed him gently but firmly by the wrist, leading him toward the decontamination corner. “Don’t rub your eyes. Just come with me. You’re okay, just–just keep breathing.”

He nodded, still coughing, blinking fast. “I-it got in m-my face–feels like sand, b-but–s-sticky, maybe–” He stumbled slightly as you pushed the lever on the eyewash station.

“Lean in,” You ordered, voice steady. “Both hands on the sides. I’m gonna guide you.” You pressed the large silver button. The twin streams of water erupted instantly, and he hissed through clenched teeth as the cold hit. You steadied him, one hand braced on his lower back as he tilted forward.

”Keep blinking,” You instructed, “Get it flushed out. It’s probably just pollen but I can’t take chances, we still don’t know what that stuff is.”

“It’s–f-fine,” he said, spitting water out, breath hitching. “It doesn’t b-burn, just f-feels weird–” His voice was strained, breathless. You didn’t like the way his skin had started to pink at the edges, how the golden dust had clung even beneath his collar.

When the two-minute flush was over, you helped him lean back slowly, grabbing a towel from the stack nearby and pressing it gently to his face.

“We’re not done yet,” You said, pulling a second towel out and pressing it to the back of his neck. “Blow your nose. Three times. Then cough hard. I want that stuff out of your lungs if you inhaled any of it.”

He obeyed without protest, still coughing lightly between ragged breaths. The dust had left faint shimmer marks down the front of his hoodie, now slightly wet from the eyewash station. You reached over to the wall unit, flipped on the emergency fan array, and turned your console back toward manual override. The air slowly began to cycle through a localized carbon scrubbing system.

You turned back to him, grabbing a disposable cloth and wiping under his jaw, where a little gold still shimmered. His eyes were red-rimmed but clear. Breathing shallow, but not distressed.

You stepped back, hands braced on your hips, the overhead scrubbers humming louder now as the first cycle of filtered air began to push through the sealed lab.

Bob sat perched on the deacon bench, towel still clutched in his hands, his lashes dripping, cheeks damp, and glittered with flecks of gold the eyewash hadn’t quite cleared. He looked flushed–not sick, not distressed–just… warm. Lit from within, like something in him was beginning to glow. But you didn’t let yourself think about that.

Not yet.

“Are you okay?” You asked quietly, kneeling slightly so you were more at eye level with him, voice softening as you scanned his face for any irregularities. “Are you dizzy? Lightheaded? Anything weird?”

Bob blinked slowly, the water still dripping off the tips of his hair as he met your gaze.

“N-No…” He murmured, voice rough with lingering grit, “Just…Feel kinda like I s-snorted fairy dust.” He gave a weak little smile. “M-might be glowing in the dark now.”

You rolled your eyes and let out a half-relieved breath, giving him a playful–but firm–swat to the arm.

“This isn’t funny. You know we have to be in isolation for twenty-four hours now, right?”

Bob groaned, slumping back slightly against the bench. “Ugh. Great. Cool. L-love that.” You crossed your arms.

“We’re both trapped in here. With no way out. The lab is in full lockdown. Airlocked. Everything. Biocontainment protocol 9A.” He sighed, tilting his head toward you dramatically. “

It’s not like we don’t already spend the majority of our free time together or anything.” You narrowed your eyes.

“Don’t act like this is some cozy movie night. You almost got yourself pollinated into another dimension.” Your voice was softer now. More affectionate, more playful. Your gaze dropped briefly–to the faint shimmer still clinging to the edge of his collarbone–and that’s when you noticed it.

You looked down at yourself.

Tiny flecks of gold sparkled faintly across your sleeves, dusted across the dark wool of your sweater and even the collar of your lab coat. The stuff was finer than you thought–so fine you’d barely felt it settle.

“Shit.”

“What?” Bob asked, alarmed.

You pulled your lab coat off immediately, shrugging out of it and tossing it into the nearest biohazard bin. Your sweater followed next, leaving you in the tank top you had underneath–thin, breathable, already damp with nervous sweat. The cold air bit at your arms, but it was better than risking more exposure. You grabbed a clean disposable mask from the supply drawer and tugged it on.

“You got exposed?” Bob asked, sitting up straighter.

You gave him a wry look as you reached for a pair of gloves. “You think that cloud only wanted you?”

He flushed again and shifted where he sat. “S-Sorry…”

“Not your fault,” you said quickly. “You didn’t provoke it.”

Bob’s eyes slid to the corner of the lab where the flower still sat in its shattered dome, motionless now, but unmistakably altered–its petals twitching like cooling muscles, the last of the pollen still floating down like it hadn’t quite obeyed gravity yet.

You pointed to his hoodie.

“That’s gotta come off too.”

He blinked. “W-What?”

“Bob. Your hoodie is covered. You’re basically wearing a glitter bomb.”

“Oh…Right.” He looked down at himself and, reluctantly, peeled the hoodie off over his head, careful not to shake loose any more of the clinging dust. The fabric crackled softly as the static gave way. You moved forward with a biohazard bag already open and waiting.

“Drop it in,” you said, and he obeyed, his white T-shirt riding up slightly with the movement. You caught a glimpse of pale skin, faint golden freckles across his lower ribs, the subtle cut of his hip. You averted your eyes quickly, pretending not to notice.

But he noticed.

You didn’t speak for a beat.

Then:

“Okay,” you said, stepping back with the sealed bag in hand, “Contaminated clothing secured. Isolation timer has started. We’ve got twenty-four hours to kill and a potentially sentient flower that just gas-bombed the strongest man on Earth.”

Bob blinked at you, then gave the tiniest smirk.

“Th-this gonna be in the report?”

“Oh, absolutely,” You muttered, deadpan. “‘Subject A leaned into mysterious glowing flower. Subject B now has fairy glitter in her bra.’”

He laughed. Harder than you expected. The sound echoed softly in the sealed room and you let it hang there for a moment. Eventually his laughter faded, but the heat that was beginning to build in the lab didn’t.

It wasn’t just the tension between you anymore–it was physical. Palpable. You could feel it crawling along the inside of your spine like static. Your skin felt…Tight. Like your clothes were holding in too much warmth. Like the fabric of your tank top was suddenly too heavy in all the wrong places and far too light in others.

You shifted your weight from one leg to the other, hoping it would pass, but it didn’t.

Bob was still sitting on the bench, towel now draped loosely across his lap, chest rising and falling more steadily than before–but even from a few feet away, you could see the faint shine of sweat beginning to gather at the hollow of his throat.

You squinted slightly.

“Is it just me,” You said slowly, brushing a strand of hair off your neck, “Or is it…Hot in here?”

Bob lifted his head toward you, blinking slowly. His cheeks were still pink–flushed in that way people only got when they were either just out of a fever or just getting into something much more compromising.

“I-I thought it was just me,” He said, adjusting how he sat. “I figured the air filters w-weren’t moving much cool air yet. It’s… It’s an enclosed space, so…” He trailed off, eyes catching briefly on your arms, the exposed slope of your collarbone, and then darting away again, as if ashamed of the glance.

You nodded, trying to focus–but it was getting harder. Your tank top clung to the skin beneath your ribs like a second layer of sweat-dampened silk. You could feel the heat collecting at your lower back, a slow, stoked furnace of warmth that wasn’t just the room. Your breathing shifted slightly. Shallower.

There was a kind of pressure building behind your sternum. An ache–not painful, not sharp. Just…Present. Gnawing. Low in your belly. You cleared your throat.

“Do you feel weird?” You asked, keeping your voice as casual as you could. “Like… more than just warm? Any lightheadedness? Sensory changes?” Bob didn’t answer right away. His shoulders rolled back slowly, and his hand came up to drag across the back of his neck. You watched the way his palm moved over the sweat-damp strands of hair, the tension in his forearm, the way his biceps flexed just slightly under the tight stretch of cotton.

He wasn’t looking at you now. But his voice was quiet when he answered.

“M-My heart rate i-is up,” He admitted. “But I d-don’t feel sick. I just feel–” He stopped. Swallowed. Then: “Wound up. I-it’s like I’ve been waiting for something to happen and m-my body’s just trying to stay ahead of it.” You stared at him, hearing as he listed out the same symptoms you were feeling.

Then there was the ache again–twisting low and slow, enough to make you shift your thighs closer together without thinking. You noticed the way Bob’s eyes tracked the motion and immediately flicked away. His chest was rising faster now. His jaw clenched, breath audible through his nose. Something was happening. Something chemical, something hormonal. Something Induced.

You took a slow breath, then glanced at the ruined containment dome, the flower sitting quietly like nothing had happened. Its stamen pulsed gently, and the last wisps of pollen still hovered in the filtered air like gold-lit ghosts.

”You said it didn’t burn when the pollen hit…” You murmured, “Just felt weird…Right?” He nodded slowly, eyes flicking toward your face, then to your mouth, then away. You swallowed hard, wiping a bead of sweat off your forehead. ”How weird?”

Bob exhaled a shaky breath. His hands flexed against his thighs, fingers twitching.

“It just felt really…Light,” he rasped. “Like ash. N-Not like sand–softer. Barely even there. But now–” He trailed off, and when he looked at you, it was like being seen for the first time. His pupils were blown wide, only a thin ring of ocean-blue clinging to the edge. His voice lowered.

“Now I feel like my skin is on fire. L-Like I’m burning…And everything’s so damn sensitive. I c-can’t stop–” His voice cracked, “–I can’t stop looking at you.” Your breath caught. The ache between your legs deepened sharply, twisting upward through your belly like someone had plucked a string that now hummed through your bones. The realization slammed into you with full force. The heat. The ache. The scent. The shimmer. The reaction.

Fuck. You staggered backward from the bench slightly and slapped your hand down on the comm panel by the edge of your lab table, hitting the line for Bucky.

“Come on, come on, pick up–”

“Yeah?” Bucky’s voice crackled over the line. “What’s up?”

“Bucky,” You said, trying to steady your breathing. “Where exactly were you when you found that flower? Be specific. What were the surroundings?”

“I told you, it was near the tree line,” He answered, confused. “On the way back from the ridge. Why?”

“Was there anything else? Anything that stood out?”

There was a pause. Then, “Uh…There was kind of a–garden? Like, a bunch of them. Just a whole patch. Maybe fifty or sixty, I dunno, they were all clumped together.”Another pulse of heat ripped through your core, and you clenched your thighs, biting back a soft, involuntary groan. You half-collapsed, catching yourself on the table edge before sliding down the side of it, pressing your forehead into your forearm.

“Where were they, Bucky?” You grit out through clenched teeth. “Was there a lab? A compound? A goddamn marker on the ground–anything?”

“What? Y/N, I don’t–wait, there was a lab…But it wasn’t even close. Maybe two miles east of it. Looked abandoned. You think it’s connected?”

“Jesus Christ,” you muttered, voice rough, stomach clenching. Your vision was starting to blur around the edges. “That’s not wild growth, Buck. That’s a planted field. That was cultivated. You brought me a fucking bioweapon.”

There was silence.

Bob had shifted, and when you looked up, he was no longer on the bench. He had crouched behind one of the heavy lab tables on the far end of the room, head bowed, palms braced hard against the floor like he was praying—or like he was trying to hold himself together.

“I-it’s getting worse,” he called out, voice hoarse and echoing faintly off the tile. “I—I can feel it in my hands, my back—like I’m buzzing from the inside out. You need to go to another room, Y/N. Please. I don’t—I don’t know what’s going to happen—”

“There is no other room,” you snapped, clutching your own torso, fingers digging into your tank top like it could peel the sensation off your skin. “We’re sealed in. Remember? Isolation. Twenty-four hours.”

You turned back to the comm, swallowing back the pulse building low in your belly. “Bucky, something happened in that lab. This isn’t just a flower. It’s engineered—enhanced. There’s pheromone manipulation in the pollen. Maybe synthetic hormones. We both got exposed.”

“What kind of exposure?”

You hesitated.

Then you exhaled shakily, voice lowering. “The worst kind. I think it’s… I think it’s sex pollen, Bucky.”

A beat of stunned silence on the other end. Then:

“…You’re shitting me.”

“I wish I was,” you hissed, grinding the heel of your hand into your temple, heart pounding. “And unless I get a suppressant cocktail in the next thirty minutes, I’m going to lose it.”

“What about Bob?”

You turned your head just slightly toward where Bob was crouched, shaking. His knuckles had gone white.

“He’s already losing it,” You whispered.

“What do you need me to do?”

“Nothing,” you said, too fast. “Just…We’re locked in for twenty-four hours. There’s nothing anyone can do. Just… Just keep the others out. Don’t let anyone near the door.”

There was a long pause. Then Bucky’s voice dropped.

“Y/N. What exactly happened in there?”

You clenched your jaw and gave the only answer you could.

“I’ll tell you if we survive it.” Then you hung up the comm, bracing your hands on your knees as the ache spread like wildfire across your thighs, your chest, the hollow between your hips. Everything was overstimulated–fabric too rough, air too dry, skin too tight.

And then there was Bob.

You looked up slowly, panting now, vision swimming with heat and color. You could barely see his face in the shadow of the bench, but you heard his voice.

“I-It’s in me,” he said quietly. “Whatever it is. I can feel it in m-my blood. My skin feels like it’s too small. I’m–I’m shaking. I c-can’t stop it.” His breath hitched, voice breaking apart. “I can smell you. I c-can hear your heart. I can feel every molecule in this goddamn r-room. God, what is this stuff?” You were already dragging yourself across the floor, crawling on hands and knees to the nearest storage cabinet, yanking open drawers for anything–anything–that might help regulate internal chemistry. You were half-crazed with heat, sweat dripping between your shoulder blades, your whole body lit up like it had been set on fire from the inside.

“Okay,” you muttered, teeth clenched. “We’re gonna–we’re gonna figure this out. Just don’t come near me, Bob. Not yet.”

You couldn’t see him now, but you heard the thick, wet swallow from where he hid behind the bench.

“I w-won’t,” He rasped. “But…If you don’t figure it out soon…” His voice was barely audible now. “…I d-don’t know if I’m gonna b-be able to stop myself.” The words weren’t loud. They weren’t cruel. But they hit you like a blow to the chest. A sharp pulse rippled through your core–your muscles tensed like a wire had snapped in your belly. The ache between your legs twisted again, hot and hungry, and a broken sound escaped your lips before you could stop it.

A whimper. Soft, shaken, and needy.

”Shut up,” You gasped, your voice hoarse with panic and arousal, hand bracing against the cabinet, “Just…Stop talking, Bob please…Your voice. Fuck sake.” Another wave of heat surged under your skin like a current of electricity. You curled slightly into yourself, arms trembling, every breath catching high in your throat.

“I–I’m sorry,” Bob groaned from across the room, his voice cracking with guilt and something far darker. You heard him shift, heard the thump of his back hit the cabinet behind him like he’d braced himself against it, like he couldn’t trust his limbs to obey. He let out a loud breath, shuddering.

”G-God, I’m–I’m sorry, I c-can’t even think straight–“ His voice broke on the last word, thick with restraint. You dragged open another drawer with shaking fingers, rummaging through cold metal and sterile pouches, tossing one after the other to the side. Glucose packs. Emergency syringes. No suppressants. No hormonal regulators. Nothing for this kind of exposure.

Your vision blurred as your stomach clenched again. You could feel sweat beading at the base of your spine, making your tank top stick like a second skin. You couldn’t stop panting. Couldn’t stop trembling.

”Fuck…” You hissed, almost on the brink of sob. You slammed the drawer shut with a metallic clang, the sound too loud, echoing in the sealed lab like it was mocking you. ”I can’t–I-I can’t find anything.” You wheezed, voice cracking. You braced your hands on the cold tile, heart pounding so hard you could feel it in your teeth.

The need was crawling over your skin like insects. Every breath was friction. Every shift of your body felt like dragging yourself through static. Your nipples were tight beneath your tank top, aching. You could feel your own pulse in places it didn’t belong.

“Shit–shit,” You whispered, eyes welling with frustrated tears. “Oh my god.”

Behind the bench, Bob made a low, strangled noise.

A grunt. Guttural. Desperate.

You couldn’t see him.

But you didn’t need to.

Because you could feel him.

You could feel the way the air changed when he moved. You could feel the ripple of heat that seemed to follow the sound of his voice. And worst of all–you could feel your body answering it.

Every cell in you was lit up with something heavy and humming. Something wild. Something designed.

You curled forward against the floor, pressing your forehead into your arm. You were panting now–wheezing, almos-trying to hold on. Trying not to cry.

You didn’t hear him crawl over, not until it was too late. Your breath was ragged, and your vision was swimming–and then warmth touched your arm. A large hand. Familiar. It closed over your bicep–but it lit your nerves on fire. You jerked away violently, scrambling back on instinct, collapsing onto your ass with a gasp. Your palm slammed against the tile and you skidded slightly, breath hitching as you spat out–

“Don’t touch me!” Your voice cracked, sharp and wet with panic. The motion made your spine arch, your tank top riding up slightly as your hip knocked into a rolling stool, the metal clattering away. Bob’s eyes widened in horror, hand halfway outstretched like it had betrayed him. He dropped to both knees in front of you instantly, not touching, but close enough for you to feel the warmth coming off his body like a wave.

“Y/N–” He breathed, his voice hoarse, chest heaving, “Y/N I-I feel it too, I p-promise. I feel everyth-ing” His hand hovered near your shoulder again, hesitant. Then, slowly, gently, he reached behind your neck, cradling it with a trembling touch. His fingers were hot against your skin, too hot. “Look at me. W-We’ll be okay. We’ll be o-okay.” You shook your head, lip quivering as the tears came faster now. Not the kind you could hide or blink away–these ones slid heavy and helpless down your cheeks, pooling at the corners of your mouth. You were trembling all over, shoulders shaking, thighs clenching without relief.

”I-I feel like I’m dying,” You whispered, voice raw, “Fuck, Bob it’s so painful.” He nodded once, his face contorting with shared agony, as his hand slipped from the back of your neck to your jaw, like he couldn’t decide whether to hold you or let go.

“I-I know,” He rasped, his other hand gripping his thigh so hard it shook, “I-I’m burning from the inside out. I can smell y-you…I can s-smell everything–“ You swallowed, chest rising in short, hard jerks. Because so could you.

His scent was all over the room now. Thick and devastating. It rolled over you in waves—heat-warmed cedarwood, sweat, and something deeper. Instinctual. Masculine. Not cologne. Not soap. Something completely and totally him. A biological beckoning, chemical and holy and blinding.

It made your thighs twitch and your breath break.

And your own scent…You could smell it, too. Like heat-glazed citrus and clean skin. Something golden and heavy, threaded with notes of sun-warmed vanilla and fresh-cut stems. Like the wild edge of spring. It filled your nostrils, clung to your skin, hung in the air between you like a dare.

Bob’s eyes fluttered, jaw clenching again. He let out a low grunt, like the effort of staying still was costing him something visceral. His voice cracked as he spoke.

“I-Isn’t there…a-any way we can stop this f-from getting worse?” You didn’t want to say it, you really didn’t. But the truth came out anyway, scraped and raw from your throat.

”Only if…” You swallowed. Your tongue felt too thick in your mouth, “Only if we have sex…” The words dropped like a stone.

Bob’s breath hitched so hard it almost sounded like a choke. His throat bobbed, and he blinked down at you, eyes wild and dilated, dark lashes damp with sweat and desperation.

There was a pause–long and shaking.

Then, softly:

“W-Would it be t-that bad if…If we did?”

You flinched. Just barely. The air stilled, vibrating between you. And then you shook your head slowly, tears welling again–not from heat this time, but from something deeper.

“I really didn’t want our first time together being l-like this.”

That stopped him cold. All the breath punched out of him in a single exhale. His lips parted, but nothing came out. His hand fell away from your jaw like it had been burned. His whole posture shifted–still close, but paralyzed with guilt.

You looked away.

Because if you looked at him now–if you looked into that face, flushed and desperate and filled with longing–you’d give in. Your breath hitched sharply—twice—before you folded forward on a gasp, one hand clutching your lower stomach like it might soothe the throbbing pulse building between your legs.

“God,” you choked out, voice breaking. “Oh my god, I—I can’t fucking take it.”

The ache had bloomed into something unbearable—wet and slick and throbbing through your core with every heartbeat. You were drenched, panties stuck to you, heat radiating off your skin like you were about to combust. Across from you, Bob made a strangled sound, his fists tight on his thighs, chest heaving as he forced shallow breaths through his nose—like if he didn’t, he might do something reckless.

“I c-can’t smell you,” He whispered, more to himself than to you. “I–I can’t smell you–I can’t–”

But he could. You both could. Your scent was everywhere–sweet and sharp and thick with want. It hung in the air between you like perfume, like bait, and you knew it was driving him mad.

You twitched again as another rush of slick gushed between your thighs and a broken moan slipped past your lips–soft, needy, involuntary. Your eyes squeezed shut as your hand pressed harder against your stomach, trying to contain it.

But it was useless.

“I can’t–fuck, I can’t take it–” You gasped, and before you could stop yourself, you were lunging forward.

You grabbed his face with both hands–hot, flushed skin beneath your palms–and crushed your mouth to his like it was the only thing keeping you alive.

It wasn’t a kiss.

It was a collision.

A mess of lips and teeth and spit.

You moaned into his mouth the second you felt him gasp beneath you–his lips parting wide in helpless surrender, his hands flying to your waist like magnets. The second he touched you, it was over. You melted into him, mouths sliding and sucking and devouring with sloppy, panting need.

Spit slicked your chin, his chin, your mouths, your skin. It dripped down between you as your lips broke and reconnected over and over in increasingly desperate, wet smacks. His tongue slid against yours, hungry and hot, and you whimpered into the kiss like your whole body was unraveling.

His hands squeezed your hips, hard–fingertips digging in, dragging you toward him roughly until your knees bumped his thighs and your chest hit his. You felt the tremble in him, felt the heat pouring off his body as he let out a low, feral grunt into your mouth, like he was trying to hold himself together and failing.

You pulled back just an inch, breath catching in your throat as a strand of spit still connected your lips, both of you panting so hard it echoed in the sealed lab.

“Fuck–” He gasped, chasing your mouth again, not even giving you time to respond before crashing back into the kiss, even hungrier this time. “You taste like–God–l-like sunlight–like h-honey–fuck, I can’t–can’t stop–”

“Don’t,” You moaned, sliding your tongue into his mouth again, letting it tangle with his, swallowing his sounds, his heat, his everything. “Don’t stop. Please. Don’t stop.” Your fingers tangled in his hair, yanking at the damp curls as his hands roamed, gripping your waist so tightly it made you whine. He guided you into his lap without thinking, until your knees straddled his thighs and your body pressed flush to his. You could feel everything–the twitch of his erection beneath the thin fabric of his sweatpants, the way his breath hitched when your hips brushed his, the way his hands couldn’t stop moving–gripping, sliding, needing. Every inch of you was pressed tight to him, and he felt all of it. The heat. The wetness. The hunger.

”G-God…” He gasped, his head dropping to your shoulder for a split second, voice thick, “I c-can’t–can’t stop–need…Need something–“ And then his hands flexed, dragging you forward–against him. You cried out, the sound strangled and high as he rocked your hips into his, grinding you against the thick line of his cock through his sweatpants. The friction sent a lightning bolt through your core, and your whole body spasmed in response, clutching at his shoulders as the contact jolted through your nerves.

“Oh–God–” You moaned, tearing your mouth from his as your head tipped back, spine arching. “Oh fuck–do that again–” He didn’t even answer. Just groaned–loud, filthy–and rolled your hips again. Rougher. Harder. Enough that your soaked panties dragged hot and slick over the outline of him, soaking into the soft cotton of his clothes and yours.

You clung to him, nails digging into his shoulders as your thighs trembled on either side of his lap. Your hands found his hair and tugged–hard–and he moaned so deeply it vibrated through your ribs. His mouth trailed down to your jaw, your throat, open-mouthed kisses dragging over sweat-slick skin. His tongue was everywhere–greedy and reverent–and then you felt him kiss the top of your chest, right along the edge of your tank top.

You were panting, shaking, drenched in sweat and arousal. You couldn’t stop grinding down against him now, couldn’t stop chasing that friction as you rolled your hips again and again, letting your swollen heat drag along his cock in slow, devastating passes. The pressure built fast, sharp and aching, pulsing low in your belly with every movement.

Bob’s mouth trembled where it kissed just below your collarbone. His fingers slipped up your sides, shaky but sure–and then they hooked under the thin straps of your tank top.

“P-Please–” He rasped, looking up at you like he was about to fall apart. “Can I—can I see you?”

You nodded, breathless. “Yes. God, yes.”

He didn’t wait. He dragged the straps down your arms, kissing the slope of your shoulder as they slipped, one by one. Then he tugged the neckline down–slow, desperate–and bared your breasts to the heavy, sweat-damp air.

The second your nipples were exposed, he let out a groan–a sound so broken, it barely sounded human. His eyes glazed with worship, with hunger.

And then his mouth was on you.

He wrapped his lips around one tight, aching nipple and moaned–like he was dying for the taste of you. His tongue flicked, sucked, lapped, over and over, and you cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably in his lap as you rutted down against him.

“Oh my god–Bob–“ You gasped, fingers burying in his hair, yanking him closer, needier. “That–fuck–you’re so good…” He didn’t stop. If anything, he got more desperate. His tongue traced circles around your nipple, sucking it deeper into his mouth with each slow pull of his lips. One of his hands gripped your ass, guiding your hips faster against his erection, grinding you down until your whole body was quivering.

“Y-You’re so warm,” He panted between kisses. “So soft–God–“ And then he took the other nipple between his lips, just as eager, just as mindless. His tongue licked a long, slow stripe across the swell of your breast and you sobbed at the contact, your whole body arching into him. Bob groaned around your nipple one last time before pulling off with a wet pop, his mouth red and slick with spit. His eyes were blown wide, pupils so dilated there was barely any blue left–but there was something else swimming behind them too, something ancient, hungry, waiting to surface. His breath caught in his throat as he leaned in close, nudging your jaw with his nose, mouth grazing your cheek. Then suddenly–

He surged forward.

Your back hit the cold tile in one fluid motion, the breath punching out of your lungs as he guided you down with firm hands, mouth still dragging across your chest. The contrast between the icy floor and the furnace of your skin made you cry out softly, arching up into his touch.

“Bob–” You gasped, but your words cut off with a moan as his hands slipped low, gripping the waistband of your pants and underwear in one practiced motion.

“L-Lift your hips,” He instructed–voice rough and tight with restraint. You obeyed instantly, and he peeled both garments down your legs in a single fluid movement, baring you to the air, to him, to everything.

Your thighs quivered as the rush of cool air met the wet heat between them. You leaned up, grabbed the hem of your tank top, and tore it over your head. It hit the floor behind you just as Bob stripped off his shirt–his chest gleaming with sweat, muscles flexing, dusted with faint gold shimmer and a constellation of freckles across his collarbones.

You barely had a second to breathe before he dropped between your thighs again, mouth finding yours in a kiss so urgent and deep it knocked your head back against the tile. It was messier now–hotter, more desperate, his tongue fucking into your mouth with wild hunger.

Then he broke away just far enough to speak.

“I-I’m going to c-crawl on my fucking knees,” He growled, “And you’re gonna spread those thighs wider for me, and let me eat you until you come on my tongue.”You arched up with a moan, hips twitching off the floor. Your hands reached for him blindly, pulling at his shoulders as he trailed kisses down your throat, your chest, your ribs.

“I need you so fucking bad,” He whispered, his voice darker now–lower, smoother. The stutter was gone.

You blinked through the haze, the heat, the sweat clinging to your lashes–and that’s when you saw it. The eyes. Not Bob’s soft blue. Gold. Molten.

“Sentry,” You whispered, breath catching.

But you didn’t stop him.

You didn’t want to.

His teeth scraped gently along your stomach, sending electric pulses through your nerves, and then he kissed the inside of your hip bones like he was worshipping an altar.

“You smell so fucking sweet,” He murmured, nose dragging through the crease where your thigh met your core, voice reverent and filthy all at once. “I can’t wait to have a taste.” You sobbed his name as your thighs opened wider for him, your body obeying without question. He slid his hands beneath you, lifting your hips off the floor, draping your thighs over his shoulders–his palms spreading across your lower back to anchor you in place.

“Look at you,” He groaned, lips brushing against your soaked folds without yet tasting. “You’re drenched…You’re so fucking wet I can see it drip.”

Then he leaned in.

And licked a slow, devastating stripe up your center.

You choked on a scream. Your hips jerked hard against his mouth, and his arms tightened around your thighs, holding you down as his tongue moved again–sloppier this time. Messier. Hungrier. He licked into you like he was starving. Long, deep strokes. Quick flicks. Circles around your swollen clit that had you crying out his name.

“God, fuck–yes–”

You gripped his hair hard, yanking at the sweat-damp strands, and he groaned like he liked it–no, loved it. The vibration of the sound against your core made your whole body shake.

“You taste like summer, like heat, like stars.” He moaned. “Absolutely fucking sinful.” He pulled back only long enough to look at you, his mouth wet, chin dripping with slick.

“I can’t wait to make you come on my tongue,” He growled.

And then he dove back in.

Tongue sliding flat against your clit, then swirling, sucking it into his mouth with slow, rhythmic pulls that made your vision blur. You cried out, grinding into his face, your hands clutching his hair, your whole body vibrating with sensation.

“P-Please–” you whimpered, barely able to breathe, “Please don’t stop–”

He didn’t.

He licked and sucked and groaned like you were his favorite meal, like he could do this for hours. His hands gripped your ass, dragging you tighter to his mouth, keeping you from squirming away.

You were going to come.

It was building fast–tight and white-hot and burning like it had nowhere else to go. You were right on the edge when–

He slipped one thick finger inside you.

You let out a loud gasp. It wasn’t pain–it was too much. Too good. The stretch, the pressure, the way his mouth never stopped moving.

“That’s it,” He murmured against your clit. “Take my fingers…Just like that…You’re so tight, fuck…I’m imagining how you’re going to take me.”

You clenched around him, and he groaned again–louder this time–and slid a second finger in, stretching you open. His fingers curled up, rubbing slow, teasing strokes into that perfect, devastating spot. Your walls fluttered, your thighs trembled.

“Oh god, oh god–”

“Come for me,” He growled. “Right now. Let me feel you.”

And he sped up.

Fingers pumping hard, mouth sucking your clit with filthy precision. You sobbed his name, your back arched clean off the tile, and you shattered.

The orgasm ripped through you like fire, like lightning–your thighs locking around his head, your hands gripping his hair as you wailed through it.

He didn’t stop.

Not when you cried out.

Not when you begged.

He kept sucking, licking, fucking his fingers into you as your body convulsed.

Your body was still twitching when he pulled his fingers free–slick and trembling, your core fluttering from aftershocks as he slowly sat back on his heels.

His chin was soaked. His lips swollen. His eyes–those molten, god-touched eyes–burned down the length of your naked body like sunlight through stained glass.

“I should feel sated,” He murmured, voice too calm for the storm coiled in his chest. “I should be full from what I’ve just taken.”He leaned in. Slowly. Pressed one open-mouthed kiss to your thigh, then another–hot and reverent, just shy of your folds. His breath dragged over you, still sensitive, and it made you whimper.

“But I’m not,” He said low, his nose skimming up the inside of your leg as he worked his way toward your face. “I’m still starving.”

You were trying to breathe, but it wasn’t easy. Not with your pulse echoing in your throat, not with the ache between your legs still pulsing with the memory of his tongue, and certainly not with him looking at you like that.

“I’ve waited…So long to taste you.”

His voice was velvet heat–slick with need, rich with something that throbbed like want and worship tangled together.

He braced a hand on either side of your head as he crawled up over you, hair wild around his face, sweat glistening on the slopes of his shoulders and chest. The weight of him caged you in. It wasn’t heavy–it was all-consuming.

You reached up with a trembling hand and cupped his face. His skin was flushed, warm and slick, his jaw tight as though holding back something enormous.

“I can still feel you,” You whispered, voice raw. “On my mouth. On my thighs. Inside me.”

He smiled at that–but it wasn’t gentle.

It was hunger.

“You’ll feel me even more soon.”His hand found your jaw, thumb brushing your lower lip, and his gaze flicked down–watching the way your mouth parted for him instinctively. He leaned in again, voice now a whisper of thunder against your cheek, “Imagine what it’s going to be like when I fuck you…” Your hips bucked helplessly beneath him, but he only smirked, catching them with a firm palm.

“Sentry,” You gasped, voice trembling as your thighs clenched under the weight of him, “P-Please. God—don’t you feel it too?!”

His nose brushed yours, breath hot against your cheek. He didn’t answer at first–just let that small, dangerous smile curl across his lips, teeth barely catching his lower lip before he released it.

“Of course I feel it,” He murmured, hips dragging downward, grinding his clothed cock into your slick heat. “It’s everywhere in me. In my chest, in my spine, my teeth.” His voice dropped to a darker pitch, and the gold in his eyes flared one last time before dimming. “I-I just know I’m going to get what I-I need…

Bob sat back on his knees between your spread thighs, hands sliding slow and sure down his stomach to the waistband of his sweatpants. “I-I already came once just from eating you out,” He confessed, voice timid now, “I t-think I have more in me…”

Then he tugged the sweatpants down.

Your breath stuttered in your throat.

His erection sprang free, flushed dark and glistening at the tip, already slick with the evidence of his earlier release. A thick bead of cum sat heavy at the crown, dripping slowly down the curve of his shaft, and your whole body twitched at the sight of it. The raw, shameless arousal surged in your belly like wildfire.

“Fuck–” You whispered, pupils blown wide.

He was beautiful. Veined and heavy and so hard it twitched with every breath. You couldn’t stop yourself. Your hand moved without thought–licking your palm once, slow and deliberate, before wrapping your fingers around him.

Bob groaned immediately–deep. His head dropped forward, curls swinging around his jaw, and his hips bucked into your touch as your hand slid down the length of him in a slow, sticky stroke. His cock throbbed in your grip. Hot. Pulsing.

“Mmmf–fuck,” He growled, the sound rattling against the walls. He dropped one hand down to your thigh to steady himself, the other bracing behind him as you worked him with your slick hand–up and down, tight and wet and slow, like you wanted to savor every second.

His breath came out in sharp pants, his face flushed, his eyes fluttering shut as your thumb rubbed just beneath the swollen head, gathering that leaking slick and spreading it over his cock.

“God, I didn’t even have to touch you and you came.” You whispered,

“That’s what y-you do to me,” he gasped, voice shaking. “I couldn’t help it—god, I couldn’t fucking help it—” He surged forward, kissing you hard, and you moaned against his mouth as his hips began to stutter forward, chasing the motion of your hand with every pass.

It was hot, the way he kissed you–messy. His mouth was open, panting against yours, lips dragging along your tongue, teeth grazing your bottom lip before sucking it into his mouth with a wet pop. He moaned into you with every stroke of your hand, deep in his chest, growling like it hurt not to move faster.

He kissed like he was about to fall apart in your arms.

Like he wanted to ruin you and thank you at the same time.

And you could feel it–he was close again. Already.

“G-God–don’t stop–don’t stop–” he choked out, hips bucking into your grip, his cock twitching hard in your palm.

Then his mouth tore from yours with a ragged moan, his body going rigid as he came–again.

Thick ropes of cum spilled across your stomach in hot, wet spurts–slicking your skin, painting the swell of your belly in messy, sticky heat. Bob cried out, breath catching, his hand clutching your thigh hard enough to leave fingerprints as his hips jerked against your hand one last time.

You watched it all, feeling it dripping down your skin. You slowed your hand, and then looked up at him. His eyes were fluttered closed. His mouth hung open, panting raggedly. His cheeks were red and damp with sweat, hair curling against his temples in loose, disheveled strands.

And then–

You ran your fingers through the puddle of cum on your stomach.

Bob’s eyes snapped open.

He watched, transfixed, as you dragged two fingers slowly through the mess he left on you–slicking them up, glossy with white.

Then you brought them to your mouth.

And sucked them clean.

He groaned–low and guttural, more animal than man. He surged forward and kissed you, hard–his mouth hot and open, tongue licking into yours like he needed to taste what you’d just tasted.

And when he pulled back–just barely–he looked drunk. Starved. His voice was hoarse, reverent.

“W-We taste so g-good together,” He whispered.

You whimpered, eyes wide and glassy.

And then your voice broke.

“I need you inside me.”

His breath hitched sharply. His eyes searched your face like a prayer–like he needed to make sure this wasn’t just the pollen, wasn’t just chemical.

But your body told him everything he needed to know. The slick between your thighs. The tremble in your voice. The way your legs fell open without fear. He saw your hand reaching for him–trembling, open, desperate–and instead of just taking it, he kissed it.

One slow kiss to your palm. Then your wrist. Then each fingertip in turn, reverent and breath-warmed. His eyes didn’t leave yours, even when his lips brushed the soft pads of your fingers. It felt like something sacred.

“I-I’m yours, Y/N…” He whispered, his voice wrecked–hoarse and honeyed, lined with awe. “All yours.”

Your chest trembled. Not from the pollen. Not from the heat. From the weight of it–his words, his body, his need. You brought your other hand to his cheek, touching the sweat-slick curve of his face, thumb stroking over his flushed skin.

“You’re burning up,” You whispered.

“So are you,” He breathed back.

But the ache had shifted now. It was lower. Thicker. No longer frantic. Just heavy. Full. Demanding.

His lips met yours again–slow this time, almost trembling. Not chasing. Not crashing. Just pressing. Full and warm. Your mouths moved in sync, deeper with every pass, until he adjusted his weight above you, one forearm braced beside your head while the other hand snaked down to your thigh.

His fingers curled around the underside of it, tugging you closer until your legs wrapped around him again and your slick heat pressed against his length. He groaned into your mouth at the contact.

“G-God, Y/N,” He muttered, dragging his mouth down to your throat, kissing the line of your pulse. “You’re s-still dripping. I can feel it–so hot, so wet for me…”

His hand shifted, reaching between your bodies. He stroked himself once. Twice. The glide was obscene, slick with both your arousal and his release from before. He cursed low under his breath–voice strained with restraint–and guided the thick head of his erection to your entrance. Then–he paused, letting his forehead press to yours, his nose brushing yours as he whispered

“T-Tell me you want it.”

”I want you, Bob,” You breathed, “I’ve wanted you for so long…Please I want you inside me.” You begged, almost on the brink of tears just from the sheer anticipation that wracked through your body. He let out a long sigh and slid in, with such slowness you felt your whole body tense up.

You both gasped at the same time–loud, broken, raw. Your back arched and your thighs locked tighter around him as he pushed forward, inch by inch, stretching you wide with the thick, pulsing heat of him. He groaned above you, mouth falling open as your walls clenched around him, impossibly wet and tight.

“Oh–f-fuck…” He stuttered, his voice cracking like it couldn’t contain the feeling. “You feel…God…You feel like…Like e-everything.”

You whined under him, nails scraping lightly across his back. Every inch dragged through you like it was carved for you–hot, thick, filling. It was too much and not enough at once.

“You’re stretching me so good,” You gasped, voice shaking. “Bob–go slow–I wanna feel all of it.” He obeyed, hips moving with devastating care, sinking into you until he bottomed out, fully seated, buried to the hilt. The moan that left your mouth was guttural. His wasn’t any better. It came from deep in his chest–an animal sound, trembling and wrecked.

He stayed still inside you, just for a moment, just to feel everything, just to breathe.

Your chest rose beneath him in shuddering gasps, your nails pressing into the flex of his back as your hips trembled beneath the weight of him. He was deep–so deep it was hard to breathe–but it wasn’t painful. It was perfect. Like a lock clicking into place after too many years of holding the wrong key.

His forehead dropped to yours, your sweat-slick skin sticking where it touched, his breath ragged and hot against your cheek. His arms trembled faintly from the restraint, from the fire still licking through his blood, from the unholy grip of your body around him. His hands slid slowly from the curve of your thigh up to your waist, his thumbs brushing over your hips as if memorizing them. One hand trailed higher, tracing the line of your ribs, his touch light, soothing, trembling.

”You feel–“ He choked on the words, voice wrecked and shaking, “–Like…L-Like you were made for every inch of m-me.” Your fingers dug into his shoulders as your back arched slightly, hips shifting. The movement made him twitch deep inside you, and the sound he let out was hoarse and broken. Your lips brushed his, breath mingling.

“I need you to move,” you whispered. “Please, Bob. I need you to–”

He cut you off with a kiss.

Not desperate. Not wild. Just deep. Intentional. His lips dragged against yours in slow, soft strokes, his tongue slipping into your mouth like a secret. You kissed him back with a whimper, your hands cupping his face, fingers sliding into the damp curls at the base of his neck.

Then he started to move.

Slow at first.

A long, slow withdrawal that had your breath catching in your throat, followed by a deep, steady thrust that made you moan into his mouth. His hips rocked forward again, harder this time, but still slow. Still deliberate. Still savoring.

You felt every inch.

And he felt everything.

Your slick heat around him. The way your body welcomed him, tightened for him, trembled from the fullness. He moved like he wanted to stay inside you forever–long strokes that dragged through you with devastating patience, hips grinding at the end of each thrust like he wanted to feel the slick press of your clit against his skin.

He kissed you between thrusts–messy, wet kisses that dragged across your jaw, your cheek, your mouth again. His lips caught your whimpers. His tongue tasted your gasps. He moaned into your mouth when you clenched around him.

And then–

His hand slid up your chest, broad and warm, until his palm cupped the base of your throat. Not tight. Not forceful. Just there. Anchoring. Feeling the frantic flutter of your pulse beneath his fingers like it was the most sacred thing he’d ever touched.

“You’re burning,” He whispered, lips dragging across your cheek, your jaw, the corner of your mouth. “S-So warm…So soft…So alive…”

His hips rolled again, slow but deep, pressing into you until your breath stuttered beneath his palm. Your body arched into him helplessly, your thighs wrapping tighter around his waist, your mouth parting on a moan that he caught with a kiss–hot, slick, and panting. He swallowed it greedily.

The pressure of his hand on your throat didn’t restrict. It grounded. Like he needed to feel your heartbeat just to believe this was real.

You whimpered, and he pulled back enough to look at you–his curls dripping sweat, his lips swollen and damp, and those eyes, half-lidded and molten gold at the edges.

“G-God, I could be inside you forever,” he rasped, voice trembling like the words themselves threatened to undo him. “I–I never want to l-leave this. Never wanna stop feeling you like this…”

Another thrust–this one deeper, grinding. Your head dropped back with a gasp.

“Bob–” You sobbed his name like it was the only word you remembered, your fingers twisting hard in his hair. He groaned, deep and wrecked, his hips stuttering slightly as you tugged, his body responding like you’d yanked something primal out of him. His mouth found yours again, frantic and hot, tongue flicking into your mouth with messy, desperate hunger.

Then he pulled back just enough to see your face–flushed, dewy with sweat, eyes glassy and wide.

“Y-You’re close again,” He murmured, like it was something holy. His hand still cradled your throat lightly, thumb stroking gently beneath your jaw as he pressed his forehead to yours, “I–I can feel it, you’re tightening every time I move–you’re doing so good for me Y/N.” You whimpered beneath him, your hands clutching at his back, at his shoulders, pulling him deeper, harder, anything–

“I’ve got you,” He whispered, rocking into you again, the friction slow and devastating. “Let go for me. Come around me. I wanna feel it. I wanna feel you fall apart.”

You moaned–high and soft and broken.

“That’s it,” he breathed, voice breaking. “Just like that. You’re doing so good—G-God–you’re so perfect.” Your thighs shook around his hips. His hand slid down from your throat to your chest, splaying wide over your sternum, as if he could feel the orgasm building beneath your ribs. His other hand slipped to your hip, holding you still as he gave one slow, deep thrust that hit the exact spot that made your vision blur.

Your mouth dropped open in a cry.

“Come for me,” He begged, hips rolling again, steady and relentless. “Please–I wanna feel you–let me feel you come around me–”

You shattered.

Your back arched off the floor, your breath catching in a series of sobbed gasps as the orgasm ripped through you. He kept moving, kept whispering praise through your climax, voice ragged with awe.

“That’s it…That’s it, Y/N…You’re so beautiful like this–“ You clung to him like he was the only thing keeping you on earth, your nails digging into his back, your body convulsing beneath him with every wave of pleasure. You could feel yourself pulsing around him, feel how it dragged a strangled moan out of his throat.

“I-I’m so close,” He gasped, his voice wrecked, his rhythm faltering. “W-Wanna fill you up–please–can I–?”

You nodded, breathless and trembling. “Yes–yes, please–I want it–give it to me–” With a broken groan, his hips jerked forward one last time–and he spilled inside you. His whole body shook as he came, burying his face in your neck, his arms wrapping around you like he needed to hold every part of you to survive it.

You could feel it–every throb, every pulse of warmth deep inside you. His moans, soft and shaking, buzzed against your throat as his breath caught in your skin.

He didn’t move for a long while.

Just stayed there–buried inside you, mouth warm against your neck, arms tight around your waist like he was anchoring himself to this moment, to the rhythm of your heart against his chest. His breath was still coming in short, shaken bursts, and yours wasn’t much better. You were both trembling a little–not from fear, not anymore–but from the rawness of what had just passed between you. Like your bodies hadn’t quite caught up to the aftermath of something so explosive, so full.

But the heat was different now.

It had shifted. Softened. Still warm. Still thick. But no longer blistering, no longer maddening. Just…Lingering.

Your hands slid slowly up his back, fingers tracing through the sweat that slicked his spine, dragging across the faint bumps of his vertebrae. He let out a soft, shaky sigh against your skin. Your fingertips wandered to his sides, palms smoothing gently over the curve of his ribs as if to say I’m here. Still here. I’m okay.

You tilted your head and pressed a kiss to his shoulder—soft, damp, reverent. His skin tasted like salt and breathless devotion.

Bob shifted then, his arms loosening around you as he lifted his head just slightly, enough to look down at you. His hair was a light brown mess, damp curls stuck to his temples, a few clinging to his cheeks. He blinked at you–slow, still dazed–but there was something clearer in his eyes now. Something tender. His hand dragged along your side, skimming your ribs, and he leaned down to kiss you again.

His lips moved against yours like he hadn’t quite gotten his fill–like maybe he never would. He kissed your mouth, then your jaw, then your neck, peppering slow, breathless kisses along the column of your throat. You giggled once–just a little–as his nose brushed the underside of your jaw, tickling your skin.

He pulled back just enough to blink down at you, lips wet and parted, chest still heaving.

”Y-You know I like you, right?” Your breath caught. Your fingers paused where they rested near the nape of his neck. His voice had cracked slightly on the word like, and you could tell he meant something so much more than that. Of course you knew his feelings for you, it was easy to spot, but hearing him say it aloud–even after the both of you just had the most carnal sex ever–still made you a bit breathless. You swallowed, then nodded–eyes searching his face, your heart fluttering in your throat.

“I like you too,” You whispered, your voice shaky and soft. “Always have…” Your cheeks burned, and not from residual heat. You traced a finger over the curve of his shoulder. “T-The circumstances right now are a bit c-crazy…But…Maybe after this…”You tried to continue, but your nerves tangled the words together.

He finished them for you.

“I-I’ll take you out,” He said, nodding once, as if promising both you and himself. “We…We can go to your favorite r-restaurant. And we can do this right…” He ducked his head a little, voice lowering to a smile. “W-Without the sex pollen.” You let out a laugh–helpless and bright–and leaned up to kiss him again. He grinned into it, just a little, and kissed you twice more, slower now, like sealing the agreement. When he finally pulled back, his thumb was brushing your cheekbone, his other hand still lazily tracing your hip.

His gaze dropped to your chest for a moment, then back to your eyes. “A-Are you still aching?” He asked gently.

You paused, body still humming with the memory of him, but no longer sharp with urgency. You shifted slightly, feeling the wet stickiness between your thighs, the throb finally quieting to something warm and dull.

“It’s dulled a little,” you admitted. “But I think we should wash up…”

He blinked, nodding. “R-Right. Yeah.”

You offered a small smile, brushing the sweat-slick hair from his forehead. “We’ve got that little makeshift shower unit in the corner storage. Emergency setup. I-I can activate it.”

He looked at you, eyes soft, one hand trailing lightly over your ribs again.

“I-I’ll come with you,” He murmured. “Just to m-make sure you’re okay.” His curls hung loose now, wild and slightly matted from where your fingers had yanked at them during your climax. The gold shimmer on his skin caught the low lab lights, making him glow faintly where he hovered above you.

“Aww,” you murmured, brushing a hand lazily over the sharp line of his jaw, “That’s sweet, Bob. Really. But we both know that’s not the reason you’re joining me.” Bob flushed immediately, lips twitching into a bashful grin.

“O-Okay,” He said quietly, nuzzling your cheek with the tip of his nose. “M-Maybe it isn’t…M-Maybe I just wanna wash you, and k-kiss you under the water…Until all this heat dies down inside me.” Your chest stuttered at that, heart tripping over itself. His voice was so soft, so wrecked, so full of you.

“Now that’s much better,” You whispered, leaning up to kiss the corner of his mouth. He smiled into it, and you felt the way his arms curled tighter around your middle, the way his cock–still half-hard inside you–twitched slightly at the praise. He sighed, then slowly pulled out, both of you gasping a little at the drag of it. You shivered, and he was already reaching for a nearby towel to cover you while you sat up. His hand cradled the back of your head as you steadied yourself. Always gentle, even now.

You stretched your sore limbs and started for the far corner of the lab where the emergency hygiene setup was stored. Still naked, still glowing with post-orgasm daze, you knelt beside the console and started activating the emergency rinse station–a compact but functional retractable stall with hot water access, a single pressure-nozzle head, and sealed drainage for contamination containment. You flipped open the sanitation kit, pulling out the packet of unscented soap, a washcloth, and the emergency towels folded like paper bricks.

Bob padded over behind you, and you heard him laugh softly as you organized the supplies with shaky hands.

“What?” You said over your shoulder, arching an eyebrow.

He scratched the back of his neck, grinning sheepishly. “N-Nothing. Y-You just look really focused for someone who’s still naked and covered in glittery sex pollen.”

You snorted. “Yeah, well,” you murmured, standing and turning to face him, “Remind me to access the cameras in here later and delete the footage of what happened…”

Bob raised his brows. “You think there’s audio?”

You gave him a deadpan look. “Bob. We shouted at each other and cried out mid-orgasm while covered in science glitter. If there’s audio, we’re already blackmail material.”

His face turned scarlet.

“Y-You think they’ll–”

“I don’t think we want our sex tape leaking,” You interrupted, grinning wickedly as you flicked the shower head on. Warm water streamed out with a pleasant hiss, filling the space with a light mist and the sound of soft rainfall. You stepped under it first, pulling him gently in after you. The water hit your skin and instantly began washing away the gold flecks still clinging to your chest and thighs.

Bob’s hands found your waist again.

“…M-Maybe I’ll take a copy,” He mumbled.

You looked over your shoulder at him with mock exasperation. “You’ll have the real thing almost every night, Bob,” you said, voice low and teasing. “I don’t think you’ll need a copy.” His breath hitched–barely–and then you felt his mouth press to the back of your shoulder, his arms circling your waist from behind.

“I-Is that so?” He asked, lips trailing kisses up your damp neck.

You tilted your head back against him, smiling into the steam.

“Oh, it’s definitely so,” You said, reaching back to cup the nape of his neck, pulling him closer as the water cascaded around you both–cleansing your skin, but not your hunger.

[venomvalley]

FEED ME!

PART I: NOODLE SOUP ↬ sevika x pregnant!reader | 5.4k words

SUMMARY:

Sevika rescues a pregnant stray from the streets of the Undercity as her good deed for the decade, but plans go awry when she starts to enjoy the companionship, and her entire lone-wolf worldview comes crashing down. The kicker? Her stray is very much human, and the circumstances of your condition create a whole new set of challenges—challenges best solved with good, old-fashioned murder.

TAGS: 18+! pregnancy fic, mentions of past rape, protective!sevika (she's still a bitch though i love her)

NOTES: i have no idea if people will even like this but i had fun writing it so theres that. never been interested in pregnancy fics, but i just needed protective sevika in my life idk. btw the actual rape is only briefly mentioned in passing. no descriptions whatsoever

-> READ ON AO3 | FEED ME! MASTERLIST

Sevika is having a shit day.

Well. Shittier than usual.

The sole of her boot broke off this morning, Silco's contact never showed up at the docks, and her favorite food place was closed by the time she passed through the Lanes. And to make matters worse, it started raining. Not only is she tired and hungry, but now she's soaked through to the bone.

So when she cuts through an alley to shave off a few minutes of travel on the way home, she really isn't in the mood for the voice that calls out to her. Beggars are a cog a-fucking-dozen in the Lanes, and she ignores them on instinct. There are worse things in the shadows that know her name, after all.

But for some reason, she decides to take the bait tonight. Turns back to look at the ground then stills at the sight of you, bathed in the neon lights of the city’s beating heart. There's no hiding the roundness of your stomach beneath your shirt, or the gauntness of your cheeks. Clothes dirty, hair unwashed, as if you were thrown out on the street like an unwanted stray.

The state of you makes her sick to her stomach. Angry at the world. For a brief moment, she remembers what—who—she fights for: the little people like you that often fade into the background. The chaos of the chem-barons and the Enforcers sniffing around tend to take center stage.

“I'm sorry for bothering you, but do you have any food?” Your voice comes out weak and raspy, desperation splitting each syllable at the seams. “I don't want money, I just—I'm starving and nobody will help me.”

Sevika nods toward the swell of your belly, so round it looks painful. “Where's the dad?”

You inhale a shaky breath, face twisting up in a pained grimace before hardening back to neutral stone. “I don't know. Don't even know who he is, actually, but I—I didn't ask for this. I swear, I'm responsible. I would never—fuck, it doesn't even matter. I'm sorry.”

She wonders how many times you've plead your case to passersby in an attempt to convince them to save you. How many actually believed your story.

But there’s no faking that grieving look in your eye, and the implication of how you ended up here changes things.

There are very few situations in this world that affect Sevika, but injustice pains her most. She’s seen the worst of this city a million times over, has contributed to the chaos in ways she isn't proud of, but she still holds a place in her heart for the people who got the shit end of the stick. People like you, and the kids starving in the streets, and everybody else cursed enough to be born in the hell she calls home.

“Get up,” she says, a bit more gruff than she means to, and your eyes widen in fear. You curl in on yourself as tightly as you can, arms folded over your belly. “You want food or not?”

As soon as the words leave her mouth, she regrets it. A disaster waiting to happen, appeasing a walking liability. There’s a reason why she doesn't bother with attachments or relationships outside of work and gambling.

But then you struggle to your feet, fighting gravity as you clutch at the brick wall for leverage, and she holds out a hand to steady you.

Her first mistake.

You grasp her fingers and gaze at her with eyes that gleam, like an outstretched hand is your first ever taste of tenderness.

(It probably is. Nothing surprises her anymore.)

As she leads you through the crowded streets, you turn into a skittish thing, eyes darting over the crowd, clinging a bit too hard to her wrist. When you step on the back of her boot, it only takes one venomous glare for you to keep your distance until you reach your destination: a hole-in-the-wall noodle shop. Big portions for cheap, in exchange for shit service and mediocre food. The only place open besides bars this late, and she wouldn't dare drag you into one of those.

She corrals you over to an empty table and pulls out the seat against the back wall for you to take. You glance around a moment, flinching at the slam of the front door, before easing yourself down into the chair, a hand protective over your stomach.

She wonders why. Why you’d care so much about something borne from an awful situation. It doesn’t make any sense.

The waitress strolls up to the table with two paper menus, eyes landing on her with a sultry smile. “Well, well, well. Sevika. Haven’t seen you around in a while.” The waitress—Zaya, maybe? her face seems familiar—looks you up and down with a curl of her upper lip. “Seems you caught yourself a stray.”

You bow your head at the comment, soothing over the mess of your hair in an attempt to make yourself more presentable. Sevika shouldn’t care as much as she does, but you’re just… pitiful. Pathetic, if she wants a more apt, less kind term to use.

“Something like that.” Beneath the table, her metal hand tightens into a fist, irritation burning hot inside her chest. Not in the mood for bullshitting. “I want my usual.” She glances over at you. “Double order.”

The waitress stands around for a long moment in an effort to strike up conversation, but Sevika pays her no mind, fully interested in the scratch marks on the table. Eventually, she leaves with a frustrated huff.

A long silence passes between the two of you. She isn't about to engage in small talk, and you look ready to burst into tears. Fine by her. Conversation was never her strong suit anyway.

You look up at her, then away, then back, a focused furrow to your brow. She opens her mouth to snap at you—*say what you want to say—*but you speak first.

“I know you. Well, of you,” you say, voice so quiet she almost can’t hear you over the white noise of the restaurant. “You’re popular.”

“That’s one way to put it.”

You heave a tired sigh, palm drawing rhythmic circles over your belly. “I don’t have any way to repay you.”

“No shit. That's the whole point.”

“I’ve heard this place is expensive.”

Sevika snorts. “This is the cheapest food in the Lanes.” Her eyes dart down to your stomach, visible just over the lip of the table. “One bowl can feed two people.”

You fall silent, avoiding her gaze to instead stare a hole through the wall near her head. “Thank you.”

A different waitress drops off the food (good fucking riddance, Zara), and you immediately tuck into your bowl, inhaling the noodles like you haven't eaten in weeks, dripping sauce all over your area of the table.

After you almost choke on a too-large bite, Sevika rips the bowl away from you with a growl of irritation. “Slow down. You're making a mess.”

You blink at her in surprise, eyes wide and misty, and grab a nearby napkin to clean your face then mop up your splattering of sauce. “Sorry. I’m just hungry.”

“You still have manners, don't you?” Despite the bite of her words, she takes pains to slide the bowl slowly across the table.

Sevika doesn’t know how to be soft. Never really had the patience, the capacity for it. She doesn't surround herself with people like you who require a tender hand. The kind of people who fear their own shadow.

She should get up, pay the tab, and leave. She did her good deed for the decade. She doesn't owe you anything.

But she can't will her legs to move. Thinks, instead, of you waddling back to that alleyway, of the pouring rain, of someone a lot more cruel than her stumbling upon your defenseless form in the middle of the night.

This is exactly what her old man used to warn her about: the inconvenience of companionship. One big distraction designed to veer her away from the end goal.

And yet—

you sit back in your chair with a content smile, shoulders relaxing from their spot beside your ears, and you look at her like she hangs the stars in your sky

—she doesn't move.

“Feel better?” she asks, elbow balanced atop the table as she adjusts her weight in her seat. She doesn't fidget, but the reverent look you aim her way gets her the closest she's ever been in her life.

Nothing good ever follows me. Get out while you still can.

You nod. “Yeah, but I think I ate too much.”

She glances down at your bowl. You licked it clean.

A wave of pride swells within her at the sight of you: eyelids already drooping, hands curling your jacket tighter around your shoulders. If you could, you'd no doubt be purring.

Cute.

Her face twists into a scowl, silently shooing away the thought as she rises to her feet, and you stumble in an effort to follow her.

“Are you—” you pause, hands clasping tight over your chest. “Do you know anywhere I can stay? At least to get out of the rain tonight?”

Sevika’s eyes narrow, gaze inspecting the features of your face for any hint of… she doesn't know, really. Manipulation, dishonesty maybe. But all that stares back at her is a woman with one big baby-sized responsibility and no means to care for it. You're scared shitless. There's no faking that.

Damn. Looks like she's got herself a stray for the night.

“Come on,” she grumbles, curling a hand around your upper arm.

She pays at the counter, your presence hovering just behind her elbow, and ignores the goodbyes from staff as she leads you out the front door.

“Where are we going?” you ask, a bit breathless from the speed of your walk in an attempt to catch up to her.

Fuck, she just wants to go home.

“My place. Just for tonight.”

You nod your head, reaching again for the comfort of her wrist, and she lets you. Too exhausted to argue.

The walk to her apartment takes longer than usual, your stride stilted from the bulk of your belly, fatigue weakening your legs.

Sevika's never really thought much about where she lives in regards to safety, but the shadows swallow the darkness tonight with you in tow. The locals know not to fuck with her, but they don't know you, and they leer in a way that makes her hackles raise.

She tugs you closer when a burly man steps off the stoop of his house, calling out to her.

“Whatcha got there, big girl?”

“Your head in a box if you don't fuck off.” A matter-of-fact statement. A promise.

He laughs, high-pitched and nervous, arms raised in placation. “Alright, alright, I hear ya. Not in the mood for jokes.”

She stops in her tracks and squares her shoulders, ignoring your quiet oof as you collide with her back. Because no, she's really not in the mood for jokes.

The man fidgets in place a moment as if weighing his options, before he backs away to the front door of his home. “Alright. I'll be seeing you.”

When the front door closes, she releases her hold on your arm and begins walking again.

“Who was that?” you whisper, fingers trembling as they reattach to her wrist.

“Nobody. Let’s go.”

A few minutes later, you're first inside her apartment, shivering from the chill of the rain. You look around the barebones living room—a broken-down couch, a scuffed chair in the corner, various tools scattered over the coffee table. Very little in regards to decoration.

Sevika doesn't like coming home. The emptiness tends to swallow her whole. Nothing waiting for her but an empty bed and the sprawl of silence.

“You need a shower,” she says, discarding her cloak over the back of the couch.

“I don't have any clothes.”

“I know.”

She just wants to sleep. Would rather not be dealing with this when a busy day looms ahead, but she couldn't just leave you there. A decision that goes against every cell in her body, every lesson she learned in her youth, but she couldn’t.

She just couldn’t.

She fetches you a worn shirt and a pair of boxer briefs then shows you to the bathroom, and you whisper your thanks as she tosses a spare towel on the sink.

You stay in there a while, and she passes the time by tinkering with her prosthetic.

Finally, the door swings open and you walk out, dirty clothes bundled under your arm.

“I finally feel like a person again.” You tug down the hem of her your shirt, fabric stretched over your belly. “Thank you.”

She grunts in response, and you take a seat across from her at the kitchen table, head tilting as you watch her work. You don't say anything. Just follow the movement of her hands.

The next time she looks up, your cheek rests on your folded arms atop the table, eyes closed, shoulders rising with each breath you inhale.

Asleep. Poor, helpless thing.

She considers leaving you there, doesn't want to bother with setting you up on the couch, but her legs are already moving before she makes a decision either way.

Carrying you is difficult given the bulk of your stomach. She holds you like a thing made to be broken, soft and careful, the cold metal of her prosthetic cradling your neck, her other arm beneath the bend of your knees. Walks slow to keep from waking you, enraptured by the rapid-fire expressions that flicker over your face. Anger, pain, sadness, anger, fear, fear, fear—

Must be a horrible dream.

She lays you down on the couch then covers you with a threadbare blanket found in the back of her closet. Takes a seat on the coffee table and thinks about what the fuck she’s going to do with you.

You can’t stay here, but she can’t let you live on the street either. So there’s the issue of finding someone to house you, but she can count the people she trusts on one hand (with five fingers left over). The shelters are already full-up, and under zero circumstances will she go to Silco for help.

She finds herself in a mess of her own fucking creation.

You roll onto your side with a dreamy groan, hand ghosting over your belly in your sleep. She wonders if you even want the kid. If you spend your days grieving a life you’ll never get to have because there's no other option.

Sevika doesn’t remember much of her own mom. Died when she was young giving birth to a little brother that failed to survive through the night—a waste in her eyes. That was her first brush with grief, the foundation of beliefs that her old man raised her with: the harsh life of the Undercity holds no room for love, or compassion, or attachment.

If the Enforcers had called for a doctor like they were supposed to, her mom might still be alive. But she doesn’t like to dwell on the past, on what-ifs. No damn point in it.

She pulls out a cigarette in hopes that the smoke will drown out the memories. Looks over at your sleeping form. Looks down at the cigarette. Heaves a frustrated sigh then puts it back in its metal case.

You're an inconvenient little thing. A stray with too many stipulations. No more than a headache.

(If she adjusts the blanket to cover up your cold, bare feet on her way out the front door, nobody has to know.)

The next morning, you’re half-asleep on the couch when she approaches you, arms stretched overhead, mouth opened wide in a yawn.

“Listen up.” She takes a seat on the coffee table, resting both elbows on her knees. “I’ll be gone for a few days, so if you’re staying here, we need to go over some ground rules.”

You snap to attention, face bright as the sun, scrambling to sit up. “Staying here? Really?”

“If you follow the rules.”

“Yeah! Yes, I—“ your brows tilt upwards, tone turning desperate, “whatever you want, I’ll do it. I swear.”

A part of her—the space reserved for optimism collecting cobwebs—almost believes you.

She holds up a finger. “Don't touch anything that isn't yours.” Another. “Don't go out at night, and when you do go out, don’t talk to anybody.” Another. “Don't answer the damn door, not even for me.” You nod along, enraptured gaze glued to hers. “You got all that?”

“Yes, ma'am.” At her raised brow, you stammer, “I—uh, sorry, I just… don't know what you want me to call you.”

“… My name.”

“Sevika.” She nods. “Okay. Then, thank you, Sevika. I mean it. You saved my life.”

With a roll of her eyes, she rises to her feet. “Yeah, I'm a real hero.”

“You are, though.”

She doesn't like this. The way you look at her all awestruck and worshipping. Doesn’t deserve it when there are people out there who would treat you much better than her—people who would actually care about you and the kid in the long run. If you're dead-set on keeping it, then it deserves the chance to grow up right. Loved.

Eight hours ago, she strongly considered leaving you in the street, starving and pregnant. So no, she’s not a hero. And she’s fine with that. Her path in life is a different, less savory one.

“There’s money in the kitchen for food,” she says. “Use my bed if you want.”

And then she leaves.

.

.

.

Truth be told, Sevika doesn't expect to see you when she gets home from a week-long binge of violence and booze, bruised all to hell, a headache splitting her skull down the middle. The edges of her temper sanded down to something less volatile.

Once she walked out the front door that morning, she stopped thinking about you. Brushed you off as a fluke, a mistake of lowered inhibitions.

(She thought about you a lot. Wondered if you were staying smart, being careful. If you actually used the money she left behind. If you were even alive. But she would rather die than admit the worry—no, no, Sevika doesn't worry—that fleetingly consumed her.)

You stand in the kitchen, bent over at the waist with an elbow propped on the counter, rubbing circles into your lower back. Bare from the waist down, the hem of your shirt does little to cover the swell of your ass—the little slice of heaven between your thighs, bathed in shadow from the poor lighting in her apartment.

Her fingers itch for a cigarette. She’s finally gone insane.

The room smells like a filling meal, everything left in its original place. Nothing unusual aside from the weight of your presence, and something warm settles in her stomach, heavy as a rock, so unfamiliar it makes her nauseous.

She chooses to ignore it.

“Get into trouble while I was gone?”

You jolt at the sound of her voice, righting yourself with a gasp when you spot her standing at the back of the couch. “Sevika, you're back!” Why do you almost sound relieved? Why do you smile at her? “And no, I…” you nod to the stove where a metal pot sits on the front burner, “I tried to make some soup, but I don't know how good it'll be.”

She walks over to you, boots heavy on the floor, and lifts the lid. Side-steps the wafting steam. “Smells good at least.”

“My mom used to make it all the time when I was growing up. It has rice and fish, so it's filling.”

The simple suggestion of a home-cooked meal makes her mouth water, especially made by someone that isn’t her, and she’s eaten much worse in her lifetime. Could never afford to be picky.

Exhaling a long breath, you reach down to once again rub at the small of your back, shifting on your feet. The only sign of discomfort aside from the pinch in your brow.

She huffs, nudging you out of the way. “Sit down. I'll finish up.”

“You don't have to—”

“Kid's giving you trouble. I got it.”

You blink up at her, a relieved smile stretching your mouth, eyes curving into crescents. It's… cute. “Thank you.”

Unfortunately, she soon learns that the soup is more of a porridge, thickened up by the starch in the rice, the fish rubbery from cooking too long.

Well. At least you tried.

She fetches two bowls from the cabinet and notices a stack of dishes that weren’t there when she left. The sink is also empty, as clean as you could manage given all the rust.

Maybe there are some perks to keeping you around.

She calls you over to the kitchen table, and you take the seat across from her with a tired groan. Thank her when she sits a steaming bowl and spoon in front of you.

Sevika always eats alone when she’s home. It’s been that way for as long as she can remember. Rarely ever a choice on her part because she never got the hang of making friends (too unapproachable, people used to say), so your presence is odd, settles wrong inside her gut.

“You’re hurt,” you say around a mouthful of food, and she looks up from her meal to find you squinting at her, head tilted.

“I’ve had worse.”

“That doesn’t make me feel better.”

“It wasn’t supposed to.”

You pout over the metal of your spoon, brows twitching, but say nothing in response.

However, something nags at her.

“So. Do I wanna know why you're not wearing underwear?”

Your mouth flattens into a thin line, embarrassment scrunching up your nose. “Sorry. It just… it's a pregnancy thing, I guess? I get sensitive sometimes. If you know what I mean.”

Her imagination does a good job of filling in the blanks. Thoughts that she never wanted to have about you.

“And that's a bad thing.” More statement than question, her own assumption given your discomfort.

“Good until it turns bad. Really convenient for, uh, certain activities.” You shift your gaze to your bowl of soup, a wide grin rounding out your cheeks.

“Not in my bed, I hope.”

She really, really hopes you didn't fuck yourself in her bed. Doesn't feel like washing the damn sheets.

“I couldn't if I wanted to. Haven't seen my own feet in over a month.” The tone of your voice implies that you do want to, that you've thought about it recently. “No, the uh… the girls at The Rose took me in for a while. One of ‘em was a mom, too, and I guess she felt bad for me. Hormones being a bitch and all.” You shrug, pointedly ignoring her stare. “I prefer women anyway.”

Sevika only briefly considers the revelation in regards to herself, or the fact that you lived in a whorehouse for a brief stint of time, because a more sinister implication rears its ugly head:

You prefer women. You're pregnant by a man with, in your own words, a baby you didn’t ask for.

She already clocked the circumstances the night she found you, but now she knows for sure. And she's furious.

“I'll fucking kill him.” A promise hissed under her breath.

There's no reason for her to get involved, to stick her nose where it doesn't belong, but she can't sit back and do nothing while that bastard walks free.

Your head snaps up, confusion twisting at your brow. Her eyes lock onto yours, unblinking, and whatever you see in her face makes you frown.

Softly, overcome by grief, you say, “He's not your responsibility.”

“This is my city. I don't want a monster like him living in it.”

Your drop your spoon in your bowl with a sharp clatter, turning away from her. “I'm sorry, I shouldn’t have said so much.”

Sevika leans forward, elbows folded on the table, half-eaten soup already forgotten. She's lost her appetite anyway.

“So he did hurt you.”

You don't answer for a long while, worrying a hand over the curve of your neck, eyes darting over the pattern of her floor.

Until you nod your head.

She stands up from the table with her bowl then empties its contents into the nearby trashcan. Can't bear the sight of you anymore, sitting so pitifully in her chair, thumb following the curve of your belly.

“I'll take care of it.”

You know by now that there's no point in trying to change her mind.

.

.

.

Her sheets smell like you—the first thing she notices when she finally crawls into bed, shoving her face into the pillow with a frustrated growl. She inhales. Curses herself on the exhale. Inhales again because she's lost her fucking mind.

She ends the dilemma by ripping off her pillowcase and throwing it to a shadowed corner of the room. Still, everything smells like you. Not even in the damn room, and your presence haunts her.

This is getting ridiculous.

Her fingers twitch, craving a cigarette or a blunt or cigar or anything to distract her from the hem of her pants. She won't do that to you—use your smile or your smell or the curve of your ass to get herself off. Not after what she learned just a few hours prior.

But she considers it for longer than she has any right to, and for the first time in forever, guilt curdles sour in her gut.

.

.

.

In order to find out the identity of your rapist (just thinking of the word brings acid to the back of her throat), Sevika comes up with an idea. One of her best.

She plops down on the cushion next to you and takes the book from your hands to get your attention.

You scoff, open your mouth in protest. “What are you—”

“We're going to the Lanes tomorrow.”

At her direct approach, you blink, adjusting the blanket over your lap. “Okay? Why?”

“There's a vendor showcase. I need to buy some things.” A bold-faced lie, and you seem to pick up on it, eyes narrowing in suspicion. She sighs, adds, “I'll buy you something pretty.”

She needs to get you into a crowd because she knows how criminals work. If he sees you, he’ll make himself known one way or another. Wouldn't pass up the opportunity of rubbing what he did in your face.

The hardest part of this little plan will be banking on him actually showing up, but most of the Undercity flocks to the showcase to buy products on discount before the year’s end. The perfect opportunity.

You search her face for… something. An ulterior motive, maybe—one she doesn't have—before sighing. “Okay.”

The next evening, she drags you by the scruff to the bustling hub of the Lanes, streets lined with pop-up markets and food carts, people celebrating and shouting and haggling prices. Your hand remains firm around hers, a neccessity given the thick of the crowd.

Everything is fine at first. She parts the sea of people to allow you through without issue, biting her tongue when you stop at each stall to see what’s on offer. Handmade clothes, street food, jewelry that she only glances at. She forces down her frustration when you take too long sorting through necklaces—if a bit enamored with the way you hold each of them up to your face, thumbing over the chain and the gems and the crystals.

You look up at her with a toothy smile, eyes outshining the fake diamonds in your hand, and her heart stops. Something sickly-sweet weaves through her ribs, squeezes so tight that she almost chokes on it.

Affection.

This isn't good. Her worst fear realized. Every atom in her body screams for her to run far away, to wipe you from her memory, to stay lonely and sad and safe.

Instead, she throws the necklace you chose back into the display and picks up one you looked over previously—the only necklace at the booth with real gems.

“This one is better,” she says, offering it to you for inspection.

“Yeah. This would’ve been my second choice.”

She nods. Pays the vendor despite your very vocal protests then helps you secure the clasp at the nape of your neck. Your skin brushes against her knuckles, soft and warm. A sharp contrast to the callouses that litter her palms and fingers. (And still, you always hold her hand.)

Too intimate. She knows better than this.

Until you spin around and rush her with a tight hug, the swell of your belly pressing against hers, your arms solid around her waist.

She's gonna be sick. Should push you off, lecture you about personal space and boundaries, but she thinks about her mom dying alone on some cold floor in the middle of the night, and she thinks about your smile, and nothing seems to matter much anymore.

She lets you hug her until you're satisfied, and you step away with a quiet, “Thank you, Sevika,” and she almost throws up right there in the street.

And then the night goes to shit.

One moment, you're strolling beside her, babbling about the ingredients of some dish you hate, and the next has you stiffening up, breath heaving in an instant, your fingers winding so tight around her hand that her joints creak.

She looks down at you, finds you wide-eyed, staring at something off in the distance with such abject horror that she puffs up on instinct.

“No no nonono, that's him.” You duck behind her, face fitting between her shoulder blades. “Oh, fuck, we have to go. Please, we gotta go.”

She knows who you're talking about. Who he is. No mistaking your reaction, the way you shake and sob against her back.

A lightning strike of fury consumes her.

“Where?” she hisses, twisting around to look at you. Your mouth opens and closes, fighting to make words, and you duck away from the touch of her hand on your shoulder. “Show me.”

You shake your head so fast your neck threatens to snap, both hands circling tight around her wrist, and you tug at her until you're rocking back on your heels. “Please don't. Please. I just wanna go.”

But fate smiles on her as she looks through the bustling crowd. Only one man acknowledges your existence, tucked behind a food stand on the corner of the street. He thinks he’s subtle about glancing over at you, a predatory glint to his gaze that she wants to gouge out.

As luck would have it, she knows him. Some bottom-of-the-barrel lackey for Smeech that often passes through The Last Drop, so disposable she doesn't even know his name.

Her feet move before she even realizes it, vision tunneling to the pinpoint of his cackling face as he smacks at the man beside him.

“Sevika!”

At the sound of your scream, she stops. Looks over her shoulder to where you search in a panic, shuffling on your feet, the crowd already closing in, jostling you in place.

Fuck. Fuck.

Leaving with you means disobeying the very foundation of who she is, nurtured into a brick wall weapon. She never backs down from a fight, but she can't leave you behind, either. Not like this—inconsolable, barely coherent to the world around you.

She shoves through the throng of people, the scowl on her face swearing murder to anybody who dares to even look at her wrong. She wants blood, wants to cut her teeth on something soft and vital. Craves it so bad that her hands go numb.

Those same hands take you by the arms, ushering you into a nearby alley, away from the chaos of the crowd.

She doesn't comfort people. Has no fucking clue how to calm you down aside from a stilted pat to the back. “Hey. You’re alright.”

You sag against her with a relieved sob, begging her not to leave you again. Begging her to take you home.

Home. Her apartment, rundown and small and shitty, is home to you.

It takes less than a second to make her decision, and she ushers you away from the market.

Fine. The bastard can live another day. She'll ask around the Lanes, catch him by surprise when you're not around to stop her because she knows him, and by the time she's done, there won't even be a body left to burn.

She makes it a promise.

TAG LIST: @thesevi0lentdelights @iamastar @ryoiii @tiyawnyana @muclunga (only doing this the one time cause i hate tag lists hfjkdfhgfjkd)

[inmaki]

gojo showing off your back scratches to geto

( cont from this fic! req, visual ) .

contains: sex talk, desc of back scratches, crack, sugu is called daddy once (as a joke.. right..)

everything was relatively peaceful in suguru's apartment. key word: relatively.

a forgettable yet appreciated sunday afternoon, not a cloud in sight despite the weather forecast predicting downpours of rain. either way, the raven-haired man insouciantly rested across his white couch, reaching the conclusion that today would be a day for self-care, relaxing, and perhaps some meditation.

there was only one thing ruining his peace.

all morning, suguru has been forced to try and ignore the stain a certain someone has left on his couch — a pair of unecessarily expensive yet dirty shoes being the culprit.

despite these attempts, every once in a while his gaze can't help but wander over at the mark — as if it'd poof out of existence if he glared hard enough.

"fuckin' asshole.." he mutters. it was a wonder his relationship with his best friend managed to stay so promising despite all their differences, yet suguru wouldn't have it any other way, even after situations like this.

right when he grumpily turns back to the tv — which was playing some crappy, low budget rom-com — his apartment door is yanked open and suguru swears he nearly jumps out of his seat.

great, was this it? was he about to get robbed, perhaps evicted? and then probably die? forced into the afterlife knowing gojo's shoe-shit was still on his new couch? no that can't—

"i fucked her!"

suguru whips his head towards the apartment door, announcement being disregarded as he nearly groans in agony. speak of the devil.

big blue eyes peak out from under circular sunglasses, one hand already raised in preparation for a dap up while his stupid, big, dirty shoe pushes the door closed behind him. gojo wears a black compression shirt with grey sweats, marching over to his friend with a ginormous grin across his cheeks.

"take your shoes off, now," suguru snaps, nodding to his friend's feet with a frown.

"yeesh... whatever y'say, daddy," the bastard never loses his smile as his hands raise in surrender, kicking them off by the door smoothly. "what's got your panties in a twist?"

geto pinches his nose bridge. "don't call me that," as he continues the scolding, he points to the living room with his free hand. "you got a mystery stain on my couch, satoru. do you know how many youtube videos i watched trying to get this shit off?"

unphased, gojo takes a look at the strangely colored blob against the armrest's leather material and shrugs. "my bad. did you try febreeze?"

"what— no? dude, febreeze is for.." when suguru looks back up to sourly meet his gaze, he could immediately tell the white-haired man was already drifting back into la-la-land, words going in one ear and out the other. "..nevermind. why're you here?"

at the reminder, satoru seemingly brightens, head shooting back up as if he was just told he'd won the lottery.

"oh god, don't make that stupid face—" he pauses. "the fuck are you doing?" suguru might as well say goodbye to his self-care day, because now gojo was stripping in the middle of his living room, shirt thrown haphazardly onto the still-very-much-stained couch.

"just look!" suguru squints as his friend swivels around to face the wall, pushing his bangs away to get a better view of the— oh shit.

it takes the raven-haired man a second to process what he's seeing before shuffling forward, closely examining the achingly red, bulging scratch marks displayed sexily across the latter's back and shoulders. "no way.."

suguru knows the strongest sorcerer well enough to notice how he purposely didn't use reversed cursed technique on these scratches, just so it'd be obvious to anyone that caught a glimpse of what exactly occured. to his further dismay, he can already picture a smug and sweaty gojo walking around their local gym like this, proud simper on his pretty lips as he easily raises a pair of weights in his veiny hands.

a hiss escapes geto's mouth as he runs his finger down a particularly agitated one, knowing exactly how painful they could be after experiencing many hook-ups of his own. even so, satoru only licks his lips, neck craning to the side so he can pride himself in his friend's gobsmacked expression.

"damn, these are deep. you actually hit it?" suguru confirms, raising a celebratory hand.

turning back around, satoru daps him up, a massive smirk now on both their faces. "hell yeah, it was amazing."

it was impossible to predict what gojo would do next after barging through his front door — especially considering how many times he's done so — but this has to be the last thing suguru ever expected.

not that he was complaining — in fact, all of geto's temper and need for relaxation seemingly flew out the window, the feeling of proudness for his best friend overthrowing anything else.

and even if he hated to admit it, the way gojo was so eager to come over and announce his virginity loss to him was more than a little endearing, and dare he say cute.

"that's great, man. congrats." suguru leads him into the kitchen — still shamelessly shirtless — to grab them both a can of beer in celebration. while the white-haired man usually didn't get involved with any form of alcohol, this occasion was most definitely exception-worthy. "you made y/n cum too, right?"

an offended glare is shot his way. "duh, two times."

"huh. surprised you could last."

as suguru pours their drinks into two fragile cups, gojo exhales, not bothered in the slightest by his jab. "dude, same.." he admits dreamily. "she was so fuckin' tight and warm.. and oh— fuck, her moans? heavenly.. 'can't believe i didn't bust after the first minute.."

geto gulps, trying his best to ignore the mental image his brain was producing from his dirty words. you can't blame him — both of you were smoking hot, and he was a simple man.

even now, he could already imagine what you both looked like; panting and moaning, skin-slapping so loud that it echoed through the whole room, how blissed out you'd look as gojo's cock split you in t—

satoru's playful sigh cuts through the tensing air. "who knows sugs, maybe you'll have another kind of stain to worry about next time we're over~"

he's never snapped out of a daydream so quickly. "don't even joke about that."

over the next hour, the two men sat manspread on the stained couch, taking leisure sips while recalling satoru's final moments as a virgin — suguru giving out his secret tips and tricks along the way.

maybe sometime, suguru could offer some.. hands-on learning instead.

mlist! <- sugu.. how could u think abt ur bestie and his gf like that... tsk tsk tsk (if u enjoyed reblogs/comments r appreciated heheh)

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