jasontoddswhitestreak

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Tags: [wlw][mdni][friends to more?][pining][exhibitionism?][self gaslighting][Tamaran customs][yoga][reader is downbad][kissing (⁠灬^‿^灬⁠)][praise][nipple sucking][scissoring][fingering]

"Kory..."

You groan, eyes squeezed shut and you're exhausted, letting out huffs of exhaustion as you continue to be follow Kory onto the rooftop of the Titans building. The sunlight streams in hot, golden strands, beating down on you.

"It's like, 6AM. Everyone else is sleeping."

Like all sweethearts, Kory felt that with the messiness of being a superhero, she's been disconnected from you. And what other way to bond with your closest friend, than waking them up at the asscrack of dawn to do something new every second morning?

"Kory, I'm hungry." You whine.

Kory ignores you, continuing to roll out her yoga mat and she inhales sharply. The morning air is crisp and she settles down on her mat, legs folded and she glances towards you, expectantly.

And you whine, but comply.

Mimicking her motions, and you settle down on your own mat, fingers laced in your lap and you let out a deep breath, back slumped like a capital C and expression scrunched because it's like the Sun just gets brighter.

And Kory giggles. "Open your eyes."

"We're literally facing the Sun. It burns and I could go blind." You deadpan, blinking rapidly because fuck, your eyes are so dry right now.

"Better to go blind, than to not see the world."

Her voice is something that's so sweet. So saccharine that it takes you a hot minute to realise that she's saying some bullshit and you turn to face Kory, instead.

"Who taught you that?"

"I came up with it." She beams, dimples deepening in her tanned cheeks and you hum.

"I can tell."

You allow yourself to bake in the warm, golden sunlight bathing the both of you as you face the ball of gas and you peek at Kory from the corner of your eye.

Her lashes are resting on those stupidly high cheekbones, full, mauve toned lips curled into a soft and almost appreciative smile and her hair flows down her back like a river of magma. Voluminous, so flattering and you swallow hard.

She looks like some kind of deity.

"You look like a sexy orange."

You watch the way her lips purse, dimples deepening in her cheeks as she tries not to laugh before her eyes flutter open, and she looks at you, head cocked.

"Can you take anything seriously?" She hums, lips quirked in amusement and you shake your head.

"Definitely not, no." You blow out a breath. "And if you take it seriously, it's an even harder no."

⊹♡🔥♡⊹

Yoga's definitely not for you, but watching Kory do it, is a salve to your wounded ego.

Because never once have you ever been insecure about being inflexible.

"Kory, my knees."

"It's only been 12 seconds." Her belly flexes as she giggles, her arms raised over her head and they're straight as an arrow.

Her chest heaves with each deep and even breath she takes, her little cropped shirt mocking you as it flutters in the warm, summery breeze that makes you wish you took off your hoodie but you know damn well, you're not even wearing a sports bra under it.

You're facing her.

Her gaze doesn't waver.

How are her eyes so magnetic, when she doesn't even have a fucking pupil? Just... A green orb in a socket but you feel like they're pulling you in.

"You're staring." Kory comments, her voice quiet alongside the chirps of the birds, and you let out a breath. Heavy, shaky and so, so unfit.

"Really?" You puff out. "I couldn't tell on account that I'm looking at you."

And she sighs, almost dramatically and she lowers her arms for a moment, signalling that it's a switch of position. "Do you have to be so negative?" She questions, and immediately, hits Warrior I again, but this time, with the other leg.

You mimic her stance.

"Kory, I'm sweating at 6AM." You grumble.

"This is the first position." She reminds and your expression nearly crumbles. Your arms hurt, your back hurts, your ankles are aching and your eye's twitching.

"Oh God." You pant. "I think I'm dying."

And she laughs. It's soft. It's melodious. She laughs like if a Disney princess was from an alien planet and had ass for days.

"Well, at least you'd die looking very... Dewy." She reassures. Before her eyes look you over. "Are you regretting not changing into something suitable?"

And you swallow. "No." You lie. You're sweating balls. "I'm very comfortable."

"Just take off your hoodie, I'm not judging."

"I'm not wearing anything underneath."

And Kory blinks. Slow and careful. And there's not a thought behind those eyes.

"They're just breasts? Look, I'll even—"

"No." You interrupt. "There are cameras here and no free shows."

Her lips purse and her brows furrow in that cute little frown she does when she doesn't understand something, "Humans are so odd."

You don't look up when you're in child's pose.

It just doesn't feel right and the coolness of your yoga mat feels so good against your forehead. Your body's aching from the stretches, your brain's just a bit fuzzy because how does her sweat smell like cinnamon?

Your shoulders are so relaxed, your arms stretched out ahead of you, your knees tucked to your chest and you let out an even breath.

"This is nic—"

"And into downward dog."

You listen to the way Kory rustles, her body moving and your gaze flicks up.

"Kory!" You nearly scream. "I can see your whole pussy."

Her legs are straight, feet and palms flat against that violet yoga mat, and you can see all the muscles in the backs of her legs flex with the strain.

But you can really focus on, is the outline of her cunt through those yoga shorts, pulling taut against puffy folds and you try not to stare too hard when she peeks at you from between her legs.

"Are you enjoying the 'free show'?" She teases you, lips curled and her hair falling forward in a gorgeous gradient of pinks, reds and oranges, the golden sunlight barely able to filter through the strands.

"No." You breathe out, your cheeks are burning and your ears feel hot. "It feels like you just flashed me."

"You're welcome." She gleams. "Now, get in position."

"Can you turn—"

"There is no time."

No matter what, your gaze keeps flickering up. If you stare hard enough, you can see the subtle pulse of her cunt with each exhale she lets out, and you swallow hard. Lowering your head and trying to calm your racing heart because is this what a crackhead feels like when they see a dealer that's out of their budget?

"You need to keep your head up to open up your chakras." She gently chides you.

"Kory, I can see your chakra."

And she snorts. "Just do it." And she pauses. "And it's my nirvana."

"I'd say it's your Narnia." You murmur under your breath, before following her instructions, and you tip your head back, letting out an even shakier breath.

And your gaze flickers towards her chest, and your breath stutters. Her shirts riding up, and you're catching a whole view of underboob, topped off with pretty nipples, pebbled. And you swallow.

This is totally normal. It should be normal. It doesn't feel normal but it's probably normal.

But you know:

It's not normal.

It's not normal that your heart's pounding like a meth head's. It's not normal that you're fighting demons to not blow a thin stream of air in the direction of Kory's stupidly close pussy, just to see if she'll feel it.

And it's definitely not normal to hope she does.

⊹♡🔥♡⊹

"And now, we go into a straight arm side plank and lift your other leg. And then, I'll hold your foot and you'll hold mine."

You stare at Kory in pure silence.

"What kind of ecstasy do you do, to think I can do that?"

And she smiles, inhaling sweetly and she stretches her arms overhead, forcing your gaze to lower to her tightly toned tummy and the soft swells of her breasts that peek out from the frayed edge of her croptop.

"The ecstasy of life."

You frown.

"You keep saying shit like that and I'll push you off this roof."

"You silly thing," she coos, her lips curl before she reminds you, "I can fly."

The positioning is awkward, especially since Kory didn't tell you that she'd switch your legs. And you'd look like the literal scissors emoji together.

You keep your hand on her ankle, grasping her foot for dear life and you feel how gently her manicured fingers wrap around yours. And you'd feel guilty for your dragon claw grip but her core strength is better than yours.

"Kory, my tummy h—" Your gaze flickers down to where her shorts is practically translucent, white fabric stupidly clear and you can see every pretty, silky fold and you lose your balance. Tumbling and you land hard on your ass.

"Oh!" Her voice is so sweet as she moves towards you.

"Are you okay?" Her thigh's tucked beneath one of yours, and her other thigh, is tossed over your remaining leg in a way that's so leisurely.

But your breath stutters.

"Kory, Kory, we cannot— You're too close." Her hand moves to cradle the side of your face, dark tumeric coloured brows furrow in confusion and she moves closer. "What do you— oh..."

She glances down to where there's mere inches between your crotches, her lips parting before she bites down on her bottom lip, gaze flickering to your face.

"On Tamaran... This is how friends bond."

"Girl, you come from a porn planet, don't you?" You huff out, pushing yourself up on your elbows and you watch the way her lips curl, and her dimples deepen.

"Maybe." And she leans closer, hands braced on the yoga mat and you can feel the way her breaths ghost over your face.

And fuck, her eyes are so pretty.

"But I've never practiced my customs with anyone here on Earth, aside from learning the languages." And she tilts her head, lashes fluttering so sweetly and you have no idea how she gives you doe eyes with no fucking pupils but she does. "Would you embrace my customs with me?"

Oh my God, are you being gaslit?

"Uh huh." You nearly stutter, big doe eyes focused on Kory and the way her smile widens, pointed canines peeling just a bit. Before she croons, her palm warm against your cheek.

"Good girl."

And you're down bad.

⊹♡🔥♡⊹

The first time your tongue slides against hers, your brain shuts off entirely. Your thighs parted to accommodate her waist, your ankles locked behind her back and her lips pressed so sweetly against yours.

Kory's fingers remain laced with yours, hips pressing against yours like she's trying to get friction some way or another and she smiles into the kiss.

It's so subtle. Her tongue brushing against yours, gossamers of saliva stringing between you and your brain's so fucking fuzzy because all you taste is toothpaste and mouth between you.

And she pulls back, her lips glossy and kiss swollen, as she peers down at you, her lashes fluttering and she hums.

"Does it feel good?" She's soft, fingers tracing along your palms as she keeps them pinned on either side of your head, expression so sweet and adoring.

"Huh?" Your voice cracks. And she snickers. "Wow. For the first time, you're taking something serious."

She dips her head and all you smell is fucking citrus and sweetness. Her lips press against your pulse and you feel the way she lingers just to feel the erratic pump, before she moves. Down, down, down.

Until she's at the dip of your clavicles, exposed by your oversized hoodie and her hands slide down, grasping at your waist and giving you the sweetest squeeze.

"I won't take this off." She whispers. "Because it'd be a free show." And she moves her hands towards the edge of her own shirt, grasping the flimsy fabric and pulling it overhead.

"But I'll take this off." She discards the fabric. "Because I don't care about free shows."

And your face is burning. You're staring up at Kory like she invented AO3 because God, you might be falling in love.

Vibrant sunlight surrounds her like a halo, her hair's a flaming crown and her skin looks like molten gold.

And those eyes. A shade of green that would make you weep if you saw it anywhere else and your voice cracks in a mumbled 'wow' when she guides your hands to her chest, and the weight has your mind stumbling like that old vine of that guy leaving his trailer.

And you giggle.

"So pretty." You whisper softly, your thumbs brushing over her nipples and the way she sighs has your cunt throbbing in your shorts. Her hand feels warm as it rests on the back of your neck, and she stares down at you, perched on your lap with rosy cheeks.

And you dip your head, licking a long wet stripe from the crevice between her tits, all the way up to the hollow beneath her ear. And Kory shudders, eyes fluttering shut as she feels the way you suck marks into her skin, dotting her flesh all the way until you get to the swell of her tits.

And your mouth's so warm, her nails digging into your neck as your tongue swirls around a pebbled bud, your other hand gently tugging at her unattended nipple.

"Oh..." Her lips form the prettiest 'o' shape. "Just like that..."

Kory moans and it sounds like a fucking symphony, and suddenly, it's all you wanna hear. Morning, noon and night.

You're sucking attentively, lavishing her chest in kisses and nips, sucking hickeys into the skin until she's panting, belly dipping inward and hips twitching needily.

"That's my girl..." She croons so prettily, looking down at you with hazy eyes and parted lips. "Feels so good..."

And sooner than you'd guess, your shorts and panties are discarded, and so are hers. One of your thighs are braced against Kory's shoulders, her knees digging into the mat on either side of you.

And she's focused.

Gently sliding her clit against yours until she's feeling her thighs quiver and buckle.

"You're so wet." She whispers softly. "So pretty." She's bringing a hand down to part your plump lips, staring down at your glossy folds like they're something to be worshipped and she glides again.

And again.

And again.

Her lips pressing the softest kiss against your ankle, her brows twitching into a furrow and she feels the way your hips buck, eager to meet each grind of hers.

And she sighs.

"You're so soft." She whispers. "So delicate, so lovely."

Kory's brain is a mushy haze. Friendship's never felt so... Good.

The burn in her belly feels damn near instant when it's taken lovers nearly hours to even light the flame, she can't get enough of the way you watch her from beneath fluttering lashes. Your pussy sticky against hers, your hands grasping at the curves of her waist with desperation like you want her closer.

Your hands slide up her sides, cradling her chest and you moan at how her hips twitch, cunt pulsing against yours and it feels so nasty when Kory lifts her hips, and you watch the way the sunlight catches the sticky strands of slick that connects you.

And you barely make an audible sound when you feel two of her fingers sink into you. Your head lands against the mat beneath you, your eyes fluttering shut and you know.

You bring one of your hands down, between her thighs and your fingers drag through her slippery folds, shaky digits fumbling for her clit and the way she gasps has you clenching around her fingers.

You do those circles with your fingers, the sticky bud threatening to escape your fingers with each shlick but your persistence makes Kory's tummy flutter.

Kory leans down, her lips pressing against yours as she bucks her hips in time to the pumping of her fingers, her tongue curling against yours.

This doesn't feel like friendship.

It doesn't feel like friendship when she's clamping down on your fingers, when she's spitting into your mouth and licking it back up again. Her forehead against yours as she comes on your fingers, your other hand tangled in her hair and you whine when you feel the way her palm grinds down against your clit, hard.

And you're seeing stars behind your eyelids, your ears filled with her panted breaths and praises.

You feel warm.

So... So... Warm.

And you're floating, whimpering when she pulls her fingers out of you and listening to her longful sigh when you do the same.

There's a quiet silence that blankets the moment that's otherwise filled with birdsong and the sounds of early morning traffic from the city. And Kory hums softly, her breasts pressed against your chest as she presses her cheek against yours.

She brings up a hand, flexing and scissoring her fingers to see how the sunlight illuminates your slick.

And she giggles.

"Friendship is magical."

⊹♡🔥taglist🔥♡⊹

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[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Tags: [wlw][mdni][tw: spiders][hints of prior canoodling][betrayal][maybe a bit of angst?][flashing][slight exhibitionism?][hatefuck, maybe][fingering][oral (f! rec)][rekindling][strap-on mention]

The air's just a bit warmer in the Arachnology Department than it is in the rest of the faculty building. There's a distinct scent of plants and almost the metallic smell of floor cleaner, mingling with the undertone of that soft, almost sweet scent that Natasha's come to associate with you.

Her heels click against the tiled floors, the white catching the glimmer of the overhead lighting, dimmed to perfection and she looks around at the various glass tanks, filled with various foliage and soils, all to make the little creepy crawlies comfortable.

She tries not to wince at the way fuzzy paws tap against the glass, eight distinct taps following one another.

And she focuses on the tiles instead.

Despite the fact that she doesn't really have a fear of spiders, this many make her uneasy. She can feel eyes. Far too many eyes, following her movements as she tries to navigate her way through the winding pathway.

"Viewing hours are closed." Your voice is bored, a monotonous hum as you continue to hold your hands in the little holes of a tank, gaze focused on the arachnid that creeps across your thickly gloved fingers. Magnifying glasses rest on the bridge of your nose.

"I am not here for viewing hours." Natasha's voice is quiet, her arms folded across her chest as she moves to stand just a bit closer, near one of the other tanks and she tries to ignore the way several jumping spiders come to stand near the glass, eyes peering up at her inquisitively.

You inhale sharply, eyes fluttering shut as you try to centre yourself, pulling your hands out of the tank-attached gloves, and you spin in your chair, hands laced in your lap.

Your expression isn't welcoming. Not in the slightest.

Doe eyes hardened and accompanied by furrowed brows, glossy lips pressed into a thin line and the way your jaw clenches makes her just a bit nervous. You've never looked at her that way before.

"What do you want?" Your question is blunt. Manicured nails tapping on your knuckles, and you stare at her. Hardened gaze unwavering.

"I don't want—"

"You always want something." You interrupt. "That's the thing with you people."

Her expression falls, indifference turning into something cold, and she takes a step forward, booted heels clicking against the tiles.

"What's that supposed to mean?"

"Spies. S.H.I.E.L.D agents. Gingers." You hum. "Take your pick."

You glance back towards the spider in the glass case, long, wiry legs carrying it along the soil-cluttered bottom before you stick your hands back into the gloves, wiggling your fingers.

And you hum, lips curling into a soft smile as it clambers into your palm.

And you coo. "Natalia," your voice is sweet, "the only one of your name that doesn't lie and trifle like a man."

And you glare at Natasha over your shoulder, before you trace your finger over the enlarged abdomen, tracing along that distinct red marking.

"You're being a child." She rolls her eyes, dragging one of the chairs, metal legs screeching as they're dragged along the floor before she drops into the seat, rather unceremoniously.

"I swear to God, I will throw this spider at you." You grit back.

"And I'll stab it." She retorts. "I'll stab your precious little Natalia and I'll make you eat her."

And your scowl deepens, before you're setting the arachnid on a leaf, and you slump in your seat.

"Just tell me what you want." You exhale. "I don't have the time for your long-winded bullshit of lies and cat shit."

"Cat shit?" She repeats, a dark, wine red brow raising at your words and she crosses her legs over one another.

"I can't say 'bullshit' twice." You answer with a huff. "It just sounds stupid, then."

Crimson painted lips form an 'o' shape, before she lets out a quiet hum, ice blue eyes glancing towards the various display cases before she meets your expression again.

And she lets out a breath.

"I'm here to apologize." Her accent is thick, something so velvety that it makes you nearly blind to the four years that you were just part of a deeply, undercover mission. "I shouldn't have... Dragged it on, for so long. I should've been honest, and I shouldn't have involved you in something I didn't need to."

And your lips press into a line, your nails digging into the flesh of your biceps as you fold your arms over one another.

"I'm sorry, kukolka." Natasha whispers softly. "Prostite menya?"

"I don't speak Russian, Natasha."

And she sighs. "I'm asking for your forgiveness." Her tongue brushes across those porcelain teeth, perfect, perfect. Incisors just a bit elongated and she purses her lips.

"Please."

And you hum, lips pursed almost pensively, your nails tapping against your lab coat before you sigh.

"You know," your shoulders go slack, "my therapist —yes, I go to therapy now, thank you for that— but, my therapist said that I need to... Practice letting go. Of anger, of regret, of all those... Negative emotions. You know?"

And you inhale sharply.

"But colour me a petty bitch, because I hold onto hate. I hold onto the fact that we dated for two years and were engaged for another two, and I hold onto the fact that you left me with a fucking note saying, 'goodbye, wish you well', like a fucking cunt. So, you know, I'm a hater." And your fingers lace.

"So, no, Natasha, if that's even your real name—"

"Why wouldn't it be my real name?"

"Because you're a pathological liar. You lie for a living. You have a lie-festyle." And your eyes narrow. "You lie. And I can't believe I let you water my plants."

Natasha doesn't know what stings more. The fact that that's not even a euphemism for the sex, or the fact that she actually watered your plants.

She spent sunny mornings in your arms, and chilly evenings bundled in your covers, watching you moisturize in the doorway of your en suite while you rambled about work. She spent Saturdays listening to you talk about spiders for hours, only for the words to die on your tongue once she tilted her head that specific way.

She's never seen 45° make someone so shy before and she'd abuse it every time, watching you get facts wrong about your literal passion just because of the way she'd watch you.

"You didn't have to do all of that, Natasha." Your voice is quiet. "I wasn't involved in your ridiculous fucking mission, in any way."

There's a tinge of pain in your voice, your brows furrowed and you don't meet her gaze.

She extends a booted leg, hooking her foot around the base of your chair before tugging you closer to her, and her hands cradle yours, and your eyes flicker to hers.

Glacial blue, framed by long, fluttery lashes, accompanied by the sharpest wing you've ever seen eyeliner make and she brings your hands to her lips, pressing kisses to your knuckles.

"How can I make it up to you, solnyshko?"

"You can't." You pull your hands back. "What you did hurt. You can't just fix it."

You swallow the lump in your throat.

"Can you leave now, please?" Your voice is soft. "It's feeding time."

⊹♡🕷️♡⊹

Your slippers shuffle against hardwood floors, brows bunched into a frown and your hands grip the edges of your fuzzy gown.

It's nearly 1AM.

Your expression's pulled into a frown at the sight of Natasha's face in the peephole, and you huff out a breath, unlocking your front door, arms folded over your chest as you glare up at her.

Those stupid heels always give her a few inches more.

"What—"

You're cut off by the rustle of her coat as she pulls it open, flashing you for a good long while.

Vibrant red hair falls flawlessly, bangs framing her face in that way that makes her look like a 50s Hollywood starlet, brilliant blue eyes staring at your expression, your gaze roving over her like you're taking screenshots with your mind.

The only thing Natasha's wearing other than that fucking coat, are those black, platform heels.

Alabaster flesh, sculpted like a fucking model. All leans muscles and perfect swells.

Nipples hardened by the nighttime breeze, her belly flat and toned, the dip of her waist is something that should be studied by the way it pulls your eyes.

Long legs, toned.

And you scoff. "I'm not a man! I'm not just gonna forgive you, because you're flashing me."

And you slam the door shut. Abruptly and loudly.

Natasha lets out a heavy breath, her hands braced on her hips, keeping the lapels of her coat spread and she glances up, towards where that pretty lantern above your front door dangles.

And you open the door back up, phone in hand, before you snap a picture.

And you suck your teeth.

"Do you have clothes in your car?" You fold your arms over your chest, the fabric of your ratty, and worn My Little Pony T-shirt. And Natasha shakes her head.

If there's one thing she knows she can bet on, it's that you're soft.

"You're leaving in the morning." You step out of the way, your jaw clenched at the way Natasha hangs up her coat on the coat rack, her heels clicking against the wooden floorboards and she moves towards your kitchen.

Your eyes follow the curve of your back, that delicious curve in her spine that you'd trace absentmindedly as she slept. The way her hips move, the curve of her peachy ass and the way the cold had rendered the pale flesh just a bit rosy.

Natasha looks around your kitchen, taking in the homey decorations before she opens up your fridge, taking one of the water bottles and she opens it.

Gaze fixed on yours as she brings it up to her lips.

"Are you gonna put your tits away, at any point?" You're trying to be steadfast in your words. That you're not easy. That you won't forgive her at the drop of a stupidly expensive coat.

But you are, in fact, no better than a man.

Eyes lowering to the way how her breasts sit so pretty, that it's unfair. You remember how perfectly those milky swells would spill out from between your fingers, warm to the touch and you tear your gaze away.

"It does not look like you want me to, malyshka." She hums quietly, before moving around the granite counter, setting down onto one of your sofas, legs crossed over one another but that doesn't stop you from catching a glimpse of glossy folds and you swallow hard.

"I'd prefer it." You grit back.

This isn't what you need right now. You had evening plans. Good plans.

Risk salmonella and eat cookie dough by the spoonful, while binging yet another home renovation show and allow your ego to gaslight you into thinking that, if you had that budget, you'd be able to do it better.

And top the night off with a leisurely bean-flick session and fall asleep watching 'Angels of Passion'.

"Do not stifle me, kukolka." She hums softly, pushing herself up before she comes to stand in front of you, and you catch that whiff of Prada and leather. It's a smell you'd never think you'd miss, but the feel of her warm palm, resting along the curve of your cheek...

It makes an ugly longing burn in your belly before your brain stifles it.

And you scowl.

"My love," her voice is soft, and that stupidly sexy accent makes your brain turn to mush, "let me atone. I can fix it, if you let me."

You suck your teeth.

You're not a whore. You're not a whore. You are NOT a whore. And yet—

"I don't want eye contact."

⊹♡🕷️♡⊹

When you said, 'no eye contact', you thought it'd be easy. Like, how you avoid eye contact in every social interaction ever, instead, choosing to focus on the spot between peoples' foreheads but right now?

All you want is to look down at Natasha.

To watch the way those slim, dextrous fingers disappear into your soaking cunt, silver rings and diamonds kissing your plush lips with each pump of her digits, fingertips pressing against that spot that you've never managed to reach yourself.

Your lips part, your chest heaving with a deep breath and your lashes flutter, eyes threatening to roll back in your head and your hand reaches out.

You refuse to look at her.

"What are you trying to touch, Stevie Wonder?" There's amusement in her voice, and you can hear the curl of your lips, and on instinct, you lift yourself onto your elbows, eyes narrowing at her despite the way your belly dips inward when she scissors her fingers.

You're slow. You don't look away quick enough, your eyes meet hers and you feel like the wind's knocked out of you.

Glacier blue just a bit darker, stormier, rimmed (⁠ ͡⁠°⁠ ͜⁠ʖ⁠ ͡⁠°⁠) by a deep, cerulean hue, flecks of silver around the iris and pupils blown wide as she watches you. And she swallows, her tongue brushing along her bottom lip.

And you feel all those buried feelings bubble up to the surface when she dips her head down between your supple thighs, pink tongue darting out and dragging between your glossy folds.

"Ho-holy shit..." Your voice is a panted breath, your hand moving to rest on the crown of her head, sinking your fingers in gingery strands and you drag your nails along her scalp. And she purrs.

And you're fucking gone.

Gone in the way she watches you like you're art, gone in the way her fingers curl and you soak her digits down to her knuckle and you're gone in the way her plush, pillowy lips wrap around your clit, suckling so sweetly.

"You taste so sweet, malyshka." She croons, lapping at the slick of your cunt and your thighs tremble.

You can't come up with a snarky retort about your personality still being salty, you can't even call her by her born name, Nata-liar. A play on Natalia.

You can only melt further into your mussy sheets, pushing silky tresses out of her face as she pushes you towards an orgasm that makes the stars behind your fluttering eyelids turn into supernovas.

Your thighs press against her ears and all you can hear is your whines, her muffled coos and praises, and the thrumming of your heart pounding right next to your tympanic membranes.

You try to piece yourself back together. You really do. She doesn't deserve to feel like she's shattered your world, but her tongue's so long. Dragging along your slick, burying her face between your thighs and she's already lacing her sodden fingers with yours.

Leisurely licking long strokes along your slit, from the bottom, all the way up, her gaze remaining fixed on yours. Like she wants to watch your walls crumble.

Like she wants you to fall in love all over again.

She lifts her head, stormy gaze fixed on your face, the lower half of her face glistening and she presses her lips against your thigh, before sinking her teeth into the flesh.

Sucking hard enough to leave a hickey in her wake.

Before she pulls away, tucking a crimson strand behind her ear, glinting piercings on display and she inhales the scent of your cunt, lashes fluttering and her cheeks turning rosy.

"I've got a strap-on in my car." She whispers softly, her accent seemingly thicker and it takes you a good couple of seconds before her words register.

"You have a strap but not a change of clothing?" Your voice cracks, you're breathless and your skin's tingly, electricity buzzing in your legs.

And she hums.

"Priorities, kukolka, priorities."

⊹♡🕷️taglist🕷️♡⊹

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[jasontoddswhitestreak]

a package deal

contents ౨ৎ ⋆ dick grayson x fem reader. fluff. — 2.7k words ⭑ haley’s the sweetest dog you’ve ever met. her dad’s… pretty cute too, you guess. not that you’re thinking about him. a lot. or at all. he only hired you to dog-sit. but he keeps asking for you back, even on nights he stays home. and when nightwing starts showing up, you don’t realize you’ve been falling for the same man twice.

You sit cross-legged on the hardwood floor, sunlight streaming through the loft windows, brushing down the back of Haley’s fur in long, gentle strokes. She makes a soft huffing noise of contentment and flops onto her side, tail swishing.

“Perfection,” you murmur to her, scratching behind one of her soft ears. “That’s what you are.”

“I know,” comes a smug voice from behind you. “She takes after me.”

You glance over your shoulder. Dick Grayson is leaning against the doorway with a mug in hand and that ever-present glint in his eye. He’s in a loose henley and joggers, his dark hair still slightly damp from a shower. Completely unfair.

“You’re too cute for your own good,” you mutter.

He raises an eyebrow, looking almost proud.

“Thank you. I’m blushing.”

“I could not have been more clearly talking to the dog.”

He walks past you to set his mug on the coffee table, reaching down to ruffle Haley’s head. “We’re a package deal.”

You bite back a smile. “Shut up.”

“Yes, ma’am. Shutting up now.” He bends down and kisses your cheek like it’s nothing. It doesn’t make your heart stutter slightly in your chest. Totally. Not. Because you’re super professional and it doesn’t matter how handsome or nice to you Dick is, it’s just… routine. Absolutely nothing more. Just business as usual.

Haley stretches out with a yawn and rolls onto her back, begging for belly rubs. 

“Haley,” You whisper conspiratorially. “I think your dad needs to get his hearing checked.”

She lets out a soft sneeze that feels a little too much like agreement.

Later, Dick finds you in the kitchen, struggling to twist open a stubborn jar of pasta sauce.

“Need some help?” he asks, appearing behind you. You jump and nearly drop the jar. This man was sneakier than a shadow sometimes.

You glance over your shoulder, narrowing your eyes. “Why should I listen to you? Last time you tried to help, you almost broke the blender making smoothies for Haley. I still don’t think she’s forgiven you.”

He shrugs, grinning. “I’m her dad. Of course she does.”

You roll your eyes and hold the jar tighter. “Do I have to let you do it?”

He leans in, flashing his dimples at you. Ugh. Of course he has dimples. “Yes. Because I’m ridiculously handsome and impossible to resist.”

“Excuse me?”

“You were staring.”

“I was squinting. Glaring-adjacent.”

“Still counts.”

He leans in just a little, and you catch the faint scent of his cologne—clean and warm, with a subtle hint of vanilla and citrus. You hate how much you like it.

Without a word, you hold out the jar.

Dick takes it and opens it in one smooth twist, like it’s the easiest thing in the world.

Show-off.

—

The night you stay over, you’re tucked into his ridiculously soft guest bed, wearing a tank top and cute, tiny pair of cotton shorts. Haley hops up beside you, pacing once or twice before settling at your feet like a miniature guard dog with fierce loyalty.

You hear a soft knock at the door.

“You decent?” Dick’s voice filters through, lazy and amused.

You crack the door open just enough to peek out. “Define decent.”

He leans against the wall, arms crossed, a fond smile playing on his lips as he looks you over. Your insides squirm from the attention.

You scoff and reach down to scratch under Haley’s chin. “Your dad is—”

“Trouble?” Dick finishes for you with a raised brow.

You nod solemnly. “That.”

He chuckles quietly, eyes flickering to the tank top you’re wearing—his logo clear and unmistakable. Cute. 

“Nightwing fan, huh?” he asks, amused.

You shrug. “Who isn’t?”

For a moment, his usual confident posture falters—his gaze drops briefly, and there’s a faint flush coloring his cheeks before he clears his throat and looks back at you.

He chuckles quietly, breaking the moment. “I asked you to stay tonight because Haley gets anxious when I’m working late or on those random emergency calls. I know she’ll be okay with you here,” he says, voice softening. “And honestly? I don’t mind the company either.”

He’s never mentioned work in front of you before, and you’ve always wondered what his job was. Maybe a firefighter? Modeling? You’ve definitely seen him on a few magazine covers, and you’ve only known him a few months, but somehow, you’re convinced no normal job could fully contain his personality. You glance up at him, surprised by the honesty.

“Besides,” he adds with a crooked grin, “someone’s got to keep me from binge-watching bad crime dramas all alone.”

You laugh softly, shaking your head. “So I’m just your dog-sitter slash bad TV watchdog?”

He shrugs, stepping back with that familiar cocky grin. “Yup. Lucky you.”

“Don’t be silly,” you say, nudging the door open a little wider. “I’ll watch them with you.”

He blinks, just once, like he hadn’t expected you to say yes so easily. But then that grin of his deepens—real, quiet, warm. You roll your eyes, but you’re smiling. 

Haley’s already curled up and snoring like she owns the place, and you realize that maybe this night, awkward or not, is exactly where you’re meant to be.

—

A few days later, you’re walking Haley around the block just after sunset, the sky still streaked in fading purples and deep blues. The air is warm, the quiet hum of cicadas buzzing in the background as you tug your hoodie tighter around yourself. It was supposed to be a short stroll, just some light post-dinner exercise. Haley’s trotting happily beside you, leash slack in your hand, until–

A hand clamps over your mouth.

Your heart spikes as arms hook around your waist and haul you backward. You try to scream, but it’s muffled against a gloved palm. Haley barks as you drop her leash, sharp and feral, No, no, let her go!, her nails scrabbling against the pavement as she tries biting at legs that you can’t see, but you’re already being dragged toward a dark van parked just out of view beneath a flickering streetlamp. 

You hear her soft whines fade as you’re dragged away, and you clench your jaw angrily.

They picked the wrong dog sitter.

You’re shoved into a dark van under a streetlamp that flickers weakly, like even it knows something shady’s going down.

The guy in the passenger seat pulls out a phone and dials, practically giddy. “Yeah, we got her. The girl. Pretty one with the dog. Yeah. Nightwing’s girl.”

You blink, disoriented. “Wait—what?”

He covers the phone, peering down at you. “Don’t play dumb.”

“I’m not playing,” you say, still trying to orient yourself. “Is this about the one time I accidentally shoplifted, like, twenty packs of mozzarella string cheese from Trader Joe’s because I forgot they were at the bottom of my cart?”

There’s a beat of silence.

“What?” says one guy. The other just stares at you like you’ve grown an extra head. 

“I went back the next day and paid for them, by the way,” you add, because, even under the threat of possible death, your moral compass refuses to shut up.

“No,” the first guy says slowly, like you’re the idiot here. He lifts the phone to his mouth again and mutters under his breath, but still loud enough for you to hear:

“Yeah… Nightwing’s girl is kinda stupid. Real cute, though.”

You blink. “Wow. Rude. And for the last time—I’m not Nightwing’s girlfriend!” you shout, equal parts annoyed and terrified, somehow still managing sarcasm from inside a van that looks like it moonlights as a mobile organ-harvesting operation.

“Wait, you’re not?” one of your kidnappers asks in confusion.

“She’s not?” echoes another, the disbelief so stupid it almost makes you laugh.

“Never mind, you can shoot me now,” you mutter.

Except you don’t give them the chance.

You drop your weight low, twist your hips the way you learned years ago in that self-defense class, and drive your foot between the leader’s legs with more precision than a brain surgeon. He drops like a stone.

The van door bursts open in the same breath, a crack of air and motion colliding as a streak of blue and black descends from above.

Nightwing lands in a crouch and as he stands up his hand flies to his mouth, the white eyes of his mask widening to a comical degree while surveying the scene of three grown men groaning and curled on the floor around him.

His gaze lands on the one gasping for air with his hands between his legs, and then on you—panting, but standing tall.

“Ouch,” he mutters under his breath, blinking once. “Even I felt that.”

Afterward, you sit dazed on the curb, wrapped in a blanket courtesy of some poor local EMT. Nightwing crouches beside you.

“You did good,” he says, voice lower than you expect. Kind of familiar even, but there’s no way. That’d be weird. Your head is just jumbled up from being kidnapped earlier. “Quick reflexes. Nice kick.”

He pauses, voice softening. “You’re safe now. That’s what matters.”

Your eyes widen as panic suddenly strikes you. “Wait—Haley. Where’s Haley? Sweet little pitbull, big blue eyes, softest ears—please tell me she’s okay.”

Nightwing’s lips twitch into something between a smile and a smirk. “I checked. She ran all the way to the nearest police station. Smart girl. She held her own.”

Relief rushes through your chest so fast it makes you a little dizzy. “God. I can’t believe I left her—”

“You didn’t plan on getting kidnapped,” he says simply, his tone steady and reassuring. “She’s safe. You’re safe. That’s what counts.”

Then, as if on cue, Haley barrels into view, leash trailing behind her, tail wagging wildly as she launches herself into your lap.

“Haley!” you gasp, practically crushed under the weight of her excitement as she covers your face in frantic, sloppy kisses. You laugh, blinking through tears. “Okay, okay, I missed you too—”

“She’s the reason I found you so fast, by the way.” Nightwing adds, standing beside the two of you now. “Not that you needed me.” He grins sheepishly, scratching his cheek.

Haley lets out a happy little huff, tongue lolling out as she turns to Nightwing expectantly. He crouches down and pats her head, and she melts into his hand like she’s known him forever.

You squint at the sight. A weird wave of deja vu washes over you. Like you’ve seen this scene before. But no, that couldn’t be. This is the first time either of you have ever met Nightwing. Then again, Dick did say she loves everyone. Even strangers.

Still. The way she looks at him—tail wagging with a pat-pat-pat against the ground, body relaxed, happy—it scratches at something in the back of your brain.

But you’re too tired to chase it. For now.

He offers you a lollipop, holding it out with a small, boyish smile.

You blink at him. “Do you always carry candy in your utility belt?”

“Usually for kids,” he says, voice softer than usual. “You earned it.”

You hesitate, but take it from him. Your fingers brush his glove—warm, steady—and it lingers just a second longer than necessary.

“You calling me a baby?” you ask, popping the lollipop into your mouth. Yum, strawberry. 

His gaze doesn’t waver. “If the shoe fits,” he murmurs, voice rich with something unreadable.

Your pulse stutters and you smirk, trying to shake it off. Haley wags her tail faster, sat between the two of you. “That supposed to be flirting, or are you just bad at compliments?”

His lips twitch as he raises a hand to scratch Haley behind her ears. “Why can’t it be both?”

—

You’re in your kitchen, the warm smell of chocolate chip cookies filling the air as you carefully pull a tray from the oven. Tonight, you’re bringing them over to Dick’s place. It’s a small peace offering—or maybe just an excuse to see him.

Before you can wipe your hands on a towel, a familiar voice comes from the doorway.

“Ah, love that smell,” Nightwing says, leaning casually against the frame like he’s done it a hundred times. 

You freeze, eyes wide. “Dude. Did you just break into my house.”

He shrugs sheepishly, an infuriatingly charming smile playing on his lips that was unfortunately working on you. “Can’t a guy visit his baby?”

Your jaw drops. “Excuse me?”

You flash back to that night — the rush of adrenaline as he dropped from the shadows, the men who grabbed you, Haley’s sloppy kisses on your face, the sweet taste of strawberry candy, his voice low and steady as he told you you were safe now.

He winks. “I remember how much you liked my lollipops.”

You blink as your cheeks warm. The sheer audacity. “Okay, first of all, gross. Never say that again. Second—what?”

“You’re cute when you’re flustered,” he says, wandering over like this is normal behavior and not highly illegal. Guess rules don’t apply to superheroes when they're too busy fighting people who break them. His gloved hand reaches toward the tray of still-steaming cookies.

“Do not touch those, they’re—”

“Hot, hot—!” he yelps, shaking his hand after you, predictably, let him grab one. He blows on the cookie dramatically, then takes a bite. “Mmm. Five stars.”

You narrow your eyes, trying to smother a smile. From the way his eyes twinkle and the not-so-guilty grin on his face, you can tell this isn’t his first time pulling this exact stunt. You shake your head.

“You’re ridiculous.”

He beams at you, still chewing. “If you give a mouse a cookie…”

You sigh, jug in hand already pouring. “...he’s gonna ask for a glass of milk.”

Nightwing accepts it with a chuckle and a soft thank you, the sound warm and achingly familiar.

Something akin to home.

—

It happens slowly, like the puzzle’s been coming together in the background without you even realizing.

The lollipop.

The voice.

The subtle bruises he brushes off.

The way Nightwing always shows up when you’re in trouble.

The way he takes off during weird hours of the day, calling you if you could watch Haley for him while he’s gone. 

You lie awake that night, staring at the ceiling.

You hear movement from the living room.

Quiet footsteps. A rustle of fabric. The soft click of a window closing.

You sit up.

Your heart pounds.

You step out and see him standing by the window, pulling a hoodie on over—

Blue.

Black.

Gloves.

His hair is mussed. His cheek has a shallow scrape. He freezes when he sees you.

“…Oh,” Dick says.

You blink.

“No,” you whisper, realization blooming like a sun flare behind your ribs. “You’re Nightwing?”

He rubs the back of his neck, sheepish. “In my defense… I never said I wasn’t.”

Your jaw drops.

“You absolute—!”

“Before you yell,” he says, hands raised in surrender, “I’d like to remind you I just saved your life. Again.”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I’ve heard that before.”

You stalk toward him and jab a finger into his chest. “You flirted with me as Nightwing.”

“Technically, I flirted with you as me. You just didn’t know it was both. Also,” He grins, “Doesn’t my ass look great in spandex?”

You groan. Then collapse against his chest.

You can’t even fight back at that.

“…I’m going to kill you,” you mumble into his hoodie. He smells so good. Too good. Damn him.

“Please wait until after I take you to dinner.”

You shove at him. He laughs.

Later, curled up on the couch in his arms, Haley snuggled happily between you, you stroke her velvet-soft ears. The movie's long forgotten, the room washed in the warm, quiet hush of almost-sleep.

“Has there ever been a time when you didn’t expose me to danger?” you murmur.

Dick hums thoughtfully. “About... eighty-seven?”

You elbow him. “I’m thinking of a number between one hundred and infinity.”

“You wound me mortally,” he says with a grin, voice lazy against your hair.

Then he adds, “What about that time I tried to make pancakes and accidentally set your smoke alarm off three times in one morning?”

You lift your head just enough to glare at him. “That counts.”

He chuckles, smug and unrepentant.

You smile drowsily and nuzzle into his shoulder again, Haley’s soft snores grounding the moment.

“I meant what I said,” he murmurs, brushing his lips to your temple. “We’re a package deal.”

You glance down at Haley, who kicks in her sleep, then sighs with the contentment of someone deeply loved.

You snuggle closer. “Works for me.”

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

WIP/Masterlist

Marvel

Loki Laufeyson and still, I chose you : 18+ MDNI You were Earth’s finest diplomat—sharp, composed, loyal to the cause of peace. When war threatened the realms, the Council asked the unthinkable: marry one of Asgard’s princes to solidify the alliance. Thor is everything a ruler should be—honorable, loyal, safe. Loki is none of those things. And yet, he sees you. He undoes you. Duty demands you choose the golden son. But desire, ache, and love—the dangerous kind—pull you toward the prince raised in shadow.

Bob Reynolds: things we don’t say (john/bob/reader): 18+, MDNI, threesome w John You’ve done this before. A few too many times to call it an accident—but no one’s saying it out loud. You know exactly how to ruin each other. And exactly how to put each other back together.

on the line: 18+, MDNI Scenarios for Bucky, John, and Bob involving an oral fixation.

John Walker things we don’t say (john/bob/reader): 18+, MDNI, threesome w Bob You’ve done this before. A few too many times to call it an accident—but no one’s saying it out loud. You know exactly how to ruin each other. And exactly how to put each other back together. off record : 18+, MDNI You weren’t supposed to fall for John Walker. Not when he was a disaster of a man, all snark and contradictions and casually cruel denials. Not when he made your chest ache with how close he let you get—only to remind you it “wasn’t a thing.” Not when you knew better. But still, you stayed. And so did he. only you: 18+, MDNI (john x babysitter reader) John Walker wasn’t looking for more. Not after everything. Not after the shield, the war, the wreckage. But then you showed up—hired by Val to watch his toddler son, Elijah Lemar—and somehow, without meaning to, you made yourself at home. You, with your snarky comebacks and soft hands. With your coffee mugs and folded laundry and the way Elijah lights up when he sees you. You were supposed to be temporary. But now you’re in his bed. In his life. And in his heart. breakaway save: 18+, MDNI, (hockey AU) John Walker’s trying to be better. New Avengers. New therapist. New hobby: rec league hockey with a bunch of ex-military guys who don’t ask too many questions. He didn’t expect you—sarcastic, steady, and not scared of the mess he is. But you keep showing up. And slowly, he starts to believe he deserves that. This isn’t about being perfect. It’s about trying. And falling. And choosing love anyway. mrs. walker, if you're nasty: 18+, MDNI, (Fake Marriage AU) You never meant to fake marry your ex-fuckbuddy-turned-field-partner. But when the mission called for a believable couple, John Walker—with his old wedding ring still in a drawer and tension still in his jaw—was the only option Val had for you.  What starts as pretend hand-holding and shared hotel beds spirals into jealousy, bathtub confessions, and one unhinged night that breaks every rule you agreed on.

on the line: 18+, MDNI Scenarios for Bucky, John, and Bob involving an oral fixation.

Bucky Barnes: collateral (part 1) (part 2): 18+, MDNI, Bodyguard Bucky x Stark Reader the kiss hypothesis: 18+, MDNI One kiss to get it out of your system. He doesn't even have to know. congressman barnes: 18+, MDNI Drabble of congressman barnes x reader bound to burn: 18+, MDNI You’ve never kissed Bucky Barnes—never even touched. Now you’re in his lap at a club in Romania, panties pushed to the side, grinding on his thigh while a voyeuristic arms dealer watches from the shadows. The mission said do whatever it takes—so you do. You moan for him. You beg for him. You come on his fingers in a mirrored room with someone else on the other side of the glass. And the worst part? None of it feels fake. Not his voice in your ear. Not his mouth between your legs. Not the way he says, “Eyes on me, doll.” And when it’s all over? You still ache for him. And he’s still carrying your panties in his pocket. Spellbound: 18+, MDNI, Sex Pollen Trope You took the hit meant for Bucky—magic that curls under your skin like a fever, an ache that won’t ease no matter how many times you break. And the only thing that eases the fire is him. But Bucky doesn’t know that. You try to hide it. You try to fight it. But one late-night phone call changes everything. You come to the sound of his voice. He hears it. And he comes running.

Chemistry, Probably: 18+,MDNI You’re a new recruit with an active imagination and a fat crush. He’s a former assassin with dreamy eyes, a metal arm, and more patience than you deserve. What starts as flirtation spirals into late-night texting, movie nights, and a slow-burn so intense it’s practically a war crime. into the shadows (Bucky Shame Room AU) After Bob becomes the Void, the Thunderbolts are forced into a fractured psychic realm made of shame and memory. You and Bucky end up trapped in each other’s worst moments—his time as the Winter Soldier, your secret grief over a friend he unknowingly killed. As the loops force truths into the light, so does everything you’ve been avoiding between you. What started as revenge turned into something deeper. And in the wreckage of everything, love might finally have a place to land. where the quiet lives: 18+, MDNI You were supposed to be on your honeymoon. Instead, you’re crashing at Bucky Barnes’s lake house—with his grumpy cat and no idea who you are without the man who asked you to give it all up. You went to the lake to forget your ex. You didn’t expect to fall for the man who owns the house. Mi Cielo and the Winter Soldier: 18+, MDNI They were partners in the field long before they were anything else—tangled in months of soft glances, unsaid things, and the kind of quiet tension that felt like gravity. After a shared mission in the mountains, everything shifts: one night of silence, one shared blanket, and one watch shift too close to ignore. Back at the Tower, the space between them only gets tighter—rendezvous in hallways, training flirtations, and one chaos agent named Joaquin Torres who rage-baits Bucky with reckless devotion and zero awareness. page turner: 18+ MDNI When you fall behind on your Avengers book club reading, Natasha suggests Bucky help keep you on track. You didn’t realize the book was basically porn. He definitely didn’t mind. Now you’re reading the filthiest scenes out loud with his hands on your thighs—and he’s not pretending it’s just about finishing the book.

becoming mrs. barnes // the barnes conspiracy (Secret Wife AU) Before the secrets. Before the team starts snooping. Before anyone found a second dog tag with the wrong last name— There was this. A slow, quiet love story between the ex-assassin and the woman who saw him clearly. Sam and Joaquin know. They’ve practically staged a security detail. But the New Avengers—Bucky’s new team of misfits and second-chancers? They have no idea he goes home to a wife. And soon… a baby.

on the line: 18+, MDNI Scenarios for Bucky, John, and Bob involving an oral fixation.

asset protocol (winter solider!Bucky x Scientist! Reader) You are a biomedical engineer under Hydra’s control, tasked with maintaining the Winter Soldier’s titanium prosthetic. One day, a man touches you—and the Soldier reacts with chilling precision, maiming him. It isn’t protection. It’s possession

refraction (winter soldier!Bucky x reader x Bucky Barnes) verse may get multiple works tied to this verse When an interdimensional rift tears open mid-mission, you and Bucky Barnes are pulled into a brutalist pocket reality—a decaying world with no sky, no time, and one impossible constant: him. The Winter Soldier lives here. An alternate Bucky who was never freed. Still weaponized. Still watching. And somehow—obsessed with you. As you and your Bucky search for a way out, the Soldier follows—not to kill, but to learn. He mimics. He lingers. Because in all his fractured code, you are the anomaly.

probably always (Bucky Barnes x Reader) Bucky doesn’t believe in fate. You don’t believe in safe love. But somewhere between quiet coffee, post-mission silences, and a kiss that feels like peace—not passion—you start to believe in him. (Inspired by watching the Materialists. a romance with light angst)

Coming Soon:

class dismissed: 18+, MDNI (Uncle-to-the-Wilson-boys!Bucky Barnes x Teacher!Reader) Because falling for your favorite student’s “uncle winter soldier” was never part of the lesson plan. (Romance comedy)

the weight we carry: 18+, MDNI (John Walker x Reader)

John Walker had a wife. A life. A future that didn’t include you. Years passed in silence and almosts. While he clung to a life already slipping, you learned how to want without asking. Then came the blood. The fallout. The man he couldn’t stop becoming. But you never looked away. And he never let you go. Because some love doesn’t come clean. It breaks you first. Then stays. (Cannon-following, angst romance)

redacted attachments: 18+, MDNI (John Walker x Therapist!Reader)

A one-night stand becomes a high-stakes secret when John Walker turns up as your newest patient. You try to stay professional. He tries not to fall apart. You both fail. Now, after the fallout, after the lines were crossed and the damage done—he’s still here. And this time, you have a choice. (romantic drama)

practically yours: 18+, MDNI (Bob Reynolds x Reader)

You and Bob Reynolds are just casual. Friends who hook up. No feelings—at least, that’s what you keep telling yourself while quietly falling apart over him. Meanwhile, Bob is like, “That’s my girlfriend 💛” every time he sees you—especially in combat. Mid-battle, mid-air, mid-bloodied-knuckles, he’s still grinning like he’s the luckiest guy alive. Eventually, the situationship blows up. Not from the fight—but from how in love you already are. (rom com)

eyes wide shut: 18+, MDNI (winter soldier!bucky x reader)

companion piece to refraction. The Winter Soldier broke. Silent. Still. Useless. HYDRA refused to let go—so they reached into the multiverse and found you. Your laugh. Your voice. Your body. All of it fed to him in loops. Not as comfort—but as bait. They taught him to crave you like a weapon. Now he waits. Not for orders. For you.

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Honey Girl. The Masterlist.

Series Synopsis - The Universe shows you your soulmate when it feels like you need them most. When you least expect it, you're given yours - Bucky Barnes. Your Dad's best friend. You can try to refuse it all you like; but the universe wants what it wants. There's no denying fate.

Pairing - Dad'sBestFriend!Bucky Barnes x Female Reader - soulmate au

Warnings - smut. age gap (but all legal and consensual). cursing. angst. alcohol consumption.

Word Count (so far) - 60k

Author's Note - another idea i've had for so long!! set in a beautiful coastal beach town - picture sunshine, sailing, beaches and your dad's hot best friend. what more could you want?

Chapter One.

Chapter Two.

Chapter Three.

Chapter Four.

Chapter Five.

Chapter Six.

Chapter Seven.

Chapter Eight.

Chapter Nine.

Chapter Nine - the reveal I didn’t choose.

Chapter Ten.

Chapter Eleven.

Chapter Twelve.

Christmas.

to be continued…

The Playlist.

The Moodboard.

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

&&. "my friend's weird new roommate." (au! sinister mark x gn!reader)

warnings: 18+, mentions of death/killing, dryhumping, this is just regular life (death/taxes/going to college while being minimum wage), shitty friends, thighfucking, denial, debbie is deceased in this verse, reader is gender neutral but there will be mention of afab genitalia, etc. summary: everyone told you that it would get better before it got worse. two years in, the only thing college has seemed to do is remind you how little you mean to the world. after your roommate finds a partner, they leave you with half a portion of rent you can't afford to pay and another silent night in what should be home. everything changes when your new roommate moves in and digs his claws into every hole you've let "your friends" riddle you with.

You know it shouldn't irk you now. The way your friend's parties always seem to brush past you rather than involve you. The way rides back home seem to grow silent when you slide into the back seat. The times where drinking on your own couch, in your own home, feels like being shunted off to a dusty corner in the play palace. All the big kids get to laugh and smoke and kick their feet up onto your clean furniture. But you, little old you? You count the dust bunnies. You clean the dirty dishes and shot glasses. That is your lot in life, they've decided.

A part of you knows that you've decided that as well.

Your mom had told you things would be better than high school. Speaking in that gentle, teasing way as she patted your shoulder that made you feel as ridiculousness as you did comforted. Your father told you it couldn't get any worse and you'd been hopeful that day, so you agreed, and they let you go with that. Dropped you right back in with the wolves, left you with your moving boxes and your brand new shiny key. This was going to be different, you told yourself. This was going to be a good thing, you repeated. You were going to live with someone else. You were going to get an education you hardly prepared yourself for. You were going to make new friends. All these new things were going to be good things; all good, new things that were going to erase all the horrible years before.

When your roommate dropped his key onto the kitchen counter, you hadn't even had the chance to bite into your dinner yet. It was just some shitty meal you'd cobbled together with the spare change you had after paying the internet bill (which he didn't split with you, which he'd never paid for) but all you could pay attention to was the fact that he hadn't even the courtesy to hand it over. "I'm moving in with my partner." He said, as if the words weren't world-crushing. Rent was due in a week. You'd had a good shift the night before but not good enough for rent for two. Every month for the last two years had always been like this and he knew it; you knew that he knew that.

"They're coming back to help me move everything into their car on Wednesday so you can help us out." You hated it when people spoke to you like that. This expecting tone, this one that said "you'll do it, right" with nothing but voice alone.

"I work Wednesdays. You know that." You'd worked Wednesdays everyday for the last year. You only missed one, once, and he was the very reason why. (Some drunk night out. Liquor and vomit and a mess you had to spend the whole day cleaning, cloth to your mouth, tears in your eyes, frustration and disgust and shame.) He knew that. You knew he knew that.

"Hm. Okay." That was it. No goodbye, no "thank you for being around". You don't even get the luxury of waving him off when Wednesday finally comes around. He's still in his room when you leave for work in the morning and when you return at night, there's silence and an open bedroom door. Peace and quiet. Peace, quiet, and five days left before you have to pay for rent for two.

It's pure desperation that drives you to post nearly anywhere you can possibly imagine that you are in need a roommate and fast. Printed and stapled onto your college's community board, plastered on the telephone poles in your city, slapped onto craigslist, thrown at reddit's merciless dogs; everything, anything. After the first day, you're desperately texting your friends. After the second day, when none of them respond or deny knowing anyone looking, you start emailing your classmates. Everything is going to better, you remind yourself, it can't get worse.

On the fourth day, you are laying on your living room couch and staring at the black screen of your phone. Enjoying the silence. Accepting that you were going to be out of a home and that your parents, sweet as they are absent, weren't going to help you out of this one. No one was going to help you. That was your lot in life. No one was going to remember you, little old you. You were going to count all the dust bunnies and do all your shifts and finish all your work and clean up all the vomit and that was what you were going to be.

You count. You have to count for something.

You remember counting the time when your phone screams open with light from the notification. Ten-forty at night and you bolt up fast. Spine whining from the adjustment, hip cracking at the speed. You don't recognize the name but you recognize the group it's coming from. Some public group for your town that you had been desperate enough to use an account you hadn't touched in months to post on. [LOOKING FOR ROOMMATE. ASAP.] It was sloppily written and so needy as to be creepy and you knew it but it was day two and you were still hopeful then. Something about that little bit of hope tingles up in you. Winds its way around your spine and starts bearing down on your chest as you read the message.

Mark S Grayson: still looking?

And just that.

"still looking" and a notification, a moment after you finally remember how to breathe, that a message has been sent to you by Mark S Grayson. The contents of the message as innocuous as the first notification.

Mark S Grayson: I can pay by tomorrow afternoon.

For an hour after, you talk to this Mark Grayson. Smooth through his profile. Look at his pictures while waiting for a response to each question you throw his way after the shock finally fades and you start typing. "I live an hour away." He says and you stare at a picture of him at his high school graduation. He's tall but not that skinny either. "Don't have any pets if that's a problem." He's got his mom somewhere in his picture but you don't spot a dad and even if you did, you didn't want to search too far in. "Got security deposit and first two months." But he seems... safe, that's what you tell yourself. He's got a job somewhere on his profile and he's around your age and somewhere in that, the desperation mixed thoroughly in, the shame of no one else, you accept his offer.

When you wake up the next day and check your bank account, there's more money in your checkings account than you had seen in a while. A deposit, zelled to you by a Markus Sebastian Grayson, of rent for the next two months and the security deposit nestled on top. You nearly cry when you transfer it seconds later and all that money disappears into your landlord's wallet. But then all the fear collapses out of you. All the time you've spent these last few days, running around like a chicken without your head, all the despair, all the counting (Quarters, pennies, anything you might have lying around. Anything to pay the bill. Anything to not have to go back, to not be a burden), it disappears and you sleep again.

When you wake up, there's a text message from Mark Grayson. Short. Mark. You hadn't filled out his full contact information on your phone. Just Mark. You really thought the offer was too good to be true. Too perfect to be possible.

Mark: Be there tomorrow.

Mark is there when he says so. In the middle of feverish tidying up, still teetering on the brink of despair and hope, Mark Grayson rings the doorbell. Taller than you expect him to be. A bit broader than any normal person should be. But he's standing there, two duffel bags and pushed back black hair. A couple little strands sticking out. Some tired look to his eyes that don't feel like sleep but feel like something permanent, adhered to him. You don't really see a Markus Sebastian Grayson (Not in the way his clothes seem to cling to him like a third skin. Like there's something between there, a second thing, between fabric and flesh.) but you do see a Mark and Mark, with those tired, dark eyes, sees you too.

"You're the one I was talking to." Not a question, a confirmation. One look, in the seemingly endless black of Mark Grayson's eyes, that says with no voice to speak it, 'I can see right through you.'

It feels like Mark Grayson is always seeing you after you meet him.

Always the first thing when you notice when you come home from work. Always somewhere out now in your town. Not doing much but always around. Thirteen hour shift and Mark is in the kitchen, under the microwave light, reading something on his phone while heating a pan on the stove. Waking up to him on the couch, quiet, watching something on the screen. On the car ride home when you pull into your neighborhood, walking somewhere in the dark of night, somewhere confident enough that he never seems to be on his phone while doing so. Mark Grayson is everywhere now that you notice him, in the same way that the wind is, stronger on stormy days, gentler on sunny mornings.

Mark doesn't meet your friends so much as he stumbles upon them when he comes in through the front door. He stays. He chats. You watch him talk and everything about the way he speaks to them sounds more natural than anything you could ever say. From the stool on the kitchen island, you watch him, back turned to you, and Mark Grayson, a complete stranger, feels closer to them than you ever possibly could be with any of your so-called "friends." Just an hour of conversation and you can see it in the way they speak, in the way they laugh. Feel it when they shake his hand, feel it in how one of your friend's tugs at his sleeve, pulls him closer to stay and keep talking.

But you see something when he finally excuses himself. Chuckling as he turned away and down towards the hallway leading up to his bedroom. A minute, infinitesimally tiny expression. Something so small as to be non-existent, but you catch it. On Mark Grayson's face, right there in his eyes, is some snapshot of a man that is so disgusted he could choke the very life out of something to rid himself of it. And from the corner of his endless black eye, you can see Mark looking right back at you, noticing him noticing you.

Your friends come by more often now than Mark is here.

Every other night, it feels like there's some sort of excuse or reason as to why they come over. "I just finished this stupid assignment I've been working on for two weeks." Another day. "Coming over with" (whoever, whatever) "and a bottle of reposado. Mark should join." The next day. "Is Mark there? Gonna pass by with a couple friends, wanted to talk to him about something." You never really understood why they texted you about it rather than him, but a part of you knew. You were a speed bump. An orange cone.

If they didn't run it by you, they couldn't be considered "friends" enough to keep coming over. To keep sitting on your couch, to keep using your cups, to keep eating your fill.

You don't notice how much things begin to change with Mark around. Not at first, anyways. The places he chooses to sit, the way he uses his body around your friends. Using his heavy hands to shove people out of the way when he goes to the kitchen. Just enough force to startle, just not enough to get a real reaction out of them. Always standing with his back to the door. Cutting off the choice to get out; laughing quietly when someone is forced to squeeze past him and his broad frame. It's mean, almost, it's got a bite to it that no one addresses but you can feel it.

The things he says sometimes too. The way they come out. The kind of thing that would punch ice through your chest and out your back if Mark said them to you. Delivered in this sort of mocking, canary-like, poisonous way. "You really think another drink is what you need?" Mark Grayson, in his soft, gentle tone, with his arm curled around your "friend's" shoulders. "You got a real problem, man. You know, let's get you another drink." Balancing his drink with three fingers, smiling like it's natural, not like the sun but like a great, hungry maw. Waiting to devour them whole. "Go put your glass in the sink and wash it. You might as well have the whole bottle to sip yourself."

When everyone finally leaves and you are lighting a candle to waft away the smell of fast food and joints, you grab your cup and head for the sink. For the first time, in the two months since meeting Mark Grayson, the sink is completely empty. When you look up, there's orange light pouring in from the bathroom and Mark is standing there in the doorway. Staring at you, drying his hands off, leaning on the frame like he's studying you. It doesn't matter that you've looked away or that you start washing your cup. He's noticed you noticing him and it only draws him closer.

"Must want them dead." Mark says, like it's utter fact, completely uncontested. He says it like it's true, which it is, but all you do is focus on the water which feels easier to focus on than Mark's words or his eyes or his frame, which peeks into your peripherals. Big, wide biceps in a loose black wife beater. Hands that could wring someone's spine out like a vice. Leaning against the stove next to the sink, arms crossed like he's in thought but you can feel the difference now. He isn't thinking, Mark is inspecting you. He isn't waiting for you to keep counting the stains on the glass or the dust bunnies. Leaning closer, Mark Grayson is speaking and it's only for you to hear. "You do, don't you?"

"Don't act like it's just me." The only people that couldn't see it was them. But you could see it. In all the ways Mark smiled, like he was fitting on another person's lips right onto his own. The way he would continue pouring the bottle even after your friend's started to protest, filling their cups, filing it more when they weren't looking. All of Mark's gentle "pushes" and "shoves" that were more punches done with comedic "intent" and shoulder checks with bone and tightly-wound muscle. "I just wish they'd stop acting like it matters if I'm around when they are here for you." It's jealous and it's bitter and you know it. But Mark doesn't address it. He doesn't so much as blink, but he does follow. When you dry the cup and put it away, you can feel Mark's eyes trailing after you and when you go towards the couch (One last inspection. Habit, ritual at this point), Mark is a step away from you.

When you assess and there's nothing, no bags, no napkins, no spare utensils and scattered chips, you turn and Mark is behind you.

You'd always noticed, of course. The size of him, the make of him. Mark Grayson is six feet of pure muscle and no gym membership to show for it. No gym clothes in your dryer that you have to boot out into a laundry basket because it's been sitting there waiting for you to deal with. No duffel bag that you'd stumble over because it's in the hallway rather than his room like your other roommate. Wherever it is that Mark Grayson goes when you don't see him, when you don't notice him, it's keeping him built like a panther and of course you notice.

You notice because there are times it feels like he wants you to know how strong he is. Not in some weird bizarro jock way but in a Mark way. Pulling the table back with one hand so you can grab your phone that fell under it like it's made out of cardboard and paper. Flattening a roach that had been harassing the kitchen for two days straight under his palm while setting up his dinner, quick, easy, almost carelessly. Wrenching your tire off when you hit a nail outside your driveway and carrying it under his arm while you replace it with a new one. You didn't stare but of course you had, and even if you didn't, the glimpses are what Mark notices. Perceives with such quick simple recognition. 'I can see right through you.' Always there in every look. Like he's already imagined burying himself right in you. Living in all the little insecurities and hunger and split-second glimpses you've given him.

You can feel it now, as he's standing before you. Couch set between you and Mark's looming body. Even with the light of the bathroom streaming in against him, Mark's eyes seemed like two voids. Not tired, no. Feverish. Not feverish, no, hungry.

"You think you deserve better than them." You can feel Mark's voice vibrating off his chest. Feel it in the way that it resonates down to the pit of your stomach and crashes right back up into your heart. The pounding, beating thing rising to your throat when Mark's hands lift and you can feel them settle there on the sides of your neck. Heavy, slightly cold things that sit on your jugular and force you to look up. "Hm.”

Hm and Okay. No goodbye and no respect. Dirty dishes and vomit on the carpet and texts that say “had no clue you weren't coming” and “we didn’t think to invite you” and Mark Grayson’s hands, which feel as wide as they do terrible, and the fact that you know he’s doing something at night because you follow him every once in a while. You turn your lights off and you coast somewhere close and once, you even got out and started walking by foot. Mark and his steady pace and his phone-less nights and you can tell he’s doing something. Something that requires strength, something that requires muscle, something that makes it so his skin always smells vaguely of cleaner and iron. You know something about Mark isn’t right because no one would travel an hour away from home, last minute, thousands of dollars thrown at the wall, and somehow not have one congratulations or goodbye post written by his Mom.

The account hadn’t been active in months. All the photos of Mark’s mother were old. Debbie Grayson was a phantom on the web and Mark Grayson was still lauding it around as ammo. Mark Grayson, in all his black and yellow fabrics, black shorts that had the tag still on them once, a jacket that you remember seeing on a classmate once, was doing something to this town. Not just to your friends, but this whole city and you were the center of his storm’s eye. The one building left untouched.

“Maybe they don’t.” Mark says simply. “You might be right.”

Two days later, one of your friends posts on Instagram that his little brother has gone missing and one messages you asking if you’ve seen their girlfriend since you take class with her. You have to remind them that you’ve never taken classes with her and the other never asks for your help even as they start putting fliers up.

Mark is watching you the whole day afterwards. Watching as you wring your hair, staring with his tired eyes as you wander circles around the living room and kitchen. Wondering to yourself what the fuck is going in and knowing exactly what’s going on and letting you continue until you’ve finally sit down. Only then is Mark upon you again, as if giving yourself a moment to breathe means he’s allowed to fill it back up with himself. Mark is standing there over you again, but this time it’s the kitchen counter and this time, he’s as unsubtle as the day before. Reaching over you to grab your phone. Looking it over before dropping it gently onto your lap.

“You could give them a call.” Mark knows you won’t. You know you want. He knows you just as well as you do. “Maybe they’ll come over here and beg to cry into your shoulder. You think they’re feeling up to it?” You wanted to hate the way Mark spoke about them sometimes when he knows they can’t hear. This horrible, mocking voice that sounds almost like them but echoed back somehow crueler. With all his teeth and tongue and jaw. “What do you think?”

“Why not do it to them, Mark?” It’s a genuine question. A part of that is what Mark likes about you. How earnest you are. How transparent you are under all those invisible little layers. He almost can’t stop himself from drooling when you look up at him. There’s enough hate and conflict and intrigue in your eyes to fill an ocean with. “Why not just get rid of them?” You speak and even though it’s just a whisper, he can feel the warmth of your breath against his cheek and he inhales in. Just enough to have you live in his lungs for one second longer.

Just enough to finally get the chance to kiss you.

Your back pressed against the hard edge of the kitchen counter, his hands cupped around your waist. The heavy weight of his body pressed against your chest and the dull, slow beat of his heart slapping against your lungs. Mark Grayson isn't kissing you as much as he's devouring you. Watching as you squirm against him, hesitant and frigid, protesting weakly, "Mark-- This isn't- I'm not--" but not pushing back.

Mark remembers the way you reacted when a friend of a friend touched you. A loose and careless hand around your shoulder. Tugging you close to a red solo cup lip; laughing when you lifted your hand and refused, laughing more when you try to recline back and only stopping when it ghosted your lips. You remember looking out of the corner of your eye and seeing Mark across the room. Lounged over your couch alone, arms rested over the back, the whole room a void with him at the very center. All these beating, breathing bodies in your home and your new roommate was the only one in it that truly looked alive. Surrounded by so many future victims. Looking at you. Only you.

Mark Grayson wants to bury himself in you. You can feel it in his palms, in his invasive fingers as they dip beneath your shirt and splay across your stomach. Dragging themselves, an inch at a time, across to your back where he only pulls you closer. He groans when your protests turn into whimpers, your body melting against his. You don't even notice when he pulls you off the chair, only realizing when you're dropped, back first, into the couch. The air punched out of you and replaced with his lips before you can breathe back in. Claiming you, warming you, the weight of his heavy, sturdy body pressed into your skin.

After what feels like a century, Mark pulls away and speaks while you suck every ounce of air back into your lungs. His pupils blown completely wide. The heavy, slow beat of his heart pulsing against your thighs and lower stomach as he leans back down, pressing soft, hungry kisses against your neck. The drag of his teeth over your jugular. Chest pressed against your's, hands dragging your hips against his own. "I want it to tear them apart." Mark chuckles. A deep, heavy thing that feels like it's coming from somewhere further, dirtier than the body he's caged you under. Yet the only thing you can feet is the wet heat of his body against you, the dizzy stars of oxygen starvation dancing around Mark Grayson's feverish black eyes. "Don't you think it's right?" Another kiss, pressed against your collarbone. Another kiss, pressed against your clothed shoulder. "Their just desserts?"

"Mark---" He eats up the way his name sounds on your lips. You can tell. Feel it in the way his cock twitches up against the fabric of his sweatpants and pulses against your inner thigh. Chews on the sound of your quiet, surprised whimper when he rolls his hips up to hear you repeat it again. Quieter but hungrier. "Mark." You don't know what it is that's making him harder. Hearing you beg for him to slow down or the fact that there's people out there, right now, pleading to find their loved ones, who will only find them in pieces. And that's being hopeful. That's assuming Mark left anything for them to even find. "Is this what you came here to do?" You whisper out and Mark seems utterly unfazed. Concentrated more on the flesh of your thighs as he pulls your pants off one leg at a time, the way the skin sinks beneath his thumbs as he brings them up against his chest. Pressing the full weight of his body down upon you, the heavy warmth of his length grinding against your clothed cunt. "To destroy, shit-- this fucking town too?"

"Maybe." Mark mumbles out against your mouth, canine catching on your bottom lip, the taste of pennies under your wet tongue. "But tomorrow. Maybe in a week." You can feel his hands everywhere. Through your hair, kneading the flesh of your ass, fingers brushing your nipples, wet teeth against your jawline, but it still doesn't feel like enough. He thrusts up against, harder, sloppier, head dripping against his boxers, and you can feel just how little resistance your underwear is giving against him. "But fuck, for right now?" He could rip them off. Pound you right into the couch cushions right here and now but there's no fun in that. No fun in making everything quick and easy. He’ll stay here with you forever, trapped under his arms, watching as you weakly follow after his hips, feeling you drip down against his heavy balls, begging for more despite all your protests and questions.

"I think I want to destroy you first."

writer's comments: hi there! if you got here to the bottom, thank you for reading! this is greatly and wonderfully inspired by my dear friend cherubz (@sepulchr4l on twt) who has the juiciest most wonderful apartment au and it inspired me to write this! i might continue this, i probably will, and if you guys are into that-- then i can definitely do a part two! sinister mark is my second fav mark variant (i want you to Guess who is #1) and i love writing this fucked up, terrible, horrible man. i hope you enjoyed and thank you again!

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

dick grayson my beloved

domestic hcs with dick grayson

here's the jason one.

again, heavily inspired by prompts from this post by @novelbear (her prompts always manage to get my mind running)

dividers by @cafekitsune

dick was someone you couldn't help but love immediately. you had an instant crush on him, your friendship was even better. his charm was always something you couldn't resist. to everyone else the tension was crystal clear, if not suffocating. so it wasn't a surprise when you got together with him, just a bunch of relieved sighs.

it didn't take much time before both of you fell into a tandem, like in sync. he just knew what you needed, when you needed. his way of loving was open and free, he didn't shy away from loving you loudly, it wasn't annoying— it made you feel utterly loved.

living with him had its surprises everyday, it was the little things, it always made you sleep with a smile. domesticity was like a blessing with a person like dick.

and those little moments were as sweet as they were silly.

"dick no! don't do that!" you quietly groaned yet instead of moving your head away you further leaned back. you were sat on the floor while dick was on the couch with you between his legs. his hands were carding through your hair, his nails scratching your scalp gently— its a bliss, pure bliss. you always doze off when he does that.

"do what?" he asked amusingly as he tilted your head back for a second to see your helpless smile. he then looked up to see what you were browsing through before seeing you stop at that one series that you always slept through.

"this again?" he scoffed as his hands stopped, "you always fall asleep half way through an episode."

you fake an inaudible gasp in offence as you jab at his leg with your elbow, "i do not."

"i speak with evidence." he has taken several pics of you sleeping open mouthed every time you doze off while watching that show.

"well— well you always do this whenever we're watching that." you point to his hands in your hair, "so its your fault that i sleep. technically."

"that so?" he muses as he leans down to catch your eyes, "so i should stop hm? " he begins to pull away before you hold them at their place.

"i will murder you."

he simply laughs under his breath which you ignore as you pretend to focus on the show, and he decided that instead of brushing your hair, he'll braid. so he does, and it turns out very pretty and neat too.

but then he realises the slight weight on his thigh, and thats when he notices your head lolling to the side, completely squishing a cheek against his thigh. he looks up and like he said, the episode isn't even halfway done.

despite the urge to be smug about his words, his eyes are fond as he peers down at you, poking at your puffed cheek gently. he leans down and presses a kiss on your forehead, admiring you for a moment longer.

a million thoughts running through his mind and yet he stops at one.

he takes out his phone and takes endless pics from every embarrassing angle imaginable.

after all, evidence.

a vigilante's life isn't easy. nights are spent cleaning up the streets, sniffing out the criminals— then there are tough nights where they are lucky to leave in one piece. its demanding, excruciating. so a lot of his time is understandably dedicated to it.

but he is also dedicated to you, so he always directs his full attention to you when you come back from a tiring day at work, full of gossips and complaints. and he's happy to hear them all.

like right now, you're chattering away about some office gossip, all animated and hurried while sitting on the counter with dick standing in between your thighs. he's holding a pint of ice cream in one hand and a spoon in another. his brows are furrowed in absolute concentration, like he's hanging onto every word you're saying.

and he is, of course, but his attention is divided by your lips. they're too distracting!

"that guy is such an asshole you know—" you stopped as he fed you a spoon, and you gulped it down quickly to continue, "he always used to pick on me, but after that complaint— i thought he might have straightened up but nooo-" another spoon. "now, he's picking on some poor new guy."

"a real piece of work." dick scoffed and you nodded, "i know right!" you licked the side of your lips, getting that cream off and dick swears under his breath, his jaw clenching a mere second.

"oh yes! you know Sal? the one who threw coffee at—"

"yes cheating ex boyfriend in the cafe opposite to your office." he completed as he held the spoon, brows still furrowed as he tried his best to not stare at your lips.

"yes!" you gulped down before continuing again, "yes her. so.." forgive him for doing this. after feeding you he licked the spoon slowly, yet innocently all while holding contact. he knows exactly what he's doing.

you paused at your words as your brows furrowed, "her.... what are you doing?" your eyes immediately narrowed in suspicion. you'd be an idiot to not know that look by now.

"what? im just listening to my pretty lover." he answered innocently, the corner of his lips almost tugging up.

"ah i get it." you chuckle under your breath as you shake your head and he simply appears confused, though a laugh escapes him too. "what? can i not call my lover pretty?"

"oh you coy little thing." you grinned as you hooked a finger on the collar of his tshirt and pulled him close.

"little? hey im bigger—"

"shut it."

you liked cooking on your day offs, you could take your time and experiment. it helped to unwind from the week's stress. so you kept dick away from the kitchen until everything's done to not add onto that stress.

"dick?" you called out gently and upon hearing no reply, your brows furrow as you lean your weight on your other foot while your hand rested on your hip, "grayson!" this one wasn't so gentle.

"i said im coming!" he called out frantically, his rushed steps stopping right in front of you, a small over dramatic pout on his face.

"did you?"

"i did!"

his pout deepened when you gave him a unimpressed side eye. "anyway, taste this for me hm?" you look back down at the piping hot food you made, taking a spoonful before raising it to your lips to blow on it.

he had literal heart eyes as he awaited patiently, he loved your food. says he's the number one fan, and compliments every time you cook. he was the one who told alfred about your "magnificent" skills, his words, and thanks to him, you got tons of little tips from alfred.

after blowing on it a few times you raised it to his lips, holding another hand right under his chin while he leaned down. it may be a small thing but this particular moment, whenever you made him taste your food, like this, it made his heart flutter worse than when he confessed.

"sweet god thats amazing!" he moaned, almost obscenely and you cringe at it before your eyes went to the little broth trickling down the side of his lips.

"the sounds you make.." you tutted as you wiped the broth off his lips and licked your thumb.

he froze.

his eyes stayed stuck to your lips for a moment, his ears tuning out everything else as blood rushed to his face.

"shit that was hot." he mumbled to himself as he exhaled heavily while rubbing his eyes and you paused to look at him in confusion.

"but i blew on it."

"what? no not the food—" he paused to give you a pointed look, "are you acting coy or are you seriously that dense?"

"hey im not dens—"

but he was a fast man, always was. immediately turning off the stove he grabbed you by your hips and hoisted you up before settling you on the counter. your eyes widened but before you could protest his mouth was already on yours, urgent and heated.

maybe you were dense.

dick grayson's love language is physical touch. but its not just that he likes touching his partner, but he feels safe feeling them close, he needs the warmth to ground himself, anchor himself to them so his demons won't tear him apart.

and that, follows to bed. he's a very cuddly sleeper. he needs to feel some part of you while sleeping, and its beyond a habit now. its like second nature to him.

sometimes he's draped over you, or the other way around. sometimes he curls in your arms like a little fluff ball, he likes being held too. but most times he has an iron grip around your waist. barely ever lets go, even when you have to pee.

"i have to pee— dick let go." you sleepily groan as you swat at his arm but its like an immovable rock. he simply groans in his sleep before going quiet and you mentally cry, because your bladder is begging you. how can a vigilante be such a heavy sleeper?

he isn't, he hears you but he truly doesn't want to let go.

"dick babe let go i really gotta pee come on." you whine as you pry his arm off, try to. he further nuzzles his face in your shoulder while pulling you even more closer, if that was even possible with the negligent space between you two.

but upon continous pestering, when his sleep was offically ruined he lets you go with something thats between a grumble and a whine.

"what are you doing out of bed?" he asked as if you didn't just tell him that a hundred times.

"for the love of god, i need to pee."

"come fast."

"i might just sleep in the bathroom."

your job might not be as demanding and life-threatening like his, but it does make you rise up way too early for your comfort.

and somehow, for some unknown reasons to you, he likes to be a little shit in the morning. it wasn't intentional at first, but when he saw the annoyed little frown at your face that was more like a pout to him, it made his heart crash. and laugh evil like a maniac.

"dick get the hell out of there!" you yell as you pound at the bathroom door, rubbing your face helplessly before whining again.

“i told you i have a meeting in an hour! get out of the bathroom!” you bang your fists at the door again before looking up at the ceiling as if praying to every power in the universe to give you patience and strength. strength to beat the crap out of him.

"dick i swear to god I'll kill—" you stumble as he suddenly opens the door, not even bothering to feign innocence, instead he's grinning wide and toothy.

"you jerk." you inhale slowly as you point a finger at him, glaring at him with narrowed eyes.

"yes my love?" he has the audacity to say before leaning down and resting his chin on the tip of your finger, tilting his head a bit with that mischievous glint in his eyes that you so love.

"you do this everytime im late! deliberately! " you accuse and he just laughs before wrapping his arms around your waist as if to gather you up from the floor.

"i do? well im so sorry." he said with the most cheeky smile ever and your glare deepens. "this isn't a laughing mat– hey- hey stop it—"

he starts to lean down and pepper kisses all over your face, even when you bend away he follows right over, his hand splayed on your back to support you.

"im sorry." a small peck, "really really sorry." a proper kiss, "forgive me?" bombards you with kisses.

well... he sure is lucky he has an adorable face. damn him.

but you're just as chaotic as him, maybe you weren't before but people in a healthy relationships do learn a thing or two from their partner.

and so did you.

"babe! babe!" dick comes rushing, his eyes scanning the whole room with frantic eyes, before stopping at the washing machine. horror and panic seeped in his eyes as he saw the machine was rinsing the clothes at the moment, draining the water out.

"did you just put my hoodie in the wash?" he asked, praying you didn't. you raised a brow before putting a hand on your hip, "yeah? why? it had a stain remember?"

"love, my phone was in there!" he immediately rushed to the machine, switching it off before opening it.

"dick what the hell—"

he rummaged through, his hands getting all wet till his forearms while the panic in his eyes increased. but he couldn't feel his phone in there, his brows furrowed and he turned to you in confusion. but paused at the sight of you biting your lips, wheezing quietly.

"wha— where's my pho—" you slowly pulled his phone from your pocket, holding it up. silence ensued as he stared at you deadpanned while you cackled loudly.

and then you both bolted.

"you're such an idiot oh my god!" you laughed as tears blurred your vision while you ran for your life, around the living room with him quick on his feet.

"stop running baby its just a matter of when." he called out, eerily calm and you let out a helpless groan before sprinting for the bedroom.

and you had the wishful thinking that you'd outrun your vigilante boyfriend.

his arm hooked around your waist and he yanked you back towards him, your back hitting his chest. your clothes got damp due to his arms still being wet.

"nooo! no you got my clothes wet!" you groaned through your giggles. his smile widened at the sound of your laugh, cheeks reddening and heart warming.

"yeah baby? should have thought this through you know." he murmured amusingly against your ear, making you squirm in his hold.

he swiftly turned you around before grabbing your face, with his wet hands and smashed his lips on yours before you could yell at him. you could feel him smiling against your lips, making the butterflies go all chaotic. you didn't even register the soft moan that escaped your lips and he pulled away with a chuckle, his mischievous eyes filled with delight and mirth.

he pecked your lips again before booping your nose, "we're even now."

dick may have his charm on most of the time, his confidence unwavering. but there are also times when he is nervous.

"im home!"

you got up from your bed and walk out of the bedroom with a soft smile on your lips.

"hey— oh! whats that?" your eyes widen before you rush to him, staring at the bouquet of lillies with awe.

he brushes his hair back before rubbing his nape with a hesitant smile, his eyes darting from your face to the flowers that you take in your hand. "you were talking about that table there being a little...bare, so i got you some flowers to put in it's space."

his eyes pause at your face, a small smile coming on his lips, one filled with fondness. he was nervous, what if you won't like it? what if it doesn't look good at that particular place? he hides those concerns behind that pretty smile.

you look up at him and your smile widens helplessly. you keep the bouquet aside on the coffee table before wrapping your arms around his neck and bringing him close.

"aren't you the sweetest?"

"yeah?"

you hum before pecking his cheeks, his nose and finally his lips. "you like em?" he tilts his head, and behind the assured smile is a need to make sure, make sure that he is indeed loving you right.

"mhm."

dick lives for those over the top, dramatic confessions of love, kissing under the rain, getting you all charmed with ease— but these small, sweet and slow moments... they stick in his mind. they stay and carve out a special place in his heart.

and a silly yet sweet domestic life is all he wants, all with you.

"by the way did you finish that show I've been wanting to see since a week...all by yourself?"

"....yeah about that—"

NOTE: somehow this one became longer than jason's.

reblogs are appreciated! :D

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

JASONNNNN 😭😭❤️❤️❤️❤️

when jason’s angry you can tell.

his breathing will shorten, puffs of air leaving faster than normal. his hands will shake causing him to drop a lot of stuff, his body will lack its usual quietness when moving around.

but, there’s one other way you can tell he’s angry.

either you two had a fight, one that resorted in heightened vocals and sarcastic laughs. or, you’re calming him down after something particularly aggravating.

either way, you’ve ended up in bed. your legs wrapped around his torso as your nails dig fiercely into the moonlit skin of his.

he’s huffing, hot breath smacking itself onto either your neck, your forehead or your shoulder. his eyes will glare at you, especially if you’ve just had an argument.

but, just because he’s mean with every piston of his hips, every bounce of skin tumbling into skin. that doesn’t mean he’s mean to you.

his hands will still cradle the strands of your hair as a silent forgiveness, his lips will peck soft nibbles, afraid to taint your skin.

he won’t drawl out degrading words..

(he had spent far too many nights hearing the girls standing on the Corner be berated with them to ever direct them at you.)

infact, he’ll be even kinder when handling you. he had watched people his entire life take their anger out on somebody they loved over something so trivial, he’d be dammed if he did that.

so instead, he’d tighten his fingers painfully into the softened fabrics that trailed under the two of you, when he’s getting close he won’t nip onto your collarbone this time, rather he will shove his face into the pillow above you.

and when all is said and done, he’ll roll the two of you over, his hand on your back as he moves to position you laying on top of him, head shoving itself into your now sweat stained hair.

his fingers will trace every digit and crack from your spine, his mouth will mumble out every love caressed word and he will soak up every complaint or compliment.

because, jason’s not a mean person. he’ll tell himself he is or the gotham gazette will paint him (red hood) as one, but he isn’t.

he’s brash, he’s irrational. but never is he mean.

— ʚїɞ — —ʚїɞ— —ʚїɞ—

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

I Was Made For Lovin' You (Tyler Owens x Reader)

DESCRIPTION: You're a reporter desperately needing a story good enough to save the magazine. That's how you end up in the middle of Oklahoma interviewing the charming tornado wrangler, Tyler Owens. You end up getting a lot more than you bargained for when you end up in the passenger side of his storm-chasing truck. WORD COUNT: 5.6k WARNINGS: Cussing? Sensual jokes? Just a good old journalist x Tyler romance. MY MASTERLIST - READ ON AO3!

Y/n sat at her office cubicle, gnawing at her pencil. There had to be something. Scrolling through articles and hours of social media, trying to find something decent enough for a good story, had her clawing her hair out. It didn’t look that stressful in her mundane, fluorescent office with the succulents and cat posters, but inside, she was scrounging everything she could. Post-it notes and lists littered her whiteboard. The whole thing practically looked like a crime scene.

Then her coworker Stella came by, sipping flavored water and holding her phone. Stella was the producer for the video side of the magazine and her closest friend. But even she didn’t know what her boss and CEO of The Culture Edition had privately said during a meeting. 

Y/n, you’re our star journalist. That’s why I want you to know. We’re filing for bankruptcy. And there’s a very good chance we’re shutting down our doors come fall. 

But she didn’t want to work anywhere else. She had heard about other magazines and online companies. The unethical means and money-hushed journalists. That wasn’t why she became a journalist. She wanted to explore and put out work about culture and people making a difference. 

That’s why when Stella went. “You heard of this Tornado Wrangler guy on YouTube?”

She let out a loud scoff, pinching the bridge of her nose. It already sounded like a tragic addition to her list of ideas just by name alone. “No. Do I want to?”

“He’s like this guy out in Tornado Alley, and he’s chasing tornadoes in his truck and well… wrangling them.” 

She furrowed her brows. “Like stopping them?”

She nodded. Huh… There might be something there. Whether this Tornado Wrangler knew it or not. 

“Like look-” Stella said, holding out her phone so that the both of them could watch. 

They watched the livestream footage of a blonde man in the front seat of a pick-up truck. He definitely looked attractive enough to be internet famous, that’s for sure. She squinted her eyes suspiciously until another camera angle was shown from some sort of drone, showing the truck driving near the tornado. That was an interesting play. 

Then it switched back to him and his other passengers hooting and hollering annoyingly at the camera, and she was turned off.

“Could be a good story.” Stella said, wiggling her eyebrows, “And I mean- the chance to talk to a real-life cowboy.” She teased.

The two of them had been talking of a ‘cowgirl summer’. Watching westerns with a dreamy protagonist. Listening to Shania Twain and Carrie Underwood next to the pool. But let’s face it, the two of them were city girls. California was their home. If she were ever flown out for a story, it was usually to New York or Atlanta for arthouse openings and charity fundraisers. She didn’t exactly enjoy the mud and dirt. 

“I don’t know. It’s intriguing, but how big even is this guy?” She said, unsure. Would it be worth it for the company to fly her out to the middle of nowhere?

“He got a million subscribers.”

She blew her off and waved her hand. “Who doesn’t?”

“No, no. A million subscribers last night. He’s at four million today.”

That’s how she ended up in Oklahoma, a week later. Walking up to the motel that this Tyler Owens guy said they would be at. The sun was slowly setting behind her as she stepped out of the rental car. Her decisions had been poor already, with a car that could barely handle the dirt roads and the formal block heels that sank just slightly into the dust. Her beautiful hair was already frizzy from the weather. But she needed to look professional. 

She looked around the surprisingly busy parking lot. It had people sitting around in lawn chairs, lighting campfires, drinking, and talking. It looked like a tailgating party. She walked stiffly in her pencil skirt and blouse as she looked around, trying to find the recognizable Tyler. She was used to people looking at her when she had a press badge around her neck, but right then, she felt people eying her strangely. The most probable reason being that she looked completely out of place. Compared to the lighthearted and casual atmosphere, she was an alien with a camera bag bouncing on her hip.

“Ms. Y/n!” A voice called, and her head whipped around to find the man she was looking for sitting on the roof of his famous truck. He waved with a screwdriver in his hand and climbed down. 

She walked over. Her heels crossing over from dirt onto the bumpy asphalt made her balance worse, and when he noticed, he rushed over with his hands out. She quickly took purchase of his large, calloused hands out of necessity. 

“We gotta get some boots on ya, city girl.” He said helping her find her balance. 

She stared down at her feet, steadying herself. “Thank you.” She replied, and when she turned up to see his face, she couldn’t help but swallow. Wow, this guy was handsome. He looked like a movie star, not exactly a tornado wrangler. With chiseled features and sea green eyes. He had his hair swept over and his stubble taken care of. Rugged and clean at the same time.

She quickly shook herself out of it, though she could’ve sworn that he was looking at her with the same look of admiration in his eyes. She reached her hand out stiffly. “I’m Y/n. Thank you for having me.”

“Tyler. Thanks for coming.” His accent was strong, and his voice was deep, making her remember her and Stella’s ‘Cowgirl Summer’ jokes and ideas. The brown corduroy button-up shirt that stuck to his sweaty body didn’t help. MUST STAY FOCUSED.

“What were you just working on?” She asked, gesturing to the top of his truck, which had some sort of satellite sticking out of the top. It was unlike any pickup truck she had seen before, with gadgets, spikes, and equipment poking out of it. 

He smirked. “Right to business, huh?” 

She nodded a little shyly. She had interviewed hundreds of people, yet she was so out of the loop here that she didn’t even know where to start with him. 

He nodded his head for her to follow him, and she trailed him to the truck. 

“Do you mind if I record this?” She asked, rushing to open her camera bag.

A friendly smile grew on his face. “Sweetheart, I’m on camera every day. Go right ahead.” 

God, the word sweetheart coming from his mouth sent a blush across her face that she fought to get rid of. She took out her video camera and started recording. 

“It is June 5th, 2024, and I am with Tyler Owens.” She stated for future purposes.

He chuckled and waved. “Hi guys. I’m Tyler Owens, and I was just about to explain to the lovely Y/n here what I have been working on.” He pointed to the satellite on the roof of his truck, “You see, that is a Mobile Doppler Radar. Or a DOW. A doppler on wheels. Mine is kinda crappy compared to those of other meteorologists, but we use it to track supercells and scan tornadoes in real time. That way me and my crew know when to go in and when to go out. I was just adjusting it cause some screws got knocked loose.”

“You say ‘other meteorologists’. Are you a meteorologist?” The question just naturally came out of her.

He seemed kinda stunned by that question off the bat, and he was about to say something until a shorter, tan man with wild black hair appeared from the side.

“Damn right he is. Don’t let him tell you he isn’t.” 

She quickly zoomed out the camera to incorporate the new character. He slapped Tyler’s back. “This guy right here’s got a degree in meteorology. Genius. He’s taught me everything I know.” 

“Boone, okay, okay,” Tyler said, chuckling and shaking his head. 

“Woah! Sick equipment.” Boone said, pointing to her camera. 

She smiled. The guy was welcoming, and he was now speaking her language. “It’s for work. Wish it was mine.” 

Then she realized the opportunity that had just come up. 

“Could you introduce yourself for me?” She asked, now she was diving deeper, and she developed this feeling in her gut that this story was gonna be good. With only meeting only two people, she had never met anybody else like them. 

Boone nodded and looked at the camera. “I’m Boone. I’m the videographer for this awesome guy right here.” He and Tyler wrapped their arms around each other proudly. 

“And would you consider yourself a meteorologist?” 

He shook his head with pursed lips. “Me? No. I’m just the camera and rocket guy. But I sure do learn a lot every day from Tyler.”

Tyler nodded and clicked his tongue. “You see, there’s a common misconception that you need a degree to do this sorta thing. But my crew doesn’t need PhDs or fancy gadgets. I can guarantee you that Boone and my crew have seen more tornadoes than your average weatherman.” 

Boom. Quote. She couldn’t help the grin that grew on her face. An underdog story? Are you kidding me?!

“You get real pretty when you hear something you like,” Tyler said, and she quickly pressed stop on the camera. 

“Oh! Well-” She stammered nervously and looked at her heels on the asphalt.

Boone laughed at her off-guard reaction. Was it appropriate? No. Was it unwanted? … Well. 

“Thank you for that. Both of you.” She said, looking up and facing the two of them. “Tyler, I’d love to interview you one-on-one at some point tonight after I check in. Then the same with the rest of your crew.”

He smiled again. “Yes, ma’am.” 

Getting into her motel room, she felt the need to splash cold water on her face. The only reason she didn’t was to sustain her makeup, but she did dab her sweaty face with a rag. How anybody survived this dry heat was unbelievable. She looked into the mirror, and her makeup was practically melting off her face. Shit. 

That’s why when she walked out an hour later, she had redone her face and washed her sweaty hair by leaning over awkwardly in the motel sink. Instead of heels, she put on a pair of loafers. They were still definitely unsuitable for the environment, but they were less so than the previous heels. 

She found Tyler and his crew sitting around a campfire. They had a pack of beers open, and their laughter could be heard from the second-floor balcony strip of the motel. 

As she approached, Tyler waved, looking her up and down. “City girl’s back. And in much more comfortable shoes.” He turned to the circle, “Everybody, this is Y/n. She’s the reporter doing the piece on us.” 

They all waved and said their hellos. She smiled and waved. The group seemed welcoming, but she still felt a little out of place. 

“Tyler, if you could spare a few minutes, I’ll try and keep it brief.” She said, not wanting to be a bother, but also needing to do her job.

“You have me as long as you want.” He said, slapping his thighs, and standing up. As they walked away from the group, he looked at her, “Do we need somewhere private? We can sit in the trailer.” 

Her eyes lit up at that prospect. Perfect. Now the audio wouldn’t be completely destroyed by the crowd noise and cicada screaming. “Yes! That’d be perfect.”

He led her to the trailer, and as she stepped in, she whipped out her camera to start recording the space. It wasn’t exactly spacious, but it was filled with audio and video equipment. Screens and switches of different weather instruments were packed alongside.  A string of Christmas lights hung across the top, making it homier. Along with pictures of the crew hung up next to the small window. It all felt cozy rather than cramped.

Tyler stood by the door. “Door open or closed?” He asked, and she immediately felt better about the situation. If he were leading her into an enclosed space to murder her, he wouldn’t have asked. 

“Closed works. Cleaner audio.” She said, and he nodded. 

After closing the door, the noise level went down infinitely. Now it was just an awkward silence inside this tight trailer. But she was used to awkward silence. It came with the territory of interviewing people. People often didn’t know how to conduct themselves on camera or audio recording, and their answers were often rehearsed. Yet she had a feeling she wouldn’t have to worry about this with the Tornado Wrangler.

He sat down in a small booth across from her. She set up the camera on the counter of the windowsill. The angle didn’t matter as much, it was just for her to look back at later and be able to write accurately. 

“You ready?” She asked, looking at the camera monitor, making sure his face was in focus. It felt like she could stare at the screen all day…. Shit, that must be one of the reasons why people were so obsessed with this guy. The warm lights of the RV trailer cast nicely on his skin, and he gave her a small, shy smile. He looked different from how he did on the livestreams. More subdued. He looked a lot more thoughtful when he wasn’t screaming. She was sure that even if she ended up posting this footage, it was bound to go viral just by the oxymoronic nature of it. 

He nodded. “Whenever you are, city girl.” 

The interview went perfectly. She got to ask about why he specifically focused on tornadoes, and she received answers that showed the heart and soul he had for weather. She listened to the story about seeing his first tornado, and she wrote down notes in her pen pad. 

“I was just mesmerized. But I looked over at my aunt’s face, and I knew that I was supposed to be scared.”

Her head tilted. “Is the Tornado Wrangler scared of tornadoes?” 

He chuckled and shook his head. “Not exactly.”

She learned about his bull-riding past and his college degree. The start of his YouTube channel. For an interview that she promised would be a few minutes, she ended up so invested in the conversation that they were there talking for almost an hour. It got to a point where he was asking her questions now, and it wasn’t just an interview. 

“How long have you been doing this for, then?” He asked, curiosity in his eyes.

She shrugged, “Hard answer. Did the newspaper in high school and college. Studied journalism. Got my job at The Culture Edition straight out of school and never looked back.”

“The Culture Edition… Why that one?” 

She smiled. “I’m supposed to be the one interviewing you here, Tyler.” Just then, her camera beeped, and she looked over. “Shit- I mean- Shoot, my battery died.” She said. That was a rare occurrence for her. A slip-up in professionalism? But she had been so comfortable talking to Tyler that she must’ve gotten too cozy.

He laughed at her fluke as she tinkered with the camera.

“Well, that’s alright. The last fifteen minutes are us talking about nonsense anyway. Thank you for talking to me.” She said genuinely.

She started packing it all up, and she didn’t even notice his gaze stuck to her like glue.

“It’s no problem. You’re the one who flew out here just for little old me.” He said, standing up now, so his staring wasn’t obvious.

They walked to the door, and she was about to reach for the handle, but he got to it before her. He opened the door for her, and they stared at each other for a moment. A lingering look that said ‘I don’t want you to go’. 

“Hey, you should come join us on the road tomorrow. Could be good for your story, and I can guarantee it’ll be a lot of fun.” He offered.

She was taken off guard. Her eyes widened, and her mouth dropped slightly. What should she say? She had seen the video clips of how violently that truck moved, and how dangerous it was near those tornadoes. The thought of her in the back seat made her stomach twist. But she also knew it’d be so good for the story. Potentially company saving.

She took in a deep breath. “I’ll meet you in the morning then.” 

He patted the hinge of the door excitedly, and she gave a polite smile before walking down the steps of the R.V.

After a long night of interviewing the rest of his crew, she was completely exhausted, but also so satisfied. The story was coming along perfectly. A group of diverse misfits chasing tornadoes and providing relief aid to towns hit by them. All led by a man who was bound to make star headlines. 

The day had been so long. With the travel time and the late-night interviews, she crashed as soon as she hit the pillow. 

It was only a few hours later when her heart leaped into her throat as a BOOM of thunder awoke her, jolting her right up. She put her hand to her heart even though she could hear it race in her ears. In her mind was her mom’s advice. Go outside. It’s only scary when you’re inside because your brain does all the talking. 

Wide awake now, she got out of bed and strolled out the door in her silk yellow nightgown. Surely, there wouldn’t be anybody awake at three in the morning during a storm this bad-

As she shut the door, she made eye contact with Tyler, who leaned against the railing and looked back at the sound. Her eyes widened. 

“Oh! Uh- Sorry. I’ll just-” She went to turn back around.

“Wait- What are you doing out here?” He asked gently, and it seemed like he was suppressing a smirk at the sight of her in a little nightie like that. Her hair was a wild storm in of itself. Meanwhile, he was dressed in a white T-shirt and sweatpants. Certainly a lot more covered up.

“It’s stupid. I just-” 

CRACK. The thunder boomed again, and it was close. The flash of light was visible from a near distance. She jumped and covered her ears with her eyes closed. It’s just thunder. It’s just thunder.

A dawn of realization cast on Tyler’s face. He cracked a smile. “Aw, don’t tell me you’re afraid of the storm now.” 

She brought her hands down from her ears and walked over to the railing. Her arms shook as she held onto it, and she avoided looking at him and his condescending smirk. Instead, she tried to look at the rain and how rivers of water slid off the roof above them and onto the ground. It reminded her that it was all just clouds and water.

“My mom always told me to go out and look at the storm when I was scared. Helps me feel better.” She explained.

He nodded and clicked his teeth. “Now tell me this, why is a woman who is shaking like a leaf at a little thunder doing a story on storm chasers in Tornado Alley?”

She sighed, debating on whether to tell him or not. After some deliberation and looking over at his kind expression, she decided there was no harm in telling him. 

“The Culture Edition is going bankrupt. And… I think this is a good enough story to get us back on our feet.” She said 

He let out a soft whistle. “You really care about your work.” “You really care about the weather.”

He pointed to her as if to say ‘touche’. “But you can write anywhere for any company, can’t you?”

“Technically, yes. But…” She shook her head, “It’s a long story.” “I’ve got time.”

She looked over at him and couldn’t help but notice that he was looking directly at her face. Not her exposed chest or her shivering thighs. But her face. And with genuine interest.

“The Culture Edition was, of course, the first job that took me. But I also just… I feel like it’s a side of journalism that’s dying out. I mean- our political climate’s a mess, and reporters are siding with one or the other. They’re often being paid for or sponsored by somebody. Even if it’s not political, journalists are writing opinion pieces and reviews on products that they’re being paid to endorse. It’s becoming so… so soulless.” She shook her head sadly, “Not The Culture Edition. We focus on exploring human stories and connection. And I love learning so much about different people with every job. So the fact that I might not have it come August… I’ll do anything to keep it.” Tyler looked at her, nodding. 

“You really think that this story’s gonna help you guys bounce back?” He asked. 

She nodded. “You and your team have given me some of the best quotes I’ve gotten in months. You’re genuine people, and the public will recognize that.”

He chuckled and looked at her with an admiring smile. He took his hand and gently traced her bare arm with the side of his index finger, sending a trail of electricity up with it. “You’re still shaking.” 

Looking up at him, she realized he was watching her arms now as they involuntarily shivered. She nodded again.

“You sure you wanna do this tomorrow?” He asked. 

No. But looking up at his face, he had a sense of determination across his eyes.

“I don’t have a choice.” She whispered.

“Then let’s get you a goddamn good story.”

The next morning, she was texting Stella as she sent many cowboy gifs and the song lyrics to ‘Save a Horse’. 

S: Can’t believe you’re ‘going for a ride’ with Tyler Owens.

Y: IN HIS PICKUP TRUCK!

S: Sure… Sureeeee. Go save some horses for me. 

She rolled her eyes, but couldn’t resist sending some GIFs back.

A knock at her door startled her, and she turned off her phone at record speed. She opened it and found Tyler standing there in the whole shebang. A brown flannel over top a white wifebeater that was tucked into his jeans. She looked down at his belt with the biggest buckle that she had ever seen, but couldn’t resist looking up at the cream-colored cowboy hat that crowned his head. 

“Morning!” She said with a smile, taking him all in.

He looked at what she was wearing. “Oh no, city girl. This isn’t gonna work.” He laughed.

She looked down at herself, confused. She was wearing a tight white button-up blouse tucked into some black slacks. If she was gonna be on camera, she should probably look the part of a reporter, no?

“What?” She asked, looking back up at him.

“You’re gonna get all dirty today.” He said with a smirk, “You pack any jeans in that little suitcase of yours?” He pointed over her shoulder.

She looked over and saw that he was looking at her small capsule wardrobe. She nodded.

“Good. Cause I can get you a new shirt.” He said.

A little while later, she sat in the passenger side of Tyler’s truck wearing a baseball tee that had the graphic ‘Not My First Tornadeo’. Jesus, it was kind of hideous, and she couldn’t believe that she was gonna be introduced as a journalist wearing this. But Tyler was right, even as they simply drove with the windows down, the dust from the dirt road was getting everywhere. 

She kept her notepad open, but didn’t film because there was no point in using her fragile camera when they were already capturing this at every angle possible. 

The storm clouds started to appear in the distance, greying the sky. Her chest tightened just slightly, and her shoulders clenched. 

“We ready to start the stream, Ty?” Boone asked from the back. 

“Yeah, let’s just-” Tyler said, looking over at the anxious Y/n, who was sitting stiffly and chewing on the end of her pencil. “Boone, put on your mixing headphones.”

“What? Why? I wouldn’t be able to hear any-” 

Tyler looked back at him and tilted his head with raised brows. 

“Ohhhhh… Yeah. Got it.” Boone put his headphones on, and she let out an anxious laugh at that.

“How we feeling, city girl?” Tyler asked

She looked over at him as he drove forward. “Like I’m gonna puke. But I really don’t wanna do that on camera.” 

“You’re not just facing your fear today. You’re riding it. And I think that’s incredible.” He encouraged.

She stayed silent, taking in deep, shaky breaths as raindrops started pittering against the windshield. Looking back down at her legal pad and chewed-up pencil, she felt a sense of dread shake through her.

“You’re gonna be just fine.” He said, reaching over and squeezing her shoulder. He soothed her with a gentle brush of his thumb afterward. “I’m so sure, in fact, that I wanted to ask you something.” He took his hand back and put it on the steering wheel.

That caught her attention. She looked over at him, but he kept his eyes on the road, as if he were nervous to look at her. 

“After today’s stream, can I take you to dinner?” He blurted out with a small smile poking the corners of his mouth, “We can celebrate. Facing your fears.” 

Her jaw dropped slightly, and she blinked in surprise. She looked back at Boone, who was jamming out to music in his own world, then back at Tyler, who was anxiously waiting for an answer. This couldn’t be real. He was asking her out. 

“I think you mean riding them.” She finally replied confidently, “Yes. I’d love to.”

His grin somehow grew larger. “Let’s do this, city girl.”

She looked back at Boone and waved to get his attention. She motioned for him to take off his headphones.

“Is it go-time?” Boone asked

“It’s go-time,” She said, surprising Tyler.

The start of the stream was certainly interesting. She watched as Tyler and Boone communicated with Lily, Dexter, and Dani in the R.V. using a radio. She feverishly scribbled notes and was in the middle of writing them when Tyler said into the propped-up camera:

“Today, we are being joined by the lovely Y/n, from The Culture Edition!”

She looked up in surprise and gave a smile and a wave to the camera.

“She is a very talented reporter, making sure the crew and I are on our best behavior for her story coming out. And you guys should all go check out The Culture Edition online.” He expressed to the camera.

Her head turned to him as she couldn’t help her astonished reaction. He didn’t have to do that. She didn’t even ask. That wasn’t his job, and this wasn’t a partnership yet- he did that just for her.

When he looked over and saw her face, he sent her a smirk and a wink before checking the sensors on his dashboard. And for some reason that felt more dangerous than the goddamn tornado they were about to see. If she somehow managed to survive this, was she even gonna survive dinner?

“Dexter, you seeing the same thing I’m seeing?” Tyler radioed in.

“Looking good up ahead. Low-level cape. Good enough shear. Good moisture.” Dexter’s voice came through.

“WOOOOOOOOOOO!” Boone suddenly cheered from the back, startling her, but she let out a laugh. “You ready?!”

She nodded with a nervous smile. Even though the rain was pouring onto them now, it was hard to be scared with Boone and Tyler’s optimism. 

That’s when she saw it. This giant mass of whirlwind is in the distance. It looked like something out of a religious painting. A god damn hole in the sky that tunneled and touched down onto the grass. The already uneven road rumbled, and the truck shook like Hell had just opened up beneath them.

Tyler let out an excited scream. “ALRIGHT. HARNESSES ON.”

She quickly glanced back at the black straps on the seat and swiftly put her arms through. She buckled herself in. She couldn’t believe this was real. If this saved the magazine, then she was very much deserving of a promotion. 

“Someone’s awful quiet over here!” Tyler said excitedly, looking over at her. But it also seemed to be his way of checking in on her while the cameras were rolling.

She smiled at him and rolled her eyes, shaking her head.

“Give us a yell!”

“A yell?!” She looked over at him, laughing, and he seemed relieved to see her do so as they neared the center. 

“A yell! Like this!” Boone said before demonstrating a shrill woohoo.

She blushed with a bashful smile before finally letting out a “WOOOOOOHOOOOOOOO!”

Boone grabbed her shoulders from the backseat and shook her, making her laugh. “THAT’S what we’re talking about!”

“Folks, we got here a natural Tornado Wrangler.” Tyler looked over at her, and if the circumstances were different, he’d take his time watching her. Admiring how, even though she was shaking hard, she still had a gorgeous smile on her face. Her hair whipping every which way as they drove on the bumpy terrain.

She sucked in a breath as they got so close to the tornado, she could see the chunks of dirt and assortment of nature it had picked up. Spinning and flying like the Wizard of Oz. But over the harsh sound of the rain and wind slamming into the windows of the truck, there was Tyler’s laughter. For some reason, his nonchalant attitude and genuine glee grounded her. 

Tyler grabbed what looked like a joystick in the middle of the console and pressed the red button. 

“Anchors deployed.” He announced.

“What do those do?” She yelled over the rumbling. 

“Those keep us on the ground, honey.” He said back. 

She nodded and wrote down in her notepad to ask him more about that later. Of course, she felt his grin on her and the shake of his head as he watched her somehow write with a full-blown tornado in front of her. 

Looking back up, it was right in front of her very eyes. Leaves and grey dust spun violently, erupting a loud whistle in the air like she had never heard before. It was roaring fast and straight into them. 

“Oh god. Oh god. Oh god!” She squealed, closing her eyes and gripping the grab handle with one hand. She felt Tyler reach over and grab her other. He squeezed it, and she exhaled her scared breath. Opening her eyes, she watched him as he continued yelling and hollering for the livestream. Just under the camera, he held onto her hand, letting her squeeze it as tightly as she needed. 

He looked over and nodded as he saw her open eyes now. “Wanna do the honors? Press that switch!” He pointed to a small silver switch between them.

“NOW?!”

“YES NOW! WE’RE IN THE TORNADO.” He cackled.

She quickly flipped it and screamed, startled as the shriek of fireworks sent off into the air ignited. Watching above, she observed as the rockets disappeared into the clouds, then BOOM. They didn’t explode like they normally would. The flares of color went in the direction of the winds. Green, blues, and reds swirled around them. She had never seen anything like this in her life. She couldn’t help but lean forward, amazed to watch it all. And Tyler, who had seen this dozens of times, was instead watching the reflections of color dance in the pupils of her eyes. 

Then the roar of the winds started to lessen, and the area started to clear. She could see the path in front of her again. Boone and Tyler were going crazy, excited to say another tornado was wrangled. And she was left sitting awestruck and shaking. But now it wasn’t out of fear, but out of pure adrenaline and excitement.

Once they got back to the motel, Tyler walked over to her side of the door and opened it for her. She sat frozen, considering she was about to open it herself, but then she took Tyler’s hand and climbed down from the truck. She dusted her hands off.

“Did you have fun?” He asked.

“How could I not? That was… incredible.” She smiled breathlessly.

“Told you we’d survive.”

She rolled her eyes. “Yeah, well, do I get to pick the place we eat at tonight?” 

He nodded. “Whatever you want. It’s your day.”

She looked down at her loafers, which were absolutely covered in a coat of dust. Unable to stop her bashful smile, “Thanks. For what you said about The Culture Edition in there. You really didn’t have to.”

“And you really didn’t have to face a tornado for your job, yet you did.” He said, looking down at her. “Wanted to make it worth it.”

“Oh, it was more than worth it.” She said with a newfound confidence, looking up at him. She was breathing heavily, and he reached out to brush away some wild strands of her hair out of her face. 

He smirked. “Was it now?” He moved closer and cupped the side of her cheek now. 

Hesitantly, she started bringing up her opposite hand, and he calmly took it mid-air and put it on his shoulder. More than permission. Asking for it. She spread her hand across his back before reaching up with her other to tap the brim of his cowboy hat.

“You always wear this?” She asked teasingly

“What can I say? The ladies love it.” 

“That they do.” She smirked before leaning in to press her lips against his.

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 681🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

"Are you ever gonna offer to get on top?"

Mark's brows bunch into a scowl, his elbows braced on either side of your head.

The late afternoon sunlight pours in through your window, streaks of golden light dance over your bare flesh, his carved hips pressed firmly against yours. His brain fuzzy with how your fingers feel, tangled in the raven hair at the nape of his neck and you scoff, letting out a huffed breath.

"Fuck no."

"Dude, I literally just came from space. I was on a whole different planet for like, two months."

"Yes, and?" You huff. "You literally ghosted me for two months, came back with a purple baby."

Mark tucks his face into the curve of your neck, his chest flush against yours, and he shifts, muscles shifting beneath his flesh as he wraps his arms around you, calloused fingertips curling around your waist and digging into the softness of your body.

His Thraxan garb tossed messily onto your deskchair, your clothes scattered across your room and your panties ripped to literal shreds.

"For the last time: he's not mine." Mark groans into your neck.

"He has your eyes." You argue.

"Because he's my brother." He deadpans. "Do you really think I'd cheat on you? Like, do you actually think that?"

And you purse your kiss-swollen lips, your nails tracing patterns over his sinewy back, your legs shifting and your thighs wrapping snugly around his hips.

"With an alien? Definitely. You popped a boner during Fifth Element."

And he whines. "She was an opera singer. It was a totally different thing. Unrelated to the alien thing."

Mark lifts his head, shifting until he's resting his chin on your sternum, peering up at you with those big brown eyes, lashes fluttering and you watch the honeyed sunrays form a bronze halo on the crown of his tousled hair.

He looks at you like you're his whole world and it makes you weak.

'Fuck.' You suck your teeth.

"Please, baby." Mark sighs, pressing a kiss against the valley between your breasts, trailing his lips along your chest in those sweet, shy pecks. "I'll do that thing—"

"Oh my God, you big baby. Just flip us over." You grunt, and Mark switches your positions with ease, lips curled into a dorky grin as he watches you, his gaze dropping to where you're seated so prettily on his hips, your knees dimpling your mattress and your sheets pooled around your hips.

"Score." He whispers under his breath, eyes nearly rolling back in his head when he feels your hips lift, your hands braced on his broad chest.

And his phone rings.

And his eyes shoot open, and he stares up at you, brows curling in frustration.

"No—no, no— don't ans—"

"It's Mr Cecil." You hum softly, the device grasped between your fingers and you listen attentively.

"He says he needs to see you."

Mark's expression crumples.

"Oh my God," His voice cracks and he lets his head fall back against the pillow, "I hate these fucking people."

And he sits up, his tongue brushing across his lower lip as he stares at you. Soft, pliable and still with his leaky cock buried in you, and he sighs.

"When I get back," Mark's fingers dig into your cheeks, forcing your lips into a puckering pout, "you're on top."

And you snort.

"Wouldn't count on it, pookie." Your lips press a sweet peck against his, before you lift yourself up, and Mark winces as the cold air hits his still wet and still hard cock.

"If you don't, I will, actually crash out." Mark states. "Viltrumite style."

"And the government can't stop me." His dimples deepen.

"Because as you know, I'm—"

"Indestructible." You interrupt. "We get it."

"It's literally right there! The word is right— you know, I'm done. You're on top when I get back." Mark grumbles, already rifling through your closet for something to wear before settling on your robe.

"I'll be asl—"

"Ahhhh," He interrupts, effectively cutting you off, "I don't care. You're on top."

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @lov3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Writer so good I’m reading fics about shows I’ve never watched

i’m yours ; billy butcher

fandom: the boys

pairing: billy x reader

summary: you find out that butcher slept with maeve, and attempt to ignore your feelings by going m.i.a. and going home with a complete stranger, only to awake the green-eyed monster living inside of butcher

preface: this isn’t set in canon timeline, it’s basically just using the bit where butcher sleeps with maeve as a bit of a jealousy catalyst

notes: this man has a hold on me… and i feel like this got a little rushed at the end but i still kind of like it, please let me know what y’all think! (also, i’m sorry all my stuff has the same formula, i promise i’m trying to mix it up!)

warnings: a lot of swearing, the ‘sewer-slide’ word, google-translated french, sexual content, and some soft smut

word count: 5315

Things are good, too good, but you’re doing your best not to look a gift horse in the mouth. Hughie and Annie are happy, MM is content, and Frenchie is excitedly creating new methods of blowing up Supes almost daily. Butcher is… well, Butcher. He’s grumpy and brash, but seems to be feeling a little more positive lately, focusing more on recon and intel rather than running in with guns blazing.

For the first time in what felt like a lifetime, you had managed to go grocery shopping without anyone stumbling home bloody and bruised. Frenchie is humming along to the song that had been playing on the radio, carrying most of the plastic bags while MM carries one with you on his back. You were all in such high spirits that he had let you jump on his back at the bottom of the apartment stairs, carrying you up four flights as if you weighed no more than a hiking backpack.

Frenchie chuckles at the two of you as he unlocks the apartment door, entering first and pushing it open all the way. You have to duck a little, giggling and holding on to MM for dear life as he starts jogging toward the couch. He drops the bag on the floor before falling into the sofa, and you squeal as he squashes you.

“Hey,” you exclaim, still laughing, “what the fuck? Steeds don’t sit on their riders!”

“You want to ride me next, petit ange?” Frenchie calls from the kitchen.

You writhe until MM moves, standing up with a satisfied grin across his lips. You flip him your middle finger as he turns away, ushering Frenchie out of the kitchen so he can put the groceries away. You find the TV remote buried in the couch cushions, and just as the old screen flickers to life, Kimiko emerges from the hallway. She looks at Frenchie with a small smile, signing hello before her nose crinkles, and she signs another sentence you struggle to catch as your attention is called toward the master bedroom doors.

Frenchie frowns curiously, “She says that it smells in here.”

Keep reading

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Oh my god I feel like throwing up this is so good

letters through time masterlist 𐙚 b.b

and if nothing else, just know this, i love you.

pairing: 1940s!bucky barnes x modern!reader

summary: you find a letter from 1944 hidden in the old brooklyn apartment you moved signed by one james buchanan barnes. you write back, he did too, and somehow, across decades, you both fall in love.

warnings: mentions of war, grief, emotional themes, soft angst, implied trauma

a/n: hi my loves, i wrote this series a while ago and wasn’t sure if i’d ever share it, but here we are. it means a lot to me, probably because it’s one of the very first series i wrote and actually finished. i really hope you love it as much as i do. thank you for reading <3

series playlist

chapter 1 (posted on: 27th may)

chapter 2 (posted on: 29th may)

chapter 3 (posted on: 31st may)

chapter 4 (posted on: 2nd june)

chapter 5 (epilogue) (coming 4th june)

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Not the Time I Meant to Call You

Pairing: Firefighter!Bucky x Reader

Summary: You burned the past to be free of it. And now it tries to burn you back. That is the moment you finally find the courage to reach out to the one person you know will pull you from the fire.

Word Count: 10.7k

Warnings: emotional abuse; harassment by an ex partner; gaslighting (implied, not Bucky); house fire (graphic); fire; smoke inhalation; near-death experience; panic; anxiety; medical trauma; hospital scene; toxic relationship themes; protective!Bucky; Bucky being a hero, what is new

Author’s Note: Here is the second part to All up in Flames. Please proceed with caution guys, and read the warnings because this does get angsty. There are heavy themes around fire and if you are sensitive to such content, then either stay away or read with care. I did try my best to research fire protocols and safety measures, but please remember that this is a work of fiction. I cannot guarantee the accuracy of all procedures, and it shouldn’t be taken as advice on how to act in a real fire situation! I hope you enjoy ♡

Part one

Masterlist

You are trying very hard not to cry over a dog in a bee costume.

Which is, you think, an admirable effort considering the week you’ve had.

The dog park is noisy in that specific, unfiltered way that only wide-open space filled with too many small, yappy creatures can be. It smells of dirt and treats and city wind, and the sun is too bright for your eyes, but not your skin, and your shoes are already flecked with grass strains you don’t remember collecting.

Natasha is somewhere to your left, throwing a tennis ball for her aunt’s golden retriever named General as though she’s got something to prove. Said it would be good for you to get out. “Fresh air,” she said. “Can’t spiral with a golden retriever licking your knee.”

You hadn’t really put up much of a fight.

It’s hard to argue when your phone keeps lighting up like a faulty traffic signal - missed calls, text messages, voicemails. All those numbers are burning a slow hole into your palm. He probably calls you with the number of his fiancé. It makes you sick.

You haven’t responded.

You keep not responding.

But you’ve listened to his voicemails. And you hated yourself for it. Hated that he talked to you as though you were an old coat he forgot at someone’s house and now suddenly he wants it back.

He’s not yelling but it’s the persistence that wears you down. The little messages that slip through every block, every new setting. The way a new number appearing on your phone feels like a match being struck against your spine.

Because no matter how many times you say it, there is still a part of you that can’t shake what you did. Of how it felt to stand in front of Nolan’s pile of leftover possessions and set a match to it, watch it burn to ash.

You did it to reclaim something.

To breathe again.

But sometimes - at night, when the messages come through in batches - you wonder what would happen if he found out. What he would do if he knew. If he suspected.

You didn’t exactly want to come to the dog park. You didn’t want to smile at strangers or pretend to be charmed by dogs in hats or feel the edge of sunlight on your collarbone and think that you should be okay by now.

You sit on the nearest bench and press your knuckles to your brow, trying not to let your eyes dart to every man-shaped figure near the gate. Trying not to scan for shadows you’ve already erased from your life. The world smells of bark and breath and baking cement.

The sky looks as though it forgot how to commit. It’s the color of chewed-up erasers and the backs of old receipts - washed out, waiting. The kind of weather that sticks to your skin, heavy and indecisive, as though maybe it wants to rain but forgot the script.

Natasha is squatting by General, adjusting the harness. She glances up at you and squints.

“You good?”

You nod. Then shake your head. Then try to smile like that’s not a contradiction.

“Do you want to throw it for him?” she asks, tossing the half-slobbering tennis ball in the air and catching it with the same hand.

You grimace. “Yeah, no, thanks.”

Then she holds out the leash to you. You shake your head. General has already been dragging you around the perimeter like a four-legged drill sergeant with a sudden vendetta against squirrels. It worked for ten minutes, but you don’t feel like doing that again. And he seems rather busy trying very hard to dig a hole to China.

You wince at the mud he is digging up that very effectively lands in his fur. “Your aunt’s gonna kill you.”

Natasha snorts beside you, tipping her sunglasses down to peer at the scene. General has abandoned the hole and now starts making a very aggressive effort to roll in a mud puddle with all the glee of a war criminal.

You smile, the corner of your mouth hitching up. “Tell her he got in a fight with a skunk. She’ll probably be proud,” you hum.

“She will,” Natasha agrees. “She’ll say it builds character.” Leaning back, she tosses a stick lazily in General’s direction. He ignores it with majestic disdain.

“He hates fetch,” she says amused. “Prefers war crimes.”

You laugh, small but genuine. Let the sound carry.

The air around you moves gently. Laughter and dog tags and barks swirling in the breeze like falling leaves. You take a long breath and let it out slowly.

“Easy, buddy- hey, hey, gentle. That’s not a chew toy, come on.”

Your head snaps up before you can think twice.

Because that voice has become quite familiar. Too familiar. Warm. A little raspy here and there.

Of course, it’s him.

Bucky Barnes, in jeans and a dark blue shirt that already has dog hair colonizing every inch of fabric. Shoulders broad, biceps hugged, and a red and white bandana tied loosely around his neck as though he is one picnic away from being someone’s Americana-themed daydream. He is holding a leash - attached to what looks like a pit mix with an underbite, large paws, and a tail that helicopter-spins every time it sees movement. Though he’s got eyes that say I’ve seen some stuff.

The dog lunges forward. Bucky doesn’t flinch.

Natasha sees him exactly two seconds after you do. “Well, now look who we got here,” she drawls under her breath, eyebrow lifting with slow, luxurious smugness. “That’s some coincidence. This is getting interesting.”

“Don’t,” you warn her in a whisper, but you can’t help the staring or the weird thing your stomach is doing.

“Don’t what?” Her tone is all innocent sugar and no subtlety whatsoever.

“You breathed suggestively.”

“I’m just admiring the view.”

You are too.

Because he hasn’t seen you yet. He crouches down now, trying to coax the dog - who apparently answers to Tank - into something that resembles good behavior. But it’s hard to ignore the way he moves. So you don’t. Your gaze is fixed on that careful control. That firm patience. His hands, steady. His voice, low and kind and laced with humor.

Your chest does a thing you don’t have the energy to think about.

You can’t hear what he says to the dog, but you can somehow feel it. It thrums through you like a vibration. He seems to try not to scare the animal, as though he knows what it’s like to be too much and too afraid at the same time.

He still doesn’t see you, too focused on the dog.

But the dog is not focused on him.

It’s like he feels you staring.

And then he stares back. With a gaze so intense, it’s as though he sees you made of bacon and belly rubs and destiny.

Something uneasy churns in your chest

The pit mix wiggles in one fluid motion and the leash slips through Bucky’s fingers.

The dog barrels forward.

Your stomach drops.

Time slows. A low rumble of a bark and then a series of joyful, guttural grunts as this four-legged cannonball launches itself toward you as though he was born for this moment.

“Oh sh-” Bucky’s voice is sharp behind him. “Tank! No!”

But the dog is already bolting across the park as though he is auditioning for the canine Olympics with the manic, cheerful energy of a toddler on espresso.

You squeak as the dog leaps onto the bench, all 50-something pounds of him squirming onto your lap, tongue out and very interested in licking every inch of your face.

His tail is wagging enthusiastically and he is lapping at you with the aggressive determination of someone trying to polish a window with their tongue.

“Tank!” Bucky’s voice is harsh and loud, a thunderstorm. “No! Get down! Off, come on- off!”

But you’re laughing, choking on fur, getting pressed into the back of the bench as paws dig into your thighs and the dog noses at your cheek as though he is looking for peanut butter behind your ear.

“Tank! Off!”

Bucky’s voice again, slightly panting now as he finally catches up, grabbing the harness and yanking the dog back with all the frustrated dignity of someone who just lost a game they didn’t agree to play.

“I’m so sorry,” he apologizes breathlessly, tugging Tank back gently but firmly. “He’s usually- he’s not- God, I’m so sorry. He’s still in training.”

You wipe your face with your sleeve and squint up at him.

And that’s when he sees you.

His eyes go wide. His mouth parts slightly as though he meant to say something but forgot what it was. There is surprise. Then there is softness. Something melting into the lines of his face. Something that settles behind his eyes like sunshine finding a window.

“Oh- it’s- you’re- hey,” he stammers out.

You laugh breathlessly. “Yeah, hey.”

Bucky looks a little stunned. A little horrified. A little amazed. “I’m so sorry. Again. He’s-” He takes a look at the dog, then back to you. “He’s never done that to anyone before.”

Tank lets out a single, satisfied woof.

You glance at him, then back at Bucky. “It’s alright, really.”

Bucky rubs the back of his neck. “Still, I- shit. I’m sorry. I swear he’s not dangerous, he just- he wants to play.” Bucky shoots a sheepish look at you, then at an amused Natasha who stands there with her arms crossed, then back at you. “You okay? He didn’t- he didn’t hurt you, did he?”

You try to catch a breath but fail. “No, he didn’t, don’t worry. I’m okay.”

Bucky huffs out a relieved breath, tightening his grip on Tank. He looks at you, and the light in his eyes warms. They are blue and just the tiniest bit wide. The corner of his mouth tips up, crooked and cautious.

“It’s good to see you again,” he says, a little quieter.

You still can’t quite breathe right. “Yeah. You too.”

Tank flops down in the grass before you, bopping his nose at your shoe as though he doesn’t trust you not to vanish.

You shake your head fondly. “So… what’s his story?”

Bucky’s grin softens further. “He’s a rescue. Firehouse took him in after a hoarding case a couple towns over. He was half-feral when we got him. Wouldn’t let anyone near him. First week, he lived under a desk and growled at shadows.”

You look down at the dog with sympathy.

Bucky crouches beside the bench now, fingers remaining curled around the harness, his eyebrows raised halfway to the sky. “He’s seriously never done this before. I mean- not unless you’re holding a bacon. Are you holding bacon?”

“Not that I know of,” you respond amused.

Natasha stands there smirking, watching you with twinkling eyes. “Well well well. Look who’s the animal whisperer.”

Rolling your eyes, you swat at your red-headed friend, keeping your movements slow enough not to startle the dog. “Don’t be ridiculous.”

Bucky nods toward Natasha. “I’m not saying she’s right, but he definitely seems to like you.”

“He’s got taste,” Natasha adds slyly.

“That, he does.” Bucky’s gaze is fixed on Tank.

Natasha is smirking.

You grow warm.

General is trotting up now. He pauses beside Tank, regal as a lion, then lets out one polite bark and proceeds to sniff him, nose twitching with delicate judgment.

Tank wiggles and sneezes in his face.

Bucky reaches out to pet General softly. “And who are you, buddy, huh?”

“That’s General,” Natasha answers.

Bucky looks up, eyebrows raised. “General?”

“Short for General Mayhem,” she states. “Named by my six-year-old cousin. He thought it sounded cool and dangerous.”

Bucky huffs out an amused laugh.

“You see this?” Natasha murmurs, gesturing with her chin toward General, whose tail is twitching low and tight like a predator preparing to pounce. “That’s him flirting.”

You narrow your eyes. “He looks like he wants to murder him.”

“That’s how he shows affection,” your best friend says proudly. “It’s a family trait.”

General takes off then, running in a loose, chaotic arc, tongue lolling sideways, ears flapping like banners.

Tank tries to tear after him, but Bucky’s grip is strong and he doesn’t break loose.

“Uh-uh, buddy. You’re staying here,” he warns, not at all looking like this show of strength is making him sweat. Tank keeps trying to wiggle out of Bucky’s hold, but he keeps him close. His eyes drift up to yours through the curtain of wind-tousled hair. “We’ve been working on manners, but… well, you see how that’s going.”

“Oh, I think you’re managing just fine,” you answer with a grin.

Bucky chuckles softly, looking at you again. Not quickly. Not nervously. Just softly. Intently.

Natasha returnes, dragging General back to your corner of the park with all the resistance of someone trying to reel in a dump truck.

The golden retriever immediately starts sniffing out Tank again.

Bucky clears his throat as he stands back up, brushing nonexistent dirt from his jeans, keeping a strong hold on Tank’s leash.

“So,” Bucky says, to Natasha now. “General, huh? He yours?”

“God, no. He’s my aunt’s. Russian aunt. Scary lady. She thinks dogs should have jobs. He’s trained in four languages and only listens when it’s convenient for him.”

“Almost sounds like this one,” Bucky deadpans. Then nods at the pit mix who’s now lying upside down and chewing on a clump of dandelions like a misunderstood poet. “The guys at the station called him Tank because he crashes through every room like he’s made of steel.”

You smile, looking at the lopsided dog.

“Do you think this is a permanent situation for you guys?”

“No one claimed him,” Bucky says, voice dipping quietly into something gentler. “And now he’s kind of latched on. Just needs to socialize a little more. Get some good training. But might be a permanent situation, yeah.”

“Like a firehouse mascot?” you grin.

He shrugs, but there is a gleam in his eyes as he looks down at you. “Yeah. Something like that.”

Tank bumps his nose into your knee again, and you scratch behind his ears.

“He really does like you,” Bucky says softly, eyes on the way you touch the dog.

You hum. “He seems to have been through some shit. But I’m sure he’s in good care now. And I’m sure he’ll behave at some point.” You keep your eyes on the dog. But you feel Bucky’s gaze on you. And it makes your stomach twist in a not-unpleasant way.

General has now adopted a low, slow stalk, tail wagging in dangerous arcs as he inches toward Tank.

“This is going to end in blood,” Natasha sighs, as she tightens the leash again.

But Bucky is still glancing at you. At the softness in your face, the way your knees are pulled up onto the bench now as though you’re bracing for something that won’t come.

“Hey. Where’s your other friend?” he asks, casually.

“Wanda?” you blink. “Oh, she’s- she’s working today. Double shift.”

Bucky hums.

And you stare at him for more than a second.

He’s asking about your people. Not out of obligation or politeness. Out of interest. Because he wants to know. Because he’s listening.

Natasha coughs. Loudly. On purpose.

You both turn.

General has one paw on Tank’s head now, and Tank is lying down in full surrender, tongue out, tail thumping the grass.

“Best friends,” Natasha declares.

You laugh. Bucky laughs.

The sun shines a little warmer.

****

It starts with the ceiling.

Your apartment’s ceiling, specifically - the one you stared at for forty-eight minutes this morning with your phone buzzing once. Then twice. Then three times, like a persistent tap against an already bruised part of your brain. A new number lighting up your screen again, and again, and again, and you know it’s just a synonym for his name.

You still didn’t answer. But he continues calling. Texting. He even sent you screenshots of your favorite songs as though that somehow meant something. And each time you don’t answer, it’s like dragging your tired soul uphill barefoot, hands full of the weight you swore you already let go.

So you leave.

You don’t brush your hair. You don’t put on makeup. You shove your feet into the first shoes you can find, a worn canvas tote over your shoulder, keys in hand before you’ve even fully convinced yourself where you’re going.

Just out.

Just away.

Just somewhere with people and produce and sunshine and the kind of air that doesn’t taste like memories gone sour.

You’ve left your phone on the kitchen table - face down, volume off.

You told Wanda and Natasha you were going out for fruit. They told you to get oranges, or honey, or a distraction. They didn’t ask questions. They didn’t have to.

They knew you needed to be alone sometimes, even if they tried their best to distract you.

So now you’re here, walking through the open sprawl of the farmers market with your arms crossed and your face tilted toward the sun, trying to remember what it felt like to want anything at all. The breeze is soft. Smells of ripe tomatoes, lemon soap, kettle corn.

Wooden booths spill over with plums and figs and jars of pickled things. The scent of sourdough and espresso. A toddler is losing his absolute mind over a balloon shaped like a strawberry.

It feels manageable. Which is something. It feels like air, and you take it in.

You’re not looking for anything.

You’re not looking for anyone.

The sky is a soft blue silk someone forgot to iron. A child is screaming somewhere nearby. The wind is polite. It tucks your hair behind your ear as though it’s trying to be helpful. Some other kid is singing off-key to their dog.

You’re just wandering, shoes soft on gravel, following the color and chatter through the stalls.

You let yourself pretend to be a person who likes to browse.

Grapes that are glistening. Bundles of basil so fragrant they make your head spin. Jars of jam in flavors you never heard of - things like honey plum and lavender peach.

“Well, if it isn’t my favorite fire hazard.”

You freeze.

An actual freeze, standing there with your hand mid-reach toward a bunch of thyme, and your pulse doing something inadvisable.

You turn slowly.

And there he is.

Bucky Barnes.

In jeans and a navy hoodie, hood down, sleeves pushed up. His hair is a little longer than you remember, tied back in a short knot, and he’s smiling that slow, surprised way that makes you feel like the morning has turned inside out.

He looks like summer if summer had a soft spot for you.

You tuck a strand of hair behind your ear.

“Didn’t expect to see you here,” he says, the corners of his mouth twitching as though he’s trying not to smile too big.

Your heart decides to practice gymnastics. Your voice, mercifully, cooperates.

“I could say the same,” you reply, trying for breezy and landing somewhere near breathless.

He nods, eyes sweeping briefly over you - not as though he’s checking you out, but he’s checking. Taking you in. Your oversized sweater. The circles under your eyes. The way your smile doesn’t quite reach the corners today.

“You doing okay?” he asks gently, without preamble. His voice doesn’t push. Just opens a space.

You hesitate.

Then shrug, something brittle in your chest. “I needed some air.”

He nods, as though he perfectly understands. As though he really does. “Bad week?” His voice is low.

You want to lie. Say no, say you’re just craving figs or something ridiculous and poetic.

But instead, you nod. “Yeah,” you get out, and it sounds a little heavy even in your own ears. “Something like that.”

You don’t tell him about the missed calls or the way your stomach knots every time you walk past your front door. You don’t say the name of the guy who made your life feel like walking on thin ice barefoot, always waiting for the crack.

But you don’t have to.

Bucky doesn’t press. Just watches you as though he is memorizing the lines of your face for any small shift in weather.

“Glad you’re out,” he remarks after a second, voice deep and sincere. “It’s a nice morning.”

“Could use more sunshine,” you answer, because there’s nothing else in your mind that could fit.

He grins. “Hey, I’m trying.”

You snort, just a little, and the tension in your chest cracks open enough to let in the scent of rosemary and warm bread.

“Is this your usual Saturday routine?” you inquire, fiddling with a frayed thread on your sleeve. “Or do you just stalk open-air markets for fire safety offenders?”

“I only stalk interesting ones,” he responds easily, still granting you that soft smile.

There is a moment of quiet between you, and you’re both standing a little too close for strangers but not close enough for anything else.

The crowd swirls around you both. People bargaining over radishes, someone dropping a jar of honey with a crack - simple weekend chatter in the background.

“How’s Tank?” you ask, genuinely interested.

Bucky’s mouth softens. “He’s good. Still a little weird around other dogs. Still doesn’t understand the concept of stairs. But he’s getting there.”

You grin before you mean to.

“That’s a relief.”

Bucky smiles. “Yeah. He even got clingy. Always has to follow someone around.” He exhales a huffed breath, it’s a little bashful. There is a glint in his eyes now - teasing, maybe. Admiring, definitely. “He’s a good judge of character.”

Your stomach somersaults. Something loose and ridiculous and hopeful starts threading your insides together.

“He was sweet,” you tell him, remembering the weight of the pit mix in your lap, the wet, slobbery affection, the surprise of Bucky’s voice when he recognized you. “Even if he nearly took me out.”

“You held your own,” Bucky states confidently, the glint in his eyes brighter now.

You giggle quietly, glancing down, fingers fumbling with the strap of your bag.

A breeze blows past and flirts with your hair. Somewhere, a vendor calls out that strawberries are two for five.

Bucky shifts his weight. His fingers brush the handle of his bag but don’t fidget. There is a gentleness to him. A patience that could break your heart.

He is careful.

“I was actually hoping I’d see you again,” he begins with a clear of his throat, voice quiet.

Your eyes snap up.

He rubs the back of his neck. “Not here, I mean. Just… eventually. Didn’t think it’d be here, but- hey, I’m not complaining.”

You laugh softly, heart stammering.

“I didn’t think I’d see you either,” you admit. “I, uh. I wasn’t sure…”

Bucky’s smile fades just a touch - not in disappointment, but in that careful way people get when they’re making room for your story.

“I get it,” he says, genuine. “Truly. No pressure. At all.”

There is a small pause in him. A recalibration. You can feel it, the way you can feel a shift in the wind before it touches your skin.

“Hey, listen,” he says again, still quiet. “You don’t… I mean, I don’t want to assume anything. Or be too much. Or too forward. I just-” He stops himself. Clears his throat. “If you ever need anything. Like if you ever want to talk. Or not talk. Or simply vent about something. I’d be around.”

His hand dips into his back pocket, pulls out a work wallet. He retrieves a card - simple, clean, name and number, folded corners as tough it’s lived a little - and holds it out.

But he doesn’t push it toward you. He just offers. Gentle.

There is something in your chest that twists painfully.

“I don’t wanna make anything weird. Or come off like I’m… pushing,” he goes on, tentative. Talking a little faster. “Only if you want. No pressure. Just- figured I’d offer. I hoped I’d meet you again, and I just didn’t wanna, uh- yeah, you know.”

He shrugs, not quite meeting your eyes. Suddenly bashful.

Your heart is near your throat. You reach for the card slowly. As though he might pull it away again if you’re too fast.

“Thanks,” you tell him. It comes out smaller than you meant it to.

He shifts again. Nervous, maybe. Or just respectful. As though he knows this isn’t easy for you. As though he doesn’t want to pile anything else on top of what’s already there.

Then he tilts his head, opening his mouth, seemingly believing he has to explain himself some more. “Maybe you’ll need some smoke detector advice someday. Or fire extinguisher refills. Emotional support waffles.”

“Waffles?” You want to smile. So wide.

“Yeah. I make good ones. Ask Steve.”

“Steve?”

“Oh, right.” He winces apologetically, and it’s the most endearing thing. “He’s that tall blond guy. Rogers. Known each other since childhood.”

You smile. Nearly fondly. “Well then I will have to take your word for it.”

He chuckles, and his eyes crinkle at the corners.

Your chest aches. Not in a painful way. But in a maybe-there’s-still-good-guys-on-this-planet kind of way.

You look up at him.

His smile is something quiet and relieved.

He looks away first.

“I should-uh,” he gestures toward the other end of the market. “I promised the firehouse I’d bring back peaches. They get weirdly emotional about it.”

You laugh, and it feels real. Not just muscle memory.

“I’ll let you go then,” you say sweetly.

He starts to walk away with a wave. Then stops.

Turns back just slightly. “Don’t feel like you have to call, okay?”

You nod. Your throat closes. “Okay.”

“But if you do,” he adds. “I’ll be around.”

And then he waves goodbye with a last glance over his shoulder, walking off with his hands in his pockets, steps unhurried.

You watch him disappear behind a stall selling fresh bread.

Your fingers curl around the card in your hand.

And you don’t feel like crying.

Not today.

Not right now.

Because the air smells sweet. The sky is clear. And somewhere, maybe, something good is beginning.

Something that makes you feel warm without a fire burning.

****

Bad decisions oftentimes start with a maybe.

Maybe you should just hear what he wants.

Maybe if you talk to him one more time, he’ll stop.

Maybe closure is a real thing and not just a word people throw around like confetti.

You hadn’t meant to actually talk to him again.

Hadn’t meant to let his relentless calls get to you.

But it rang at the same time your thumb was hovering above a different name, a different number - the one Bucky gave you. Simple black type on a white card still tucked into your phone case. You didn’t even mean to look at it. But you had. For the third time today. For maybe the hundredth time since he gave it to you last week.

You thought about texting. Something harmless. Something funny. Something soft. But your thumb froze. And that was when his number lit up your screen again.

You saw it and thought of mold. Of wet towels left in gym bags. Or old perfume evaporating off a scarf you forgot to burn.

But your thumb twitched.

Your thumb tapped accept.

It shouldn’t have. But it did.

You hated how familiar his voice still sounded. Like a song you used to love before you listened closely to the lyrics and found out they were garbage. The same casual tone, the same too-easy drawl like nothing had ever really gone wrong. Like the last six months didn’t happen.

He wanted to talk. That’s what he said. Just a talk. Said he still had some of your things. Things you never asked back for, because what could they possibly be? And what could you possibly want them for now?

But you said yes.

You don’t know why.

You tell yourself you can relish in telling him that you burned his stuff.

You tell yourself it is bravery, even if it is shaped like something else.

You wear jeans and an old hoodie and steady your pulse. You leave your phone in your back pocket and your self-worth tucked under your collarbone.

He opens the door the way he always has. A little too wide. A little too confident. A smile with too many teeth.

It’s an ugly apartment. You forgot how ugly it was. Not physically, though the couch still sags like a dying animal and the curtains are the color of depression.

It’s ugly in the way it smells of memories.

He talks too much. Laughs too loud. Does that thing with his tongue against his teeth as though he is chewing on a punchline.

“Still got that painting your mom made,” he says, smirking as he rifles through a box that looks suspiciously like it hasn’t been touched since you left. “Not exactly my style, y’know, but whatever. Thought you’d come crawling for it.”

You blink slowly. “I didn’t.”

“Yeah, I noticed.” His voice twists sharp. A rusted hinge creaking closed.

You shift your weight from one foot to the other. You shouldn’t have come. You knew you shouldn’t have come. But you did. As though your body still thought it owed him something.

“I didn’t ask for anything back because I didn’t want anything back,” you express, finally. Your voice is low, but firm. “I didn’t want to be here again. I didn’t want to see you again.”

He turns. There is something brittle in his posture. Something ready to snap.

“So why are you here then? Huh? Thought I’d say sorry?” His eyes shine in disbelief. “Right. That’s rich.”

“No,” you shoot back. Blood rises in your ears. Your fists tighten, small knots of nerves and shame. You remember the exact sound his voice makes when it drops low and mean, and you hate it. “I thought you wanted to return my stuff.”

“Oh, that?” He tosses a shirt into a cardboard box. Shrugs. “You want this one? Think it still smells like you.”

You don’t answer. You should leave. You should leave right now. But your feet don’t move, as though they are listening for the next note in a song that never ends right.

“And where is my stuff then, huh?” His gaze is penetrating. Demanding. “Doesn’t fucking look like you brought it with you. So why would I give back your shit?”

You flinch. Not visibly. You hope not visibly.

Regret, like a scent, lives in the drywall. In the leather couch that’s seen too much. In the one dead plant that still lays in its pot as though it could relearn to grow.

You’re standing with your arms crossed tight across your chest, as though if you hold yourself hard enough, you won’t fall through the floor.

You’re already angry at yourself. Already chewing on the bitter little pill of what the hell did you think would happen.

“Huh?” he goes on, voice harsher. But he doesn’t come closer. “Where's my shit?”

“I burned it,” you blurt out all at once, taking a step back.

His face cracks.

“What?”

“I burned your things,” you repeat, voice a little more hesitant. But still somehow firm. “I didn’t want them anymore.”

There is silence that feels like the inhale before a slap.

Then he laughs. Not a laugh, really. Something worse. A sound without humor. A shape without softness. It’s sharp and mean and wrong.

“You’re insane.” His voice is crackling ice underfoot.

“Maybe.”

He starts pacing. Cursing. Muttering things under his breath that make old bruises bleed again.

And then he goes over to your pile.

Your sweater. A half-read book. A toothbrush. Pencils.

You think maybe he is going to shove it at you. Demand you take it and get out. You would be fine with that.

But that’s not what he does.

He pulls out a lighter.

One of those fancy electric ones with a plasma arc.

He clicks it on. A hiss. A flame.

You take a sharp breath.

“Nolan!” you warn.

“Why not?” he says, voice dangerously calm now. “We’re doing fire now, right? I’ll play.”

He stops and grabs something - your old notebook. The one with the red leather cover and pages full of dreams you hadn’t wanted to remember. He lights the corner.

“Omg, Nolan, stop!” you shout. “What the hell are you doing?”

The paper shrivels into black lace, turning inward, hissing as though it lives. He drops it on top of the clothes.

A single thread of smoke trails toward the ceiling in a lazy, indecisive curl. You watch it the way someone might watch an ink stain bloom on a shirt - unsettled.

Nolan is still talking.

Still pacing in that way he does when he’s on edge - half fury, half performance, all nerves masquerading as ego. His words have gone jagged, slurring with heat. Every sentence heavier than the last. Weighted with resentment.

“You think you can just burn my shit down?” he snaps, and you wonder if he even hears himself. If he understands how strange it sounds, how cracked. He’s got that look in his eye again - the one that once made you flinch and now just makes you tired.

“Put it out,” you order harshly, gesturing to the fire.

But it’s already licking up the fabric. It eats with the mouth of a beast. The knit sweater you left behind many months ago has been reduced to cinders on one side.

You lunge forward, grabbing a throw blanket, trying to smother the small flames, but they are growing. You forgot how fast fire moves.

“Help me!” you yell, panicking.

But Nolan just stands there, stunned.

The flame consumes the carton and now starts crawling across the cheap rug. It touches a plastic bin and the bin sags, sighs, melts.

Nolan hesitates.

His face splits between pride and dread, one eye twitching with the effort of pretending he is still in control. His thumb hovers over the lighter still. As if he might be able to rewind the fire back into silence.

You start swatting the air with an old pillow off the couch. It does nothing. Just pushes the smoke around.

The fire is bigger now.

Hungrier.

The smoke thickens. Begins to bloom from the rug, unfurling across the floor like a snake looking for ankles.

“Why aren’t you doing anything?” you snap.

But he’s frozen. Staring at it. Staring at you.

“Why aren’t you?” he yells back.

You try to remember what Bucky said.

You try to hold onto it - his voice in that fire safety class. You try to remember the sequence of things, the order of calm: Assess. Alert. Act. Breathe.

But there is no calm now.

Just fire.

You’re shaking, and your palms are slick and useless, and your heart is pounding like a wild creature.

“Do you have an extinguisher?” you shout, coughing, turning to Nolan, whose face is lit with flickering orange. He stares at the curtain swallowing itself in flames as though he doesn’t understand it. As though the fire is the problem - not his temper, not the lighter still warm in his hand.

“No!” he yells. “Why would I have a-?”

“Then why the fuck did you set something on fire in your living room?” You can’t believe this is happening. You want to scream. You want to cry. You want to hit him and disappear.

But all you do is spin in a frantic circle, looking for something, anything to smother the fire. The old blanket you tried already is a scorched mess on the floor. A sweatshirt is melting in the corner. His apartment is a graveyard of clutter and bad choices.

You fall to your knees, eyes stinging, stomach trembling with too many fears and not enough oxygen. You drag your sweater sleeve over your nose and crawl toward the base of the door. You remember you should cover the gap beneath the door. The towel trick. You remember the warning signs. You remember him.

But this isn’t a stovetop mishap. This isn’t a pan left on too long or an overzealous toaster. This is rage. This is Nolan. This is intentional.

You spot a pillow, hurl it under the doorframe, press it into the crack with your knees.

“If it’s too big to handle,” Bucky had said, “you get out. You call us. You don’t be a hero.”

You feel your chest begin to shrink. Your lungs pull taut. The room smells of plastic and anger and something chemical that doesn’t belong in air. You cough, hard, and stumble back. Your eyes sting.

The fire reaches the curtains.

They go up as though they’ve been waiting. Flames shoot vertical, dancing fast, bright and hot. Orange tongues curl in laughter. Smoke darkens and the room is a storm cloud. Your breath hiccups.

Nolan finally moves. He grabs a towel. Swings it at the fire but it doesn’t do anything.

He spins, eyes wild now, and shouts at you. “You started this!”

You don’t answer. You can’t.

The doorknob is already red. Glowing. It starts hissing when your fingers get close.

Nolan rushes over and tries to touch it. His palm jerks back. He swears. Drops a ragged, “shit- okay, okay,” and starts moving toward the windows.

But it’s too late.

The windows won’t open. The smoke eats the oxygen and you swear the walls are closing in.

You are coughing terribly. Thick gray smoke creeps up your nose, your throat, your eyes. You can’t see.

Stumbling backward, you hit the coffee table with your knees.

You don’t remember unlocking your phone.

Your lungs are fighting for a breath they can’t find, and your eyes are stinging so bad they’re practically sewn shut, and everything is wrong. You cough. Can’t breathe. Can’t breathe. Cough.

The smoke is everywhere. In your eyes. In your mouth. In your throat.

A sour, chemical fog that coats your insides, turning every breath into something punishing. Your fingers are slick with sweat. Your vision a wash of heat and blur. You can barely see the glowing screen.

You don’t even remember pressing his name. Maybe your thumb moved on its own. Maybe your body made the decision for you, the way it sometimes does in the worst moments - when logic is buried beneath fear and your lungs are screaming and your heartbeat is running through your ears like a siren. You don’t remember.

But you must have pressed it.

Because the line connects.

“Barnes.”

His voice.

God. It’s his voice.

Of course, it is. You fucking called him.

You try to speak. Try to say his name. Try to form a word, any word, but all that comes out is a broken cough - violent and dry and helpless. The sound of your panic gurgling out of your chest.

Then silence on the line.

“Y/n?”

You gasp. Wheeze. Cough - wracked, your body bending with the force of it. Your phone drops to the floor, chest convulsing, the sound of flames rising behind you, and it feels as though they already are inside you.

Then his voice again. Sharp. Cataloguing.

He snaps into action. “Where are you? What’s happening?”

There is already movement in the background. His boots against concrete. Radio static flaring, fast instructions in the background.

“Fire,” is all you can croak out.

“Fuck. Okay. Okay. It’s okay- Can you talk? Just try, alright? Need you to say something, Y/n. Need you to tell me where you are!”

You’ve never heard his voice like that. It isn’t low and easy, isn’t the gentle sort of teasing he used in all your meetings before. It isn’t calm. It isn’t composed. It isn’t clipped and professional.

It’s shaking.

You sink to the floor and press your phone to your ear. As though it might pull you out of this nightmare and into him.

You cough again. A ragged, awful sound. “Bucky,”you croak, finally, and it tears out of you like a scream you didn’t have the air for.

The sound he makes isn’t a word. It explodes out of him like something breaking. You hear gear shifting, footsteps quick, boots slamming against the floor, the loud slam of an emergency cabinet opening.

“Where are you?” he snaps. “Tell me where you are. Talk to me. You just gotta tell me where-”

“Can’t- breathe,” you rasp, coughing again, and trembling so hard the phone almost slips.

“Okay.” His voice is trembling too. Rough. “That’s okay. You’re doing great. Just- fuck- just hang on. I need to know where, sweetheart, please. Tell me where.”

You squeeze your eyes shut.

Force your brain to focus. Nolan is somewhere behind you but the smoke has made him a ghost. The fire’s hiss is louder than Bucky’s voice now. Louder than your thoughts.

Nolan shouts his address out, coughing, pacing.

Bucky’s voice cuts back. Loud. Sharp. “I need confirmation. Hey- sweetheart- are you there? Is that where you are?”

You swallow. “Y-yeah. That’s it. Third floor. I- he- he lit something and it caught- Bucky it spread. We can’t get out.”

Behind you, Nolan coughs violently. “You don’t have to tell him everything-”

“I’m trying to get help!”

“Don’t fucking yell at me, you’re the one who-”

Tears sting in your smoke-smeared eyes. “Get down, Nolan! Crawl!”

“And what are you now, huh? You think-”

“Hey- hey!” Bucky’s voice is harsh. Urgent. “Okay. Listen to me. Cover your mouth with something - whatever you’ve got. You’re gonna stay low. Both of you. Crawl to the farthest wall from the door if you haven’t already. Do you see smoke coming through it?”

“Yeah,” you whisper, coughing into your elbow. The fabric of your sweater is damp from sweat, and it stinks of fear.

“Can you block the bottom with something - towels, jacket, anything.”

“I tried. It’s still coming through. I- Bucky, I tried to put it out, like you said, I-”

“I know,” he interrupts, voice cracking slightly, dry and gentle. “I know, sweetheart. I know you tried. I’m proud of you. You did so fucking good calling me, okay? You hear me?”

“I can’t see anything,” you whisper. “It’s all smoke.”

Your hands tremble as you crawl. Nolan’s coughing has grown louder and more uneven, as though his lungs are learning how to fall apart.

“We’re coming. I’m on the truck. Just stay with me. Stay low. Try to find a corner or something near the window if you can. Don’t touch the doorknob again.”He’s obviously trying to hide the raw edge in his voice, but you hear it nonetheless.

“It’s hot.” Your voice is an ash-covered whisper.

“Okay. Okay. You don’t try to touch it again, alright? Don’t touch anything. Don’t open anything. You’re staying right where you are. You did the right thing, sweetheart. You did everything right.” He talks as though it’s a prayer. A lullaby spoken with desperation.

There’s a flurry of noise behind him. Muffled radio calls, the wailing of sirens into the wind, yelling voices.

You can picture him - knuckles white, leg bouncing, one hand pressed to his ear as if willing the sound of you to stay close.

“You’re not alone,” he emphasizes, voice thick. A rough, frantic rasp like a match scraped too many times. “We’re coming for you, sweetheart. I swear to God. I won’t let anything happen to you.”

“I was stupid,” you choke. “I shouldn’t have come here. I should’ve told him to go to hell.”

“Hey,” Bucky interrupts you fast, voice sharp with emotion. “You’re not stupid. Don’t ever say that. You’re not responsible for someone else losing control, you hear me?”

You nod, eyes burning now with something more than smoke.

“I just wanted to be done.”

“You will be,” he promises, his voice a storm swallowing itself. “You’re gonna walk out of there, and that chapter’s gonna stay behind. You’ll never have to see him again. I’ll make sure of it.”

“Bucky,” you sob, barely holding on.

And his voice breaks when he says your name back. Not just once.

“I got you. You’re doing so well. You’re doing perfect, Y/n. I’m so proud of you. Just a little longer. We’re almost here. You just gotta hang on for me, yeah? Just try to breathe. Let me hear you breathe.”

You nod, forgetting he can’t see you.

Another panicked call of your name.

“I’m here.” Your voice turned into smoke itself.

You can hear the fire truck now. A distant roar. Like a cavalry arriving on a battlefield that’s already gone to ruin.

You can hear his frantic breathing.

“Bucky, I’m scared,” you whimper.

“I know, doll. I know.” His voice is soft now, too soft, as though maybe he is crouched in the back of the truck, hunched over the phone with his head in his hand. He talks as if he could speak you safe again. “But you’re not alone, okay? And you’re doing so well. We’ll get you two out. I just need your voice, alright? Don’t hang up. I’m almost there.”

You don’t register the exact moment you drop your phone, only that you keep hearing Bucky’s voice before it slips from your hand.

“Don’t close your eyes, sweetheart- stay with me-”

The door is glowing. Glowing as though it wants to become the sun. Glowing like warning and goodbye all at once.

You taste the fire. Breathe it. Feel it coat your throat like ash-painted molasses.

Bucky’s urgent and desperate voice is only registering as a blurred cloud engulfing you.

There is a thunderous sound. A crack. A groan. Wood screaming as it splits. Metal breaking open.

Then comes light.

Blinding and orange and rolling with smoke.

A change in the air - slight and sharp and sudden.

The hot room breathes.

A gust of wind stabs inward, dragging smoke toward the shattered pane as though it’s trying to pull the panic out by its throat.

And then shouts.

Boots.

The room collapses around your vision. You are sagged against the floor. Head lulling.

People crash through the smoke. No, not just people. It’s him. Bucky. In full gear. Mask sealed to his face. Shoulders wide, body big, so big, bulked in turnout gear and panic.

You almost don’t believe it.

For a second, you think he might be something your brain cooked up to calm you down. A mirage with a radio. A hallucination in navy.

But then he says your name. Yells it. Muffled through the voice amplifier in his mask, but desperate.

You open your mouth. Try to say his name back.

But he is already lunging, crashing toward you like a storm. Suddenly he kneels. And suddenly-er you are airborne. Up. Scooped into his arms, pressed into his chest.

You feel the sound of his heartbeat before you hear it - thudding against your side, frantic, furious.

You want to tell him you’re okay, that you’re sorry, that you meant to call him under different circumstances, that you didn’t mean to worry him.

But all you can do is let your body go limp in his hold.

His jacket smells of sweat and smoke and something cleaner underneath - some sterile tang of extinguisher foam and ash and whatever this moment is turning into.

You press your forehead into the curve of his neck, where the helmet meets the collar of his gear.

“I’ve got you. I’ve got you, sweetheart-” he keeps saying it, over and over, like a chant.

His voice is strained now. Hoarse. Desperate. Shaky. Strangled through a throat that’s trying not to break open in front of everyone. He lifts you higher against his chest and sprints, shouting orders as he crashes through the hallway.

“Clear a path!”

“Make room! Get oxygen ready!”

“She’s fading! Move!”

He holds you as though you already caught the fire. He holds you like absolution.

You drift in and out, eyes fluttering as Bucky runs through smoke-filled corridors and splintered doorways and the skeleton of someone else’s anger turned to flame.

But you still feel the shift in his arms. The way he squeezes you when you cough. How his gloved hands cup the back of your head, shielding you from debris. How he leans his body to block falling soot as he barrels toward the stairwell two at a time, breathing hard, mumbling things you can’t hear.

Or maybe they’re not for you. Maybe they’re for himself.

“Don’t you dare. Don’t you fucking dare go quiet on me. Hang on. Stay with me. Come on.”

Your hands curl weakly into the strap across his chest.

He bursts through the front of the building, and the world opens up - wild and wide and full of oxygen.

The roar of the crowd. The red-and-white flash of emergency lights bouncing off soot-covered brick.

Someone tries to take you from him - another firefighter, older, calm - but Bucky growls under his breath and shifts you closer, ducking his head like a shield.

“I’ve got her,” he grunts, thick and hoarse. Shaking. “I’ve got her.”

They don’t argue.

His boots only then screech to a halt when he arrives at the ambulance door and two EMTs step forward with a stretcher and an oxygen mask in hand.

He lays you down gently, so gently, as though you are made of porcelain and poems. He pulls the mask off his face and immediately goes back to touching you. One hand cupping your jaw, thumb streaking soot from your cheek. The other wrapped around your wrist, searching for your pulse.

“She’s got smoke inhalation,” Bucky barks. His voice is too loud. Too full. His hair sticks to his forehead. His cheeks are streaked with sweat and worry. “She’s conscious, but barely. I need- can I-”

One of the medics puts a hand on his shoulder, while the other cares for you. “We’ve got her. You did good, Cap.”

But when you’re wheeled into the ambulance, he steps in with you. Without a word. The medics don’t say anything. Perhaps because of his expression.

You feel his eyes on you.

“You’re okay now, sweetheart,” he says, low. Gutted. “I got you out.”

Your eyes find his. Somehow. You can barely keep them open. Can barely feel the oxygen mask over your face. Can barely feel his hands on you.

His breath shudders. And for a second you think he might cry.

But he just swallows, jaw clenched so hard the muscles twitch.

“Hey,” he whispers. “Hey, stay with me. You gotta stay with me.”

You try.

You really do.

But this moment does not seem to want to hold you in its arms the same way Bucky just did.

It wants to let you go.

It does.

****

Hospitals always smell like endings.

Even in the quiet, even with the windows open and the soft beep of a heart monitor keeping tempo with your breath. There’s something sterile and final about the place. A hush that doesn’t belong to any one person.

You wake slowly. Float up from the bottom of a deep, smoky ocean, lungs burning even in memory.

The world is all soft edges and clean white. The blanket draped over your legs is tucked in too neatly.

Sunlight filters through fog. Like a dream dragging its feet on the way out.

Everything aches in soft, unfamiliar places. Behind your eyes. In your throat. In your chest, where the air settles heavy, too new.

You blink against the brightness, throat sore and mouth dry, vision hazy.

He falls into your line of vision in an instant.

Sitting beside you in the room’s single chair, pulled as close to your bedside as it could go, knees wide, elbows on them. Head bowed as though he is praying or thinking or maybe both. His fingers are steepled against his mouth as though he’s been holding his breath for hours.

The gear is gone, but the exhaustion is not. He’s in a dark hoodie and sweatpants now, his hair damp, pushed back as if he ran both hands through it and forgot to fix it after.

He looks big here. Too big for the tiny chair. Too solid of all this silence. His foot is bouncing. His hands are clasped. His face is half-hidden behind a knuckle.

But he is here.

He is truly here.

You manage to whisper his name.

Your voice is hoarse and frail and hardly audible. But his head still snaps up.

And oh. The relief on his face could bring down buildings.

He is up in an instant, the chair scraping back, but he stops at the edge of your bed as though he is not sure if he can touch you. His hand hovers gently on the bed rail.

His eyes are red-rimmed. You don’t know if it comes from crying or from staying awake. There are soft bruises under them. You wonder how long he’s been here.

“Hey,” he breathes.

Your throat scrapes when you try to answer. A dry, ragged rasp. “Hey. Bucky, I-”

“Easy.” His voice softens even more. He is cooing. “Don’t try to talk too much, alright? Take it slow.”

You try to clear your throat and immediately regret it. He’s already got a cup of water in his hand, straw tucked between your lips before you can blink. You drink, slow and small sips, until the burn dulls a little.

He catches a drop of water with his thumb when it leaks over the side of your mouth.

You try to smile. It trembles at the corners. But you need to keep talking. Keep explaining. The words just fall out, messy and cracked and full of everything you feel.

“I didn’t mean for this to be when I called you.”

He stiffens, only a little. Not because he’s upset - because he’s listening too hard. Because every syllable you manage seems like something he wants to tuck into his jacket and guard with his whole life.

Pushing out a breath, you keep going. “I wanted to call you. I almost did. Before. So many times.” Your voice breaks on the tail end of it, dry and uncertain. “But I got scared. And then Nolan- he just kept calling, and I thought maybe if I just talked to him once-”

“Hey,” Bucky eases tenderly. He leans in, hand ghosting close to yours. Not quite touching yet, as though he’s afraid to ask your skin for too much. “You don’t have to explain everything right now. I told you, there’s no pressure. I wanted you to take your time.”

“No, I-” you protest, emotional. “I’m sorry, I- God, I’m so stupid, I-”

“Hey, no. Don’t.” His voice interjects you so gently you almost cry from it. “You called. That’s what matters. You called me when it counted.” He glances at your hand and touches it lightly. You let him.

You swallow. “But I-”

He shakes his head kindly. “Sweetheart,” he says softly. “I don’t care when it happened. I just care that you did. That you’re here. That I got to you in time.” He rubs his thumb over your knuckles. “And I swear-” he pauses, runs a hand down his jaw, seemingly trying to put himself back together. “I swear, I’ve never run so fast in my damn life.”

You lace your fingers with his. His palm is warm. His grip is careful. Asking you if this is okay. You squeeze once.

He is leaning over you, staring as though you just handed him something precious he doesn’t know how to hold.

“And next time you need someone, please don’t wait. Doesn’t have to be fire-level urgent, okay? Doesn’t have to be about him. If you need help picking fruit at the farmers market, or Wanda’s making you do one of those weird tea cleanses again, or you’re just lonely at 2 am - you call me.”

You smile. Or try to.

His smile is smaller. Sadder.

“I’m here, alright?” Bucky adds after a moment, voice rough but certain. “You’re not alone.” He takes a deep breath. There is something new in his voice now. A gentle grit. “But I’m not here to rush you. I’m not here to push. I like you. You probably already figured that out. But I want this to be whatever you need. At your pace. No pressure. No expectations. I just want you safe. I want you to breathe easy again. I want to be someone you know you can lean on. Nothing more than that, not unless you want it.”

Your breath hiccups. Your eyes sting.

He nods toward the IV in your arm. “Right now, the only thing that matters is getting you back to okay.”

You blink. Your throat is tight.

Silence, again. Soft and clean and full of feeling.

You look at him for a long time, studying the scruff on his jaw, the fine line between his brows, the way his eyes search your face as if he is still making sure you woke up.

“Thank you, Bucky,” you whisper. “I’m glad you’re here.”

He exhales a long breath. Blinks hard. Rubs the heel of his palm over his mouth.

“I like you, too.”

You hear his breath catch.

You say it softer. Slower. More certain. “I want you to know that. I really like you.”

His eyes are whole. With something warm and breaking wide open. You wonder if he even realizes he is holding your hand tighter now.

And you look at him as though maybe your heart’s been trying to find his this whole time.

His thumb brushes over your skin so lightly, you almost don’t feel it. But you do. Of course, you do. It sends tiny shivers running through your body. Lets your skin prickle.

“He’s not gonna come near you again,” Bucky states quietly, a little bit firm. “You don’t have to worry about that. You don’t have to do any of this alone.”

And you still. Your eyes go wide a tiny fraction. Because how could you have forgotten?

“Nolan.”

Something tightens behind Bucky’s eyes. Something that does not flinch but does not smile either.

You say his name again, slower this time, unsure why your lungs feel colder now. “Is he…”

“He’s okay,” Bucky affirms, but there is a jagged note to the words. “Got some burns on his hand and inhaled a lot of smoke, but nothing that won’t heal.”

He doesn’t say don’t worry but you hear it.

He also doesn’t say he deserved worse, but you hear that too.

You study Bucky’s face - how his jaw ticks, his nostrils flare ever so slightly. His posture has changed, too. Not tense exactly, but watchful. Guarded. As though he is sitting on something stretched too tight between staying soft for you and not punching a wall with his fist.

“He…” Bucky exhales and rubs a hand through his hair as though it might soothe the fire out of his voice. “He asked about you.”

That surprises you. Your lips part, but you don’t know what question you’re asking yet.

“He wanted to know if you were okay.” Bucky pauses. Looks away, just for a second, as though he is chewing on something bitter. “Said he didn’t mean for it to go that far. That he was just mad. That it was a mistake.”

The words hang in the air like smoke without a source.

You stare at the blanket pulled up to your ribs. You don’t know what you’re feeling. Grief, maybe. Not for Nolan. For the version of yourself that still picks up when he calls.

“I’m sorry,” you say again. Heavily. You don’t know why. Maybe just for existing in this mess. For dragging Bucky into it. For not seeing it all coming sooner.

“You don’t owe anyone an apology,” Bucky grounds out, and this time his voice is sharper. A crackle of heat under the words. “He doesn’t get to hurt you and then feel bad about it after the fact. He could’ve killed you.”

You stare at him.

And he softens.

A little. A blink. A breath.

“Sorry,” he mutters, shaking his head and looking down at his boots. “I didn’t mean to snap. Just-” He rubs the back of his neck. His face twists into something pained. “I rushed into that apartment and saw you on the floor and-” His voice breaks a little and comes back shaky. “It was like time stopped. Didn’t even see anything else. Just you.”

Silence swells again, full of unsaid things and tight lungs and hearts pounding.

You squeeze his hand gently.

And then the door clicks open.

Wanda peeks in first, her hair a frizzed halo, cheeks blotchy, eyes wide and wet. Natasha follows behind, chin set, jaw tight. She looks composed, but you know she isn’t.

“You’re awake,” Wanda sighs, already by your side, reaching for your other hand. “God, I’m gonna cry again-”

“You look like hell,” Natasha deadpans. But she is smiling. Just barely.

You smile back. It takes effort. But it’s true.

Bucky keeps watching you as though he is afraid to blink. As though he doesn’t want to miss a second more of you breathing.

And even though your chest still hurts and your throat stings and you feel as though your world just burned down another time, there is something brightening in your heart.

“Don’t ever do that again,” Wanda chastises weakly, adjusting your blanket, and giving you the gentlest kiss on your forehead. “You scared the hell out of us.”

And you feel that crater inside you - the one the smoke didn’t touch. The one carved out by fear. By how close it all had been.

“I didn’t mean-”

“We know, dummy,” Natasha cuts in gently, and it’s not an accusation. “We’re just glad you’re okay.”

There’s a pause. You just breathe slowly. Staring at the ceiling.

“God, I swear,” Wanda mutters, fingers tightening slightly where they rest against your wrist. “If I ever see that bastard again…”

Natasha snorts, her voice tilting toward something sly. “I’m sure your personal guardian here will take care of him. Should’ve seen him when the paramedics mentioned Nolan.”

Bucky, beside you, goes very still.

You feel his hand twitch against yours. He’s still holding it. Hadn’t let go.

He hasn’t said anything since the girls came in.

Now he looks like stone. His gaze flicks away.

You can feel the tension building in his chest - his breath shallower, his jaw clenched. His thumb presses slightly harder against your palm, as though the thought of your ex walking around freely is the worst thing he’s ever had to picture.

“No worries, guys,” you say and even the thought of his name is foul in your mind. “I’m done with him.”

You lift your eyes to Bucky. It’s not even intentional. You just have to look at him. Maybe you need him to hear it clearly. Need to make sure he heard it.

His eyes find yours. Dark and blue and lit up with something rougher than hope. Something hotter than worry.

His mouth tilts into something relieved. And you think, maybe, even a little bashful. As though he didn’t expect to be included in this part. As though it is hitting him slowly, that he is not a stranger in your orbit anymore.

And something in him seems to let go - not all at once. But in pieces. Like melting ice, cracking and softening and spilling into warmer water.

He nods. Small. Doesn’t seem able to speak.

But his hand in yours says everything.

Wanda and Natasha both go quiet. Watching him. Watching you. Watching this. This thing happening between you.

Outside the window, the sun climbs a little higher into the sky.

And he keeps looking.

Keeps absorbing.

Keeps memorizing.

Just like you.

“Heroes are ordinary people who make themselves extraordinary.”

- Gerard Way

Part One

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Gone, again pt.2

Summary : Since the fight you had with Bob, you'd been distant, harsh with everyone, and trying to act like nothing’s wrong. Bob avoids you completely, which hurts more than you expected. And as if it was useful, a joke from Hangman exposes the tension between you two in front of others. But thankfully, Phoenix is there to help you out.

Bob Floyd x f!reader/pilot!reader

Warnings : lack of communication, angst, conflicted feelings, heavy past (men are shit except Bob that's it), secret relationship, Bagman being... well a dick, emotional unavailability, fling, italics (again sorry)

Words : 5,5K

A/N : I'm pretty busy but tried to wrote you as quick as possible a second part, sorry there's not a lot of Bob but it seemed important to write all this. Sorry for the mistakes didn’t read before posting !!!

+ your call sign is "Grumpy"

Bob's masterlist | previous part | next part

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

You hadn’t slept. Not really. You’d laid there the night after the fight, staring at your ceiling like it owed you something— an answer, a justification, maybe even a punishment. But all you got was silence and the echo of your own words. You'd watched his face fall in real time, watched the soft open trust in his eyes shutter like a door you slammed shut yourself. You hadn’t meant to hurt him. But you had. And you hadn’t stopped. Yet, you told yourself, this was for the best. If he hated you, he wouldn’t come back. If he stayed away, he’d be safe from everything wrong with you.

That lie had been good enough to get you out the door, but it wasn’t enough to help you sleep.

The hallway lights buzzed faintly as you walked, casting long shadows that trailed behind you like guilt. Your boots struck the floor with military precision, but the sound was too loud in the sterile quiet; like an accusation. You were early. Not because of duty or discipline. But because home didn’t feel like home anymore, and the silence scraped against your skin until you couldn’t breathe. So you left, uniform flawless, expression locked in that unreadable mask. 

But inside ? Inside was war.

No blood or bombs, just the slow, suffocating kind. Regret was the shrapnel, and shame the smoke in your lungs. You couldn’t stop replaying the fight: the way his voice had cracked, the way he didn’t fight back, just stood there and took it like he thought he deserved it. Like he'd already decided you were worth breaking for.

You didn’t look up when you entered the hangar. You didn’t have to. The sounds were all the same: pilots laughing too loud, boots scuffing, someone shouting across the space about last night’s game. 

Normal. 

Ordinary.

Like nothing had happened. Like the world hadn’t tilted sideways three nights ago when you’d walked out of Bob Floyd’s apartment and left pieces of yourself on his floor.

And then you saw him.

He stood with Nat, turning his dog tags over in his hand like they were some kind of anchor. Something solid in the middle of the storm you’d both left behind. Phoenix nudged him about something. You couldn’t hear what, and didn’t need to actually. But, he gave her that small smile, the kind he always saved for when he didn’t really want to talk.

It wasn’t the soft-lipped one he saved for the rare nights you let yourself fall asleep on his chest. It wasn’t even the tired one he gave when he knew you were picking a fight just to push him away, but he stayed anyway. He didn’t look over. Didn’t glance. Not even once. You stood there for a moment too long, hoping for something. Maybe an eye contact, maybe a flicker of recognition. A signal that you still lived somewhere in his mind. 

But nothing came. 

You told yourself it was a good thing. This is what you wanted. A clean break. No messy explanations, no apologies that could be picked apart and never quite stitched back together. But the air felt thinner now. Like his silence was pulling it out of the room. You hadn’t expected that. Not the absence, or the indifference. 

Anyway, in the end, that's what you imposed on him from the start. One look was already too much for you when you were at work, yet you were desperately looking for his right now. You could’ve handle anger, hell you’d earned it. But this ? This hollow nothing ? It unspooled something inside you. But that’s what you’d done to him from the very beginning— drawn a line he wasn’t allowed to cross, rules he never agreed to but followed anyway, just to stay close. You’d set boundaries with your silence, with your eyes that wouldn’t meet his when the uniform was on. One glance from him used to unravel you, even when you pretended it didn’t. 

And now ?

Now, you were scanning the hangar like a ghost desperate for warmth, aching for a single look— a flicker of connection— from the very eyes you used to avoid. You’d built the distance, brick by brick. And now you were suffocating in the house you trapped yourself in.

How pathetic, you thought.

You turned on your heels before he could notice you staring. But you knew, deep down, he hadn’t even tried to. You weren’t a person to him right now. Just another uniform in the room, a background noise. Your heart thudded like it was angry with you. And maybe it was. Because you’d survived worse things than heartbreak, if you call it that. You'd walked through fire before. But “heartbreak” wasn’t fire, it was ice— slow and suffocating. 

The rest of the day blurred, like someone had smeared your life into a series of grays. You went through your checklists, nodded through briefings, your voice never cracked, not once. You answered clearly, sharply, like nothing inside you was fraying thread by thread.

You were still Grumpy. Sharp. Efficient. Untouchable.

They didn’t know how bitterly ironic it felt. They thought it was just your vibe— gruff, no-nonsense, all business. But Bob had seen past it. He was the only one who’d ever asked what was underneath all that armor. And you’d hated him for it, in the way people hate the ones who get too close. The way people destroy what they think they don’t deserve.

So you buried yourself in the day, in routine, in protocol. Because if your hands were busy and your voice steady, no one would ask if you were okay.

And they didn’t.

So, you continued to pretend as the days went by. 

Just another room. Another debriefing with voices that droned like they meant something. Another day where Bob sat two rows ahead of you, shoulders straight, jaw set, posture immaculate. As if nothing had ever touched him out of uniform. As if you hadn’t. 

And you didn’t care. You kept telling yourself that, over and over again, until the words lost meaning and turned into noise. You kept your eyes forward, your hands steady, breath measured. You didn’t flinch when he shifted in his chair, even though your body noticed before your mind did, the same way it always had. 

You were trained for turbulence, controlled detachment. But not for this. 

He didn’t look back. Not once. And that, shouldn’t have mattered. 

You told yourself that, repeated it like prayer, or you should say punishment, as you scribbled notes you weren’t really hearing. The words blurred on the page, the flight plan in front of you nothing but a blur of numbers and headings—useless compared to the image burned behind your eyes; his hands brushing yours on that stupid kitchen counter. The soft smile he gave you when he thought you weren’t watching. The way he checked in with you without a single word, just a glance, a flick of those blue eyes that saw too much but never judged. You swear you could leave entire lifetimes in those looks.

But now ? Now he didn’t even glance. 

Fuck. 

You shouldn’t care. You never cared before and that’s how you kept the walls up—pretending you didn’t notice the way he looked at you like you were something worth staying for. You were good at that, back then. Looking through him. Letting the moments pass like they didn’t matter. Like he didn’t matter.

You needed to pull yourself together and fast. Because this—whatever this was—had no place in this room, in this version of you that still had something to prove. But you couldn’t stop scanning for him, couldn’t stop waiting for a glance that never came. 

Suddenly it hit you, what made it worse. He wasn’t angry. Anger would’ve been so fucking easier. It was sharp, loud and visible. It would’ve given you something to push back against, something to fight. You could’ve handled yelling, a cold shoulder, even a snide remark. But Bob had gone still. A quiet withdrawal, a stillness that gutted you because it meant he’d stopped reaching.

You told yourself it didn’t touch you. Not really. Not in a way that mattered. But your throat was tight, your pulse too fast, and your pen shook in your hand for half a second too long. And deep down, you knew— it mattered more than anything else in the room.

But when maverick mentioned Phoenix and Bob running the demo flyby next weekend, something twisted in your gut. Bob barely nodded in acknowledgment, the way he didn't offer his usual thoughtful follow-up questions or glance toward you like he used to—like you were just another name on the board, not the person he used to have in his bed almost every weekend. 

Usually, he’d risk it, even in front of the others. A quick look, just long enough to say I see you. Just long enough to make your chest tighten and your defenses rise. You’d give him that look back, the one with the furrowed brows and the warning written in your eyes, like he was walking too close to a landmine he didn’t know existed, or letting him know that he was becoming suspicious. You, setting the boundaries. Him, toeing the line without ever crossing it.

Yet his head hadn't moved an inch. 

Your pen faltered in your hand, the ink stuttering mid-word as your focus slipped. The last words of the briefing faded into the background static, the kind of white noise that filled your head when you were trying too hard to seem unaffected. People stood, papers rustled, chairs scarped, the usual end-of-meeting clutter. 

But you didn’t moved. 

Not until Phoenix walked past you, giving a short nod you barely returned, then clapped Bob on the shoulder and turned to leave. You looked up just in time to see him walk out. And somehow, that made your memory sharper. That used to be the moment he waited, not in a big gesture way. He never made a show of it but he lingered; let the others leave first to make sure you weren’t walking out alone. Sometimes he offered a word or two but most times he just walked beside you, hands in his pockets, matching your pace like it was effortless and smile at you.

There was no presence at your shoulder today, just the soft thud of boots on tile and the closing of a door that didn’t wait for you. Your chest tightened, breath snagging on the silence he left behind. And for a moment, you didn’t know how to move. You stood slower than you meant to, like your body was trying to buy time you didn’t have. Maybe you were hoping he'd forgotten something. That he’d come back through the door and glance your way. Even just briefly.

But he didn’t. And you knew he hadn’t forgotten a damn thing.

You told yourself you shouldn’t expect anything. Not a word, not a look. Certainly not some dramatic goodbye. But still, somewhere deep in the part of you that refused to quiet down, you'd hoped for a hesitation. Just a beat. Something that said he was still carrying it. Still carrying you.

Instead, there was only that silence he wore so well ; calculated and cold and painfully polite. The same kind he used when he didn’t want anyone to see the storm behind his eyes. And you knew the difference.

God, you hated that you knew the difference.

You packed your things slowly, the muscle memory of movement dulling the sharp edges of what you felt. Your hands only shook once. Just once. Long enough to feel the tremor echo in your chest. When the room was empty, truly empty, you sat back down. Not because you had to. Because you needed a moment. A moment where no one would expect you to be fine. So you sat. Pretended the air didn’t feel heavier, pretended the door hadn’t closed behind him like a full stop, pretended your chest wasn’t aching for a look that never came.

Because it was fine. You were fine. You were always fine. And maybe, if you stayed still long enough, you could believe it again.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

The sun was low, casting long shadows over the tarmac, painting everything in that warm, late-afternoon gold that made even a place like this feel softer for a moment. You stood just outside the hangar, shoulder pressed against a rust-streaked metal post, its heat bleeding faintly your uniform. A bottle of lukewarm water hung loose in one hand, your phone in the other, screen dim, ad you were pretending to scroll but you hadn’t blinked in minutes.

Across the way, a cluster of squad members gathered in loose formation, laughing at something you hadn’t heard. Phoenix’s voice floated above the rest. And for a second, it almost made you feel like yourself again. Like you belonged in your own skin. Like the tension that had been threading its claws through your spine all day might loosen. 

But it didn’t. 

The locker room door opened. You didn’t hear it. You felt it. Like something on the air had changed. Bob stepped out into the light, half-zipped from his suit, flight gear hanging around his waist. His shirt clung to him in places—sweat and sun, a leftover of adrenaline. His hair was damp, curls pushed back in that careless way he always tried to tame them, thought they never stayed. He looked down at something in his hand—a checklist, probably.

He was alone.

And maybe you didn’t mean to look. Or maybe you absolutely did. Maybe some part of you had been waiting, hanging onto that buzzing thread of awareness that only snapped taut when he was near. Your gaze lifted to him, pulled by something primal. And then, so sudden it almost hurt, as if pulled by the same invisible cord, his eyes found yours.

For a second, the world stilled. The laughter in the background faded to a hum. The golden light turned sharper, slicing through every layer of armor you’d built between now and the last time you touched him. And he held your gaze.

There was no heat in his stare; no fire, no bitterness, no anger. Just… stillness. Something even sadder. You didn’t say a word and neither did he. He didn’t looked away in shame or glance at the ground like he used to when he was nervous. No, Bob looked at you like a man who had made his peace with something; who had let go. Then he turned and walked off, heading toward the edge of the base without a single hesitation. Back to his checklist. Back to whatever task he’d given himself to stay upright. His shoulders squared as he walked toward the squad, blending into the laughter without ever joining it.

And you stayed exactly where you were.

Because you didn’t know what hurt more : that he looked or that he let you go again, just as easily.

The ache that had been steadily building all day finally crept into your chest, threading through your ribs like ice. You pressed your thumb harder against the bottle in your hand, like that pressure could quiet what was happening inside you. Because it wasn’t rejection. It wasn’t heartbreak. It was something worse.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

You’d just finished running a systems check on your bird when Jake strolled over, arms crossed loosely over his chest, aviators perched like punctuation on a smug grin. His walk was all swagger, like he hadn’t a single heavy thought to carry—and if he did, he wore it like it was someone else’s problem. You didn’t even glance up.

You’d been like this for days. Not just quiet but mean; clipped responses, sharp edges, no room for small talk or even smiles. You’d brushed off Phoenix more than once, snapped at a junior tech for asking a routine question, and yesterday you’d straight-up ignored Payback when he offered you his last protein bar.  

The squad had given you space at first, assuming you were just tired, irritated, maybe had a bad flight or two. But that grace period had expired. Now, the silence that you carried didn’t just follow you—it dragged behind like a storm cloud. People moved around you like you might just explode in the second their gaze met yours. 

Your call sign had never fit you more, and you knew it. But Jake, of course, couldn’t resist poking the bear.

“Damn, Grumpy,” he called out, voice pitching just loud enough to cut across the clank and murmur of the hangar, “you’re grumpier than usual. What happened ? Bad sex or no sex ?”

The wrench in your hand paused mid-motion. Just a split second; barely a beat. 

You didn’t respond, you couldn’t give him the satisfaction. Instead, you dropped your gaze back to the panel, jaw locked tight, even if the damage was already done. The conversations around the hangar shifted—everyone pretending not to listen a little harder. 

Hangman whistled under his breath. “Oof. That hit something.”

“Seresin,” Phoenix’s voice snapped like a whip from a few feet away, her checklist rolled in one hand, “try shutting your mouth before someone does it for you.”

He grinned but backed off with mock innocence, hands raised. “Hey, I’m just trying to diagnose the tension in this squad. It’s practically a safety issue.” Phoenix didn’t laugh. She didn’t even blink.

You turned your head quickly, brows furrowed. “Do you actually need something, Bagman ? Or are you just bored and terminally stupid ?”

He let out a mock gasp and clutched his chest. “Ouch. There she is. I missed you, sunshine.”

You stared, deadpan. “Keep pushing, and I’ll knock those knock-off aviators down your throat.”

He couldn’t help but grinned. “There’s the fire. But seriously, people are starting to take bets on whether you’re about to kill someone or cry in a broom closet.”

“Keep talking and I’ll make it both.”

Phoenix raised a brow. “You’re a pilot, not a therapist. Back off before she uses you to test the tensile strength of titanium.”

Hangman backed up a step, hands still up. “I was just saying—Grumpy’s not herself lately. Maybe she needs to, I don’t know… get laid ? I could help you with that part you know.” 

You didn’t even answer when he offered you a wink. Across the hangar, Bob had been reviewing a checklist with a tech, sleeves rolled up, grease on one hand. Now he was half-turned in your direction, gaze cutting across the space with quiet precision.

He was looking at you.

And the worst part ?

You fucking looked back.

Your spine tensed. Not visibly, but enough. Jake followed your line of sight and stopped dead. Then something clicked behind his eyes. You kept your eyes on the open panel in front of you like your life depended on it when you saw Hangman smirk. 

“Wait a second” 

“Seresin.”, Phoenix warned. She didn’t knew a thing, but she wasn’t stupid.

“Ohhh. Shit,” he said, low and grinning. “That explains so much.”

You turned your glare on him full-force. “Say another word, and I will end you in the parking lot.”

He raised both eyebrows. “Spicy. I like it.”

“Jake, seriously, shut up,” Nat hissed.

But he wasn’t looking at her anymore. His eyes were bouncing between you and Bob, clearly connecting dots he should’ve never been allowed near. “Y’all were—oh man. Who knew Bob had that kind of effect ?”

You dropped your wrench with a sharp clang, wiped your hands on a rag, and stepped forward until there were only a few inches between you and Jake.

“I swear to God,” you said, low and lethal, “if you say one more thing—”

“Okay, okay,” he backed up, hands raised. “Message received. Someone touched a nerve. I’ll just go… be charming somewhere else.”

As he slinked away, Phoenix sighed hard through her nose and turned to you. “He’s an idiot, but he’s not wrong. You’ve been… off.”

“I’m fine,” you muttered.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

The hangar smelled like oil and metal and heat—midday sweat and a dozen exhaust fans that couldn’t quite keep up. You were hunched over a checklist at the edge of the flight deck, jaw clenched, eyes unfocused. You weren’t really reading. You were waiting for the adrenaline to wear off.

But it didn’t.

It hadn’t in days.

You didn’t hear Phoenix approach. Of course not—she was too good for that. You only noticed her when the shadow stretched beside yours on the concrete, silent and still.

“Hey, Grumpy.” You flinched slightly, not enough to give her the satisfaction.

You didn’t look up anyway, “Phoenix.”

She came to stand beside you, not speaking at first, just watching; weighing you like a target she wasn’t sure if she wanted to take down or pull in.

“You and Bob,” she said flatly, crossing her arms over her chest. “What happened ?”

You blinked once, twice. “Excuse me ?”

“You heard me.”

“I didn’t realize his personal life was suddenly your jurisdiction.”

“Cut the bullshits will you.” She snapped quickly, watching you with that same unblinking pilot's stare—half curious, half like she was dissecting you.

“I don’t see how that’s any of your business.”

“It is,” she said, voice flattening. “When you’re planning to kill about half the team, without counting Hangman, of course.” She took a step closer and you stiffened.

You glanced away. “He’ll be fine.”

“Probably, but right now Bob is not fine tho,” she said, voice tight. “And don’t pretend you don’t know why.”

You tried to scoff, tried to play it off. “People go through shit.”

Phoenix stepped in front of you, blocking your view. Her expression was unreadable, but her voice had an edge to it now. “Sure. But Bob doesn’t just go through things—he carries them.” 

Your grip on the clipboard tightened and swallowed hard before speaking again, “He’ll move on.”

Her voice wasn’t angry. It was steady, disappointed. Phoenix tilted her head. “That’s what you think this is ? That he’s weak for giving a damn about you ?”

You froze. You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because she was getting too close to the truth—and you didn’t have the armor for it today.

“You’ve been colder than usual, y/n. More shut off. Like you're trying to piss everyone off just enough so they’ll stop asking questions.”

You clicked your pen once, just for something to do. “I didn’t ask for your opinion.”

“You didn’t have to.” She stepped in front of you fully now, forcing your eyes up to meet hers. “Listen, I don’t know what the hell happened between you two. But I do know Bob. And I know that whatever it was, he didn’t deserve to get left with the fallout alone.”

You flinched again—this time more visible. Phoenix almost never raised her voice. “Don’t do that,” she said, quieter now. “Don’t act like pushing him away was some noble sacrifice. If you’re scared ? Fine. If you’ve been hurt before ? I get it. But don’t you dare pretend like he meant nothing just because you can’t deal with what he meant.”

The silence after that was thick and cruel. You bit the inside of your cheek until it stung. “He mentioned someone,” Phoenix added softly, a knife under velvet. “A girl. Wouldn’t say much, but the way he said it… it hurt just to watch. And when I see how you reacted with Seresin, I can't help but think that girl is you.”

Your stomach twisted.

“So I’m going to ask you this just one time, and I want you to be honest with me. Was it you ?”

Your eyes flickered to hers—and for once, you had no comeback. No sarcasm. Just the look of someone who’d been found out. Phoenix’s gaze softened, just a little. “Listen,” she said, stepping back. “Whatever happened, you’ve got a chance to fix it. Not tomorrow. Not next month. But now.”

You snapped, “I’m not what he needs.”

“No,” Phoenix said quietly. “You’re what he wants. But you’re so wrapped up in what broke you that you won’t even let him try.” The words landed like a gut punch. You masked it poorly. You opened your mouth, something cruel and self-protective on your tongue, but she didn’t stop. “You just got scared,” she said, and her tone didn’t even hold judgment. 

You laughed bitterly. “You think I wanted this ?”

“I think you wanted to feel nothing more than you wanted to feel safe,” she replied, without blinking. 

A long silence stretched between you. You turned away slowly, arms folding across your chest, tight and tense as you exhaled shakily, “Well, he’s not my hero.”

“Did he try to be ?” You froze. Phoenix took a half-step closer. “Did it piss you off ? That he was gentle when you expected rough ?”

Your throat tightened. Bob would never say a thing about that, how could she be so close. You didn’t respond. “Because I know Bob,” she continued. “And he didn’t try to fix you. He tried to love you. And you punished him for it.” That landed hard. You bit the inside of your cheek, suddenly furious at yourself for letting her get under your skin.

You couldn't stand the sound of her voice anymore. Who did she seriously think she was ? Without saying a word, you turned on your heels and walked out the back door of the hangar, not wanting to see her again. You groaned and slammed the door harder than necessary. You stormed inside, dropping your clipboard on the metal table with a sharp clang. A few heads turned. You didn’t care. Your jaw was clenched so tight your teeth ached. The walls felt like they were closing in— too narrow, too bright, too full of people who didn’t know what the hell they were talking about.

Phoenix didn’t know anything.

Except she did. Fuck. 

And that’s what made you furious.

You kicked the bottom of a locker, hard. It rattled, the echo louder than expected. A low murmur of voices quieted ans someone coughed awkwardly. You turned to the sink and splashed water on your face, trying to cool the heat rising up your neck. It didn’t help. It was like your blood had been replaced with gasoline and Phoenix had lit the match. Her words still clung to you, sticky and sharp.

“Fuck you,” you muttered under your breath, not even sure if it was directed at her, Bob, or the mirror above the sink. Maybe all three. You gripped the edge of the counter so tightly your knuckles paled. Anger swirled with guilt and shame until it was impossible to tell one from the other. You weren’t crying—not even close—but there was a sting behind your eyes that felt too much like loss.

He was your thing.

Yours to mess up. Yours to hide. Yours to leave.

So what gave Phoenix the right to pull it into the open ? What gave her the right to speak like Bob was some broken-winged bird you’d crushed out of cruelty ? She didn’t know how hard it was to be held like that. To be looked at like you were more than skin and sharp edges. To be see—fully, gently—and not know what the hell to do with it. Bob had looked at you like that.

And now he didn’t.

You stared at yourself in the mirror, hating the version of you that pushed him away. Hating how much your chest ached at the thought that maybe he wouldn’t look at you like that again. You slammed the water tap off and grabbed a paper towel, rough against your skin.

“No one asked him to save me,” you hissed under your breath.

But maybe… maybe you had hoped he would. And now ? You had no one to blame but yourself.

The door clicked shut behind her. You didn’t bother turning around. You were still facing the counter, staring at the cracked ceramic mug in the drying rack like it held the answers to everything. She stood there in silence. No sharp comment, no smugness; just the faint shift of her weight as she leaned against the door.

“I didn’t come to fight,” Phoenix said finally, voice low so others wouldn’t hear, even if everyone in the room seemed interested. “I just… couldn’t leave it like that.”

You gripped the edge of the sink until your knuckles whitened. “Should’ve.”

She stepped forward, slow like she was approaching a wounded animal. “I know it’s not my business, but I’ve also never seen you like this. You’re meaner. You haven’t said more than two words to anyone in two weeks.” You squeezed your eyes shut and let out a breath that felt like it dragged your lungs with it. “You’re not okay. And Bob sure as hell isn’t either.”

You turned away from the mirror, fists curled at your sides. “He’ll be fine.”

She gave a small laugh— not mocking, just tired. “That’s not the point,” she saif gently. “And I don’t think you really believe that.” Your chest tightened, but you didn’t speak. She wasn’t supposed to see you like that.

“I told him to stop playing the hero,” you muttered, bitter and ashamed. “Told him he didn’t have to fix me. That maybe he just wanted to feel important. To feel like someone finally saw him.” You closed your eyes, heart pounding. 

“Yeah, he told me.” 

You turned, eyes hard but glassy. She already knew too much, what was the point of keeping it all to yourself now ? Maybe she could help you in some way, so you went for it. “I said it to protect myself” you whispered, as if confessing to a crime. “Because if he’s just helping me to feel better about himself, the none of this is real. And if it’s not real, then it can’t hurt.” 

Phoenix met your gaze and didn’t flinch. She stepped closer, not to crowd you, just enough that you felt her warmth near you. “And did it work ? Did it hurt any less ?”

You laughed—short, bitter. “No. I feel like shit.”

The silence that followed made the truth louder. Something in you cracked open, not loud, not sudden, but quietly devastating. And before you could stop yourself, it started unraveling more and more.

“It’s always like that,” you said, staring at the floor. “Guys want me because I’m quiet. Easy. I don’t ask for much. I let them do what they want, because that’s what they expect. Be a good girl, take it, don’t complain. And when it’s done, they either call me cold or tell me they need someone ‘softer’.”

Phoenix didn’t interrupt.

You swallowed, jaw clenching. “So I learned to get ahead of it. To give them what they want before they ask. Be rough, be wild, act like I’m into it.” You sobbed without shedding a single tear. “That way, when they leave, it’s not because I wasn’t enough. It’s because I gave them everything and they still didn’t stay… Bob wasn’t supposed to be different.”

“But he was,” Phoenix said. There was a long silence. Then Phoenix said softly, “And that scared the hell out of you.” You exhaled like you’d been punched.

You turned around fully now, arms folded tightly across your chest like a shield you’d already lost. “I don’t know how to be loved by someone like him,” you confessed. “So I pushed him away. I hurt him. On purpose. Because it was easier than waiting for the moment he realized I’m not worth the trouble.” Phoenix blinked, then moved forward, placing her hands gently on your shoulders.

“What if I screw it up again ?” you asked, your voice small.

Phoenix stepped close, looked you right in the eye. “Then you try again. And again. Until he knows you’re not walking away this time.”

“I don’t know what to say to him,” you admitted.

Phoenix smiled gently. “Start with sorry. And maybe… ‘I was wrong.’ The rest will come naturally.”

You stood there for a long moment, heart pounding against your ribs like it wanted out. Then, finally, you exhaled and nodded, almost to yourself. You didn’t say anything else—you didn’t need to. You left the breakroom with a kind of nervous resolve, like your body had decided to move before your mind fully caught up. You passed by her, brushing against her shoulder, without giving her so much as a last glance. Phoenix watched you go, something soft and hopeful settling into her chest. Outside, the sky was starting to shift into gold. And for the first time in weeks, you stepped out of the shadow you’d wrapped yourself in.

»» ─── ⋆⋅☆·⋆ ─── ««

Bob’s masterlist | previous part | next part

Tag-list : @bluegardenn @kingsandqueens12345 @jasontoddswhitestreak @everythingismixed-up

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🪻wc. 5096🪻୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Awh, sick! It looks like the Coraline stone-thing!”

“Don’t,” You swats at Mark’s hands, “fucking spread it! You sick freak.”

“Caroline, Caroline.” Mark snickers, the edges of his lips curling as he pushes your thighs further apart, guiding them to rest on his broad, sinewy shoulders and his breath ghosts over your exposed cunt. His hands massage the softness of your legs, fingertips sinking into the plush before he presses a kiss against your sloppy folds.

Peering up at you through his lashes, seeing the way your neck does that little double chin from the way you’re propped up on your elbows, the edge of your SeaWorld T-shirt pushed up just above your navel and Mark’s brows furrow.

“We’ve never been to SeaWorld?”

“I punched a kid because he kept slapping the stingray on the back. So I took his T-shirt.” You hum quietly, lifting one of your hands to thread through Mark’s hair, watching the way obsidian strands slip from your fingers like fine grains of sand. And Mark snorts.

“That doesn’t explain why you were there?”

“I was protesting. Well, I protested for 20 minutes, and then, I went to go get a snack and like... I was escorted off the premises by security.”

“Is that why Omni-Man came home smelling like salt water?” Mark hums quietly, his chin resting on your mound, fingertips tracing idle patterns around the faint lines in your skin.

“Yeah, he came to come pick me up.” You respond with a huff of laughter, the apples of your cheeks turning rosy at the memory before you swallow, the room filling with a silence that’s just a bit too heavy for your liking. And your nails scratch at Mark’s scalp. Just to soften him up before you say something that’s... I gonna upset him.

“Mark... You can still say ‘dad’...” Your voice is soft. “He was still, you know, your dad.”

“He called my mom a pet.” Mark states, expression hardening as he meets your gaze, brows furrowing into a frown.

“Mark, me and you both know your mom walked him like a dog.” You let out a heavy breath. “The pet thing was probably just a—”

“You don’t know what it felt like.”

The room goes dead silent. Quiet enough for Mark to hear the way your breath halts in your lungs, quiet enough for him to hear the way your heart constricts the tiniest bit and you swallow.

“I didn’t mean i—”

“No, it’s okay.” You suck your teeth. “You lost your dad. It hits... Harder for you. Because like, the last thing he did to you was yell at you, and the last thing I got was a kiss on my forehead.” Your eyes begin to sting. “Like he wasn’t about to beat you to death afterwards.”

There’s the most uncomfortable pain that begins to settle in your belly, and before you know it, your thighs are moving from Mark’s shoulders, the warmth of your body eluding him and you shift.

“I— I’m sorry but I don’t think we should do anything tonight. I kinda just wanna be alone.”

Mark pushes himself up, his shirt strewn tightly across his broad chest, but right now, you can’t even properly appreciate the way his muscles flex with each of his movements. Not with the heaviness in your belly that seemed to drop onto your spirits like an anvil crushing glass, piercing shards sticking into your heart.

“Are you sure?”

“Yeah.” You nod your head, mustering a smile. “I’ll see you tomorrow.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Viltrumites are the bad guys. Aren’t they?” Your voice is tiny as you settle in the spot beside Nolan, your leg bumping against him just a little bit. Your hands still damp from the chilly condensation of the glass you had handed Nolan. The half empty glass that had dripped a little circle onto the varnished wood.

Nolan’s thick brows furrow, before he looks down at you. At the way you stare up at the sky with those wide eyes, flashes fluttering and chubby cheeks rosy from the slight frost in the air.

“Why do you think that?”

“Because sometimes, making things ‘better’, is like... Code for ass—as-assimil— ugh. Ass—smili—lation.” You respond quietly, sounding it out.

You’ve always been smarter than Mark. By a shameful longshot. You saw things for what they really are and right now, Nolan’s seeing firsthand.

“We’re not like that.” He hums.

“Promise?” You peer up at him with those doe eyes, innocence swirling along the flecks of light that reflect off the glossiness of your eyes and Nolan swallows.

“Promise.”

Your hands flip over the smooth ridges of the Omni-Man figurine, your lips curled into a frown, teary doe eyes focused on the painted face, that friendly smile and stupidly iconic moustache.

“I got you one of those... Boyband hoodies.” Nolan hums, tossing the thick, cotton at you, his gaze lowered to the letters in his hands as he continues to sort through the male.

“Which one?” You hum quietly, your nails tearing the thin, almost clingy plastic that protected the fabric.

“The Korean ones.”

“BTS?” Your lips curl into a wide gleam, excitement buzzing beneath your skin.

“Yeah, those ones.”

And you stare down at the hoodie in your hands.

“Mr Nolan, I think you were scammed.” Your brows furrow. “These are random Korean guy— who are these people?”

Your laughter bubbles.

“Are you sure?”

“Mr Nolan, these people aren’t even celebrities...”

Soft, choked sobs manage to escape you, mixed with teary huffs of laughter.

“Who the fuck’s that?” Mark questions, brows furrowed as he stares down at your hoodie, watching the way you remove all your stationery from your bag, setting your desk ready.

“They’re a super underground Korean group.” You hum.

“They look like BTS but not quite there.” William interjects, elbows braced on his desk.

And you gasp. “William! Not all Korean people look alike! I’d expect this from Mark but not you.”

“I’m literally half-Korean!”

You can feel the way the piercing pain in your belly gets worse and you can’t help but think of how lucky Mark is. The rug was ripped out from beneath him abruptly, paired with copious reasons as to why he can and definitely should hate Nolan.

You just… couldn’t.

Every day, the rug was pulled a little bit more and every day, it hurt more. Every day, you send the same ‘good morning’ text with the sunrise emoji, every day. You never fail to do it. Not even when you have a flu.

And every day, you can’t help but hope for that ‘morning kiddo’ at the top of your screen. But it’s never there.

He's never there.

And you have to get used to it.

“Your mom slipped Debbie a dollar, which she slipped to me so…” Nolan clears his throat, wiping those burly hands along his jean-clad thighs. Before he inhales sharply.

“When a man—”

“Mr Nolan, I know how sex works.” Your brows furrow, expression pinching into a distasteful grimace.

And Nolan gleams.

“Great. Pass the knowledge on.” And with a heavy pat on your back, Nolan pushes Mark towards you.

And you swallow. “Well. When your mom and dad—”

“NOLAN! MAKE HER STOP!”

“Yourdadplowedyourmathroughthemattress!”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Mark, what did you do?”

Debbie folds her arms across her chest, eyes hardened into a frown, and lips twisted.

She watches the way Mark shifts underneath his covers, a ratty GDA T-shirt stretched across his broad chest, fabric tight around the curves of his biceps and he pushes himself up, covers pooling at his hips.

And his brows furrow. “I didn’t do anything?” Mark answers, although, it’s more like a question than a statement.

“That’s the 18th time ‘No One Noticed’ has played since you left there.” Debbie huffs, her slippers shuffling across the floor before she sits at the edge of his bed, the mattress dipping just a bit beneath her weight. And she places a hand on his calf, the warmth of Mark’s body tangible through the thickness of his comforter.

And Mark swallows.

“I told her she didn’t get it.” His gaze flickers down towards his lap, shame visible in his expression. “When Omni-Man—”

“Markus Sebastian Grayson.” Debbie spits his name like a slur. “If I could, I’d slap the ever-loving shit out of you.”

Debbie brings a hand up to cover her face, in what Nolan would call ‘the Korean Shame’ cover and she inhales a sharp, shaky breath.

“Mark—”

“I know, m—”

“No, you don’t know, Mark.” Debbie interrupts. “You, didn’t lose more than her. Maybe biologically, but not more. You know her parents aren’t home a lot, and when they are, it’s like, nitpick nation.”

She shifts comfortably, powdery blue robe shifting as she crosses her legs, making herself comfortable, elbows braced on her knees and she lets out a low, exhausted huff.

“Your father—”

“Omni-Man—”

“Your father,” Debbie pauses, eyes narrowing as she waits for Mark to interject once more, before continuing, “did a lot of good. Yes, it was a literal pyramid scheme but, nowhere in that pyramid scheme, did he have to be that good to her. He wanted to be good, and she knows that.”

“But he wasn’t—”

“Mark, just because he ended up the way he did, doesn’t mean you’re not allowed to miss the memories.” Debbie sighs.

“When you hit your first homerun, when you had your semi-formal, the pumpkin carving contests, trick-or-treating. When he took you to get your costume—”

“It’s a supersuit—”

“It’s gay. Your mouth and fingers are the only things sticking out. It’s a colourful gimp suit.”

“So, I’ve got notes—”

“No she doesn’t, sir. The suit’s amazing.” Mark grins at Art, before continuing to look around, examining the other suits that have yet to be coined and worn. Tracing his fingers along breastplates and gauntlets.

“What’re are the notes, girly?”

Your lips purse as you plop down in the seat beside Art, your gaze lowered to where withered fingers push fabric underneath the jittering needle of a sewing machine. Slow and controlled.

“Why’re the suits so tight?” You question.

“They’re aerodynamic, doll.” Art smiles. “Maximum movement.”

“Why don’t the suits have… prints?”

And he snorts. “Codpieces.”

“Then why does Omni-Man have a print?”

“Please stop talking about my dad’s dick, dude.” Mark interjects, his voice distant as he continues to wander around the shop, his footsteps quiet on metallic floors.

“He didn’t want a codpiece. Wanted to ‘show off’ for wife.”

And you coo, pouty lips tugged into an adoring frown. Before you glance towards Mark.

“How does your mom only have one kid?” You question. “You could not pry me—”

“Don’t finish that thought.”

You purse your lips. Letting silence settle in the air.

“—off with tongs and tweezers.”

“Ew!”

“You invalidated her feelings and her experience with mourning.” Debbie’s voice snaps Mark back from the memory, her arms folded over her chest.

“When you know she feels it just as much as you do. She’s a strong girl, Mark but she’s not….”

There’s a heavy silence, tension swelling in the room, anticipation builds with each passing seconds and Debbie lets out a quiet sigh.

“Invulnerable.”

“Invincible, mom!” Mark groans. “You’re supposed to say ‘invincible’.”

“Why? They’re basically the same word.”

“Because,” Mark motions to himself wildly, hands moving with emphatic gestures, before groaning, throwing the covers off himself before huffing.

“I’m gonna go work my jaw, before I get an ulcer in this house.”

And Debbie nods her head, before his words register, and her eyes widen.

“What.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Listen, I’m sorry and I know I was a dick and—”

“—Get out!”

“Are you masturbating?!” Mark’s voice is a loud guffaw, head tipping back as he lets out a bark of laughter. “You don’t even have your pants off— are— what are you even doing—!”

Mark watches as you pull your covers over your head, your body curling up and he can feel the embarrassment rolling off you in thick, shame-capped waves. And he snorts, shuffling closer to you, his hands tucked into the pockets of his sweatpants and you feel the way your mattress dips under his weight.

And you feel the steady heft of his head resting on your shoulder, his chin digging into the soft flesh and you can feel him tilt his head.

“Do you forgive me for earlier?” He questions quietly. “You didn’t lose him any less than I did.”

“No.” You scowl under the blankets, brows furrowing and annoyance burns beneath your skin. “You made me feel bad, and then proceeded to laugh at the way I masturbate.”

And Mark snickers.

“You looked like you were trying to scratch in the glove compartment from outside the car.” He buries his face in the softness of your duvet and the scent of your fabric softener wafts over him, mixed with the faint smell of your lotion.

“There shouldn’t be that much concentration to it. It should be easy.”

“Uh-huh, because you’re the expert.” You bite back, eyes still narrowed when you poke your head out from beneath your cocoon, glaring at Mark. And those dimples in his cheeks deepen.

“Actually, yeah.” He shifts, sitting up just a bit. “I’m a professional Master Bator. Ask any of my socks.”

And you grimace. “Literally, ew.”

“I can show you.” He murmurs. “A free lesson, you know, to make up for earlier.”

And you swallow. You’re still mad but…

“Okay.”

You can be mad later.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Over or under?”

“Over.”

Mark hums softly, shifting his body until he’s wedged between your thighs, broad shoulders forcing the supple flesh apart almost uncomfortably and he keeps his gaze focused on your panties.

A sticky gusset, a few shades darker than the rest of your panties and he brings a hand up, hooking a thick, muscular finger around your gusset, before shifting your panties, pulling them flush against your core.

“Lemme just… Pop the hood.”

He peers up at you through his lashes, a dorky grin plastered on his face, only widening at the way your eyes narrow slowly the longer your gaze is on his.

“Get it? Because—”

“Mark, I’m gonna stuff a sock in your mouth.”

“Fine.” He huffs. “No car talk.”

His pretty brown eyes lower to where your pussy is flush against the cotton, the visible outline of your velvety folds, tucked safely between plush, glossy lips has his breath stuttering in his lungs and he leans forward, pressing his lips against your clit. Feeling the puffy and already overstimulated bundle twitch against his lips.

And he swallows.

His cock twitching in his boxers, definitely leaking sticky precum and staining the front of the strained fabric, but it’s about you.

And you clear your throat.

“So, are you gonna teach me anything?” Your voice pulls him out of his pussydrunk reverie and he’s shaking his head, dragging a finger between your folds, brushing over your clit before coming to a stop at your slit, feeling the way you pulse against his digits. Slick clinging to his fingers, and he swallows. Hard.

“No.” He breathes out. “Fuck, no.”

“Then you don’t have any business down t—”

“Dude, I lost my dad.” Mark peeks at you, his cheek resting against the smooth flesh of your inner thigh, one hand cradling your thigh against his cheek and the other resting on your mound, pudgy thumb pressing against your twitchy clit through your panties.

“Bitch, I lost your dad too?” You retort.

“Exactly.” Mark breathes out. “Let’s find comfort in each other. Help me, help you.”

And the laughter falls from your lips with ease, giggles slipping free and your cheeks turn rosy. “Bitch, be so for r— shit…”

Your brain feels like it’s melting when Mark’s drags his tongue over your fabric-covered panties, the hand on your mound moving and resting against your inner thigh, a calloused index finger trailing over your slit. Pushing slightly, shallowly dipping into your cunt by barely an inch, but being pushed away by your stretchy panties.

And you swallow hard.

Feeling the way he laps at your stickiness, his brows bunching and his lashes fluttering as his eyes shit, fingertips pressing against your aching core, his tongue dragging over your pulsing clit. Pulling your folds and cotton into his mouth alike, before he frowns.

“S’not enough…”

Your panties are nearly soaked.

Pillowy thighs press against his ears, your belly dipping and twisting at the way he presses his face into your messy cunt, like he’s trying to paint his skin with the smell of your slick.

“How do you even—”

“Fingers, Mark.” You deadpan. “And like,” you let out a huff of breath, bringing up one of your hands to rake through his hair, pushing the raven strands out of the way before you sigh softly, “okay, if I take off my underwear, it defeats the purpose.”

“The purpose,” Mark hums, “is for us to heal. And to find inner peace.”

“You’re trying to find peace in my ‘inners’.” You scoff. “That’s not the purpose.”

“My dad left my mom and I. I’m being raised by a single mom.” Mark lets a heavy sigh, his forehead resting against the swell of your thigh, and he watches you from the corner of his eye.

“I’m gonna have to step up.” He swallows. “I’m the man of the house now… I’ll need to do taxes and—"

“If I take off my panties, will you stop talking?”

“Immediately.”

As soon as your panties are flung across your bedroom, Mark’s spitting at your cunt. Watching as the wad drips down between your already sticky folds, before he’s sliding his tongue between your puffy pussy lips, heat blossoming behind his flexing abs, hips shifting and twitching uncomfortably against your sheets before he’s sucking on your clit.

Needy and whiny noises leave him as he motions for one of your pillows. And with bleary eyes and fuzzy thoughts, you hand it to him with your free hand, your other buried in his hair, fisting obsidian strands and he mumbles out a muffled ‘thank you’.

As he wedges the cushioning between his thighs, and under his hips.

Mark laps at your cunt needily, hands braced on your inner thighs, keeping your legs spread as he drags his tongue along your puffy folds.

His chin and lips are smeared with slick, eyes hazy and pupils blown wide as he watches your cunt twitch, hole clenching around nothing and the sight makes his brain so fuzzy.

“Your pussy’s so perfect.” He breathes out, tongue outstretching before he’s ping the wet muscle into your spasming channel, moaning at the way your thighs tense and quiver beneath his warm palms. And Mark tonguefucks you like he gets paid to do it.

Like it’s on his vision board. Like he had it on his T-shirt for career day.

Your orgasm is rapidly approaching. That burning feeling in your belly, the way your tummy clenches each time his nose bumps clumsily against your clit, the way the edge of his tongue rubs against those sensitive, gooey walls.

“…fuck,” you gasp, “m’gonna come…”

You fist at his hair, your hips bucking and twitching against his mouth, and Mark feels like he’s drowning. You’re all he’s breathing in, you’re all he feels, his hips rutting against the pillow beneath him as he continues lapping at you.

And when you’re coming, he’s coming.

He’s creaming in his boxers while slobbering over your sloppy cunt, licking up every droplet of your cum, his hips rolling and when Mark pulls away, he looks like he’s walked through Narnia.

Dazed, confused and satisfied with how things ended.

“Did you do something different?” Mark smacks his lips just a bit and your brows furrow.

“What do you mean?”

“No, it just tastes different.”

And there’s a silence.

“Mark, why the fuck would you say that!” You fling a pillow at his face, and his nose scrunches, eyes shutting as it collides and he grins.

“M’just kidding.” He reassures. “It tastes good.”

And his hands bracket your hips as he leans forward, his chest brushing against yours, his lips ghosting over your jaw.

“You… taste good.”

Mark’s hips slot between your thighs, his still hard cock pressing against your core and he rolls his hips lazily, lips pressed against your thrumming pulse.

“Please, let me fuck you.” He breathes out, pressing sweet and soft kisses against the supple skin at the side of your neck, his hips rutting against you with no rhythm, hands pawing at your hips and waist.

“Uh… no.”

And Mark’s whole body freezes, before he’s pulling away, gaze flickering over your expression before he nods, sitting back on his haunches and he takes his fingers through his hair.

Pushing the strands back.

“I respect your decision to… not take it further. Do you wanna cud—”

“Mark, I wanna blow you.” You deadpan. “You can hit afterwards.”

Those big brown eyes widen as he stares at you for a moment, his brain rewiring and his heart pounding in his chest, before he holds up a finger.

“Give me like, a minute.” And he’s pushing himself from your bed, moving into your bathroom. “Don’t change your mind!” And you hear the sink running.

“What are you even doing?” You sit up, reclining on your elbows as you look towards the shut door of your attached bathroom.

“Washing… Something.” Mark calls back, his voice a bit lazy and its very, very clear that he’s preoccupied with something else and you let out a huff. “Don’t dip your dick in my basin.”

“You want these balls clean or not?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Are you ready?” You hum quietly, lips pursed in contemplation as you sink to your knees, the soft tufts of your carpet tickle the skin of your knees and shins. And you’re chewing on your bottom lip, rubbing your hand over the bulge in his sweatpants, and Mark nods. Swallowing hard.

“Yeah, I’m ready.” His hands twitch nervously at his sides, fingers flexing as they twist and clench the bedding, fabric crinkling under his grip as he stares down at your hand. The way you palm him through his sweats, his ruined boxers discarded into your laundry bin.

And he swallows again, lifting his hips just enough for you to peel the waistband away, lowering it just enough and his cock springs, sticky precum glossing his tip and running down his shaft in little beads.

His breaths stutter when you wrap your hand around his base, your thumb tracing over a vein before you stroke him. One, tantalizingly slow stroke, and he feels the way your grip tightens, forcing out another droplet of pre and he whines.

“Mm—fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”

“Already?”

“I’m sensitive!” Mark argues, and he gasps when he feels your thumb trace along his sensitive and nerve-packed frenulum, and his head tips back, his throat bobbing. Before he swallows, shaking his head and his hand moves to grasp your wrist, his palm’s sweaty and hot against your skin.

“I don’t—”

He’s in the middle of his sentence when he sees the way you’re looking up at him through your lashes. Your cheeks warm and reddened, big doe eyes focused on him and your lips are so, so fucking soft when you press a kiss against his tip.

“Fuck, you’re so pretty.”

Mark’s tapping the head of his cock against your bottom lip, his brain going fuzzu when you make those sloppy spit bubbles, lathering his cock in saliva, before your lips are parting, wrapping around his flushed and leaky tip. And his eyes roll back his head.

“Holy— shit... Your mouth feels so good…”

Mark goes boneless when your cheeks hollow, a hand moving to cover his mouth but it’s pointless when it comes to muffling those moans, he whimpers like you’re touching his soul’s prostate. Your tongue dragging along the underside of his cock, tracing along the veins, your eyes focused on Mark’s expression, watching the way his brows furrow.

Watching the way his lips part and the way his chest heaves, deep, ragged breaths leaving him breathless.

“Fuck— I can’t— your teeth—”

You always wondered if Mark’s invincibility extended to his dick. And now you know it does. Because every time your teeth scrape him by accident, he whines. Lashes fluttering and hips twitching, pushing his cock just a bit deeper into your mouth.

And you inhale through your nose, before you lower yourself. Your throat bulging just a bit, your eyes watering and your lungs stuttering when you hear that pitchy whine Mark lets out.

“Fuck, fuck, fuck— ‘m coming.” He pants, a hand fisting your hair as he comes, hot spurts of pearly cum painting the inside of your mouth and throat. Hips twitching, fucking into your mouth and your nails dig into your sheets, gripping for dear life and you honestly think you’re about to pass out before Mark’s pulling out of your mouth.

Cock slick and glossy, coated with cum and spittle, and he swallows hard, looking down at you with bleary eyes.

“How… lon—”

“Five minutes.” You hum quietly, wiping the mess away from your chin before you rest back on your haunches. “I’m not gonna lie, I lost a little respect for you. Quickshot.”

Mark scowls. “Fuck you.”

And he pants, wiping away the drool from his own chin before he lets out a sigh.

“Can I hit?”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

If Mark had told his younger self that he’d be watching your ass bounce off his carved hips, your face tucked into your pillow and your whines filling his ears, his younger self would say….

‘What ass?’

Mark’s hands grip your hips, pulling you back to meet each brutal thrust that has your nails digging into your pillow, your back arched like a ski slope and your bottom lip wedged between your teeth.

You’re basically a puddle beneath him, panted mewls and breathy praises fall from your lips with ease, your voice so sickeningly sweet while your cunt clamps down on Mark like a vice. Forcing him to push out sticky beads of precum, and one of his hands move to the small of your back, putting you a deeper arch and you moan.

“Holy shit—” You gasp, “—you’re s’fucking deep. Oh my God—!”

Your TV plays some stupid movie that neither of you’ve bothered to look at what it is, and Mark’s lips are parting, ready to spew some nasty bullshit before a moan echoes from your TV screen.

His hips halt just a bit, and you’re pushing yourself up to glance towards the TV, and you both forget what you’re doing.

“What? What— what is he touching?” Mark’s brows in confusion, one hand grasping your hip while the other rests on your spine and you look towards the screen.

“Haven’t you seen this? Okay, wait— So, this guy’s like, in another guy’s dick. He’s a Supe.”

“What’s a Su— Oh, holy fuck!” Mark’s fingers dig into your hips, his eyes wide and expression pulling into a disgruntled and disgusted grimace as he stares at the blood-clad man on your screen. “What the fuck is this?”

“It’s The Boys.” You answer, looking at Mark over your shoulder. “You’ve never it before?”

“I think I’d remember seeing the inside of a dick.” Mark grimaces, before sucking his teeth. “Is it good?”

“Literally, so good. It’s so fucked up but like, it’s so good.”

And there’s a quiet, almost contemplative silence that fill your room, the flickering of your TV and the soft humming of your fan and Mark’s expression twists with thought.

“Raincheck on the sex?” He questions.

“If you can keep your boner, we can keep fucking.”

“I can keep it.” Mark reassures. “Let’s spoon.”

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Aren’t— mm— aren’t you gonna watch?” Mark’s hips grind into yours, his elbow hiking up one of your legs, hooked under your knee while he fucks into you. Big brown eyes focused on your TV, moans bitten back into quiet groans and you shake your head.

Your face tucked into your pillow, biting down on your bottom lip to keep quiet.

“I’ve watched until like, season 4, I think.” You respond breathily, your eyes rolling back in your head as you’re pushed towards your fourth orgasm and you whine.

Mark’s fucking you lazily.

His attention entirely on the TV screen because once again, that nerd in him wins. And it’s as refreshing as it is frustrating. You’re rendered to a cockdrunk mess, drooling into your pillows and creaming like a whore, while Mark’s focusing on men in capes and heroic escapades.

All while stuffing you full of his cock.

“Black Noir’s supposed to be like, their Batman, right?” He whispers in your ear and you shake your head.

“N-no…” you breathe out. “Their Batman’s this —mm.. fuck— this other guy and he’s a fucking w-weirdo…”

You’re gushing, so much that you don’t know if or if you’re still coming. You’re so sensitive, and each twitch of Mark’s cock has your brain pouring out of your ears, feeling the way he grinds against that spongy spot, making your lips part to let out saccharine moans.

And Mark glances down at you.

You’re so weak against him. Curled up, face burning and drool soaking into your pillow, teary eyes and puffy lips, raw bitten and shiny with spit. And he swallows hard, bringing his free hand down. Calloused fingertips circling your clit and your brows pinch as you moan.

“Shhhh. Focus on the TV.” He instructs quietly, his head dipping to press a kiss against your tear-stained cheek.

You’re so dizzy. You’re so close to passing out and your heart’s beating like you did 4 lines of coke. And Mark’s lips are brushing against the shell of your ear, tugging at your lobe playfully before he’s whispering to you. So sweetly.

“You look so pretty.” He’s circling your clit like he’s got all the time in the world. Fucking you into another dimension and he inhales sharply when he feels you clench around him, rhythmic spasms milking his cock and he whines, his face tucked against your neck.

Hs heart’s pounding and he thinks that right now’s the time to ask you. When you’re barely coherent and you’re greedily sucking his cock into you.

Now.

It’s perfect. And Mark inhales sharply, lifting his head and angling it so those big brown eyes are focused on yours.

“Can I be your boyfriend?” He whispers quietly. “Please?”

T🪻A🪻G🪻L🪻I🪻S🪻T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @lov3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd ;

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

𓈒⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼wc. 3317🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

a/n. low-key forgot to specify the timeframe but this is like, a couple days after the sex.

“You know, I’d really fuck the shit out of Riddler.”

“Can we bring back shame?” Mark lowers his comic book, expression scrunched into a grimace as he stares at you from where he’s lounged on your bedroom floor, the edge of his T-shirt raised just enough to showcase his rippling abs and that deep, deep V.

“I’d suck the tip clean off.” You’re unbothered by his audible gag, simply focused on the crack of paper as you turn the page, your legs extended and crossed at the ankles, your toes wiggling in your socks and you let out a bashful giggle, biting lightly down on the nail of your index finger as your eyes rove over the panels. Your eyes focus on the bright colours, occasionally flitting towards Mark’s seething expression.

“I’m disturbed.” He announces, before lifting himself from the floor, muscles flexing as he stretched his arms overhead and he sets his comic down on the bedside table, before prying yours from your hands and tossing it into your desk with freaky accuracy.

Gorgeous brown eyes stare at you from beneath long lashes, gaze roving over you and the way you lounge so lazily across your bed, a double chin formed at the way your head is propped up by pillows.

“You’re gonna get a neck pain like that.” Mark huffs, before moving to stand at the edge of your bed, hands wrapping around your ankles and he tugs you roughly, your head sliding off the pillow and he moves to straddle your hips. Hands slide up your arms, fingers lace with yours and he pins your hands to the soft covers and he cracks a grin.

“How’s college?” Mark inquires. “Mom says you’re an overachiever.”

“Define ‘overachiever’.” You peer up at Mark through your lashes, your gaze locked on his, and goddamn, your brain’s melting the more you focus on how warm his hands are against yours. Fingers laced with yours, folded over one another like they belong there, his lashes fluttering with each blink and the curve of his smile as he just looks at you.

Not doing anything.

Just looking.

And you’re starting to think Pinterest was right when he brings a hand up, gently picking an eyelash from your cheek before he fists his hand, brushing it against your chin and he mimics an explosion.

And the laughter just bubbles from you, your head tipped back as giggles fall from your lips, and he shifts his body, wrapping his arms around your waist and he pulls you onto him. Your knees dimpling the sheets on either side of you, his face pressed into the curve of your neck, lips ghosting over the supple skin that has an indentation by a bra strap too tight and Mark’s teeth bite into the elastic, tugging it from your shoulder and he presses his lips against the mark left behind.

His lips are soft.

Hands cradle you like you’re something delicate, like you haven’t been his biggest bully for majority of his life, and you melt against him.

Muscular arms keeping you pressed against him, your soft thighs bracketing his hips and you press your lips against his temple.

“I didn’t think heroes had the free time to dick around like this.” You hum with a snort, your hands shifting, cupping Mark’s face as you lift yourself, pulling one of the pillows absentmindedly to prop his head up and he watches you with soft, heart eyes.

“It’s Saturday.” He answers you, hands bracketing your hips. “I’ve got all the time in the world.” He pauses. “Until night time. Then I have no time.”

“My mom said we can patrol tonight if it’s okay with your mom.” Your giggle is melodious, it’s sweet and messy all at once. His eyes rove over the curve of your lips, the dimples in your cheeks and the way your eyes crease at the corners. He likes the way your necklace dangles so carelessly, he loves the way your eyes watch the sun and he just loves.

He's known you for over a decade and he can’t think of a single thing he hasn’t fallen in love with.

“When did you get so… pretty?”

Mark’s voice is a soft, almost theatrical whisper, his thumbs brushing along the soft flesh of your hips where your shirt had ridden up. “You look like an angel…”

“It’s the sunlight.” You snort at him, a grin curling your glossy lips. That warm, summer-y smile that has his breath stuttering in his lungs, your hand shifting to cradle his cheek, your palm warm against his flesh.

“No.” He lets out a breathless laugh. “No, like… you look like a fucking painting right now.”

“Wait, like, really?” Your brows furrow.

“Yeah, like… that painting of— you look like a Monet.” He tilts his head, pressing a kiss to the softness of your palm. And there’s a warmth that burns at his belly when your head tips, a light and easy smile creeping onto your face.

“You’re really beautiful…”

The sweetest silence settles between the two of you, and Mark hums softly. He never thought loving someone could be this easy. He knows it’s not too soon. It never could be when it’s you.

“Which painting?” You hum softly, leaning forward and your lips press against his cheek.

“Bitch—” Mark huffs. “Just touch my wiener.”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“I’m not a furry but—”

“You’re gonna say the most furry thing ever.”

“The shark could get it.”

Mark lets out a heavy breath, eyes shutting and he takes a moment. Before looking at you, expression distasteful and he grimaces.

“Can we never watch ‘The Reef 2’ without you wanting to fuck an actual shark?”

Mark watches the way you shovel a handful of chips into your mouth, your gaze locked on his and he should be turned off, but the way your grin grows as you shake your head, mischief in your actions as you giggle.

“No.” You snort. “No we can not.”

“Sick freak.” He grunts under his death, reaching over, a pudgy thumb wiping away the crumbs from the corner of your mouth, absentmindedly bringing his thumb to his lips, licking away the salt before turning his attention back to the screen of your TV.

And your lips purse and you try to ignore the way your pulse flutters, instead focusing on shuffling more comfortably, your back pressing against your puffed up pillows and you swallow.

“That’s gross. I don’t know where your thumb was.”

“It’s gonna be in your ass if you don’t stop fucking with me.” Mark takes another handful of chips, his toes wiggling in those stupid fucking Hot Wheels socks.

And you swallow.

“Say ‘no homo’.”

The leer Mark gives you is something nightmares and very, very dark fantasies are made of and he takes a slow slurp of his smoothie, lips pursed around the straw. And he simply turns his attention back to the screen, biting the inside of his cheek to keep his smile hidden but the dimple in his cheek pops.

“Mark, say ‘no homo’!”

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“Oh my God.” Mark grunts. “Why did I agree to this?”

His knees and palms dimple your mattress, powdery blue sheet refusing to bend to his will, edges popping off the corners of your mattress and you hum, lips curled as you keep your eyes glued to that stupidly perky ass.

“I don’t know but I’m loving the Invinci-cheeks.”

Mark glares at you over his shoulder, the tips of his ears burning a furious red as he clenched his jaw, annoyance only spiking at the way your grin widens.

“Yeah, look back at me.” You tease.

And Mark huffs. “Same way you looked back at me?”

The silence is deafening, your obnoxious slurping stilling and you swallow, sucking in your cheeks and Mark doesn’t know why the act makes him a little breathless. He’s seen you do it countless times when you’re speechless, unable to come up with an immediate retort but he swallows hard.

“That’s a pretty fucked up thing to say.” You whisper, your heart beating erratically pounding behind your rib cage because did you actually look back at him?

And Mark lets out a huff, finally managing to spread the sheet comfortably enough, and you plop down, internally gloating at the way he silently stews at the creases that form in the sheet.

“Why’re you making me make your bed?” Mark huffs, muscular arms crossing over his chest. “It’s the middle of the day.”

“Because, dear, naïve Mark, when you leave, I’m gonna take an 8 hour nap and wake up on a plane of existence higher than yours.” And you stretch your arms overhead, letting out a yawn and Mark’s eyes drop to where your shirt rides up, exposing the soft skin of your belly, and his arm reaches out, a warm hand splayed across your tummy. It’s sweet and a little weird, but you like the way the heat seems to sink into your navel, warming you up like some kind of humanoid toaster.

“That’s nice.” You sigh softly, your lashes fluttering and you rest back, your back flush against the memory phone and your head lolls, gaze falling on Mark and the way he looks at you like you’ve personally designed and hung the stars in the sky.

“You’re so—”

“Do you have a foreskin?”

Mark’s expression falls. “Can we not have a single nice moment without you ruining it?”

Your lips purse and your brows furrow like you’re deep in thought before you shake your head. “No, m’sorry. I can’t see that happening for us.”

He would be annoyed if that devious little smile on your lips didn’t make his tummy tense, and his hand reaches for the front of his jeans.

“You wanna check if I have a foreskin?” He questions and once you nod, you’re wishing you didn’t. Because seeing Mark undo his buckle with one, nimble hand, is a religion you weren’t sure you’d ever find yourself being a part of but holy fuck, you could watch him do that for hours.

Mark frees his cock. Easily, and lazily pushing the waistband of his boxers down and he shifts comfortably. You’d think it’d be less impressive because he’s soft but no. Not at all.

A pretty, flushed pink head, just a little bit darker at the base with a teensy bit of skin that overlaps just the ridges of his tip and you purse your lips.

“Is now a bad time to tell you I can’t tell the difference between cut and uncut when they’re soft?” You peer up at Mark through your lashes, shifting a bit more comfortably and he lets out a huff of a laugh.

“Here’s the scar,” He hums, moving just a bit closer and he shows you that barely imperceptible scar, right near his tip, “see?”

You don’t know what convinces you to do it. You really don’t.

But you’re tracing your thumb over the scar, peering up at him through your lashes and your eyes are so soft, so concerned.

“Who did this to you?”

“Oh my fucking God.”

The laugh bubbles from him easily, his head tipping back and you watch the curve of his throat as he laughs, shoulders shaking and lips curling. Pearly teeth showcased, and the dimples in his cheeks deepen, accompanied by a healthy little flush and he snorts, before looking back down at you.

He watches the way you watch him, teeth biting down on your bottom lip to hide your smile but he can see the way your cheeks turn rosy the longer you watch him.

And you look back down, tracing your thumb over the scar once again. Feeling the subtle change in texture.

“It’s a cool scar though.” You hum. “Kinda makes your dick look like a hammerhead.”

Mark nearly loses it when you begin to hum the Jaws theme, biting the inside of his cheek to stifle the laughter but it all comes to a grinding halt when his dick twitches, and your lips part, watching as a bead of precum slowly drips from his slit. And he swallows.

“Do you get hard when people make jokes?” You raise a brow, scooping up the bead and watching the way it rests so comfortably on the pad of your index finger, and he shakes his head.

“Only you.” He inhales sharply when you trace that divot with your finger, his brows furrowing and he tries to keep his hips from twitching, anchoring them down to the bed instead of letting them crave the contact.

Your lips purse in concentration, before you hum quietly.

“You gave me head but I never got to do it to you.” You state with a hum, nails tracing patterns on his thigh, and he can feel the ticklish sensation through the denim of his jeans and he swallows.

“You— uh-um… You don’t have to. I don’t mind if you’re not into that…—”

“I am.” You reassure, eyes lowered and watching the way his cock stiffens, blood rushing all the way to the appendage as it flushes a pretty, rosy pink and your hand wraps around his base.

Your hand’s all warm, all soft and delicate-fingered. The cool metal of your rings make his skin prickle and his hips are jutting before either of you can say anything, cum spurting across the front of your T-shirt, as well as creamy ribbons that reach all the way up to the curve of your jaw.

And you swallow.

“I— fuck, m’so sorry. I didn’t mean to—” Mark’s breath stutters when your head dips, your eyes locked on his and your tongue drags along the tip of his cock, wet muscle flicking against his slit. And his hands fist the sheet.

“Finish making my bed.” You lift yourself from where you’re resting, unbothered by the mess on your throat and you make your way towards your en suite, closing the door behind you and you let out a breath you didn’t know you were holding.

Internally panicking and you have to fight to get your nerves steady.

And your lips purse, an intrusive thought causing you to drag your digit through the messy spent on your throat, and you bring your finger to your lips. Tasting the peculiar taste. Brows knitting as you try to place the flavours. Sweet. A little bit bitter, and so, so warm.

Mark stares at the bathroom door, his heart pounding in his chest before he grabs his phone, bated breaths slipping past his lips and he pants hard. Thumbs flying across his keyboard and his leg bounces.

Invinci-bitch: “Tell Cecil I’m not coming.”

Invinci-bitch: “Space flu or whatever.”

Rex takes a while to respond.

Rex Splooge: “Space herpes. Got it 👌”

Fuck. Mark discards his phone, tucking himself back into his boxers before continuing to make your bed, although, big brown eyes keep glancing towards the bathroom door.

He’d really prefer to not have ‘space herpes’.

But he’ll take what he gets.

Especially if what he gets, involves that plush, shit-talking mouth wrapping around his cock.

⋆⑅˚₊୨🌼୧₊˚⑅⋆𓈒

“William, she’s making my hands sweaty.”

Mark’s voice is hoarse, wiping his sweaty palms on the surface of his shorts for what could be the eighth time this hour, eyes darting towards where you’re helping clean up the kitchen, a mess after Mark’s 13th birthday party. A few neighbours kids, maybe a handful of classmates he liked and a mess of wrapping paper that you’d suggested he keep.

“Yeah.” William slurps on his milkshake, blueberry tinting the inner bits of his lips a slight blue. “Me and your dad were mocking you for it.”

And Mark huffs.

“Of course you were.” And he glances back towards you, your arms submerged in soapy hot water, lips curled into a grin as you chat so easily with Nolan, who’s rough hands remain drying the dishes. “She’s so… pretty.”

Mark’s lips curl at the memory, eyes focused on you as you continue swiping through your For You page, attention entirely captured by the sight of makeup brushes, gently brushing against some stupidly overpriced mic, accompanied by gentle taps against the stand. His arm remains tossed over your belly, cheek pressed against your shoulder and a leg wrapped around yours. His warm palm, pressed against your even warmer tummy.

And he swallows.

“I think Mark’s got a crush on you.” Nolan’s voice is quiet, hands wrapped up in a plaid kitchen cloth, the bright crimson standing out against his muscular forearms. “Look.” And you follow Nolan’s gaze towards Mark.

Surrounded by kids, opening birthday presents and giving toothy grins and sweet ‘thank you’s.

And your expression softens.

“Mr Nolan, if Mark likes me, it’s because he’s never spoken to another girl before.” You snort. “He’d have a crush on William if William was a girl.”

And you glance back towards Mark, catching his gaze and you watch the way his lips curl, perfect teeth displayed and God, your heart clenches in your chest. And you smile back, trying to play off the way those rosy apples make your face heat up.

“Your heartbeat got sooooooooooooooo fast.” Nolan whispers, almost conspiratorially. And you glare up at Nolan.

“I’ll make him dress up as Duct-Tape Man.” You threaten and Nolan’s eyes narrow at you. And you snort out a laugh.

“Why’d you get so mad about that in the first place, sir?” You question.

“He used the good tape.”

“It wasn’t because you were the only girl I spoke to.” Mark speaks up, swallowing heavy and he glances up towards your face, eyes roving over your features and ultimately, landing on the curve of your bottom lip. So plump. So inviting.

“Huh?” You question, a brow raising and you pause the video on your phone, screen displaying, ‘GRWM FOR CONFRONTING MY BF ABOUT CHEATING ON ME W/ MY BD’.

“When you told my dad I would only like you because you’re the only girl I spoke to.” He whispers softly. “That wasn’t why.” His warm grip tightens on your waist, fingers pressing into the soft, squishy flesh.

“It was because you were the only girl I wanted to talk to.”

There’s a knot in your belly, your lashes fluttering with each slow, cat-like blink you give Mark and you feel the way his heartbeat gets faster. His breathing deepening and his eyes flicker towards your lips, brows knitting in a way that could only be described as longingly before he meets your gaze again.

Puppy eyes soft and loving.

“You’re still the only girl I wanna talk to.”

Your expression softens, lashes fluttering so prettily and you swallow, the corners of your lips tugging downwards and you can feel your eyes becoming a little bit glossier.

“What about William?” Your voice is sweet, and so soft, and it would’ve sounded earnest if he didn’t understand you. And he snorts.

“William doesn’t count.” He huffs out a laugh, his hand leaving your belly to cradle the side of your face, wiping away that fat rivulets before it an even reach the curve of your cheek and his lips curve into a soft smile.

Before he teases you.

“Now say something nice about me.” He nudges you, shifting over you until your thighs are on either side of his hips, one hand bracing your hio whike the other presses against your cheek.

“You too, are the only girl I wanna talk to.” You snort and Mark rolls his eyes, biting the inside of his cheek to hide the grin that threatens to make his cheeks dimple in that adorably dorky way.

“I’m a man.” He corrects.

“You’re a boy at best.” You huff.

And he leans in, the ball of his nose brushing against yours, breath ghosting over your lips.

“Oh really?” He hums. “You wanna see how much of a man I am?”

T🌼A🌼G🌼L🌼I🌼S🌼T

@lucky-beheaded ; @queen-of-gotham ; @coldvirginbitch ; @wittyjasontodd ; @a-n-a-n-a1 ; @dearlyya ; @broicouldjustbuyyousomekombucha ; @jasontoddswhitestreak ; @daydreams-and-peace ; @misstyy12 ; @fruticake ; @httpstes ; @waterflowersblog ; @glowinthedarkjellyfish ; @vm4879bb-blog ; @monaekelis ; @radlovesfics ; @allycat4458 ; @bigbodycity ; @feral010 ; @anesthesia-4rizzle ; @princesstrunkz ; @blackfox774 ; @sh1d0uryus31 ; @your-lovely-rose26 ; @slugstarzz ; @ripcolel0l ; @strawbiemilk420 ; @verysynical ; @kikiiguess ; @missam ; @luvvfromme ; @luvvcharxo ; @alma-ru3 ; @mxvoid26 ; @urfriendlyfrog ; @the-good-kooshe ; @troublesome-nara ; @secretaccountlol ; @syubseokie; @atanukileaf ; @im-nowhere-but-also-somewhere ; @i-love-frensh-fries ; @lov3vivian ; @boyofroyo1 ; @tamaranblaze ; @supersecretxreadersideblog ; @etphonehome0623 ; @markgraysonlover ; @icanmeltanigloo ; @itzmeme ; @buckturd

[jasontoddswhitestreak]

Tags: [mlw][mdni][exbf!Rex][semi-public][handjob][cum eating][attempted murder][choking for non-sexual purposes][pining][semi-blowjob][facesitting][oral (f! receiving)][missionary][condom][mating press][cowgirl][nipple sucking][i am probably missing quite a few in my taglist but it's 4am and i lost the note that had all my rex people on so :3 my bad][spitting]

"She's his emergency contact."

"Mark, you can't just call a stranger. How— how'd you even know his password?"

"It's just 8-0-0-8-5. It's not that complicated."

"What even is that?"

"It's 'boobs'."

The whispers hush down into a silence as you step into the GDA hospital room, your shoes are soft thuds on the tiled floors. The hospital smells sterile. A mixture of Life Buoy soap and hand sanitizer that makes your throat and lungs tingle and you stuff your hands into the pocket of your hoodie.

Brows scrunched into a frown as you stand beside Rex's bedside.

Your expression is the image of solemnity.

Eyes soft, lashes drooping and pouty lips tugged down into a little frown, your fingers clutching and picking at the loose threads in your pocket.

And a voice is quiet.

"I'm... Uh.. I know this isn't the time but what lipgloss is that?"

Rae's voice is quiet, bespectacled eyes focused on you and that stupidly magnificent gloss on your lips.

"It's... Uhm... 'Coochie Juice'." You internally cringe. "And I took a lipliner that's just a bit darker than my lipline."

"And how did you—"

"Overline just the Cupid's bow, and the curve of your bottom lip. Blur it out just a little, but don't fill in the corners. And then put on the lipgloss."

"Okay, thank you so much."

You go back to staring down at Rex. You never thought you'd see him like this.

Eyes fluttered shut, his head wrapped with blood soaked bandages and an IV drip feeding him fluids. His heartbeat is steady, vitals linked up to the screen beside him and you feel your expression crumple, your hands moving to cover your face.

Choked sobs slip from you and you hear the quiet 'we'll leave you two alone', before the others slip out of the hospital room.

And you swallow, inhaling sharply.

And by natural instinct, your gaze drifts towards where the plug of the ventilator remained stuffed into a wall socket and your glossy lips purse. And you reach for the head of the plug, fingers grasping snugly and you contemplate.

Is it worth it?

He's a hero.

He cheated on you with Eve.

He's a person.

He cheated on you with Eve.

This counts as murder.

He cheated on you with Eve.

Is this what you really want?

That last question stumps you and your hand slips from the plug, and you instead, plant yourself in the seat at his bedside, your eyes teary and your lashes becoming wet with each blink.

"I wanna kill you so bad." Your voice is tiny, cracking as you bring your hands up to rest on him, fisting at the hospital blankets and your vision becomes even blearier.

"You fucking asshole." You sob. "I hope you die. I hope you see the fucking light at the end of the tunnel, before you're dragged to Hell. Kratos style."

Your heart's clenching and you're resting your head on his belly, feeling the way each breath he takes makes those washboard abs constrict and flex. And somewhere, shame's lost on you and you're lifting his hospital gown.

Staring at his abs and the way his muscular hips form that delicious V shape and you let out a low, unattractive sob.

"Why didn't you get ugly?"

You think you're convincing yourself when you see the way the corners of his lips quirk weakly, dimples making a faint appearance in his chiselled cheeks and Rex takes a breath.

"Because..... I could never be ugh—" Rex is cut off, a sharp gasp ringing from him when your hands wrap around his neck.

That tinge of sadness leaves you, and the sound of his voice irks you in a way that's downright demonic, and Rex gasps. His vitals are spiking, and your eyes are narrowing.

"Die, you cheating bast— oh, ewwww."

You grimace at the tent beneath the blankets, lips tugged into a disgusted frown as you glare at him, and emerald eyes peer at you from beneath long lashes. Long, brag-worthy eyelashes that flutter and curl perfectly.

And Rex grins. Cocky and so fucking full of himself.

"Good to know it still works."

And he grasps at your hand, calloused fingers brushing over the soft flesh of your palm, tracing the lines before he looks at you. And God, you lose all respect for yourself at the way your heart stutters, breath caught in your lungs and he sighs.

Soft and sweet.

"Baby..." He murmurs softly. "What happened?"

"You got shot, I think. I wasn't really paying attention after they said you're hospitalized. I blew up a balloon and it made it difficult to listen. But..." You swallow. "In your head. Like, the back."

Rex lets a little laugh bubble from his cracked lips, before he glances at you.

"Why're so you mad at me? What... What year is it?"

His voice is soft, and your lungs constrict.

Before you remember who it is.

"Don't bullshit me." You huff, tugging your hand out of his grasp. "I know you don't have amnesia."

"Ah... Shit." Rex grunts before shifting, resting against the cushiony pillows. "Almost had you though, huh?"

The grin is charming, glinting even and he raises one of those perfect brows as he waits for your answer. But all that leaves you, is a low, annoyed groan. Before you push yourself up from your seat.

"I'm gonna go tell your friends you're—"

"Wait." Rex reaches for your arm and if you wanted to delude yourself, you'd say that you could see desperation flickering behind those emerald pools.

"I— uh..." He swallows hard, and your gaze moves towards where the monitor is showcasing his racing heart. "When I'm out, can we talk?"

You really wanna say no. But...

"...no."

Rex stares at you, a dead stare on his face like he wasn't expecting that.

"I'll just come over anyway."

Your glossy lips part for an argument but Rex looks pathetic enough right now. Tubed up, bruised and beaten.

"Fine." You grumble. "You dick."

And he grins. Dimples showcased in chiselled cheeks and his tongue runs across his bottom lip in an attempt to soothe the cracks and dryness.

"Speaking of dick..." His gaze flits towards the tent in the sheets.

"No."

"Please." Rex begs. "My team can't see me like this."

"Most of your team has seen you like this."

There's a dead quiet in the room, because you're right. Most of the team has seen Rex's dick, if not taken a ride on it.

"Please." Rex breathes out. "Help me out. It's been a week."

You drop back into your seat, rolling up your sleeve dramatically and you let out an annoyed huff.

"You're giving me a handjob, not cleaning a horse's dick." Rex grunts.

"Basically the same thing." You grunt, your hand slipping underneath the covers as you scooch your chair closer.

"So... What I'm hearing is—"

"You're hearing wrong."

"—that you think I've got a horse cock."

You let out a low, annoyed groan, your hand tucking itself beneath Rex's hospital gown, and your hand wraps around the thick base of him. Your eyes shut tightly, and you begin to tug.

Not even sexy stroking, just tugging.

"Ow— open your eyes— ow, shit. What are you doing?" Rex shifts uncomfortably, brows scrunching with each pinch of pain and he glares at you. Your eyes are still squeezed tightly shut, brows furrowed and glossy lips pressed into a thin line.

"Pretending you're Marlon Brando in A Streetcar named Desire." You grumble out and Rex huffs, swatting away your hand.

"Well, he'd never want you if that's how you give a handjob." Rex grunts, shifting uncomfortably and he palms himself through the scratchy blankets of the GDA hospital, his lips tugged into a frown.

"He's dead." You remind.

"Yeah," he scoffs, "and it's cause you can't give a decent handjob."

You purse your lips because you don't wanna laugh at one of Rex's jokes. You need to internally remind yourself that you don't think he's funny and that you hate him, as you cross your arms over your chest, giving Rex a lazy glance.

Watching as he, very dramatically, gathers his bearings.

"So, can you get off your high horse, and give me a proper tug job?" Rex scoffs and you suck on your teeth.

"I don't owe you anything, Rex."

Your brows furrow into a frown and you watch the way Rex stares at you, bringing a fisted hand up to his mouth and he coughs. He coughs like a toddler forcing a cough.

"But I'm sick." He whines softly and you let out a peeved groan.

"You're not sick, you've been shot."

You're griping, complaining but you're shifting, spitting into your palm and sliding your hand back beneath the sheets and Rex's brows furrow, body going slack against the piled up pillows and he shifts.

"Fuck, just like that." He breathes out, hands moving to shift at the covers, his head tipping back when he feels the way your manicured and soft fingertips trail over that leaky divot, his cock pulsing in your hand. And Rex groans softly.

"Missed your tiny racoon hands." He murmurs, and you snort, pressing your face into the nearest pillow, as your shoulders shake with laughter.

And God, Rex would be lying if he said hearing the sound of your laughter wasn't something so refreshingly familiar.

The cadence of your snorts, wheezes that manage to slip from glossy lips and he watches as you straighten up again, swallowing away all evidence of giggling and Rex raises a hand. Moving it to cradle the side of your face, thumb brushing along the apple of your cheek.

Your heart begins to pound, the only sound in the room being the ever increasing beeping of his heart monitor, and your eyes flick towards the screen. The beats increase steadily. And you swallow hard.

"Shit, I really wanna kiss you." Rex breathes out. "Can I?"

"No, you're not putting your community lips on me." You scoff, with a snort of laughter and he groans, head tipping back.

"Fuck, why're you so mean?" He rasps out a laugh, his hips bucking into your fist and his eyes squeeze shut.

"Because you cheated." "Ow. Ow. Ow. Loosen the hand, Juggernaut." Rex breathes out, his hand curling around your wrist and his movements stutter when he presses calloused fingers against the warm flesh of your wrist.

Feeling your pulse thrum just beneath his digits, feeling the heat of your skin against his and his dick twitches in your grasp.

Hazy green eyes watch you, heavy lashes fluttering and you take in the bruising on his face. A swollen eye, a cut on his lips, a broken nose. He looks fucked up.

"You know," you lick your bottom lip, "I always thought that seeing you look like shit would bring me closure. But... Looking at you now..." Your eyes soft, your thumb brushing against his sensitive tip and Rex moans quietly.

"Mhm?" He sighs, chest heaving.

"I realise I need to watch you die."

Your voice is eerily steady but it's not enough to make Rex's cock soften, in fact. Calloused fingers dig into your wrist and he looks at you, full lips parted to let out pants.

You know he's just so... Pliable now that he's under a crazy amount of painkillers, but still enough for him to be coherent.

And he's so pretty too. With his pretty emerald eyes, and gingery strands that poke out from where his head's wrapped in gauze.

"Just suck the tip, please." He whimpers.

"No!" You hiss. "I'm not fucking blowing you."

And he whines, letting out an obnoxiously loud cough.

"But I'm sick."

You grit your teeth, eyes flickering towards the door of his room and you let out a huff, standing up abruptly. Your sneakers make thuds across the tiled floor, and your movements are aggressive as you yank the curtains shut.

"I really fucking hate you, Rex." You grit out, plopping back in your seat and the legs of the chairs scrape against the linoleum as you scooch closer, lifting his hospital blankets and you stare at his cock.

Beads of precum rolling down the length, prominent veins protruding from behind the tanned skin and he twitches under your scrutinizing gaze.

"I know baby, and I'm sorry." He pants, shifting with excitement when he sees the way you lean forward, and your glossy lips wrap around his flushed tip.

"Fuck, m'so sorry for cheating." Rex's hands fist the sheets, his head falling back against his propped up pillows and he feels the way your tongue swirls, tracing the veins and your eyes flick towards him.

And that has him coming undone like a fucking ball of yarn.

The way your lashes flutter, the way your lipgloss leaves the prettiest ring around his cock and the way your eyes soften just a bit when his hand comes to rest on the crown of your head.

All of that, has Rex spilling into your mouth. Sweet cum painting your tongue in velvety ribbons and he groans. Low and breathy, and he frowns when you pull away with a pop, your cheeks puffed and filled.

He watches, his breaths bated as you swallow, licking the corner of your mouth before you lift yourself from your seat, stuffing your hands into the pockets of your hoodie.

"I'm gonna go tell your friends you're awake."

⋆⭒˚.⋆🌿🌿⋆⭒˚.⋆

"What are you doing here, Rex?" You fold your arms across your chest, resting your forearms on the windowsill as you stare down at Rex, booted feet planted firmly on your grass.

"And how the fuck do you even know where I live?"

"I used the GDA resources." He calls back, before reaching into his car window, turning up the volume and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing. Instead, leaning out of the window, eyes glued on Rex.

He healed up pretty nicely in just a week. The only evidence being a scar that bisects his otherwise perfect eyebrows. Voluminous gingerish strands remain pulled back into a bun, his undercut fresh and his trusty face framing pieces remain doing their job.

"I'll stand here every night for the rest of my fuckin' life to prove that I want you back." Rex calls to you, emerald gaze fixed on your form. On the way your pendant dangles, on the way your lips purse. Before he speaks up again.

"Well... Maybe not every night. I got shit to do. But every night this week?" He scoffs. "I'll do that shit."

You try not to snort at the sound of Seal, biting down on your plump bottom lip, as Rex stands with his arms outstretched. Powder blue Henley snug against his physique.

"BABY! I COMPARE YOU TO A KISS FROM A ROSE ON THE GREY!"

He begins to fumble the words, and you can see the frustration on his features, brows furrowing and you snort.

"You don't know the words." You snort, resting your chin in the palm of your hand and Rex huffs.

"Okay, fine." He folds his arms across his broad chest and it's kind of hard to take him seriously with Seal as his soundtrack.

"Of course I fuckin' don't. I'm not a sixty and my dick still works. But you know the words." Rex licks his bottom lip.

"I'm— okay, I know I'm a piece of shit but I'm a reformed piece of shit. I don't wanna die a cheating dick." And he shifts on his feet. "I'm new and improved."

And you huff.

"Yeah, this time you won't get caught."

And Rex glares at you.

"I won't go to prison if I knock the shit out of you." He seethes.

And he lets out a huff.

"Okay, I'm not entirely changed. But I'll make it up to you. I swear on my life, your life—"

"Bitch, leave my life alone."

"Well, I don't want it to be only on my life. You know that's shit's pretty worthless."

And there's a silence between you.

"I swear on Mark and Eve's collective lives."

And you snicker.

Before chewing on the inside of your cheek, watching as Rex shifts around on your lawn and you let out a breath. Heavy and your cheeks puff out when you do.

"Please." His voice is quiet, gaze lowered. "I know I'm," he huffs, "like.... A dick, or manipulative or a serial cheater and like, self-serving, judgemental and I—"

"You're ruining the moment, Rex."

And he sighs.

"I just," he swallows hard, "I don't wanna fuck up again. Not with you."

There's the softest silence between you, and you watch him. He looks so pathetic. Maybe your closure was needing him to beg, needing him to play Silk Shirt R&B loud enough for your neighbours' porch lights to flicker to life.

"Park your car in my driveway." You speak softly, before shutting the window and you don't need to look to know that shit-eating grin's plastered on his face. Dimples in sunkissed cheeks and you hear the slam of his car door.

⋆⭒˚.⋆🌿⋆⭒˚.⋆

"Yeah, m'sorry." Rex groans, his arms hooked around your thighs, your knees dimpling the pillow beneath his head and your hands clutch at the headboard like your life depends on it.

Rex's tongue drags along your slippery cunt, a mixture of spit and slick making it glossy as his nose bumps against your clit. The friction just enough to make your hips move, wriggling and writhing on his face, your forehead braced on the hand holding the headboard while your other sinks into his hair.

And he groans, lashes fluttering, cock straining against his jeans and he feels the fabric strain even tighter than it usually is.

You're coating his face in your mess, whining when he sucks your folds into his mouth, your hand fisting at his hair.

"Shit, keep doing tha—" Your hips lift just a bit and Rex groans under his breath, forcing you closer and his words are slurred as he speaks.

"Fucking sit." He breathes out. "Lemme show you how sorry I am."

He pushes his tongue past your puffy lips, the intrusion makes you buck, toes curling in your socks and you shiver. It's a sensation that makes your body buzz, electricity crackling just behind your skin and Rex is content.

So, so very content.

The warmth of your plush thighs on either side of his head, you're sitting on his face and riding his nose like it'll earn you a prize. His hands grip your fleshy thighs, and he's trying to touch everything, palming the fatty mounds of your ass when he circles your clit.

The messy and whiny mewls leave your glossy lips, your head lolling and your brows bunching into the cutest little face he's ever seen. Especially with the way your pretty lips part and your thighs shake.

"Fuck, Rex, I'm—"

"Shhh, just give it to me." He tuts you.

And your body convulses, nails scraping along his scalp while your other hand grips for dear life, a whimper slipping from your lips and you nearly shriek when he keeps sucking on your clit, teasing the sensitive bud before lapping at your cunt. Savouring the taste of you before dragging his tongue up, all the way up to your swollen clit.

Rex has you on your back quicker than you can blink, your thighs spread and his calloused thumbs part your plush and glossy lips, watching the way your cunt flutters and he stares at you.

Watching you eagerly.

One hand reaches over his shoulder, grabbing the fabric of his shirt and he pulls it over his head, tossing it aside and he's even more glorious.

Sculpted pecs, razor sharp abs and golden skin. Dog tags hang just below his clavicle, catching the low light of your bedroom.

And his tongue drags over his teeth, his, canine poking into the wet muscle and you watch through half-lidded eyes as his hand unbuckles his belt while the other reaches into his back pocket.

Pulling out a condom and he bites down onto the ribbed foil edge while he discards his jeans and briefs.

"Do you just keep— like, carrying condoms with you?" You question, your chest heaving as you watch him, and your heart clenches at the way his grin widens, as he rips the condom with his teeth.

"Nah." He hums. "Only when I think I'll get lucky."

You watch the way he slides the condom onto his length, pinching the latex at the tip before his hands move to your thighs, calloused thumbs pressing circles into the flesh.

"And you thought you were gonna get lucky?" You cock a brow.

"I knew I was gonna get lucky." He abruptly tugs you closer to him, your thighs strewn lazily across his and he leans forward, veiny hand wrapping around his thick base. Watching the way your belly dips inward when he taps his latex-coated tip against your sloppy folds and he nudges himself at your entrance.

Pressing a kiss against the curve of your jaw as he pushes into you.

"Real fucking lucky."

You feel the way your breath leaves your lungs, your saliva pooling in the back of your throat, gummy walls fluttering around him. Your belly caves, it feels like your stomach touches your spine and he sighs when he feels the way your fingers rake through his hair.

Nails scraping against his scalp before he lifts himself up, hands moving to cradle your hips, palming the fat there with an adoring expression.

Before he swallows.

"Spread that pretty pussy." He coos sweetly, and the huskiness of his voice does something to your self respect.

It makes it disappear.

And your fingers are spreading your pussy, sensitive and glossy tissue exposed to the slight chill in your room and Rex spits onto your clit, his eyes on yours and he makes a sound in the back of his throat when he sees the way your brows twitch. Your cunt clenching just a bit more.

"How many inches are you taking, baby?" He breathes out, hand moving to rest on your waist instead, savouring the softness of your skin beneath his palms.

And you shudder. "Five..."

Rex's expression falls. And his eyes narrow, emerald gaze hardening and you watch the way his tongue pokes at his cheek, the slight bump visible.

"You think you're real fucking funny, huh?" He huffs, grabbing two of your pillows and he wedges them beneath your ass, manhandling you like it's his job.

"Yeah, I'm funn— holy f-f-fuck...—!" The wind's knocked out of you when Rex begins to pummel into that gooey spot that he found with damn near godly ease.

Your hands are pushing at his lower belly, nails leaving streaks down the tawny skin, pulled taut over sculpted abs and you're whining. Writing and trying to get him to slow down.

Because it's just too deep.

Too much.

And your brain fizzles with an idea to at least score yourself a few seconds to gather your pearls.

And you poke him in the belly button.

And Rex pulls out, brows knitted into a glare as he stares at you. Bewildered, hands moving to protect his navel and he just stares.

His brain short-circuiting and you let out a breath.

"What the actual fuck was that?" He can't even laugh as he stares at you.

"It was too much." You breathe out, winded and you lift yourself, resting back on your elbows as you stare at Rex, eyes narrowed and your body far too overheated for just a few thrusts.

And Rex's brows raise.

"Oh... Shit, you haven't been fucking?" And he blows out a breath, resting his palm on your mound and you feel the way your airways constrict when his thumb nestles between your folds. Sweet circles pressing onto your clit and you swallow.

"No, I've been busy." You hiss back, lashes fluttering and your head tips back, lips parting. And Rex coos.

"It's okay, baby." He sighs, carding his free hand through his hair, before gently pushing your thighs further apart.

"You just couldn't find someone to replicate my stroke game."

And you huff when you feel him slowly push his cock into you, guiding your leg onto his shoulder and he kisses the arch of your foot. Sweet and so, so reverent in his actions.

"Mhm." You hum. "I couldn't find someone to disappoint me the way you did."

"Don't make me choke you with this condom." Rex scowls, before pushing into you, brows knitting at the way your cunt squeezes at him, the lewd squelch makes his heart pound, and the annoyance at your biting remarks melts into nothingness when your hand rests on the nape of his neck.

And he swallows, guiding your other leg to his shoulder and Rex has you folded in half.

One veiny hand grasping the headboard, the other keeping your hips anchored to the bed as he slowly pulls out. Inch by inch leaving you until only his tip remains in your spasming cunt, and Rex sighs, pushing back into you.

"S'it good?" He questions you quietly. "No pain?"

"No pain." You nod.

And then he begins fucking you into the mattress.

The backs of your knees remain caught in the crooks of his elbows, warm hands gripping your hips and pressing you into the soft, puffy sheets, his hips smacking against yours in a way that's brutally unforgiving.

You watch through hazy eyes, nails digging into his bulging biceps, gaze flickering between his ecstasy-ridden face and where he's splitting you in half.

"Yeah," Rex groans softly, "keep watching."

He pants out a moan, head lolling and you watch the way his Adam's apple bobs.

"Watch me bust this pretty pussy open."

And he spits down your clit, the warm saliva making your belly clench as the glob trickles down your sloppy folds.

And Rex grins, his jaw clenching and he bites down on his bottom lip, watching with lovey-dovey eyes as your hand finds its way between your thighs, fingers sloppily teasing your clit. And he breathes out a laugh, chest heaving and dog tags bouncing off his toned chest.

"DJ Bean-Flick's in the booth, huh?" He snorts, the sound of his laughter echoes in the quiet of your room, turning into a whine when he feels the rhythmic spasms of your cunt. Milking him while your legs shake, your orgasm ripping through you like some kind of tidal wave.

Pussy gushing around him, glistening in the dim light and he groans, pulling out of you and he manhandles you.

Aggressively, roughly forcing you to sit up and he rests back against your headboard, lounging, and he pulls you onto him, guiding you to straddle him. And he watches the way you sink down onto him, inches disappearing into you and he moans at the sight.

Your hands move to rest on his broad chest, your hips lifting slowly, before you slam back down, and Rex tuts you.

"Lean back, baby." He huffs. "And on your feet."

And you groan, following his instructions with petulance.

"You sound like an expert." You breathe out. "You have a —hah— confession, Rex?"

And he snorts, hands move to grasp the headboard, you watch the way his biceps flex and he snickers.

"Why would you wanna hurt your feelings like that?"

Your face falls and your eyes narrow, arms moving to cross over your chest, lips pressing into a thin line.

"This is your audition back into my life, by the way." You frown at him. "Just in case you didn't know."

And Rex grins, a laugh slipping past his perfect lips and he rocks his hips up into you, the action so abrupt that your hands immediately move to his chest to support yourself.

"That's what you get when you try to start shit with me." Rex brags. "You mess with the bull, you get the horns. You taught me that."

You scoff. "Well, I taught you wrong. It's, 'you mess with the bull, you get covered in bullshit'."

There's a silence between you and Rex stares up at you.

"Please don't shit on me. I know I've got a strong stomach but—"

"I won't shit on you." Your laughter bubbles so easily from you, lips curling and your cheeks flushing deeper. Your dainty hands splay on his chest, your hips rolling against his, face hovering just above his and you let out a wistful sigh.

"I can't do it on command anyway." You add and Rex laughs. Loudly.

Dimples deep in his honeyed cheeks, hands gripping the headboard tighter because your hips keep rolling against him in that was that has him pressing against the plug of your womb, and you have the nerve to make him laugh too.

"There's something fucking wrong with you." He breathes out, before his arms move to wrap around your waist, bringing you closer to his torso and Rex's feet find purchase on your bed, his lips pressing against your pulse.

Before trailing lower and lower, until he finds the neckline of your shirt and he huffs.

"Take this shit off."

There's something so lovely about watching the way the muscles in your arms move as you pull your shirt overhead, and his eyes catch on a pretty pendant.

Not the one you've been wearing so boldly, no, one you've kept hidden so neatly underneath your clothing.

A pretty, cursive 'R' that dangles lower than your other necklace, and Rex's gaze flicks up to yours, his throat tightening and his belly blazing with warmth and a feeling that might make him come faster if he acknowledges it for too long.

"You still wear this?" Rex hums softly, bringing up a hand to brush his thumb over the letter.

And you purse your lips, "Fuck you."

"I didn't even do shit." He snorts before pressing a kiss over your collarbone, nipping at the skin before he hums.

"Grab the headboard."

Rex doesn't wait for you to have a steady grip before he's fucking up into you, bruising your cervix and grinding your swollen clit against his gingery happy trail.

Lips wrapping around one of your pert nipples, hot and wet muscle dragging against the nub and your brain turns to mush.

Coherence and any thought of self-respect leaking out of your mouth in broken moans and a cacophony of mewls as you're kept in place. Unable to do anything but take everything Rex gives you, taking every thrust, every suck and every 'fuck' that's breathed against your skin in a steamy puff.

And Rex swallows hard.

Teeth tugging on your other nipple, and he just loves the way you look.

Fucked out, your tongue lolling and your eyes finding permanent residence staring at your brain with the way they're rolling back and Rex feels his orgasm approaching faster than ever.

The burn just below his navel, the tightening of heavy balls and he whines.

"Fuck, m'gonna nut—"

He pants, like a dog, burying his face in your neck once he's deemed your nipples swollen enough and his teeth sinks into your shoulder. You feel so good.

He can feel every ridge of your gummy walls, he can feel the way your slick cunt milks and spasms around him like it's got a personal vendetta against him.

And Rex ruts into you.

Chasing that elusive dragon of an orgasm, the warmth of your body seems so much more intense than it did at first and Rex's heart pounds.

And when he feels that dam burst, his hands are bracketing your hips and he's lifting you off him, pearly cum spraying across your cunt, a shredded condom around his shaft and you're whining at the warmth.

Hips twitching and your face pressed into the curve of Rex's neck, inhaling that smoky musk, your brain a puddle.

"D—did the condom break...?" You sigh, and he nods, swallowing audibly.

"At least now I know I can't use two year old condoms." Rex sighs, lowering you back down onto his body, his still-hard cock resting in the crease of your ass and it takes you a while to register his words.

Your head raises and your eyes narrow.

"Was that condom expired?"

"Pfft. No." Rex huffs. "It expires next month."

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