#would he even care that much to do something like that??? | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

talaok · 21 hours ago

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How it was

Pairing: Joel Miller x f!reader

Summary: After Abby's attempt at Joel's life, he's in the hospital, and while you try to navigate through the difficult feelings having almost lost him bring up, his mind seems to be on a much different, inappropriate, thing.

Warnings: talk of Joel almost dying, mentions of blood. Smut| oral sex (m receiving), attempt at fingering (lol), talk of f receiving oral, and Joel's dirty mouth.

a/n: i haven't watched the new episode yet bc im tired of crying but what i can tell you for sure is that did not happen, my baby is fine and ellie has never been happier.

"Well good mornin' to me"

You were bent over the armchair tidying what had transformed into your bed for the past ten days when you heard him.

His raspy morning voice had you turning around with a smile.

You let go of the blanket in your hand as you walked closer to his bed.

The rising sun was filtering through the windows of the hospital, illuminating his upper body with a golden light.

His face was still bruised and swollen and they hadn't yet taken his stitches out.

A bittersweet feeling filled your heart every time you looked at him, every time he winced as he sat up, every time you watched him struggle to walk for more than ten steps... it hurt, and yet it filled you with joy.

He was alive- he'd come so very close, the closest he'd ever come to the end of it all, and he had survived- he was still here, with you.

"Good morning" you beamed, taking his hand in yours as you sat on his bed "How're you feeling?"

He smirked, but you felt him squeeze your hand tenderly "Would feel a lot better if you turned around and showed me that view again"

You could only roll your eyes, chuckling softly.

"Really baby, you feeling any pain? You need something?"

His lips formed a soft small smile as he brought your hand to his mouth to leave a kiss on it.

"'M great babygirl, dontcha worry"

You very much doubted he was great, but you nodded nonetheless.

He never wanted you to worry, which was silly, because there was nothing else you did these days besides worrying.

"Now c'mon, give me some sugar"

"Joel" you protested immediately "I don't wanna hurt you, let's at least wait to see what the nurse says about the stitches"

You talked as if your protests had ever been anything but futile, as if the moment he gave you those sweet puppy eyes and his honeyed voice called your name you weren't already leaning closer.

"I don't care if it kills me darlin', just give me a kiss"

You stopped dead in your tracks, your mouth an inch from his, your breathing one with his.

"don't joke about that"

You knew it was just a stupid joke. But nothing was really a joke anymore, not since you witnessed him being carried into Jackson unconscious, his bloody face beaten to a pulp, his body so close to being lifeless... you knew that image would haunt you for the rest of your life.

"'m sorry, doll" he apologized, his eyes looking into yours with all the care and love inside him "'m here" he promised, squeezing your hand.

You closed your eyes for a moment, holding back the tears threatening to spill.

"Don't scare me like that ever again"

Your tone was serious, matter of factly, because it all was true. You knew, with terrifying certainty, that if anything like that were to ever happen again, you wouldn't survive it.

"I won't" he murmured, your hand in his the only thing grounding you "I promise you, darlin'"

There were so many more things to say, so many things you had to talk about, so many feelings, fears, and hopes bubbling inside you, and yet all you could do at that very moment was press your lips to his, kissing the man you'd feared losing forever, just to lose yourself in him.

The kiss was sweet, soft, tender even.

You didn't wanna hurt him, his lips were still cut and his cheeks were still bruised.

But despite it all, the feeling of kissing him was exactly the same. If there was one thing that hadn't changed, it was the way he made everything else disappear, every hurt, scare, and sadness dissipated into thin air when his lips were on yours- when his stubble grazed your face, his hands held you, his scent hugged you tight...

It always became just you and him.

And then Joel groaned in pleasure, and in what you knew from experience to be frustration.

Your mouths were still connected, just as your hands, only his tongue was now sloppily tasting you deeper, as his other hand, his injured, tired hand, found your thigh, slowly traveling up and up until two of his fingers infiltrated between your thighs, rubbing your cunt through your jeans.

You couldn't help but huff a laugh.

There he was, bedridden and barely alive, and he was still trying to get in your pants... quite literally.

"Joel" you chuckled.

He didn't answer, instead, he only compelled his head to lean forward to deepen your kiss as his hands started fighting with the button holding your jeans together.

The angle was uncomfortable and he was very clearly struggling, but you just sighed into his mouth, silencing your amusement.

It took about a full minute for him to unbutton your pants, but once he finally did, he slid two of his fingers beneath the fabric as quickly as he could, which wasn't a lot given the position.

You obeyed his silent command to spread your legs, but even as his fingers reached your clothed slit, he couldn't do much more than try to caress your pussy.

"Baby" you murmured with a smile as he desperately tried to pleasure you "do you really think now's the time?"

"yeah," he breathed without missing a beat.

Just then his fingers drew higher and came in contact with your clit, making you stifle a soft moan.

But the jeans were too damn tight, and he really had no space to work with.

"take 'em off"

You couldn't help but grin.

He had not changed. Not one bit.

"Joel I can't exactly take my pants off in here right now"

He groaned, his big brown eyes pleading you.

"why not?"

You laughed as you took his wrist in your hand and started leading his fingers off of you, to which he protested with a frustrated noise deep in his chest.

"Because baby... not only is the door open" you said, glancing at it " but anyone could come in at any moment"

He groaned, his hand on your thigh now.

"That never stopped us before"

He earned himself a pointed glare with that one.

You weren't gonna be caught pantsless as your barely alive husband fingered you. No way in hell.

"Then put a sock on the handle or somethin'"

An amused snort left you at that.

"This is hospital baby, not a frathouse"

Those deep brown, expressive eyes of his were completely shadowed with lust- the man was desperate.

Ten days of no sex and he was already looking like a deprived, starved man... not to mention the fact that he had begun to touch you inappropriately on day two.

He almost died, and instead of wishing to watch the sun rise again or listen to birds chirp in the morning, all the man seemed to think of was pussy... yours specifically.

"please sugar"

Goddamn, those damned puppy eyes.

Those two words were all you needed before you got up and started towards the door.

You heard him groan behind you.

"You're gonna leave your man layin' here blueballed?"

You laughed softly as you closed the door, hoping to god that the nurses would get the hint and not come in.

You didn't answer, you just walked back to him, watching his eyes sparkle with excitement once you took the blanket off of him.

How the man still looked hot in a hospital gown was something that needed to be studied.

His left leg, where he'd been shot, was bandaged completely, while the naked right one showed off his hairy thighs, which made warmth spread low in your belly... yeah maybe you'd missed sex too.

Silently, your hand went to the skin that was covered by the very hem of his gown, slowly trailing up and up and up until you cupped his hardening manhood through his boxers.

"fuck" he breathed, struggling to prop himself further up on the bed to get a better view.

You raised your eyebrow, shooting him a look- the last thing you wanted was for him to hurt himself.

"You've got to listen to hear if anyone's coming and warn me if that's the case, ok?"

He nodded mindlessly, his sole focus on your hand stroking his dick.

"yeah- sure" he murmured, urgency and need straining his voice.

Yeah, you were fucked.

Nonetheless, you hiked his gown up and pulled his underwear down- his cock was hard as a rock and you hadn't even done anything more than put your hand on it.

You bent over, looking to the side at him as you slowly, oh so slowly, started kissing his tip.

He twitched in your hand as your tongue darted out to kitty lick him, precum leaking from him just in time for you to taste it.

You were looking at him with those godforsaken sexy eyes you'd get as you finally wrapped your mouth around him, and Joel... Joel was in another universe already.

He groaned, shifting his hips up with a painful grunt as you hummed around him, starting to bob your head as you fit more and more of him inside your mouth.

"Fuck me-" he couldn't help but moan "fuck that feels good darlin'"

He strained his neck as his head fell back against the cushions, his eyes shutting close as his tip hit the back of your throat, making you gag.

He was fisting the blanket so hard his knuckles were white as chalk, and his breathing was so erratic that he was half sure the doctors would run in at any moment because the monitor would pick up him having a heart attack.

"Jesus Christ" he groaned.

Your mouth felt better than anything on this earth at the moment. You were sucking him so tight and god but you had him so deep inside you.

"Just like that" he breathed, watching your eyes water as you forced almost all of him down your throat.

It had been four years and you still couldn't get all of him in- at this point you'd given up trying- He was just too damn big.

"so good for me sweetheart" he grunted, observing his cock go in and out of you "Such a good girl-fuck"

Your hand had found his balls, massaging them tenderly- which meant Joel was pretty much done for.

"Goddamnit-- I'm gonna- I-"

He erupted, filling your mouth with his spent before he could even finish the sentence- and you were more than happy to swallow it all up.

He was breathing heavily, watching you with half-lidded eyes as you smiled up at him, before tucking him back in his boxers and putting the blanket back on top of him.

All sounds from outside suddenly filled the room again, reminding you of where you were... and what you'd just done.

"What did I do to deserve you?" he asked, smiling as you reached his side again.

"beats me" you teased, leaving a quick kiss on his lips.

He groaned from deep in his chest, his hand coming up to stroke your cheek.

"We still need to take care 'f ya darlin'"

"no, we don't" you immediately shook your head.

A side of his lips twisted into a smirk as he got an idea.

You didn't wanna take off your pants, and it's not like he could much to change position given his state, so that meant only one thing...

"Sit on my face"

And yes that idea made you hornier than you already fucking were, but unlike your husband, you still had some sense of decency left in you.

"I'm scared to hurt you when I kiss you and you think I'm gonna sit on your face?"

He looked at you for a moment, trying to figure out if there was any way he could convince you- unfortunately, the results came back negative.

"A man can dream" he sighed as he guided you down for another kiss.

"Let me get a taste at least"

Your lips parted in stunner- he really was desperate today.

"Jesus baby" you huffed, your mouth betraying you with a smile "H-how am I even supposed to do that, you really shouldn't force your hands to struggle too much, it could be bad for-"

His eyes sparked with mischief as he murmured "There ain't nothing wrong with yours though, ain't that right sugar?"

Heat crept up your face as you understood, but seeing the unadulterated need in his iris, the strain in his voice as he whispered 'Just a taste'... in seconds your own hand was in your panties.

"This is dirty..." you murmured, eyeing the door as your fingers delved between your folds, gathering up your slick.

"we've done worse" he breathed, his eyes only on what was happening beneath your jeans.

The worst part was that you actually had.

You swallowed thickly as you pulled your hand out of your pants, guiding your glistening fingers to Joel's mouth.

He wasted no time opening his lips, sucking greedily on your digits, a groan rumbling from deep in his throat at the taste.

You bit your lip, watching the scene unfold as you pressed your thighs together to relieve some of the burning pressure.

He would have probably gone on for god knows how long if you hadn't pulled your fingers out of his mouth.

His cock was hard again and he was goddamn tired of being in this hospital bed.

He wanted to go back to his old life. To his house, his wife, his daughter.

He wanted to get back to waking you up in the morning with his tongue between your thighs- not... this.

So he brought your head down, guiding you for yet another kiss that overflowed with all the hopes and dreams he had about it all going back to how it was.

"fuck me-" he groaned in between desperate kisses "I miss our life- I miss... shit babygirl, I your pussy"

You laughed softly into his mouth before leaning away, a devious spark in your eyes.

"Tell you what...I'll wear a skirt tomorrow" you murmured, ghosting his lips "and I think the weather might be a bit too hot for panties"

The groan he let out at that caused a nurse to worriedly rush in.

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draxula · 2 days ago

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is there a missus? | b. barnes one shot

pairing: bucky barnes x fem!thunderbolt!reader

word count: 2.2k

warning: nothing major. minor mentions of violence. not so secret secret wife. possible thunderbolts spoilers.

summary: bucky isn't coming clean about something. no matter how many times he's poked and prodded, he won't admit to his wrong doings.

author’s note: first fic in years. thunderbolts has done something to me. something short and sweet to kick it off.

Secrets would never make friends.

They would only create division. Discontent amongst the already wound tight group, leaving room for far too much speculation. While they had slowly come to accept each other, it was still an uphill battle even on good days.

Knives, for the most part, were kept sheathed. Guns were kept holstered. Communication kept this misfit band afloat. Secrets would only bring it down.

And Bucky Barnes? He definitely had a secret.

Yelena, as she would later claim, was the first to notice. It was the soft upturn of his lips. A type of softness that looked out of place on his usual annoyed expression. The crinkling around his eyes as he stared down at his phone. A soft, breathless chuckle that doesn’t sound like it should come from him.

Jokes about his age danced on the tip of her tongue. It was low hanging fruit. It was far too easy to poke jabs about how he might need to get a better prescription to see the text. Or, if he wanted, she could help make his text bubbles bigger. Those jokes would be better directed at someone with a confused expression.

John notices it a few days after her. This time that soft gaze of his isn’t directed at his phone but instead at you. Bob sits in between your feet, head tilted back into your hands as you work on detangling his hair. Self-care, as you preached to the rest of the Thunderbolts, was important. Something Bob was deprived of.

If looks could kill, John assumed that Bob would have been flat out on the floor. He should have been with the way Bucky was glaring.

His brows are pinched together, frown evident across his features. This time, there’s a quick downturn of his lips, quietly chewing on the inside of his cheek. Jealousy. An emotion John was surprised Bucky could even feel - let alone directing said emotion towards someone like Bob out of all people.

Now that he thought about it, the two of you have never been completely clear on the past. You came with Bucky. It was almost like a packaged deal, the two of you for the cost of one. Something or other about how to the two of you had been partner in the past. Whatever it was, John hadn’t been particularly listening to it. None of that felt very important at the time. Especially given the fact he hadn’t felt his little group would last any longer than a day.

The Void, and the subsequent voiding of New York, had been a far pressing matter.

Now, as John sits here, equating that expression on Bucky’s face to a man so bitterly jealous of the affection another man is getting, he can’t ignore the alarms sounding in his head.

Bucky could feel the stares from across the room. At first, he doesn’t want to look up. He doesn’t want to indulge them in whatever it is they have to pester him with today. As long as the city wasn’t on fire or flooding or both, he didn’t necessarily care in initiating conversation.

“Barnes.”

He groans, finally looking up. “Walker.”

It’s a relatively small exchange of works. Bucky knew he couldn’t look that busy with his phone in his hand. Even he knew his relaxed expression would do little convey that there was some pressing matter he needed to attend to. Nor did he think he could get away with claiming it was Valentina out of all people.

There was no way such a soft expression would be reversed for that woman. Besides, the way he was lazily thumbing through his texts conveyed it was someone he enjoyed talking to. When had he ever been thrilled to talk to Valentina.

“Who ya talkin’ to?” It’s a juvenile question. One that Bucky doesn’t even want to dignify with an answer of any kind. It would only add fuel to the fire he suspected was already burning. While they joked about how old he was, their conversations weren’t exactly falling on deaf ears.

“Your mom.” Comes Yelena’s response from across the room. A small chuckle from Ava’s direction follows shortly after.

“No no - she wouldn’t talk to him. She would have better standards than this rough around the edges Jesus look.” John, for once, does well not to let it get too under his skin. There were far more pressing questions to be asked. A simple ‘your mom’ joke wouldn’t derail him from his quest of truth.

John, after a second or two of thinking, can only conclude that it must be you on the other end. Those stupid little looks were reserved for both you and his phone when you weren’t in the same room.

“You two are married, aren’t you?”

Bucky rolls his shoulders back in a shrug, tossing his phone to the side. As hard as he tries to appear as he doesn’t care, it’s a poor attempt. “I think something as big as that would be hard to hide, don’t you think?”

“Yes because an ex-assassin would have such a hard time hiding something so important.” Ava calls. From first look, it hadn’t looked like she was listening in on the conversation from behind her magazine. Yet as her eyes flicker above the pages, there’s obviously a look of amusement and intrigue. “Let alone the ex-assassin.”

“If that was my wife, everyone would know. No one would keep me quiet.” It’s Alexei’s voice this time. He slouches father down into the couch, lazily tilting his head to get a better view of the T.V. His hands jerk up into the air, waving them around as he speaks. “What kind of man keeps his wife a secret?”

“Alexei - you don’t get a say in the matter.”

“‘Lena, what I say is the truth. He should be proud.”

“Yeah yeah yeah. Stop taking the attention off of Bucky and his secret wife.” John continues. “Where is she anyway?”

“The grocery store.”

“So you know her each and every move?”

“You just asked me where she was. She's at the store - getting food for all of us.”

"Oh yeah? You sure she's not out for just you."

“Besides you don’t keep up with the rest of us like that.” Yelena corrects. “Alexei was missing for days before you noticed. How did you not notice that?”

“To be fair, none of us really noticed it. The peace and quiet was almost too good to be true.”

“Ava - do not help him. He needs to tell the truth.”

Bucky huffs, rubbing his temples. Theses conversations were getting more and more exhausting by the minute. “There is no truth to tell. You guy are all making something out of nothing.”

“If it’s nothing, why are you getting so defensive over it?”

Defensive wasn’t the word he would have used. Protective maybe. Secretive perhaps. But never ever defensive. That would insinuate that he wasn’t proud of his life decisions. That he wasn’t proud of you. Defensive would make him come off as insecure and unsure. Two things he would never ever feel about you.

“Look - you better text her if there’s anything you want. I’m not going back out for anything any of you forgot.” And that, for now, is enough to halt the conversation.

The secret was becoming harder and hard to keep. It was beginning to bubble over more and more with each passing day. His glances were becoming a little too longing. The way you laughed at his jokes was a little too sweet. The two of you stole glances at each other’s lips a little too often.

Things eventually were going to come to a head. Unsurprisingly, one bad mission was all it needed. One time of him limping back into the tower was all it took for things to come undone.

It was supposed to be a simple mission. One that was supposed to be finished within a day. Maybe two at the maximum. By the time he, Yelena and John returned, you have been festering just long enough in your own anxiety to forget any safe guards put around your relationship. And that came out in the way you said his name.

“James Barnes.” His government name, missing only his middle initial. He considered himself lucky for that. At the same time it was a government name no one else was allowed to use.

He didn’t want anyone else muttering his name. No one else could compare to the way you said it so breathlessly. Even as you marched over, hands placed firmly on your hips, you still managed to say his name so perfectly. So much so, he forgets where he is for the time being. As well as those standing to his side.

“What?”

“Don’t you dare ‘what’ me. Look at you.”

He flexes his fingers a few times, trying to find his words. What could he say to get you to drop the topic. Was there anything? He knew how you could be. Insisting on worrying about each and every little mishap. Despite being s supersoldier, you never failed to drive home the point that each day could be his very last. He wouldn’t dare to leave you alone like that, would he?

“I know, honey. I’m sorry.” It slips out of his mouth before he can stop himself. A small attempt to cool you off has ruined months and months of guarding a very personal secret. One he didn’t want broadcasted on every news station and outlet.

Somewhere a few steps ahead of him, he hears a loud sputter. John has stopped dead in his tracks, slowly turning to face you. Even with all his bruises and blood crusted to both his nose and lips, it’s easy to see the shift in his expression. It first goes from shock to realization then to joy.

“I knew it!”

“You have got to be kidding me. You were right.” Yelena can barely bring herself to sit down, sliding down the nearest wall onto her bum.

“You owe me and Bob ten bucks.”

“When did Bob get in on it?”

Bucky can feel his head throb. The yelling going on all around him does little to help. To know the team was now placing bets on his love life caused his skin to crawl. What would be next? Were they going to start taking bets on who would die first?

At the same time, he can’t find it in him to particularly care all that much. He’s too busy trying to come to terms with your anger. Now that you’re closer to him, he can definitely make out all the creases to your expression. Anger. Disappointment. Concern. He wasn’t sure which one won out against all the others.

“How long?” Yelena asks.

“How long for what?” Bucky retorts.

If he had it his way, he would continue deflecting until the day he died. Even as you move to sit him down on the closest couch, with your hands already frantically working to strip him of what bloody clothing you can, he would continue to deny it.

“You called her honey.”

“I’m delirious.” He continues. “It’s the bloodloss.”

He was as stubborn as they came. With a huff, you cut your eyes at him, grimacing at both the sight and feel of blood beneath your fingertips. “Can this conversation not wait? You two look like you’ve had better days. Bucky is claiming he’s lost that much blood. Bob looks like he might puke - please sit down dear, maybe away from them.”

“How long has it been?”

“A while.” You reply, squatting down in front of Bucky to get a better look at his torso. The largest gash is enough to cause your stomach to churn. All in all, it wasn’t that bad of a wound. It was more so the fact of who the said wound was on.

“How long is a while?”

“Two years?”

“Actually it’ll be three in a few weeks.”

“Right…I forgot. I’ve been having to keep up with them.”

Three years. He couldn’t believe it. Three years of marriage kept so tightly guarded that the rest of the group had begun to think they were making it all up. That they had to be hallucinating there was something going on between the two of you. The gas lighting coming from Bucky needed to be studied - should be studied. His nonchalant nature he brushed everything off with was almost… Concerning.

“You lied to us.”

Bucky shakes he head from side to side, denying the accusations that are thrown his way. As much as he wants to argue back, to claim that he has never once lied to them, he’s far too busy thinking about your fingertips against his skin. He would rather the two of you be in your rooms, conveniently placed across the hall from each other. In the dead of night, room swaps were made, sneaking into each other’s beds like love sick teenagers.

“I’ve never really be very good at keeping secrets.” You say, motioning for Bucky to lift his arms. As he does so, you twist him this way and that way, searching for any wounds that might be hidden in the curves of his body. Satisfied when you find none, you allow him to relax.

“It was bound to come out at some point.”

Secrets weren’t ever going to last very long in this tower anyway. The close proximity you all lived together would make things like that difficult. High stress situations were bound to cause things to come to a head - whether you liked it or not.

“Now that that’s out of the way - why aren’t you wearing a ring? Are you ashamed?”

Bucky can only sigh. There were far worse things than his secrets being exposed.

#bucky x reader #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes fanfiction #bucky barnes fluff #yelena belova #ava starr #alexei shostakov #john walker #thunderbolts #the new avengers

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blasphemyandbackshots · 1 day ago

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who would be into creampies in jujutsu kaisen?

Satoru—“Why would I pull out when you were to take it?”—Gojo

Gojo doesn’t even pretend to pull out. He never has. Never will. The second he’s buried in you, the thought of finishing anywhere but inside makes his eye twitch. It’s like his brain short-circuits unless he knows he’s pumping you full. All warm, wet, messy and dripping. He’ll groan into your neck, hips jerking as he empties deep in your cunt. And then stay there, refusing to move. He’ll whisper, “Feel that? That’s all mine. Look how full you are, pretty thing,” while using his cursed energy to hold every last drop inside you. He doesn’t just want to creampie you. He wants you leaking for hours. He wants your thighs trembling as you walk down the hall. He wants everyone to see it.

And if it starts dripping out too soon, he’ll push it back in with his fingers or cock, just to feel you clench around it again.

Ryomen—“Be grateful I’m blessing your womb.”—Sukuna

Sukuna doesn’t ask. He doesn’t warn. He fucks. And when he cums, it’s hard and brutal, forced so deep inside you it hurts. Like he’s trying to claim your soul with it (or breed your cervix directly). He’ll growl through clenched teeth, holding your hips in place as he spills into you, chest heaving with satisfaction. If you so much as whimper, he’ll shove you back down and snarl, “Don’t waste it. I didn’t give you a choice, don’t act like you have one now.” He likes to watch you afterwards—used, filled, ruined. If it drips, he’ll slap your thigh and shove his fingers in. Almost lazy about it like plugging a leaking vessel.

He might even do it again. And again. And again. Until there’s nothing left in him and you’re too full to move.

Toji—“You want me to pull out? Hah. Too late.”—Fushiguro

Toji isn’t the ‘pull out’ type. You know it. He knows it. The second you’re under him—panting, begging, back arching—he’s already decided exactly where he’s going to finish. His thrusts grow harder, rougher, more desperate the closer he gets. And when he finally cums, it’s deep. He groans something low and filthy, like “That’s it, take all of me, let me fill you up, baby,” as his hips grind into yours and his cock twitching inside you. Toji stays there afterward, heavy on top of you, all smug and breathless. He pulls out slow just to watch the mess leak out.

Sometimes he pushes it back in with two fingers, only to hear the squelch. Sometimes he fucks it back in.

Kento—“If I cum inside, I take responsibility.”—Nanami

Nanami treats creampies like a sacred privilege. He doesn’t do it unless he means it. But once he starts, he can’t stop. He’ll fuck you so deep, slow, careful at first. But the second you moan, “Inside, please,” his control snaps like a thread. He buries himself in you, trembling slightly, breath ragged as he fills you with everything he’s got. And then he holds you there. Pressed tight against his chest and still inside, his voice low in your ear as he murmurs, “You’re mine now. You understand that?” He’s not loud. He’s not rough. He’s just so deep, so full of heat and need that you feel branded from the inside out. Afterwards he helps you clean up, but part of him always wants to see the mess he left in you.

Sometimes, when no one’s around, he’ll ask you to show him. Just for a second. Just to remember.

Choso—“I want all of me inside you. Always.”—Kamo

Choso creampies you like it’s the only way he knows how to love. He holds your face, whispers that you’re beautiful, his forehead pressed to yours as he grinds deeper and deeper until he finally spills inside, voice breaking on your name. He doesn’t fuck you to cum. He fucks you to connect. And when he fills you up, he wraps his arms around you and says things like, “I want you to keep it. All of it. I want it to stay inside you.” You feel his cock twitch inside you, his body shaking and breath hitched. If you try to get up too soon, he gently pushes you back down. “Just stay like this,” he says. “I want to feel it. I want to feel you holding me.” He’s soft, but he’s also so possessive in the quietest way.

He’ll clean you up later, but not before staring, blushing and maybe fingering some back in while whispering “One more time, just one more.”

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cinnxmxngxrl · 2 days ago

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“Stormy night” pt.2: Late night calls

Pre Outbreak!Joel Miller x babysitter!Reader

part two of STORMY NIGHT but can be read as a stand alone

part 1 here | Joel’s Masterlist here

Summary: Joel’s mind is full of doubts after you two slept together for the first time, but you remind him of how much you want him in a heated phone call.

WC: 3.3k

Tags/Warnings: smut, minors DNI, dirty talk, age gap, phone sex, masturbation, joel feels insecure about his age, reader babysits sarah.

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You’ve continued your life with normality, babysitting Sarah like you’ve been doing for the last six months.

Joel hadn’t touched you since that night a week ago in his kitchen. He hadn’t talked about it either. You didn’t insist. You wouldn’t even know what to say.

The silence screamed every time you looked at each other too long. It sat between you like a ghost, whispering reminders of the way his body had crushed yours into the counter, the way you’d gasped his name like a prayer.

But things had shifted—subtle, unmistakable. The air between you buzzed differently now, thick with something unspoken and restless. The way his eyes lingered on you when he came home and found you curled up on the couch. Like he was memorizing the shape of you. Like he was fighting the urge to touch. The way his fingers brushed yours a little too long when he handed over your pay. That fleeting contact burned like a brand.

He was more talkative too. He’d open up more often than before, telling you about his day—grumbling about busted tools, long hours, or the price of gas. His voice would soften when he talked to you, his words less guarded, like he forgot to keep the walls up. Sometimes, he’d even eat dinner with you before you left.

But he still hadn’t touched you. And it was killing you.

Because you remembered. Every second. The feel of his rough hands trailing over your skin, claiming every inch of you. The way his palms had held you like something precious, like he didn’t want to let go. The way he moved inside you, how his body fit against yours like you were made for him.

You still heard your own moans echoing in your head when you closed your eyes. Still felt the ghost of his weight pinning you to the kitchen counter, still ached from the way he took his time. You tried to recreate it, night after night, fingers buried deep between your legs—but it never came close.

It wasn’t Joel.

One evening, you were with Sarah, both of you sitting cross-legged on the living room floor, working on her science fair project—a little volcano that had already claimed half the carpet with glitter glue.

You first heard the rumble of the truck engine, then headlights sweeping across the living room wall.

Moments later, the front door clicked open and Joel stepped inside. He looked wrecked. Hair tousled. Shirt clinging to the sweat on his chest. Dust streaked across his jeans.

But his eyes—those warm, grey eyes—they looked like he’d barely slept, but yet they landed on you, and they didn’t leave. Heat coiled in your belly, sharp and familiar

“Dad!” Sarah shouted, springing up to wrap her arms around him. “Look at the volcano we’re making!”

Joel smiled, tired but real. “Goddamn, that looks amazin’, sunshine,” he said, voice full of that proud dad tone.

Sarah beamed, pulling him down to show him all the little details, explaining exactly how you two had made it and how the lava would erupt.

You watched Joel watching her, and something twisted in your chest. He looked at her like she was his whole world. That softness—the gentleness in his voice, the way he crouched next to her with such care—it made your heart ache.

Eventually, a little yawn slipped out of Sarah.

“Alright, kiddo. Time for bed,” Joel said, playfully squeezing her arm before leaning in to kiss the top of her head.

For once, Sarah didn’t protest. Didn’t beg for another episode of her favorite show. She just mumbled a sleepy “Goodnight, you two. Love ya,” and trudged upstairs.

“Sweet dreams, sunshine,” he called softly.

And then it was just the two of you.

The silence was immediate. Charged. Heavy with the words neither of you had dared speak.

“You alright?” Joel asked, voice low and rough.

You nodded. “Yeah.”

He cleared his throat, rubbing the back of his neck with a slow, tired motion—like the weight of the world sat there. “I mean… well—” His words faltered, caught in something unspoken. “You been okay since… that night?”

There it was. The question hanging in the air, the elephant you both had danced around. He was addressing what had happened between you two.

You lifted your eyes to meet his—searching, honest. “Yeah. You?”

He swallowed hard. “Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable. I shoulda stopped. Shoulda been the adult.” He let out a humorless breath. “Hell, I am the adult.”

“I am an adult too, Joel,” you said quietly. “And you didn’t make me uncomfortable.” Your voice was steady, but your chest was tight with everything you wanted to say and couldn’t.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured. “I don’t wanna screw this up. You’re… you’re important. To Sarah. To me.”

The way he said it—quiet, unsure, like it hurt to speak—made your chest tighten. You wanted to take that weight from him, to make him believe he wasn’t doing anything wrong just by feeling.

Your heart pounded. It thudded so loud in your chest you wondered if he could hear it. “Who said anything about screwing things up? You’re not screwing up anything.”

Joel exhaled slowly, like he was trying to breathe out the tension in his chest. “I been sleepin’ on the couch every night. Can’t even look at my bed without seein’ you in it. Smellin’ you. Even after changin’ the damn sheets.”

“I don’t want you to pretend nothing happened,” you whispered. The words cracked as they left your lips. Your hands trembled slightly, clenched into fists in your lap.

“I’ve been tryin’ not to think about it,” he said. “But I can’t. I walk around half-hard every time you’re near. I don’t know how to act. Don’t know what to say.”

“Joel—”

“I don’t get it,” he muttered. “You’re young. Hot. You could have any guy you wanted. Why the hell would ya want me? I’m old. Rusty. Can’t even get through a day without my back crackin’ in three places. Probably forgot half the shit I used to know.”

“Don’t be ridiculous,” you said, almost laughing. “Joel, we had a great time the other night, it was probably the best night of my life. You’re overthinking it. Don’t do that.”

“You don’t get it… I—” He shook his head, covering his face for a moment. His shoulders hunched forward like the weight of his doubts was too much to carry. “I need time to process this, yeah? Gimme time to think, I don’t wanna ruin it.”

You nodded softly. You weren’t going to push, there was no use in that. That would only make him retreat.

If he needed time, then you’d give it to him. Even if it hurt.

You grabbed your bag quietly, your fingers lingering on the strap a moment before you murmured a soft goodbye. Stepping out into the night, the cold air hit your skin like a shock—but it was a relief, somehow. You let the door click shut behind you and took a deep breath, knowing this was far from over.

Joel had been tossing and turning for forty minutes, nowhere near sleep.

Your conversation kept replaying in his mind on a torturous loop. Your voice, soft and sure, kept echoing in his ears—“You didn’t make me uncomfortable.” And it only made the ache in his chest deepen.

He cursed himself—quietly, sharply—for getting tangled in this whole mess.

Was it wrong? Maybe.

Sure, you were over a decade younger. But you were an adult. You wanted him, he’d never pushed you or forced you into anything. And It wasn’t like he was a pervert chasing every younger girl who walked by, it was only you that he liked.

And that terrified him.

What if this was just a phase for you? Just a fun, wild story to tell later, he pictured you laughing later with your friends telling them about— “That time I hooked up with the hot single dad I worked for.”

You were just a girl in her college years, trying to experiment, testing boundaries. Joel knew that world well—hell, he remembered exactly what it was like when he was your age: reckless, hungry for anything new, chasing moments that burned bright but didn’t last.

Joel wasn’t stupid. You’d get bored real soon, grow out of this. Move on and go for someone your age. Someone who didn’t wake up sore from bending the wrong way. Someone who didn’t carry the weight of a lifetime of mistakes.

Someone with a future who could provide something more than a mortgage and a busted back. Someone to have your own family with, not having to take care of someone else’s daughter. Not bound to a man still trying to figure out how to be enough—for himself, for Sarah… for you.

“Fuck,” he muttered under his breath, curling into himself.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand.

Joel’s name lit up your screen, and your breath caught in your throat.

You scrambled to grab it, heart thudding, fingers fumbling just a little like your body already knew it was him.

You answered quickly. “Hey. Is everything okay?”

“Yeah. Yeah, sorry for callin’ so late,” Joel said, his voice low and scratchy. It was that deep, half-broken tone, like he hadn’t spoken in hours. Like he’d been lying in bed thinking about you just as hard as you’d been thinking about him.

You could hear the exhaustion in him. And something else. Something heavier. Something low and aching, wrapped in need.

“I just needed to hear your voice. That okay?”

“Of course,” you said softly. “It’s good to hear yours too.”

“What’re you doin’?”

“I’m in bed.” You said, shifting under the blanket instinctively, suddenly hyper-aware of the heat pooling between your thighs, the empty ache. The place between your legs throbbed sensitive and wanting.

You heard his breath hitch—just a subtle catch, but it made your skin prickle. Your nipples tightened beneath the fabric of your shirt. Your thighs pressed together on their own. One little sound from him and your whole body was already unraveling.

“Me too,” he whispered.

“I miss you,” you confessed. “So bad it hurts. I wish you were here. I wish your hands wer—”

“Fuck, baby,” he groaned, voice breaking. “You know you’re killin’ me right now, right?”

You smiled, cheeks heating.

Your thighs pressed together under the covers, trying to soothe the throb you felt blooming low in your belly.

Silence stretched between you, humming with tension. The kind of silence that pulsed with need, with wanting, with everything you both weren’t saying but felt too deeply to ignore.

Then Joel’s voice came back, low and thick. Like honey and gravel, dragging across your nerves.

“You touchin’ yourself, babygirl?”

You swallowed, heart hammering.

“Not yet.” Your voice came out breathy, almost trembling with anticipation. Your fingers twitched, already itching to move.

Joel let out a low groan—the kind that made your toes curl. You could hear the frustration in it, the hunger.

“Can I hear ya? Please. Lemme listen.”

Your breath caught. “Yes.”

“Good girl,” he rasped, voice like silk.

Your whole body shivered at the praise. You slid your hand beneath your oversized T-shirt, the fabric brushing over your hardened nipples. Your skin felt electric, too hot.

You trailed your fingers slowly down your stomach, dipping beneath the waistband of your panties until you found your slick folds. You were drenched. The heat between your legs was almost unbearable, your pussy aching, begging.

God, you were soaked. Swollen. Your body already reaching for something it knew only he could give.

“Tell me what you’re doin’,” Joel murmured. “Wanna picture it.”

“I’m… touching myself,” you whispered, lips parting as you circled your clit, just small circles around that bundle of nerves. A soft moan spilled from you, your hips already lifting slightly, chasing the sensation.

Joel’s breath hitched again. “You wet for me, baby?”

“So wet,” you gasped. “I’m dripping.”

“Fuck,” he muttered. “Wanna spread you open. Eat you out. Make you cum on my tongue.”

You whimpered, your fingers teasing just enough to build the pressure. Your hips rolled instinctively, chasing more. You imagined the scratch of his beard against your thighs, the heat of his mouth, the way he’d groan against you like he was starving.

“Joel,” you moaned. “I wish it was you…”

“I know, baby. Think bout my mouth on you,” he said, voice rough. “Think bout my cock inside you. Stretchin’ you out. Fillin’ that pretty pussy up.”

You sucked in a sharp breath and pushed two fingers inside your tight entrance, your walls clenching around the intrusion. It wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed him. The weight of him. The stretch. The depth.

You let out a cry, hips arching off the mattress.

“That’s it, babygirl. Touch yourself f’me. Make yourself cum.”

“Joel…fuck,” you gasped. “My fingers… they’re not enough. I want your cock. It’s so big—I need it.”

You heard the faint rustle on the line, Joel groaning as he fumbled with his belt. You could picture it so clearly—legs spread wide, back against his sheets, his strong hand wrapped around himself, around his thick, throbbing cock, desperate and slick, stroking to the sound of your voice.

Then you heard the wet sound of him spitting on his hand.

“Shit—I’m gonna give it to you next time I see you. Gonna give you my cock. It’s all yours.” You could hear the rhythmic creamy sound on the background. Wet and steady. Fucking obscene. It made your walls flutter again, clenching around nothing.

You moaned, waves of pleasure crushing over you as you pumped your fingers, knuckles deep, in and out of you, fucking yourself harder, the slick sound of your fingers echoing in the quiet room, your breath coming in gasps.

“Put the phone closer, baby… lemme hear how you fuck yourself,” he said, voice thick with breath, gravel dragging at every word.

There was hunger in it. A rawness that made your toes curl. Like he was starving for every part of you—even just the sounds.

You obeyed, lips parted, breath catching as you shifted the phone lower. Your hand trembled slightly as you moved it, angling the speaker toward the slick heat between your thighs. The wet sounds of your fingers working through your folds filled the receiver—slow, messy, obscene.

You heard him groan on the other end. Sharp. Desperate.

“Wish I was there,” he muttered. His breath hitch, the sound of him losing control. “Wanna bury myself in that sweet little cunt. Fuck you slow. Make it last all night. Give you every fuckin’ inch.”

You moaned his name with a broken sob of pleasure, thighs trembling, back arched as your fingers fucked into your drenched heat.

“Joel…fuck—” your voice cracked, wrecked with want. “Nobody’s ever touched me like you… nobody’s ever fucked me like you do.”

His breath came through the line sharp and ragged, almost pained.

“I know, baby…” he groaned, voice thick with pride and hunger. “You were insatiable. Wasn’t enough to fuck you in the kitchen, was it? No— you wanted my cock when I took you to bed too, again and again.”

Your body jolted with the memory. The way he had fucked you over the counter, so hard you nearly screamed. And then the multiple rounds that followed after you two went to bed, allegedly to sleep.

He had picked you up, carried you to his bed like you weighed nothing, and then mounted you like a man starved. He hadn’t just fucked you. He owned you that night.

“I kept beggin’,” you breathed. “Told you I couldn’t take another round but I still opened my legs for you.”

Joel groaned like he was in pain. “God, I remember. You said you couldn’t, but your pussy was still so fuckin’ hungry. Grippin’ me tight, milkin’ every drop I gave you. You took it so well f’me.”

“You came inside me so many times,” you whispered. “It was leaking out of me all night.”

“Shit— I remember when you were lyin’ on your stomach, ass all red from how hard I’d fucked you. Still twitchin’. Could barely breathe. You kept beggin’ me not to stop.”

“Tell me what you’re doing now” you begged, breathless.

“Got my fist ‘round my cock,” he said, voice breaking a little on a breath. “Squeezin’ tight. Thumb right over the tip. It’s—fuck—it’s leakin’, baby. Been hard since I called.”

You whined at that, pressing your fingers deeper, hips arching up. The ache inside you swelling like it knew his voice could reach all the way in.

“Wish it was your mouth,” he groaned. “Wish I could fuck into that pretty throat, hear you gag on it like a good girl.”

He groaned again, louder this time. The rhythm of his stroking matched the slick, wet sounds coming from your end of the line.

“I’m close… Joel, I’m so close—” your voice broke as your muscles tensed, your body strung tight like a bow, curling your fingers just right to hit your g-spot.

“I’m right behind you, baby… cum with me. Wanna hear you lose it.”

You cried out, pleasure crashing through you like a wave.

Your thighs trembled violently, your back arched, and you clenched down hard around your fingers. You came with a broken sob, his name falling from your lips like a spell.

“Oh, fuck—Joel—fuck—”

“Jesus, baby… I’m comin’,” he hissed. “Fuck—fuck, that’s it—your voice—your fuckin’ moans—”

You heard him gasp, and then his breath hitched a ragged, broken sound as he came. Hard. There was a wet, rhythmic slap and a final low growl from deep in his chest as he spilled into his hand, breathing heavy, almost panting.

You could picture him now—spread out, chest rising, hand still loosely around his softening cock, skin flushed, hair damp at his temples, thick ropes of cum coating his stomach.

“That’s my girl… fuck, you sound so goddamn good when you cum,” he said, still breathless. “Shit… made a mess on the sheets.”

“Was it worth the mess?” you murmured, breathless.

Joel let out a lazy chuckle. “Darlin’… you have no idea how much it was worth it.”

“Don’t change the sheets,” you said between gasps, still catching your breath. “I want to see it tomorrow.”

He chuckled, deep and low. “You wanna see my dry cum on the sheets?”

“I want the proof of how bad you wanted me.”

“Jesus… you’re gonna be the death of me,” he whispered, voice reverent.

“Just so you know, I’m not going anywhere, Joel. No matter how much you try to push me away.”

“Don’t say that shit unless you mean it,” he said, voice low, but vulnerable. “Not if this is just somethin’ you’re gonna grow out of.”

“I meant it, Joel,” you whispered. “I still mean it.”

“I just… I don’t get why. Why me? I’m not—”

“How can you not see it?” you said with a soft laugh, still glowing from the high. “Joel, the other night you made me cum so much I felt like I was gonna pass out. I’ve never been with a guy who could make me cum, and you do it just by talking to me. That’s how much I want you. How can you not understand?”

“I just worry… one day this won’t be enough. You’ll get bored once the thrill’s gone, that you’ll wake up and realize you should’ve been with someone younger. Someone who can give you a clean slate, not a man with a teenage daughter and a bad back.”

“I promise you, Joel, I’m not in this for the thrill,” you said gently. “You and Sarah… you both matter too much. I wouldn’t mess with that.”

Joel let out a shaky breath. “How can ya be so fuckin’ perfect and still want an old man like me?”

“Well, the old man has some serious skills.” You said, hearing his chuckle on the other side of the line.

“I just— Christ, I’m like fifteen years older than you. My back cracks every time I bend down to tie my boots. I make old man noises gettin’ outta bed. I got a mortgage, a busted knee, and a daughter who depends on me. I don’t exactly scream eligible bachelor, darlin’.”

“Joel, listen,” you tried to say.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered, quieter now. “You’re smart. Young. Fuckin’ gorgeous. You’ve got a future. Hell, I probably already lived through the best parts of mine.” He let out a bitter little huff. “What happens when you want marriage? Kids? I can’t start over again. I—I don’t know if I have that in me.”

“You’re not just some older guy to me. You’re Joel. The way you see me, the way you listen… that means more than anything else.”

He chuckled, shaky but real. “Damn, you’re good at this. Makin’ a man feel wanted when he’s been feelin’ invisible for so long.”

“Do you believe me then?” you asked. “That I want you? That I mean it?”

“I do,” he whispered, soft as a secret. “I wish I could be there right now,” he murmured. “Just to hold you. Just to—fuck—I don’t even know. Fall asleep next to you. Wake up with your leg thrown over me. Make you coffee in the mornin’.”

A beat passed. Then: “I know I’m older, baby. I know there’s things you’ll want one day that I probably can’t give. But I swear to God… if you let me keep you, I’ll try to do my best. I’ll damn well try.”

You smiled, curling into your pillow, heart full.

Your body still tingled, warm and sated, but it was his voice in your ear that soothed you. That made everything feel right.

Joel stayed on the line, breathing steady in your ear, until sleep took you both— the connection crackling softly, his breathing a steady comfort in your ear like a silent promise.

A/N: Thank you so much for all the support on the first part. It made me so happy to see how much you enjoyed it, I hope you liked this part as much🫶🏻🩷

dividers by: @/saradika-graphics

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shysuccubusstuff · 3 days ago

Text

Incubus! Caleb

Content: Incubus! Caleb + Modern! Caleb + Non proof-reader; Mention of previous love relationships (cheating involved) + Cunnilingus + Size difference + breeding kink + Multiple orgasms + Squirting + Service dom + Overstimulation + Rut

Note: Based on the gorgeous fanart of @bxngxsart thank you for this! Can't believe I had to restart this cause I didn't like it... I've been thinking about returning with succubus! reader... BUT WITH CALEB. You don't know how much I love the succubus/incubus concept with some instant loss... ദ്ദി(≧ڡ≦*) Sorry if it's messy or not really enjoyable!

Caleb and you had been going out for quite some time, with him suddenly confessing you soon after his return to university soon after he had dealt with whatever he had going on. He had planned everything, from your favourite food to the different gifts you had been sending to him as you used his contact number as a kind of notes app. Just how had he been able to get that limited edition plushie?! So you accepted without thinking twice, the two of you had known each other since you were children, with him always taking care of you since your parents had to spend most of their time abroad.

Your time dating had been almost like a fairy tale, with Caleb constantly showering you with gifts or his delicious food made with pure love... How could you even imagine that he was hiding something like that?

That night, you had decided to be the one to give him a surprise, surely he wouldn't expect his precious girlfriend to pop in front of his house, with both your hands carrying two bags filled with different snacks, with your backpack hanging from one of your shoulders as you planned on making a small slumber party just for the two of you. Caleb took a while to respond to the door, almost making you worry as you had to knock over five times for him to finally respond. "Who's there?" Caleb's voice was much deeper than usual, almost as if he had just woken up from a deep sleep, which surprised you, as Caleb had never been much of a sleeper, but oh, maybe his day at uni had been more tiring than usual? "Caleb? It's me! I decided to visit you so we could spend some time together?" As soon as you finished your sentence, you heard the rapid movement of Caleb around the house, his heavy steps being heard as you could barely make out a few of the excuses he had tried to come up with. But instead of facing the gorgeous face of your boyfriend, you were encountered with a small gap on the door, his eye barely showing as he smiled at you.

"Hey pipsqueak! Didn't expect you here, I...uh... caught a cold so I think it would be best if we saw each other some other day... Tomorrow? We can meet tomorrow if you want." You tried to hide your clear disappointment as you tried to stay calm, surely Caleb wasn't... There was no way, right? Before you were able to think about a clever excuse, you had already opened the door wide open, squeezing into the gap between the door and Caleb's body and rushing towards his bedroom... Surely he wasn't doing that, right?!... Nothing could have prepared you for the surprise.

Caleb's room was a complete mess, with his bed being completely disheveled, with all the clothes you had left in his house around it, almost as if he had made some kind of... nest? Caleb came running behind you, quickly catching up to you, but not soon enough for him to forbid you from looking at the state of his room. "I... I can explain." Caleb looked to the floor ashamed, almost as if he was a cute puppy trying to make the owner forgive him. But as soon as you turned around, you saw him. Caleb was slightly... different from usual. His hair was a bit longer, now reaching below his ears, his eyes were slightly pink, mixing with his usual eye colour. then his whole body... His hands had a strange purple hue, and as you took a closer look at his body, you noticed the many different tattoos that were glistening under the pale moonlight, more importantly, there was a quite big tattoo that was glowing... almost as if it was trying to lure you in. "Just...? Caleb?" Caleb's eyes were starting to water, hands trembling as he tried his best to hide the dark horns that were popping out from his head. "Please don't look at me... you weren't supposed to find out about... about this." Caleb's lip began to shake, and despite the sudden surprise, you rushed to him, caressing his face between your hands and hugging him in a thight embrace.

"Caleb, that's not it! I... I wasn't scared of you! Actually, I mean, not like I expected... this. But... you know, I already talked about my... past partners so I kind of... overreacted, I'm sorry..." You slowly got away from him, already feeling how your face was starting to turn a bright red, gosh you had acted way out of line, and you knew that, but the way he had reacted reminded you a bit too much of the others... Even to the point of ignoring the many changes on the body of your sweet boyfriend. "So... uhm... were you like trying a costume? I mean! Don't get me wrong, I would love you even if you had like-- uh... If you had swallowed that purple gum in the film we watched last week! I just didn't expect the bold... colour, so to say." Caleb lifted his gaze, his expression had now changed into a completely confused look, almost as if he was expecting you to scream and get away running from him. "Wha...what's the matter? It's not like I have something against purple, or anything" Before you could say anything else, Caleb wrapped his arms around you locking you in a tight embrace that left you almost breathless, aparently, he had been quite scared of your reaction about his... new style? "Hey, it's ok, it's not like I would break up with you just because of this change in style, I would love you even if you were, I don't know, a worm?" You smiled at your own joke, simply corresponding to his embrace. But as time went on, you noticed something was... wrong? Since your bodies were completely pressed against the other, you had started to notice something, uhm, growing. Caleb's face was buried in the crook of your neck, letting him take a deep breath of your sweet scent, his head starting to spin as he kept pressing his nose against your neck. "Uhm... Caleb? Are you...?" You pressed your hands on his bare chest, slowly pulling away from him, suddenly taking a better look at his gaze. In contrast with his previous look, his pupils were now heart-shaped, with his irises glowing under the dim lighting that entered through the window.

"Sorry... I've been trying so hard to hide it from you... I just get so... needy every time I see you... But, since you told me that, does that mean I'm able to take as much as I need?..." Caleb smiled, lifting his head up, his eyes now piercing your face.

"I... I mean, sure? We can do whatever you want, what did you have in mind---?" Caleb suddenly grabbed you, using a single arm to lift you up from the ground and carefully letting you on the mattress, getting on top of you and starting to kiss you all over, his rough hands getting rid of the clothes you were wearing, throwing them to the ground together with the rest of your clothes. "Caleb? What's going on?" You tried to stop him for a second, confused due to the sudden change on Caleb's behaviour, but you were silenced with a kiss, Caleb's tongue suddenly entering your mouth, interlocking it with yours as his hands started to massage your chest, twisting your nipples and pinching them as he kept fucking your mouth with his tongue, lewd moans leaving your mouth as you tried to eve understand what was even going on. "Caleb... Just... Just a second, my head is getting a bit hot..." Caleb looked at you with hunger, his pupils becoming bigger as he forced himself to remain calm. "I need you... just let me pleasure you, please... I'm so hungry..." Caleb suddenly got down from you, grabbing your thighs and setting himself between them, his breath hitting your entrance before his tongue started to play with your clit, carefully tracing it with the tip of his tongue before he started to suck on it, making you fist the sheets, biting the side of your hand as you tried to stop those obscene sounds from spilling out. Caleb seemed annoyed by this, using one of his hands to move your hand away from your mouth, suddenly increasing the strenght of his suction, making you arch your back as he kept focusing on your sensitive clit, slowly moving his tongue until he reached your entrance, teasing it with his tip before introducing his tongue inside you, swapping his tongue for his fingers, making you cum all over his mouth as his fingertips kept teasing your puffed clit. "Caleb! Just a second-- It's just too much!" You pressed your hands against his soft hair, grabbing his horns as an attempt to try and create some distance between his mouth and your poor cunt, but of course it was to no avail, with Caleb simply choosing to press you against the bed by keeping his arms over your thigs, forcing you to keep your legs where they were even as you kept begging him for a rest, forcing one orgasm after the other without any kind of mercy.

By the time Caleb finally let you rest, you had soaked his bed completely, a wet patch under you, breath completely unsteady, which forced you to take heavy puffs of air through your mouth, fat tears running down your cheeks from the overstimulation. Your hands were still holding on to his horns, legs trembling as Caleb got away from you, smiling happily at the gorgeous art work he had turned your poor pussy in. You could feel yourself already drifting off, suddenly being moved by Caleb, who had suddenly gotten on top of you, fangs shimmering in the dark as he was unable to keep his smirk from appearing. "Don't fall asleep now, I haven't even been able to make you feel good!" You locked eyes with him, your fuzzy mind starting to panic, just what did he even mean by that? Not making you feel good? Your poor legs were unable to stop shaking, and you had drenched the whole damn sheets, just what was he even saying?

You tried to get him to rest, pressing your hands against his chest and trying to push him against you, which was completely useless, of course, only making Caleb feel even hornier as he saw your tiny hands in contrast with his huge body. "No need to rest, let me take care of everything." Caleb finally got rid of his pants, swiftly removing his button, and pushing you to the mattress, then removing his trousers together with his underwear, his huge erection suddenly appearing in front of your face, tip a flushed red colour with a few beads of precum falling down his shaft. "Open wide, honey, it's time for me to feed you." You simply opened your mouth, feeling Caleb's cock entering your mouth, stretching it as you felt the tip of his cock hit against the back of your throat, making it difficult to breath as he finally got his whole dick inside your oral cavity. "So good baby... use your tongue..." You tried your best to use your tongue, wrapping it around his shaft and sucking on it as he had done with your clit, with Caleb's hands carefully petting your hair as he kept letting lewd moans leave his lips. "You're doing so well... Just a bit longer" Caleb's big hands kept holding your head, covering both of your ears, thus making the obscene wet noises reverberate into your head, which mixed with his whispered praises was more than enough to get you to submit completely. "Just a bit more... make sure to swallow it completely, let's not waste anything." You nodded silently, your gaze fixated on how Caleb's chest kept puffing up and down each time he forced his whole length inside you, causing you to barely breath, eyes rolling backwards each time he spent just enough time with the tip of his cock fully inside your mouth as he smiled at you, cock twitching as he suddenly released inside your mouth, thick ropes of cum falling down your throat as you tried your best to swallow it completely. "Such a good girl for me... Now it's time for the dessert, right?" Caleb glared at your puffy lips and glossy eyes, gosh, he was thankful for all the restraint he had practised since he had started to fall in love with you, always forcing himself to keep his erection as concealed as possible each time you even hugged him.

Without giving you any more time to rest, Caleb suddenly grabbed your legs, pushing them backwards just close enough for your feet to be close to your head. "Let's see... I'm sure my cum will be active by now." You looked at him confused, just what did he mean? Well, no need to wonder much about it, a strange mark appearing into your tummy as soon as Caleb's hand brushed against your lower stomach, the mark soon started to turn into a shade of purple, a stange glow starting to appear after a few seconds went by. Was it you or was the temperature in the room getting even hotter? In fact... you could almost feel your mind become fuzzy, your lower half starting to become even wetter, Caleb's expression changing into an amused one as he used the tip of his cock to test it. "Oh~... It seems someone is eager for me to enter... Trying to get me to knock your brains out? Make you even prettier with my cock pumping you full, now, now, let me stretch you...." Caleb pressed the head of his dick against your entrance, teasing it a bit my rubbing it up and down, his tip coating your clit with the mixture between his cum and your saliva, the wet sound making you feel even more embarrased. "Ca...Caleb... my head feels a bit weird... my... my tummy is really warm..." Caleb kissed your lips, making you open your mouth and fucking your mouth with his tongue as his dick gently entered you, stopping every few seconds to let you get accustomed, eyes fixed into your face in case any sign of pain showed up. "So good for me... such a good stretch... does it feel good, honey?" You immediately nodded, kissing his lips with hunger and now being the one to take control, sucking on his tongue as Caleb finally bottomed out. "Are you ok?" Caleb hands let go your legs for a second, both hands stroking your cheeks with extreme softness, almost as if he was scared of breaking you. "Caleb~... more, just... my... my thing feels as if it's melting..." Caleb looked at you with a mixture of pleasure and trouble, feeling a bit bad for the way his bodily fluid had caused you to become so... needy. Before Caleb was able to do anything, you wrapped your arms around his neck, now completely focused on making him fuck you senseless one way or another. "Come on~... Just do it, I'm ready~..." You smiled at him, using your arms to press his chest against yours, then using your legs to bind him, using your heels to push him even closer towards you. Caleb's expressions suddenly shifted, with his marks all over his arms suddenly starting to glow. "Don't rile me up..." Caleb suddenly put his hands on your hips, suddenly lifting you up and letting you lay on his lap as he changed your position. "Just remember you were the one who wanted me to do it." Caleb arms suddenly wrapped around you, using his strength to lift you up, then suddenly making you fuck yourself on his cock, tip suddenly hitting your g-spot and making your eyes roll back, lips completely parted as those naughty sounds kept escaping you, with Caleb's thrusts only becoming faster and deeper each time you moaned against his ears. "Wait Caleb, too much, too much! I can feel it here~..." Caleb's eyes drifted down, now realising the slightly noticeable bump that kept moving up and down each time he made you take his entire member, cooing at you each time your moans turned into soft whimpers from the overstimulation between his hard cock, your chest rubbing against his and your clit being played on by Caleb from time to time. "Just a bit more... please? For me." You gradually nodded, tears starting to go down your cheeks as you felt your poor cunt twitching around him, surely a bit more would help you, right?...

You had completely lost just how much time had passed, with Caleb still hammering your insides with the same strength he had applied since the beginning, your body once again being completely pressed against the mattress as he kept pressing his hips against your entrance, cunt completely soaked between your body fluids and the great amount of cum that leaked each time he entered his cock once more. "Wait, wait! Too much, please~... Just wait a second, I can feel the mark burning up!" You could barely feel your poor cunt, face completely red with puffy lips from all the tears that had fallen from your eyes due to the overwhelming pleasure. Still, Caleb ignored your poor complains, letting your eyes roll back into your skull each time he hit that soft spot, even paying no mind to the many nail marks and scratches you had left all over his chest and back from each time you had creamed around his cock, only making him force his whole length inside you with even more eagerness. "So good... you're sucking me in, honey... Surely you don't want me to actually pull out, right? I was so eager to get your pretty pussy to become all leaky and twitching from me..." Caleb made a small pout, almost as if he was waiting for you to take the bait once again. "Just a bit more, and I'll let you go, yeah? I just gotta make sure this sticks..." Caleb's hand pressed against the strange mark, now looking more like a small tattoo than whatever he had done to you. "You like it? This is proof of our bond... Gotta make sure no other man tries to get to you." Caleb's hips kept moving, now setting an almost painfully slow rhythm, leaving a few kisses around your sweaty body as a way to keep you grounded. "You did amazing pips, such a good job for me... let me take care of everything." All you could feel was Caleb's hands softly rubbing your tummy, then feeling him lifting your whole body up and taking you to what seemed to be a warm bath.

Note: Always make sure to know when the rut of your incubus boyfriends is in!

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blank-potato · 1 day ago

Text

need that

Pairing: John Walker x Reader

Summary:

You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror. Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him. He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?” You blinked, realising you’d been staring. Or You think everything he does is hot, and eventually he takes notice.

Tags/Warnings: Fluff, implied smut, confessions, pining, yearning, all hours are yearning hours for reader

WC: 2.3K

A/N: Thank you @fire-joestar for this request and idea! I have another one for Bob with the same concept coming out at some point. Hope you all enjoy it!

☆☆☆

You wanted John Walker so bad that it was becoming a problem. Friends weren’t supposed to be crazy in love with other friends, but here you were, heart racing every time he so much as looked your way.

It came to the point where he’d be standing still, and you’d just be absolutely losing your mind. The way his jaw clenched when he was focused, how his biceps stretched the sleeves of his shirts, it was enough to short-circuit your brain.

Like when he caught you staring and started talking to you about his guns, “This one is pretty good for close-quarters. Lightweight, easy trigger…”

You nod along and pretend to pay attention, but it’s hot the way he’d handle them, all casual and confident. The way his fingers curled around the grip, the intensity in his eyes when he explained the mechanics, you’d transform into a gun right now if you could, just for the chance to be held like that.

“You still with me?” John asks, raising an eyebrow and giving you that crooked half-smile that never failed to melt your brain.

You nod, maybe a little too eagerly, even though he’d lost you as soon as you saw the veins in his hand flex around the barrel. You’re not even sure what he’s talking about anymore. Tactical specs? Firing range? Who cares.

"Cool," he says, and goes right back to talking shop, completely unaware that you're about three seconds away from combusting.

It was an everyday occurrence. But during training, it was something else entirely. That’s when things really test your self-control.

Flipping you over like you weighed nothing during sparring sessions, he was strong and agile, all precision and power wrapped in that unfairly good-looking package. You found yourself on the mat more often than not, too distracted to fight properly.

Not to mention listening to him talk, helping direct you on how to angle your arms, how to keep your balance and improve your fighting stance. It was so distracting the way he’d give directions, voice low and focused.

“Right foot here, and I want you to put all your weight behind it when you punch,” he’d say, tapping the mat lightly where he wanted your foot to go.

“Alright,” you murmur, trying not to sound like you're dying inside, and you try again, not quite doing as he instructed. He observes you for a moment, and you feel a shiver run down your spine.

“Can I?” he asks, hands hovering near your hips, asking for permission, like you wouldn’t let him do pretty much anything.

“Yeah,” you reply breathlessly.

He moves your hips into place with a firm, steady grip that has no business being that gentle. “Now,” he continues, voice closer now, “shift forward and twist your hips, it has to be all one movement.”

He’d basically been manhandling you, guiding your arms, adjusting your hips until you were exactly where he wanted you. But still, he was gentle and patient, never getting frustrated, always calm, always in control.

And it was so unbelievably hot.

You could only imagine where else those firm instructions and steady hands would come in handy. The way he said, "twist your hips"? Yeah, you were already spiralling.

“I’ve lost you again,” John says, catching the faraway, glazed-over look on your face, one brow raised.

“No, no, I’m… I’m here,” you stammer, blinking hard and trying to pull yourself back into the moment, even though your brain had very much left the building five minutes ago. He smirks, like he knows exactly what he’s doing. And you’re not sure if that’s better or worse.

But you’re hopeless whether or not he’s interacting with you or not. Watching him work out in any capacity was a dangerous game. You were at risk of keeling over and dying on the spot every single time.

Watching him run on the treadmill, sweat glistening on his skin, shirt clinging to every sculpted line of muscle. Or when he boxed, the way his muscles rippled with every jab, every hook, every fluid, powerful movement. You were obsessed.

You put your head in your hands for a second, trying to cool down your spiralling thoughts, then looked back up at him.

He turned to you just then, wiping sweat from his neck with a towel, chest heaving slightly from exertion, and asked, “Did you need something?”

“N-nope,” You stutter out as you walk backwards out of the room, bumping into multiple walls, your eyes not once leaving his shirtless body.

Though you liked the little things too.

He offers to drive you wherever you need to go, because, well, after a few incidents of reckless driving, your license had been suspended.

In your defence, it was a matter of life and death. Several times. But try explaining that you were being hunted by sword-wielding assassins and not getting laughed out of the room.

You climb into the passenger seat, trying not to feel awkward about it.

“Thanks…” You mumble as you buckle your seatbelt. He glances over at you, mouth tugging into a faint smirk. “You’re lucky I like you,” he says, teasing just enough to make your chest flutter.

He’s quiet at first, one hand on the wheel, the other resting casually on the gearshift. The windows are down, wind in his hair, sun in his eyes. Then once you reach your destination, he does the thing.

The thing where he puts his arm around the back of your seat as he reverses, his jawline sharp in the golden wash of afternoon light, the clean, strong line of his neck exposed beneath the collar of his shirt.

You don’t know why it has you holding your breath, but it does. Maybe it’s the casual way he does it, like he’s done it a hundred times. Or the fact that he’s so in control and completely unaware of how stupidly attractive what he’s doing is.

You’re gawking, and you know you’re gawking, but you’re only human. Gawking was your speciality, and you’re always putting yourself in situations to do it.

Like when he’d be on cooking duty and you’d jump at the opportunity to be his unofficial sous-chef, just to be near him. You’re currently struggling with this godforsaken onion. Eyes watering, grip awkward, and the knife refusing to cooperate.

“I can do that for you,” John offers gently, taking the onion from your hands with that same ease he handled everything. “The blade’s dull, that’s why you’re having such a hard time…”

You nod, blinking away the sting in your eyes as you watch him grab the knife-sharpening rod. He starts working the blade against it with practised movements.

John Walker is an acts of service king; you noticed it early on. One time, you had barely even acknowledged that you were thirsty. There was no glass of water in front of you, you barely even sighed, but before you could even stand, John had quietly placed one in your hand without a word.

Or when you fell asleep on the couch, and felt the weight of a blanket being placed on top of you, the warm, familiar scent of his cologne letting you know it was him. You didn’t even have to open your eyes. He didn’t say anything, didn’t wake you.

Just made sure you were comfortable and tucked the blanket around your shoulders. He could be loud, commanding, the centre of attention when he needed to be, but moments like that reminded you of how soft he could be when no one was looking.

You snap out of the memory, focusing back on him as he now dices the onion with mechanical precision, the knife gliding like it was an extension of his hand.

“See? Easy when your tools actually work,” he says with a half-smile, glancing your way.

You try not to swoon. Or stare. Or let him see how completely ridiculous it is that someone chopping onions could look that good. But honestly? It’s a losing battle.

A few days later, you were searching for him to get some insight on a mission you’d all be heading out on later that day.

“John?” you called out from outside his door, your knuckles tapping lightly.

“Come in!” he called back casually.

You step inside. His room was as clean and precise as you’d expect. Neatly made bed, organised, everything in its place. You glance around, not seeing him at first, but the moment you step into the bathroom, your soul threatens to leave your body.

You’d seen him shirtless often enough that you should be used to it by now, but nope. Especially not like this. The room was steamy from the shower, and he stood there with only a towel slung low around his hips, v-line in full view, chest gleaming slightly in the light.

You watched as he stood at the sink, razor in hand, slowly dragging it across his jawline with practised ease. The muscles in his back flexed as he leaned in closer to the mirror.

Thank goodness for inhibitions, otherwise you’d be going crazy and trying to pounce on him.

He caught your eyes in the mirror and gave a small smirk. “You alright there?”

You blinked, realising you’d been staring.

“Yeah,” you croaked. “Yeah, I… just came to ask about the mission.”

He turned slightly, not even trying to cover up. “Sure. Just give me a second to finish up. Unless you’re in a rush?”

You shook your head fast. “No rush. I can wait.”

So you stay there, doing your best to focus as he continues to shave.

You start going over the mission details to distract yourself, letting him know the objectives, listening to his responses, but it’s nearly impossible.

Thankfully, the next, next mission, you sat out with Bob, spending the day chilling and playing Mario Kart with him. It was easy and a perfect distraction from the John problem, as you started dubbing it. Until the rest of the team walked back in.

They looked rough. Bruised, dirty, clearly fresh off a firefight. John was at the front, jaw tight, a few shallow cuts on his arms and a particularly nasty one near his temple that definitely needed attention, yet he still somehow looked unfairly good.

You barely had time to blink before his eyes found yours. Then he was moving, across the room, straight to where you were still curled up on the couch.

Without a word, he jerked his head toward the hallway. “We need to talk.”

You blinked, glancing at the others like someone might tell you what the hell was happening, but no one seemed surprised. With a sigh, you stood and followed him down the hall to a quiet, empty corner. Why this was his number one priority after a mission was beyond you.

“We do?” you asked, arms crossing defensively.

“You’ve been looking at me weird for a while now,” he said, tone unreadable but eyes locked on yours.

You froze. “What?”

He stepped a little closer. “You have. In the kitchen. In the gym. In my car. You stare.”

Your mouth opened but closed just as fast. How on earth would you rebut any of his claims? You doubt you had been subtle in the slightest; if someone made a compilation of you staring at John, they’d have enough footage to make a movie.

“You’re imagining things,” you said, way too quickly.

He tilted his head, clearly not buying it. “Am I?”

You step back, but your back hits the wall, the space between the two of you impossibly small.

“You like me, don’t you?”

Hearing that you’re sure it’s over for you. You stand there waiting for the ground to swallow you whole. You look down, unable to meet his eyes, but then his fingers are under your chin, tipping your head up gently.

“It’s okay if you do,” he says, a teasing glint in his eye. “I like me too.”

You let out a breathy laugh and swat at his chest playfully. “Asshole…”

He laughs with you, but soon his expression softens, the teasing giving way to something deeper.

“I like you too,” he says quietly.

The words hit like fireworks going off in your chest. You mean that?” You ask to which John answers genuinely, “Yeah, I do.”

“Do you…” You start, heart racing, “Do you want to show me how much you like me?” you ask, voice dropping, the boldness rising in your chest before you can second-guess it.

He smirks at you, then he pulls you in, his hands cupping your face like you’re something fragile and precious. His lips meet yours gently, and you melt as you hold onto his arms. Without them, you’d be a puddle on the floor. The kiss slowly deepens, becoming more passionate, more desperate. Your fingers curl in his hair, pulling him closer like it’s instinct. He groans softly at the touch, one hand slipping from your cheek to your waist, then he slots his knee between your legs and…

“No, no, no. Not outside my room,” Yelena interrupts with a sigh, “Take that somewhere private.”

Alexei is grinning like a proud dad, arms folded, nodding approvingly. Bucky is concerned about how quickly you guys started making out against the wall.

Ava just throws up her hands in relief, muttering, “Finally,” under her breath, clearly thrilled that she no longer has to witness you making heart eyes at John during every single meal, briefing, and training session.

And Bob? Bob’s smiling, warm and supportive, genuinely happy for you both… though mildly overwhelmed, like he just walked into something he isn’t entirely sure how to exit.

You groan into your hands, face burning. Yelena’s already walking away, calling over her shoulder, “I’m ordering pizza for dinner. If you two are going to be gross again, do it behind a closed door.”

John chuckles, slipping his hand into yours. “Well… you heard the lady.”

He pulls you towards his room, and the second you get inside, you shove him onto his bed, trying to peel his suit off.

“Eager, aren’t you?” John chuckles.

“Shut up.”

Masterlist

#john walker #thunderbolts #john walker x reader #x reader #fluff #thunderbolts fanfic #thunderbolts x reader #gender neutral reader #implied smut #john walker fanfic #friends to lovers #thunderbolts*#the new avengers #new avengers #marvel fanfic #mcu fic #marvel fic

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silksandcravats · 2 days ago

Text

No Sleeping Alone - Dean x Reader HC

headcanon on boyfriend!dean who does NOT condone sleeping apart from you.

After years of lonely trips and no true closeness, Dean finally has you. And he refuses to spend any more nights alone, at least, not when you’re under the same roof.

No matter what.

Lovers quarrels are inevitable. Dean had always been a hothead, his anger boiled fast, and his sharp words shot out even faster.

Going into the whole thing, you knew your relationship would require strong patience on your end.

But you’re only human, so sometimes you’d snap, and call him out on his shit.

The fight grew to a peak, and to his credit, Dean was the one who stepped away first. Biting his tongue and exiting the room before he said something he really couldn’t take back.

You both keep your distance the rest of the day, opting to cool off in private.

The bunker was vast enough for you to comfortably avoid each other. Even through dinner, you both had found your own quiet moment to sneak in and out of the kitchen in record time.

You don’t know where to go as the day winds down, so you end up back in your old room. It was only a few doors further down the hallway, and you’d occupied it for quite a while.

Only it felt unfamiliar now. The very same room that was once your personal sanctuary now seemed cold and empty.

And damn it have queen mattresses always been this big?

It was just too much empty space for one person.

Still, it felt like the right thing to do, you both needed space to cool off. And the bedroom you now shared had been Dean’s first, so of course you should be the one to go.

This was the most logical place to spend the night.

It all made perfect sense, but you were still feeling sad and lonely as you curled up under the covers.

You pressed your eyes shut, trying to force sleep to come to you. Surely if you just held them shut long enough you’d drift off.

But you didn’t.

You wiggled around the ample empty space of the mattress, unsure what to do with yourself. So uncomfortable with the lack of a second, larger, warmer body, with grabby hands and little regard for how much space he took up.

You tapped out first most nights, you had no problem keeping late hours, but you needed your eight hours. Dean, on the other hand could go on four, even less sometimes. (No matter how many times you tried to convince him he needed more.)

So it took a while for Dean to realize what you’d done. But realize he did.

Eventually the door to your old room creaked open, and you didn’t flinch, you didn’t even have to turn to know who was there.

“There you are,” he sighed with relief.

Realistically, you’d always been somewhere in the bunker, where would you ever go? But in his panic, that logic hadn’t held.

“Why the hell are you in here?”

He’s irritated, but not like before. He’s not irritated at you, he’s irritated at the absense of you.

“I think we both need some space,” you sighed, back still to him. You heard his heavy steps as he moved deeper into the room, towards you.

“No.” He dismissed firmly.

“No?” You questioned back.

“We’re not fucking doing this,” he announced, decidedly gripping you and tossing you over his shoulder in one swift move.

You yelped, wriggling in his grasp until a firm swat to your backside stilled your squirming.

“Damn it, Dean! Did you forget we’re fighting?” you grunted, his shoulder digging harshly into your stomach.

“Well then we’ll work it out now, or tomorrow, I don’t really care but you’re sleeping with me.”

He deposited you on the side of the bed further from the door, your side.

You shuffled under the covers, propping your pillow so it was just so. You were trying to busy yourself with anything other than watching him strip down to his boxers and crawl in beside you.

Even in the early days, before anything was official, sharing a bed with Dean had always meant cuddles. Back to his front, chest to chest, you laying atop him.

You’d even managed to spoon him a few times when he was very very tired. The position was awkward, and your arms would ache the next morning, but for all that he did you felt he deserved to be held sometimes.

Now, for the first time, you were trying to keep space between you. It felt appropriate. It wasn’t as if you could erase the events of the day just because it was bedtime.

(Dean disagreed.)

“I’m too tired for this. C’mere,” He grunted.

He moved your unwilling limbs like a ragdoll, forcing you where he wanted you.

First, the hand around your waist tugged you, middle first against his body. His other arm around your back brought your chest completely flush to his, while a thick, muscled leg around yours brought the rest of you in. He had effectively trapped you against him.

“You go right here,” he hummed decidedly, tucking you in beneath the blanket.

“Dean-“ you protested weakly, not even convincing yourself.

“Where you belong,” his voice was low, content, and final.

As you laid in his arms your mood shifted, time had a way of making old anger feel pointless. You sank into his hold without even meaning to.

However mad you’d felt earlier couldn’t compare to the peace you felt now. The utter relief of being him his arms superseded any other feeling.

“Thank you for coming to get me,” you whispered after some time had passed.

You didn’t know if he was still awake, if he’d heard you until he answered.

“M’always gonna come get ya.” His tired voice croaked, chest rumbling against you. “You’re not going anyway.”

“Don’t want to go anywhere,” you agreed sleepily, wiggling closer against him.

“Good.”

#supernatural #supernatural fanfiction #supernatural x reader #dean winchester #dean winchester fanfiction #dean winchester fic #dean winchester smut #dean winchester x reader #dean x reader #spnfandom

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yukioos · 13 hours ago

Note

what love languages do you think izuku, bakugo, shoto, shinso, neito, touya, keigo, and tenya give and would want to receive from their special someone? ♥︎♥︎♥︎

what love languages he would give and like to receive

featuring izuku, katsuki, shoto, eijiro, denki, hitoshi, neito, toya, keigo, tenya

izuku midoriya

izuku shows his love in so many different ways, as in all of the love languages. he can’t keep his expressions to a minimum, he can’t help but show his love to you in every way! you’ll get compliments, gifts, hugs, favors, and time with him every day!

he doesn’t care much about how you express your love either. all he knows is that however you show your love, is a representation of it. he does prefer receiving physical touch though, as it makes him feel so needed and comfortable in your arms.

katsuki bakugo

katsuki shows his love with words of affirmation. he tells you you’re doing great, you’re improving on something, and that you look good in a certain outfit. it comes naturally to him, so he doesn’t always consider it flirting. he just loves you, and also gives acts of service. if you can’t reach something, he’s right behind you, and he’ll reach up and grab what you want and put it in your hands. he’s natural with it.

he loves to receive words of affirmation as well. he knows he’s amazing at almost everything, and he hears it on a daily basis, but it’s different when it comes from you. you make katsuki more flustered, and he also likes physical touch. when you hold onto his bicep in public rather than his hand, it makes him feel protective and so loved.

shoto todoroki

shoto sometimes struggles to show his love to you because he never saw it when he was a child. he gives you gifts because he has enough money, and most things remind him of you. when he goes on long missions across the country with his dad, he brings back souvenirs for you.

he likes to receive quality time because he just wants to be in your space, not necessarily talking. one of you could be doing homework and the other could be sleeping, but at least you’re in the same room. he craves silence sometimes and knows that actions are enough. shoto loves it when you praise him, as he didn’t receive much as a child, your words make up for what he missed.

eijiro kirishima

eijiro shows his love in so many different ways! he loves having his hands on your body, whether it’s guiding you with a hand on your back or an arm wrapped around your shoulder. he showers you with compliments every day, and loves just being in the same room with you. he loves cuddling with you in silence, sleeping together seems so intimate to him. he gives you gifts when he’s reminded of you, even if it’s a little trinket he sees from a stand. eijiro does so much for you, carrying stuff for you because he wants to make things easier, although he knows you can handle things yourself, and to show off his strength.

he loves receiving words of affirmation from you. sometimes, he still thinks he’s weak and that he could have done a lot more to save people from death or even from being hurt. your words make him feel better. when you run your hands along his scars or give him a hug, it makes him feel like his scars aren’t a reminder of how weak he is, but rather how strong he is.

denki kaminari

denki shows his love to you with words of affirmation and half of the time, he doesn’t even realize it. he can’t help but compliment you on how pretty you are, or how cool your style is.

he likes receiving physical touch, feeling your arms wrapped around his waist or neck makes him feel so warm and loved. he can’t help but have a soft, genuine smile on his face when he’s with you.

hitoshi shinso

hitoshi is quiet except when he becomes closer to someone, like you. he shows his love by acts of service and gifts, always texting you ‘this reminds me of you’ maybe it was a plant you were wishing for, and suddenly it was in your dorm the next day. when you’re thirsty but comfortable in bed, he walks down to the common area to get a glass of water for you.

he likes to receive quality time because he isn’t much of a talker, but rather a listener. he’s willing to stay silent and respond sometimes while you yap, it’s just something he enjoys. he loves hearing you speak about your day, whether it’s good or bad.

neito monoma

neito gives quality time. he feels like being able to be silent around each other with not much interaction is such an intimate thing. he’s alright with physical touch but it’s not his go-to way of showing you he loves with.

he loves receiving words of affirmation because it feeds his ego, and it makes him feel different when you compliment him, rather than a teacher.

toya todoroki

toya absolutely sucks at expressing his feelings, so sometimes he does it in unhealthy ways. he’s willing to kill for you, so he gives acts of service. he’ll also bring you stuff without you asking if you’re sick or simply not feeling well. if he sees you improving for something, he’ll give you a subtle compliment, so words of affirmation as well.

he wasn’t highly praised as a child when shoto came along, and he was always trying to be the best. toya loves to receive words of affirmation because it makes him feel cared for and as if he matters. it makes him feel like he’s progressed in life.

keigo takami

keigo is probably the touchiest motherfucker on earth. he almost always has his hands on you, so he gives physical touch often. if you don’t like physical touch, he’ll shower you with gifts. he’s rich, after all!

as a hero, he hears praise from people all the time, telling him he’s handsome, powerful, polite, etc. he loves receiving words of affirmation from you because he sometimes falls into an unhealthy headspace if he can’t save someone. he also loves to randomly be hugged from behind or holding hands, so he likes physical touch as well.

tenya iida

tenya doesn’t always know how to show his love to you, but researches the best ways how to. he likes acts of service like helping you out on homework or studying with you for tests, so also quality time. he just loves to do things together.

he likes receiving words of affirmation so he knows he’s doing something right. sometimes he has to double-check or look to you for reassurance, though he won’t say it. he just likes to know if he needs to correct his behavior, and if you like the way he’s doing something. he won’t change it.

sorry i haven’t written this ask quickly. i have been replying to singular characters in an ask rather than multiple because this takes more time. i hope you enjoy, this is just how i personally perceive the characters. all of these are just my opinions

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joelslastofus · 22 hours ago

Text

[SUMMARY: On patrol you accidentally get hurt and try to hide it from Joel.]

If Anything Should Happen

Angst semi fluff

Joel was supposed to go on patrol with you that morning but after promising Ellie that he’d show her a few songs on the guitar you told him you’d go with Tommy and Jesse. If there was anyone Joel trusted to go on patrol with you, it was his brother. Plus with Ellie finally opening up to Joel, you didn’t want anything to get in the way of that.

“You take care of my girl, Tommy” he patted your horse as you moved up by the gates.

Tommy looked down at his older brother and gave him a nod of reassurance before the three of you went on your way.

“She’ll be fine, you know how Tommy is” Maria tried to assure Joel who didn’t take his eyes off you as you rode away.

“I wish he’d be more relaxed whenever I have to go on patrol, I could tell how much he hates it” you spoke with Tommy as you both went down a trail, Jesse close behind.

“Hey but that’s, Joel. He’s gonna protect what’s his, hell, I hate it when Maria has to do anything that can risk her safety.”

“Yeah, I know. I get it” you sighed looking off into the distance when Jesses voice distracted you and Tommy.

“What the hell is that?” You turned behind to see him staring at something in the woods you couldn’t make out. Jesse jumped off his horse walking towards what he saw, you and Tommy quickly followed.

“Where the hell are you goin’?!” Tommy called out to him just as you heard movement beside you. You both froze reaching for your guns, Jesse nowhere in sight.

“Stay right here” Tommy whispered as he slowly moved ahead, you stood still, gun in hand watching your surroundings. Tommy quietly moving ahead when you heard another quick movement coming from your left and quickly turned only to hear a gunshot go off.

It all happened so quickly, the sudden intense burning sensation on your waist, the sound of Tommy’s voice muffled in the background.

“The hell did you do?!”

“Oh shit, oh shit-“ Jesse panicked, everything felt like a blur, you hadn’t even noticed you fell on the ground.

“What..the..hell?” You whispered looking down at your bloody shirt, Tommy’s voice suddenly louder and clearer.

“Don’t move” he quickly knelt down beside you, slowly lifting up your shirt.

“Thank God” Tommy whispered as you slowly felt yourself coming back to reality.

“W-what?”

“Didn’t go through, grazed ya pretty good but you’ll be fine, let me just stop the bleedin’ till we get back”

“Shit, I’m so sorry” Jesse rushed towards you.

“Joel’s gonna kill you” was all Tommy could say as he wrapped up your waist with a spare shirt.

“No” you whispered slowly propping yourself up on your elbows

“Move slow” Tommy ordered giving you his hand as you winced getting on your feet.

“No one’s telling Joel anything” you looked up at Tommy who had a look of disbelief.

“You know how he gets about you. He finds out you were hurt and I didn’t tell him-“

“So what, blame me. He doesn’t need to know, I don’t need him worrying anymore than he already does”

“And how the hell are ya gonna hide that?” He looked down at your wounded area.

“I’ll figure it out, just promise me you won’t say anything” You could see the hesitation in his eyes. If anyone knew how Joel would react it would be his brother.

“Please, Tommy”

After a tense moment of silence he gave in.

“I’ll distract him when we get back, so you have time to change. I’ll stop by and get some pain medication and send someone to clean it up for ya” you breathed in relief.

“Thank you, Tommy” you whispered.

“Yeah, thanks” Jesse intervened making Tommy narrow his eyes on him.

“Get back on the damn horse and put your gun away,” he ordered, Jesse anxiously got back to where he was.

With the pain you felt, how you were able to get back on that damn horse even with Tommy helps, you’ll never know. The whole ride home he kept looking over at you, riding slower than he usually did to make sure you were ok, he really was like a big brother to you.

Once you returned, Tommy did just as he said he would. He found Joel in the house sitting at the table with Ellie, a smile on his face watching her play the guitar till he noticed his brother walking in.

“Everything go ok?” He took off his glasses, an anxious look in his eyes.

“Yeah, everything’s good” Tommy felt guilty lying through his teeth.

“Where is she?” He slightly leaned over hoping to see you walking in behind Tommy.

“Said she wanted to go check on what ingredients we have to make something for the event,” Joel furrowed his brows as he walked around the table.

“Hm-“ he scratched his chin with the tip of his index finger.

“Coulda sworn she checked on it this mornin’”

“Hey, guys” you walked in casually, your hands crossed before you as Joel walked towards you with a smile.

“Hi darlin’” he greeted you with a kiss to your forehead.

“So, Joel taught me the coolest song ever” Ellie interrupted with excitement.

“Are ya gonna play it at the dance?”

“No way! I just started learning it, gotta perfect it first” she stood up excitedly taking her guitar to the room as Joel turned back to you.

“Had fun today?” You asked with a smile seeing the happiness in his eyes.

“Yeah, it was a good day, how about you?” He put an arm around you.

“The boys take good care of you? Or do I need to have a talk with someone?” He teased not noticing the uncomfortable look in Tommy’s eyes. Tommy knew it wasn’t no damn tease and he knew it wouldn’t have been no damn talk either.

“They were great” you smiled up at him when his smile slowly faded.

“What’s wrong?”

“What?” You whispered confused.

His hand slowly coming up to your face, taking a hold of it as he moved it from one side to the other.

“Why do ya look pale?”

“I don’t look pale” you shook your head taking your face out of his grasp.

“Tommy she don’t look pale to ya?”

He silently shook his head tightening his lips.

“Come on, let’s go relax for a bit, I’m tired ” you sighed attempting to change the subject. Joel agreed walking beside you out the door till you pretended to forget something in the room.

Quickly creeping in you found Tommy lost in thought rubbing his forehead till he heard your footsteps. Somewhat relieved to see you alone he rushed towards you.

“Did you take the medicine I left ya?” He whispered.

“Yes, thank you. I’m fine, Tommy”

“You do look pale, you sure you feel alright?”

“Yes” you sighed.

“If something else looks wrong even the slightest bit, I ain’t stayin quiet. I’m just lettin’ ya know” he rushed off past you and left the house.

The next day you woke up feeling a little more sore than the day before. The area on your side feeling tender surrounding the actual wound itself, you wondered if that was normal. Looking at yourself in the mirror you lifted your shirt before hearing the door open behind you, quickly you pulled it back down.

“How’d ya sleep, honey?” Joel came up behind you, his hand sliding over your waist, thankfully opposite of where the wound was.

“I slept ok, I know we have a long night with the dance.”

“If ya don’t wanna go we don’t have to, you just say the word” he looked at you through the mirror.

“It’s fine, I already promised Maria. It’s ok, we’ll have a good time” you smiled but Joel knew you, your smile didn’t meet your gaze.

“Is something botherin’ you?” You turned to him and caressed his face, his eyes darting between your eyes and lips that he could never resist.

“I’m fine, let’s get ready for the day” you assured him with a gentle kiss and went on your way.

That night getting ready for the event you found yourself feeling a little weak but pushed through it. Joel noticed you were more quiet than usual and kept an eye on you as he always did. You had cleaned the wound up the best you could before leaving but still something felt off.

The moment you arrived to the gathering, you noticed Tommy look directly at you from across the room and when he did, you knew that was it. The simple walk from the house to the party throwing you off, you felt queasy and it showed. Joel holding your hand leading you further into the event, you gently tugged at his arm.

“Joel”

Tommy got closer.

“What is it, baby?” He turned to you, instantly noticing something didn’t look right.

“You alright, what’s the matter?” His hand quickly releasing yours to caress the side of your face and that’s when he grew more concerned.

“Jesus, baby ya burnin’ up-“

“Joel, we gotta talk” Tommy cut in.

“Tommy don’t” you whispered, you knew how Joel would react, especially towards Jesse.

“I shoulda said something the moment we came back but…there was an accident”

“The hell are ya talkin’ about, Tommy?” He turned towards him.

“Joel-“ your voice barely heard, the music continued to play as no one noticed the tense conversation between the two.

“It was an accident-“ Tommy repeated trying to remind his brother before telling him what played out.

“What the hell happened, Tommy?” He grew more desperate by the minute with what his brother needed to share.

“We thought there was some infected or raiders, we heard somethin’ but didn’t find anyone. Jesses gun went off-“

“Tommy, I’m fine dammit!”

“The bullet didn’t go through her but it grazed her pretty bad-“ Joel quickly turned to you, an alarmed look in his brown eyes.

“You were shot at” he whispered as you quickly shook your head.

“Under her shirt, left side” Tommy continued bluntly.

“No-“ you attempted to stop him but Joel moved towards you and quickly lifted up your shirt to see gauze wrapped around your waist beginning to fill with blood. The color draining from his face, worry mixed with anger. How the hell did someone accidentally shoot at you?

How the hell didn’t he notice?

“We need to get cha inside, right now. Tommy-“ he turned to his brother.

“I should’ve told you, I know-“

“We will deal with that later. You bring me a doctor, meet me at the house.”

There was no use in even trying to go against Joel at this point. You could tell he was angry but more so you could see the concern he felt helping you walk back to the house. You could see him looking over at you repeatedly to make sure you were alright, that was his first priority.

“Joel, don’t be mad at them-“

“Don’t talk right now, save your energy till they make sure you’re alright” he replied looking ahead, his arm around your waist, his hand careful to not rest on the wound but still enough to help balance you.

As the doctor checked you, Joel anxiously stood over his shoulder with his arms crossed watching what he was doing.

“Is it infected?” Joel asked.

“Too early to tell but looks like it’s gettin’ there. I’ll give her some antibiotics”

“And I’ll be fine for patrol tomorrow?” Your question making Joel narrow his eyes on you.

“You think you’re goin’ back out there any time soon?” His brows grew knit.

“Joel-“

“He’s right, should slow down for a few days. Let this heal properly” the doctor agreed. You couldn’t look up at Joel, you knew what he was thinking, there wasn’t anything you could say.

Once the doctor finished dressing your wound properly he left you and Joel alone together. A tense moment of silence, Joel didn’t know what reaction to even begin with. Pacing back and forth, Tommy could hear his footsteps loudly outside the door.

“So this was Jesses doin’ huh?”

“He didn’t do it on purpose” you quickly responded, a quick glance at him through the corner of your eye as he stopped to face you.

“Don’t matter, he put cha in danger. Kid shouldn’t be allowed with a damn gun till he’s properly trained” his nostrils flared just as Tommy walked in.

“How she doin’?”

“And you” Joel turned to him, hands on his hips.

“What the hell, Tommy”

“I know” he looked down in defeat.

“You shoulda known better”

“I know” Tommy didn’t bother to argue, he knew he was right.

“Don’t blame Tommy, I asked him not to say anything” you cut in but he didn’t take his eyes off his brother.

“Still, he shoulda been more alert, kept ya safe. Let alone at least tell me when my woman was hurt-“

“It happened so fast, Joel, Tommy did take care of me” you sat up faster than you meant to causing a sharp pain making you gasp. Joel quickly turning to you rushing to your side.

“Easy, lay down, baby” his hand gently guiding you to lay back on the bed as you looked up at him desperately.

“I know Jesse could be an idiot at times but he didn’t do it on purpose and Tommy-“ Joel looked down at you silently listening to what you had to say word for word.

“You can’t be mad at him, you should’ve heard everything he said to Jesse the whole ride home, he ripped him a new one” Tommy couldn’t help but silently smirk in the background, if there was one person that could make Joel break, it would be you. Joel took one look at his brother then back at you, you swallowed nervously waiting for some kind of a response.

“Now as to why Tommy kept your little secret. I know how persuasive you can be” he whispered.

“But I will have a word with Jesse” you sighed.

“Nothin’ like this is to be kept from me again. Am I clear?”

“Joel-“

“Am I clear?” His eyes narrowed on you until you nodded before turning to his brother.

“Never again” Tommy whispered.

“I’m sorry, Joel” you whispered, the sight of tears building up in your eyes was enough to soften Joel’s.

“It’s alright, baby, you’re ok” he whispered, his hand caressing your face, his thumb gently wiping the tears away.

“You get your rest, don’t worry about anything else, alright?” You nodded and took a deep breath.

After both men left the room allowing you to rest Tommy could see Joel was still left uneasy. His mind lost in thought as he sat at the table crossing his arms.

“You alright?”

Joel was silent for a moment, biting his inner lip staring off into the distance.

“How the hell didn’t I notice?” He blurt out looking back at his brother.

“Joel, you can’t blame yourself for not knowing what she was hidin’” Joel shook his head stubbornly.

“No, I knew somethin’ wasn’t right. I could see it in her face. I just- she shouldn’t have gone on that patrol without me. That shouldn’t have happened.”

“Well Jesse won’t be on patrol for a while.” Tommy assured him.

“Neither will she” Joel uttered low looking back in the direction you were in. The thought of how worse it could’ve actually been haunted him. The thought of anything happening to you was one he couldn’t live with.

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#pedro pascal #joel miller fanfiction #joel miller x you #the last of us fanfiction #tlou fanfiction #joel miller x y/n #joel miller fan fic #joel miller x female reader #the last of us #joel miller x f!reader #joel miller angst

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hauntedhowlett-writes · 3 days ago

Text

WE’LL BE ALRIGHT

PAIRING: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader

WORD COUNT: 5.5k

SUMMARY:

Two truths and a lie:

1. You swiped right on the Tinder profile of JB, 33, only to discover that it was the profile of Bucky Barnes.

2. Bucky Barnes stole your heart then ghosted you all in the span of a single year.

3. You are totally and completely over him.

AUTHOR’S NOTE:

bucky barnes has had me in a chokehold since 2011 and it really took me all this time to write something for him smh. anyway, big thank you to @chaotic-mystery and @dindjarinslegs for letting me scream about this. and i’m coming for bob reynolds next, mark my words.

WARNINGS/TAGS:

fatws!bucky AND thunderbolts!bucky, mild thunderbolts* spoilers, second chance romance, alcohol consumption, mild angst, declarations of love, pet names (doll/sweetheart/baby)

explicit sexual content (18+ minors do not interact): kissing, dirty talk, nipple play, oral (f receiving), choking, unprotected p in v, multiple positions (missionary/prone bone), cream pie.

LINKS:

main blog | masterlists | ao3

Then

It’s Friday night and you’re on the couch, flicking through Tinder profiles to the soundtrack of a shitty reality show playing on your TV. You’re two glasses of wine deep and you’ve stopped scrutinizing most of the profiles and have settled for swiping right as long as they’re not holding a fish, a flag, or a baby.

You’ve had a shit week and you’re hoping to find someone to help you de-stress. If not, you’ll have to take care of things yourself (again) and while your vibrator is reliable (and doesn’t ask you questions about your investment profile like it’s foreplay), you’re craving something more. The weight of someone on top of you, the feel of them between your thighs, the rush of something new and exhilarating and hopefully satisfying.

The app dings, announcing a match between you and JB, 33. A message comes through shortly after.

JB: Are you okay?

You frown. Weird thing to ask in the first message. Surely it’s better to wait for the third date to ask something so personal.

Yeah, why?, you reply.

JB: Your profile says, “I need to be taken out. On a date or by a sniper.”

Don’t worry, it’s a joke. My therapist didn’t think it was very funny either.

JB: I’m pretty handy with a gun.

You snort.

Is that a euphemism for your dick?

JB: No, actually.

What a shame.

JB: I thought I wasn’t supposed to talk about my dick on here.

You click on JB’s profile and swipe through the pictures. He looks familiar and it takes your wine-addled synapses a few tries to make the connection but when it clicks you realize you’re looking at pictures of Bucky Barnes. As in, Captain America’s best friend, American prisoner of war turned Soviet assassin turned Avenger. You frown. There’s no way the Winter Soldier is on Tinder.

Swiping back to the chat, you begin to type.

You’re right. It’s much safer to talk about your gun.

JB: That sounds like sarcasm.

It definitely wasn’t sincere.

JB: Anyone ever told you that you have a smart mouth?

Anyone ever told you that catfishing people on Tinder with pics of an Avenger is a stupid idea?

At least pick someone who isn’t famous.

JB: Those are my pictures.

JB: And I’m not an Avenger.

Sure they are.

JB: Why would someone lie on their dating profile?

That does sound like something a 100 year old would say.

JB: 106.

You can’t help the laugh that bursts free, the sound bouncing off the walls of your tiny apartment.

If you’re really Bucky Barnes, then prove it.

JB: How?

Send a video of you waving in the mirror.

With the metal arm.

He doesn’t respond and for a while you think it’s because you’ve backed him into a corner. Whoever JB is can’t send you the requested video because he’s not Bucky Barnes and that’s the end of your excitement for the evening.

But then your phone pings with a new message from the app.

A video.

From JB.

You click play and the camera shows a tile floor before panning up to reveal a man’s reflection. His face is hidden by the phone but then he moves it a little to the right to reveal a chiseled jaw covered in stubble and pretty blue eyes, thick brows drawn together in either confusion or concentration.

He lifts a metal arm up in a wave and suddenly you’re desperate for the Earth to swallow you whole (maybe you shouldn’t say that — given the shit you’ve been through as a resident of New York, you can’t rule out the possibility of that actually happening).

You’re really Bucky Barnes, you finally manage to type.

JB: In the flesh. And metal.

So you are good with a gun then.

JB: I am. But I think I’d rather pick the first option.

You bite back a smile.

You want to go on a date?

JB: Isn’t that the whole point of the app?

You’ve got me there.

I’m free tomorrow.

JB: It’s a date.

Bucky asks you to meet him at a nearby bar the following night and you spend the day alternating between feelings of giddy excitement and nauseating anxiety.

You arrive a few minutes early to a quiet bar you never noticed in the years you’ve lived in your shoebox of an apartment a few blocks over. It’s all dark wood and moody lighting with booths along one wall and a stately bar taking up the other. There’s quiet jazz playing through the speakers and the bartender has an impressive handlebar mustache.

You choose one of the empty barstools and the bartender floats by to place a cocktail napkin and menu in front of you. You’re looking over your options when the door opens you look up to see Bucky entering the bar. He’s wearing a t-shirt that stretches across his impressive chest, highlighting his trim waist, a leather jacket and dark jeans that hug his legs.

He smiles when he sees you, a quick flash of teeth before he ducks his head and approaches you, taking a seat on the stool to your left. The bartender returns with another menu and napkin.

“Hey,” you say, voice cracking. Smooth. So smooth.

“Hi,” he replies. “Did you, uh, have any trouble finding the place?”

“No, not really. I’ve never been here, though. It’s nice.”

“Did you order already?”

“I was waiting for you.”

As if summoned by the conversation, the bartender returns to take your orders. Bucky opts for bourbon and you choose one of craft cocktails from the menu because you’re a sucker for a well made drink and Mr. Handlebar Mustache looks like he can deliver.

After one sip to calm your nerves (you were right, the man can make a damn good drink), a second for confidence, and a third for luck, you turn slightly on your stool, knees bumping Bucky’s beneath the bar.

“So,” you say, drawing out the single syllable. “I have to ask. Why are you on Tinder?”

He laughs. “Starting with the hard questions?”

“If you consider that one hard, I have bad news for you.”

“My therapist suggested it,” he admits. “Something about getting out of my comfort zone.”

“Well, they’re right about that. Nothing comfortable about online dating.”

“Right?” He takes a sip of his drink. “I’ve seen…a lot of shit and somehow I’m still surprised by some of the messages I got.”

“What’s the worst one so far?”

“A woman asked if the metal arm vibrates.”

You try not to laugh at the look of utter disappointment that flashes across his face. “Well? Does it?”

“No,” he deadpans. “But it is waterproof.”

“You might call that,” you wiggle your eyebrows, “handy.”

Bucky laughs and you watch him, the way he tips his head back and his shoulders shake with the force of it.

He has a nice laugh.

“That was terrible,” he tells you, but he’s wiping at the corner of his eye.

“Guess I won’t be quitting my day job to pursue my comedy dreams anytime soon.”

The rest of the evening is much the same, easy conversation and even easier laughter from you both. You steer clear of certain topics — superhero activities and pardoned war crimes among them. Your one drink turns into two and then you switch to water because Mr. Handlebar Mustache has a heavy hand and you don’t want to end up drunk enough that what little filter you have disappears entirely.

The bar has gotten a bit busier and you’ve drifted closer into Bucky’s orbit, your legs now tucked between his as you lean in close to be heard over the hum of a dozen conversations. You’ve caught him staring at your mouth with half lidded eyes more than once and it makes warmth pool between your thighs.

“It’s getting a little loud, do you want to head out?” You ask, a hand on his thigh, just above his knee. He nods.

Bucky takes care of the bill despite your objections and follows you out of the bar with a hand low on your back, just barely touching. On the sidewalk, he gently pulls you to the side, out of the way of pedestrians.

“I had a good time,” he says. “Best date I’ve been on since 1943.”

“Oh, yeah?” You step a bit closer, chest to chest. His hand grips your waist. “How did dates used to end back then, old man?”

He rolls his eyes. “Smart mouth. First, I’d walk you back to your apartment. Like a gentleman.”

“Mhm,” you hum. “Then what?”

“Then, you’d give me a kiss on the cheek.”

You tilt your face toward his, pressing your lips to his cheek. “Like that?”

“Just like that. But then, when you’re about to pull away—“ he reaches up, wrapping a hand around the back of your neck, “I’d pull you right back.”

You’re so close that you can feel his breath on your lips. “And then?”

“I’d kiss you.”

“You better start walking me home, Barnes,” you tell him. He smiles.

“Lead the way.”

The walk to your apartment is quiet but the tension between you is damn near corporeal and you’re practically buzzing with anticipation by the time you reach your building.

“This is me,” you tell him as you turn to face him. “I had a great time, too, you know.” You loop your arms over his shoulders. “In fact, I’m not sure I’m ready for it to end.”

“That so?” He asks, boyish smirk tilting the corner of his mouth.

You shrug. “If that doesn’t offend your delicate sensibilities.”

Bucky leans in and your eyes flutter shut just before his lips touch yours. The scent of leather and bourbon wraps around you and the rush of your blood in your ears drowns out the late night noises of the city around you. The kiss is sweet, gentle, until his teeth nip at your bottom lip and you gasp, giving him the opening to make it deeper, hungrier, an edge of desperation in the way his fingers curl against your neck.

He pulls away first, tongue darting across his lips like he’s trying to capture the faint taste of you on them.

“Wow,” you mumble. “That was…do you want to come upstairs?”

“But my delicate sensibilities,” he says, laughing as you smack him on the chest. He kisses you again, though it’s less of a kiss and more the two of you smiling against each other. “I’d like that.”

Bucky carves himself a place in your life.

His toothbrush next to yours on the bathroom counter. The coffee that he likes in your pantry. A book he’s been trying to read for a few weeks on your nightstand. A side of the bed that you consider his.

He brings you flowers from the farmer’s market and your favorite snack from the bodega down the street when he knows you’ve had a rough day. He makes you laugh so hard that your muscles ache with it.

You are so in love that your chest hurts just to look at him.

And then he disappears.

Now

Running into an ex-boyfriend at a coffee shop is already an uncomfortable enough experience. Add to it that your ex-boyfriend is Bucky Barnes, the devastatingly handsome face of the New Avengers, New York’s newest batch of superheroes, and you’ve got a recipe for the most awkward situation imaginable.

He’s waiting by the pick up counter, metal arm covered by his jacket and wearing a hat that you think it meant to act as some sort of disguise though it falls short of being effective, considering he has one of the most recognizable faces in the nation. You shuffle over to the same spot, keeping your head down and attention fixed on your phone, hoping he doesn’t notice you.

Despite the fact that he was there before you, the barista calls out your name first, placing your drink on the counter. Bucky lifts his head and looks around, a furrow between his brows. Then, as if the universe is playing a sick joke, another barista sets a second drink next to yours and calls out, “James!”

He doesn’t immediately reach for his drink and you just know he’s waiting to see if hearing your name called was just a coincidence. So, with a desperation for your caffeine fix and a healthy dose of feminine rage, you square your shoulders and march up to the counter, taking your drink without looking at him.

Bucky steps in front of you just as you’re about to make your escape and you look up into his familiar blue eyes, mouth going dry and stomach plummeting to the ground.

“Hey,” he says. “I thought that might be you.”

“Hi,” you reply tersely. “I knew it was you.”

He flinches slightly. “That’s…that’s fair. Uh, how’ve you been?”

“Pretty good. Well, except for that whole bit with the,” you wiggle your fingers near your head, “weird cinematic loop of traumatic experiences.”

“Right, right. That wasn’t great.”

“I’d ask how you are but I’ve already seen the headlines.”

Bucky sighs, taking off his hat to run a hand through his hair. “Look, I know—“

“Motherfucker,” you whisper, ducking your head down. Bucky frowns.

“What—“

Someone calls your name. Well, okay, not just someone. Your boyfriend, David, enters the coffee shop, walking up to you and wrapping an arm around your waist.

“I thought I was early enough to beat you here but I guess not,” David says, nodding toward the drink in your hand. He glances at Bucky, then does a full on double-take. “Holy shit, you’re Bucky Barnes.” He sticks his hand out toward him. “I’m a big fan.”

And Bucky, asshole that he is, looks you dead in the eye as he shakes David’s hand and says, “Thanks, man.”

“People used to tell me I looked a lot like you,” David continues, digging your grave of embarrassment deeper and deeper. “When you had short hair.”

“Is that so?” Bucky asks. “Yeah, I can see the resemblance.”

Which, okay, you understand how this looks. David does kind of resemble Bucky. He’s got blue eyes and a strong, square jaw and dark hair but it’s not like you went looking for a boyfriend that looked like Bucky.

You just have a type.

Besides, David was shorter than Bucky. There are definitely differences.

“I’m going to grab a drink. It was great to meet you,” David tells Bucky, shaking his hand again. “Be right back,” he says to you, leaning in for a kiss. You turn your head, his lips grazing the corner of your mouth.

“He seems nice,” Bucky says when David has taken his place in line across the room.

“Shut up,” you hiss. “You don’t get to judge.”

“I’m not judging.”

“You’re definitely judging.” You cross your arms. “Don’t you have superhero things to do?”

“I’m on vacation.”

“Nice to hear the New Avengers offer a robust benefits package.”

“You still have a smart mouth,” he comments, voice dropping low. Your brain short circuits and in your moment of weakness he reaches for the phone still in your hand, plucking it from your grasp with ease.

“Hey—“ you start to protest, but he’s handing it back before you can even finish the sentence. The screen is open to his contact information and it looks like he’s updated his number. “What’s this for?”

“If you need me,” he says easily. “I gotta get going. It was good to see you.”

Bucky leaves with the last word. You curse his existence even as you watch his broad shoulders disappear through the door and out into the wave of New York pedestrian traffic. David returns with his drink in hand, looking at you curiously.

“What?” You ask.

“How do you know Bucky Barnes?”

You shift your weight from foot to foot, searching for the right response. “We have…history.”

“History,” David deadpans. “Platonic?”

“Well—“

“You’ve got to be fucking kidding me,” he interrupts. “You dated an Avenger?”

“He wasn’t an Avenger at the time!”

“As if that makes this any better!”

“Why is this an issue?” You ask with a groan. “It was two years ago!”

“Are you only dating me because I look like him?”

“What? No!” You lower your voice. “Can we please just talk about this later.”

He seems to realize that you’re both still standing in the middle of a coffee shop, a dozen curious stares turned to you. “Fine,” he acquiesces.

You leave together, shoulders brushing on your walk to the nearby park where you planned to have your coffee that morning before everything was interrupted by a ghost from your past.

Things with David only get worse. He digs for more details about your relationship with Bucky and you snap at him to leave it alone. He grows tired of asking and you grow tired of avoiding until finally, inevitably, you get a phone call from him a week later.

“I can’t keep doing this,” he sighs. “I think we should just call it quits.”

“Fine,” you reply. “I’ll get a box of your stuff together for you to come get.”

“Seriously? That’s it?” He asks. “You’re not even going to ask me why?”

You can’t help but laugh. “Because you’re insecure that I dated Bucky Barnes and won’t go into excruciating detail about my sex life and how you compare to him.”

He sputters indignantly before finally landing on, “You’re such a bitch.”

“Charming,” you reply. “I’ll text you when your shit can get picked up.”

You hang up before he has the chance to respond. Tears of frustration prick at the corners of your eyes. You’re not upset about the relationship ending, not really, you just hate that somehow, Bucky Barnes managed to be the reason.

You call your best friend and she makes the appropriate noises of sympathy, followed by empty threats of bodily harm to David, before suggesting the two of you go out to get your mind off of the breakup.

You probably should have declined the invitation and stayed home because now you’re staring into the mirror of the bar bathroom, clutching the sink like it’ll make the world stop spinning (it doesn’t). Your friend is nowhere to be found and you’re ready to go home but the thought of calling an Uber in this state makes your stomach roll.

You pull up your contacts, finger hovering over Bucky’s name. Before you can change your mind or drop your phone in the sink, you tap the call button.

He picks up on the second ring.

“Barnes,” he says. His voice makes your breath hitch.

“Hey…it’s me,” you reply, squeezing your eyes shut.

“Are you okay?” He asks immediately. You huff a laugh.

“I’m okay. Just…I’m a little drunk and I think my friend left and I could really use a ride but if you’re busy, I could call an Uber!” You’re rambling. Bucky, thankfully, puts you out of your misery.

“Where are you?” You give him the name of the bar. There’s a shuffling noise and then he’s telling you, “I’ll be there in ten minutes.”

You wait outside the bar on the sidewalk, arms wrapped around yourself. A blacked out SUV pulls up to the curb and Bucky steps out, turning heads as he rounds the front of the car to the sidewalk and looks around for you.

You take a tentative step forward and his gaze snaps to you, softening from mission mode in a way that makes your head feel fuzzy. He opens the passenger door for you, holds a hand out to help you into the seat, still a gentleman.

Your breath catches when he leans over, tugging the seatbelt across your chest and buckling it into place. He smells the same, you think, like leather and metal and mint. No bourbon, this time.

When you’re buckled, he shuts the door and walks to the other side of the car, sliding into the driver’s seat. You tilt your head back against the headrest, letting your eyes fall shut. It’s good to be sitting.

“You okay?” He asks.

“You already asked me that,” you reply, keeping your eyes closed. He sighs.

“Why didn’t you call Daniel?”

“David,” you correct. “We broke up.”

“I’m sorry to hear that.”

You turn your head, opening your eyes slightly. “No, you’re not.”

“You’re right, I’m not.”

And that shouldn’t make your heart beat faster, shouldn’t send warmth coursing through you but it does because it’s Bucky. You close your eyes again. This seat is very comfortable.

“You still in the same apartment?” He asks. The question sounds fuzzy.

“No,” you mumble. “Moved.”

“Can you give me the address?”

But you don’t hear that last question because you’re already asleep in the passenger seat.

You wake up in an unfamiliar room, in an unfamiliar (but extremely soft) bed, tucked beneath unfamiliar sheets. Your mouth is dry and your head hurts a little bit but not nearly as much as you deserve given how much you drank. There’s a glass of water on the nightstand and a bottle of Tylenol. You crack the lid and pour out two capsules, throwing them into your mouth and chugging down the water until the glass is empty.

You slowly get up and make your way across the room, checking to see if one of the doors leads to a bathroom. You’re thrilled that you’re right and that there’s even a conveniently placed towel, unopened toothbrush, and new set of clothes waiting for you on the counter. You briefly wonder where the clothes came from but given the opulence of the bathroom you’re standing in, you imagine anything is available at the press of a button.

By the time you’ve finished in the bathroom, you feel about ninety five percent human. The other five percent is the part of you dreading the conversation to come.

Because you know Bucky is somewhere beyond the bedroom door and the thought of seeing him in the light of day, after calling him to come to your rescue, fills you with dread. You give yourself a pep talk in the mirror and lift your chin, ready to face what’s beyond your bubble of safety.

You peek outside the bedroom door and find the hall clear. There’s soft music playing from somewhere further in the apartment and you follow the noise to the kitchen, where you find Bucky at the counter, his back turned to you. He’s in a tank top, which gives you an open view of muscles that you haven’t seen in two years but definitely remember. In vivid detail.

Bucky turns to face you when you’ve stepped into the room. He has two mugs of coffee in his hands and he slides one across the counter separating you. He’s already made it the way you like.

Asshole.

“Morning, doll,” he says.

“You don’t get to call me that.” You take a sip of your perfect coffee.

“You used to like when I called you that.”

“That was before you made me fall in love with you and then you disappeared,” you tell him. “And the next time I saw you was on TV, announcing your run for Congress.”

He at least has the decency to look a little chagrined. “I’m sorry. It wasn’t supposed to be like that.” You raise your eyebrows but say nothing. “I was ready for normal but I keep getting dragged back into fights.”

“Are you dragged or do you answer the call?” You ask. He stays quiet for a minute, thinking, the muscle of his jaw ticking beneath the stubble on his chin.

“Both, probably,” he admits. “I’ve done so much bad that it’s hard to pass on the opportunity to do something good.”

A tiny fracture forms in the wall you’ve built. “If not you, then who, I guess. Right?”

“Yeah,” he sighs. “Something like that.”

Silence settles, thick with what needs to be said and, worse, with what should have been said two years ago. He abandons his mug on the counter, coming around to stand in front of you, close enough to touch. His dog tags hang in the middle of his chest and you reach up to tangle your fingers in the chain, like you used to. He smiles, a tiny, uncertain twitch of his lips.

“I missed you,” he says quietly. “You have no idea how much.”

“You could have called,” you tell him.

“I didn’t know what to say.” His hand catches your. “You loved me?”

“I did,” you admit. “Still do, if we’re having an honesty hour right now.”

Bucky laughs, low and warm. God, you missed him. You didn’t realize the depth of it until he was within your reach.

“I did, too.” He wraps an arm around your waist. “Still do.”

“Yeah?”

He leans in close, lips ghosting across yours. Barely a kiss but every nerve ending lights up at the contact, making you feel like a live wire. He smiles.

“Can I call you doll now?” He asks. You act like you’re considering it, like the answer isn’t an immediate yes.

“Only if you’re going to make it up to me,” you tell him.

“How would you like me to do that?”

“Well, you are really good with your gun—“

Your response is cut off by your yelp when Bucky picks you up, one arm supporting your back and the other under your knees. You laugh as he marches back to the bedroom you woke up in, kicking the door open and tossing you on the mattress. You bounce slightly with the force of your landing.

“Someone’s eager,” you tease, lifting yourself up on your elbows. He smirks, crawling toward you on the mattress.

“You have no idea, doll,” he says, wrapping his metal hand around the back of your neck and pulling you in for a kiss that’s hungry and messy, a borderline desperate creeping in as he settles more of his weight on your body, hips cradled between your own.

His teeth dig into your lower lip, hard enough to make you gasp. He takes the opportunity to kiss your jaw, stubble dragging across your sensitive skin. He drifts lower, down your neck, sucking the skin over your pulse and making you squirm.

“So sensitive,” he teases, his hand working its way beneath your shirt, warm palm sliding up your belly. He pinches a nipple, rolling it between his thumb and forefinger, making you whine. “And so needy.”

Bucky pulls away, just enough to get both hands on your shirt to lift it up and over your head. Both hands cup your breasts and you arch into the sensation. You’ve always loved the difference in sensation between his hands, soft flesh and unyielding metal but the same reverent touch. He bends forward to pull one nipple into his mouth, flicking his tongue over it until you’re writhing beneath him.

He drags his mouth lower, down your belly, until he reaches the leggings he left for you. His fingers curl into the elastic, dragging the fabric down your thighs until he can pull them off and toss them to the floor. You’re left in just your underwear and Bucky smiles beatifically at you.

“Already soaked,” he says, settling on his stomach between your thighs. He drags a thumb over your clothed pussy, circling the digit lightly when he reaches your clit. “All for me, huh?”

“Mhm,” you nod.

He kisses the inside of one thigh, then the other, before slipping his fingers beneath the gusset of your underwear and yanking the fabric to the side. He drags his tongue from your entrance to your clit, circling the sensitive bundle of nerves with broad, flat strokes.

“Bucky,” you moan, reaching down to tangle your fingers in his hair and pull. He groans, the vibration adding to the delicious torture of his mouth. “Oh, fuck.”

You lose the ability to speak shortly after that as Bucky lavishes you with attention. Two of his metal fingers join his tongue, sliding into your wet heat with ease.

“Christ.” He tilts his head against your thigh to watch you as he pumps his fingers in and out of you with an obscene noise. “Fuck me,” he groans, dragging out the syllables.

“Yes,” you gasp. “Please, Bucky.”

“Not until you come,” he says, curling his fingers and dragging them across that sensitive spot inside of you. “Come on, sweetheart.”

He slips a third finger inside of you and the stretch borders on painful, a slight sting that makes you feel like you’re on fire, ready to burst. When he returns his mouth to your clit, you’re a goner. Your orgasm crashes over you as you moan his name, grinding yourself up against his mouth and down onto his fingers.

Bucky eases you through it, waiting until your hips drop to the mattress before pulling away. The scruffy hair on his chin is shiny with your release, his blue eyes are dark with lust, and his hair is a mess from your hands.

“Open your mouth,” he commands, reaching up to slip his soaked metal fingers past your lips. “Clean ‘em real good, doll.”

You do as he says, keeping your eyes fixed to his. When he’s satisfied, he pulls his hand away and settles it at the base of your throat.

“You missed this, didn’t you?” He asks, squeezing gently. You smile up at him, bringing your hands to his forearm. “Yeah, you did. Bet you thought it about when those other guys fucked you, too.”

He releases your throat and gets off the bed only long enough to shove his pants to the floor. You get a brief moment to stare appreciatively, taking in the chiseled muscles and the old scars that you once had memorized.

“You’re so beautiful, Bucky,” you murmur. His expression goes soft as he crawls back onto the mattress and settles his weight above you, his cock dragging through the wet mess he’s made of your thighs.

He kisses you deeply, thoroughly, like he’s trying to erase any lingering memory of anyone who came after him. His hips flex against yours and you hitch your legs up, changing the angle of your body enough that the head of his cock dips inside of you, just slightly, just enough to make you gasp into his mouth. He pulls back, staring down at you as he sinks deeper, stretching you in the most perfect way.

“That’s it, baby,” he says. “Just like that, huh?”

The only answer you can give is a desperate noise as you wrap your arms around his shoulders, pulling him closer, his chest against yours. He starts an achingly slow rhythm that has stars bursting in your vision, your belly tensing with the first signs of release.

“You have no idea,” he mumbles against your neck, “how much I’ve missed you.”

“I think I have an idea,” you whisper, bringing a hand to his jaw. “Missed you so much, Buck.”

He bites at your pulse and moves his hips faster, driving you to the brink before pulling out completely. Your responding whine is cut short by his hands gripping your hips, twisting you beneath him until you’re flat on your stomach and he’s sliding back into you, the new angle making you feel impossibly fuller.

His weight settles on your back and he slips his metal hand around your neck, using it to lift your head up from the mattress. He squeezes your throat as he drives into you mercilessly, hips smacking lasciviously against your ass.

“You’re going to come on my cock, sweetheart,” he growls into your ear. “I need it so bad, come on, baby, finish so I can fill you up just the way you like, okay?”

Your second orgasm hits you like a lightning strike and your mouth drops open in a silent scream as your muscles tense and you squeeze around his cock. He moans a broken prayer of your name as his hips stutter in their rhythm and then go still as he comes, warmth pulsing inside of you.

Bucky collapses on the bed, careful not to drop his full weight on you. He gathers you up in his arms, holding you with your head on his chest. You listen to the beat of his heart as it slows from a frantic pulse to a smooth rhythm.

You tilt your head to look at him and he smiles. The whole scene reminds you of your first night together and a bubbly feeling blossoms in your chest.

“This won’t be easy,” he murmurs, bringing a hand to your jaw. His thumb rubs against your cheek. “I’m still fighting.”

“I know,” you reply. “As long as you come back to me after the fight, I think we’ll be alright.”

Thank you so much for reading! If you enjoyed the fic, please consider reblogging or commenting — I love hearing from you!

#bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #james bucky barnes #james bucky barnes x reader #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x female reader #thunderbolts bucky barnes #tfatws bucky barnes #thunderbolts bucky #new avengers #x reader

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zorostitties · 2 days ago

Text

Samsara; 1

⤕ She was plagued. Shadows loomed over her mind. She was alone in a world where no one dared to look into the occult. She missed the faceless man from her dreams, the one her soul longed for. She wanted to meet him again. He was plagued. Alucard had loved countless times. There was one love he was never able able to forget, however; the one that was ripped away from him. He knew they could never meet again.

pairing: alucard (castlevania) x (f) reader

genre: reincarnation, angst, romance, smut, hurt/comfort

warnings: violence/blood, explicit sex (mild in this ch), mental health issues, blasphemy (?), reader is a girl kisser, lowkey ableism (use of the r word), century xix misoginy

rating: 18+

word count: 7k

A/N: hello world!! first of all, thank you so much for giving this fic a chance!! <3 - this is loosely inspired by nosferatu. - takes place a few decades after nocturne, so century xix. - you're 27 in this fic which is still young but not TOO young bc i don't like the idea of a 300+ guy with a barely teenager - i chose a bunch of random european last names, but i won't specify which country they're in because uh. don't wanna. please don't think too hard about actual history when reading this fic for the sake of, you know, fantasy. As usual, feedback is MUCH appreciated!! Let me know your thoughts!! Enjoy <3

⤕ Masterlist ⤕ Also on AO3 ⤕ Taglist open!

SAMSARA; noun. The cycle of life, death and rebirth.

• • •

It was a perfectly normal morning in the Saint-Clairs’ manor.

The spring weather was perfectly normal – a comfortable temperature; perhaps a bit chilly at the hour, but it would definitely get warmer later on. Perfectly normal birds chirped their melodies, the breeze played with the perfectly normal trees on the backyard. You had just eaten a perfectly normal breakfast, wore a perfectly normal attire – light tones, hair carefully tied up in a perfectly normal bun, almost no rouge on the lips.

You could hear your little nephews playing outside. Perfectly normal. The nannies had trouble educating them, but well, considering their age, that was perfectly normal. Your brother-in-law had already left to his perfectly normal office in the city to take care of his perfectly normal real estate business while your sister was probably reading some of her perfectly normal books.

Everything was perfectly normal.

You just had to prove to Dr. Becker that you were perfectly normal, too.

Your posture was flawless – your hands resting politely over your lap; your expression serene. The wooden crucifix pendant hung from your neck proudly to give a sense of… well… normality. Dr. Becker had already taken his book from his leather suitcase. He sat across from you, legs crossed, adjusting his glasses over his eyes. His suit was perfectly normal. His gray beard was perfectly normal. He read his past annotations in silence for some seconds before lifting his gaze to you and opening a tight smile.

“How have you been these past two months, Miss Salles?” He asked.

His voice was calm and welcoming as usual. All odds considered, you didn’t hate this man. He was just doing his job based on what he believed… well, what everyone believed. You managed to open a small smile.

“I have been feeling very well, Dr. Becker. I believe the airs of the countryside really do me good.”

The doctor chuckled lightly and scribbled something in his notebook. “Oh, I believe you. The Capital is… noisy, isn’t it? And can smell quite bad.” He grimaced playfully.

“It certainly can.” You imitated his chuckle in a demure way.

“So…” He was still scribbling, eyes down. “How have you been spending your time?” His green hawk eyes were upon you again.

“I spend most of my days with my sister.” He took notes. “We’ve been apart for a long time, so… a lot of catching up to do.”

“For sure.”

“We go to church together on Wednesdays and Sundays. We do our prayers in the evening.” He took a quick glance at the crucifix on your chest before taking more notes.

“How do you feel being surrounded by other people during the masses?” He was looking at you again. “Any… sudden discomfort?”

That was his polite way of asking if you’d been panicking in public again.

“No.” That wasn’t a lie. “The church we go to is very calm. Mostly elders.”

“Good. As I have advised.” He nodded whilst taking more notes. “What else do you do?”

“Horse riding. I’ve always loved horses.” Dr. Becker nodded again and smiled.

“There’s some magnificent horses here, aye? I’ve taken a quick glance at the stables. Mr. Saint-Clair sure has great taste.”

“He does.”

“And a lot of space to ride, too. This is great. Being in touch with animals does wonders to the spirit.” More notes. “What else… have you been doing?”

“I spend a lot of time with my nephews, too.” The first time you opened a genuine smile during this conversation. Dr. Becker smiled too while taking more notes.

“They’re sweethearts, aren’t they?”

“Little devils they are.” You giggled. “But yes. I play with them when they’re not studying. They’re wonderful.”

“Your sister told me of the great relationship you have with them. You’ve always liked children, haven’t you?”

“Yes.”

There it was.

The way Dr. Becker’s smile tightened. You’d been through this too many times to know what was coming next.

“I’ve come to know you like to tell them stories, too. Mr. Saint-Clair told me… of the bed time stories. About a… how was it called…? A vampire hunter. A witch. And a vampire prince.”

If you were a little less used to this type of interview, your serene expression would have faltered. Your nostrils would have widened in anger. Fucking Julien. Of course he’d think you were hallucinating to his children.

“They’re just bedtime stories.” You shrugged lightly.

Dr. Becker took a deep breath. “Yes, of course, Miss Salles. But… you do understand my concern here, don’t you? Vampirism… and the likes of it… have always been a recurring topic to your panics.”

You scratched your forehead. It was becoming hard to hide your discomfort.

“My nephews are boys. I tell them stories of bravery and heroism. This is the type of tale they like to hear.”

“Sure… but…”

“It’s called imagination, Dr. Becker.” You opened a tight smile. “I know my brother-in-law isn’t quite familiar with the concept, since he’s always so busy with work. But that’s just what it is.”

Maybe you went a little too far.

Dr. Becker looked at you in silence for maybe three seconds. Then, more notes. These notes took longer this time.

“On the topic of imagination. Your sister told me you didn’t have any night terrors these past two months. This is great news.” He looked up at you again. “Have you been taking your medication properly?”

No.

“Yes.”

“Any… nightmares? Strange dreams?”

Yes. Every night.

“No. My sleep has been silent… peaceful.”

“What a relief. Any apparition?”

Many.

“Not at all.”

More and more notes.

Dr. Becker looked to the desk resting behind him and took some papers. “You still paint a lot, I see.”

“Yes. The landscape here is beautiful. It’s impossible to not feel inspired.”

The doctor analyzed the paintings with care. Horses… Hills… Flowers… A portrait of your four nephews… All perfectly normal. All painfully boring. They didn’t like when your paintings got more free or abstract.

“You are very talented, Miss Salles.” That was a compliment, but deep down you knew it wasn’t. “Painting well” was a talent that many crazed women had. “Very beautiful.”

No blood or vampires or witches or demonic symbols is what he probably was scribbling in his notebook.

Dr. Becker put the paintings aside again and looked at you. Really looked at you, analyzed, scrutinized.

“I want you to be honest with me. Brutally honest.” Dr. Becker tightened his eyes. “How are you truly feeling?”

Horrible.

I have migraines. I have nightmares. I feel shivers all the time. I know something bad is going to happen. I have been dreaming of him more than ever. My heart aches whenever I think of him.

But you’re not going to believe me.

So you smiled.

“I feel… at peace. I don’t know if it’s my sister’s company, or the food, or the Spring that makes me feel better. But… I feel that my prayers are finally being answered this time.”

Dr. Becker watched you. Analyzed you. Scrutinized you.

His gaze softened.

“This is wonderful news. I have been praying for your recovery as well, Miss Salles. God is definitely hearing; He always does.”

More notes.

You hoped he was signing your perfectly normal certificate this time.

Your older sister was a perfectly normal woman.

She was your opposite in many ways. Clara always fit. Demure, well-educated, a good Catholic from birth; she always excelled in her studies, she always did what was expected of her. Clara was a good child. She became a coveted lady. She caught the eyes of a fabulously rich man, as was expected of her. She married such man, dropped the Salles last name and became Mrs. Saint-Clair. She gave birth to four perfectly normal and healthy boys, as was expected of her. She was still beautiful and took care of her appearance well despite the four pregnancies, as was expected of her.

All perfectly normal.

But despite everything, you loved her.

She loved you – which was very surprising, considering the general idea perfectly normal people had of you, including your parents. Clara was never embarrassed of you, never wanted to hide you from the face of Earth… though, for most of the time, her feelings didn’t really matter.

Clara was the one who always tried to convince your parents that you were perfectly normal too, despite the fact that you much obviously weren’t. The times you spent not being hospitalized or in boarding schools or in convents (which were just asylums for rich women) were mostly thanks to her efforts – that is, until you’d have another panic attack or night terror or premonition and your parents would want to hide you from society again. This cycle repeated over and over again since you were… eight? Nine? You didn’t even remember.

As soon as your father died a year ago, Clara didn’t wait a week to take you out of the convent. Not only was she the oldest daughter and heiress to the Salles fortune, no one would dare argue with Julien Saint-Clair’s wife. She kindly took you to her home… well, you even tried to live by yourself at the Capital for a while until that happened and you had to come back.

The past six months had been good. Except for… well. Your problem. But you became quite good at pretending you were normal, so good that even Clara started to believe you.

“The appointment was good, I suppose?” Clara said after dinner, when the kids were already put to bed. She sat beside you on the couch with that hopefulness you were used to. “Dr. Becker said you made progress.”

You nodded. So you had succeeded.

“It’s like I told him. The countryside does me good. You and the kids do me good.” You playfully elbowed her side. Clara smiled and sighed.

“I’m so glad to hear that, sister.” She caressed your hair softly. “I’ve never seen you so… calm.”

Oh my dear, you have no idea. You were anything but calm. Your dreams and premonitions became more frequent over the past two months for no reason. But no, you weren’t going to tell her that – not only because Clara was perfectly normal, so although she loved you, she also thought you were insane, therefore you wouldn’t try to explain anything to her. And… you already caused her enough trouble. You didn’t want to bother her with what plagued you anymore, not now that she had her own family to care for.

“I feel calm.”

Clara rested her head on your shoulder. You stayed in silence like that for some moments.

You loved her. You loved her so much. There weren’t many people in his life who treated you with normality or even kindness. While your parents were alive, you were just a freak. A failure. To your religious mother, you were possessed; to your father, you were retarded. To the both of them… you were nothing but a problem. But to Clara, you were a sister – and she made her sons see you as an aunt. You’d always be grateful for that.

Clara played with the embroidery of the skirt of her dress absently.

“I was wondering.” Her voice was quiet and hesitant, which immediately made you feel tense. “Do you still dream of… that man?”

You froze.

“No.” Lie lie lie lie lie. You frowned. “Why are you asking me this all of sudden?”

She shrugged. “Don’t know. I was just… remembering how you used to talk about him when you were younger. Those seemed to be your only good dreams. Right?”

You looked down, hoping she wouldn’t notice the way you gulped.

She was… partially right. Most of the dreams involving him were good. The faceless, nameless man that lived in your head and plagued your nights.

His voice was deep. Husky. Most times, serene. For some reason, you couldn’t see a face… just strands of long, golden hair. A scar crossed over his chest. Kind, reassuring words. Sometimes banter. The warmth of hugs. The heat of kisses. The ringing of laughter.

You’d dreamed of this man since… always. It almost felt as if you knew him. As if he was real.

And that’s precisely what plagued you.

You knew your problem wasn’t insanity – at least, not by the usual conventions of men. Every doctor, every priest, every nun, all of them tried to convince you that your shivers and terrors and dreams were just in your head (or, well, caused by Satan); they tried to make you not believe anything. But you knew they were wrong.

Because the things you saw and dreamed of happened.

You dreamed of your mother’s death five days before she went. You saw her die. You knew she’d have a heart attack at three in the morning, you knew she’d die on bed by your father’s side. You were locked at the convent at the time; you tried to reach for your parents, send them a messenger or a letter or anything, but the nuns simply dismissed it as another insanity fit. No one cared what you said.

She went exactly like that.

When you were nine, you saw your sister fall off a tree and break her arm minutes before it happened – you were on the other side of the house at the moment. The nannies were scared when you told them. Your father brushed it aside.

You knew the Mother Superior from the convent would die choking on an olive seed approximately two weeks before it happened. You didn’t warn anyone – they wouldn’t believe you anyway… and you hated her. You dreamed of your sister’s first pregnancy a month before the good news came. You dreamed of Julien Saint-Clair years before they first met, though Clara judged it was just a coincidence. There were so many more occurrences like that; you had premonitions of trivial things, like what you’d have for dinner tomorrow, or much more serious things like the mentioned above.

There was not a single time when these premonitions didn’t come true.

Which leads you back to that man.

Just why did you keep dreaming of him for years?

For a long time, you foolishly waited – hoped – he’d miraculously show up; a prince on a white horse to save you from your torture. But… you never met him. You never met any of the people that appeared in the dreams he was involved… like the redhead witch. The blue eyed, dark haired warrior.

These dreams were detailed. They were disconnected, like different pieces of a puzzle. Over the years, you managed to thread some sort of… timeline of events that you kept written on a secret journal. Sometimes they ended abruptly. Sometimes, you dreamed of them the entire night.

Your dreams usually depicted future events. These premonitory dreams were short, made you wake up with your heart racing. So the dreams with this man felt… different.

They felt like memories.

But how could you remember something you’d never lived?

You didn’t know. In fact, you understood very little of this problem. You’d never found anyone that actually sat down for a minute and listened to what you had to say without assuming you were insane on the spot. Your family discouraged you from speaking; the Church disapproved any of it, as “magic” and “seeing the future” were “demonic”. So all you could do was sit alone inside your own head and wonder.

You hated all of this. You hated that Clara of all people mentioned him. Just thinking of him made your heart tighten as if you were under physical pain. The man of your dreams… for a long time, you considered him a friend, the only one you had. When you were locked in the asylum that disguised itself as a convent, having not a single person to talk to and being constantly scrutinized, not receiving a visit from your parents for years… as you slept, all you had was him. The serene voice of the faceless man who seemed to love you despite everything.

It didn’t make sense to love someone that only existed in your own head.

You sighed. You weren’t insane, and you weren’t an idiot. Clara wouldn’t touch such subject out of nowhere.

“I am going to ask you again,” you spoke quietly but seriously. “Why are you talking about this all of sudden?”

It was Clara’s turn to sigh.

She straightened her back and turned her body in your direction slightly. Clara held both of your hands, resting them over her lap between you. She avoided your gaze at first.

Here it comes.

“You know I want you to be happy more than anyone in this world, right?”

“I do.”

“You know I love you more than anyone in this world too. Right?”

“I love you too, Clara.” You tightened your eyes slowly.

“And I want you to find love in your life. I… I hope it to be as kind and good as the one you described in your dreams when you were younger.” Your stomach started to twist. Oh no. “And… the kindest, purest love that exists is the love of a mother.”

No no no no no. You knew where this was going. You wanted to vomit.

Clara looked at you and smiled.

“I never thought I’d love anyone as much as I love my babies. Sister, my life… my life became complete with them in a way I can’t even describe. It’s the love of Mary. The love of our Lord.” She hesitated before proceeding. “I believe… I believe this type of love can complete you, too.”

You stiffened.

“Clara. Be direct.”

She gulped.

“Julien… Julien has an associate. A bachelor. He showed great interest in you–“

You immediately let go of her hands.

“Oh, right. Julien.”

“Sister, please…”

You couldn’t help the angry grimace that covered your features, the way you tapped your foot on the floor nervously, the crossing of arms. Julien. Of course he’s been looking for a way to get rid of me. You didn’t hate him – how could you? He actually loved Clara, he gave her four beautiful boys. But you knew he was similar to your father in many ways. He was perfectly normal after all – and you were a problem.

“Listen to me.” Clara continued in a pleading tone. “He’s a respectable man. I’ve already researched his entire life… I’d never let you marry someone indecent.” She hesitated before continuing. “We all knew this was going to happen some time, didn’t we?”

You refused to look at her. Yes, it was childish. Yes, you knew she was right. But it didn’t make anything better.

Clara reached for something on the cabinet near the sofa. It was a silver locket, slightly bigger than a common one.

She offered it.

“His name is Alfred Zardini.”

You took it and opened it reluctantly.

And you almost dropped it.

“He looks fifty!”

Clara took both of your hands forcefully, making you look at her. Right then, she wasn’t talking like a sister – she was talking like a mother.

“Sister. I know this might sound cruel to you, but we must be realistic.” You didn’t like that tone. Not at all. “Mr. Zardini might not be in his prime, but he owns half of this country’s ships. His family is traditional and respected everywhere. The life he can offer you is more than comfortable; he’ll make you a queen. Do you understand how blessed you are? How many women must be fighting to become Mrs. Zardini? And he showed great interest in you!”

“Oh, how extraordinary that any man would willingly court the Salles freak. How blessed I must feel!”

Clara choked on her own words.

“T-That’s not what I meant.”

“It’s exactly what you meant. Didn’t you ask me to be realistic?”

You got up and held your own head, feeling your breath get ragged. You walked from side to side, facing the carpet. You could feel Clara’s embarrassment and guilt fill the room – yet, you refused to look at her.

The Salles freak. The retarded daughter. You knew how people talked about you – sometimes they didn’t even bother talking behind your back. They talked about your night terrors, your hospitalizations, your insanity fits. They whispered and side eyed you. They made these whispers bigger than they actually were.

She’s been a burden to her parents. Now, she became a burden to her sister.

Mr. Saint-Clair is brave for letting her live among his children. Crazed women like that can become very dangerous.

Poor Mr. and Mrs. Salles! They didn’t have a son, and their second daughter is invalid. That’s why Clara is so kind; she always worked to keep this family together.

These were things you heard with your ears and with your mind. That’s what they thought of you. That’s why you avoided attending any social events, no matter how hard Clara insisted.

Were them all even wrong?

“You are not a freak. Don’t talk about yourself like that.” Clara said.

“Does what I think of myself matter?”

“Of course it does. More than anyone else.”

You stopped for a moment and looked at her.

Your dear, dear sister. You knew she was trying her best – she always did. You knew taking care of you wasn’t easy. Yes, you woke up in the middle of the night screaming; sometimes, being in the middle of any crowds was unbearable, made you want to scream and rip your hair off because there were so many emotions and so many thoughts flooding into you. Yes, you knew that dealing with your visions would be scary to anyone perfectly normal.

You knew she was right.

You were twenty seven. You were a famous freak. The fact that this Mr. Zardini was even remotely interested in you was a miracle.

Julien saw you as a problem to be solved, an expense to be cut. Clara was the heiress to the Salle’s estate – and you knew she’d let you live the most comfortable life money could offer – but Julien was responsible over Clara. He owned the estate. He didn’t want to spend more money on you… so he found a substitute.

That’s why he’d been so adamant with the evaluations by Dr. Becker, you finally realized. He really wanted you to have a “perfectly normal certificate” to assure Mr. Zardini that you weren’t that crazy.

Was he even wrong? Shouldn’t women get married at some point? You couldn’t live in their home forever. You were a burden. You always were.

This would never change.

You sighed deeply. Your head hung low.

“I apologize, Clara. I’ve been ungrateful.”

“No!” Clara got up immediately. “No, you’re not. Don’t apologize.”

“I just got surprised. That’s all.” You couldn’t look at her in the eye. “I… I’ll go to bed and we’ll talk about it better tomorrow. Okay?”

“Sure. Sleep well.”

Maybe it looked like Clara wanted to hug you, but you couldn’t bear physical touch right now – so you turned around and left.

Your heart raced. Your mouth was dry. You wanted to cry – oh, please. Not right now. You ran through the corridors, not wanting to be seen by any maid so they could spread even more rumors about you.

You spent years locked by your parents in different institutions. Now, after only a year of freedom… you’d have to be locked to a man again?

You were about to reach your bedroom when you heard a whistle.

You stopped on your tracks.

“Auntie!”

It was Pierre, peeking at you from a breach on his door. He smiled excitedly.

You gulped, immediately swallowing the tears, and smiled too.

“Shouldn’t you be sleeping?”

“You didn’t finish the story! We want–“

“–To know the rest!”

Oh. It was Gabriel too. They were all awake.

You really, really didn’t want to… but their little faces lured you in. You could feel their excitement vibrating in the air around them, making everything feel lighter.

How could you resist that?

You sighed and entered the room. They squealed in joy.

The four boys were reunited in Pierre’s bedroom, the oldest; he was ten years old. You sat on his large bed, and the others followed.

“Before I continue, I have to ask… which of you gossipers told anyone about our bedtime stories?”

“It wasn’t me!”

“Me neither!”

“Uh… I don’t remember…”

“Oh, sure. No one is to blame.” You crossed your arms, pretending to be angry. They all giggled. “Listen to me. Our stories are secret, aye? Otherwise they’ll lose all the magic.”

“Right, right! We won’t tell anyone!”

“So… where was I…?”

“The warrior and the witch crossed the magic mirror!” Gabriel remembered.

“Ooooh. Right.” You rubbed your hands excitedly. The four boys watched you with widened eyes and giant grins. You had dreamed of these events many times. They were as clear as day in your mind – almost as if they happened yesterday.

Almost as if you were there.

“The warrior and the witch crossed the mirror in time to save the vampire prince. Fire, the witch conjured; chains, the warrior swung. The flames surrounded them, engulfed the black castle in chaos. It was hot, so hot! Hotter than the hotter summer you can thing of. The castle felt like hell on Earth. There were monsters everywhere… and a powerful magician upstairs planning to do something terrible.”

“And what did they do next?” Little Leo asked, his eyes gleamed.

You smirked mischievously.

“What do you think? They fought.”

“Are you seriously hiding here?”

He peeked at her through his lashes.

She stood beside him with her arms on each side of her waist, gazing down at him disapprovingly. It was lighthearted, however. He knew it. The hem of her dress was dirty with mud, as well as the apron around her waist. Her hair, mostly hidden under a colorful scarf.

He liked it. When she looked disheveled and annoyed.

He closed his eyes again and hummed.

“Just five minutes.”

“They’re looking for you. They want to know where the tools are.”

“I already showed Greta.”

“Well, you clearly forgot about that part.”

“Can’t they just… search?”

“The basement is the size of a city. They won’t find anything.”

He sighed again.

“Just five more minutes.”

“You can’t be serious–“

His next movement was swift. He sat up, grabbed her wrist and pulled her with him; his back hit the soft grass under his body. Her head rested over his chest.

She was shocked for a few seconds.

“This was low of you.”

“I know.” He chuckled. His deep voice reverberated in her body. “Just five minutes. I’m serious.”

She sighed, but didn’t move.

He knew that soon, everyone else would find out about this clearing. It was hidden behind thick trees and tall boulders, just a little space in the midst of the dense woods, relatively far from the castle… and the newborn village. These people knew how to navigate inside a forest. Soon, this clearing wouldn’t be a secret anymore. But for now… it was just his bubble of peace, his breath of fresh air from the many voices out there.

That was being more stressful than he first assumed.

“I’m not used to so many people.” He confessed quietly. “They can be loud.”

“I know.” Her voice was as quiet as his, matching his tone. “I’d say you’re doing a great job, though. For a sheltered prince.”

“Of course I’m doing a great job.”

She punched his side playfully.

“Cocky bastard.” He laughed.

“The way they come to ask me things all the time… and make questions and… and Belmont…”

“Trevor can barely walk. He’s still severely injured.”

“His presence annoys me. I can feel his reek from miles.”

“Oh, God.” He couldn’t see it, but he knew she was rolling her eyes. But she laughed. He laughed, too.

She looked up for the first time, resting one of her forearms over his chest. She put a strand of golden hair behind his ear softly. He loved her touch. He loved her warmth. He loved her eyes. Loved, loved, loved.

“Everything will work out in the end.” She said softly. He chuckled.

“It’s already working, my dear. Because you’re here.”

He loved the way she was so fierce and outspoken, but would still open a shy smile whenever he said something like that.

“That was low of you,” she repeated. He held her chin softly, his voice dropping even lower.

“I love to play low.”

He captured her lips on his. They were soft, sweet, as they always were. It rapidly progressed from a small peck to a deep kiss, as it always did. He entangled his fingers around the back of her hair, as he always liked to do; she sat on his lap with her legs on each side of him, as he knew she would do from the start. His hands roamed her body. It spread fire through her skin, to her core, as it always did.

And then, he was sat, with her still on his lap; his lips kissed and licked and sucked on her neck, while it was her turn to grip his hair – as she always did. She bucked her hips on his repeatedly, deliciously, as she always did, igniting every nerve of his body. She was quick to unbutton his pants. She always was. She smiled mischievously when her hand gripped around his hot, hardened member, earning him a soft grunt, guiding it towards her throbbing entrance. She always did.

She always felt amazing. Hot, wet, tight – tight tight tight tight. He loved the sweat dripping over her face, neck, cleavage, the format of her lips. She loved his moans and his whimpers, the obscenities that erupted from his deep voice, his pleasured expression, the blush over his face and chest; he almost looked in pain. He looked glorious. He always did. He locked his strong arms around her waist, as he always did, while she rode him relentlessly, feeling every centimeter of him inside of her, melting and shaking at the way he filled her so perfectly.

They took much more than just five minutes.

They always did.

Alucard stared at the wooden ceiling for a long, long time.

He shouldn’t have slept. He’d been avoiding it for months, just resigning himself to quick naps when his brain couldn’t take it anymore. Well, that was a quick nap. He didn’t expect to dream during it.

To remember it.

He massaged his own forehead, letting a deep groan escape. Shit. It was getting worse. These… dreams. He didn’t know why. Quite honestly, he didn’t want to know why. If he investigated the cause, it meant he’d have to think about it, and he didn’t want to think about it. He didn’t want to remember it.

But Alucard wasn’t in control of his subconsciousness, unfortunately.

He sat on the bed, feeling his entire body heavy and tired, and pushed his hair back. The lighting from outside indicated night was about to fall… which meant he had an unpleasant task ahead of him. He didn’t have time to think about anything else. He came here for a reason. To lay on bed and brood over the past wouldn’t help him.

Alucard came to this city to hunt.

So he got up and washed himself.

He had been tracking this prey for months, the wicked magician that refused to die. He had many names over the years, but Alucard first met him by the name of Gael. The sick fuck obsessed with immortality. Alucard ignored him back then, but he knew better now. That man became far more powerful and dangerous than he could ever imagine. Ignoring him was a mistake.

Alucard didn’t know what the hell he was doing in the countryside, living among the rich. More importantly – Alucard didn’t know where he was. Gael was a master of disguise; that is why he was able to successfully hide from Alucard for so long.

Quite frankly, the half-vampire was sick of him.

It could be because Gael was a hateful murderer, because Alucard didn’t like him on a personal level, or because he was just very annoyed overall. Sleep deprivation was really starting to get to him. That linked with all these dreams…

Alucard made a conscious effort to never dwell too much into the past. As an immortal, he knew very well how dangerous it could be, how it could poison his soul. Of course… he cherished the ones he loved during his life. He was grateful for the marks they left. But some memories, some people just hurt way too much. Were too unbearable to take.

Like her.

Fuck. Just the thought of her made Alucard feel a sting right in his heart.

How long has it been? Two… three hundred years? In his mind, it felt like yesterday. Why were his memories so vivid? He didn’t remember every moment of his life with such clarity – and he was grateful for that.

But her?

The color and the texture of her hair between his fingers. The warmth of her skin. The sound of her laughter. Every conversation, every disagreement, every joke, every hug, every fight. Every good morning. Every good night.

He remembered everything.

He never forgot her. How could he? Alucard didn’t want to erase her existence from his life; he’d rather feel the agony of longing than the emptiness of never having met her. Even so… to think too much about her hurt, because it didn’t only bring the good memories. It brought the bad ones, too.

It brought back the farewell.

So, he decided to keep her… hidden in his mind, but at the same time, always there. She came back from time to time over the years – a smell that reminded him of her, a flower that matched her hair color, something he knew she’d find funny. Even after all these years, she stayed.

But these vivid dreams didn’t let Alucard remember her in a good but distant way.

They made him miss her. Miss her bad.

So bad that he was starting to lose focus.

He stared at himself in the mirror while adjusting his cravat. The curse of immortality kept him the same, except for his hair that completely lost their golden color over the years. Perhaps that made everything worse. A constant reminder that everything had an end; everything went. Everything forgot.

Alucard didn’t.

He sighed deeply and attached the sword in his belt.

There wasn’t time to think of any of it.

He had to hunt.

The ceremony hall of the Saint-Clair’s manor was crowded.

Well – as crowded as a high society ball could be. Prestigious families from all over the city came over, wearing their most impressive attires; an explosion of colors, silk and diamonds. Soft music played by a very competent band filled the halls. Conversations, laughter, the smell of wine and champagne… all very luxurious, all very proper.

Alucard would rather tap dance barefoot on broken glass than be there.

But he didn’t have much of a choice – not when he knew Gael would attend.

The stench of his magic was everywhere, made Alucard want to vomit. All of these humans, innocently walking around and talking, had no idea of the creature that loomed over the hall. Because that was what Gael became – he could barely be categorized as a human anymore, let alone a vampire. He was a thing. An entity.

He was disguised.

He could be anyone.

Gael was smart. He impregnated his presence everywhere, and did so well that everyone smelled like him – that old lady, that waiter, that musician… all of them. Alucard couldn’t simply attack. He had to gather information; he had to wait.

And no, he wasn’t trying to hide himself.

He knew the quick glances people took at him – some not so quick – and the whispers. The blushing. Alucard was taller than almost everyone else, it was impossible to go unnoticed. Not that he cared. He wanted Gael to see he was there. If Gael stayed, Alucard would find him one way or another; if Gael tried to flee, it would make Alucard’s life even easier. His absence in the city would stand out like a sore thumb. It’d be even easier to track him.

Unfortunately, that meant he’d have to behave for now.

He wouldn’t be able to hunt the way he wanted. No… he’d have to be polite and small talk. Because for these people, he wasn’t Alucard.

He was Duke Tepes.

“Mr. Tepes!”

Alucard turned around to see Julien Saint-Clair approach with a broad smile. The man hadn’t changed much since the last time he saw him three years ago… maybe his hairline was starting to recede. Alucard was glad to not know him for that long, otherwise Julien would find his unchanging appearance strange.

None of these people suspected Alucard wasn’t human, of course.

Mankind was changing rapidly. After Erzsebet Bathory’s failed attempt to rule the world decades ago, vampires got scared (for lack of a better word) and decided to hide more than they ever did. So, slowly, the fear inherent to humans was fading; the rise of technology, of easier global travels, of new discoveries, made mankind not look into what they couldn’t see anymore. Mothers didn’t warn their children about the dangers of the night. Fathers didn’t carry silver knives for protection.

This newer generation didn’t even believe vampires or magic existed.

Which was both good and bad. Good because it became easier for Alucard to simply blend in; when they looked at his pale skin or prominent fangs, they didn’t immediately assume he wasn’t human, because that would be illogical. At the same time… it made humans more fragile. How could they protect themselves against something they didn’t even believe existed?

In other words, Alucard had a lot of work to do everywhere.

Including there at the Saint-Clair’s manor.

He gave Julien’s hand a firm shake. “It’s an honor to see you here, my friend.” The man said. “Did you have a comfortable travel?”

“As comfortable as possible.” Alucard offered him a tight, humorless but polite smile.

Julien chuckled. “Yes, I believe coming all the way from Wallachia can’t be easy. Here, let me introduce you to some of my friends…”

Oh, there were so many excited to meet the Duke of Wallachia. Such a mysterious man. I heard he’s fabulously rich. I heard he owns a diamond mine. I heard he’s hard to approach. I heard he’s single. I’d like to be the mother of his children.

Alucard wanted to die.

It was hard to divide his attention between these empty conversations and finding Gael. The stench – it was disgusting. The pressure of Gael’s presence was like black mud dripping from the walls, from the tall curtains, made the marble floor sticky; every person present was drenched in this black mud, their teeth were dirty with it, their expensive attires drenched – but no one else could sense that, and that made Alucard go insane. How blind did humanity become? How can they not feel this?

Why did I let Gael get so powerful?

He silently stood in a circle of men – all rich heirs to different types of fortunes he didn’t care about – absently watching the champagne bubbles play inside the glass he held while they talked about… oh, he wasn’t paying attention. Any strange voice… any disturbance… his ears traveled far. He needed a hint. Any hint. Anything–

The man beside him gasped softly and looked back. Alucard didn’t remember to his name. It immediately caught his attention.

“Look who just arrived,” the man said, not necessarily at Alucard.

It seemed that the entire hall stopped for a moment to watch. It was weird.

Alucard frowned and turned around towards the entrance of the hall–

And the world stopped.

It stopped. Went silent. Went empty. Like reality itself cracked in front of his eyes.

Alucard couldn’t breathe anymore.

There were two women entering the hall.

They looked alike, probably sisters. The one that looked the oldest and had a large smile walked in front; she wore a deep purple ball gown. Pretty pearl earrings and a necklace decorated her skin. Julien Saint-Clair rushed to grab her by the arm, and Alucard immediately understood that was his wife, hence the commotion; she was the Mistress of that house.

But he didn’t pay attention to her. Not at all.

The woman walking behind her.

The younger one.

She wore an emerald green dress that let her shoulders and collarbones apparent. The tight corset, puffy sleeves and skirt had golden lines weaved into them. A diamond necklace sat over her collarbones with matching earrings. White embroidered gloves covered her hands.

Alucard could pretend that his breathing halted because the newcomer was beautiful – more beautiful than any other woman in the hall.

But that wasn’t the truth.

It was her.

The same the same the same. She looked the same. Exactly the same as the woman from his memory, the woman he saw as clear as day in his dream earlier that day. The woman that never left his mind. The woman that he loved with every fiber of his being.

The lover that died over three hundred years ago.

Alucard blinked, tried to recompose himself. No, this can’t be true. Stop that. It’s just… she’s just similar– no, not just similar; she’s identical. He felt his fingertips shaking as if a magical attack had pierced his soul, managed to crack his nonchalant façade. How can it be? How can someone be so similar to her…?

She wasn’t stained by that black mud, Alucard noticed. The only one that didn’t reek.

Gael. You have to focus on Gael. Stop that.

All of it happened in the course of three seconds.

“Sweet mother of Jesus,” the man beside him said under his breath. “That’s a sight for sore eyes.”

“Has she ever been this beautiful?” Another man whispered.

“I don’t even remember seeing her since she was fifteen.”

Alucard tightened his eyes slowly. So… he wasn’t the only one paying attention. Why was everybody else so shocked?

Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask. Don’t ask–

“Who is she?” Alucard asked.

The man gave him a knowing smile.

“Miss Salles. Mrs. Saint-Clair’s younger sister. She’s a jewel, ain’t she?” The man chuckled. “But you don’t want that kind of trouble into your life, no matter how pretty it looks. Trust me.”

Alucard’s quirk of brow was enough of a question. The man took another sip of his champagne.

“That pretty thing is crazy.” The other men beside him giggled. Alucard didn’t like that… not at all. “I mean… clinically insane. She brought so much trouble to the Salles Family that I don’t even know how Mrs. Saint-Clair managed to save her reputation from her sister’s shadow.”

“Well, Alfred already made sure to keep her out of everyone’s reach.” The other man beside him said. “He’s going to court her.”

“Mr. Zardini?! I didn’t know that.”

“My wife knows it all.” He giggled. “Well, looking at her right now… the man might be a genius, aye? I bet a bit of insanity is worth it if he gets all that in the end.”

“But isn’t she too old already? Can she even bear children?”

Alucard felt more and more disgusted.

He wasn’t listening to their futile talks anymore. He tried not to, but his eyes unconsciously traveled to her figure again. Ms. Salles stayed closer to her sister; although she had a small smile and offered polite curtsies, he could see she was immensely uncomfortable. Almost like she wanted to run away.

How could she not, when all of these people were whispering absurdities about her?

He felt bad.

God, she is identical. She really is.

It wasn’t the first time Alucard met people similar to someone he met or loved in the past. How many Trevors and Syphas and Gretas had he already encountered? But… but like that? Identical like that?

Was she really all that identical, or was his mind playing tricks on him?

Maybe if he got a little closer… maybe if he heard her voice…

No. No no no no. That’s not why you’re here. You came to hunt Gael. He’s certainly in this hall with you. He has to be captured. He has to be stopped.

Alucard looked around. The musical group began a different tune, and couples started to walk to the center to dance. Gael. You must find Gael. He can be anyone. Pay attention, sharpen your senses; focus, focus…

“Look. Zardini is going to make a move.” The man beside him caught his attention again. They watched in expectation.

A tall bearded man that looked to be in his fifties slowly crossed the hall. He wore an imposing and expensive suit. His chest was filled, his chin was high with confidence.

He made his way towards the younger Salles sister.

Towards her.

And then, Alucard forgot about Gael.

He forgot how to control his body. He placed his glass of champagne on some waiter’s tray. His feet walked on their own. He crossed the hall at a nonchalant, yet speedy pace.

Alucard stopped in front of her before Zardini could.

The world stopped.

Identical. Identical. She’s identical.

Alucard didn’t let his astonishment show.

His face was a mask of serenity; in his lips, a small lip tightened smile. Her eyes widened. She let a small gasp of surprise.

The entire hall stopped breathing when Alucard bowed politely, his left arm behind his back, his right hand offered to her, and said:

“Ms. Salles, may I have this dance?”

#alucard x reader #alucard #castlevania #alucard castlevania #adrian tepes x reader #adrian tepes #adrian fahrenheit tepes #castlevania netflix #castlevania nocturne #alucard x you #castlevania x reader #alucard tepes #alucard tepes x reader

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megapteraurelia · 3 days ago

Text

"what are we?"

you didn't look at miya osamu when you asked, voice careful but not fragile, all the things urging to express themselves locked behind your chest. instead, you fiddled with your keys, pretending they mattered, pretended they required more of your attention than they did, when in fact, your attention was on him. the way it had always been on him.

it wasn't the first time the question had hung between you two, unspoken but pulsing, quietly biding its time.

when he had cooked for you at two a.m. because you couldn't sleep and he had brought miso soup over, in the way you liked, you had cried while eating it, for no reason you could explain. he hadn't said a word, but he had sat next to you on the floor, his broad shoulder brushing yours, his presence solid. your face had found its neck easily and his hand was warm and heavy as it stroked your hair.

you called him instead of your roommate when you got too drunk at a friend's party, and he showed up within ten minutes, his hoodie half-zipped, worry evident in his voice. he didn't ask questions, he never did, instead, he let you use him as your crutch, held back your hair when you threw up, tucked you into his bed and slept on the couch even though your voice had slurred, asking him to join you.

your late-night texts were intimate, in a way that felt dangerous: sharing dreams, fears, bits of pasts you didn't tell others, bits of his innermost thoughts he kept secret even from atsumu. he once said that your laugh made something in his chest unravel; you didn't know how to answer, so you had sent him a voice note laughing into the pillow.

you had worn his sweatshirt for days. he never asked for it back.

when your mum got sick and you didn't know how to be okay, he sat with you in the hospital parking lot for hours, both of you in silence, the only sound between you the hum of the vending machine and the only feeling his hand over yours.

but then the moments would end as quickly as they came. he never stayed the night, never kissed you, never crossed the line. yet, every glance, every soft moment, felt like a toe right on the edge, like if he took that step, it would change everything. maybe it would. you hoped it would.

his eyes wandered to yours, unreadable in the fading light, dark hair hidden. his cap threw shadows on his face and the silence between you was as thick and dense as the heat from how close you stood to him. you searched his face, the one that you trusted so much, the one that made you feel more and less like yourself at the same time.

osamu finally spoke, voice low, careful, like every word had to be weighed, like they meant everything and nothing at the same time.

"…what do you mean?"

TAGLIST | @takes1 @classicalelephant

#haikyuu #haikyuu x reader #haikyuu x you #miya osamu #osamu x reader #osamu x you #miya osamu x reader #miya osamu x you #haikyuu osamu #osamu angst #haikyuu angst #jelly writes

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vaginalvr · 2 days ago

Note

Hiii I was wondering if you could you do one where bau!reader and Spencer are in a relationship and one day she risks her life to catch an unsub. Spencer gets mad at her and gives her the silent treatment. She gets mad at him as well for his reaction, and they have like a little hate oral sex situation but are still angry afterwards. Then, a couple days later, reader maybe drops a glass and cuts herself accidentally or something of the sort, and Spencer panics and runs to make sure she’s ok, showing that he’s just scared to loose her. They finally open up and have sweet makeup sex. 💕💕

oh how sweet

cw: Smut, oral sex (f/m, angry), arguing, blood (minor injury), angst, comfort, makeup sex, language, creampie, established relationship

REQUESTS ARE OPEN!

The jet was quiet.

Too quiet.

You sat on one side, head leaned against the window, watching the ground slowly blur beneath the clouds. Spencer sat across from you, one leg crossed, reading a book but not flipping a single page.

He hadn’t said a word to you in almost five hours.

You knew exactly why.

You’d chased the unsub down a dark alley alone. You’d gone against Hotch’s orders, but you’d made the call when the man ducked into a narrow side street, the kind no backup could reach in time.

You caught him. Tackled him to the ground. Disarmed him even when he pulled a knife and slashed at you.

You came out with a ripped vest, a bruised rib, and a few scrapes. But you came out alive.

Spencer, however, had watched it all from the other end of the alley, frozen, wide-eyed, and terrified.

He’d kissed you when the cuffs were on, held you too tightly in the SUV ride back, then said nothing since.

Now he was silent, eyes flicking over the same line of text over and over again.

You finally broke.

“You’re really not going to talk to me?” you asked.

He didn’t look up. “I have nothing to say.”

You scoffed. “That’s bullshit.”

His eyes flicked up, narrowed, but he said nothing again.

You leaned forward. “I saved a life today. Would you rather I just stood there and let that girl die?”

“I’d rather you didn’t fucking risk yours,” he snapped, voice low and venomous.

A few heads turned. Hotch shot you both a look. You fell quiet again. But you were seething.

And so was Spencer.

Back in Quantico, you barely spoke a word. When you got to your shared apartment, Spencer dropped his bag in the hall and walked straight to the bedroom.

You followed, fury still pumping through your veins.

“You don’t get to punish me for doing my job.”

“I’m not punishing you,” he said, taking off his watch, methodically setting it on the nightstand. “I’m processing.”

“Oh, give me a break. You’re mad, and instead of talking to me about it like a grown man, you're throwing a tantrum.”

He turned, jaw tight. “You almost died.”

“I didn’t.”

“But you could have. You chose to. You didn’t even wait for backup. You—”

“I knew what I was doing!”

“You don’t get to make that call without thinking about what happens to me if you don’t come back!”

You both fell silent again.

Chest heaving. Eyes locked.

The tension cracked, not with peace, but with lust, heat, rage, need.

“I hate when you do this,” you snarled, stepping forward, pushing at his chest. “Act like you care so much, then shut me out.”

“I hate that you think I can just watch you throw yourself into danger and not feel like I’m losing my mind.”

You shoved him. Harder.

He caught your wrist. Gripped it tight. His chest pressed to yours.

“I hate you,” you hissed.

“I hate you more,” he growled back.

Then he dropped to his knees.

“No—fuck you, Spencer—don’t think this fixes anything,” you stammered, heart racing as he shoved your pants down, dragging your panties with them.

His hands gripped your thighs hard enough to bruise. His mouth was hot and angry as it latched onto your clit.

Your hand flew to his hair.

“Oh my God—Spencer—fuck—”

He didn’t tease, didn’t warm you up. He devoured you like he was mad at your pussy for tempting fate. His tongue was relentless, licking and sucking with sharp, precise intent, and his grip didn’t let you move—didn’t let you run, didn’t let you think.

You came too fast, trembling and gasping, thighs clenched around his face.

He pulled back, mouth slick, eyes still burning.

You shoved at him. “Don’t think this fixes anything.”

“Didn’t say it did.”

He stood. Wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. Walked past you to the bathroom.

You stared at the wall.

And hated how wet you still were.

Two days of silence.

You slept on the couch one night. He did the next.

The air in the apartment was heavy, static, thick with everything unsaid.

Until Tuesday night.

You were reaching for a glass in the kitchen, exhausted from a long case debrief, when your grip slipped.

It hit the counter, shattered.

You gasped and jerked back—too late.

A shard sliced across your palm.

Blood welled fast.

“Shit,” you hissed, grabbing a towel, trying to stop the bleeding. It stung, hot and deep, and your knees buckled a little with the sudden pain.

“Y/N?” Spencer called from the study.

You didn’t answer. Just hissed again.

Then you heard footsteps—running.

He rounded the corner, saw the red staining the towel, and panicked.

“Jesus—what happened?!”

“I dropped a glass, I just—fuck, it hurts—”

He was already grabbing your wrist, inspecting the cut with trembling fingers.

“I’m fine,” you tried.

“No, you’re not—God, you’re not—come here—sit—sit down—”

He guided you to the kitchen chair, voice shaking.

“Spence—”

“You could need stitches,” he muttered. “You could pass out from blood loss. You could get an infection—fuck—”

“Spencer.”

He looked up.

You’d never seen his eyes like that before.

Terrified. Raw. Vulnerable.

“I thought I was going to lose you,” he whispered.

And suddenly, it wasn’t about the cut.

It wasn’t about the alley.

It was everything.

“I can’t lose you,” he said again. “I can’t.”

You reached out with your good hand, cupping his cheek. “I’m sorry. I didn’t think—about what it would do to you.”

He exhaled, eyes falling closed. Leaned into your palm like it was the only thing tethering him to the ground.

“I’m scared all the time,” he said. “But that night—watching him pull that knife—I felt it. I felt what it would be like if I didn’t get to kiss you again. If I didn’t get to argue with you, or listen to you snore, or make you coffee. And I—I didn’t know how to come down from that.”

You swallowed hard. “So you shut me out.”

“I’m sorry,” he whispered. “I was just… scared.”

You nodded. “Me too.”

His hand slid to your knee.

Yours slid into his curls.

He kissed you like an apology and a prayer.

You kissed him back like he was breath after drowning.

He pulled you into his lap right there in the kitchen chair, cradling your bandaged hand gently against his chest as your mouths moved in sync, desperate and soft and slow.

His hands roamed your back. Yours fumbled with his belt.

“I missed you,” he murmured, forehead to yours.

“I’m right here,” you breathed.

He lifted you, carried you to the bedroom with reverence.

Stripped you gently this time. Like you were precious. Like you were made of the most fragile porcelain.

“Do you want this?” he asked, voice breaking.

“Yes. Always.”

He entered you slowly, stretching you with care, making you both gasp at the intimacy of it. There was no anger now. Just love.

His hips rolled into yours, long and deep and rhythmic, each thrust a confession.

“I love you,” he whispered into your shoulder. “God, I love you.”

“I love you too,” you moaned, arms wrapped tight around him.

He made love to you like it was the last time he ever would. Like he had to memorize your body with every motion.

You came around him, clenching and pulsing, and he held you through it, breathing you in like oxygen.

“I’m close,” he warned, breath ragged.

“Come inside me,” you whispered. “Please.”

And he did—shuddering, trembling, heart pounding against yours.

After, he held you close, your face pressed to his chest, your bandaged hand resting over his heart.

“I’m not going anywhere,” you promised.

He kissed the top of your head. “I know.”

But he held you tighter anyway.

Just in case.

#spencer reid smut #criminal minds #spencer reid #criminal minds smut #criminal minds x you #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x fem reader

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hoonies-teefs · 3 days ago

Text

ANYTHING FOR YOU.

WC 1.6k

sim jaeyun x fem!reader

Warnings: smut, thigh riding, family trauma, petnames (baby, love, babygirl...) i think thats everything :3

a/n: first fic up! ts is NAWT proofread so if i made mistakes mb chat! enjoy! i luv jake sm its an issue...

childhood best friend jake whos 2 years older than you but would do absolutely anything and everything to keep you happy and make sure you’re ok

childhood best friend jake who slept over at your house almost every weekend when you were kids so you never felt alone

childhood best friend jake who, even at university, lets you stay in his apartment when things with your parents are too rough

childhood best friend jake who always got gumpy when you called him a puppy (something you’ve been calling him since you were kids), claiming it was too childish (he loves it so much)

childhood best friend jake who lets you stay with him weeks at a time, always cooks for you, helps you with your homework, is your greatest support system

childhood best friend jake who needs to call you every day you don’t see him, always saying you calm him down after long days of lectures

childhood best friend jake who checked in on your everyday after finding out your parents split, coming over to your mums to help cook dinner and staying the night with you incase you needed to talk or general comfort

childhood best friend jake who picked you up from your dads house after a huge fight. you called him, scared for your life as he rushed over to make sure you were safe and with him

childhood best friend jake who told off your father, telling him he needs to take care of himself before taking care of you, grabbing your overnight bag and taking you as far away as he could from him

childhood best friend jake who held you so tight as you broke down in his arms, whispering sweet nothings in your ear, running his hand through your hair, letting you know that you were always safe with him and that he would protect you with his life

childhood best friend jake who held you as you drifted off to sleep, fighting his own exhausted to ensure your safety

childhood best friend jake who would organize movie marathons with you to helo you take your mind off everything

childhood best friend jake who let you lay your back on his chest, his hold tight around your waist as you nuzzle your head into his neck

childhood best friend jake who practically melts when you shove yourself into him, infiltrating his personal bubble (something he only allowed you to do)

“mmph… jake… ‘m tired…” you mumble into him.

jake tilts his head down to look at your sleepy face, smiling to himself.

“yeah? wan’ go to bed, love?” he asks, stroking your hair so the strands dont tangle and stay out of your face.

you nod, shifting until you’re practically straddling him, face buried into the crook of his neck. instinctively he grabs hold of your waist, pulling you closer against his chest.

he carries you to his bed, laying you gently down onto the bed. as he starts to pull back you sit up, grabbing his wrist.

“why are you leaving..?” you ask, rubbing your eye.

jake smiles softly at the act, you’re just too cute when you’re all sleepy and wanting attention.

“gonna go freshen up, love. can’t go to bed feeling gross, yeah?”

you shake your head, humming sounds of disapproval.

“stay with me, puppy please…” you mumble, tired and desperate for some sort of affection from him.

if possible, jake would melt into a puddle into a puddle right then and there.

“just two minutes, baby. i’ll be right back… promise” he runs his hand through your hair, placing a small a light peck at the top of your head before quickly walking off to the bathroom.

upon his return, he finds you all wrapped up in his blanket. in his bed.

to make matters worse, you were wearing his shirt. you smell like him and it’s driving him absolutely insane. as he slides under the covers, you automatically gravitate towards his body heat, laying your head on his stomach. he reaches for your hair, gripping it and twirling the the soft strands.

“comfy?” he asks, looking down at you.

you nod, humming.

he chuckles at your tired state, letting his eyes flutter closed. however, he feels you pull back, the spot on his stomach where your head once was now cold and empty.

his eyes open again and he finds you shifting in bed. “something wrong, baby?” he asks softly.

you shake your head. “wan’ get closer, puppy”

there it is again. fuck he loves it when you call him that.

you end up laying directly on top of him, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist as your head buried as deep into his neck as it possibly could be.

he loves having you close, loves having you against him like this. he loves that you’re comfortable with him. he loves that he can be there for you, loves taking care of you no matter what you need.

so the moment he hears you say his name in your sleep, alarms begin going off in his head.

“love..?” he whispers as he hears your stirring in your sleep on top of him.

you don’t respond, just say his name once more. this time it’s louder, needier.

he shifts again to get a better look of your face. your eyebrows are furrows, your hand is gripping his tank top for dear life. both your legs are wrapped around one of his.

his grip on your waist tightens as he notices your hips begin to rock against his thigh.

he lets out a low groan. he has to wake you up. he needs you to see how insane you drive him.

he pecks the top of your head, then your temple, then the apple of your cheek, the the corner of your mouth.

“baby wake up..” he whispers.

you stir again, fuck he needs you awake.

“baby… c’mon wake up…” he says once more, kissing your ear lobe before nipping it slightly.

“jake…?” you say, voice laced with pure exhaustion.

jake sighs, cupping your face with his hand as he rubs the skin slightly with his thumb.

“y’said my name baby… in your sleep…”

you push yourself off him slightly, looking down at him.

“i.. i did..?” you ask. he nods, tucking your hair behind your ears.

“need some help?” there’s no push to his voice, just pure, undying affection he has for you. he wants to take care of you. whatever you need, he will always make sure it gets done and that you’re happy. if his poor, sleepy girl is all desperate and needy for him, who is he to say no?

you nod, tucking your head away in shame.

“no need to be shy, baby… just do what you need and i’ll help you, sound good?” he says, so stable, so sure.

you nod again, he grabs you tightly as he pushes himself up to lean on the headboard. you keep your head buried in the crook of his neck as he grips your waist.

“you wan’ ride my thigh, love?” he whispers, his breath hot against your ear. you mumble a small ‘yes’ into his neck.

“do what you need to babygirl, ‘m right here…” he reassures.

with that, you begin to move your hips against his thigh. he coos as you let out small, tired whimpers. jake strokes your hair as he places wet, open mouthed kissed in your collard bone.

the more friction you search for, the needier your get. he guides your hips against him as you grip out his shirt, whimpering his name as if it’s some sacred prayer.

jake shushes you. “doin’ so good baby, so so good… so good f’me…”

you whine at his words, grinding further into the soft fabric of his sweat pants. you need more, so so much more.

your grip on your tank top tightens as you pick up the pace, your whimpering becoming shameless moans. jake’s hands on your waist begin to venture elsewhere. they move under your shirt, palming at your breasts as the other toys with one of your nipples.

you feel the knot in your stomach tightening, your hips twitching in response.

jake notices, smirking wide.

“you gon’ cum f’me baby? gonna make a mess all over me? hm?”

you nod rapidly, your body practically shaking as your approach your climax. one of jakes hands returns to your hips, helping you keep a steady pace against his thigh. the other ventures down and under the thin fabric of your panties. he rubs your clit mercilessly as your yell out his name.

“s’too much! puppy t-too much…” you whimper.

he’s rock hard at this point. his poor, needy girl coming undone all over his thigh. he’s practically in heaven.

“you can take it baby…. i know you can… you wanna come babygirl?”

you nod, moaning his name out.

“come undone, love. come undone all over me…” he groans.

as you reach your climax, you moan his name one more time. sinful but fucking beautiful.

you’re shaking, gripping his shirt so hard your knuckles have lost all its colour. he helps your ride our your high, both hands on your hips, helping you slowly rock back and forth on him.

“feel better babygirl?” he asks, nipping at your ear. you nod, arms wrapped around his neck as you bring your body closer to him.

he lays you down beside him, quickly grabbing a warm washcloth to clean you up. he rids himself of his, now stained, sweat pants and pulls you flush against his chest.

you hum as he pulls you closer. if you weren’t as tired, he would definitely have prolonged whatever just happened between you two.

as you slowly drift off to sleep, he leans back down towards your ear.

“next time, you’ll ride my cock instead of my thigh… m’kay baby..?”

#sim jaeyun x reader #sim jaeyun #enhypen #enhypen smut #jake sim #enhypen jake #enhypen x reader #enhypen imagines

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brookghaib-blog · 1 day ago

Text

Silence between hearts

Pairing: Robert ‘Bob’ Reynolds x reader

Summary: After Project SENTRY fails, Robert Reynolds is declared dead and sealed in a glass coffin to be hidden by O.X.E. Y/N, a doctor who secretly fell in love with him after a complicated path between them, refuses to believe he’s gone—fighting to save what’s left of him while grief and denial consume her, the path to look for him would ruin her, but to what extreme.

Word count: 8,9k

The Jade Viper Bar - Kuala Lumpur, Malaysia - 11:47 PM

The humidity clung to Y/N's silk dress like a second skin as she paused beneath the flickering neon sign of The Jade Viper. The bar's crimson glow reflected in the puddles at her feet, staining the rainwater the color of diluted blood. Her fingers tightened around the beaded clutch in her hand—a gift from her father on her eighteenth birthday, back when she still had hope that would care for her as his daughter.

"This is where you'll find what we need," Valentina had purred over the phone that morning, the sound of ice clinking in her glass audible even through the static. "Desperate men make the best test subjects, darling. And you? You look just innocent enough to reel one in."

Y/N exhaled through her nose, watching her breath disturb the thick, smoke-laden air as she pushed through the door.

The bar was a study in controlled chaos.

The scent of stale beer and sweat hit her first, followed by the acrid tang of something chemical burning in the backroom. A ceiling fan spun lazily above, doing nothing to dispel the heat that pressed against her skin like an unwanted touch. The led lights trying to make look more exquisite, loud music blowing the place, and multiple people just partying and enjoying the night life Malaysia had to offer.

Every pair of eyes in the room snapped to her the moment she crossed the threshold.

She was a vision in emerald silk—too elegant, too clean for a place like this. The dress hugged her curves just enough to be dangerous, the slit up her thigh revealing a glimpse of skin that had several men shifting in their seats. Her heels clicked against the sticky floor as she made her way to the bar, the sound sharp as gunfire in the sudden hush.

The bartender—a grizzled man with a scar through his left eyebrow—watched her approach with the wary gaze of someone who'd seen beautiful things turn deadly.

"You lost, princess?" he asked, his voice rough as sandpaper. "You look like you're at the wrong place."

Y/N smiled, the expression not quite reaching her eyes. "Not at all. I know exactly where I am." She slid onto a stool, the leather creaking beneath her. "Gin martini. Three olives."

A murmur rippled through the crowd. That kind of order didn't belong here.

As the bartender turned to make her drink, Y/N let her gaze wander across the room, cataloguing each potential candidate with clinical precision. Too aggressive. Too alert. Too healthy. She needed someone weak, easy, not much love for life. But also with strong body potential.

She needed this. For once she needed her project to work. Prove her father that she was succeful on her own, even after he sold it to Valentina, seeing his daughter's idea as a failure and unrreal theory that was a mistake of calculations by her brilliant mind. Her mind. That was what is important for him. For her to be someone he wants, smart enough, perfection at it's finest, inhuman if possible for the sake of results.

Even after so many deaths, the lab and all the project members kept going, mainly because of Valentina persistence, but also hers. She wants her creation to be real so she would be seen, so it could be hers and hers only. Even if it would work, Valentina would never have her weapon. It was her way of perfection and any human emotion would have to be pushed down. Not that she was raised with many. She was thought two things that were important, as someone in her field... and as a woman. Being the best, and being the prettiest. Be the perfect human that would be placed at the top of the chain.

Her father sold her project for money and because of his lack of faith on her science and calculations. But she knew, it was her way out.

Bob Reynolds wasn't hiding, but he might as well have been.

Curled into the darkest corner of the bar, he looked like a man trying to fold himself out of existence. His shoulders hunched forward protectively, hands shaking around a warm beer he couldn't afford to replace. When he lifted his head, the hollows beneath his eyes were deep enough to drown in.

Y/N watched his fingers twitch toward his jacket pocket for the tenth time in five minutes - searching for a fix that wasn't there. Golden Sentry withdrawal. She'd recognize the symptoms anywhere.

He startled when she slid into his booth, nearly knocking over his drink. "S-sorry," he mumbled automatically, eyes darting anywhere but her face. "This seat's... I mean, you probably..."

"What's you're name darling?" She pushed the untouched gin toward him.

He looks her in the eye, confused by her attention. "I'm Bob."

Y/N noted the sweat beading at his temples, the way his knee bounced uncontrollably. "You're shaking."

"Just cold."

In 90-degree heat.

She leaned forward slowly, giving him time to pull away. "I'm not heree to jugde anyone. What if I told you I could make it stop? The shaking. The cravings. All of it."

Bob flinched like she'd struck him. "Nothing makes it stop." His voice cracked. "I've tried everything."

"Not my treatment."

His laugh was a broken thing. "You some kind of doctor?"

"Exactly the kind you need. I can make you perfect Bob."

Bob's hands clenched around his glass. For a moment, she thought he might bolt. Then, so quiet she barely heard: "I don't have money lady?"

Y/N reached into her clutch. The business card trembled slightly in her grip - not from nerves, but the stifling heat. Or so she told herself.

"My name is Y/N," she said, pressing the card into his damp palm, "you're not paying a penny, you're receiving it. I'm very good at what I do, and looking at you, I can tell that you have the potential I'm looking for." She says closing and holding his hand. She really didn't have time to waste on him, but he looked easy to convince. A little reassurance, symphaty, seem interest and he will fold. He's lost. He just needed someone to care, and she knew exactly how to do it, because in the end, she knew it because she also desired it.

Looking at his eyes, and leaning towards him to indicate some type of attraction. Some type of need from him. "Or don't come, I'm just saying you have a solution. But if you want to just "party" and be who you are, that's fine. It's okay to live with now desires."

Bob looks at her hand still on top of his, and back to her. No doubt this lady was pretty, well-dressed, and her smell, God she smelt good. "I just... stop being hopefull for myself, it's ok really, I'm used to being me. It's all I've been all my life... Dr. Y/N."

She laughs, kinda finding funny the need for her label, he didn't knew her yet he already treated her as above him. Perfect. "I can change your being if you like, you can be someone knew. Someone you love."

"Where are you coming from? What's you story Dr.?"

She leans back, ready to start a conversation she definitely didn't have any interest, what type of drug addiction even cared about other people. She already knew the answer. He was a man and she was attractive. She already was disgusted, but he was a good candidate and she came a long way.

"I'm here working for a lab, a good one, and I'm a doctor there, investigating. But I was here and I had a free day, so why not go out...met a nice good looking man, you like that Bob?"

Bob blushed, being drowned by his shyness, not expeting the compliment from her. "I-I mean, yeah... You deserve it, you sound like you have an important job, that sounds exhausting. You deserve some time for yourself...but I...I'm not someone a woman like you would like to be seen... you're...too put together, and I'm...Bob."

He tried to laugh it off, telling his awful beliefs on himself while trying to make her go away. Not because he wanted to, but because she needed to, still feeling the effects of the drugs he took half an hour ago.

"I like Bob." She smiles, almost forced he thinks. But it was genuine, he was weak, no desires. Bob was about to become her creation, he was perfect for the role and she could not wait to make perfection out of him just so she could rub it in her father's face.

"I'm going to leave Bob, but I liked you, and I'm serious you should call the lab, I'll be there, it's just an experiment, you don't have to do anything or pay for nothing... just try something knew. Sometimes it's all you need. I'll make you put together too. You're too handsome to continue to be a waste of oxygen." She finishes her drink, never breaking eye contact.

Bob looked at her, half of him being perfectly lored by her words, and the other half being face by the reality of her thoughts that she was trying to hide all their conversation. A waste of oxygen.

"Bye Bob, see you tomorrow? Maybe after?" She holds his hand for the two seconds it took to spill that sentence, trying to be appealing, nice for him. Leaving and being out of the door in seconds, like she couldn't wait any more time to be out of that bar.

All that small and strange conversation to be appealing, to be persuasive. And what had convinced him was only one sentence that he wanted to turn into a lie. A waste of oxygen.

Outside, the monsoon rain had turned the streets to rivers.

Bob's voice echoed in her memory - that fragile hope beneath the suspicion. She'd heard it a hundred times in clinical trials. Seen it evaporate just as often.

Her phone buzzed.

"Did you find him?" Her father's voice was all sharp edges.

Y/N watched her reflection warp in a passing taxi's window. "I found a candidate."

"Good. Valentina wants him prepped by Thursday."

The call ended before she could reply.

Bob's hands had been shaking when he took her card. Not just from withdrawal - from fear. She'd seen the way his breath hitched when their fingers brushed, how he'd recoiled from his own reflection in the bar mirror.

Perfect.

Broken enough to say yes.

Strong enough to survive what came next.

Y/N stepped into the storm, letting the rain wash the bar's stench from her skin. Somewhere in the drowning city, Bob Reynolds was counting the minutes until his next fix.

She'd be there when he realized there wasn't one.

The phone's shrill ring shattered the predawn silence of Y/N's office. She'd been sitting in the same position for hours - back rigid against the leather chair, fingers steepled beneath her chin, watching the first gray fingers of dawn creep across Kuala Lumpur's skyline. The receiver felt unnaturally heavy when she lifted it.

"Y-yes?" A man's voice, frayed at the edges like torn fabric. "This is... this is Bob. From last night. You gave me..."

She heard the crumple of paper as he unfolded her business card for the hundredth time.

"I remember," Y/N said, her thumb tracing the edge of her research notes. The words Subject Acquisition: Phase One stared back at her in crisp black type.

There was a wet cough on the other end of the line, then silence. She could practically see him - slumped in some phone booth, picking at the scabs on his arms, the receiver slippery in his sweat-damp palm.

"I want to try," he finally whispered. "Your... your cure."

Y/N closed her eyes. Somewhere in the building, a centrifuge whirred to life. "Come to the address on the card. You can come now."

"Ahm.. I'm actually at the gate already."

Bob looked worse in daylight.

The fluorescent bulbs of Y/N's office exposed every ravage the meth had wrought - the yellowed nails, the scabs along his hairline, the way his left eyelid twitched uncontrollably. He sat perched on the edge of the guest chair like a bird ready to take flight, fingers picking at a loose thread on his jeans.

The room smelled of him now - stale smoke and unwashed skin, the chemical tang of desperation. Y/N's pristine world of glass beakers and stainless steel had been invaded by human decay.

"You're sober today," she observed, setting down a glass of water.

Bob's hands shook as he reached for it. "Twelve hours." His Adam's apple bobbed. "Longest in... I don't remember."

Y/N opened a drawer and slid a folder across the desk. Inside, glossy photos showed brain scans - a healthy one beside one ravaged by methamphetamine. Bob flinched.

"This is what you've done to yourself," she said. Then she flipped to another page. "This is what I can do."

The after images showed neurons reknitting, dopamine receptors blooming like flowers after rain. Bob's breath hitched.

"How?"

Y/N produced a small vial from her pocket. The liquid inside caught the light, glowing with an unnatural golden hue.

"Sentry," she said. "My creation."

The hum of the air conditioner filled the silence. Bob stared at the vial with the desperate hunger of a dying man offered salvation.

"You'll stay here," Y/N continued. "Two months of monitoring. Daily bloodwork. Cognitive tests." She leaned forward, close enough to smell the stale smoke in his hair. "But when we're done? No more cravings. No more shakes. A perfect mind in a perfect body."

Bob's knee bounced erratically. "Why me?"

The question hung between them. Y/N's gaze flickered to the drawer where she'd shoved her father's latest email - another demand for results, another veiled threat.

"The world needs better people," she said automatically. Then, softer: "And I need to prove I can make them."

Something shifted in Bob's face. His bloodshot eyes traced the tension in her shoulders, the white-knuckled grip she kept on her pen. When he spoke, his voice was barely audible.

"You're what I need. I hope you can do it to me...and that people value you. I know I will Dr.."

The words struck Y/N like a physical blow. All her life - the stolen research, the sleepless nights, the desperate attempts to earn her father's approval - distilled into this single moment of unexpected recognition.

This broken man saw her. Not her father's daughter. Not Valentina's pawn.

Her.

This man...This unknown man she didn't even see as human. Gave her the one sentence she looked for. How could someone like him have more eyes that everyone around her.

"Yes Bob... Someone will value me, specially because of you."

Y/N was making her way to the lab room, Bob following her not much behind, looking around curious.

Reaching the automatic glass doors, using her face to unlock them, looking back to check on Bob's presence, they reach a white room, full of screens, a bed, medical tools, and what appeared to be a skylight above it.

"I need you to change to these clothes, they are clean, there's a bag where you can put all of you other belogings, the staff will put them in the room where you will be staying." She walks around picking up what looked like hospital clothing and a small clear bag, handing them to him.

"Where ahm...where do I change?" Bob asked looking around for a door or a space where privacy could reach him.

"You change here, I will come back with the team where you're ready, take your time and breath, be calm." She says as she goes out of the room leaving Bob to stare at the clothes thinking about the outcome this will have, and anxiety reaching him.

He was quick changing into the clothes, wanting for this to pass quickly, anxious for his new change and her promises to be reached.

After just a couple of minutes, Y/N walks again into the room, speaking to the four people following her around, giving them indications and their new subject. All of them had what looked like files on their hands. Looking at him, through him. He was an experiment here. He was not a person, and their looks showed him that.

"Okay Bob, I will make this as quick as it can be, I need you to lay down for me, breath and relax, roll up your sleves." Y/N was already walking to him, a wheeled steel table with all her tools in it with her.

The staff waited for him to lay down, plugging the wires onto his body, being scanned by all the machines circulating the bed.

Waiting, Y/N was ready for the serum to be inserted.

The syringe gleamed under the fluorescent lights.

Bob rolled up his sleeve, exposing a landscape of track marks and scar tissue. His breath came in short, sharp bursts as Y/N swabbed his forearm with alcohol.

"It'll hurt," she warned.

Bob's cracked lips twisted into something resembling a smile. "Everything does."

The needle slid in with barely a whisper. As she depressed the plunger, the golden serum disappeared into his ravaged veins. For a heartbeat, nothing happened.

Then—

Bob's back arched violently. The monitors behind them screamed their alarms as his heart rate spiked into dangerous territory. Y/N watched, transfixed, as golden veins spiderwebbed beneath his skin before fading back to blue.

When it was over, Bob lay panting on the tile, his sweat-slick hair plastered to his forehead. But when he lifted his head, his eyes - those impossibly blue eyes - were clearer than they'd been in years.

"What..." He flexed his fingers, marveling at their steadiness. "What did you do to me?"

Y/N reached out, almost against her will, and brushed a damp lock of hair from his forehead. His skin burned beneath her touch.

"I saved you," she whispered.

And in saving him, perhaps herself.

The lights buzzed overhead, faint and cold, casting a pallid glow across the whitewashed walls. The room was small—bed, sink, a tray with untouched food—and reeked of bleach and sterilization. It wasn’t a hospital, not really. But it wanted to be.

Bob lay sprawled across the stiff mattress, limbs heavy, the back of his shirt clinging to his skin with sweat. His breath came slow and uneven, chest rising like it resented the work. The serum—it had burned. Not all at once, but like acid blooming beneath the surface, slow and invasive. Like it was trying to rewrite him from the inside out.

But he didn’t feel reborn.

He felt worse.

His mouth tasted like metal and old ash. Every joint ached. His thoughts, once too loud, now stuttered and faded like a dying signal. He couldn't tell if he was falling asleep or falling apart.

The door opened with a hiss.

No knock. No announcement.

She stepped inside like it was her own room—and maybe it was, in a way. Y/N didn’t look at the bed first. She looked at the monitors. The numbers. The notes clipped to a tablet she’d brought with her.

Only then did she glance down at him, curled slightly on his side, shirt sticking to his back, brow damp with fever-sweat.

“You’re still awake,” she said plainly. “Good.”

He stirred, barely.

His voice came out dry. “Didn’t realize... I had a curfew.”

She didn’t smile. She rarely did when it wasn’t performative. Instead, she walked across the room, heels clicking softly, stopping beside the bed without a hint of hesitation.

“How do you feel?” she asked, but there was no warmth in it. Just a checklist tone.

“Like I got hit by a truck full of glass and fire,” he muttered, groaning. “And maybe the truck reversed a few times.”

Y/N scribbled something on the tablet. “That’s to be expected. The serum forces rapid cellular restructuring. Pain is the first sign it’s working.”

He winced. “So… hurting means I’m lucky?”

“You’re alive,” she said curtly. “That’s lucky enough.”

She walked around the bed slowly, checking vitals on the wall display. Her movements were practiced, precise. Detached. Bob watched her through half-lidded eyes.

She didn’t ask if he needed water. She didn’t offer help.

“You should rest,” she said. “Testing begins in a few hours. We’ll need to see how your system is adapting.”

“Testing,” he repeated, voice cracked.

Y/N turned her gaze back to him. “Bloodwork. Endurance. Cognition. Neurological response. Physical output.”

She said it all like she was reading from a menu. He wasn’t a patient—he was a list of symptoms waiting to be documented.

Bob rolled onto his back, letting out a shaky breath.

“Does it usually feel like this?”

“No one’s gotten this far before,” she replied. “You’re my first functional subject.”

“...So the others...?”

She paused only briefly. “Dead. Or damaged beyond utility.”

Her words fell like stones into the silence.

Bob swallowed hard.

He could see it in her eyes, then. The truth she didn’t bother to hide. He wasn’t special. He wasn’t lucky. He was useful. A vessel. A second chance—for her, not for him.

“I thought you wanted to help people,” he whispered hoarsely.

Y/N looked at him evenly. “I want to perfect them.”

Then, more softly—almost to herself—she added, “And prove it.”

He frowned. “Prove it to who?”

But she was already turning away, walking back to the door.

“Rest, Robert,” she said without looking back. “You’ll need your strength.”

The door slid shut behind her, locking with a soft click.

Bob stared up at the ceiling, the white lights blurring in his vision. He felt small beneath them. Fragile.

And despite the serum coursing through his blood, despite the promise of perfection and power…

He had never felt more disposable.

The room was colder today.

Sterile, metallic, too white. It looked less like a lab and more like a crucible—where things were melted down, broken apart, and reforged into something unrecognizable. A theater of suffering dressed in stainless steel.

Bob stood in the center, shirtless, chest heaving, heart stuttering somewhere between exhaustion and fury. Electrodes clung to his skin like leeches. His veins bulged, dark and crawling, betraying the serum’s slow war through his body. His hands trembled—not from fear, but from something worse—a pressure building in his bones, coiling like a predator in his blood.

Y/N stood on the other side of the glass, arms folded. Immaculate as ever. Her lab coat fell like a cape, pristine, untouched by the sweat or blood of the man behind the glass.

“Begin endurance sequence,” she said flatly into the mic.

A low mechanical buzz stirred the floor. The assistant beside Bob—Harris, a younger man with the kind of condescending smirk that came from cushioned privilege—nodded without looking at him.

“On the treadmill, Subject Seven.”

Bob gritted his teeth. They never called him by name anymore. Just a number. A designation.

He staggered onto the machine, hands clenched.

The test began.

Ten minutes. Fifteen. Thirty.

The speed increased with brutal indifference. Incline rising. Air growing thinner. His lungs begged. His legs screamed. Sweat poured down his back in rivers. He ran until his vision flickered, until the room swam with double-images and nausea clawed up his throat.

“Push harder,” came Y/N’s voice through the speaker.

There was no kindness in it.

Only calculation.

Only pressure.

The treadmill shut off with a sudden jerk, nearly throwing him forward.

“Vital scan,” she said.

Harris approached with a monitor, jamming a sensor against Bob’s chest without warning. The edge of it dug into bone. Bob hissed and shoved him back.

“Warn me next time.”

Harris scoffed. “You’re not here to be comfortable.”

Y/N didn’t intervene. She didn’t blink.

“Proceed with the physical resistance trial,” she said instead.

Bob was dragged to another station. Steel cables. Weighted bars. Movement resistance gloves. Every piece of equipment designed to test the threshold of pain, of muscle endurance, of recovery.

The tests went on for hours.

By the end, his knuckles were raw, blood darkening the wraps around his fingers. His breath came in ragged bursts. There was a tremor in his jaw he couldn’t bite back.

He collapsed to his knees.

Someone laughed. Harris again. “Thought you wanted to be fixed. You’re still just a junkie with good PR.”

Bob looked up, glassy-eyed, a thousand-yard stare beginning to burn into something more focused.

“What did you say?”

“I said maybe we should’ve picked someone who didn’t already have one foot in the grave.”

Bob’s jaw clenched.

“Enough,” Y/N said from behind the glass. “Draw blood and move him back to the room.”

But Harris didn’t wait. He moved in early—needle in hand—and without warning, jabbed it straight into the crook of Bob’s bruised elbow. Not cleanly. Not carefully.

Bob screamed.

The pain wasn’t just from the needle—it was from everything: the serum, the exhaustion, the voices, the fear, the humiliation. All of it twisted together like rusted wire around his spine.

He snapped.

His hand shot out on instinct, fist colliding with Harris’s chest with a thunderous crack. The man went flying across the lab, slamming into the far wall hard enough to leave a bloody smear as he crumpled.

Gasps erupted from the medical staff.

Alarms blared.

Bob stood there, eyes wild, chest heaving. For a second, he didn’t look like a man. He looked like a storm that had grown legs.

Y/N didn’t flinch.

She stepped into the lab with calm precision, clipboard still in hand, heels echoing on the tile. Bob turned toward her, half-dazed, arms trembling.

“You’re stronger,” she said simply, as if it were an observation on the weather.

“No,” he rasped. “You made me into a monster.”

She looked him up and down, unafraid. “No I didn't. You're perfect.”

Security moved toward him—stun batons raised—but she lifted one hand.

“Stand down.”

They froze.

Bob’s vision blurred at the edges. His breath slowed. The pain roared in his bones, but something beneath it… something deeper… had awoken.

He looked at Harris’s body, groaning on the floor, and then at Y/N.

And for the first time, she smiled, a smile that was so weirdly big, as tears come to her face. Letting out a laugh.

The serum was finally working.

The days bled into each other like old bruises—yellow, purple, sickly at the edges. The lights never turned off in the lab. Time was a theory. Sleep was optional. Mercy didn’t exist.

Bob had stopped asking what day it was. It didn't matter. The white coats came in with needles and wires and machinery. They attached him to things that clicked and beeped, asked him to move until his muscles screamed, screamed until his throat was raw, stayed silent when the pain crested too high for sound.

And then they’d start again.

Y/N stood behind the glass every morning. Always there, always watching. Never speaking unless it was necessary.

But she noticed.

She was the only one who did.

Because Bob wasn’t just breaking.

He was changing.

It started subtly. During the third day of exhaustive neural tests, when they placed him in sensory isolation and bombarded his nervous system with synthetic stress triggers—pain, voices, unbearable flashes of childhood trauma, withdrawal memories. He wept. Screamed. Clawed at the padded walls of the isolation tank.

Then… he stopped.

The tears dried.

The shaking ceased.

What replaced it was worse.

He went silent.

Staring.

Not at anything in particular. Just… outward. Through people, through walls. A haunted, still look that didn’t belong to the broken man who had first walked into her office days ago.

Y/N wrote it down. She didn’t mention it aloud. She simply noted:

Subject displays catatonic dissociation under stress. Staring. Withdrawn. Possible early signs of compensatory mental partitioning.

But it wasn’t just psychological.

The next day, during resistance drills—after twenty minutes of relentless physical abuse from a pair of armored guards trying to test his “combat reflexes”—one of them hit too hard. A baton cracked against his ribs, and Bob let out a visceral, breathless gasp, collapsing to his knees.

“You like being weak?” one of them said.

The room tilted. Bob’s hand dug into the ground.

And then, something shifted.

He stood. Not stumbled—stood. Smoothly. Slowly. Like someone was pulling strings from inside him.

His eyes were blank, but his voice was cold, quiet.

“Don’t touch me again.”

The guard laughed. Raised the baton.

And Bob caught it mid-swing.

There was no warning. No shout.

Just the crack of bone as he bent the guard’s wrist backward without effort. The man screamed. The second guard lunged—and was thrown across the room with a single shove, slamming into the reinforced wall so hard that plaster cracked.

Y/N pressed her palm to the glass, watching intently.

Not afraid.

Not surprised.

Bob’s chest heaved. Muscles flexed like coiled cables beneath his sweat-slick skin. His arms were bigger. Tighter. The veins under his skin pulsed black-blue, like oil moving just beneath the surface.

Power. Raw. Unfocused. But there.

The strength was real.

But so was something else.

Because later—when the sedatives had worn off, and he sat in the corner of his cell again, knees drawn to his chest—he cried.

He didn’t remember everything. Just flashes. Sounds. His own voice, low and unfamiliar, echoing in his ears.

“I didn’t want to hurt them,” he whispered when Y/N came in.

She didn’t answer.

She only crouched, observing him through the glass panel of the cell.

“No one listens to me,” he said, curling tighter. “I keep telling them I’m not okay. I keep begging. But no one listens.”

Y/N stared, impassive.

He turned his face toward her slowly, eyes bloodshot and unfocused.

“…But you see it, don’t you?” he murmured. “You know something’s wrong with me.”

Her eyes didn’t waver. “Something is evolving in you.”

“I’m scared,” he whispered. “I think I’m losing myself.”

She didn’t deny it.

She only said, “Then let it go.”

He stared again. That look returning. Vacant and chilling. As if he had retreated somewhere too deep to reach.

Later, under dim lighting in the observation theater, she reviewed footage: one of the medical staff caught Bob in profile—chest rising, bruises blooming under his collarbones, lips moving silently. He was mouthing something.

She zoomed in. Enhanced.

"I am here."

Repeated. Over and over. Lips forming the words without sound.

And then, he looked up into the lens.

Straight into the camera.

And smiled. Eyes glowing at her.

The facility hummed low with artificial life—hallways whispering with cold air vents, dimmed fluorescents casting long shadows across clean, quiet floors. Staff moved with mechanical precision, all too used to the rhythms of experimentation. But tonight, they moved away from one room in particular. Cleared by command.

Y/N’s command.

“Clear the wing. No assistants,” she said without looking up from the data pad. “From here on, I handle Subject Seven’s diagnostics myself.”

Her tone didn’t allow for debate. She didn’t offer reasons, and none of them dared ask. Even Valentina wouldn’t blink—this was her project now. And this subject was beginning to show signs that were far too promising… or far too dangerous to be shared.

She entered his containment room alone, the steel doors sealing behind her with a final hiss. No windows this time. No cameras. She had disabled the feed herself.

Bob sat in the far corner of the room, back against the padded wall, shirtless, still glistening with the faint sheen of post-test sweat. His eyes tracked her warily—red-rimmed, sunken, uncertain. He was thinner than before, but there was something volatile in the way his shoulders tensed, like a man bracing for an earthquake he couldn’t outrun.

He felt sick.

More than that—he felt wrong.

The door opened with a soft hiss. Y/N stepped inside alone again, clipboard in hand, her heels tapping a rhythm that was fast becoming routine. She didn’t knock. She never did.

He didn’t lift his head. Just mumbled, “You don’t believe in knocking, do you?”

“No need,” she replied flatly. “You don’t have anything I haven’t seen.”

Her tone was cool as always—clinical. But there was a slight falter in her pace as she got closer, and she noticed something: despite his bruised ribs, his split lip, the tremor in his fingers from exhaustion—he was still sitting up straight. He looked present.

Not shattered.

Not yet.

“How are you feeling?” she asked, setting the clipboard down.

“Better,” he said softly, finally looking at her. “I think… I think it helps.”

“What does?”

“The pain.” He smiled, small and sad. “It makes sense. I deserve it. For the man I was before. For the mess I made of my life. This… this is better than rotting on the streets.”

She narrowed her eyes, studying him.

“You’re saying you like this?”

“No,” he said. “But I accept it. And that’s more than I ever had before.”

There was silence for a beat. She tilted her head, intrigued.

“You think punishment makes you worthy?”

He looked away. “Maybe it’s the only thing that ever will.”

Y/N said nothing, but her gaze didn’t soften. There was no pity. Only analysis. Still, she crossed the room slowly and sat down across from him. Close enough for him to feel the heat of her presence. He glanced up at her, eyes tired and rimmed red.

“You’re different when you're in here,” he said after a moment. “Not like when you’re watching through the glass.”

“That’s because in here, I get answers.”

He nodded, then flinched—just slightly. A jolt of pressure shot through his chest, like a sudden drop. His breathing hitched.

“Hey—hey,” she stood quickly, alarm sharpening her voice. “What’s happening?”

But his body was already stiffening.

His fingers twitched, curled. His skin flushed gold under the surface like light through amber. A radiant pulse began to bloom from his chest—like a sun cracking through skin. Then his eyes snapped open.

They were glowing.

Brilliant, gold-white. Blinding.

He stood slowly, and this time, he was taller. Straighter. Something inhuman rippled beneath his skin—a calm storm, barely held.

She took a single step back.

He tilted his head, that warm glow behind his gaze searing into her.

“I don’t deserve pain,” he said, but it wasn’t Bob’s voice anymore—not entirely. It was deeper. Richer. Full of something ancient. “I deserve reverence.”

She didn’t speak.

The air buzzed.

“You made me,” he said, stepping closer. “Didn’t you?”

“Yes,” she said carefully.

“You shaped me from ruin.” His voice was equal parts wonder and command. “Then you broke me again.”

“I had to test you.”

“No,” he said sharply. “You wanted to see if I’d submit. But I’m not a man anymore. You saw it. You know.”

She watched him, heart thudding—not with fear, but fascination.

She understood now.

Bob craved punishment. But the Sentry—this glowing, impossible god standing before her—craved something else.

Worship.

“Yes,” she said, slowly, reverently. “I saw you. And you were… perfect.”

His eyes narrowed, but he didn’t speak. She took a careful step toward him.

“I’ve never seen anything like you,” she said, voice low. “Not even close. What you are—it’s not a mutation. It’s not a mistake. It’s creation. You’re not a man, you’re the answer.”

The golden light around him flared softly.

“You think I’m the answer?” he asked, voice tinged with curiosity, with hunger.

“I think,” she whispered, “you’re the beginning of something new.”

A pause. Then, something softened in him. Not entirely human. Not at all safe. But… tamed. For a moment.

“Say it again.”

“What?”

“That I’m perfect.”

She smiled. “You’re perfect.”

He took a breath—deep and indulgent—and let it out like a sigh of relief. His eyes dimmed slightly, his shoulders relaxing.

And just like that, the Sentry quieted. He didn’t vanish. But he leaned back into the body that held him, content, for now, to bask in her gaze.

Bob blinked slowly, as if waking from a dream. He looked at her, confused, uncertain.

“What just happened…?”

“Nothing,” she said smoothly, stepping away and picking up her clipboard. “You're tired. Get some rest. We start again tomorrow.”

She left the room without another word.

But behind the glass, she made a single note in the margin of his file:

Praise increases compliance. Needs reverence. He responds to adoration.

The silence in the observation room was a heavier thing than it had ever been. Y/N stood at the glass wall, arms limp at her sides, her expression unreadable. Behind that wall, Bob sat hunched on the floor of his quarters. The cot remained untouched—he rarely used it anymore. His knees were drawn to his chest, his arms wrapped tightly around them, trembling slightly under the white fabric of his uniform.

The last few days had been a slow collapse.

The tests had grown more invasive, more demanding. Neural taps. Strength resistance simulations. Pain tolerance trials. Every time he seemed to stabilize, something inside him would shift—memories would fray, his gaze would glaze, or worse, he would look at her and flinch like she was a stranger.

His powers were accelerating rapidly, almost impossibly. Muscle density, healing capabilities, visual acuity. All off the charts. But the mind—the man inside the mutation—was breaking open at the seams.

And the scariest part wasn’t when Bob cried or screamed or begged.

It was when he stared.

Quiet. Still. Gone somewhere deep.

She had seen that kind of stillness once—on her father’s face.

Y/N pressed her fingers against the bridge of her nose and sighed.

You’re losing him.

And if she lost Bob, she lost everything. Her work. Her legacy. Her revenge. But more than that—deep down, in a part of herself she refused to name—she knew she might also be losing the only living being who had ever looked at her like she mattered.

She stepped through the airlock and into his quarters.

The moment the door hissed closed, Bob’s eyes twitched toward her. Red-rimmed. Tired. Suspicious.

She didn’t speak right away. Just walked slowly, carefully, and crouched beside him—knees creaking, lab coat brushing the floor. She didn't reach for him. Just existed in his space for a moment, with warmth in her silence.

“You came to hurt me again?” he murmured, voice cracking.

She shook her head. “No. Not today.”

His brow furrowed, confused. Guarded.

Y/N let out a breath and sat fully beside him, her back resting against the cold wall.

“I’ve been thinking,” she said softly. “About everything I’ve put you through. And I think I made a mistake.”

He didn’t answer. But he was listening.

“I treated you like a subject. A tool,” she said. “And that’s not fair. I told myself it was necessary. That pain was the price of progress. But… you’re not just a project. You’re a person. You’ve been through hell. And I didn’t stop to see it.”

A long silence.

Then: “Why are you saying this?”

“Because I want to do better,” she said honestly, gently. “Because I see what this is doing to you, and I can’t pretend it’s okay anymore.”

He looked at her, blinking hard. “You made me this way.”

“I know,” she whispered.

Bob turned away, resting his head back against the wall. “I feel like I’m disappearing. Like there’s someone else in here, pushing me out. And I’m scared.”

Her heart twisted. She reached out, finally, and placed her hand carefully on top of his, not forcing him to accept it, just… there.

“You don’t have to be scared alone,” she said. “You’ve had no one. I can be here. With you. If you want.”

He didn’t move.

But he didn’t pull away.

“I thought you hated me,” he said quietly.

“I’ve never hated you.”

He didn’t answer.

So she went on.

“You didn’t deserve the things that happened to you before this. And maybe you think you deserve what’s happening now—but you don’t. No one does.”

He looked down at their hands. His fingers flexed slightly, touching hers. “Then why does it feel right when it hurts?”

Her throat tightened. “Because they taught you pain was all you were worth.”

He shivered, and she shifted closer.

“But I see more than that in you,” she murmured. “You’re strong, Bob. Brave. Smarter than you think. And maybe… maybe you’re becoming something even greater.”

His breath caught. “Greater?”

She smiled faintly. “Stronger than anyone. Maybe not just better. But… perfect.”

His eyes glowed—just faintly, flickering like a match.

That always happened when he surfaced. The part of him that didn’t shake. That didn’t cry.

The part that needed to be told he was everything.

“You think I’m perfect?” he asked, his voice lower now—not quite his own.

Y/N met his gaze, softer than ever. “I think you’re becoming something no one will ever be able to match.”

He straightened slowly, eyes glowing brighter now, tension rippling through his muscles as if remembering his own greatness. His shoulders squared.

“I knew it,” he said, voice nearly serene. “You saw it too.”

And just like that, the shattered man was buried beneath a new mask.

One that needed her—for now.

She stayed at his side. Letting him feel her warmth. Letting him believe.

Because even gods needed temples.

And she would be his, if it kept him in her control.

If it saved her masterpiece.

It started with something small.

A candy bar.

Bob hadn’t tasted real sugar in weeks—his meals had been measured and rationed, protein-heavy, vitamin-saturated, dull as sand. So when she handed him the wrapped snack during one of their quieter sessions—no needles, no machines, just a clipboard resting on her lap—his fingers trembled as he opened it. He didn’t say anything, just took a bite, and then another. A smudge of chocolate smeared the corner of his mouth.

Y/N wiped it away with the corner of her sleeve.

“You’re not just data,” she murmured, more to herself than him. “You’re a person. They forget that sometimes.”

He didn’t look at her, but something shifted in his chest. A tightness he hadn’t even realized was there uncoiled just slightly.

The next day, she brought him a sandwich—soft bread, warm chicken. The next, a coffee, real coffee, not the sterile nutrient fluid they pumped into the subjects. Then a blanket. Socks. A chair with a cushion. Lip balm.

She noticed everything. His hunger. His discomfort. His silence.

And she fixed it.

When the tests were brutal—and they always were—she would come storming into the lab, voice sharp, eyes aflame, berating the staff with just the right fury. “This wasn’t what we discussed,” she’d snap, standing between him and the machines. “He’s not an animal.”

They would quiet, nod, retreat.

They never questioned her authority. She was the one in charge. She wrote the protocols. She set the bar.

But Bob never connected the dots. Never saw that the pain they inflicted was her design. Because afterward, she was always there.

Bandaging his arms.

Apologizing in soft whispers.

“I wasn’t there,” she’d say, kneeling by his cot. “I would have stopped them.”

She’d stay late. Sit beside him as the lights dimmed, reading his vitals by the glow of the monitors. Sometimes, when the nightmares returned—trembling fits, disjointed flashes of his old life, screaming into the dark—he’d wake up to her hand stroking gently through his hair.

“Shhh,” she’d whisper. “I’m here. You’re safe.”

It became a ritual.

She would stay until he fell asleep.

Sometimes longer.

Bob stopped talking to the other staff. He stopped looking at them. When they tried to coax him out of his room for a scan or an exam, he ignored them. Refused to move.

But when Y/N came—just a quiet knock, her voice soft—he followed. Always.

He trusted her.

She was his tether.

His anchor in the chaos of his fracturing mind. The only constant in a world of shifting memories and invasive pain.

Once, when his powers flared unexpectedly—he’d bent a steel tray in half without realizing it—he panicked. Terrified he was losing control. He fell to the floor, fists clenched, gasping.

She was there in seconds.

She didn’t flinch. Didn’t step back.

She held him.

“You’re okay,” she murmured, over and over, stroking his back. “You’re not a monster. You’re mine. You hear me? I’ll take care of you.”

He clung to her like a child.

He needed her.

And she knew it.

The deeper he fell into her care, the more isolated he became. They made sure of it. A slow, strategic withdrawal of other contact. Less staff rotation. Fewer voices. Always her.

When he cried, it was for her.

When he smiled, it was because of her.

He began to crave her presence—watching the door like a loyal hound, ears pricking at the sound of her heels.

She was warmth. She was safety. She was love.

Even if it wasn’t real.

Even if it was perfectly orchestrated.

Because behind every soft glance, every nurturing hand, was calculation.

Her notes were full of it.

Subject displays increased cooperation when exposed to emotional care. Recommend continued one-on-one interaction to maximize psychological dependency. Rapid increase in obedience and physical response post-praise.

She was feeding his weakness, nurturing it into loyalty.

And he—poor, broken, beautiful Bob—never questioned it.

Because for the first time in his life, someone stayed.

The room was dimly lit, bathed in the faint hum of soft blue monitor lights, the walls lined with quiet machines blinking in quiet rhythm—everwatchful, everrecording. Bob lay still under the sterile sheets, his eyes open and distant. Y/N sat beside him, as she had most nights now, phone in hand, scrolling, half-engaged, the way one humors a pet that insists on your presence but not your focus.

Tonight was different, though. Bob could feel it.

The pain hadn’t dulled. If anything, it gnawed deeper. His joints ached in ways they shouldn’t. His head throbbed from the flashes—memories that weren’t his, voices that spoke in his tone but not his mind. He felt stretched, hollowed.

And tonight, it felt unbearable.

He turned his head slightly on the pillow to look at her. “You don’t have to be here.”

She blinked, not looking up from her phone.

“I know you’re faking it,” he continued, voice soft—no malice, no accusation, just truth worn thin by exhaustion. “But at least you give me something I crave. And you’re so good at it.”

That made her pause.

The screen lit her face in faint light as she looked up slowly, phone frozen in her hand.

Her eyes searched his—half-expecting him to be teasing, or confused. But there was clarity there. Depth. Something terrifyingly aware behind those tired blue eyes.

For a moment, she didn’t speak.

He continued to stare at the ceiling, a ghost of a smile on his lips. “You're not like the others,” he murmured. “You're better. You know how to make someone feel needed. Even if it's a lie.”

Y/N’s mouth opened slightly, but no words came out at first. Something in her stomach twisted. How long had he known? Had he always? Or was this…new?

She blinked quickly and set her phone aside, suddenly animated, leaning forward as if the shift in posture could erase what he'd said. Her voice took on a lighter tone, tinged with breathy disbelief. “Bob… What are you talking about?” she asked gently, smiling—just enough to seem soft, not insincere. “You’re exhausted. I think you’re reading too much into this. I’m just tired too, that’s all.”

But her heart was thudding—he shouldn’t be this perceptive.

She had to pivot, quickly.

Before he could retreat from her care. Before he saw too much.

Her expression softened further, and she tilted her head with a playful, sympathetic tilt. “You know what I think?” she said gently, resting a hand over his. “I think you’re overthinking everything again. You do that when you're stressed.”

He didn’t pull away. He just watched her. So quiet. So tired.

And desperate for something—anything.

“Hey…” she said more gently, voice dipping into something warm and honeyed. “Why don’t we both rest? Just for a bit. You’ve had a long day. We both have. Friends… look after each other, right?”

He blinked. Her words felt strange. “Friends?”

She nodded, already slipping out of her shoes, unbuttoning her coat slowly and setting it on the chair, like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“I can stay here,” she said softly, slipping under the covers beside him. “Just tonight.”

Bob turned his head toward her, the sheets rustling slightly as her presence warmed the space beside him. He didn’t move, frozen, eyes wide—not with fear, but with something achingly vulnerable.

She smiled, reaching up to touch his cheek. Her fingertips brushed his skin so gently, it nearly undid him.

" I really care about you Bob,” she whispered.

He didn’t answer, afraid his voice would crack.

And then—everything went black.

As if the light had been swallowed whole, not turned off.

The monitors shut down. The gentle hum of the lab fell silent in an instant. Y/N sat upright, eyes wide in the pitch darkness.

The air in the room changed.

Heavy. Electric. Like a storm about to break.

Looking down trying to see Bob, she was alone.

The cold that seeped through her skin wasn’t natural.

Y/N blinked and the room was gone.

Bob—gone.

The hum of machines, the sterile scent of the lab, the soft glow of artificial light—all gone.

Darkness surrounded her now, thick and oppressive, as if she had been plunged beneath ink. She turned in place, breath hitching. Her heels clicked softly against a polished floor that should not exist. And then—

A single note.

A piano.

Sharp. Perfect.

Then—

CRACK.

The sound of a whip slicing air and meeting flesh. Sharp. Wet.

Another piano key.

Then another. A rhythm. Crack. A scream. A perfect A major. Crack. A low sob. F sharp.

It came in cycles.

And suddenly, she knew.

Her breath caught in her throat as her eyes adjusted, and the room took form from the shadows like a curtain lifting on a stage she had long since burned away in her mind.

The piano room.

Her piano room.

Back in the penthouse. The place that smelled of waxed mahogany, stale wine, and disappointment. It was too real—the ivory keys smeared with red, the glossy floor reflecting the warped chandelier light above.

And at the piano—a girl.

A child no more than eleven.

Immaculately dressed. A long, silken white gown with lace cuffs. Her dark hair pinned back into a braided crown that a governess had once spent an hour perfecting. But her hands… her hands were ruined.

They bled at the joints, fingertips raw, the keys slick with crimson trails—but still she played.

La campanella.

The impossible song. A cruel performance that her father once deemed the measure of genius. Of perfection.

Her perfection.

Standing beside the girl was a tall man, graying, stoic in his dark three-piece suit. His eyes held no pity. No pride. Only expectation.

The power cable in his hand—industrial, rubber, humming faintly with static and fury—swung by his side. Streaked red.

The child faltered.

She missed a note.

She froze.

He turned to her with the stillness of a statue and said, cold as winter steel: “Get up.”

The little girl trembled, tears streaming down her face—but she obeyed.

She stood. Laid her bleeding hand on the piano bench. No one needed to explain what came next.

CRACK.

Y/N screamed—not aloud, not outwardly, but deep, guttural, in her chest where no one could hear.

She stumbled back, shaking. She couldn’t move. Couldn’t stop it. Her eyes burned with unshed tears, her breath short.

Suddenly, the lights flickered.

The walls warped, stretching and flexing like the inside of a dying heartbeat. The chandelier pulsed with an unnatural glow.

And the piano stopped.

So did everything else.

And then—like a snap— they were back.

The room. The bed. The lamp on the desk.

Y/N was still lying beside him, but she was sitting upright now, gasping, covered in sweat. Her eyes darted around in disbelief. Her phone was still on the nightstand. The monitor still beeped. The world was normal.

Bob sat up next to her, breathing hard. “Did… did you see that?”

She turned to him slowly. Her voice was dry.

“You were there too?”

He nodded.

Neither spoke for a long moment.

Only the sound of Bob’s heavy breathing and the soft flicker of the light filled the space between them.

Then he whispered, “What just happened?”

And for once, Y/N didn’t have an answer.

She only knew one thing now.

Something else was inside him.

And now, it had seen her.

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