#[x] filed under: reply

[pergaminaa]

Modern au

Manon is the kind who tends to forget to charge her phone like, she’s not at 12% or 10% no this is too full of a battery for her she’s usually at like 3% and honestly the phone dies before she can make a single call and this is… a problem because at times she actually needs to call someone but her phone is dead.

Dorian joked that he should put a tracker on her like either in her shoes or jewelry because what do you mean you’re stranded/lost somewhere without a working phone witchling can you charge your phone before you leave please???? Like this man is there with five different power banks that she also forgets to charge and he’s sitting there with all of these dead devices because this is a problem???

[touchbased]

"wait. you seriously think i'm jealous?" laugh is harsh and not at all convincing. "why the fuck would i be jealous of her?" / @bestcurse

[notquitecanon]

Search History // Poly!141 x Reader

A continuation of this thought

Summary: Reader (based loosely on Penelope Garcia from Criminal Minds) has to be face-to-face with the boys for the first time since they started including her in their late-night fantasies. They've decided it's time to take it off-screen and move in IRL.

I'm taggin the peeps who replied to the last part bc I'm desperate for attention lol (in all actuality y'all really encouraged me to actually write thank you!!)

CW: allusions to porn, allusions to female genitalia, they're all horny in the workplace, this is basically workplace harassment but we're excusing it because they're hot and fictional and I say so, no outright smut

Still nsfw though so MDNI pls and thanks

“The 141 just touched down. ETA twenty minutes.” 

Your eyes flicked up from the muted video on your monitor, cheeks flushed red but masked by the light radiating off your screen in your dark office. Thank God, your monitor faced away from the door. A young private was standing in the doorway with a tablet, looking at you for an acknowledgment, probably running about starting preparations for their arrival back on home base. 

“Thank you, private.” You murmured, teeth toying at your thumbnail, chipping the polish. The young soldier gave a short nod at the quiet dismissal and disappeared once again. Your eyes, with embarrassingly blown pupils, flicked back to the video. 

After your discovery two weeks ago, the sites and links you had to review furthered down the rabbit hole. And this video you were currently watching had been one that all the men had been visiting, and revisiting, and revisiting… 

By god, they’d done it. 

Similar build, skin tone only a shade or two different - you could probably share foundation and it wouldn’t look too bad. Hair and eye color so close it was uncanny. And when the woman looked over her shoulder at the mountain of a man hitting it from the back, the angle made the resemblance almost scarily uncanny.  The Had you had a porn career and simply forgotten?- kind of uncanny. 

Sure there were differences- she was a little taller, maybe a bit leaner, with boobs that had definitely had some work done. Tattoos where your skin was bare and vice versa, different piercings. Her voice was pitched different, and her accent was completely different from yours but within three minutes of the video she’d stopped speaking words, so accent didn’t matter much.  But as far as porn actresses went- she might as well be your twin. 

It seemed the 141 had perused her entire.. filmography. Different videos, different scenarios, different partners. They all had videos they seemed to like better than others. Soap seemed to particularly like the POV video where the man had a thick Scottish accent. Gaz had bookmarked a soft-core bondage and forced orgasm scene. Price, a shorter video of an unseen man pushing the actress under a desk for oral, and Ghost… the only link he’d visited was your instagram. It was hard not to let it stroke your ego a little bit. 

God, if you told anyone about this… They’d tell you to file a workplace harassment suit, and maybe a police report.  To start job hunting, and therapist hunting. Distance yourself. You should have been embarrassed or uncomfortable- you knew you should be. That you should feel objectified or disrespected, disgusted. 

But hell, you’d be lying if you said you didn’t send yourself the links and watched them in your free time at home. It was hot- turned you on in an almost concerning way that would set feminism back twenty years if you told anyone. 

The video kept playing on your monitor, one of the videos that Soap had visited more than once (little did you know it was one that Ghost had picked out). A gloved hand smoothly glided down the actress's spine before curving around her throat and pulling her upright on the man’s lap, filthy praises in a British accent playing through your single AirPod. 

“Holy shit…”  You muttered, thighs clenching because if you squinted it really did look like you, even some of her mannerisms. And the rough accent was like a mix of Ghost's and Price’s. 

Abruptly, you shut down the entire monitor completely, ripping out the AirPod and tossing it on the desk. Pressing slightly shaking hands to your too hot face. You needed to get it together, because Price was your boss and the others were your superiors. They’d been gone for a month and a half, and it’d been your voice in their ears guiding them through missions, and you knew you had a flirty disposition, especially from the private safety of your dark little office half way across the world. 

It made sense that their wires got a little crossed, but your wires- like those off all your monitors and hardware- needed to stay neatly organized and separate. Focus. Focus. 

Your nails were bitten to the quick, the bitter taste of old nail polish on the back of your tongue. The skin around your nails was raw from your teeth toying with it as your so intensely focussed on the videos. You needed to get out of this too small, too hot room.  Which is how you found yourself, twenty minutes later, in the communal break room fighting with the vending machine. It was withholding the ice cold water you were desperate for, despite your curses and attempts to jostle the machine. Right as you delivered a frustrated kick to the machine-

“Just the bird we were looking for!” 

It was Kyle’s voice first, that tipped you off to the herd of men entering the space. You almost jumped out of your skin- brain flitting through several scandalous snippets of the videos he’d replayed. His smile was dazzling as always as he came into view, tapping the yellow warning stickers that instructed people not to jostle the machine, with the little illustration of the stick man getting crushed, “What’d the machine ever do to you? It might start fighting back.” 

A gloved hand reached between the two of you, skeleton fingers curled into a fist that delivered a blunt strike, and, like magic, the water bottle fell in to the receptacle. You peeked over your shoulder at Ghost, standing just slightly too close and looking down at you intensely, but not meanly. An easy to miss bit of mirth that was usually reserved for Soap. Thank god you’d bitten your nails to stubs or they would’ve drawn blood from how they were digging into your palms to distract you from the gloved hands and the brutish display of strength. 

Kyle put the drink sweetly in your hands after cracking it for you, like he would do when bringing Ghost or Price something, eyes twinkling like he knew something you didn’t.  Another hand, warm and large clapped gently on your shoulder, pulling you back a step, almost directly into Captain Price’s chest. 

The men shared a look over your head before focussing back on you. 

“Your intel was good.” It was a simple statement, but delivered in a warm, proud tone that felt so much like praise that your stomach flipped a bit, with that warm smile that made him look soft despite the fact he was still in full tac-gear, “They didn’t even see us coming.” 

“They never see you coming, that’s kind of your whole thing.” You tried a joke, your voice a touch strained. His hand was lingering, right on the curve where your shoulder became your neck, fingers flexing into the flesh just so. Just like it did on the boys when he thought others wouldn’t noticed. focus, focus, focus. 

Fortunately, or unfortunately, it was Soap that interrupted the kneading of Price’s fingers. 

“Don’t be so modest, bonnie!” He was laughing as large arms caught you around the waist, lifting and spinning you slightly. His voice so similar to that one Scottish co-star that had done such filthy things to your lookalike, it made your head spin.  Despite your startled yelp and squirming, his grip didn’t waver, “Couldn’t of done it without our lass in the chair.” 

“ ’nough, Johnny,” Ghost called firmly, leaning against the vending machine that they’d all but cornered you against, “Put ‘er down.” 

Soap’s laugh was still good natured as he set you on your feet again, a little roughly for the heels you had on to match your skirt, you wobbled only for Ghost himself to steady you, giving you another intense look, that you had trouble meeting, “ 'e’s right though. Intel was good.” 

They were all staring at you, varying degrees of smirks, eyes a spectrum of mischief and something that was dizzyingly close to hunger.  Unable to keep still, you were squirming, shifting your weigh from foot to foot, fiddling with the wrapper on the bottle. You found your eyes flitting around settling anywhere but their own gaze, cheeks feeling hot, mind full of vile images that you knew they’d seen and enjoyed- ceiling, the exit sign, Johnny’s tac-vest, the floor, the water bottle in your hands. You gulped, eyebrows raising as you puffed a breath, trying desperately to reign yourself in.

“Glad to be of service.” You smiled tightly, nodding meeting each set of eyes briefly and hoping your foundation masked your blush (it didn’t). Jesus Christ, you couldn’t do this.  You couldn’t tell if you felt turned on or awkward or both, but you needed to go. Preferably before you did something that would cost you your job. Your voice was rushed as you squeezed between Gaz and Price, double timing it to the exit, “Enjoy your leave, boys, you deserve it.” 

As you all but fled the building, you typed out a mass base-wide memo email, language formal as you professionally reminded every soldier, specifically four of them, that any website visited by government devices was subject to internal review. 

You swore you could hear them laughing as the memo went out. But maybe that was just your overactive imagination. 

____

You’d gone home for the evening, and then clocked back in the following morning. Surprised to find all of the 141 was still there, debriefing must have ran long. 

“Morning, love.” It was Kyle that greeted you, pressing a cup of coffee into your hands. He looked tired but happy to see you. Soap was with him, eyes bright and grin wide as he whistled lowly, fingers tugging at the hem of your skirt as you passed his seat. 

“Looking good, bonnie,” He smiled devilishly, rubbing the fabric between his fingers before letting go, “Tired of all the green, black, and beige tac gear. Missed seeing something a little… softer.”  

You somewhat doubted that. He seemed to appreciate military khaki when it hugged Gaz’s ass, and he sure didn’t seem to mind an all black tactical ensemble when it was on Ghost. But the compliment still brought heat up your neck, which you coupled with a sip of the hot coffee Gaz had brought you- fixed perfectly the way you liked it. It elicited a pleased sigh as you swallowed, humming in content. 

“Price wants to see you before we all leave. Brought you some new stuff to work on.” Kyle smiled, watching how your expression softened at the taste of the beverage, clearly proud of himself for drawing out that reaction.   

“A present? For me?” You smiled sarcastically back at the prospect of more work added to you caseload, “It’s like Christmas.” 

“You been good this year?” Kyle grinned back, accompanied by Soap chiming, voice low and chiding, “Nah, she’s definitely been naughty.” 

Both Sergeant’s shared a look as you almost choked on another sip of coffee. 

“I’m leaving now.” You shook your head, turning on your heel away from where they were hanging around the rec room, clearly waiting for Price to dismiss them, “Y’all should shower. Or take a nap.” 

“You want us naked?” Kyle questioned, raising his eyebrows at you, leaning back against the wall, standing so very close to Soap, who was sprawled out in his chair, long legs splayed and spread before him as he waggled his eyebrows. “And in bed?” 

Now that was some imagery. Taking the lord’s name in vain you didn’t dignify that with a response other than a huffed, “Leaving now.” 

____

The good thing about Price and Ghost was they were business first. So if you really focussed you could almost ignore Ghost's thigh pressed against yours as you sat beside him in the dark room, reviewing body cam footage. They pointed out different things to you, things to include as you started your next dark web deep dive. 

You could almost ignore how Price’s fingers grazed and lingered on your palm as he gave you a thumb drive to decrypt and analyze, how he stood close enough to you that you had to look at him through your lashes. 

“Has a self destruct program that Gaz didn’t want t' aggravate. Figured it needed your... soft touch.” Price smiled down at you as you curled your fingers around the thumb drive. You had to try pretty hard to ignore the slight emphasis on soft. Ghost seemed to chuckle lowly at your expression at the captain. 

“What’s on there'll point us in the next direction of our next target.” Ghost nodded to you, his leg shifting so it pressed harder against yours. In the guise of stretching out, he’d draped an arm over the back of your chair, the cotton of his gloves half tickling the sensitive skin on the back of your bicep, where the flesh was soft. 

“So don’t screw it up, got it.” You swallowed thickly, shifting so you couldn’t feel his thumb against your skin- it was making it hard to think about hacking and terrorism and military operations.  He took it as an invitation to spread out more, his fingers grazing the exact spot only seconds later. 

“Precisely,” John laughed lowly, his hand moved to your shoulder, back into that sweet curve that was partly your shoulder and partly your neck, and gave it a lingering squeeze, that kind of made you want to melt, “You won’t screw it up, love.” 

The captain gave his Lieutenant a nod, and Ghost quickly stood, his boot giving the toe of your pretty heels a slight nudge as a goodbye before silently stalking out. Price took a seat across from you, leaning back and his arms cross comfortably over his chest.

“I’m having the boys over at mine tonight. A couple of drinks, I’m gonna grill, put the footie on, celebrate another successful mission to start our leave.” Price listed out their plans casually, noting how you squirmed a bit, uncrossing and recrossing your legs as you tugged at the hem of your skirt before continuing, “We want you to come. Couldn’t have done it without you, so you should celebrate it too.” 

“Oh, uh-“ You started before you could think of a good excuse, “I’ll be really busy… with.. with the flash drive. And stuff.” 

“What stuff?” Price rose a single brow, his stare pinning you still as he reached across the table and took the flash drive back, “This can wait.” 

“Files. Coding. Security checks.” You mumbled the first couple aspects of your job that came to mind, the intensity of his gaze making you want to adjust your collar or shrink in your seat. You figured you’d have a couple more sites to clear off their devices, if they’d been sitting around base all night. Your cheeks heated just at the thought. “I’m a little behind. Been… distracted lately."

“Everything all right, love?” He ‘asked’ with at signature warm smile and amused eyes, he seemed to already know the answer to his question, “You’ve been… skittish, since we got back.” 

Your teeth worried the seam of your lips as you considered the question. Skittish, was one way to put it- fidgety, fleeing rooms, avoiding eye contact, barely speaking as opposed to your usual chatter and banter. Your eyes flitted away from his gaze again, swallowing dryly again- geez when did you get so shy, “ ‘m fine. Absolutely fine. Never been better. How’re you?” 

Cringing at your own rambling, you sighed shoulders drooping as he fixed you with another look, and muttered your name in a way that sent a shiver down your spine. It was a look that expected obedience, as his legs shifted into a natural man spread. Your brain flitted back to the video of your look alike being shoved under a desk… 

Him saying your name again, slightly louder but just as bemused drew you back to him, realizing you were staring at his legs, debating if you could fit between his knees and you almost sputtered as you cleared your throat, “I’m fine, really.” 

“Either lie more convincingly or tell me what’s bothering you, sweet.”  Price chuckled, leaving forward against the table, drumming a knuckle against the table. Sweet, that was new. You’d have to add it to the laundry list of nicknames and pet names the boys had for you. You’d always told yourself that it was nothing personal, that British/Scottish people just did that. But this on wasn’t as easy to write off as ‘love’ or ‘bonnie’, average pet names in the UK colloquial, no sweet seemed personal. 

“I’m not bothered.” You glanced away again, nose wrinkling, even though you were bothered- hot and bothered. John Price had a way of drawing details out of people with just a look and a couple of well prodded words.  With a deep breath, you tried to keep your characteristic rambling to a minimum, a losing battle as he starting stroking at his beard with those long fingers- two parts of him that you’d been thinking about way too much lately-, “Listen, I’m not judging, you’re grown men, watch what you want to, but just a reminder that it’s my job and obligation to review every link and site that government devices visit. Which includes at least skimming videos.  In case you didn’t know or maybe forgot that I can and do see these things, so maybe you could pass that along to the boys-“ 

“You can tell 'em yourself. ’s your job, sweet.” Price said firmly. The girlish part of your brain corrected ‘firmly’ to dominantly. Before his demeanor relaxed again, giving you an amused, appraising look again, “At my place. Tonight. 8 o’clock. Not a request.” Shrinking in your chair a bit, hoping the chair hid the way your thighs involuntarily clenched, you couldn’t help but nod and squeak, “Yes, sir.” 

___

Part Two

Was supposed to have actually smut in this but I got carried away on the build-up, laugh out loud. Maybe a part three or you can just imagine how the little dinner party goes (hint, she's the meal)

Tags: @fruitymoonbeams-blog @viviennevianna @savas-q1 @cringeycookies @lainey-laines @buttercup337 @acosmisted @carqueensworld @tmartin0918 @dreamland08 @sheepdogchick @hidden-wildflowers @lilynotdilly @astrxsee @joopyjup @originalsoulcollector @henhouse-horrors @ohdrey89 @red5tars @cod-z @balletbiscuit @spacecrawllerr @scrumptioussportstoadgarden-blog @blues-of-neptune @monster-effer @yunho-leeknow @ungodlydilf @pluviofleur @jandthecrow @fangtoothgod @coquetterie-dancer @sapphires-and-silver-things @ghost-is-my-bbg @loveergirll @silly-starfish @popkle @honestlymassivetrash @not-mentally-sane @devoetee @beloveds-embrace @jellyamour @simon141price @divinecat

[chithereader]

jealousy, jealousy / aaron hotchner

here’s my masterlist! pairing: aaron hotchner x bau!reader / shy!reader word count: 2.4k genre & cw: fluff, a little jealousy and pining angst if u squint, mentions of made-up case, different use of cm character a/n: thank u so much for all the support i've been getting on my fics!! hope you love this one as much as i do, i really enjoyed writing this one the most!

Today was a bad day. That much was clear. From the moment you woke up to the minute you arrived at the BAU– you’re convinced that the universe has simply gone the extra mile to make your life a little harder. 

You slept through your alarm and a few phone calls from Garcia, making your morning stressful and complete chaos. You didn’t have time to grab a cup of coffee or a snack, and apparently you also didn’t have time to remove the colorful pimple patches that adorned your face. 

Your blouse is buttoned asymmetrically, your hair resembling a bird's nest, and you left your ID at home, making your arrival more delayed as you had to employ Garcia’s help in presenting a copy of your ID to let you through. 

That too was not without stress given that your phone was on the verge of dying as you were in the call, but thankfully you could finally breathe in the elevator. Or so you thought. 

There were two things that immediately caught you off guard as you walked into the bullpen: one, almost all the desks were deserted and two, Reid and Morgan were watching you- as if waiting for your reaction, which led you to look around in anticipation. Is there a surprise? A prank? Did I miss a patch? I’m…wearing pants, right? 

Not wanting to prolong your search, you look at the two for any indication or clue. Tilting your head to the side as if to ask what? But to your surprise, they both nod their heads in one direction. Oh.

Strauss was in Hotch’s office, along with Rossi and a woman you don’t recognize. Hotch looked a bit tense, Strauss firm, Rossi is as relaxed as ever, and the woman… is looking directly at Hotch. Just Hotch. Huh. 

You were stood just shy of your desk when you shook thoughts out of your head, slowly approaching your desk to settle your things. Dozens of scenarios were running through your head, trying to make sense of new additions to an otherwise normal day. 

But the way she was studying him made your chest tight like someone was stepping on it.. and you couldn’t figure out why. 

You approach the two rascals only to lean on Derek’s desk as you whisper under your breath, “What’s happening there?” 

Morgan shrugs but his focused face remains, “I don’t know, kid. I tried Garcia but she doesn’t have a clue either.” Eyes studying the people in the room, noting anything that could tell them something. 

Mulling over more possibilities, you hum in response. Turning to Reid, you ask him- hoping that his eidetic memory can tell you anything about the woman even if they’d only met in passing. 

“Do you know anything, Spence?” But Reid only pouts at you, a sign that he’s thought about it hard but is coming up empty. 

Shaking his head, he soberly replies, “No..I don’t think so. I– I’ve never seen her before. Sorry.” 

Before any more thoughts could be voiced between the three of you, the door to Hotch’s office opens and all four of them file out- the woman walking a little too close to Hotch. 

-

You’re approaching your usual seat on the jet beside Morgan and across from Hotch when suddenly Agent Seaver overtakes you and sits on your seat. Caught by surprise, your eyes instinctively go to Hotch who’s already looking at you. 

He nods to himself, moving from the aisle seat to the one by the window. But it appears Agent Seaver misunderstood his gesture and moved beside him, “Oh! Thank you, sir.” Even going as far as touching his arm and leaning closely. 

Now, you’ve never been a violent person. Rage has just never overcome your senses like that but today.. of all days– you couldn’t help the image of spilling your hot chocolate all over her cream blouse. 

You don’t even notice that you’re frowning as you sit beside Morgan, somehow still unaware of how much their closeness really upsets you. You honestly thought you’ve maintained an expressionless face until Morgan looks up from his file and leans close to whisper in your ear, “You’ll need claws not paws, baby girl.” Winking at you as you separate. 

You steal a glance at Hotch only to see him watching you and Morgan with furrowed brows. He almost looks normal if it weren’t for the clenching of his jaw that’s his tell of irritation. Moving your gaze to Seaver, in case you missed something that’s causing his new mood, you find her reading the case file. 

As you return your gaze on Hotch, you watch as Seaver touches his arm again and engages him in conversation about the case. It’s through the whole jet ride that you had to stomach the constant Agent Hotchner, Agent Hotchner! paired with a giggle or a slight touch. UGH!

If it weren’t for Strauss personally recommending Agent Seaver as a consultant for this case, you would have done– …still absolutely nothing. You had no claim whatsoever over Hotch. Morgan and Rossi may tease the two of you occasionally, forcing that he treats you specially or whatever but his behavior could simply be chalked off as him being a good and attentive boss. 

And yes, okay fine. You may have some moments here and there… but! they could honestly just be built up in your head because of the feelings you have for him. Like when he said he likes it when you stare? Come on, being stared at can be flattering and that’s just a universal truth. 

- 

After a whole day of coming up with theories, visiting crime scenes and M.E.’s, you’re all completely spent. Lounging in the makeshift discussion room, all of you are still working tirelessly on the case given that the unsub’s on a spree and his timeline is alarmingly short. 

Reid’s been silently staring at the board for 20 minutes while Morgan’s pretending to read files of potential suspects with his legs stretched out and feet on the table, “This is impossible. We just don’t have enough.” He exclaims as he tosses the file on the table with a thud. 

To the left of Morgan, you’re also silently mulling over files of potential suspects. Not wanting to admit that he’s right, you guys don’t have enough…bodies. You barely have anything on the guy, barely any clues- for a working profile. 

You sigh heavily, peeling your eyes off the paper and looking at the board. “Reid?” The boy genius shakes his head softly, confirming that the known dump sites don’t say much about the unsub’s comfort zones or hunting ground. 

You suddenly wonder where Seaver, Hotch and Rossi are. You and Morgan got back to the precinct at around 11PM, and you realize you haven’t seen any of them, “Where are the others?” 

Morgan, in an effort to lighten the mood, jumps at the chance to tease you, “Hmm. I think what you’re really asking is: Where’s Hotch and is he with Seaver?” He punches your arm lightly, making it obvious he’s only teasing. 

The smug, playful smile on his face makes you fight one of your own, desperately trying to not give yourself away, “Shut up,” hitting him in the head softly with the file in your hand. 

While you two were exchanging playful glares, Reid interjects, “Seaver wanted to turn in early since she’s also the one meeting with the families tomorrow so Hotch brought her to the hotel.” 

You instantly lift your gaze to him and watch as he removes the marker’s cap and scribbles rapidly on the board, quickly adding “And I’m pretty sure Rossi’s getting us coffee from the diner around the block.” 

You want to blame it on your exhaustion– your inability and ineffectiveness at hiding how you truly feel about what Reid just revealed to you, groaning loudly in pain and frustration. You put your head in your hands, muffling the sounds you’re making that are somehow a combination of a laugh and a sob. 

Morgan understands your reaction immediately and laughs out loud. 

“It’s not funny!” There was honestly no point in hiding it. As much as Morgan teased you, you knew he wouldn’t tell anyway, and Reid.. well, he was honestly an even better keeper of secrets than Morgan, Rossi and Garcia. 

He puts a hand on your shoulder to comfort you, “Baby girl, worry not. You know you hold a special place in boss man’s heart.” Then gripping both your wrists to pry your hands off your face. 

Pressing your face even further into your hands, you let out a muffled version of “That’s not true!” that came out more as “Daffs noft thwu!” 

When Morgan successfully pries your hands off your face, you’re surprised to see Reid’s moved from the board to behind Morgan, half leaning half sitting on the table, curiously watching you. 

Morgan turns around to look at the door behind you, making sure the coast is clear before he says, “Kid. Be real with me for a sec… are you blind?” That was not the question you were expecting. 

You must have looked so lost because he continues, “Hotch cares for you. Deeply. And not in the same way he does for us. You’ve gotta have felt that, kid.” Funny, you are starting to feel like a kid– the only thing missing are his hands on your shoulders to complete that huddle pep talk experience. 

“That’s just not–” you try to start. But Reid swiftly raises his hand, signing you to stop–

“Did you know that every morning Hotch makes sure all the pens and mug handles on your desk are pointing to the right– the way you need it to be– in case the night janitors move any out of place?”

“Or that he never really ate lunch in the office before but started bringing sandwiches and other food he could microwave, while timing his lunches with yours presumably so he could strike up a conversation with you during break?” 

“Or do you remember that one time the AC in the bullpen broke and we were all sweating badly, and I said the heat was making me too thirsty then he disappeared into his office and came back with a bottle of water and an orange juice box only to give it to you?” 

Morgan lets out a loud laugh at that one while Reid pouts playfully, “I mean I was genuinely dying then.” 

Not without his own input, Morgan smiles softly at you with a raised brow “Did you know he personally restocks your favorite hot chocolate in the pantry and on the jet? Including the marshmallows.” 

You breathe in deeply, the revelations sounding too good to be true but winding nonetheless. You crack a small joke, trying to play it off “And I thought the bureau was just feeling really generous.” 

The two, who have grown to be such brothers, give you the exact same look of Really? 

As Reid rounds the table to go back and stand by the board, Morgan catches your attention and holds your eye, “Look, there’s so much more, kid. But they all point to the same thing.” He says this as softly as possible, as if to not scare you away. 

You let out a soft, breathy laugh. Shaking your head, “That just can’t be true.” 

With all three of your backs to the door, you don’t notice Rossi nearing. You just suddenly hear his voice from behind, rounding the table and settling the coffee cups in front of all of you, “Coffee, anyone?” 

As if trapped in the null of the previous conversation, you’re still looking at Morgan as you lean back in your chair, slumping further to seek non-existent cover. Reid, who is now back in his own world with the board, is handed a cup by Rossi, who didn’t even turn to look- only stretching out an arm to receive it and mumbling a distracted “Thanks.”  

Rossi, who is simply too smart for his own good, impressively senses something hanging in the air, nonchalantly asking about the tailend of a conversation he was not supposed to hear, “So… what can’t be true?” 

Back to lounging excessively on a chair that is a tad too tiny for him, with legs outstretched and feet on the corner on the table– Morgan spouts, “That she’s Hotch’s girl, and has no reason to be jealous of Seaver– who by the way needs the HR orientation more than Penelope and I.” 

-

Now– all of your backs are to the door except Rossi’s. Not one of you tried to move due to fatigue, let alone look.

Unbeknownst to you, Morgan, and Reid, on the way back to the precinct from the hotel, Hotch had the genius thought of picking up Rossi so the latter wouldn’t have to walk a block with trays of coffee on hand.

Hotch and Rossi arrived together. And as Rossi went around the table to give you your cups of coffee, Hotch stayed behind– leaning on the doorframe with arms crossed, watching you and the team.

Imagine his surprise, hearing what Morgan just said. His heart skipped a beat, his stomach dropped. His entire being froze entirely.. What? Jealous? 

In his mind, he had two choices: Act like he didn’t hear it and save you from embarrassment or use it to his advantage and make his intentions clear..ish. 

-

You gasp loudly at his bluntness– and in front of Rossi! Straightening in your chair and pointing an accusatory finger at Morgan, “You little– I am NOT jealous! and I am NOT Hotch’s–” 

Cut off by someone loudly clearing their throat from behind all of you, you all freeze, including Reid who hasn’t been actively paying attention until now. 

The hair on your neck stands up as you hear the nearing footsteps, already envisioning digging your own grave in your head when finally, Hotch is standing right beside you. 

You’re all still pretty frozen, save from the slow movement which is your eyes slowly lifting its gaze to the man in question until they meet his hazel orbs. He holds your stare as he leans on the desk, arms straining in his shirt– 

Out of the corner of your eye you can see Rossi fighting a smile, and just as you’re about to mentally curse him in your head, you’re broken out of your thoughts by a deep voice, 

“You don’t think you’re my girl?” 

[gloomwitchwrites]

https://vt.tiktok.com/ZSjHFAReU/

This TikTok lit a fire in me ,like just imagine it happening with the 141 and possibly Alejandro 🥲their reactions after they open the lunchbox

141 + Alejandro? Yes, please. Also, I absolutely adore this. I keep imagining reader angrily packing their lunchbox and muttering under their breath but still thinking "goddamn it I love this man" and "this'll show him." Like, we might be upset with them because of the argument but we aren't sacrificing their nutrition over it.

For the masterlist and how to submit your own request, click HERE

Task Force 141 x Female Reader

Content & Warnings (MDNI): established relationship, married life, swearing, arguments, brief suggestive themes, light angst, fluff

Word Count: 2k

ao3 // main masterlist // imagines & what if series

John Price

John is alone in his office.

There’s a pile of paperwork on his desk. Files. Photos. Unfinished reports. It’s never-ending, and it’s the least favorite aspect of his job. John would rather be out in the field or back home with you.

But going home feels a bit daunting. The fight the two of you had last night was the worst one, not that there are lots of fights to begin with. With heated words exchanged, the two of you argued until you were both red in the face. You had stormed off, locked yourself away, and then John sat in silence for hours afterwords, staring at the wall.

All of that, and it was his unpacked lunch that broke him. You always pack it with filling food that keeps him going on the days that he’s not in the field and just sitting behind a desk. He loves the notes you leave inside, and how you always prank something in his meal that makes him chuckle.

But right now, all he can do is stare at the container before him, knowing there’s nothing inside it except what he packed himself last night.

“Damn it all,” he mutters, slowly tugging on the zipper, knowing it’s better to just face the measly meal than ignore it.

Yet as he opens up the container and glances inside, John finds something odd. Everything he packed last night is gone. In its place is what he’s always come to expect.

Disbelief spreads as John removes container after container, opening each one in turn. How did you manage it? How did he not sense you getting out or even returning to bed in the night? How did he not hear you in the kitchen?

John leans back in his chair, staring at the spread before him.

Where’s the note?

Grabbing the bag, John checks, and finds nothing. He even opens up each food storage container, trying everything to see if you’ve tampered with it. And still, everything is fine.

Reaching for his phone, John opens his messages, and there—right there—is one from you.

Sorry. Forgot to pack a note. Love you.

John sighs heavily, tapping the phone against his forehead. All this stress, all this worry, and you still care about him.

Thank you, he texts back. I love you, too.

John "Soap" MacTavish

“I’m done talking about this.”

Johnny shakes his head, grabbing your upper arm to pull you back into the conversation. “And I’m not.”

You roll your eyes, but Johnny ignores the attitude. Whenever the two of you argue, it’s mostly frivolous nonsense that ends with the two of you fucking until the both of you are too exhausted to care about whatever you were arguing over in the first place.

This is not that sort of argument. The both of you are far too heated for this to devolve into rough kissing and even rougher sex.

“I know you’re angry,” replies Johnny. “But—”

“Let go, John.”

Johnny cringes on hearing his government name. You never call him John unless you’re looking to draw blood.

He releases your arm and steps away. “Fine. But this isn’t over. I’m not going to let this go. We have to talk about it.”

“And we will,” you sigh. “But I can’t—I can’t think. I need…space. Just…space.”

Johnny watches you walk away and hates every second of it. The feeling only worsens when he glances over and notices his empty lunch pail. You always prep it for him, making sure he’s fed. He likes that you do it. Makes him happy every time he opens it up on his lunch break.

But you’re raging mad, and it’s late.

Johnny is on his own.

With reluctance in every step and movement, Johnny fills the pail with all sorts of junk. It’s all snack food, but he hardly cares. If he has to, he’ll grab something while on break. When he’s done, he heads into the bedroom, pausing in the doorway.

You’re already in bed, covers pulled up over your head.

Johnny frowns but he doesn’t bother you, and when he finally rolls into bed, sleep alludes him for a solid hour before seizing him.

The morning isn’t much better. You’re still submerged under the covers and unresponsive. Johnny dresses for work in silence, grabs his lunch he packed in silence, and leaves the house in silence. He can’t even bring himself to turn on the radio or listen to his favorite music. Part of him is empty.

The day drags at the construction site, and when he finally—finally sits down to eat, he doesn’t want to open up his lunch pail and see the pathic meal he packed for himself.

“Fuck,” he mutters while pulling on the zipper and flipping the lid.

Johnny blinks, staring down at the food before him. Gone is the prepackaged snacks and junk food. There’s a homecooked meal in here along with several snacks, fresh fruit, and veggies. On top of it all is a small handwritten note on heart-shaped pink paper.

I’m mad at you but I won’t let you starve.

He didn’t even hear you get up in the night.

Johnny’s eyes sting, and when he blinks to chase away a few tears, he realizes how stuffy his nose has become.

“Fuck,” he mutters, opening up the container of strawberries.

You’ve cut them into heart shapes.

Simon "Ghost" Riley

Simon has been a grump all day.

Doesn’t matter that he wears a balaclava, and no one can see his face. He hasn’t cracked a single smile once. Any question asked is responded to with a grunt, and if he must speak at all, it’s nothing more than a one-word answer.

He’s not in the mood. His mind is elsewhere. All he can focus on is the fight the two of you had last night. Fights are rare but they’re always fierce, and you never back down during an argument. For Simon, it’s simultaneously attractive and frustrating.

“Up to trade anything, Lt?” Johnny saddles up to Simon, peering over his shoulder at his lunch pail.

The rest of the team teases him endlessly about the fact that you always pack Simon a lunch. They call it cute—domestic. But they’re also jealous. Johnny is always trying to barter and trade with him, and Simon always refuses.

Until today.

There is absolutely fucking nothing in his lunch pail except a protein bar and a bag of crisps. Simon packed his lunch last night while you went to bed after verbally chewing his head off. This time, Simon is willing to trade the whole thing, but he’s too proud to spend money on picking something up. He’d rather starve.

“Maybe,” answers Simon as he unzips the lid. “What you offering?”

Johnny’s eyebrows rise slightly. Simon never shares. Never.

Simon flips the lid over but doesn’t look.

Johnny leans forward, eyes widening. He whistles lowly. “Damn, Lt. Wifey hooked you up today.”

Frowning, Simon glances down and finds—not the lunch he packed himself—but one you packed for him.

“Changed my mind,” mumbles Simon, closing the lid and pushing the lunch pail away from Johnny’s reach.

“Changed your—” But Simon is already walking away, intending to enjoy his meal in peace. “Oi! Lt!”

Argument aside, you still got up early and put this together while he slept. For the first time today, Simon smiles.

Kyle "Gaz" Garrick

Kyle holds onto the lunch pail like a lifeline.

It’s such a silly hesitation. He already knows what he’ll find inside. He packed the damn thing.

Cup-o-Ramen. Plain crisps. An apple.

I don’t want to talk to you right now, Kyle.

Leave me alone. Give me some fucking space.

Even now the resentment and anger still lingers on Kyle’s tongue. For all the years you’ve been together, arguments have been few and far between. And even when there is a fight, the two of you talk it out until a solution is found. Neither of you like going to bed angry.

But last night was an atomic bomb. An explosion of dissent.

You broke off to the bedroom, slamming the door, and locking it behind you. Kyle ended up sleeping on the couch with nothing but a decorative pillow and a throw blanket that hardly covered his body.

After all the yelling, after all the back-and-forth and then your sudden disappearance, Kyle was left with two realities. One, you were pissed at him, and nothing was resolved. Two, you didn’t pack his lunch.

It’s the one thing Kyle loves most about working, knowing that you’ve put together something healthy and filling. The cute notes aren’t so bad either. But there was zero possibility that you’d pack him anything after that argument, so Kyle set to it, dumping stuff into the lunch pail before falling asleep on the sofa.

And now, here he is, sitting down for lunch and dreading the choices he made last night.

“Better get to it,” he sighs, tugging on the zipper.

When he flips the lid over, he’s momentarily stunned. Gone is the Cup-o-Ramen and plain crisps. The apple is still there, but it’s sliced and in its own container with some chocolate spread on the side of dipping. You’ve replaced it all with sealed containers. Pasta. A salad with homemade dressing.

And on top of it all, a sticky note.

I’m mad but I love you.

Kyle’s trepidation vanishes. He chuckles as he picks the note up and presses it to his lips.

Everything is fine.

Everything will be okay.

Bonus: Alejandro Vargas

When you and Alejandro fight, it’s explosive.

If something doesn’t break from being thrown, it breaks because you and him were fucking like animals on it.

Last night wasn’t a simple disagreement. You threw a shoe at him, and when Alejandro knocked it out of the air and kept going, you threw a pillow, and then attempted to throw the lamp. All in vain. He had yanked the lamp out of your hand, had it back on the end table, and tossed you onto the bed in a matter of seconds.

It was just pure need after that. All carnal lust.

After all the energy and anger vanished, Alejandro was left staring up at the ceiling as you dozed beside him. Nothing was resolved. Nothing was fixed.

And when he woke up late and rushed out the door, he didn’t even think about that fact that you hadn’t packed his lunch. Alejandro grabbed the container, brought it with him out of pure fucking habit.

Not, it stares back at him, and he doesn’t know if he should even open it. Not like you got up in the night and packed it. Alejandro would have woken up if you had crawled out of bed in the middle of the night and returned much later.

No. No.

He won’t find anything in here. Nothing. A shame really. He’s going to have to convince someone to go out and grab something for him, or hope someone brought something to drop off in the break room.

Alejandro swears under his breath and then opens the damned lid.

He expects nothing, and yet, it’s not empty. For a second, everything freezes, and then Alejandro isn’t sure if he should laugh or cry. Inside is easily enough food for two. You’ve packed it to the brim, and as he explores, he even finds your homemade tortillas.

“Is this an apology?” he asks out loud, as if you’ll pop into appearance and answer.

There isn’t any note, and there isn’t a single message from you on his phone. Either you’re waving a white flag, or you’re still angry, but not angry enough to allow him to go hungry.

[natalianovnas]

❛❛ to 𝐁𝐔𝐒𝐈𝐍𝐄𝐒𝐒 𝐏𝐔𝐑𝐏𝐎𝐒𝐄𝐒 ❛❛

  ꩜ ۫ . SUMMARY :: based on this lovely request by @mrsmothermaximoff ;)

  ꩜ ۫ . PAIRING :: ceo!wanda x reader

  ꩜ ۫ . WARNING :: 'enemies' to lovers trope, cold and slightly mean wanda (in the beginning), forced contract marriage.

꩜ ۫ . WORDS COUNT :: 6.5k || masterlist

author's note ; i apologise for the delay but it's here now & i'm not relly proud of how it turned out despite the insane amount of times i spent rewriting this but enjoy :)

You were sure there was a special place in hell for Wanda Maximoff.

Probably right next to the printer that never worked unless you whispered sweet nothings to it, and directly above the coffee machine that hated you. But even then, Wanda would rule supreme. Ice-cold. Iron-spined. A goddess in a power suit who made your life absolutely miserable, day after endless day.

And yet—you never quit.

You were overworked, underappreciated, and absolutely exhausted. But the pay was good, the benefits better, and your rent unforgiving. So you survived on caffeine, spite, and a tiny scrap of pride that wouldn’t let Wanda win.

“Miss Y/L/N,” came that voice—low, smooth, and dipped in condescension.

You didn’t look up from your screen. Not immediately. Wanda hated when you made her wait, but she hated desperation more. And if you had anything left in this war, it was your ability to pretend she didn’t affect you.

“Yes, Miss Maximoff?” you finally replied, tone clipped but professional.

Her heels clicked against the marble floor, each step a countdown to your next aneurysm. She stood behind your desk, all sharp cheekbones and sharper eyes, dressed in navy with lipstick the color of fresh blood.

“My schedule for this afternoon is… missing details,” she said, gesturing to the tablet in her hand. “Are you slacking off, or simply testing my patience?”

You swallowed. “The update was sent thirty minutes ago, along with the attached files. You haven’t refreshed your calendar, Ma'am.”

A pause. You watched her nostrils flare the tiniest bit.

“Fix it,” she snapped anyway, as if you hadn’t already done exactly that. “And bring me the corrected briefing in my office. Now.”

She turned and walked away before you could reply.

You didn’t mutter a curse—but only because HR was one more complaint away from calling you in for a “tone check.”

Wanda Maximoff was also a tyrant.

There was no other word for it. She was brilliant, yes—built Maximoff Industries from the ground up after moving from Sokovia at nineteen. She was also relentless, poised, and terrifyingly beautiful in that rich, untouchable kind of way that made you feel like a peasant in a fairytale. But she had no sense of mercy.

You’d been her assistant for two years. Not her executive assistant—just her assistant. The one she assigned overtime to without warning. The one she emailed at 2 a.m. with subject lines like URGENT: color-coding is embarrassing. The one who, despite having a degree and enough ambition to fill a boardroom, was stuck being her glorified punching bag.

Sometimes, you wondered if she even knew your first name.

Most times, you knew she did—and just enjoyed saying it as little as possible.

“Something crawled up her spine and built a condo,” you muttered under your breath as you passed Peter in the break room, cradling your third cup of coffee like it owed you child support.

Peter raised a brow. “Maximoff?”

You gave him a look. “She’s on a warpath. And I think I’m the first casualty.”

He chuckled, but it didn’t last. “Yeah, she’s… not great today.”

“She’s never great, Peter.”

“Okay, true. But this?” He lowered his voice, glancing around to make sure no one else was near. “This isn’t normal. Not even for her.”

You leaned against the counter, crossing your arms. “What’s the deal, then? Mercury in retrograde? Her espresso machine died?”

Peter hesitated, chewing the inside of his cheek.

You tilted your head. “Spill. You know something.”

He sighed, pushing his glasses up on his nose. “Alright, look. Keep this to yourself, but… her visa’s expiring soon.”

You blinked. “Visa?”

“She’s still technically on a special investor visa from Sokovia. It got renewed a few times, but the latest application hit a snag. Bureaucracy crap. She has a few months, tops.”

You blinked again, slower. “But… she’s Wanda Maximoff. Her name is on the goddamn building. She’s a millionaire. You’re telling me she might have to—what—pack up and go home?”

Peter nodded grimly. “Unless she finds a permanent solution fast. And, well… you know how she gets when things feel out of her control.”

You stared into your coffee, the bitterness suddenly matching your mood.

It made sense now—the extra tension, the unusual edge in her voice, the way she barked orders like she was trying to distract herself from something worse.

.     .     .

You should’ve seen it coming.

The moment you stepped into Wanda’s office that afternoon—called in via a sharp, one-line email with no subject—your instincts screamed at you to run. But you didn’t. Because you never did.

Because even if she was fire and knives and deadlines wrapped in silk, you always showed up.

She didn’t look up when you entered. She was at her desk, eyes on her laptop, long fingers tapping something out fast. Deliberate. You waited, silently, in front of her desk, clutching the tablet with her updated itinerary—because that’s what she asked for.

Finally, she spoke. “Close the door.”

Your heart skipped.

Obeying, you turned, shut it quietly, and turned back. She gestured to the chair across from her without looking.

You sat.

And waited.

Wanda finally looked up—and the moment her eyes met yours, you felt something shift.

She looked… tired.

Not unkempt. Not messy. She was never those things. But there was a tension in her jaw that wasn’t always there, a strain behind the eyes like she hadn’t slept. And worse: a flicker of vulnerability trying to pass for detachment.

“I’m going to make this simple,” she said at last. “I need something. And you’re going to give it to me.”

You blinked. “You always make things sound like you’re about to blackmail me.”

She didn’t smile. “You’re not wrong.”

Your fingers tightened around the tablet.

“You’ve worked here long enough,” she went on, “to know how I operate. I like control. Precision. Solutions. And I don’t like my time wasted with unnecessary questions.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Is that your way of asking for a favor?”

“No.” Her gaze sharpened. “It’s my way of giving you an opportunity.”

You couldn’t help the dry laugh that escaped. “God, you’re really committing to the Bond villain routine, huh?”

Her jaw flexed. “I’m offering you a deal. You can either hear it, or I can accept your resignation.”

You went still.

“You’re kidding,” you said flatly. “What the hell are you talking about?”

“I need to stay in the country,” she said. “Legally. My visa situation is deteriorating faster than I expected, and every other avenue is closing. I’ve been advised that the fastest way to lock in my residency and maintain the company without interruption… is to marry a U.S. citizen.”

Your lips parted. Then closed again. Then opened.

“You’re telling me this why?”

“Because,” she said coolly, “it’s either you, or someone I don’t trust. And I’d rather marry someone I can predict. Someone who already knows how to survive my world.”

You gaped. “Survive—? Wanda, I’m your assistant. I bring you coffee and tolerate your daily tantrums. I’m not your—your fake wife!”

“You’ll be compensated,” she said, like she hadn’t just threatened your career. “A year’s salary, upfront. Your debt cleared. Paid leave after the interviews. A guaranteed recommendation from me. You’ll live with me, play the part, attend events when needed. Three months minimum. One year ideal.”

Your throat went dry. “And if I say no?”

She folded her hands on the desk. “Then you’ll receive a generous severance and be free to look for employment somewhere else. I won’t lie—I’ll make sure it’s somewhere far from this industry.”

You stared at her, heart pounding. “You’re seriously threatening me into marriage.”

“No,” she said evenly. “I’m giving you a choice. It just happens to come with consequences.”

You stood suddenly, knocking the chair back a few inches. “You are unbelievable.”

“And you’re an intelligent woman who knows a once-in-a-lifetime offer when she sees it.”

Your eyes stung, but you blinked fast. You wouldn’t cry in front of her. You never had—and today wasn’t going to be the day you broke.

“Why me?” you asked, quieter now. “You’ve treated me like shit for two years.”

Wanda’s gaze faltered.

For the first time in a very long time, she looked… conflicted.

“Because I know you won’t lie to me,” she said finally. “Because I know you’re loyal even when I don’t deserve it. And because I—”

She stopped herself. Her fingers curled on the desk.

You stepped back slowly. “You don’t get to manipulate me, Wanda. Not with guilt. Not with perks. Not with desperation.”

She stood too. Slowly.

“Twenty-four hours,” she said. “Think about it.”

You stared at her a moment longer—at the way she held herself stiffly, like a soldier refusing to show injury. And for just a breath, you saw something else flicker behind her practiced calm.

Fear.

You turned and walked out without another word.

But even as the door shut behind you, her voice echoed in your mind:

“You’re the only one I trust to do this right.”

And god help you—some part of you wanted to say yes.

.     .     .

You stared at your ceiling for most of the night. Wanda Maximoff, your boss, had proposed—no, offered—you marriage. Like it was a project to manage. A transaction. A contract. Just another calendar entry she could control.

Marry me or lose your job.

You replayed the words again and again, the ice in her tone, the half-glint of desperation in her otherwise impenetrable eyes.

She hadn’t said please. She hadn’t even asked. And still… you couldn’t shake the way her voice faltered when she said:

“Because I know you won’t lie to me.”

That wasn’t the Wanda Maximoff you knew.

And it haunted you.

---

“You’re not actually considering this,” Peter said, nearly choking on his pastry the next morning.

You’d asked him to meet before work. Neutral ground. Coffee shop. Public enough that he couldn’t yell at you.

You gave a long sigh into your cup. “I didn’t say that.”

“Oh my God,” he muttered, leaning across the table. “You are. You are considering it.”

“I haven’t agreed to anything.”

“Y/N,” Peter said, exasperated. “This is your boss. The same boss who once sent back your PowerPoint slides because the font gave her a ‘visual migraine.’ The woman who criticized your penmanship on a sticky note.”

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “I know who she is.”

“She’s cold. Controlling. And terrifying.”

“She’s scared right now,” you mumbled, almost to yourself.

Peter stared.

You didn’t meet his gaze. “She’s losing control of the only thing she’s ever built. The company is everything to her.”

“Still doesn’t make you the solution. There are other ways to fix this. Legal ones. Less insane ones.”

“She trusts me.”

Peter laughed, short and dry. “That’s funny. Because I watched her ignore you for six months straight unless she needed coffee or someone to bleed on.”

You gave him a look.

He softened. “I’m just saying… I get that you feel like you owe something to that building, to your job, to her. But don’t let her guilt you into ruining your life.”

You were quiet for a beat. “It wouldn’t ruin it.”

Peter raised both brows.

“It’d be one year,” you said, barely above a whisper. “A fake year. With money, freedom, clean debt. I’d come out of it better off. That’s not ruining—it’s… survival.”

Peter leaned back in his chair, eyes narrowing. “You’re starting to sound like her.”

---

You didn’t go straight to Wanda’s office.

You paced around your desk. Sorted your inbox. Re-read her calendar six times. Practiced saying “no” in five different tones.

And then you did the unthinkable: you walked into her office without knocking.

Wanda looked up from her desk, not angry—just expectant. Like she’d known you’d come.

Her mouth twitched. “That was fast.”

You closed the door behind you. “I didn’t say yes.”

“Yet.”

You rolled your eyes. “Can you not treat this like a hostile takeover?”

She stood, slowly, and walked around her desk. “Then how should I treat it?”

“Like it’s not a game,” you said. “Like it involves me too.”

That stopped her.

Wanda’s arms crossed. “I thought I was giving you something. Freedom. Power. Money. And you’d get out after a year. Safe. Rich. Clean.”

“And what do you get?” you asked.

She hesitated. Just a flicker. But it was enough.

“I get to stay,” she said. “I get to keep what I’ve built. And I get… a little peace.”

The honesty startled you.

You blinked. “So that’s what I am to you? Peace?”

Her eyes met yours. “I don’t have time for someone I have to charm. Someone I need to lie to. You already hate me. You’ll survive this. And I trust you.”

You swallowed hard. “You trust me… more than you like me.”

Something flickered in her face. Something softer.

“I do like you,” she said, quieter now. “More than I should.”

Your breath caught.

But before the silence could stretch too long, she added, like ripping off a bandage: “So? What’s your answer?”

You didn’t say it right away. You walked out again. Sat back at your desk.

But you typed up a contract draft before lunch.

Just to see what it would look like.

You’d never signed anything that made you feel so… out of body.

And you’d signed an NDA that threatened jail time over gossiping about Wanda’s caffeine preferences.

But this?

This was next level.

A marriage contract—fake, yes, but binding. Your name beside hers, your future entangled with hers for the next year. It felt like volunteering to stand next to a tornado and hope it didn’t notice you bleeding.

Wanda hadn’t said anything when she received the contract. Just read it in silence, flipped to the footnotes, and smiled that little smile she wore when you surprised her.

Clause 3.1: Maintain boundaries at work—no "wifely" expectations during business hours.

Clause 3.5: No kissing, touching, or fake honeymoon antics unless publicly required.

Clause 4.2: One year maximum, subject to early exit with written consent.

Clause 5.0: If a dog enters the household, Y/N keeps it.

She hadn’t even blinked at the dog clause. Just said: “Very specific.”

You replied, “I’ve met you. I’m preparing for chaos.”

You tried not to look like you were dying when Peter found out.

But of course, you failed.

“You’re marrying her.” His voice cracked like his brain couldn’t compute it. “You’re marrying her.”

“Technically, fake marrying her,” you corrected, sipping your iced coffee like it would wash the guilt off your tongue.

Peter stared. “This is like watching someone walk into a lion’s mouth because the lion offered to pay their bills.”

“She needs this. I need the money. It’s one year, not forever.”

He leaned in. “You’ve worked under her thumb for two years and barely survived. You think living with her is going to be easier?”

“She’s not the same at home.”

He scoffed. “What, she says thank you now? Hums lullabies in her robe?”

You winced. “She’s not that bad.”

“She made a grown man cry last week because his pen ink was too blue.”

“… Okay. But that was objectively unprofessional ink.”

Peter gave you a long, stunned look. “Oh my God. You’re already falling into it.”

“I am not falling into anything,” you snapped.

Except maybe a quiet sense of curiosity. About the Wanda that existed off-hours. The one who never made eye contact in the elevator, but always remembered if you took your coffee black with two sugars. The one who never praised, but never forgot birthdays.

That Wanda.

The one who let herself say: “I trust you.”

. . .

You didn’t expect the shopping trip.

Or the personal driver.

Or the fact that the boutique staff already knew your name when you arrived.

“She’s paying you to fake love her,” you reminded yourself as you stood half-frozen outside one of Manhattan’s most exclusive storefronts. “This is work. These are just costumes.”

Wanda stepped out of the car next to you, her dark glasses reflecting the late morning sun. “Don’t sulk. You’ll wrinkle.”

“You didn’t warn me we were going full Pretty Woman today.”

She opened the boutique door with a deadpan: “You’re not wearing anything worth warning.”

You gave her a withering look. She smirked.

Inside, the boutique staff descended like well-dressed bees. Champagne offered. Garment racks unveiled. Names whispered and measured in thread count. Wanda moved through it all like she owned oxygen.

You, meanwhile, got dragged into a dressing room with five different “looks” shoved into your arms and strict instructions to “pretend you’re rich.”

The first dress was too tight. The second too floral. The third was so expensive you didn’t want to breathe in it.

The fourth made her pause.

Wanda looked up from her phone when you stepped out.

Black, fitted. Minimalist. Sleeveless. It clung in the right places and flowed in the rest, the neckline sharp but elegant.

You expected another snide remark.

Instead, she just stared.

Then: “That one.”

You blinked. “That’s it? No insult about my posture or poor color choices?”

Her gaze dragged over you again. Slower this time.

“That one,” she said, voice low. “We’ll have it tailored.”

You hesitated. “You okay?”

She blinked—just once—and whatever softness had flickered behind her eyes vanished.

“I’m fine,” she said. “Next fitting.”

But later, when she turned away, you caught her reflection in the mirror.

And she was smiling.

Not smug. Not snarky.

Just… quiet. And maybe a little awed.

The driver took you back to her place after, bags in the trunk, silence stretching between you in the backseat.

You watched her out of the corner of your eye—her arms crossed, legs crossed, sunglasses on even though the tint on the windows made it unnecessary.

“You know,” you said, carefully, “if we’re doing this, we’re gonna have to stop glaring at each other like sworn enemies.”

“I don’t glare at you,” she said.

“You definitely do.”

“I evaluate.”

“Like I’m a coffee brand you hate.”

That got a twitch of a smile.

“I don’t hate you,” she said after a moment.

You glanced over. “Sure. Just mild daily contempt.”

Another pause.

Then: “I don’t hate you,” she said again, quieter this time. “I don’t think I ever did.”

You didn’t know what to say to that.

So you didn’t say anything at all.

.     .   .

You'd been warned that the gala would be overwhelming and you assumed that meant “dress to kill” or “don’t trip on marble.”

Not an elite ballroom filled with New York’s richest, at least six photographers outside before you even stepped out of the car and Wanda’s hand—firm, warm, possessive—resting on your lower back the second you stepped into view.

“Stop shaking,” she murmured as flashbulbs popped like fireworks.

“I’m trying not to throw up on your designer heels,” you muttered back.

She leaned in, lips brushing your ear for show. “If you puke, at least do it on Kellman's shoes. He owes me money.”

That startled a laugh out of you, a small, nervous one—and of course, a photographer captured it. You saw the flash, heard the shutter, and saw Wanda smile out of the corner of her mouth like she planned it.

She was playing the game like a master.

And you were just trying not to get eaten alive by it.

Inside the gala, it didn’t get easier.

The ballroom was gold-trimmed and glittering, a warzone of polished shoes, fake laughter, and whispered business deals behind champagne flutes. You barely recognized anyone. Wanda, meanwhile, floated through the crowd like she owned it—which, in some ways, she did.

You stayed close to her side, aware of every camera lens, every gaze. Her hand remained at the small of your back. It didn’t move. Didn’t shift. Just stayed there—anchoring you, like she wasn’t just pretending.

When she introduced you, she used your name. Said it clearly. Said it with something close to pride.

“This is my fiancée,” she told a woman from Forbes. “She keeps me sane.”

You choked slightly on your champagne. Wanda didn’t even blink.

The real trouble started with Daniel Callahan.

You recognized him from finance meetings—a charming nightmare in a tailored suit. He smiled too easily, touched too much, and once called you “sweetheart” in front of the executive board.

And now he was at your elbow, saying, “I didn’t know Maximoff had such good taste outside of stocks.”

You smiled, tight. “She has excellent taste. That’s why I’m still employed.”

He laughed. “Employed and engaged? Impressive.”

His tone was light, but you felt it. The subtle leer. The disbelief that you were the one Wanda had chosen.

Wanda stepped beside you a moment later, gaze cool as frost.

“Daniel,” she said, all saccharine silk, “Still wearing those tragic ties, I see.”

He smirked. “Still stealing the spotlight, Wanda.”

She smiled. Then—casually, but unmistakably—she reached for your hand. Laced her fingers with yours. “Of course I am.”

You went still. His eyes flicked down.

“I was just telling your fiancée how radiant she looks tonight,” he said smoothly.

Wanda’s hand squeezed yours—gently, but with intent.

“She always does,” she said. “But I’d appreciate it if you looked with your eyes, Daniel. Not your ambitions.”

His smile faltered.

You blinked.

He chuckled after a pause and excused himself.

You turned to her slowly. “That was…”

“Too much?” she offered.

You shook your head. “Weirdly flattering.”

Wanda studied you. “You don’t realize how often people look at you.”

You frowned. “People don’t look at me.”

“I do.”

It wasn’t a performance. She wasn’t smiling when she said it. No flashbulbs. No audience.

Just her.

Just you.

And a pause that pulsed like a second heartbeat between you.

Later, as the event wound down, you found yourself leaning against the railing of the second-floor balcony overlooking the dance floor. You needed space. Air. Your skin still hummed where she’d touched you.

You heard her footsteps before she appeared.

“You handled that well,” she said.

“Which part?” you asked, not turning around. “The press, the fake ring, or your little public jealousy stunt?”

There was a pause behind you. Then: “That wasn’t fake.”

You turned.

She was watching you. No mask. No posture. Just Wanda.

Your breath hitched. “We’re supposed to be pretending, Maximoff. Not actually catching feelings.”

She walked closer, heels slow and deliberate. “Who said anything about catching?”

You swallowed hard. “Wanda…”

Her voice softened. “Tell me it didn’t feel real when I touched you.”

You couldn’t.

Because it did. It always did.

Every time she brushed your hand. Every time she leaned in. Every time she looked at you like there was something worth melting in her frozen world.

You exhaled slowly. “We’re in way over our heads.”

Wanda nodded. “We are.”

But she didn’t stop walking, didn’t stop until she was inches from you, neither until her hand found yours again—quiet, steady.

And you let her hold it.

Just for a minute.

Because you wanted to.

. . .

Moving in was surreal.

Wanda had a penthouse overlooking the Upper West Side. Of course she did.

Marble floors, skyline views, furniture that looked untouched. It was the kind of place you saw in magazines—clinical in its perfection. It didn’t feel like someone lived there. It felt like someone performed there.

“This is real wood,” you muttered under your breath the first time your suitcase wheels rolled across the floor.

Wanda looked up from where she was typing on her phone. "What did you expect? Plastic?"

You dropped your bag by the front door. “I expected rich, not hand-carved oak imported from Italy rich.”

She smirked. “I like quality.”

“I like not feeling like I should tip the hallway.”

She chuckled. It was quiet. But it was real.

The first morning was the weirdest.

You woke up in one of the guest rooms—though she insisted it was now your room. There was fresh linen on the bed. A brand new vanity set already laid out. Her housekeeper had stocked the closet with three outfits in your size before you even arrived.

It was thoughtful. Organized. Weirdly… sweet.

But the kitchen was where you really saw her.

She was barefoot, in black silk pajama pants and a plain white tee, hair still damp from the shower. No makeup. Just her, in the soft light of morning.

Wanda Maximoff, pouring oat milk into her coffee like she hadn’t once told you to fix a typo with the fury of a Greek goddess.

You froze at the doorway.

She looked up. “There’s coffee.”

You blinked. “You… made coffee?”

“I do know how to function outside of boardrooms.”

You hesitated. “Do you?”

She smirked. “Stay long enough and you might see.”

You stepped in slowly. “I already feel like I’m on a reality show called ‘Rich People Do Normal Things.’”

“You’re the worst fake wife I’ve ever had.”

“I’m the only fake wife you’ve ever had.”

“Exactly.”

But then she handed you a mug—already fixed the way you liked it—and just like that, your sarcasm softened.

She’d remembered. No cream. Two sugars. Always too hot.

You met her eyes. “Thanks.”

Something flickered there.

She nodded once and took a sip of her own.

You didn’t expect it to be easy.

You didn’t expect it to be… normal.

But the days began to settle into a rhythm. You went to work together. Attended a few small press lunches. She brushed your hair back gently at a networking event when a breeze caught it funny. You let your hand rest on her shoulder just a second too long when someone asked how you met.

At home, you didn’t talk much about the “marriage” part.

But something unspoken lived in the space between your mugs on the kitchen counter.

Like maybe neither of you hated this as much as you pretended to.

Not the metaphorical kind. The real, cold, thunderstorm kind.

You came home soaked after a late grocery run. Wanda hadn’t known you’d gone, and when you walked into the apartment dripping wet, she was pacing by the window.

She stopped when she saw you.

“You’re soaked.”

“Observant,” you coughed, wiping rain off your cheeks. “It’s only a monsoon outside.”

She crossed the space in seconds. “Why didn’t you tell me you were going out?”

“I didn’t think I needed to report to you.”

“You don’t—” Her voice cracked. “You don’t. But I thought something happened.”

You frowned. “Why would you think that?”

“Because,” she snapped, then lowered her voice, “you’re not answering your phone. You left without saying anything. You’re living in my house. And I… I panicked.”

The vulnerability in her tone stunned you.

You stood there, soaked and cold and stunned, watching the most untouchable woman in the city look at you like you mattered.

“I just went for cereal,” you whispered.

She swallowed. “Don’t do that again.”

“Wanda…”

“I know this is fake,” she said, suddenly. “But I can’t—God—I can’t lose things right now. Not when everything else is one misstep away from collapse.”

Your heart cracked a little. “You’re not going to lose me.”

She looked at you—really looked. “Promise?”

You hesitated only a second. Then: “Yeah. I promise.”

She stepped forward. Her hands hovered for a second. Then she reached up, brushing soaked hair from your face. Her fingers were gentle. Warmer than you expected.

. . .

The rain didn’t stop for days.

New York blurred behind glass and gray skies, and inside the penthouse, the world shrank to the soft glow of lamps, the smell of tea, and the quiet comfort of silence not needing to be filled.

You’d never thought this would be the hard part. Not the paperwork. Not the parties. Not even lying to strangers about how you fell in love.

No. The hardest part was the quiet, the nights, the moments when Wanda was close enough to touch, but never did.

Not unless she had to.

Not unless the cameras were on.

But lately… there were no cameras, no one to watch and she was still close.

You found her in the kitchen again, barefoot, robe loose over silk sleepwear, stirring honey into her tea like it was a ritual.

“Couldn’t sleep?” you asked.

She didn’t jump. Didn’t act surprised to see you, even though it was just past midnight.

She glanced over. “Didn’t feel like dreaming.”

You frowned. “Bad ones?”

Wanda didn’t answer. She just passed you a mug—yours already waiting, already right.

No cream. Two sugars.

Your fingers brushed as you took it.

“I don’t like the sound the rain makes up here,” she said after a long moment. “Too high. It feels detached.”

You looked at her, then the view—sheets of rain washing over floor-to-ceiling glass, city lights blurred beneath it all.

“It’s loud at my old place,” you murmured. “Leaks through the window. But it feels... real.”

Wanda was quiet for a while. Then, barely above a whisper:

“Do you miss it?”

You blinked. “The apartment?”

“The space that was yours.”

The question hit deeper than it should have.

You shrugged. “I miss knowing which drawer held my socks. And that my silence was mine.”

She nodded once. “I miss things too.”

You waited. But she didn’t say what.

The power flickered a few minutes later.

Just long enough to shut off the lights, stall the heater, and kill the wifi.

You sighed. “Well. That’s our cue to pretend it’s the 1800s.”

Wanda rolled her eyes faintly but led the way to the hallway. “I’ll call maintenance.”

The bedroom you used—your room—was freezing. The rain made the windows weep. You wrapped yourself in two blankets and still shivered under them like your body had forgotten warmth.

Ten minutes later, there was a knock.

Wanda stood at the door, robe belted tighter now, a blanket over one arm.

“Heat’s out across the building,” she said. “It’ll take hours. Come to my room. The windows don’t leak there.”

You hesitated.

She added, gently, “You’re freezing.”

You didn’t argue.

Her bed was huge. More cloud than mattress. The kind of thing you had to climb into like a boat. Wanda didn’t say anything when you slipped under the covers, just turned off the lamp and got in beside you—far, far to the left, leaving oceans of space.

You laid there in silence.

Listening to the rain.

Feeling the quiet pulse of her presence, steady and near.

Then—after what could’ve been minutes or hours—she spoke.

“I used to picture this differently.”

You turned your head toward her in the dark. “What?”

“Sharing a bed,” she said softly. “Waking up beside someone. It was supposed to mean something.”

Your voice caught. “Does it?”

Wanda didn’t answer right away.

Then, softly, like a truth she hadn’t let herself say:

“It does now.”

You swallowed, heart suddenly a drum against your ribs.

The air shifted.

She didn’t move. Didn’t reach for you. But she didn’t move away, either.

Your fingers curled on the sheets. You didn’t touch her.

But you wanted to.

God, you wanted to.

You woke up before her. She was still on her side, facing you now, her hair a dark halo on the pillow. The early light barely touched her face. She looked peaceful in a way you’d never seen—like the storm had finally quieted inside her too.

You watched her breathe for a moment too long.

Then you slipped out of bed.

Made coffee.

Waited in the kitchen, hands wrapped around the mug she’d usually hand you.

She found you there twenty minutes later, sleep still in her eyes, robe loose, bare feet quiet on the floor.

“Morning,” she said softly.

“Hey,” you replied.

And then— she walked straight to you, took your coffee from your hands, took a sip and handed it back.

Your heart clenched.

Because it was exactly how you liked it, exactly how she liked it.

And she hadn’t even asked.

. . .

“Dress nice. 10 AM. My driver will take us.”

You stared at the handwriting for a full minute before turning to the small Pomeranian she hadn’t meant to adopt but had anyway, who now followed you around like you were the stable parent.

“Is she kidding?” you asked the dog.

The brownish fur ball barked and walked off.

The brunch was at a discreet little brownstone tucked between galleries in SoHo—charming, sunlit, deceptively casual. The kind of place rich people used to pretend they weren’t rich.

Wanda met you by the car. She wore soft ivory trousers, a long cream coat, and a small gold chain at her throat. She looked casual, effortless.

And, of course, utterly composed.

“You look nervous,” she said, slipping on her sunglasses.

“I didn’t realize brunch was with royalty.”

“It’s just my godmother,” Wanda said lightly. “And her judgmental wife. And a few others who might ask why I never brought anyone around before.”

Your stomach dropped. “Is this… an approval thing?”

Wanda opened the door for you. “It’s a test.”

Your eyes widened, “And you’re telling me now?”

“I didn’t want to make you overthink it.” she replied way too cooly.

You glared. “I hate you.”

She smiled like it was affection. “That’s the spirit.”

It started fine.

A few raised brows. Too many kisses on cheeks. Someone complimented your coat and then looked pointedly at your boots like they were confused how you existed in both at once.

You held Wanda’s hand under the table out of habit now—because it looked right, because it felt expected. Because her thumb sometimes rubbed slow, silent circles into your palm when the small talk got suffocating.

You were halfway through a fruit tart when it happened.

Someone—Wanda’s godmother’s wife, you think—asked how the proposal went.

You froze.

Wanda answered too smoothly, never too quickly.

“She said yes before I finished asking,” she said, hand squeezing yours. “I think she knew I wasn’t bluffing.”

There were chuckles. Some “aww”s.

And then she added, without thinking:

“I think I fell in love with her the moment she argued with me in front of three board members.”

Your heart actually missed a beat at that.

Laughter rippled around the table again. You forced a smile.

But Wanda… Wanda looked at you then. Really looked. And her smile faltered just enough for you to know:

That part hadn’t been part of the performance.

You didn’t speak in the car on the way home.

The silence felt different this time. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just… held.

Like she was waiting to see if you’d bring it up.

And you didn’t. Because you didn’t know if it was safer to ask or pretend you hadn’t heard.

When you got back to the penthouse, you walked straight to the kitchen, poured a glass of water, and leaned on the counter like it could hold up your confusion.

She joined you minutes later.

“You handled that well,” she said.

You gave her a tight smile. “I fake marry like a pro now.”

Wanda watched you. “You’re upset.”

You shook your head. “No, I’m confused.”

She took a step closer. “About what?”

You hesitated. Then: “You said you fell in love with me.”

Her throat bobbed.

“I thought the contract agreed,” you said quietly. “That there wouldn’t be feelings.”

“I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

“But you did.”

“I don’t know what’s real anymore.”

That made you go still.

“I don’t know,” she said again, quieter now, “when it stopped being pretend. If it ever really was.”

You stared at her.

Because you felt it too. The shift. The touch that lingered. The glances that said too much.

But admitting it?

That would break everything wide open.

So instead, you reached for her hand. Threaded your fingers through hers.

And whispered: “Then let’s figure it out.”

Wanda’s eyes lifted to meet yours.

And for once, there was no wall. No act. No mask.

Just her, just you.

And a truth neither of you could keep quiet much longer.

. . .

You didn’t sleep in your room that night.

You didn’t talk about it either.

There was no declaration. No sly smirk. No half-joking excuse about the heat or the window draft.

Just a quiet shift in steps—her slowing down in the hallway, your hand on the door to her room instead of your own, and a breathless moment where neither of you asked why.

You just walked in.

Together.

She lit a single lamp—low, warm, soft.

The city shimmered beyond the window, gold and blurry in the glass. You sat on the edge of the bed, unsure what version of yourself to bring into this room.

Wanda sat beside you, her thigh barely brushing yours. You could feel the heat of her, even without touch.

“You’ve stopped calling it fake,” you said, voice quiet in the hush.

“I know,” she replied.

“Is that intentional?”

“Does it matter?”

You turned your head, met her gaze. “It does if I’m not the only one confused anymore.”

She inhaled like she was steadying herself. Her voice was barely more than a breath when she said:

“You’re the only thing that’s ever confused me in the right way.”

That did it.

Whatever wall you’d built—professionalism, control, fake-wifely detachment—it cracked right down the center.

You didn’t lean in.

She did.

Softly. Slowly.

Like she was asking for permission with every breath.

And when her lips touched yours, they didn’t feel like a contract. Or a line crossed. Or an obligation.

They felt like something that had always been waiting to happen.

The kiss wasn’t urgent. Wasn’t for show. It was warm, unhurried, tender in a way you didn’t think she even knew how to be.

Your hand found her jaw.

Hers curled around your waist.

When she pulled back, your forehead rested against hers.

You didn’t open your eyes.

You whispered, “I don’t know what this is anymore.”

She whispered back, “Maybe it’s something worth figuring out.”

The next morning, Peter was already at your office before you even got there.

Coffee. Concern. A look on his face that made you brace.

“I saw the photos,” he said before you could speak.

You gave him a weary look. “Which ones?”

“The ones where she looks at you like you’re the last person in the world who doesn’t scare her.”

Your mouth opened, then closed. “It’s complicated.”

Peter sat down across from you, voice quieter now. “Is it fake still?”

You looked down.

He exhaled. “Y/N…”

“I didn’t mean for it to change,” you said softly. “But she’s—she’s different when she’s not surrounded by suits and pressure. And I don’t know how to unsee that.”

“Do you trust her?”

You nodded. “More than I should.”

“Do you love her?”

You froze.

Peter didn’t push. Just let the question sit there, heavy and true.

That night, you found Wanda on the balcony.

Blanket around her shoulders. Hair loose. No wine. No screens.

Just her.

Just quiet.

You stepped outside, wordless, and joined her under the blanket.

Her hand had found yours and you let her hold it.

. . .

The kiss didn’t fix everything.

But it opened something.

You both felt it—that strange quiet after something real slips between two people who swore they were just pretending. You didn’t talk about it the next morning. You didn’t have to. The air had changed.

So had the way she looked at you across the table.

Not calculating. Not possessive. Not even curious anymore.

Just soft.

Like you were hers in a way that didn’t need words.

You started cooking more.

It began with late-night pasta, just because she came home looking too tired to pretend she’d eaten. Then it was pancakes on a Sunday, because she’d mentioned—offhand, distracted—that her mother used to make them that way when it rained.

She didn’t say thank you the first time.

She just sat beside you, her fork slow and quiet, and said:

“You remembered.”

Like that was rarer than any gift she’d ever been given.

The first time she touched you without a reason, it was barely anything.

You were washing dishes, elbow-deep in soap, and she walked past—hand brushing across your lower back as she passed.

She didn’t look at you.

But she didn’t need to.

Your heart stuttered anyway.

At night, she started falling asleep before you.

You could tell by the way her breathing slowed, the tiny crease in her brow fading under the weight of whatever peace you’d somehow become for her.

And you—God—you watched her like she was a miracle you hadn’t asked for but were suddenly terrified to lose.

Some nights you stayed awake just to feel the way her hand would reach for yours, even unconscious.

Like some part of her had already stopped pretending.

She didn’t pull away anymore.

Not when your knee brushed hers at dinner.

Not when you leaned against her shoulder during a movie.

Not when you walked into the room after a shower in her shirt, hair still dripping, and she paused like the world went quiet just seeing you.

“Wanda?” you asked.

She blinked. “What?”

“You’re staring.”

She smiled. “I know.”

And then came the night it stopped being something between you.

And became something shared.

You were curled on the couch, her head on your lap, fingers lazily playing with the edge of her sweater. She was half-asleep, wine glass abandoned on the floor, a soft playlist humming in the background.

You thought she was dreaming until she said:

“I want you to stay.”

You looked down. “I live here, remember?”

She shook her head against your thigh, eyes still closed. “Not for the contract. Just… stay. Tonight. Tomorrow. And the days after.”

You brushed a hand through her hair. “Is that a new clause?”

“It’s not fake,” she murmured.

And when she opened her eyes—tired, raw, full of something too fragile to name—you knew:

She meant it.

Every word. Every glance. Every touch.

So you leaned down.

Kissed her like you weren’t afraid anymore.

Like you’d already chosen her in a hundred quiet ways.

And when she pulled you down beside her—blanket tangled, breath shaky, heart finally, finally open— You stayed.

Not as her employee, not as her fake wife but as someone who loved her and wasn’t going anywhere.

[wonwunss]

–ᝰ.ᐟ✮ In a world where Choi Seungcheol commands boardrooms with sharp words and sharper standards, no one dares get close—until her.

To everyone else, he’s a calm, calculating CEO. But behind closed doors, it’s her voice that grounds him, her presence that quiets the noise.

pairing: CEO!seungcheol x f!reader

genre: fluff, CEO au, established relationship, comfort and emotional vulnerability, acts of service and gift giving, luxury setting, “just because” affection, clingy couple energy

word count: 2.1k

a/n: may this kind of love find me 🫣🫣😍

The meeting room was too loud for how little anyone was saying.

Seungcheol sat at the head of the table, not speaking, just watching. His expression didn’t give much away—but those who worked under him knew the silence was dangerous. And the flick of his pen against the glossy report file? A quiet warning shot.

“Redo this,” he said, voice low and measured, but with an edge sharp enough to silence the room.

“Yes, sir.”

He didn’t stay to hear excuses.

By the time he was back in his office, the ticking inside his head had grown unbearable. Deadlines, investors, expectations—stacked up like dominoes waiting to collapse. His fingers itched to loosen the collar of his shirt, but he didn’t. Not yet. He reached for his phone instead, already knowing who he needed.

He didn’t even think. Just pressed call.

It rang once.

Twice.

Then—

“Hi, Cheol.”

His breath left him all at once. A slow, quiet exhale, as if he hadn’t realized how tight his chest had been until he heard her voice.

“…Hey,” he said, a little rougher than he intended.

“Tough day?” she asked softly, like she already knew. She always knew.

Seungcheol leaned back in his chair, closing his eyes. The sunlight streaming in through the blinds painted slats of gold across his sharp features, but they softened, ever so slightly, with each second of her voice in his ear.

“The usual,” he muttered. “Numbers didn’t add up. People didn’t listen. You’re the only thing making sense today.”

She laughed—gentle and warm. “I hope that’s not just the exhaustion talking.”

“It’s not,” he replied instantly, and the speed of his answer made her go quiet for a second.

His eyes fluttered open. He stared out the window at the city skyline, but it wasn’t the view that grounded him. It was her.

“I didn’t mean to bother you,” he said after a beat. “I just… needed to hear you.”

“You never bother me.”

Silence stretched between them, but it was the kind that comforted, not strained.

“I wish I was there,” she added.

And God, he wished the same.

There were things he couldn’t say during the day. Not to his staff, not to anyone. He wasn’t cruel—just meticulous, precise. No-nonsense. And if that made people keep their distance, all the better. It made things easier.

Except when it came to her. With her, everything unraveled in the best way.

His shoulders finally slumped. “I’m in my office.”

“Lights off, sleeves rolled up?” she teased lightly.

A small smile tugged at the corner of his lips. “You know me too well.”

“I do.”

He was quiet for a moment. Then— “Talk to me,” he murmured. “Doesn’t matter what. Just… keep talking.”

So she did. She told him about her day, about the weird dream she had the night before, about the cat she saw perched dramatically on a taxi roof downtown. And Seungcheol—CEO, perfectionist, powerful—sat back and let her voice pour through the cracks of his armor like sunlight through broken blinds.

He didn’t need fixing. He just needed her. And somehow, without even trying, she was enough to make the world feel a little less loud.

The clock on the wall blinked 2:14 AM in soft red light.

Seungcheol unlocked the front door with a weary sigh, the click of the handle almost deafening in the stillness of the apartment. The kind of silence that stretched long after a day like his—after meetings gone sideways and numbers that danced too close to disaster.

He slipped his shoes off slowly, rolling his neck with a wince. Every muscle in his body ached from hours of tension, and all he had wanted by the end of it was to walk into the quiet, undisturbed dark and pass out.

But the lamp in the living room was on.

And so was she.

Curled up on the couch, blanket wrapped around her like armor, feet tucked beneath her. She blinked drowsily up at him, eyes soft and warm and a little guilty.

“…Hi,” she whispered, like she wasn’t sure if she was allowed to say it.

He blinked, not quite believing she was real for a moment. “You’re still awake?”

“You told me not to wait,” she murmured, pushing the blanket off her lap. “I tried. I really did.”

Seungcheol swallowed, guilt twisting somewhere low in his chest. He stepped closer, kneeling in front of her wordlessly.

“I didn’t want you to be tired,” he said, brushing a strand of hair from her cheek. “You have your presentation tomorrow.”

“And you had the kind of day that would’ve driven anyone else to put their fist through a wall,” she countered softly, resting her hand over his. “I wasn’t going to sleep not knowing how you were doing.”

His jaw clenched—not from anger, but the effort of keeping his emotions in check. Her voice, even this late, still made him feel like the tension in his bones was finally loosening. She always had that effect on him.

“You shouldn’t have waited,” he said again, but this time it came out gentler, almost pleading.

She just smiled, the kind of tired smile that still felt like home. “And you shouldn’t have to come back to an empty apartment after a day like that.”

He didn’t have anything to say to that. Because she was right.

Without a word, he leaned forward and pressed his forehead to hers. Her hands came up to cradle his face, thumbs brushing beneath his eyes. He felt like he could finally breathe.

“I missed you,” he said, voice a whisper against her lips.

“I’m right here.”

And she was. Warm and real and everything good in his life.

He stayed there for a moment, breathing her in, her presence calming the storm still lingering beneath his skin. Eventually, she tugged him toward the couch, and he followed, letting her wrap the blanket around both of them. His head dropped to her shoulder, and for the first time all day, he let his guard down.

Not the CEO. Not the man everyone walked on eggshells around.

Just Seungcheol. Just hers.

And when she pressed a soft kiss to his temple and whispered, “You did your best today,” that was all he needed.

He finally closed his eyes.

The presentation had gone better than she expected.

There had been nerves—of course there had. The weight of all those eyes on her, the pressure to deliver something flawless after weeks of late nights and revisions. But the moment it ended, and the conference room erupted in polite applause, she felt a weight lift from her shoulders.

Relief washed over her in waves.

Still, as she walked out of the building, the adrenaline began to fade, leaving only exhaustion behind. Her eyes fluttered shut briefly, the mid-morning sun warming her cheeks.

And then she saw him.

Leaning against the hood of his car, hair slightly tousled from the wind, sleeves rolled up to his forearms, sunglasses pushed into his hair. A paper bag in one hand, a drink carrier in the other.

And a bouquet of her favorite flowers cradled in the crook of his arm.

She froze, heart stuttering.

He looked up from his phone, then smiled when he saw her. The smile—the one that was just for her. The one he never wore in meetings or in boardrooms or in front of anyone else.

Her feet moved on instinct, almost running by the time she reached him.

“You—” she began, breathless. “What—?”

Seungcheol handed her the bouquet before she could finish.

“For your nerves,” he said casually, like showing up outside her office before 11AM with her favorite drink and a fresh raspberry croissant was normal. “And because I know you skipped breakfast.”

She blinked down at the flowers in her arms, the familiar colors and soft petals almost making her emotional. “Cheol…”

He held up the coffee. “Extra shot of vanilla. Just how you like it.”

She took it slowly, like if she moved too fast the whole moment might disappear.

“You didn’t have to—”

“I know,” he said simply. “That’s why I wanted to.”

His voice was quieter now. More tender. “You did good today. I’m proud of you.”

And just like that, everything she’d been holding together all morning threatened to unravel. The late nights, the self-doubt, the mental notes scribbled at 2AM—it all felt worth it, just to hear those words from him.

“I didn’t think you’d be up,” she whispered.

He reached out, tucking a stray hair behind her ear. “I wasn’t gonna miss this. Not after you stayed up for me.”

She smiled, blinking quickly to keep the tears at bay. “You’re unfair.”

“I know,” he said with a soft grin. “But I’m cute, so you’ll forgive me.”

“Barely.”

He chuckled, and then pulled her gently into his arms, careful not to crush the flowers. She melted against his chest, his scent grounding her in the quietest, sweetest way.

“I love you,” she mumbled into the fabric of his shirt.

His grip around her tightened. “I know. I love you too.”

The restaurant they headed to afterwards was the kind of place you didn’t find on Google Maps.

It didn’t need reviews. It didn’t need ads. The kind of place where your name alone got you a table—and Seungcheol’s name carried more weight than most.

Tucked into the top floor of an art gallery building, the restaurant opened out into floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city skyline. The air smelled of aged wine and freshly baked truffle bread. Gentle jazz played in the background, echoing off warm mahogany panels and velvet-draped walls.

When the hostess saw them walk in—his hand on the small of her back, her fingers curled into the front of his shirt—she bowed deeply, almost reverently.

“Welcome back, Mr. Choi. Your usual table?”

He nodded once, eyes flickering down to the woman beside him. “Yes. Thank you.”

Their table wasn’t in the center of the room. It was nestled into a corner, semi-enclosed by sheer drapes, with an uninterrupted view of the skyline. Private. Quiet. Safe.

And instead of sitting opposite her, Seungcheol guided her to the inside of the half-moon shaped booth, sliding in right beside her like it was second nature.

Because it was.

Their knees touched. Their shoulders bumped. His hand immediately found hers under the table.

“You’re really spoiling me today,” she said with a small laugh, glancing around at the gold-rimmed plates and the personalized menu printed with her name.

“You deserve it,” he said, simple as anything. “You killed it today.”

She blushed, tucking her face into his shoulder for a second before peeking up at him again. “So… just how expensive is this place?”

Seungcheol smirked. “You don’t want to know.”

“That bad?”

“Let’s just say…” he leaned in, brushing his nose against her temple, “I could’ve bought us a weekend in Paris. But you looked too pretty to make wait for a plane.”

She gawked at him, smacking his chest with the back of her hand. “Choi Seungcheol.”

“Worth it,” he said with a grin, catching her wrist and pulling her hand back to intertwine with his again. “Every cent.”

The waiter came and went like a ghost—present only to refill wine glasses and deliver each artful course with quiet precision. Caviar with crème fraîche. Handmade pasta rolled so thin it nearly dissolved on the tongue. Wagyu that melted the moment it touched her mouth.

But Seungcheol only had eyes for her.

“You always look at me like that,” she murmured at some point, cheeks still warm from the wine and the weight of his gaze.

“Like what?”

“Like I hung the stars.”

He tilted his head, thumb brushing her knuckles beneath the table. “Because you do. For me, you do.”

She couldn’t say anything to that without her heart falling out of her chest, so she leaned in and kissed him instead—just a short, sweet press of lips that left him smiling against her mouth.

“You know…” he whispered against her cheek, “if you ever want to quit your job and let me pamper you like this every day…”

“Nope,” she laughed, resting her head against his shoulder. “But I’ll let you keep feeding me wagyu if you insist.”

“Deal,” he said, pressing a kiss into her hair. “But you have to keep looking this proud of yourself. I like this version of you.”

She turned her face slightly toward his neck, murmuring, “You bring it out of me.”

And so they sat—shoulder to shoulder, hand in hand, the city beneath them, the world hushed around them—and for once, there were no meetings, no presentations, no pressure.

Just him. Just her. Just them.

Exactly where they always came back to.

[neellscapsule]

a teen . . . mom!?

summary | kara only wanted to get wine-drunk, she didn't expect the effects it would have . . . especially when it came to you, a forty —sixteen?— batmom.

pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x batmom! reader

warnings / tags | fluffy, super comic relief, teenager!reader is a menace to society. she physically and mentally age regresses but just because of a wine-day gone wrong :D

word count | 5.5k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)

this is not part of the kent!batmom!reader series. but it includes some of that. you don't need to read the other parts to understand it. this is a one shot, it won't have a continuation.

IT WAS A QUIET AFTERNOON IN THE STUDY ROOM.

Which, by Batfamily standards, meant only low chatter instead of emergency signals and rooftop injuries. The spring sun filtered through the tall windows, casting soft, golden patterns over the wood-paneled floors and worn rugs.

Jason leaned his weight lazily on one foot, cocking his arm back as he aimed a dart between two fingers. Across the room, Damian stood with his arms crossed, brows furrowed in the way that meant he was pretending not to care, but tracking every motion with the intensity of a hawk.

“Go on, Todd,” Damian said, in that smooth, faintly imperious voice. “Miss again and I’ll call it a mercy kill.”

Jason grinned. “You’re talking big for someone who lost three rounds to me last week.”

“It was two,” Damian snapped. “And I let you win the second.”

Jason threw. The dart thunked into the board, a perfect bullseye.

“Sure you did.”

Across the study, Cassandra was curled up in the corner armchair, legs tucked under her. She wore a thick navy hoodie and AirPods, bobbing her head to the beat only she could hear. She watched the dart game out of the corner of her eye, waiting for her turn, but didn't speak. She didn’t have to—Cass was good at communicating with glances alone.

Tim sat on the couch, cross-legged and half-focused on a tablet in his lap, scrolling through files Bruce had sent him earlier about recent LexCorp activity. But Bruce, sitting across from him with a fresh cup of black coffee, had started speaking, and Tim—curious as ever—had set the screen down, listening closely.

And then Dick spoke, that usual warmth lacing his voice like a current of sunlight breaking through a cloud.

“So…Mother’s Day’s coming up.”

Everyone looked up, heads turning like a lazy wave passing through the room.

Bruce arched a brow. “Already?”

“Two weeks out,” Dick replied, spinning a basketball on one finger. “Which means we have to start planning. Last year was amazing. We set the bar pretty damn high.”

Damian scoffed, just as his dart embedded itself with perfect aim. “Last year we attempted to make her breakfast and nearly set the kitchen on fire. How is that your definition of amazing?”

“She cried,” Dick said, eyes wide with dramatic flair. “She cried and told us it was the best day of her life. That makes it a win.”

Cass pulled one AirPod out and offered a soft, almost dreamy smile. “She loved the photo album we made.”

Tim nodded, now turning toward the conversation. “Yeah, we should do something else personalized this year. Not just gifts.”

Jason finally turned from the dartboard, expression a little more serious now. “She’s done so much for us. Like… how do you even thank someone for that? Don’t start with the mama's boy stuff—” He pointed at Dick, preemptively shutting him up. “You know what I mean.”

“I do,” Bruce said, quietly, and it silenced the room for a moment. Then, softer, “She deserves something good this year. We all do.”

“Agreed,” Tim murmured, folding his arms. “Let’s make it count.”

Then the sound came

A metallic grind, a low hum, a sudden, vibrating thud like a pressure valve being opened too quickly. The kind of sound only one place in the Manor could produce.

The Batcave.

Weapons were drawn before anyone spoke. Instinct took over. Damian’s sword was at his side before his feet hit the floor. Jason had his twin pistols unsnapped. Tim flipped his bo staff into his palm. Bruce stood, straight-backed and focused, something sharp behind his gaze.

Only Cass remained calm, pulling her AirPods out and rising silently, expression unbothered but watchful.

They knew the rule: the Batcave wasn’t open territory. Only a handful of outsiders had access through that entrance. Clark. Kara. Conner. Jon. Diana. No one else.

So they moved—quiet, fast, precise—descending into the dark corridor that led to the heart of their operations. Footsteps echoed over stone. Jason went first, shoulder to shoulder with Damian, both of them tense and silent. Behind them came Tim and Cass. Bruce brought up the rear, quiet as a shadow.

The moment the platform came into view, the sight gave them pause.

Kara stood near the central console, half-leaning on it like someone who wasn’t quite balanced. Her hair was slightly mussed, cheeks pink with either embarrassment or something stronger. Krypto sat loyally by her side, tail thumping slowly. She pursed her lips, shifting her weight, looking . . . guilty.

Clark was standing with his arms folded, his posture unusually rigid. His jaw worked the way it always did when he was trying very hard not to lose his temper. He was angry. Not just annoyed or uncomfortable. Angry.

He caught sight of Bruce and exhaled, visibly bracing himself.

“Clark?” Bruce’s voice was a deep, quiet thing. “What happened?”

The family eased slightly. No one lowered their guard entirely, but the weapons were sheathed, stowed, folded back into utility belts. If Clark was here, if Kara was here, it couldn’t be world-ending. Just… strange.

“Everything’s fine,” Clark said, too quickly.

She blinked slowly. “Almost.”

“Kara.” Clark’s voice was a warning now.

“What?” she said, rolling her eyes. “It is. Nobody’s dead. I only sorta screwed up.”

Bruce’s eyes narrowed. “Did something happen at the farm?”

“No,” Clark said firmly. “Nothing dangerous. Nothing permanent. It was—”

“Well—” Kara interrupted, eyebrows lifting as she crossed her arms. “That’s debatable.”

Clark elbowed her, not exactly subtle. “Kara.”

“I’m just being honest!” she whined, then gave a sheepish shrug. “It’s a little temporary. One hundred percent contained. Just… very slightly out of hand.”

Jason squinted. “Okay, what is this? Did someone open a Phantom Zone portal again? Did Jon break the time treadmill?”

“No,” Clark said, sighing. “No Phantom Zone. No timeline collapsing. It’s…a chemical situation. Temporary. Contained. Everything is going to go back to normal by tonight.”

Bruce narrowed his eyes. “Start from the beginning.”

“There was an experiment. LexCorp. Some remnants of a Luthor liquid serum Kara managed to—acquire.”

“Stole,” Kara muttered helpfully.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Stole. She thought it was wine.”

“In my defense, it looked like wine.”

“She and . . . Well, they drank it,” Clark said, louder now. “And things got… scrambled. The effects are temporary. The serum ages or de-ages the subject, depending on genetic compatibility.”

Kara looked deeply offended. “I was tipsy. It looked like Smallville summer wine, Clark! You made it!”

“I didn't think it was a mix of alien compounds! I wanted to serve her some wine!”

Tim interrupted, “Wait. What does this have to do with—”

And that’s when the voice rang out.

“Okay, what the hell is this place?”

It echoed from the shadows behind the console. A girl stepped out.

Sixteen, maybe. Her hair was unbrushed, tangled and thick, held back by a red bandana. She wore a denim overall, short-legged and patch-pocketed, clearly old and worn in, and over that, a red flannel flapping open, several sizes too big. Clark’s. Definitely Clark’s. And a pair of worn-out sneakers that had seen better days. Maybe better centuries.

She stared up at the stalactites overhead, mouth parted. The high ceilings of the Batcave. The holograms, the platforms, the frozen-in-time suits. Her shoes clacked awkwardly on the stone floor as she spun slowly around.

Her eyes, wide and suspicious, scanned the Batcave with fascination. “Are we in a mine shaft?” she asked, spinning slowly. “Is this one of those weird rich people train stations?”

Then she turned.

Wide, familiar eyes. That face, younger but still unmistakable. But unmistakably her.

You.

Or, more specifically, you at sixteen.

Tim’s voice cracked in the quiet.

“…Mom?”

You paused mid-spin. “Mom? Who’s a mom?”

Bruce moved first, slowly stepping forward, as if any sudden motion might startle her off a cliff. You looked at him, eyes narrowing in confusion.

“Who are y’all?” you asked, voice thick with a Kansas twang, the vowels long and slow. “Is this a movie set? Is this, like… NASA?”

Jason dropped both his arms. “No. No, no, no, no.”

Kara raised a hand sheepishly. “Oops?”

Clark groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is what I meant. Temporal regression. Not full time travel, just... age reversal. It’ll wear off. Eventually.”

“You turned our mother into a teenager?” Tim shouted, voice breaking.

“Okay, stop sayin’ that. I don’t know what kinda cult this is, but I ain’t nobody’s mama.”

You take a half-step back from the sudden wall of strangers, your wide eyes darting between the dark-clad group in front of you and the enormous computer screen glowing behind them. You don’t know what to make of any of it. You definitely don’t know what to make of them.

You reach instinctively for Clark’s sleeve.

It’s familiar, solid. You grip the flannel he let you borrow earlier tighter around your shoulders, the hem hanging nearly to your knees. You feel ridiculous in it, but also... kind of protected. The way you always do around your big brother.

You don’t even try to hide the fact that you’re pressed against Clark’s arm like you’re glued to it. Not because you’re scared. Not really. But because everything around you feels like something out of a sci-fi channel marathon you fell asleep to once. And frankly, you don’t trust the ground not to move. The ceiling’s way too high. The lights are all weird and humming.

And not a single pig in sight.

Also, Clark smells like safety. You’ve always thought so. Even now, when he’s tense as all hell and fidgeting with the collar of his shirt and shooting Kara a look that clearly says you’re going to pay for this later, you can still hear his heartbeat under your cheek. 

“Clark,” you hiss, whispering to him like he’s your lifeline. “Why are there ninjas in a cave?”

“They’re not ninjas,” he says softly.

“They’re totally ninjas.” You look at the smallest one with the sword. “That one’s even got a blade. Don’t try and gaslight me, Clark.”

“That’s Damian.”

“Oh, you named the ninja.”

“He’s your—” Clark stops himself and visibly decides against finishing that sentence. “Let’s just say he’s family.”

You blink at him, then blink again at the short, brooding boy who’s glaring at you like you just insulted his entire lineage.

“Family?” you echo. “We talkin’ blood? Or, like, Thanksgiving-level ‘you have to sit next to Uncle Steve even though he smells like sardines’ kind of family?”

He doesn’t answer. Krypto, saint of your sanity, lets out a soft huff and nuzzles into your side. You crouch immediately and tangle your fingers into his fur. He’s warm and real and familiar. Thank god.

“You get it, don’tcha, boy? This is all nuts.”

Krypto wags his tail once. You're taking that as agreement.

Kara, who’s been hanging back trying to look innocent and failing spectacularly, steps forward like she’s about to deliver a very complicated math presentation without knowing how to count.

“So,” she says brightly. “Funny story…”

You tilt your head. “That’s never how good stories start.”

“Well… remember when you were helping Ma Kent with the garden and we had dinner and then we went to the cellar?”

“No.”

“Okay, fair, because you got drunk off of Clark’s summer wine—”

“She did not get drunk,” Clark interjects, looking scandalized. “She sipped half a cup.”

“She’s a lightweight, Clark!” Kara cries.

You raise your hand. “Hey! I’m young, not weak.”

“You’re almost a baby,” he mutters, looking personally betrayed.

You hold up your hands. “I’m whatever age I was this morning, which, as far as I remember, is still sixteen, and none of this explains why I’m here.”

“Well, here’s the thing,” Kara says, putting her hands on her hips. “There was a bottle. We thought it was apple cider. But it was glowing, and probably from Luthor’s lab, and I was dared to try it—”

“No one dared you,” Clark says.

“—and I may have poured some into the wine without realizing it was some kind of… de-aging compound.”

You blink at her. “You what?”

Kara shrugs with the energy of someone who absolutely knows they’re in trouble but is too hungover to care. “On the bright side, it’s temporary.”

You slowly straighten up and stare at her. “You turned me into a minor.”

“Temporarily!”

Clark winces. “It’s wearing off by tonight.”

“Does the IRS know that?” you ask, before immediately following it up with, “Wait, do I have a mortgage?”

“No,” Bruce says dryly. It’s the first thing he’s said in several minutes. “You live here.”

You point at him. “You say that like it makes sense.”

“Bug, look,” the old nickname slipping from your brother's mouth caught your attention again. “This is where you live, actually. You are forty. You are married to Bruce. And you have five children alongside him. And these five here are those children.”  

“. . . So, like, is this real? You didn’t drug me and put me in, like, a bat-themed escape room, right?”

“Why would I drug you?” Clark asks, mortified.

“Why wouldn’t you?” you shoot back. “I once shaved your eyebrows in your sleep when I was mad about you eating my pie. This could be revenge.”

Clark groans. The kids stare at you.

“Okay, wow,” Tim mutters. “She’s always been like this.”

“Worse, apparently,” Damian mutters.

Jason finally groans and leans against the cave wall like the full absurdity has just settled in. “This is worse than that time Bruce got turned into a baby.”

“I’m sorry—what?” you ask immediately.

Bruce doesn’t respond. His eye twitches.

Clark clears his throat. “Look, Y/N—”

“Don’t call me that,” you say automatically. “It’s too grown-up. You make it sound like I pay bills.”

“Well...you do pay bills.”

“I’m sixteen,” you declare, backing up, one hand on your hip. “The only thing I’m legally responsible for is not failing chemistry and remembering to brush my teeth.”

Tim raises a hand. “Technically, if she’s back in her sixteen-year-old body, can she still sign legal documents? Do we have to contact a guardian?”

Clark rubs both hands down his face. “Don’t say things like that.”

“I’m calling Ma,” you announce. “Or maybe Pa. Actually no—wait. I don’t have my phone. Someone took it.”

You turn to Clark, grabbing the front of his shirt again like you’re about to confess your sins. “Clark. I’m scared. This is like one o’ them dreams I get when I eat too much bacon.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Clark says, rubbing your back like you’re five and just skinned your knee. “You’re safe. Just stay here until the effects wear off.”

“For how long?” you ask, nose wrinkling.

“A few hours,” Kara chirps.

You stare blankly.

“Hours? With them?”

Clark starts steering you gently toward the stairs. “Come on. Let’s get you something to eat. Something with bread. Lots of bread.”

“You’re only saying that ‘cause last time I drank, I rode Pa’s tractor into the pond.”

“And I had to fish you out. Yes. That’s why.”

As Clark helps you up the steps, you glance back at all of them again. Still strangers. Still bizarre. But they’re watching you like you matter. Like you’re something more than a tipsy farm girl in borrowed flannel.

You blink slowly and lean your head on Clark’s arm.

“Hey, Clark?”

“Yeah?”

“…Do I really kiss him?”

Clark laughs. “More than once.”

“… Wow.”

And you giggle the whole way up.

You’re still chewing on the corner of your sleeve when the smells start hitting you.

Warm bread. Roasted corn. A little honey, maybe. Something with sage. You blink up from where you’ve been pretending to count how many ninjas live in this cave—your current estimate is “too many”—and sniff again.

That’s cornbread. Your cornbread. The one Ma Kent makes when it’s been a long day in the fields, and she doesn’t want anyone talking until everyone’s had a slice. And that’s—oh lord—that’s peach cobbler. And is that...

“Is that fried green tomatoes?” you ask, wide-eyed, following your nose like a bloodhound.

You abandon Clark’s arm like it’s a shed skin, Krypto trotting beside you as you charge up the stairs from the Batcave like a girl possessed. 

Then you’re in the dining room.

The long oak table stretches out before you like something from a royal banquet, except instead of swans carved out of ice, it’s biscuits, golden and stacked in neat towers. Thick slabs of pot roast steaming in heavy, gravy-soaked platters. A skillet of corn pudding. Macaroni that’s baked right, none of that watery cafeteria stuff. Greens swimming in broth. Sliced ham with a brown sugar crust. Butter melting off the edges of everything.

You stand there, slack-jawed, a hand pressed to your stomach like maybe you dreamt this. Like maybe the cider and wine and weird glowing juice from earlier invented this whole fantasy.

“Did I die?” you ask out loud. “Is this heaven?”

“No, Miss Y/N,” says the man in the apron, stepping forward with all the dignity of a knight approaching a queen. “But I shall take the compliment.”

You blink at him. He’s tall, older, with the kind of soft British voice you’d normally only hear narrating nature documentaries. “Who are you?”

“I’m Alfred,” he says with a small bow of his head. “And dinner is served.”

You don’t need to be told twice.

The chair closest to the center of the table is pulled out for you, and you don’t even question it. You plop down like a sack of corn feed, already reaching for a biscuit. The moment it hits your mouth, you moan.

“Oh my god, this is illegal. This has gotta be a federal crime. What did you put in this?”

“Flour, butter, buttermilk,” Alfred replies dryly. “And an abundance of affection.”

You point at him, chewing. “Don’t get all poetic on me, mister. I’m emotionally vulnerable. But I like you, let me tell you that.”

“Most do,” he replies without missing a beat, disappearing into the kitchen again.

Around the table, you spot the not-ninjas from the cave—who, apparently, are your kids. They’re spread out across the long, dramatic dining table like they belong there. Like they’ve sat there with you before. Hundreds of times. 

There’s a quiet comfort to the way they occupy the space. The scraping of forks, the occasional head tilted in your direction like they’re watching a ghost move and breathe and laugh.

You shovel another bite of soup in your mouth and sigh contentedly.

“Oh my lord. Y’all eat like this every day?”

Jason, who is halfway through his second helping of roasted chicken, snorts. “Not unless you’re around. You’re the only one Alfred spoils like this.”

“Damn right he does,” you say, pointing with your spoon. “He knows quality when he sees it.”

Across the table, Damian snorts under his breath. You shoot him a look.

“What’s your name again? Demian?”

“Damian,” he corrects you, like it causes him actual pain.

“Right. You’re the little ninja.”

“I’m not—”

“He’s not a ninja,” Jason interrupts. “He’s just angry and carries weapons.”

“Which is the definition of a ninja,” you say, nodding solemnly. “A tiny, lethal ninja.”

Damian’s mouth opens. Then closes. Then opens again. “You’re more annoying as a teenager than I expected.”

You grin. “And you’re smaller than I imagined. So we’re even.”

“Mom,” Dick cuts in, gently, like he’s trying to keep the dinner from devolving into actual combat. “Are you sure you don’t remember anything?”

You pause, spoon halfway to your mouth again.

You glance at him. At his warm eyes. The subtle curve of his mouth when he calls you mom, like it’s something sacred. Something that makes him feel safe.

Five of them. Five. Each one with eyes too watchful, expressions too full of restrained emotion. You don’t remember raising them. You don’t remember them at all. But you can’t deny how much it seems they remember you.

They all look at you like you hung the moon. Or maybe like you were the moon, and just fell out of the sky.

You shake your head. “I don’t. I mean… y’all are very sweet. You seem like good people. But I don’t know you. Not really.”

A pause. The mood drops just slightly.

“But,” you add, offering a crooked smile, “I can tell you’re mine.”

Tim blinks at you. “How?”

“Because you all look like you wanna cry, but you’re pretending to be cool about it,” you say, reaching for your bread roll. “That’s textbook Kent behavior.”

Cass sits silently to your right, scooping some greens onto her plate. She doesn’t push. Just eats, and watches, and offers a small nod when you meet her eyes. You don’t know her, but you like her already. She seems like someone who doesn’t talk unless it’s important.

Tim’s two seats down, fussing with the tablecloth and poking at his food like he’s too stressed to eat. He hasn’t stopped looking between you and Bruce since the meal started.

You still haven’t really figured out that part yet. Bruce sits at the head of the table. Quiet. Watching. You’ve been sneaking glances at him in between bites of roasted potatoes, trying to piece together why your chest gets tight when he looks away. He’s handsome, sure—rich people often are—but it’s something else. Something behind the way his eyes soften when he watches you laugh. 

You’re not dumb. That’s not a stranger’s look. That’s something older, deeper, thicker than time.

But he hasn’t said much. Just listened. And you’re not sure whether you’re more confused by him or comforted by him.

“So,” you say, pointing your fork at him this time. “You’re the one I’m supposedly in love with.”

The room goes very still. Even Damian’s fork hesitates mid-air. You keep chewing, eyes locked with Bruce, and watch as the corner of his mouth—just barely—twitches.

“I—um—” Dick makes a strangled sound. “Maybe we ease into that conversation?”

“Why?” you ask, grinning now. “We courtin’ or somethin’? Did I leave myself a note? Some Kansas-girl-doomsday-plan in case I ever forgot? ‘If lost, return to the tall broody guy with the eyes like storm clouds’?”

Jason barks a laugh and promptly chokes on a string bean. Cass slaps his back without even glancing at him. Tim exhales like someone who’s just been released from a hostage situation.

Bruce, however, finally speaks.

“We married quite the years ago,” he says, voice low and careful. “One here. Another in Smallville. You, obviously, enjoyed the one at your house the most.”

Your chewing slows.

For a moment, something in your chest aches, sharp and sudden, like it’s remembering something your mind hasn’t caught up with.

“Well,” you say after a second, softer now, “I can believe that.”

You look around the table. At these strange, wonderful people with your name on their tongues. You don’t know how or why. You don’t remember the hugs or the heartbreak or the nights they must’ve fallen asleep on your shoulder. But something deep down—a bone-deep kind of knowing—tells you you’d die for each one of them without blinking.

And you feel it more clearly now, under all the noise and gravy and jokes and silence.

You feel safe.

“I’m real lucky,” you murmur, almost to yourself.

Cass tilts her head.

“Hmm?” Dick asks, gently.

You clear your throat, suddenly shy. “Just… reckon I got no clue how I ended up here, but I can tell you it ain’t bad. If this is the future—present? Whatever it is—I think I must’ve done somethin’ real good to get here.”

Damian finally speaks.

“You raised us,” he says, deadpan. “And you did it exceptionally.”

You blink. “Pardon?”

Damian sets down his utensils, folds his hands neatly, and repeats in that clipped, matter-of-fact voice: “You raised us. Me. The others. You taught us how to trust. How to care. You made this house into a home. You protected us. All of us.”

You stare at him.

“And,” Damian adds slowly, “you taught Alfred how to make fried chicken that actually slaps.”

Jason nods in agreement.

You laugh again, louder this time. It bursts out of you in a way that makes Cass’s eyes soften and Bruce’s head tilt just slightly in your direction. You laugh until you have to wipe your eyes on your sleeve and Alfred appears beside you like a magician, handing you a cloth napkin as though he’s been anticipating that exact outcome since the meal began.

“I like it here,” you say honestly, smile still lingering.

No one answers. They don’t have to. The warmth in the room does it for them. The shared glances. The way Tim is no longer fidgeting, how Dick looks just a little less like he’s trying to hold everything together with charm and string. How Jason has stopped guarding his plate. How Cass lets her fingers rest beside yours on the table. How Damian doesn’t look away.

You’re sixteen and lost and missing whole years of your life, but somehow you’re sitting here in a place that feels like it waited just for you. A place where the people around you speak of you not like you’re missing—but like you never left.

You glance at Bruce again.

And you think—not think, you feel—that whatever you’ve forgotten, whatever’s waiting when this all wears off, it’s something you’d want to run back to with open arms.

Maybe even something that’s already been waiting.

You don’t feel the moment it happens.

There’s no dramatic surge of power, no flash of memory overtaking you like lightning. No cosmic thunder or shaking ground. Just warmth. A deep, complete warmth that seeps in from your spine and settles into your limbs like summer sunlight after a storm.

You are sleeping.

Somewhere in the manor, the halls are quiet. The grandfather clock in the entryway ticks along like it always does, neither hurried nor idle. The windows let in pale blue light, that in-between shade that hovers after sunset but before darkness. A cool wind moves through the trees outside, rustling the leaves in that specific, low, lulling way that only wind in a big old yard can. The world outside breathes, and so do you.

You’re still. Curled under thick covers that smell like lavender and laundry soap and a home you somehow never stopped belonging to. Kara’s gentle voice is long gone now, her apologetic explanation about molecular re-stabilization and Kryptonian neural interference left behind like a bookmark in a story already finished.

You sleep through it. Through the moment when everything settles into place again. Through the return of every year you’ve lived. Every scar and every birthday candle and every night you stayed up late just to fold clothes for five kids. You don’t jolt awake when it happens. You don’t startle or sit up or gasp.

You just breathe deeper.

And by the time the moment passes, you’re forty again.

A mother. A partner. A Kent from Kansas and a Wayne by choice, tangled up in one long, complicated, impossibly lucky life.

You wake up slowly. Like your body’s been waiting for you to come back.

The room is dim, the bedside lamp off, the curtains partly drawn. You shift under the covers and let out a soft groan as your joints stretch, your muscles easing from the hours of sleep. You recognize the weight in your bones. The familiar slight pull in your shoulder from when you helped Damian fix that punching bag mount last month. The dull, expected ache in your lower back you’ve had since you fell asleep on the couch with Jason a year ago and never quite recovered from it.

And you smile.

You sit up in bed slowly, pushing the comforter aside. Your feet hit the floor. The carpet’s soft under your toes, plush and warm from sunlight that must’ve sat there for hours earlier. You pad across the room, rubbing the sleep from your eyes, your mind still gently fogged but clear in all the ways that matter.

 You know who you are. You remember your life. Your family. Your name. Every moment of it.

Every child. Every heartbreak. Every fight at the dinner table. Every embrace on the front porch. Every night Bruce reached for your hand under the blankets and you found him waiting there, steady as ever.

You shuffle into the bathroom and splash water on your face. No panic. No rush. Just the ordinary, heavy-limbed sort of wakefulness that comes after a long nap. You see your reflection in the mirror and smile faintly—your face is yours again. Older, but in a way you’ve grown to love. The lines around your eyes aren’t flaws; they’re maps of laughter and worry and too many hours squinting at homework papers and birthday lists.

You pull on a fresh pair of sweats and one of Bruce’s soft and old shirts from the dresser drawer. You don’t even think about it. Just slip it over your head like you’ve done a hundred times before. It smells like cedar and ink and something deeper, something unmistakably him.

You don’t bother with shoes. The floor is cool beneath your soles as you make your way down the hallway. The manor is hushed, and you walk like someone who belongs here—because you do.

The house remembers you. The creak in the third stair. The way the light hits just right through the windows near the library. The faint scent of coffee that always lingers near the kitchen no matter the hour. You pass framed photos along the hall—Cass’s first dance recital, Tim’s high school graduation, Damian in a rare candid moment on a horse—and your heart tightens, swells, relaxes all at once.

You pause in front of one: Bruce and you on the Kent farm, both of you squinting against the sun, his arm snug around your waist, your mouth caught in mid-laugh. You touch the frame gently, then keep walking.

You don’t have to ask where he is. You know.

Bruce has a particular silence that follows him. Not a cold one. Not empty. But heavy and meaningful, like the kind of quiet that makes everything else make sense. You follow it like a trail, soft-footed, slow. Your fingers trailing along the hall as you go. You’re still half-asleep, and your body knows it—still soft around the edges, still sunk in that liminal warmth that only comes from a nap where the world was finally allowed to pause.

You find him in his study.

He’s seated at his desk, the lamp beside him casting a warm halo of golden light over his hands and jaw. His jacket is off. Sleeves rolled up. Shirt slightly rumpled. There’s a book open in front of him, and for a second you think he’s reading, but then he glances up the moment you enter.

And when he sees you—barefoot, sleepy-eyed, wearing his shirt and nothing else—he smiles.

Not a smirk. Not one of those sharp, fleeting things that cross his face in public. But a true, quiet smile. The kind that starts small and deep and grows only enough to be felt, not flaunted.

You don’t say anything at first. You walk across the room, slow and unhurried, like your body knows exactly what it needs before your mouth even thinks to speak.

Then, voice gravelly with sleep, you mutter the words like a kiss:

“Hello, handsome.”

Bruce leans back in his chair just slightly, like the sight of you is all he needs to let the weight of the day fall from his shoulders.

He watches you for a second, just a beat longer than necessary. Not because he doesn’t recognize you. But because he does. Because you’re you again, fully and completely, and he doesn’t need to check, doesn’t need to ask.

His voice is low, fond. “Welcome back.”

You don’t hesitate. You step close to the chair, and with all the ease in the world, you sink into his lap.

His arms go around you instantly.

It’s instinct, that part. Like breathing. Like gravity. His hand settles on your lower back, firm and grounding. His other brushes a strand of hair from your face and tucks it behind your ear. You curl into him, cheek against his shoulder, eyes half-closed again, your entire body relaxing like it’s found the softest part of home.

You sigh.

“Long day, huh?” you murmur.

Bruce chuckles quietly against your temple. “You could say that.”

You both fall quiet for a while. He holds you like he’s not sure he’ll get the chance again. Like he’s afraid even now that it could all slip away. You don’t rush him. You just lean into him, letting your arms drape around his neck, one hand resting at the back of his head, fingers threading into the thick hair there.

“I remember everything,” you whisper.

Bruce’s hand tightens at your waist, just for a moment.

“I know,” he says. “I could tell the second I saw you.”

You breathe deep, your nose brushing the side of his neck. He smells like paper and ink and something darker, something quiet and unmistakably safe. You don’t need to say the words out loud. You know he hears them anyway.

Still, after a moment, you lift your head and tilt his chin to face you.

“I missed you,” you say.

“I was right here,” he replies.

“I know,” you smile faintly. “But I missed me, too. I missed us.”

Bruce’s eyes are soft. His thumb rubs a slow, steady circle against your side, anchoring you there.

“You came back,” he says.

“I always would,” you murmur. “You know that.”

He doesn’t answer. He doesn’t have to.

You stay like that for a long time. No need to move. No one asking questions. No world-ending alarms or high-tech misfires or impossible missions. Just this. Just his arms and your breath and the soft ticking of the clock on the wall.

Eventually, he speaks again.

“The kids—”

“I remember them,” you interrupt gently. “All of them. Every last impossible, wonderful one.”

He exhales slowly. You feel it in his chest, the way it unwinds him.

“I said some ridiculous things,” you add after a beat, laughing under your breath. “Told you I’d testify against myself for casserole. Called you ‘sir.’”

“You also asked if I owned the bank.”

“Do you?”

He hums. “Technically.”

You smile against his neck. “I’m never gonna live that down.”

“No,” he says. “But they loved you for it.”

You lift your head again, your voice quieter now. “They really okay?”

“They missed you. Every minute.”

He presses a kiss to your forehead, soft and slow, and holds you there like the ground beneath him finally stopped shaking.

And when your eyes finally close again, warm and safe in the circle of his arms, you know—without a shadow of a doubt—that you came back to exactly where you’re meant to be.

Home.

[whor3ing]

𝐂𝐎𝐍𝐓𝐑𝐎𝐋𝐋𝐄𝐃 𝐕𝐀𝐑𝐈𝐀𝐁𝐋𝐄𝐒 | 𝐒.𝐑

― 𝒂 𝒔𝒑𝒆𝒏𝒄𝒆𝒓 𝒓𝒆𝒊𝒅 𝒃𝒍𝒖𝒓𝒃

▶︎ ၊၊||၊ SO FAR SO GOOD , INHALER

dom!spencer reid x f!reader

WARNINGS : smut, dom!reid, analyzing you, fingering, riding his fingers while he works, cock-warming, riding, scientific talk

𝐀𝐋𝐋 𝐂𝐇𝐀𝐑𝐀𝐂𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐒 𝐀𝐑𝐄 𝟏𝟖+

You’re whining again.

Spencer doesn’t look up from the screen. He’s deep in a case—some string of cold murders with strange time signatures and geographic triangulation—and you’re in his lap, completely naked, straddling one thigh like a pillow princess.

“Spencer,” you whisper, hands tugging at his shirt. “Spencer, please, I’m bored.”

“You said you’d be good,” he replies calmly, clicking through GPS coordinates. “Fifteen minutes ago. You lasted five.”

“I need you,” you murmur, grinding down just slightly on his thigh. “Just for a minute.”

“I’m working,” he says, tone clipped but not cruel. “Serial offender. Multi-state. Victimology inconsistencies. Hush.”

You pout, trying to kiss at his jaw. He dodges effortlessly, still reading. Still ignoring you.

So you whimper—soft, desperate.

He freezes.

And without looking, his right hand reaches down, cups between your thighs, and slides two fingers inside you in one swift, practiced motion.

You gasp—loud and sharp—and he finally glances over, arching an eyebrow like you’ve just interrupted a lecture.

“You’re soaked,” he says blandly, as if noting a weather report. “Completely saturated. Did whining actually get you off?”

“Spencer—” you try, but his fingers curl just right and you choke on a moan.

“I’m not stopping my work,” he says, thrusting slowly, methodically, like he's testing angles. “But clearly you need… containment.”

You squirm, hips rolling against his hand, desperate for more. He pumps his fingers lazily, detached. Detached, but devastatingly accurate.

“Pelvic tilt increasing,” he notes absently, eyes back on the case file. “Clenching hard, too. That’s involuntary. Your body’s responding to stimulation faster than average.”

“Please—more—”

“I said I’m working,” he says again, but you feel the slight edge in his voice now—the tension under the cool. “If you want something, you’re going to have to work for it.”

He withdraws his fingers—slick, wet, shining—and sucks them into his mouth, tasting, evaluating. You nearly whine at the sight.

Then he shifts back in the chair slightly, unbuckles his belt with one hand, still scrolling through photos with the other, and finally pulls his cock free—hard and leaking.

“Ride me,” he says simply. “Quietly. Don’t interrupt my train of thought.”

You scramble into position, your hands braced on his shoulders, and he doesn’t help—doesn’t even glance at you as you lower yourself onto his cock, inch by inch, your breath shaking with the stretch.

“You’re taking me well,” he murmurs, eyes still on the monitor. “Posterior wall pressure feels ideal. You’ve been craving this.”

Your body jolts as you bottom out. You’re full. Stuffed. And he’s acting like this is a peer-reviewed study.

You move. Slow at first, careful. Spencer barely reacts—just exhales through his nose as he taps on the keyboard.

“Your heart rate’s spiked. So has mine,” he says under his breath. “Fascinating.”

You grind harder. The friction unbearable. Your breath hitches, moans bubbling up—and he finally looks at you, eyes sharp and dark.

“You were told to be quiet.”

“But—Spencer—”

He shifts his hips up hard—one deep, brutal thrust—and you cry out.

“That,” he murmurs, tone clinical again, “was the anterior fornix. Your scream confirms the angle.”

You clench around him, hard. He hisses.

“You want me to lose control?” he asks, voice low now, dangerous. “You want me to ruin this chair and forget my case and fuck you like you’re the only thing I care about right now?”

You nod, frantic. “Yes—yes, please, I need—”

His hands clamp down on your hips. Tight.

“Then ride me like you mean it,” he growls. “Show me why you’re worth the interruption.”

You do.

You bounce on his cock like your life depends on it, rhythm breaking, breath ragged, tears threatening to spill from sheer overstimulation. Spencer watches you like a living experiment—eyes locked to your face, then your tits, then where you’re split open on him.

“Look at you,” he murmurs. “Completely out of control. My cock’s buried in you, and all you can do is sob.”

You whimper, thighs shaking. “I’m close—I’m gonna—”

He reaches between your legs, pressing one precise circle to your clit, and you scream—body locking up as your orgasm hits like a truck.

“There,” he whispers. “There’s the involuntary tremor. Muscular contraction. Perfect.”

You’re still coming when he thrusts up hard again—once, twice—and spills inside you with a soft groan, warm and thick.

The office is dead silent except for the sound of your breath.

He strokes your back gently, still seated deep inside you.

“Better?” he asks.

You nod against his neck, boneless.

“Good,” he says, glancing back at the screen. “Now let me finish this report. And if you distract me again…”

His cock twitches inside you, wet and warm and perfectly coated with his come just as much as your own.

“…you’ll be riding me until I solve the case.”

𖧧 𝑪𝒐𝒎𝒑𝒍𝒆𝒕𝒆 𝑴𝒂𝒔𝒕𝒆𝒓𝒍𝒊𝒔𝒕

🖇 - @chriss-slutt @55sturn @chrysiie @il0vey0um0st @trustinsturniolos @ivydre4ms @raes-library @mattsplaything @emely9274 @pip4444chris @whore4mattsturniolo @sweetshuga @courta13 @divinesturn @aaliyahsturniolo @chris-hallelujah @mi-co-uk @ivysturnss @sweetpeabreezyree @christophersgf @bluestriips @angelic-sturniolos111 @shadowthesim237 @moond0llie @eeyoresturnz @ellssturn @fratbrochrisgf @teddystvrns @pvssychicken @ribbonlovergirl @chrisspussygang @vanteguccir @tits4matt @bambisturns @luvs4matt @delilahsturniolo @fadedstvrn @ariieeesworld @oopsiedaisydeer @rubyychriss @babyt0matoes @kenah-sturniolo @desturns <3

[huh-i-guess]

Fever

(Task force 141 x F!reader)

Summary: While out on a mission you are injected with a substance that might lead to a shift in the dynamics between the 141.

Warnings: SMUT 18+, sex pollen, fingering, dub-con/non-con (under the influence of sex pollen), choking, nasty Simon, Gaz has morals

Word Count: ~ 4.2k

(Reader's callsign is Pepper)

I don't own MW2, the characters, or the gif above.

“What the fuck was that?” You shouted as you felt a sharp pricking sensation on your left ass cheek. You reached behind you to feel what was causing the sensation and groaned as you felt a syringe protruding from your behind. You looked down and noted that you had stepped on a pressure plate of some kind and triggered the laboratory’s defense mechanism.

“Oh fuck, lass.” Johnny mumbled.

“Shit, Pepper.” Gaz exclaimed in disbelief.

“No fucking way. Why does this shit always happen to me?” You yanked the dart-like needle from your behind and examined the leftover contents. The remaining contents appeared to be a blue syrup-like fluid. You sighed and pocketed the syringe hoping you could take it back to base to have it examined by the scientists at the lab. 

“Pepper, what was that?” Price called over the comms hearing the distress in everyone’s voices. Your thoughts ran at a mile a minute as you tried to figure out if you should tell your captain, that you probably had a mild crush on and always wanted to impress, that you just stepped on a trap. Or if you should lie. You hated lying to Price. It felt like you were letting him down and any time you did, you found yourself immediately retracting your statement and telling him the truth hoping he’d forgive your indiscretion. You readied your mouth to let out some kind of answer but snapped your mouth shut as you heard Gaz from your right side, “Looks like they tranqed Pepper or something. We were sweeping the lab and she was the first one in.” You turned your head toward Gaz and offered him a look that was a mix of thankfulness and regret. 

“Shite. You're still standing, lieutenant?” Price probed in a tone that, only those close to him could tell, was full of doubt and concern.

“Yes sir.” You pushed further into the lab taking extra care where your steps landed. The lab had been recently abandoned by russian terrorists working on some kind of bioweapon. You could only hope that you didn’t just get dosed with whatever they were concocting. As the three of you pressed further into the dingy lab you felt like the mass of your body was slowly doubling. 

“Soap. Gaz. If I drop, I need two to keep moving. We need to get this intel out of here as soon as we find it.” You could faintly hear the heavy footsteps of the terrorists behind you.

“No way in hell we’re leaving you behind.” Gaz contended. 

“Listen I-” 

You were quickly interrupted by Laswell’s voice in your ear, “Pepper. Evac will get to you and the boys in 11 minutes. It’ll be 2 clicks north of your current location. We’ll get you to the safe house from there.” 

“Copy.” You replied as Soap took a step closer and fixed his mouth to ready a response to your order. 

“Lass I don-”

“Listen. We don't have time for this. I don’t know what I got hit with but I know that at the moment we have a job to do. Let’s keep moving while I can and clear the files we came for. You will keep moving if I drop and that’s final. This mission can't be a waste of time.” You were met with an apprehensive “Yes Ma’am” and a “got it LT” and you snapped your head around to continue sweeping the lab. 

You knew you were being harsh but if you gave them room to argue you’d be stuck here going back and forth with them about it. Truthfully it was a ruse to make it look like you weren’t basically shitting bricks. You couldn’t stop the thoughts that flew through your mind.  I’m going to die today. Holy fuck I’m not making it out of this. I don’t know what I got hit with. How long do I have? You didn’t have much going on in your home life so the thought of a family didn’t even cross your mind until you thought about who around you did have one. Soap had his sisters back in Scotland that loved to “force” him to watch those really crappy rom-coms that he claimed he hated so much but then recommended for team bonding nights. Then you had Gaz who had his mom waiting at home for him. She always sent him care packages with little hand written notes that gave him updates on the status of his neighbors’ cat who had slowly been making itself comfortable on their property back in London. She even sent him photos of the cheeky little tuxedo cat. Your mind shifted from thoughts about yourself to thoughts about them. I have to get these boys out of here. They have so much going for them. They really are some of the best we have to offer. I can’t let them down. If I can't get out of here at least they can. 

Gaz went to the computer and plugged in a decryption device and began to sift through the scientist's digital files while Soap went through some of the scattered papers left in the room.

“They were in such a rush to get out of here they weren’t even effective at scrubbing their drives. Pep, I think I might have something.” You walked to the computer Gaz was stationed at and noticed a folder titled “Project Vitality”. 

“Good job, Gaz get it and we go. Soap anything?”

“A couple of poorly redacted files with the same name.” Soap chipped from your left. You made your way to him and patted his shoulder in praise.

“Alright we gotta move.” You heard the footsteps boom as the incoming enemies approached. You felt yourself slowly start to stall and noticed you had a difficult time focusing your eyes. It was like you were wearing a pair of glasses that weren’t meant for you and you couldn’t take them off. You willed your eyes to focus but it was becoming a hassle. Fuck me. You turned your head to Soap on your left and said, “Soap I need you to take point on the way out. I'll watch our backs as we exit.”

“Are you-” he started then pressed out a short, “Will do.” The look on his face was filled with so much concern, that for his sake, you almost wanted him to ask you if you were okay. He turned and rushed out of the room followed by Gaz and you at the back. The three of you navigated the winding corridors of the combatant base and made your way back, passing the rooms you had previously cleared. 

“Pepper. How we doing?” Price questioned over comms.

“Got the documents and drives, sir.”

“I know you did. That’s not what I’m asking about.”

“What kind of answer do you want, Cap?

“You know what I want to hear.” You knew Price wanted the truth but you couldn't let him know the fact that you might be starting to lose motor function and that the mass of your body felt like it had doubled. There was a large part of you that wanted to make him proud and craved his approval so the thought of disappointing him always stirred something deep inside you. But then there was Gaz and Soap. They were your sergeants and they often looked to you for guidance. The image they had of you rarely faltered from confidence and strength. They were right by your side and were clearly worried for you. If you told the truth to them they probably want to stop and question your status or maybe even try to do some kind of makeshift field evaluation on you and you’d definitely lose out on valuable time. 

A shaky, “I’m doing just fine, sir.” fell from your lips then silence. A sigh from Price that was then followed by a gruff, “Bring it in safe. I’ll see you in a bit.”

“Of course sir.” You acknowledged. He knew you were lying. The slight tremor in your voice told him exactly what he needed to know. 

Soap led the three of you out of the compound but not without running into a couple of the remaining terrorists that missed your group upon arrival. You, although struggling to see and move, caught the slight movement as you three made your way to the entrance of the compound. A brown jacket sleeve that moved just a bit too slow was all you needed to gather that the combatants had reached your location. Years of intense practice and strenuous training had you firing your weapon with a practiced precision that was barely impacted by your declining physical state. 

As soon as you exited the compound you were met with a glaring brightness from the snow of the siberian tundra. The almost blinding whiteness was a massive contrast to the dimly lit compound so the massive shift in intensity had your head spinning. Gaz noticed you stumbling but only met you with a face of concern and a hand on your shoulder as he watched you struggle to get your bearings. 

Trekking through the Siberian tundra in your worsening condition was one of the hardest things you'd had to do in your career. The whirling of the wind was so intense that it felt like someone was screaming directly next to your ear and the pressure of it was enough to make your head pound. The snow was coming down so hard that each snowflake that hit your face felt like a tiny pin prick over and over again. Your feet were so deep in the snow that it felt like you were gaining an extra 20 pounds of weight with the effects of the drug starting to control your movements. You tried to pull yourself together. It was undeniable at this point that you would not be winning the battle against whatever medication they injected you with.

“2 minutes till evac” Ghost chimed in your earpiece. Your hearing was so sensitive that you could almost feel the loud mechanical static and the whirl of the helicopter in the background of his response.

“Oh my days. Ghost is the one flying us out? I don’t want to end up out the bloody chopper again” Gaz groaned. Oh. I wasn’t the only one to hear the helicopter then. 

“It was either me or you freeze out there, Sergeant.”

“LT, if you fly that thing the way you drive, Gaz might be better staying down here. Less chance of him getting thrown from the bloody thing.” Soap chirped. 

The world slowly started to look like a mass of colors and shapes with no definite beginning or end. The only thing you could do at this point was push and pray that you were gonna have enough strength to make it to the evac point. Everything was so intense that overwhelming wasn't even the right word to describe the feeling. You struggled to pick up your head as you began to hear another distinct whooshing sound that could only belong to that of a Puma HC2.

“I’m here aren’t I?” Soap and Gaz stopped moving as Ghost put the helicopter on the ground. 

“I’m glad you are sir. Good to see you, Ghost.” Soapsaid as he flung the door open and made his way on the aircraft.

“Always good to see that ugly mug of yours, Johnny.” Ghost turned his head to get a good look at everyone. “ Pepper, you don't look too hot.” Ghost concluded as you dragged yourself into the seat next to what you could have only imagined was Gaz. The words that came out of your mouth were something along the lines of “Not” and “Good” but no one really understood you with how slurred your response was. They did however understand that something was really wrong when your body slumped backward and went limp next to Gaz. You could vaguely hear the commotion of Gaz, Soap, and Simon, around you as they shouted your name and desperately tried to keep you from slipping out of consciousness. The last thing you heard was Price pressing to be informed on your state and him telling Ghost to get all of you to the safe house. 

---

“A neurotoxin that sends the body into overdrive. Increases nervous sensitivity and impulsivity, and impairs functionality of the prefrontal cortex and hippocampus.” Price read from the lab report with a stubby cigar in hand.

“Why the hell would they want to make something like that?” Gaz questions.

“Apparently in small doses it can be used as an aphrodisiac that it increases blood flow throughout the body, promotes sexual stamina, and increases pleasure outcomes? They must’ve been trying to develop something to sell on the streets.” Price continues.

“Right so they dosed her with super viagra?” Soap questioned. 

“That's what it sounds like?” Gaz said. 

“I thought that stuff didn't work on women?” Simon interjected. 

“It looks like they’ve altered it so it impacts both sexes but they haven’t been able to work out the less desirable symptoms. Tachycardia, fever, headache, dizziness, loss of consciousness, heart failure, and death.” Price paced as he read the outcomes. 

“Oh shit.”

“Heart failure? Death? How do we make sure that that doesn’t happen?” Gaz frantically questioned.

“The only way the toxin can be expelled from the body is through coitus…” Price trailed off as he dropped his cigar into a bowl. That can’t be right. He read it three times just to be sure and the words on the page didn’t change. 

“Steamin’ Jesus.” Soap deadpanned.

“No blood way.” Gaz stood with an open mouth. 

“Someone has to fuck her.” Simon said. 

---

When you awoke, you noticed you were lying on a firm mattress and were surrounded by the smell of smoke laced with a heavy sweetness that only came from Price’s cigars. You felt undeniably cold and couldn’t help but to shiver. You rubbed your fingers across your palms and felt them drenched in sweat. As you slowly began to turn to your side, you were overwhelmed with the feeling of the rough sheet that laid under you. 

“What the fuck?” You noticed that you had been stripped out of your vest and snow gear and were left in your black polyester thermals. You could feel every inch of fabric that you wore and immediately moved to take off the thermals. You were left in your sports bra and underwear.  Why am I taking off my clothes? I’m freezing? You ran your hands up and down your body trying to get a semblance of warmth but then decided that putting thermals back on would be too much for your unusually sensitive skin. As you dragged your hand down the sides of your thighs you couldn't help but notice how good it felt to touch yourself. You moved your hands to your inner thighs and couldn’t contain the moan that slipped from your mouth. You brushed your hand over the gusset of your panties and whined at the feel of your hand gliding over your already sensitive clit. 

“Pepper?” rushed out of Gaz’s mouth as he entered the room. He looked over to the pile of thermals on the end of the bed. “How are you feeling?” he probed.  When did Gaz get so attractive? He wore a red henley that hugged his arms perfectly and his soft curls made an appearance without the presence of his well worn UK hat. He made his way over to you and touched your forehead. “You’re burning up. Damn. The fever’s started.” The feeling of his hand on you was almost indescribable. He was warm and firm and exactly what you felt you needed at that moment. 

You felt yourself acting on purely impulse as you grabbed his hand and dragged it down to your mouth. You started to kiss his palm and moved your attention to his thumb. You placed it firmly between your lips and began to suck. “Oh fuck.” Gaz exhaled as he watched you with wide eyes. You continued your ministrations and moved from his thumb to his index and middle fingers. You began to lick around his digits before you engulfed them in your mouth with a guttural moan. You could taste the salt and gunpowder from the mission and it only made you crave him more. You lifted your gaze to him and willed your eyes to meet his. The groan that fell from his lips was divine. You removed his fingers from your mouth and helped his hand descend to where you really needed him. “Fuck. No. I can't do that princess. Not when you're like this.”

“But I really really want you to. Come on, Kyle. It’ll help me feel so much better.” You purred. Gaz let out a shaky breath, pulled his hand from you, and walked out the room but not without you noticing him readjusting himself in his pants. Fine, I'll do it myself. You sighed and pulled your panties down your legs till they rested at your ankles. You slid your fingers between your legs and gasped at how wet you were. You slowly started to trail your finger through your folds, collecting some of the wetness that had dripped from you and began to rub your clit. As soon as your finger pressed against your reactive little nub you were in heaven. You started in small circular motions and rubbed until you felt you needed more. You moved your other hand to your breast and tugged at your nipple. You kneaded and grabbed your breast like it was the key to your survival. You’ve never felt like this before. It's like you can feel everything, everywhere, all at the same time. You felt the rough fabric of the sheets, the scratchy wool of the pillow behind your head and you felt the soft cotton that was resting around your ankles.  You were still shivering from the fever but you felt like you could feel the stimulation of your clit in your toes. You needed more. 

You moved your hand from your plush breast to rest right at your soaked opening. You circled your middle finger a few times just to get it wet, and sank right into your leaking entrance. “Oh fuuuuuck”. You could feel the pressure of the finger at your walls as you started to curve your finger inside of yourself searching for your g-spot. You continued rubbing your clit and curling your finger inside of you hoping to seek your elease. It felt so good but it just wasn't enough. You slipped in another finger and moaned at the intrusion. You started to pant and whine with how good you were feeling, but you felt yourself needing more. You continued the calculated movements and felt your orgasm approaching. You just needed a little more. One more push to get you there. One curl of your finger turned to two, then to three, then the pleasure turned into frustration. “Fuuuuuuck.” You groaned as you  pulled your fingers from your body and layed on the mattress in a heap of sweat and frustration. You felt yourself slowly drift back into the unconscious void even as you worked to steady your breaths.  

---

“She sucked my fingers. Wanted me to fuck her. With my fingers. Uh she begged me to. And she was down to her knickers” Gaz confessed as he dropped his eyes to his combat boots, too unsure to look at his team. 

“Did you lad?” Price probed. 

“No, I couldn't do it. I really thought about it and I- I don't know. She definitely has a fever though.”

“Hm.” Was all that left Price's mouth. 

“We're gonna have to check up on her. Make sure her heart isn't working too hard and see how to keep her satiated. For her sake.” Simon stated matter of factly. 

“Does it say it has to be expelled through “sexual intercourse” or can she just, ya know, uh.. “Get there”, and work it out her system.” Soap questioned, looking toward Price and seeking the answers he normally has. 

“Johnny. It says coitus.” Simon replied. 

“No one’s gonna fuck her like this. It’s not right.” Gaz stated.

“What if we have to?” Soap doubted.

“Maybe we should see if an orgasm is the solution. If that doesn't work then last resort, someone will do what needs to be done.” Price said with a sense of finality. 

---

You felt the press of two fingers at your carotid artery and shivered at the warmth they offered. You fluttered your eyes open and nearly jumped out of your skin when they met dark brown ones behind a human skull mask. You’d seen Simon before and regularly worked with him but you'd never woken to him standing over you like the grim reaper.  

“Jesus, Simon.” 

“‘Just checking your heart rate.” He confirmed. Simon almost always has his gloves on. To feel his fingers at your neck had you craving more of his touch. You grabbed his hand that was at your neck and splayed it across your jugular. You looked up at him with full, pleading eyes and felt him squeeze a bit. A light moan left your lips as you begged him to squeeze harder. The groan that left his mouth would surely implant itself in the depths of your mind for years to come. The sound coming from him went straight to your core and you felt yourself clenching your thighs. 

“Simon, please.”

“Fuckin’ hell. Don’t look at me like that. Not while you've got your knickers round your ankles.”

“Please. Si. I need you. I’m so fucking horny. I can feel everything Simon. Please just help me feel good. I promise I’ll be good. You can use me however you want. However you need to. Please.”

“Don't say that y/n.” He turned his gaze away from your face. 

“I mean it. Please help me.”

“Just my fingers darling.” 

“Yes. Yes, thank you so much.” You nodded your head eagerly and bit down on your lip. If your fingers weren't working to get you there, maybe his would. You parted your legs for him and he hung his head and rolled his shoulders while he let out a deep “Fuck”. His grip on your neck tightened and you felt your head go light. “Oh fuck yes.” His other hand made its way between your plush legs and ran between your folds. Simon’s eyes were locked onto your pussy and he was in awe of how wet you were. He knew what the toxins effects on you were but to see them in person had him stiff as a board in his pants.  Fuck this was so wrong of him. He knew he wanted to help you but part of him was living out his sick and twisted fantasies. To have you, a stunning woman, dripping wet and begging for him to fuck you, he’d be insane to not feel at least a bit aroused. He dragged a finger around your clit and almost purred at the whine that left your lips. He continued to make slow and tedious circles around your clit. 

“Simon, please I need more. Can you - mmm fuck- can you fuck me?” How could he deny you when you’ve asked him so nicely. 

“Only with my fingers, darling.” He slipped in two fingers and groaned at how tight you were. Your back arched so deeply and he wondered to himself what it would be like to be behind you when you arched like that. Simon began to work his fingers inside of you. He started with slow but deep pumping motions and moved onto scissoring his fingers inside of you searching for that special spot that he knows will make you tick. Your breath hitched in your throat and you let out a long high pitched squeal. 

“Is that it, darling? Right there? Hm?” He beamed with a sense of condescension that made your pussy tighten on his fingers. 

“Oh fuck Simon. Please, please let me cum.” His fingers were hitting all of the right parts of you and you felt your orgasm nearing. 

“Of course you can come, darling. Fucking soak my fingers. I know you need it. Come on, darling.”

You slid your hand down to your clit and rubbed it in furious circles. His grip tightened on your neck and you felt fuzzy everywhere. “Cum all over my fingers. Make a mess, why don't you.” And at that final comment from Simon, you felt the band within you snap as you had one of the most intense orgasms of your life. Your toes curled and your back was nearly curved into a C shape. Your pussy clenched and unclenched as Simon continued his assault. You felt your ears ringing from the intensity of the orgasm and felt like you lost hearing for a little moment. As you panted and tried to recover from your climax, Simon removed his drenched fingers from you, lifted his mask to just below his nose, and brought his hand up to his mouth. He locked eyes with you and you watched him in amazement as he cleaned you from his fingers. Your eyes flutter at how intense the sight was. His strong jaw, scarred but pink lips, and traces of stubble left you wanting more. He moved the hand that was on your neck back to your pulse point to check your heart rate.

“It’s slowed a bit. Get some rest," and with that he left the room and you felt yourself slip from consciousness.

[gojonanami]

❝ 𝐉𝐔𝐒𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄 𝐌𝐎𝐑𝐄 𝐁𝐈𝐓𝐄 !! ❞

❝ WHEN YOUR HOT COWORKER WANTS TO SUCK YOUR BLOOD, OF COURSE YOU'LL SAY YES !! ❞

✧ pairing: vampire! choso kamo x f!reader

✧ summary: choso kamo is your coworker who seems to hate your guts - even though you're both always stuck working together, but the only reason he does is because he wants nothing more than to eat you up -- blood and all.

✧ warnings: 18+, nsfw, smut, modern au, coworkers to lovers, vampire!choso, vampire bites are an aphrodisiac for both the vampire and the victim, no real dub/con b/c these two are already down bad for the other, mutual pining, scent kink, blood kink, blood sucking from neck / wrist, implied masturbation (m!), oral (f + m), fingering (f! receiving), handjob (m! receiving), sex (p in v), creampie, implied multiple rounds, swearing, fanart by @ / yume041624

✧ wc: 7,193

It wasn’t as if you weren’t sure your coworker hates you—

 You were sure of it. 

He avoided you like the plague whenever the two of you were working on the same project. He always did his best to reply over email, avoid in person meetings, and he always seemed to get sick whenever the two of you had to greet the client together. But you didn’t know why — you hadn’t done anything to offend him, unless he had mistaken your hello for spitting in his face. And that wasn’t even the worst part. 

The worst part was that he was exactly your type — fucking hot. 

Dark locks tied into a bun with a few strands escaped its binding by the end of the day, his neat nails painted a dark purple that rifled through paperwork, his pretty lips pursed in concentration, and lovely, deep eyes that barely had stolen a glance at you but you could spend a millennia exploring—

In summary, you had it bad. 

And he didn’t seem to know — or worse, he knew and he hated it. Or you. 

But maybe something could change today, you flicked a pen up and down between two fingers as you stole a glance at him across the now empty office, the two of you were stuck working overtime on this project for two days now. But he still had managed to avoid you — but not today when you were stuck in the same conference room sorting through boxes of files that your client insisted must be done today. 

You were getting some sleep at a hotel across the street, taking a quick nap and shower before returning, but Choso looked like he hadn’t slept in days. And you didn’t know why. 

You glanced up at him between sorting through boxes, and you saw him adjust his collar, loosening his tie, fabric gripped tightly under white knuckles. His head was hunched over, his expression hidden behind the box in front of him, but you saw a hint of red in his eyes. You bit your lip, now you were worried. 

Maybe for the wrong reasons. 

“Choso, are you okay?” 

No, no, he wasn’t okay. He wasn’t okay after working overtime for two days straight. He wasn’t okay being stuck in this tiny, dimly fluorescent lit conference room reviewing files that would only prove fruitless and a waste of time for all parties, and what made it worse was you—

No, not you, his canines grew, sharp fangs digging into the soft flesh of his bottom lips, 

Blood. 

Your blood. 

The very thing running through your veins and arteries, pumping through every crevice of your body through your heart — crimson stained your insides as it would your skin if pierced or cut — and it was the very thing that Choso wanted more than anything else. 

But no, it couldn’t be anyone else’s — he bit his bottom lip as you stretched, your blouse and hair moving ever so slightly and exposing your neck — it had to be yours. 

He pressed his hand against his face, palm covering the bottom half of his face as he forced himself to avert his gaze from you, all too unaware of his thirst — the very same that pulled his muscles taut and made his mouth water at the thought of you. His face was flushed — that much was for sure, as he felt the heat radiate from his face. 

And he knew one thing for sure — that you were the one who’s blood would taste like the divine personified. But that’s why he had worked so hard to avoid you, to make sure he didn’t spend any time alone with you, lest his logic and sense fail him at once and he ends up with his fangs pressed to the nape of your neck at once. 

No, he had decided he couldn’t do that. There were far too many times he had seen other vampires find partners this way — succumb to the urge — the draw of bloodlust — only for their partner to grow addicted to the pleasure that comes from the bite, and the relationship only fell apart when it was the only thing holding the relationship together. The bite could only do so much, it was an aphrodisiac for both parties, but not a miracle worker — chemistry burns bright and fast, but it could not make love exist if it wasn’t there to begin with. 

And his avoidance of you had made any relationship between the two of you hard to happen — especially when every word you spoke sounded sweet and honeyed from those pretty lips. It didn’t help that he was reserved to begin with, but you made all words fall from his mind with only a glance — so what would a conversation do to him — much less a kiss? 

“Choso, have you reviewed this one yet?” You ask, grabbing a box from his side, “I finished my half so I thought I’d help you finish yours,” 

He shakes his head, “Go ahead. Thank you,” he barely manages through nearly gritted teeth, with barely a glance up — fuck, it didn’t help that you were always so kind, good at your job, and so pretty—

Fuck, the document he held crumpled under his tight grip, he shouldn’t have let it get this bad. Why had he let it get this bad? A few overtime shifts weren’t usually a problem for him — but being stuck with you? It was torture in the highest order — especially since he hadn’t been able to get home to his reserves at home and he had just run dry of the bottles he kept on himself this morning. 

He sees you stretch again, this time your neck, and a heat began to creep on as he watched right over the top of the document he read. 

Oh, he was so fucked. 

You were going to ask him. 

You were going to confront him about why he avoids you. You had made up your mind — you were tired of walking on eggshells without a reason. If you were going to be stuck working with him on future projects, especially with this client, he needed to tell you if this was how it was going to be. 

And yet, you still sat, rereading the same document over and over, as the two of you were almost done wrapping up your work for the night. Choso was placing the last box he finished up away, a sigh stuck in his throat as he got to his feet. 

“I’m going to head home,” he gets to his feet, a sigh on his lips, as he rakes his fingers through his black locks, “do you need help cleaning up?” 

“No, I’m fine,” and he’s grabbing his things, as you bite your lip and stare at the shiny laminate of the conference table in front of you — fuck it, “I did have a question,” as he’s walking by in the doorway of the conference room, as your scramble to your feet, reaching for him, your fingers brushing his shoulder by mistake, and he’s tensing, “sorry, I didn’t mean—“ 

“It’s fine, what’s your question?” His reply is curt but he won’t even turn to face you, his fingers fiddling with the watch on his wrist. You furrow your brow, was it you or was his body shaking? 

“I just wanted to ask you if you had some sort of problem—“ and then his bag clattered against the floor, contents spilling out, as he supported himself against the door frame, slumped against it, as his fingers gripped it. 

You gasped, a quick brush of your fingers to his shoulder again, “Are you ok? Choso?” 

Choso’s head swam — he could barely hear anything — every sound drawn out and garbled, as if he had plunged his head underwater and words were echoing in his ears. He felt his knees buckle under his weight — and he can’t think straight — and for a moment of clarity he realizes why—

Your touch — it was a spark amongst a field of wheat in a dry heat — and it was enough to set his entire body alight. And now—as he barely held himself together, muscles tensed and eyes fluttering — a haze of heat blazing ribbons up his body, and down — right to his cock. 

Fuck. He’s swallowing, his muscles taut, as he tugs at his collar, even the brush of his clothes against his skin enough to drive him to the point of insanity. And it doesn’t help that your scent fills his nose, honeyed and cloying and he squeezes his eyes shut, knowing the scarlet gaze would do nothing but elicit a scream. 

“Please leave,” he says through gritted teeth, he can imagine the concern written across your expression, “go—“ 

“I’m not leaving you like this alone,” fuck, you only draw closer, the brush of your fingers against his shoulder enough to have him nearly keening for your touch — he’d nearly do anything you want for one touch, one drop of your blood, but he can’t — he can’t, “do you need water? What do you need?” And you’re helping him sit down on the floor of the conference room, as he clutches his bag to his front, desperate for something put between the two of you. 

“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you what I needed, just go,” he’s pleading, head falling back against the wall — his mind is hazy, he can barely think about anything else but you — the way your soft lips are pursed in worry, the way your hands are so gentle against his skin and would feel so good gliding across his body, the way when he saw the multitudes contained within your eyes, but he only wanted to live in the warmth of your loving gaze, “I don’t want to hurt you,” 

The words come as a confession, a last plea for you to leave, but you seemingly only chuckle, furrowing your brow, “how could you hurt me when you’re more terrified than I am?” 

And oh you were so ignorant that you were inches away from a monster — a rabbit in a lion’s den, while you thought of him as a sheep — and his words weren’t enough to convince you, but maybe something else would. 

His eyes flutter open to find your own, and he finds his own reflection in your irises — a blood red reflected back in your lovely gaze, as your mouth falls open, brow wrinkled, and breath caught. 

“I-I-what?” and he sees your confusion written across your face, your fingers shaking as they brush against his cheek. Your touch sets his senses alight, a soft groan as he leans into your hand, his nose brushes against your wrist, and the thrum of your pulse ringing in his ears. His gaze finds yours — half moonshine with how it’s glazed over, “how?” 

And his lips part, when your thumb drags down his cheek, hypnotized and entranced under a spell he didn’t mean to cast. He turns his head so your fingers catch on his lips, parting almost obediently, flashing fangs that has a flicker of confusion swallowed by horror and then consumed by fascination completely. 

“Choso, what is—“ 

“You should go,” he murmurs again, “you can’t give me what you need,” 

And you’re speechless, as if you wonder if you’re seeing what you are — but the longer you stare, the quicker it seems to sink in. You swallow. 

“So you need my—“ and the sentence is cut off seemingly by the absurdity of the situation, as you mutter to yourself, “this can’t be fucking real,” 

“It doesn’t have to be, you can leave right now,” he pants, sweat slipping down his forehead, and you’re still frowning. 

“What will happen to you if I leave?” And he can’t think straight enough to lie, your fingers find his neck, to check his temperature but all it does is drive it higher. 

“Nothing you need to worry about—“ 

“Well, I am worried,” you cut him off, squirming in place, “if you just take some of my blood, will that—“ 

“It’s not just that,” he’s shaking his head, fangs nearly grazing his bottom lip as he sighs, “do you know what your blood will do to me?” His eyes seem to flash, a chill down your spine, “but more importantly worry what it will do to you,” 

And you stiffen, the spell waxing and waning as fickle as the moon never was, and that the thing about humans — you could never count on them to be consistent as all other things were. A beast can be predicted — their moves largely the same, caution put before hurt, but man gained consciousness and lost all reliability. 

And you were no beast, not like him. 

“What would…it do?” Your words are hesitant, carefully chosen, small jumps across stones rather than a leap across a rushing river. 

And he lets the raging white water brush against your skin when his hand cups your chin, leaning closer and letting his breath warm your skin, “To reduce the pain, my bite is like an aphrodisiac,” his thumb rubs back and forth across your cheek, “you won’t be able to stop yourself, and since your blood would do the same to me — I wouldn’t be able to help myself either,” his nose brushes against your cheek, as he leans in to whisper in your ear, “you should go.” 

But you don’t, silence settles over the two of you, until you choose to break it,  “I’m not going anywhere without you.” 

That’s what you had said — but how did that land you here? 

You both walked to your hotel room in silence, his flushed face hidden behind a mask, dead on his feet as he trailed behind you to the room. It was lucky you had a room right across the street from your workplace. You didn’t know what you would have done if you had to stay in the office — the blood would have been hell to scrub off the wood. 

And now here you sat after your shower, hair still damp as you toyed with the edge of your fluffy bathrobe, as you chewed on your lip. What had you gotten yourself into? You listened to his shower run, a sigh on your lips — it was fine. It would be fine. You just stick to the plan. You’d let him drink your blood, and he would lock himself in the bathroom — and you both would ride out your…symptoms alone. 

Fuck, you bury your face in your hands, what the hell are you doing? And that’s when the water stops — the quiet rustle and shuffling of himself in the bathroom makes your heart leap into your throat, as you sit looking down at the floor. 

“Are you okay?” his voice makes you jump even as you expect it, as your head snaps back to look at him. His black hair still wet from his shoulder, long locks clinging to his hair, droplets ran down his bare abs, your eyes following one down right to his happy trail only hidden away by his boxers— 

Fuck. 

He only continues to towel himself off, before grabbing his undershirt to pull it over his torso, as you choose to avert your eyes then — as if him getting dressed was any more scandalous than his shirtless state, “I am, I’m just a little—“ 

“You don’t have to,” and your eyes slide back to him, his face was still significantly ragged, dark bags and fatigue  clung to body worse than the water did — looking more like a corpse than a bloodsucker, “it’s not too late for you to leave—“ 

“No I decided I was going to help, so I’m going to,” you say, and his brow forms the same peaks and valleys he had all day — and you were sure his skin would remember the carvings at this rate, “what?”

“Why do you want to help me?” he mumbles, arms crossed, a distinct flush in his cheeks settling that surely wasn’t just from his shower, “I don’t get it, we barely have spoken—“ 

“We have spoken, our first week,” and his eyes snap to yours, “you may not remember, but you helped me,” and your cheeks burned, squirming in place as you couldn’t quite meet his gaze, “I had messed up on a project, I made a huge mistake on a document, one that could have costed the company a lot of money, and my job,” you murmur, “but you also took responsibility, even though it wasn’t your fault,” 

“I didn’t catch the mistake either, so it was my fault too—“ and you shake your head. 

“It was mostly mine still,” you offer a small smile, “and so if I can help you like this, I want to,” you shift, swallowing as an awkward silence falls over you both that you break, “why did you want to shower first anyway? You were ready to pass out earlier,” 

“I still am,” he admits, and you notice the subtle shake of his hands, “but I figured the shower would make us both feel a little more comfortable, and it helped to…calm me down,” he cleared his throat, and it slowly dawned on you, cheeks burning, “again, are you sure—“

“I’m going to close you off in the bathroom, and we should be able to ride it out — you said you don’t lose control of yourself or become violent,” and he shakes his head, “then it should be fine,” you have him draw closer, his soft steps against the plush carpet fell silent as he sat beside you on the bed. The creak of the bed as he sat on the other side a little awkwardly, “you should be closer,” and he’s nodding, his adam's apple bobbing in his throat. 

“I know, I’m just trying to…prepare,” he gives a shaky sigh, “your scent is—“ he scrubs a hand down his face, “it’s hard for me to be around, especially when we’re so close,” 

“My scent?” And his hand covers the bottom half of his face, turned away, as he murmurs. 

“Your scent is particularly strong — it’s…enticing enough for me to be distracted all day if I don't keep my distance,” and the pieces sink into place. 

“You avoided me at work because of that?” And he nods, as you bite your lip, a small chuckle on your lips, “I thought you hated me,” 

And his head snaps to you, blinking, “I don’t hate you far from it—“ he cuts himself off, his fingers grip the edge of the bed, “I’ve seen you in the office — you’re always so considerate, kind, and you always try to help, even people who don’t deserve it—“ he cuts off, “I don’t want to take advantage of your—“ 

You move closer, his breath hitching as you shrug your robe off your shoulders, leaving only your bra covering your chest, “You do deserve it,” Fuck, he was so close — you could feel the need come off of him in waves, the soft pants of his breath as his eyes fluttered. And you offer your neck to him, brushing your hair away — a silent offer. 

You see him bite his lip out of your periphery, but he’s leaning down, warm breath fans across your skin, as he ran a finger down your neck, “Fuck,” he murmurs, his voice a raspy whisper, “you smell so good,” and you nearly shiver as his lips brush your skin — soft lips against your skin, the barest brush, as if he’s trying to acclimate you to his touch. But it only stoked a fire — the same flame burning even before today, the one that wanted more than a bite at the apple — you wanted him down to his core. 

His lips press another kiss to your neck, lingering longer, as he noses the skin there, and you’re biting your lip, the want bubbling into boiling need, “Please—“ you gasp as his fangs graze your neck now, the sharp points lightly dragging across the muscle, right before his fangs sink into your neck. 

Your lips part, head nearly lolling back into his warm palm cupping the nape of your neck. Any pain only registers for a split second before disappearing under whitehot pleasure. Your blood turns to heady wine straight from his bite, his muffled moan vibrates against you, sending a wave of heat right between your thighs. Your head spins, all logic melts with as the wildfire only consumes — leaving only want behind. 

Coherent thoughts don’t form — instead fractured thoughts spiral into a chant. You want more. You want more of his touch, his body, his words. You want him. 

You want him. 

And when he’s pulling his fangs from your neck, the sound of his teeth pulled from your skin only rings in your ears for a moment, before blood roaring in your ears replaces it. Burning — it felt as if every part of your body was aching, a deep throbbing with no end in sight. You glance at Choso — and only one cure. 

Fuck, his skin looks so lovely when flushed a pretty pink — nearly a scarlet that lit a trail up his neck and across his cheekbones all the way to his ears. The heavy pants that left his lips did little to assuage the desire for him — his defined chest rising and falling with each breath he took, his long jet black locks hanging like a curtain around his gaze. 

Your fingers are reaching for him, “Cho—“ and he’s shaking his head, as his muscles tense, as he leans away from you. 

“Give me a moment,” so you do — you pull back, and he’s rising to his feet, shaky still, but seemingly for a different reason as he turns and flashes the rising tent in his boxers. 

And you press your thighs together, wondering just how big he was — eyes fixed on the growing damp spot on his boxers — how he would shiver when you squee3/ him at the base in your hand, what sounds he would make when you’d flick your tongue against his weeping tip, and how he would moan your name when he sunk into you— 

You were so fucked — if your drenched panties were anything to judge by. 

“Choso, please—“ and he already knows what you’re asking for between the lines of your plea, and his eyes find yours, his dark gaze catches yours, ensnared in the blackhole that only pulls you under and apart, pinned underneath him. 

“It’s just the bite, we can’t,” he’s covering his lips, as he takes steps away from you, towards the bathroom, “we just have to wait until it passes. It won’t take too long—” 

“What if it’s not just your bite? Not for me,” you murmur, and the words are being spilled from your lips like honeyed truth with no bitter aftertaste, “it hasn’t been for me,” his brow is furrowing as if he can’t imagine a single person liking him, “I’ve spent the last year working with you and all i know is I wanted nothing more than to be the one you smile at — the same soft way you do when you your little brother visits you at work,” 

And he’s swallowing, a deeper blush on his cheeks, “you noticed?” 

“I also noticed how you always bring the person you work with their favorite coffee order, the way you try to make others feel valued when the company doesn’t even do it, and how you always do your best — even when it comes at your own expense,” it’s so easy to say these things, but it only makes you long for him more, “let me do more — let me take care of you—“ 

And he’s covering his mouth with his forearm, “do you know what you’re saying?” you slowly get up from the bed, taking careful steps towards him, “our heads are clouded, we aren’t—“ and he swears under his breath but he doesn’t resist your approach, the bathroom door right behind him, “I don’t want to hurt you—“ 

“Do you feel the same for me?” and his gaze softens as he meets yours, “because I get the feeling you do — at least you like my scent,” a smile tugs at the corner of your mouth, “hopefully not just my scent?” 

And you didn’t know it was possible for a vampire to be this pink in the face, but Choso was — and you weren’t sure if it was your words or your closeness, “It’s not just your scent,” he’s mumbling against his arm until he’s pulling it away, to reveal his lips colored a faint scarlet from your blood, “I have feelings for you — I have for a while,” 

God, he was fun to tease, “What’s a while?” you’re murmuring, his lips part, flashing his fangs while he does. His eyes avert from your face, only to land on your neck, grazing over the bite mark he left, and you decide to spare him, “but if it’s been a while for you and for me, then—” he’s shivering again, a sigh caught in his throat, muscles tensed as if he was a tiger ready to pounce. 

“It’ll be hard to stop once we start — we should think—“ your fingertips brush his cheek, his eyes falling shut at your touch, the want inside you only grew, as you felt him lean into you. 

“Who said we’re going to stop?” and he breaks, his hand is sliding around your waist, tugging you closer, his lips brushing against your ear, his words nearly muttered against it. 

“Are you sure?” 

“I am—” and that’s all he needed. 

In a flash you’re pinned on the bed, blinking as you glance at the spinning ceiling fan for a moment before he’s leaning over you. 

His eyes are tinted with red and laced with desperation, fangs flashing as his fingers cup your chin and he leans down, “I’ll show you how much I like you, pretty girl.” 

“Oh, Cho-so,” your arms are wrapped around his torso, pulling him impossibly closer, his hot tongue dragging up the side of your neck, licking at the rivers of blood dripping down, “fuck, please—“ 

“Can’t waste a single drop, not when you taste so good,” he’s murmuring, nearly hypnotized by your taste — his sticky saliva and your blood mixed together, “fuck, I could kiss every inch of you and it wouldn’t be enough,” 

“Please, I need more,” and he’s chuckling, nibbling at the base of your neck, a whine parting your lips that made him nearly bust a nut then and there, “please—“ 

And his lips find yours in a searing kiss, fangs lightly biting your bottom lip, swallowing your gasps with a smirk, and how is it possible your lips are even sweeter? It was as if you were made of molasses, and he was more than happy to indulge. He parts your lips, dragging a thumb down your kiss bitten lips, your saliva clinging to his skin. 

“You know how long I wanted this? Had to touch myself in the shower to stop myself from pinning you the moment we entered the room,” he murmurs, recalling how his fingers had reached for his cock, already nearly covered in pre, his thumb running across his slit was nearly enough to make him burst. But it paled in comparison to the sight of you, disheveled under him, eyes glazed over with pleasure, chest rising and falling fast, and your lips nearly begging him to kiss you again and again, “and now I want to take my time, love,” but he doesn’t, instead he bends down again, to nip and suck marks all over your skin, savoring the drops of blood he steals from each one — a constellation dotting your neck and collarbone to remind anyone that you were his. And his fingers find yours, just as he was yours. 

And you whimper, as he kisses his way down your arm, sweet pecks dotting down, until he reaches your wrist. He noses it, feeling the rush of your pulse underneath your skin, the sweet scent of your blood clouded his mind, his lips brushing against the sensitive skin, as he flashes a gaze upward for your silent permission. You nod. 

Your nod was all he needed, before his fangs sinks into your wrist. It was potent — you were potent rather — he had grown used to his normal supply of blood, blood that he had acquired through the proper channels, and though it quenched his thirst, it never satisfied it. 

You were more than satisfaction itself — you were ecstasy incarnate, and he was utterly addicted from the moment he had his lips pressed against your lovely skin. Scarlet dripped from the bite and the corners of his mouth — the blood flooded his mouth, an unending pool of need that only grew with each second. 

And as he pulled away, blood dripping from his lips, he watched your eyes flutter open, legs spread for him, as he licked his lips clean. 

“Such a waste to let even a single drop go,” he drags his tongue up the rivulets of blood that ran down your wrist, and a whimper escapes your lips, and his lips curl, “what do you want, love? Tell me,” 

And you’re biting your lip, averting your gaze, but he’s guiding it back to his, “Choso, please, I need you to touch me,” you cover your mouth with the back of your hand, cheeks burning, “please—“ 

He pulls your hand away, and kisses your lips again in a bruising kiss, before he’s pressing sweet kisses down your body, easing the straps of your bra down. He kisses the swell of your breasts, one after the other, making you squirm in place.

“Pretty girl,” he’s murmuring, his lips kissing each one of your erect nipples, caught in a thick haze of lust, “so good for me,” and he’s lighting a trail of kisses down your body, and he’s resisting the urge to mark up every inch of you — no, there would be time for that later, his eyes flicking up to meet your half lidded gaze, “gonna be good for me?” His skillful fingers slide under the elastic of your panties, snapping the fabric against you, making you gasp, “either way, I might just eat you up,” 

A shaky chuckle escapes your lips, “Promise?” And he chuckles, as he’s spreading your lips, leaning down to press a hot kiss to your inner thigh. 

“Be careful what you wish for,” his teeth graze the sensitive skin of your inner thigh, before running over the mark with his tongue, before his fingers are running over your drenched panties, and it takes everything in him not to sink his fangs into your plush thigh, but no — he’s carefully tugging down your underwear down your legs — he had to stay focused. 

His breath catches at the sight of your dripping cunt and swollen clit, glistening with your juices that told him just how much you wanted this — and it was enough to nearly have him cumming in his boxers. And then the sweet scent of your precum becomes too much for him—

And he can’t wait. 

His tongue flicks against your clit, making a squeal escape your lips, fingers finding purchase in the long strands. It’s too good — judging by the way your hips nearly rut into his lips, while your own moans his name. But it was even better for him, as he groans against your pussy, licking the pre sticking to his lips. 

“How do you taste so good? Sweetest thing I’ve tasted, as good as every part of you,” 

You gasp when his fingers spread your folds, “Cho—“ and he’s circling a tip of one of his lithe fingers around your entrance teasingly. 

He hums lightly, “Can’t decide whether I want to use my fingers or my mouth, love,” he murmurs in contemplation, whilst his tongue teases your needy clit, “what do you think, baby?” 

“I need you—anything—“ and he’s licking a stripe up your sweet pussy, before he’s sinking a finger into your fluttering walls, “Choso—fuck—“ and the wet squelch of your cunt and the feel of your fluttering walls around his digit makes his dick twitch in his boxers, “s’good,” 

And you’re melting into his touch, your juices soaking his fingers and wrist as he fucks you with his finger, knuckle deep in your warm walls, rubbing at your clit with his thumb. 

And you’re so sensitive, every move of his finger has your walls squeezing him tight, his other hand sneaking into his boxers to palm at his erection, “Cho, I need more—“ and he’s adding a second finger to the first, fucking you deep until he finds that spot — and that’s enough for you to fall apart. 

You cum, back arching as you do, stars bursting behind closed eyes, as you moan his name. He’s fucking you through your orgasm, walls fluttering around his fingers, thighs tensing around his hand. You come down from your high, chest nearly heaving from your pants, as he eases his fingers from your pussy. A soft sigh leaving your throat as your cunt flutters around nothing. 

Your eyes flutter open to see Choso licking his fingers clean — still sticky with your release — fangs flashing with the part of his lips, and you shiver at the sight. He’s leaning back down, pressing kisses to your thighs, before his tongue drags up your leaking pussy, making you gasp. 

“Please, Choso—fuck—“ and he’s smirking, glancing up with lips glossy with your release, placing a chaste kiss to your puffy clit, your eyes falling to his hand palming his boxers, “let me touch you—“ 

“Not yet, baby,” his tongue circles your slit, circles growing faster before sinking into your insides, nose bumping against your swollen clit, as he laps at your messy slit, “not until I’ve swallows every drop of you,” his fangs pinch at your clit. 

It’s already too much for you — your second orgasm sneaks up on you — a coil wound tight as he slurps and sucks at your cunt, all too eager to taste every last drop. And oh, he does — until he uses his thumb to rub at your clit, and it’s too much—

You squirt all over his face, soaking his face and fingers with your release, his lips more than eager to lap up every drop of it. Even as he pulls away, your cum is dripping down his chin, his dark eyes lidded as he looks up at you. 

And he can’t wait anymore—he needs to sink his dick into you. He’s licking his chin clean, pussydrunk on your cum, as he smashes lips to yours. Your moan is stifled as you taste yourself on his lips, tongue sneaking into your mouth as you part them for him. You hear the shift of the sheets as he tugs his boxers down, pulling his lips away only to finish kicking them off. 

But that’s not what you were looking at. 

Fuck, he was huge — his engorged tip was a deep red, large pearly beads of precum dripping down, while the rest of him was flushed a lovely pink. The veins that went along his length made gou tempted to trace them, mapping out his cock until you remembered every inch. You were hypnotized as your fingers reached for him, thumb flicking against his slit, before grasping at his base. 

He gasps, head lolling back, as you spread the pre along his length, beginning to pump him, “Fuck, so good for me, baby,” he’s covering his lips, cheeks flushed to match his cock, “please, I won’t last—“ and he nearly blows his load when your mouth sucks at the tip, before sliding his dick past your lips. your tongue tracing along the veins.

And a whine leaves his throat, as you start to bob along his length, spit and precum dripping down the corners of your mouth as you messily sucked at him. His hips jerk, as his fingers thread into your hair, tip brushing against his throat, it’s almost too much. 

He’s easing you off his cock with a tug of your hair, your lips parting with a pop, strings of saliva and precum connecting your mouth to his dick. And god, he wants nothing more then to pump his cock and let him spill all over your face. 

But no, no, he rather spill inside you. 

In an instant he’s gotten you onto your back,  the head of his cock brushing against your dripping cunt. He’s dragging the head of his dick against your dripping folds teasingly, making you squirm. 

“Please,” you’re whining, drawing a soft chuckle from him, as he’s lining himself up, groaning in unison as his tip bumps against your slit, “fuck, Choso, I need you—“ 

And he obliges, sinking into you inch by inch, a grunt from his mouth, “Already trying to swallow me whole, love? No need for that — I’m already giving it to you,” the delicious stretch of your warm walls pull him in deeper, stretching as he works himself inside your cunt, “so tight, baby,” and he’s finally bottoming out — cock twitching against your sweet cunt. 

He’s reaching places you didn’t think were possible, his 

You were far too tempting, “Please, Cho, please move—“ your words cut off with a gasp as his lips against your neck again, fangs piercing your skin as he bites you, right as he starts to slowly fuck into you. 

White hot pleasure rips up your spine — the bite and the way his cock fucks you enough for you to already cum around him, your mouth parted in moans, as your walls clamp down on him. He’s sucking greedily at your blood, and he wasn’t sure what was better, the way your sweet blood tasted against his tongue, or the way your release squelched around his dick, as he fucked it. And he barely registers that his cock is growing larger against your spasming pussy, but you sure do, as you moan his name. 

“S’big, Choso, too big,” you’re whining, as his hand presses against your lower half only to feel a slight bulge, and he only makes him want to thrust harder, too far gone to think — only one thought circling the drain of his pin sized perspective — that he wanted to fill you up, 

“Cho-so, please—“ and he doesn’t know what you’re asking him, to slow down or to go faster, as he pulls his fangs from you. And he could cum just looking at you — your forehead slick with sweat, while scarlet rivulets of your blood ran down the side of your neck, eyes blown out in such lust — and everything about your body begging him to fuck you more.  

“S’pretty for me, baby,” as he fucks you through your orgasm, another building in its place, as he watches his cock piston in and out of your fluttering cunt. And it feels too fucking good. And he’s leaning back down to lick up the blood staining your neck, as he gives a particular hard thrust that has you seeing stars, and he knows you’re close—and he knows he won’t last much longer — not with the way your vice grip cunt is squeezing around him. 

But you’re confirming it with your moans, filling his ears along with the lewd noises of skin slapping together, “I’m close—I’m—“ and he’s grunting in agreement, as his lips find yours in a bruising kiss, only to pull a breath away to ask: 

“Where?” And the flutter of your walls that pulls him impossibly deeper tells him the answer, but you reply with words as well.  

“Inside, please, need to feel you fill me—“ you cum then and there, words cut off with a moan of his name, and he’s fucking you through your orgasm. His thrusts stutter as he grows close, before groaning and pressing another kiss to your lips, biting your bottom lip to draw blood, as he spills inside you, painting your insides with his hot release, fucking it inside you as his hips slow. 

He’s pulling away from your lips, pulling himself from inside you, a soft gasp leaving your lips, as he moans himself when he watches his seed mixed with your cum slip from your pussy. 

He’s caressing you, pressing sweet kisses to your face and neck, your quiet pants filling his ears like a metronome. 

“Are you okay?” he murmurs, and your eyes flutter open, lips curling slightly as you nod, a sigh on your lips. 

“I’m more than okay,” you press your lips to his again, a sweet kiss that grows more insistent as your tongue drags against the seam of his lips, before you hear a wet squelch, and your eyes open darting down to only find him stroking his cock, “Choso, are you—“ 

“Mm, the effect of your blood hasn’t quite subsided for me,” he murmurs, “but I think I can take care of it with—“ and he’s flipped onto his back, eyes blinking up as you, sitting on top of him. 

And he sees the blatant want in your gaze, as you begin to lower yourself onto his dick, a smile pulling at your lips, as your lust pulled him under and his cock inside you. 

“I told you I’d take care of you, Choso,” and you offer your neck to him again, dragging your wrist across his face, “so let me.” 

“You’ll be working with Choso again on this project,” you have to bite back your smile, when you nod, “the two of you did a good job on the last one. Thank you for the overtime you put in. It did not go unnoticed,” 

“No problem, sir, anything for the job,” and your supervisor smiles, as you turn to leave, “I’m sure Choso would say the same,” 

“The two of you make a good team. I may pair you two together more often. Is that okay? I’ll have to run it by Choso, of course,” and you nod, hand already on the door knob. 

“I’m sure he would be more than okay with that, sir.” 

“Ah, baby, please just one bite?” Choso’s got you pressed up against the conference room door, “spending all day at work with you makes me so needy,” he mumbles against your skin, as he’s already unbuttoning your button up, the shirt already creased with he’s tugging it free from your slacks, “please,” 

“Cho, you had one this morning, it’s barely lunchtime, and you’re this desperate—” and he’s grinding his tenting erection against your clothed cunt, and your hand barely is able to make it in time to stifle your moan with your fingers, “fuck, fine, one bite, but don’t make a mess, this is a white blouse, babe—” 

He’s already tugging down your shirt, wrapping his arms around his middle, as his red tinted gaze meets yours in the shaded drawn window of the conference door. And now you were sure — your coworker loved you, even when you thought he didn’t.  

“Don’t worry, love, I won’t spill a drop.” 

✧ a/n: this fic was weirdly hard to write. i was very stuck for a while. i couldn't figure out how to write it even though the idea struck me. but i hope you all enjoy <3 thank you for @laneysmusings and @gaylatteart for betaing and being the best moral support <3

✧ taglist: @yourwaifuhatesyou, @cira273, @kakashineedstotouchgrass, @whereismysane, @kaedeolgy, @keirangoldenwatch, @indieotterxoxo, @mua-for-now, @b3llair3, @evieslook, @shervinss, @saltymeow77, @svt-backup, @dazailover1900, @kentocalls, @yamaguccitadashi, @simply-a-s1mp, @rita-ritarita, @gorepain, @jupisloveletterz, @ice-echo26, @lemonpoppy-seed, @turtletaubwrites, @complexivelovely, @tiramatsumu, @strangehuman101, @being-me-is-not-a-sin, @adrenova, @chosoitos, @stonecoldsensitive, @flyingtranscatofeffed, @sunamatic, @maetziniscool, @muichirosbestie, @monstrousbuu, @spider-fan72, @nakariabnrb, @petalshxwer, @talkativetranscendant, @fairyxgothic, @jupisloveletterz, @crystalkat6747, @unorthodoxfaithxx, @hotcocokiss, @angstigone, @sunnykento, @dantaku

[heavenlybodies333]

Fuck being subtle -S.R

Spencer Reid x coworker!reader

The Boston precinct was too goddamn cold, and you weren’t just talking about the weather.

You tugged your jacket tighter around your body, more out of habit than need, pacing just outside the conference room where the local detectives were discussing victimology with Hotch and Morgan. Spencer was already inside, seated stiffly at the far end of the table, avoiding your gaze with the force of a thousand suns.

You’d think, after working together for years, Spencer Reid would have grown used to you. Your sarcasm. Your sass. Your uncanny ability to get under his skin with surgical precision and a sweet smile.

But no. Somehow, you’d only gotten better at it.

"You're wrong," he said as you filed into the Boston precinct, case folders in hand.

"How comforting," you replied breezily. "Remind me how many PhDs it takes to miss the obvious?"

You turn to lean against the edge of a cluttered desk, smiling politely at the man who’s been tailing you since the BAU walked in. Detective Noah Keller—Harvard-educated.

“So… what’s your drink of choice?” Keller asks, a grin curling at his lips.

You glance up through your lashes, noting how he steps a little too close. “Depends who’s buying.”

Behind you, a sharp paper flick announced Spencer’s presence like a starting gun. “Maybe keep the fraternization for after we catch the guy mutilating women in alleyways?”

Your head tilted, amusement twitching at your lips. “Is that your professional opinion, Dr. Reid? Or—.” He interrupted as you watched him mutter something under his breath.

“I’m not the one flirting my way through a double homicide investigation,” he snapped, biting and low.

You paused, slowly turning your head back toward him. “Excuse me?”

Morgan, who’d been rifling through crime scene photos nearby, gave Spencer a look. “Yo, Reid, maybe dial it back.”

But Spencer stood, finally meeting your gaze. His expression was taut, controlled—but his eyes burned. “Maybe you should save the date for after the unsub’s behind bars. Or is that too much to ask?”

You blinked. “Oh, I’m sorry, were you under the impression I needed your permission to live my life?”

“That’s not what I said.”

“No, it’s just what you meant. Crystal clear.”

Your voice was too sharp, too loud. The room stilled around you, agents and officers alike looking up. Keller whistled low from the doorway and raised an eyebrow at Spencer.

“You alright, Doc?”

“I’m fine,” Spencer snapped. “Thanks for your concern.”

The silence after Spencer’s outburst was louder than any siren. You could feel your pulse thudding in your ears, heat flushing up your chest even though the Boston precinct was still fucking freezing. Hotch cleared his throat like he wanted to intervene, but Morgan’s hand on his arm stopped him.

You glared at Reid, your body taut like a drawn bowstring. “Let’s go talk,” you said, voice syrup-sweet but laced with venom. “Now.”

Reid hesitated.

“Oh, you can psychoanalyze a sociopath in thirty seconds, but suddenly conflict resolution’s a stretch?”

He stood with a sharpness that rattled the chair beneath him and stalked past you, out the door and into the dim hallway. You followed, heels clicking like a warning.

The moment the door shut behind you, you shoved him back against the wall, chest heaving. “What the fuck was that?”

Spencer didn’t even flinch. “You tell me. You looked like you were two seconds from crawling into Keller’s lap.”

Your eyes widened. “Are you seriously implying I was inviting it?”

He folded his arms, jaw clenched tight. “You were eating it up. Flipping your hair, flashing that smile—don’t act like you didn’t know exactly what you were doing.”

“Oh, fuck you,” you snapped. “I was being polite. You know, like professionals do when they’re not broadcasting a full-blown tantrum across a crime scene.”

His laugh was cold. “Professionals? Is that what you call it? I call it desperate.”

You stopped breathing for a second.

“Oh,” you said, voice calm in that dangerous way that always preceded an explosion. “There it is. There it is.”

“I’m not wrong.”

“No, you’re just a fucking child. A jealous, petty little boy with a god complex and an attitude problem.”

His eyes narrowed. “That’s rich, coming from the office flirt.”

You let out a sharp laugh, full of disbelief. “God, you’re such a hypocrite. You act like you’re better than everyone, but the second I don’t orbit around you—you short-circuit.”

“I do not—”

“You do,” you snapped, stepping in close. “Because you don’t want me, but you don’t want anyone else to have me either.”

His mouth opened, but you steamrolled right through it.

“You think because we’ve fucked a few times behind locked doors and you make me come with those pretty hands, you control me? You don’t.”

His face cracked, a flicker of pain behind the fury. “You think I’m trying to control you?”

You stepped back, slow and deliberate. “I think you like me best when I’m quiet, naked, and dependent. And I think the second I stop being those things, you don’t know what to do with me.”

“You don’t know what the fuck you’re talking about.”

“No, Spencer,” you seethed. “You don’t.”

The silence that followed was tense and scorched and final. Your pulse thundered in your ears.

He opened his mouth—but you cut him off with a raised hand, already reaching for the doorknob.

“No,” you said. “I’m done being the punching bag for your fucking feelings.”

He blinked, stunned at the authority in your voice. At the fact that you weren’t backing down. For once.

“I’m not your secret. I’m not your mess to manage. I’m not yours. Not unless you act like it.”

You yanked the door open, the briefing room’s quiet hum pouring back in.

And just before stepping through, you turned your head, your voice a calm, brutal whisper.

“Get your shit together, Spencer. Because the next time you come for me like that in front of the team, I will make you regret it.”

Then you slammed the door hard enough to rattle the glass.

You don’t talk to Reid the rest of the day.

You do, however, knock on his hotel door at exactly 10:04 PM.

He opens it with that same infuriatingly unreadable expression. “Lose your room key?”

You push past him, the door slamming behind you. “You wanna fight or fuck, Reid? Pick one.”

He’s on you before the question fully lands—hands sliding up your waist, grip iron-tight as he backs you into the wall with a thud and kisses you like he’s angry to want you.

“Don’t go out with him,” he mutters against your throat, breath hot, voice hoarse. “Don’t say yes to anyone but me.”

You bite back a moan, fingers tangling in his hair. “You don’t get to say that, Spencer. Not when you’re the one who said this isn’t serious.”

“I changed my mind.”

“Of course you did.” You arch into him as his mouth trails lower. “Right when someone else wanted me.”

His gaze darkens. “We have rules.” His hands find their way up your night slip, the cold shock hardening your nipples as he massages your breasts.

“We fuck, Spencer. That’s it. That was your rule.”

“It’s not just that,” he hisses. “Don’t insult both of us.”

You pull away, setting your hand forcibly on his chest. “Then say it. Say what this is. Because until you do, I’m free to say yes to anyone I want.”

His mouth is on yours before the challenge finishes leaving your lips.

You moan into him, dragged up onto your toes as he crowds you harder into the wall. The collar of his dress shirt brushes your neck, his tie already tugged loose. You get your fingers under it, dragging it off completely as you shove his jacket down his arms with a violent efficiency. He shrugs it off and tosses it to the floor like it’s suddenly the least important thing in the room.

“You want declarations?” he growls, pinning your wrists above your head. “Fine. You drive me insane. You make me jealous. And I can’t stand the idea of anyone else touching you.”

His mouth was back on yours, punishing and possessive, tongue sliding over yours in a filthy, desperate kiss. You could feel how hard he was, straining beneath his slacks, pressing insistently between your legs. You rolled your hips forward, relishing the sharp hiss that left his mouth.

You gasped as his fingers slid between your thighs, stroking over the thin lace of your underwear. He found you soaked already, the proof of your need slick impossible to hide.

“You’re wet,” he says, smug. “You like when I get jealous?”

You grit your teeth. “No. I like when you finally grow a fucking spine.”

He lets out a sharp breath and plunges two fingers into you without warning, and holy shit, the pressure, the stretch—it has you moaning before you can slap a comeback together.

“You sure?” he murmurs against your ear, his free hand curling around your throat just enough to keep you in place. “Because your pussy disagrees.”

You jerk under him, both infuriated and embarrassingly close already. “Fuck you, Spencer.”

He drops to his knees in a heartbeat, tugging your panties down your thighs and letting them fall to the floor. You don’t have time to make a quip about how polite he’s being before his mouth is on you—hot, devastating, desperate. His hands are spread on your thighs to hold you open and still, but you’re already bracing yourself against the wall, nearly slipping from how fast he sends you unraveling.

“Fuck,” you breathe, hand gripping his hair. He groans against you—deep and reverent—and the vibration makes you buck.

You’re already close, embarrassingly fast, the tension of the entire day turning to molten heat between your thighs. He flicks his tongue expertly, fast and purposeful, and then slows down like he wants to torture you for it.

When you whimper, he pulls back, “Nope not yet baby.” Covering your inner thighs with warm wet kisses as you whine in protest.

He spins you, hands shoving your slip up over your ass and hauling your hips back. You brace your hands against the wall, the cold surface anchoring you as Spencer unbuckles his belt with frantic precision.

“I should’ve fucked you in that precinct bathroom,” he mutters, yanking his pants down just enough to free himself. His cock presses hot and hard against your ass, dragging along your slick folds.

You only had a second to catch your breath before he thrusting into you.

You cried out, forehead thunking against the wood. His hips snapped against yours with punishing rhythm, all that pent-up rage finally breaking through. He gripped your hips like handles, fucking you with sharp, possessive thrusts.

Your orgasm hits you mid-sentence, violent and scorching, your whole body shaking as you cry out. He fucks you through it, chasing his own release, the rhythm of his hips faltering only as he spills inside you with a curse muffled against your skin.

You collapse against the wall, breathing hard, body wrecked and buzzing.

The silence after was heavier than before. Sweeter, somehow.

You turned your head just enough to see him. “So… does this mean I can’t go for drinks?”

He glared.

You smirked. “Kidding.”

“Not funny.”

“Little bit funny.”

a/n: jealous Spence is my favorite

⋆•★⋆ MASTERLIST ⋆★•⋆

[touchbased]

when aoife had decided to drag arlo to her friend's birthday party, she'd viewed it as a harmless game. a mere opportunity to see if any of the confidence she'd seemingly been helping him gain through sex could translate to other aspects of his life. because, aside from the way he looks cumming from her mouth or, finally, after a few weeks of working up to it, her pussy, seeing him act confidently is the most addictive thing she's experienced. now, though, as she watches some slutty brunette she doesn't recognize try and flirt with him, her hands combing through his curls the way aoife likes to, she realizes she's regretting that decision. no matter, she thinks, shimmying her way over to the pair on the couch, smile just a touch on the wrong side of angry, i'll remind him who he belongs to. a presumptuous thought, perhaps, considering arlo is decidedly not her boyfriend, but it's basically his fault for making her feel so possessive. "so sorry to interrupt," she purrs, clearly not sorry at all, as she reaches for his wrist to tug him up and away from her competition. "i just need to borrow him for a moment." doesn't bother waiting for an answer before she's pulling him into an empty bathroom, arms crossing over her chest once she's locked the door. "so, are having fun with your new girlfriend?" / @thcophagy

[violetrainbow412-blog]

Examination [B. F.]

Bob Floyd x doctor!reader

wc: 1.7k

summary: Bob suffers a concussion and Nat insists he get checked out. He doesn't seem convinced until he meets the doctor who will examine him.

You were reviewing files and filling out some medical certification forms when someone knocked on your door. You didn't remember having a checkup appointment scheduled at that time, so a frown accompanied you as you walked to the doorknob. You had hoped it was just a colleague who needed help.

“Lieutenants?”

“Good morning, doctor,” the woman murmured cordially.

On her green jumpsuit was an embroidered patch that read Natasha Trace, below her callsign and a shield. She was firmly holding the arm of one of her crewmates, a bespectacled man you remembered from previous medical exams. You checked his name by looking at the left side of his chest.

“My partner suffered a concussion while we were flying,” she continued, “Do you think you could check him out?”

“Of course. Come this way.”

“I’m fine,” the boy complained. However, his actions contradicted him as he held the side of his head with his palm open. “It was nothing.”

“She has to check you out anyway. It could be something bad.”

Her tone of voice was firm, and you assumed this wasn't just an argument that had surfaced. You vaguely remembered the two of them being a team on the plane, so you understood her insistence to some extent.

You put on the lab coat over your black clothes, hung the stethoscope around your neck, and grabbed some tools you'd need for the evaluation. Calmly, you asked the woman to guide him to the examination table so he could sit there, and you instructed him to remove his glasses. You also offered her a chair if she wanted to rest during the procedure.

“Okay, let’s get started, shall we?” you announced, positioning yourself between his legs without being intrusive. “What’s your name?”

“You don’t know?”

“I need to know if you know,” you smiled, at the apparent disappointment that had seeped into his voice.

“Robert Floyd. They call me Bob.”

“Fine, Bob,” you murmured.

His name hung between you for a second before your gloved hands found his head. You carefully moved his hair to the side, feeling for any unevenness hidden beneath his skin.

“Do you know what day of the week it is today?”

"Thursday"

“Good, we’re doing well,” you flattered him, with a smile. “Who’s the president?”

“Biden?”

"You're sure?"

“Yes. Sure,” he nodded, feeling quite confident with the answer.

“And where do you feel the blow? Here?”

You gently pressed the right side of his head. He reacted with only a grimace that didn't quite turn into a gesture of pain.

“Here it is. There’s no blood, just a bump,” you informed him. “But I need to check you to rule out internal bleeding. Sometimes the wound doesn’t find a way out, but it’s there.”

The man nodded slightly every time you spoke to him, and although he seemed somewhat lethargic, you wouldn't have classified it as alarmingly disoriented. You took a medical penlight from your lab coat pocket and explained that you were going to check his pupil reflexes for any abnormalities—if any—based on how his eyes reacted to light.

You lifted his face with your fingertips on his chin. He didn't resist. On the contrary, he let himself be guided, as if that brief hold anchored him to something.

“Look this way. Now look at the light… good. Reactive pupils. Does the light bother you?”

“A little. About normal.”

You hummed a nod, focused on catching any change in his reaction. He, there under your touch, seemed mesmerized by your movements.

“Can you tell me what color your eyes are, Bob?”

“Blues”

“They’re very pretty,” you exclaimed without thinking. To try to fix it, you asked, “Blue like the color of the sky?”

“I would say more like the sea,” he replied. “Dark… when it’s about to rain.”

The comparison took you by surprise. There was something in his voice that wasn't meant to shock. He said it like someone describing something he knew very well.

You turned off the flashlight without taking your eyes off him. You gently released him from your touch.

"Now I'm going to move my finger. I need you to follow it with your eyes, without moving your head. If it hurts, let me know."

Bob obeyed. His pupils moved precisely. There were no signs of anisocoria or loss of focus.

“Good job. Now I want you to touch the tip of your nose with your index finger and then mine. Three times.”

He smiled faintly. It wasn't blatant. It was slight, involuntary, as if the command was too intimate for him not to notice. His fingers performed the exercise, though on the third repetition, his index finger touched your nose more slowly than before. You said nothing. But you registered everything.

"Do you feel any ringing in your ears? Dizziness?"

“I feel a little dizzy,” he exclaimed, though you saw a hint of doubt as the words left his mouth. “But I don’t think it’s the blow. It’s just… you’re so close.”

The phrase wasn't a play or a joke. It was honest, loaded with something he didn't try to hide. You stared at him without moving, measuring the fine line between side effect and real impulse.

You carefully began an examination of his neck to rule out cervical injury, and as you felt around and asked him if it hurt, he said only a little. Again, nothing out of the question.

“Your shampoo smells nice,” he whispered suddenly. “It smells like lavender, but with something else… rosemary?”

You laughed nervously, trying to ignore the fact that he'd leaned a little closer to your body to capture the scent. The fact that his body emanated such warmth at the proximity didn't help you stay calm either.

“You are so perceptive. Give me your arm.”

You walked over to the cuff and began taking his blood pressure. He remained silent as you inflated and released the air. After a minute, the number appeared on the screen: elevated, but not critical.

“Your blood pressure is a little high.”

“I’m in a small room, you’re right in front of me, and you just told me my eyes are pretty,” he justified himself. “Is it that surprising?”

You let out a short laugh, barely audible.

“Are you always this flirtatious?” you asked, feigning seriousness. “Or is this a symptom I should be recording?”

“Don’t worry, Doctor,” chimed in the pilot, who had remained silent until now. “Bob is usually charming, though he doesn’t show it much. It’s probably just the concussion.”

“It might still be worth checking it out,” he insisted. “You know, just in case it gets worse.”

“Would we classify this as overconfidence or the disappearance of shyness?” you decided to joke.

There was a warmth spreading through your chest, even though you knew it wasn't ethical or appropriate to get so flustered with a patient. Hoping to salvage what little professionalism remained, you spoke before he could respond:

“Let me take your heart rate.”

Next, you placed the stethoscope against his chest and the ear tips in their place. You registered the heartbeat. It was firm. A little rapid, not pathological, but not normal either.

You had to lean a little closer to hear properly. You heard him suck in his breath.

“Breathe normally”

“I try,” he exhaled honestly. His breath tickled your cheek, and his voice was so low you could barely hear him. “It’s hard with such a beautiful doctor.”

“I can call another medic if that makes you feel more comfortable,” you whispered. By that point, you'd already given up, so you didn't even try to hide your smile.

“No. Stay, I like you.”

You took a deep breath, trying to regain your composure as he looked at you with that mix of genuine interest and something harder to name. With a firm voice, you resumed your clinical approach.

“Okay, Bob. Everything indicates you're fine, but you need complete rest. No flying or sudden maneuvers at least until tomorrow. I want you to take it easy for the rest of the day. Nothing that involves force, pressure changes, or adrenaline.”

He looked at you intently, as if memorizing your words was as important as following them.

“If you get a headache, you can take some paracetamol—500 milligrams, no more than once every six hours," you added, writing it on his file sheet. “But if the pain gets worse, or if you notice blurred vision, nausea, drowsiness… you come right away. Okay?”

“Okay,” he repeated softly.

“You’ll be fine in a few hours, I promise,” you continued filling out his medical report, under his watchful eye. When you finished, you took something else out of your pocket and offered it to him: “Do you want a lollipop?”

Bob blinked, and the smile that spread across his face was like a warm breeze.

“Can you still give it to me even though I’m an adult now?”

“To my lovely, well-behaved patients, yes,” you replied, your expression coming out sweeter than you thought.

He took it, letting his fingers brush against yours casually but deliberately. Phoenix watched the exchange with a mocking smile.

“What if…?” he began, lacking the confidence he’d spoken with earlier. “What if I feel weird later? Could you stop by my room? Just to make sure everything’s okay?”

It took you by surprise, not because of the content of the question, but because of the way he said it: without pressure, without pretense. Just with disarming honesty.

"I could do it in about two or three hours, okay? That way you'll have more peace of mind."

Bob smiled victoriously and nodded happily. Phoenix stood up to approach him, forcing you to move away to give them space.

“Come on, Casanova. You’re going straight to sleep.”

“Fineee” Bob replied reluctantly, as he walked toward her with the paddle between his fingers.

Before leaving, he turned around one last time.

“Thank you, doctor.”

"It’s nothing. Just rest up and take care of yourself" you said, unable to hide the smile tugging at your lips.

She thanked you too and then they both left.

You tried to continue with your duties. You put on the new gloves, updated the file, checked the next name on the list.

But the heat in your cheeks didn't go away. Nor did the sudden awareness of how conscious you were of every step you took. You'd seen dozens of patients that week, and yet, Bob Floyd had just become a tiny anomaly in your pulse that would be hard to ignore during the day.

taglist <3: @littlemsbumblebee @qardasngan

[callsign-fox]

Dance with Me? - Bob/Robert Reynolds

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/Sentry x Fem!Reader/Superhero

Super fluffy, no warnings xo

I knew this movie would get me to write again, and I haven't even seen it yet! Don't worry, I am seeing it tomorrow ;)

Bucky’s apartment wasn’t home—but it was the closest thing to it. Nestled in a secured corner of Brooklyn, reinforced by his new position as a Congressman, it was a safe haven. A quiet place to hide. It was where Y/N had been laying low ever since she’d turned into a massive, flaming Phoenix above Manhattan—an event that had sent the world into a panic. The headlines hadn’t stopped. Neither had the government’s search.

The Phoenix inside her was too new. Too wild. Too dangerous. So, she stayed hidden. Waiting. Healing.

But that quiet broke the moment the Thunderbolts burst through Bucky’s door, weapons holstered but tension palpable—and someone new in their midst.

Something inside her shifted.

Light moved over her skin like a breeze—curious, tingling, alive. She felt it before she even saw him. From her place curled on the couch, Y/N lifted her head, gaze narrowing on the stranger. Her voice was calm, but her instincts were alert.

“Who's your new friend?”

“This is Bob,” Bucky replied casually, already heading toward the kitchen like this was just another Tuesday.

But Bob… wasn’t just another face.

Y/N’s eyes lingered longer than they should have. She could feel it—that coiled, restrained power humming beneath his skin. But deeper than that was something raw. Broken. Familiar.

He met her gaze, but didn’t smile.

She wondered if he felt her too.

Rising from the couch, Y/N moved a step closer, her voice soft. “He’s not like the rest of you.”

“No,” Yelena cut in, her eyes sharp. “Is this where you’ve been hiding the past few months?”

“Maybe,” Y/N answered, a sly grin tugging at her lips as she picked up her empty mug and headed to the kitchen.

“You’re a terrible government official,” Yelena called after Bucky. “Hiding a nuclear-level threat under your own roof. Cute.”

“I’m not a threat,” Y/N muttered, rolling her eyes.

Yelena mumbled something under her breath that Y/N chose to ignore. Bob quietly slipped into one of the armchairs while Yelena turned to the group.

“We’ve got things to discuss. Mind babysitting, Phoenix?”

“I don’t need a babysitter,” Bob said, barely louder than a breath. But even he didn’t sound convinced.

Y/N moved back into the living room, her fingers trailing along the back of the couch as she sat, perching at its edge. Yelena took the hint and filed out, Bucky following her with a last glance.

“You two don’t get into any trouble,” he said before the door clicked shut behind him.

Silence settled over the apartment like dust in sunlight.

Y/N rose slowly, her bare feet brushing over the cool hardwood floor. She could feel him watching her—his presence tugging at something inside her chest. It was strange. Electric. Right.

“You don’t talk much,” she said quietly.

Bob’s voice was rough, but not unfriendly. “Not a lot to say.”

She didn’t push. Instead, she turned to the bookshelf, flipping through the records until her fingers landed on something smooth and timeless—Sam Cooke. She dropped the needle, and the music filled the apartment like warmth spilling from an open window.

Turning to face him, she lifted a brow. “When’s the last time you smiled?”

He blinked. “I don’t really know.”

A small smile tugged at her lips. “Well… I don’t know you yet, Bob, but I have a feeling I can fix that.”

She held out her hand. He stared at it, confused.

“What?”

“Dance with me?”

A flicker of something crossed his face—surprise, maybe. Hope. He didn’t move, not at first.

“You want me to dance with you?”

“You heard me,” she teased, her grin growing. “A pretty girl is asking you to dance, you’re not going to turn her down, are you?”

He opened his mouth—maybe to argue, maybe to laugh—but no words came. Instead, he slipped his hand into hers and stood, slow and uncertain.

His hand was warm in hers. Solid. Real.

“One song,” she said softly. “No brooding. No worrying. Just… be human with me. Just for a moment.”

She guided him in, gently placing his hand on her waist, her other hand resting against his chest. It had been years since someone touched him like that—like he wasn’t dangerous. Like he wasn’t broken.

She moved first—swaying slowly, fluid and graceful. Bob was stiff at first, clumsy and hesitant, but she didn’t care. She wasn’t watching his feet.

She was watching his face.

“What are you, anyway?” she asked, her voice soft but steady.

His eyes narrowed, shadows flickering behind them. “Something powerful. Too powerful.”

She studied him for a beat, then nodded with a hint of a smirk. “Sounds like you’d give me a run for my money.”

He gave a small shrug, unreadable. “Maybe.”

But he didn’t look away, his eyes locked on hers.

“You’re allowed to let go sometimes you know,” she whispered, her breath brushing against his cheek. “I do.”

His eyes met hers, flickering with something fragile. “What happens if I let go… and everything falls apart?”

She tilted her head, inching closer. “Then we dance in the ashes.”

Something in him unraveled.

His shoulders dropped, his arm relaxed against her waist—and then, for the first time in what might’ve been forever, he smiled.

Y/N’s heart skipped, and she beamed back at him.

“There it is,” she said. “And it’s even more beautiful than I imagined.”

His smile lingered, shy and uncertain, but real. Y/N felt it again—like a pull deep in her chest, a thread tying her to him. It wasn’t just the dance or the song. It was him. The quiet storm beneath his surface. The sense that somehow, even though they'd just met, he wasn’t a stranger.

Their movements slowed until they were barely swaying, just standing in each other’s space. Close. Breath mingling.

Her hand slid up from his chest to rest just over his heart. “That smile looks good on you.”

Bob looked down at her, his brow furrowed like he was trying to solve a rather difficult puzzle. “You feel… familiar,” he murmured, his voice soft and reverent, like he was afraid of breaking whatever moment they’d stumbled into. 

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. “I was thinking the same thing.”

The air between them shifted—charged, magnetic. Her eyes flicked to his lips just as he leaned the smallest bit closer. His hand at her waist tightened, just slightly, anchoring them in that fragile, suspended second.

It felt like the world had gone still, like the Phoenix inside her was holding its breath.

Then—

Click.

The front door swung open.

“You leave them alone for five minutes,” Bucky’s voice filled the room, too casual and far too loud, “and they throw a damn prom.”

Y/N took a sharp step back, cheeks flushed, pretending she hadn’t just been about to kiss a man she’d known for less than an hour.

Bob ran a hand through his hair and turned away, the moment shattered like glass underfoot.

Bucky blinked, then narrowed his eyes. “Am I interrupting something?”

“Nope,” Y/N said, voice an octave too high as she reached to turn off the record player. “Just... entertaining your guest.”

Bob sat back down without a word, his eyes carefully avoiding hers now, like if he looked again, he’d lean right back in.

Bucky raised an eyebrow but didn’t push. “Right. Well. We’ve got updates. Let’s all have a chat, shall we?”

Y/N nodded, but as she brushed past Bob on her way to the kitchen, her fingers grazed his—and just for a second, she felt that spark again. That pull.

Whatever this was between them—it wasn’t done yet.

Technically Part 2 - Space to Breathe

[ickbite]

HERE COMES THE SUN !! — part 1 -> part 2

pairing: SupermansSon!jake sim x BatmanDaughter!Reader

Synopsis: Ironically deciding that you’re too lonely, your dad — Batman — decides to pair you up with Metrapolis’ favorite rising hero, Solaris (aka Son of Superman)!

note: I LOVEEDDD THE NEW SUPERMAN MOVIEEEE also my feet are asleep rn. — enha masterlist

The Watchtower’s observation deck was silent, save for the low, ever-present hum of energy flowing through its systems. Beyond the thick glass, Earth hung like a jewel against the black, spinning slowly and uncaring beneath your boots. It was beautiful—cold, distant, and impossibly alive. Almost like space was mocking you with how small you were.

You didn’t turn when you heard the footsteps behind you. They were measured, deliberate, softened only slightly by the weight of decades spent moving silently through darker places than this. You didn’t have to see him to know it was your father. You could feel him—like gravity pulling tight.

“I’m not stalling,” you said, arms crossed over your chest, gaze fixed on the curve of the planet below. Your voice was steady, but your jaw was locked tight.

There was a pause, followed by the familiar low tone you’d been raised on. “I never said you were.”

His voice didn’t rise. It never did. That was the worst part—it didn’t have to. He didn’t need to raise it to command attention. Every word landed like a weighted throw.

“You’re trying to avoid the briefing,” he continued. “I understand why.”

You turned your head slightly, just enough to catch the sharp outline of the Bat in your periphery. The pointed cowl. The impenetrable armor. The eyes that had never blinked under pressure. He wasn’t your dad right now. He was Batman. He always was.

“If this is about the Gotham recon,” you started, “I already filed my report. I didn’t compromise anything.”

“It’s not about the mission,” he interrupted. “It’s about you.”

That made you face him fully.

Your arms fell to your sides, though your fingers twitched with the urge to cross them again. You hated when he did this—pulled the conversation deeper, cracked open the door to something you weren’t sure you wanted to feel.

“I’m fine,” you said plainly. “I’ve completed every assignment. I haven’t missed a single target in months. I haven’t made one misstep.”

“You’re technically perfect,” he agreed. “But only technically.”

You blinked, unsure whether to feel insulted or challenged. “What does that mean?”

“You’re still treating every mission like it’s Gotham. Like it’s just you, the shadows, and a countdown to detonation.”

“That’s how you trained me,” you shot back. “That’s how you raised me.”

He didn’t deny it. He only stepped closer, slow and sure, his cape whispering over the floor. “And it worked. You’re sharp. Focused. Fearless.”

“Then what’s the problem?” you asked, more sharply than you meant to. You hated the small twinge of defensiveness in your chest. It didn’t belong there.

Batman looked down at you, and for a rare moment, there was no edge to his voice. Just truth.

“You only know how to trust people who fight like you,” he said. “Me. Your brothers. The ones who’ve been trained under the same conditions, the same code.”

You swallowed hard, already knowing where this was going.

“I’ve worked with League members before,” you argued, even though it was mostly true in theory. “Field-level cooperation. Split-second tactics. You’ve seen the debriefs.”

“You don’t let them in,” he said simply. “Not really.”

You clenched your fists, leather creaking slightly. “Because I don’t need to.”

“That’s what I’m worried about.”

You didn’t reply. You hated that he was right. You hated it more that he could see it.

He turned away from the window and walked toward the center of the room. The lights of the Watchtower glinted off his gauntlets like steel in moonlight. His voice was lower now—less Batman, more father.

“I didn’t bring you up to be dependent,” he said. “But I also didn’t raise you to be alone.”

“I’m not alone,” you said quickly. “I have Jay. I have Niki.”

“You have your brothers,” he agreed. “But they’re not always going to be standing in the shadows next to you. And one day, someone else will be. Someone you didn’t grow up trusting. Someone who doesn’t think in perfect silence or know your tells by heart.”

You looked away, biting the inside of your cheek. The silence stretched for too long, and he let it.

“You think that because we move in the dark, we don’t need connection,” he said, softer now. “But even the dark needs anchors.”

You hated how much that line stuck.

He tapped the console beside him, and the holoscreen flared to life. A mission file opened. One name blinked at the top of the screen: Solaris.

You raised your eyes to his. “You’re serious.”

“He’s your assignment.”

“Why him?” The words came fast, sharp, defensive. “Out of everyone in the League—why him?”

“He’s not you,” he said. “And that’s exactly why this will matter.”

You scoffed, turning toward the screen. “He’s a public relations poster boy in a cape. The world adores him. You’ve seen the footage—he flies into danger with zero caution. He smiles at reporters mid-flight. He’s—he’s sunshine.”

“And you’re Gotham,” your father said evenly. “You don’t need someone who thinks like you. You need someone who challenges what you believe about the people you work with.”

You shook your head. “Jay never had to do this. Neither did Niki.”

“Jay had me,” he said. “And Niki had you.”

That made you freeze.

“I’m not punishing you,” he added. “I’m giving you a chance to grow. You’re ready for more than Gotham. More than the family. You’re ready to lead—but only if you can learn to lead someone who doesn’t already follow your rhythm.”

You stared at Solaris’s name on the screen. Your jaw tightened. “If he gets in my way, I won’t hesitate.”

Your father’s eyes met yours without flinching. “Then I hope you’ll learn not to see him as a threat.”

You stood in the central command room, fully suited. Your armor was matte-black and reinforced. Every strap was in place. Every motion was silent. You were ready to move. Ready for a mission—not for conversation.

The doors slid open behind you with a soft hydraulic hiss. The air shifted.

He entered like a warm current rolling into a frozen room.

Solaris.

His cape swayed behind him, a blend of gold and deep navy, bright against the sterile grays of the Watchtower. His hair was windswept like he’d flown through a jetstream and liked the way it looked. And of course, he was smiling—boyish and too damn bright.

“You must be Omen,” he said, voice casual, but full of awe. “Wow. You’re… way more intimidating in person. Which is honestly impressive because the files were already terrifying.”

You didn’t blink. “You’re late.”

“Was helping redirect a falling satellite,” he replied with a shrug, like it was just a small side task. “Didn’t want it crashing into Norway. Figured I’d get points for that.”

Batman stood beside you, silent, observing.

Solaris finally glanced at him, a bit more nervous now. “This is the part where you tell me I’m lucky to work with her, right?”

Your father’s voice was dry. “No. This is the part where I tell her not to throw you off the side of the Watchtower.”

You didn’t even look at Solaris when you said, “No promises.”

He laughed nervously. “Okay. Cool. Great start.”

You turned away, cape brushing past his shoulder. Your fingers tapped the holopad as the mission file loaded again.

Coast City was colder than expected. The skyline stretched before you like a gleaming fortress, glass towers reflecting distant streetlights and neon signs. It was the kind of place that never quite slept but also never hid its secrets—unlike Gotham’s suffocating shadows. Here, everything was exposed. You hated it.

Your boots hit the rooftop of LexCorps West Satellite Facility with practiced silence. The matte-black of your suit blended perfectly with the night, absorbing what little light there was. The armor was sleek but reinforced, layered with advanced kevlar composites and nano-fiber mesh that flexed with your every movement. The subtle embossing of your family crest—an abstracted bat symbol—rested over your heart, barely visible unless you were close enough to catch it in the dark.

Your cowl framed your face tightly, with lenses that shifted automatically to thermal or night vision, glowing faintly red when activated. The cape was a lightweight, adaptive fabric—more shadow than cloth—that flowed like liquid darkness behind you, designed to muffle sound and obscure your silhouette. Every detail was optimized for stealth, agility, and intimidation. You were a ghost in the night, a weapon forged in shadow.

Behind you, the sudden whump of landing echoed. Solaris appeared—a stark contrast to your quiet shadow. His suit gleamed even under the sparse rooftop lighting, the deep navy blue accented with bold gold lines tracing the musculature beneath. The fabric shimmered subtly, a cutting-edge Kryptonian weave designed to absorb solar energy. The iconic ‘S’ crest on his chest burned with radiant light, symbolizing hope but also power.

His cape billowed in a slight breeze, almost radiant, catching the light like liquid gold, fluttering with a majesty that was impossible to ignore. His boots and gauntlets were reinforced with advanced alloys, built for both speed and strength, and the suit’s collar rose slightly, framing his face with a subtle glow. His eyes flickered softly with heat energy, a constant reminder of the immense power coiled just beneath his skin.

“Do you always land like a comet?” you muttered, scanning the perimeter through your thermal lens.

Solaris laughed, the sound light. “That was subtle for me.”

“That’s a problem.”

He stepped closer, the warmth of his solar-charged suit brushing against your cold armor. “So, what’s the plan, Omen?”

You didn’t look at him, focused on the darkened windows of the lab below. “I enter through the east vent. You circle the upper level, scan for movement and heat signatures. No engagement unless absolutely necessary.”

He nodded, voice casual but with an edge of teasing. “Got it. Though, just so you know—I’m bulletproof.”

You finally turned to face him, expression unreadable beneath your mask. “Good for you. Try not to get anyone else killed.”

Solaris blinked, his smile faltering for the first time that night. The silence that followed wasn’t awkward—it was heavy, like a pause in a storm, that split-second before lightning strikes. You didn’t apologize. You weren’t trying to wound him. You were just stating facts.

Without waiting for him to speak again, you launched your grappling hook across the rooftop. The cable hissed as it pulled you into the dark, boots slicing through wind as you moved in a wide arc above the alley. The shadows swallowed you whole before Solaris could say another word, leaving only the whisper of your cape behind.

He took a second longer to follow. His descent was quiet by his standards—no sonic boom, no heatwave—but it was still too loud for you. He didn’t crouch low when he landed. He didn’t flatten against the ledge or reduce his glow. He stood like someone who had never needed to hide.

You slipped into the ventilation shaft without a sound, muscles taut, suit adjusting instantly to the cold metal. The walls were narrow, lined with dust and static electricity, but you didn’t flinch. Your breath slowed to a crawl, your heart rate barely a whisper. The mask over your face locked into night mode as your lenses shifted—thermal on the left, motion sensor on the right.

The hum of LexCorp’s underground systems buzzed below your knees. You crawled inch by inch, hands pressed flat, limbs moving like clockwork. You didn’t hesitate. You didn’t allow space for fear. This was your element—tight spaces, low stakes, maximum focus.

In your ear, Solaris’s voice came through the comm with irritating warmth. “Three guards heading toward the main corridor. They’re armored. No open comms. One of them’s carrying something with a green pulse.”

You clicked your tongue once. “Kryptonite mod.”

“Lovely,” he said, quieter this time. “You see an entrance?”

“I’m ten feet from the upper lab. Wait for my mark.”

“Copy,” he answered. For once, he didn’t joke.

The grate below your gloves gave way with a soft metallic sigh. You slid down silently, landing in a crouch behind a tall rack of climate-controlled crates. The lab was white, polished, sterile in the way evil always pretended to be good. Screens glowed softly along the far wall, lines of code and chemical signatures scrolling fast.

You recognized the scent first—Kryptonite vapor, faint and sharp, like cut metal and static. The crates around you hummed with energy, tagged with L-Corp stamps and hazard symbols. You lifted one lid slightly and found what you feared: containment cases, shaped like rifles, glowing green at the seams.

Weapons. Designed for one target only.

You snapped a photo and sent it to the Watchtower’s encrypted server. Then you moved to the far console, fingers flying over keys as you downloaded all available files. A quiet whine filled the room as the drive spun to life, blinking orange as it copied.

Behind you, the door opened with a hiss.

Your body reacted before your mind did—spinning, batarang already drawn.

But it was Solaris.

He stepped through the threshold like a sunbeam in a storm, gold and navy flickering with the light from the glowing crates. His chest rose and fell, not from exertion, but from restraint.

“I told you not to engage,” you said sharply, voice low.

“I didn’t,” he replied, holding his hands up in mock surrender. “They spotted me. I just… didn’t get shot.”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re a walking flare. They don’t miss you.”

He grinned faintly. “That’s kind of the point.”

Your comm pulsed. Motion. Five signatures now, converging on the room. You snapped the drive shut and slid it into your utility belt.

“We’re out of time,” you said. “I’ll take the lower vent. You fly back to the Watchtower and deliver this to the League.”

Solaris took a step forward, brow furrowed. “You’re faster. Let me—”

“No,” you cut in. “You’re the distraction. I’m the shadow. You’re glowing. I’m not. That’s not an insult. It’s a plan.”

There was a long beat of silence. Then Solaris nodded. It wasn’t with his usual swagger, either—it was careful. Serious. Respectful.

You handed him the datachip, eyes not leaving his. “Fly low. Don’t draw attention.”

“I can do that,” he said. Then, hesitating: “You gonna be okay on your own?”

You paused. Just for a moment. Just long enough for the flicker of something else—doubt, maybe—to sneak in before you buried it.

“I always am,” you said.

He gave you one last look—something unspoken in his eyes, something not ready to be named. Then he launched, cape sweeping wide, vanishing through the ceiling vent without a sound.

You turned back to the crates.

The hum was louder now. The guards were coming.

You didn’t wait.

The second Solaris vanished through the vent, his golden light fading into the duct like sunlight swallowed by smoke, you turned sharply on your heel and moved. There was no hesitation in your body. No breath held too long, no second thoughts coiled in your gut. This was what you were made for. Missions. Execution. Escape.

The lab was dim, lit only by the faint blue glow of energy panels and the soft pulsing green from the Kryptonite crates stacked around the room like tombstones. You moved like a current between them—low, silent, your silhouette melting into the sterile shadows. The air smelled clinical, but faintly wrong, as if beneath the bleach and coolant, something radioactive was humming just out of sight.

You heard it before you saw it—the hiss of pressurized doors unlocking, metal groaning as it slid into the wall. A team. You counted the sound of boots before you even saw their shadows stretch across the floor: four guards, heavy-footed, synchronized. Military-trained. LexCorp didn’t send amateurs into black labs.

You ducked behind the largest crate, crouching low, cloak drawn around you. The suit adapted, surface darkening a few degrees to match the metal behind you. Your breathing slowed on instinct, chest tightening, lungs moving with silent efficiency. You reached for your belt and slid two batarangs between your gloved fingers, pulse steady, heart low in your throat like a countdown.

“They said the Kryptonian left,” one of the guards muttered. His voice was gruff, distorted behind a helmet. “Sweep the area. Someone else was here.”

Your hand twitched slightly around the batarang, but your grip held. You knew this routine. Flashlights swept the room. The green glow of their rifles flickered against the polished floor. One guard passed two feet from your position, his boot scuffing slightly on a power cable. You waited. Counted his breaths. Noted the way his rifle tilted down for a single, careless second.

That was all you needed.

You struck without warning.

Both batarangs left your hands in perfect sync—one arcing high, the other low. The upper struck the rifle, right on the Kryptonite chamber. It sparked with a choked sizzle, shutting down the weapon in a blink. The lower embedded itself in his chest plate, releasing a compressed shock pulse that sent him crashing into a rack of containment tubes with a thud.

The others reacted instantly, but not fast enough.

You were already moving, vaulting over the crate, cape flaring behind you like a living shadow. Your knee collided with the second guard’s jaw mid-spin, knocking his head sideways with a crunch. He stumbled, and you used that half-second to duck low, sweeping his legs out from under him in one clean motion. He landed hard, groaning, and didn’t get up.

The third opened fire.

You rolled beneath the beam, green light scorching the air above your shoulder. Your cape rose behind you like a wall, blocking his line of sight for one crucial second. He fired again, but your boots struck his chest mid-leap, knocking him back into a table that cracked under the weight of his armor. He groaned, stunned.

You didn’t let him recover.

With two sharp steps, you grabbed the edge of the table and slammed it sideways into his chest. The crash echoed in the lab, glass shattering across the floor like rainfall. You stood above him, chest heaving, but silent.

The fourth turned and ran.

You chased him without pause.

Every step echoed louder now, your boots hammering against the sleek tile as you moved. He darted down a narrow hall, slamming his fist into a panel to open a blast door. It started to slide shut behind him. You didn’t slow.

You ran toward the wall, stepped off one side, then the other, using the corridor’s narrow width to gain height. You flipped over the half-closed door, landing hard on the other side just as he skidded to a stop, startled. He barely lifted his weapon before your hand shot out, grabbing the barrel and twisting it free.

He shouted. You kicked his knee in.

He dropped with a scream, and you grabbed the front of his armor, dragging him upright against the wall. Your voice dropped an octave behind the mask. “Where’s the rest of the Kryptonite?”

The man was shaking. “I—I don’t know! I only guard the shipments they let through. I don’t know where they go after. I swear—”

“Who’s your handler?”

“Vale. Director Vale. From the Metropolis research branch. He doesn’t tell us anything else. He just pays.”

You stared into the slits of his helmet, then struck him clean in the temple. He dropped like dead weight.

You stood slowly, exhaling through your teeth, sweat prickling at the back of your neck inside the cowl. The hallway was quiet now, the only sound the distant thrum of generators and the hum of Kryptonite charging plates somewhere deeper in the compound.

You checked your wrist display. Six minutes since Solaris left.

He should’ve made it to the Watchtower by now. If he’d gone straight up and kept his altitude low, he would’ve avoided satellite scans. He would’ve arrived with the data, the mission technically a success. You told yourself that.

Still, your hand hovered over the communicator embedded in your cowl. You could open the line. Ask if he made it. Confirm that the heat signatures around him had faded, that he wasn’t lying on a rooftop somewhere with Kryptonite burns scorching his ribs.

But you didn’t.

Instead, you turned and walked.

Each step was slow, methodical, your mind looping his last words on repeat—You gonna be okay on your own?

You were.

You had to be.

Because trusting him—even now—was dangerous. And worse than that, caring was weakness. And you’d already survived too many nights to start slipping now.

Still, in the back of your head, his voice lingered like light behind your eyelids.

And you hated how much of you wanted to hear it again.The Watchtower loomed above Earth like a sentinel—silent, cold, and pristine. Its lights pulsed in neat rhythms, elegant and surgical, like the beat of a heart that had never known pain. Solaris broke through the clouds at high speed, but his flight wasn’t as clean as usual.

He was off-center. Listing slightly.

His left arm hung lower than it should’ve. His suit—normally pristine, radiant—was scorched along the shoulder, blackened from concentrated Kryptonite exposure. The light in the crest across his chest had dimmed, flickering faintly like a dying star. It was still there, but its usual glow—the warmth that comforted civilians and intimidated villains—had fractured.

And he felt it.

God, he felt it.

Every heartbeat ached now, dragging like concrete in his chest. The Kryptonite hadn’t hit a vital artery, but it had been close—too close. His body was still burning it off, working overtime to flush it from his system. It was like his cells were screaming beneath his skin, clawing to stay alive.

The moment he crossed into the Watchtower’s atmosphere-sealed bay, he lost altitude.

Hard.

His boots slammed into the hangar deck with a painful clang, knees buckling beneath him as he stumbled forward. His hand caught the wall just before he collapsed. The impact echoed across the steel room, too loud in the silence. His vision pulsed in and out, red at the edges.

“System—" he muttered through clenched teeth, voice hoarse. “Engage medical scan.”

A light flickered on above him, and the Watchtower’s diagnostic program whirred softly to life.

Warning: Cellular destabilization detected. Kryptonite radiation present in bloodstream. Suggest immediate containment and treatment.

“No time,” Solaris breathed. “Get the drive to League Command. Priority Alpha.”

He reached into his utility brace—something Batman had insisted he wear during joint missions—and pulled the small, black datachip Omen had given him. It was slick with blood.

His blood.

He hadn’t even noticed he was bleeding.

The program took the chip, slotting it into the secure terminal beside the hangar bay doors. A blue light blinked: transmission complete. Files encrypted, routed straight to League HQ. The mission was a success.

So why didn’t it feel like it?

He pressed his forehead against the cool metal of the wall and let out a quiet breath.

Her voice echoed in his head—sharp, cold, unforgiving. “Try not to get anyone else killed.”

She didn’t mean it. Or maybe she did. It didn’t matter.

He hated how much it did matter to him.

She’d been right, in a way. He’d drawn attention. He’d made himself a target, made her job harder by simply existing the way he did: bright, loud, impossible to miss. He was the sun, and she was the shadow. There was no way around it.

And yet, even now—on his knees, suit torn, shoulder throbbing—he couldn’t shake the image of her eyes behind the mask. That glare. Controlled, calculating. Alive.

No one looked at him like that.

No one ever dared to.

He pushed himself up with a groan, staggered toward the hallway that would lead to the medbay. His hand smudged blood across the console as he passed it. He didn’t stop. Couldn’t. He just needed to make it to the sterile white walls, to the autopod that would pump him full of UV and flush the poison from his veins.

He just needed to lie down for a minute.

He didn’t notice the small red alert ping that blinked across the Watchtower’s interface—one registered to her frequency.

Because even though Omen hadn’t pressed the comm… she was still listening.

The briefing room was dim and cold, just the way he liked it. Gotham’s skyline glimmered in the monitor behind the main screen, a silent reminder of home, even this far above Earth. The Watchtower may have belonged to the League, but this room belonged to him.

Your father stood in the center of the darkened chamber, arms crossed over the matte black of his suit, cowl still in place. His cape pooled around his boots like liquid shadow, unmoving even in the climate-controlled stillness. He didn’t need to speak. The weight of his presence filled the room like a second gravity.

You entered without ceremony, gloves still off, helmet clipped to your belt. Your knuckles were scuffed—only slightly—but he noticed. Of course he did.

You moved to the console without being asked, fingers flying over the keys as the Coast City data uploaded to the mainframe. The files flickered across the holograms: LexCorp weapon inventories, encrypted comm transcripts, heat signature maps.

You didn’t look at him.

You didn’t have to.

“Report,” he said, voice low and even.

“The intel was accurate. Shipment arrived at the West Satellite Facility three hours before insertion. There were four guards inside—five outside. Kryptonite-based weapons. Solaris ran interference. I went in through the vent.”

He said nothing. Just nodded once. Not approval. Not yet.

“I extracted the data chip. He got it back here,” you added.

Still nothing.

You swallowed, subtly. “They’re moving faster than we expected. I’m guessing they’re prepping for someone bigger than just him.”

Batman’s eyes—hidden behind the cowl’s white lenses—narrowed. “Director Vale?”

You nodded. “Mentioned by name. One of the guards gave him up before I knocked him out.”

Batman turned slightly toward the screen, his silhouette cutting a sharp edge across the room’s glow. “He’s been off the League’s radar for three months. Last ping was in Bialya. If he’s back in Metropolis, this isn’t just arms dealing. It’s staging.”

You didn’t flinch.

You were raised in this.

There were no surprises anymore.

But even as you stood still, every part of your body locked into briefing mode, you knew he was watching you. You felt it like a pressure at the base of your spine.

When you didn’t speak further, he did. Quiet. Controlled.

“You didn’t tell me Solaris was injured.”

Your eyes flicked up at him then, just for a moment. “He handled it.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

The words sank deeper than you expected.

You straightened slightly, posture tightening, chin rising a fraction. “He didn’t report it until he got here. I didn’t know how bad it was until after.”

“And once you did?”

You hesitated. Just for half a second.

“He’s recovering.”

Silence.

Not judgment.

Just… silence.

Which was worse.

You stared straight ahead, jaw clenched. “It didn’t compromise the mission.”

“That’s not what I’m concerned about.”

You froze.

That was new.

Batman’s head tilted ever so slightly, as if studying a weakness you hadn’t meant to show. “You’ve always worked alone. Or with your brothers. Solaris changes the dynamic.”

“I don’t need him,” you said flatly.

“I didn’t say you did.”

Your pulse kicked hard against your ribs.

He stepped closer, only a foot or so, and spoke lower now—less commander, more father. “You don’t trust easily. That’s not a flaw. It’s how I raised you. But one day, if you’re going to lead the next generation of the League, you’re going to have to learn how to work with people who aren’t built like us.”

You didn’t answer.

Your hands were fists at your sides, nails digging into your palms.

He glanced at the screen, then back at you. “Solaris isn’t your enemy.”

“I know.”

“He’s not your brother.”

“I know that too.”

A long pause stretched between you.

Then—quietly—he added, “You didn’t leave him behind.”

Your jaw flexed. “I completed the mission.”

“You didn’t leave him behind,” he repeated.

And you hated how true it was.

Batman gave one final look at the monitor, then turned back toward the shadows. His cape trailed behind him as he moved, voice fading just slightly as he spoke:

“Get some rest. There’ll be another op within forty-eight hours. And Omen?”

You turned slightly.

He looked back at you.

“I’m proud of how you handled it. Just don’t let what scares you keep you from learning something.”

Then he was gone.

Leaving you in the blue glow of the monitors, alone with your heartbeat, and the uncomfortable weight of what he didn’t say out loud.

You hadn’t expected to see anyone in the auxiliary lounge, let alone him.

You just wanted hot chocolate.

You padded in barefoot, hair still damp from your post-shower rinse, hoodie two sizes too big, Gotham Academy pajama shorts peeking out from underneath. The Watchtower was dead quiet. Dim blue night-cycle lights hummed overhead, and you moved through the lounge on autopilot, eyes already on the drink machine near the corner—

And then you saw him.

Slouched sideways across the window ledge with one leg propped up and the other dangling lazily, wearing a threadbare grey t-shirt and black sweats, Jake looked completely out of place.

Not because he didn’t belong.

Because he wasn’t glowing.

There was no cape. No suit. No solar crest burned into his chest. No blinding aura of heat and power. Just a boy. Tired, probably still bruised, and watching the stars blink against Earth’s atmosphere like he wasn’t really seeing them at all.

You nearly turned around.

But then he looked over, and his mouth curved into a half-smile.

“Didn’t peg you as a midnight cocoa kind of person.”

You blinked. “Didn’t peg you as a person who sits still.” Of course you knew he was Solaris, your father was the Batman, he had tabs on everyone.

He shrugged. “Injury,” he said simply. “That whole ‘getting impaled with Kryptonite’ thing really kills the cardio vibe.”

You hesitated, then made your way to the machine anyway. “You should be in medbay.”

“They kicked me out. Said I was healing too fast and making the rest of the patients feel bad.”

You glanced at him from over your shoulder. He looked perfectly comfortable where he was—one arm behind his head, eyes half-lidded, like this place belonged to him.

It was infuriating.

And weirdly… kind of charming.

You poured your drink in silence, steam curling up in soft tendrils. “Did you follow me?”

He scoffed. “Nah. I’ve been here for like twenty minutes. This is my secret spot. You just have suspicious timing.”

“I don’t have suspicious timing.”

“You absolutely do. You probably know the staff schedule down to the minute.”

You turned toward him, cup in hand. “That’s not—okay, yeah. I do.”

He grinned, and it wasn’t cocky like Solaris usually was on the field. It was boyish. Warm. Like he knew this was the first real conversation the two of you had without gear or protocols or blood in the background.

“Sit,” he said, nudging the ledge with his knee.

You stared at him. “You want me to sit next to you.”

“I’m off-duty, and you’re not scowling for once. I’m trying to make history here.”

You rolled your eyes but moved closer anyway, settling cautiously beside him. The ledge was wide, the glass cool against your back. The stars beyond it felt huge and far away. And for once, it was kind of nice.

Neither of you said anything for a minute.

He took a sip from a bottle of something neon blue. You nursed your hot chocolate.

Then—quietly, without the usual teasing—he said, “You scared me a little. That night.”

You looked down. “Why?”

“I’ve never seen anyone move like that. Clean. Cold. Focused. You didn’t even breathe wrong.” His voice was more awe than accusation. “I’ve fought side by side with the best. But you—you’re something else.”

You didn’t know what to do with that. Praise made your skin itch.

“Thanks,” you muttered.

He bumped your knee gently with his. “You’re allowed to say something back, you know.”

You glanced at him. “You’re not what I expected either.”

Jake raised a brow. “Yeah?”

“I thought you’d be loud. Reckless. Golden boy stuff.”

He smirked. “And?”

“You’re actually kind of…” You trailed off, surprised by your own words. “…quiet. When you’re not trying to impress everyone.”

Jake looked down at his bottle, smiling into the rim. “Don’t tell anyone. I’ve got a reputation.”

You let yourself laugh—a small sound, but real.

It was the first time he heard it.

And somehow, that tiny sound hung in the air like something you couldn’t take back.

Neither of you moved to fill the silence after that. Not because you didn’t know what to say—but because, for once, there was no need.

The rooftop beneath your boots was still warm from the sun, but the wind carried Metropolis’s night chill straight through the seams of your armor. You didn’t shiver—your training wouldn’t allow it—but you were wound tight in your stance, breath held steady, eyes locked on the warehouse three stories below.

You had been there for three minutes. Long enough to map the guard routes, memorize the timing between the drone scans, and feel him coming before he ever made a sound.

His landing was too quiet.

A soft whump of displaced air and heat touched the back of your neck like breath, not wind. You didn’t turn. You didn’t need to. That warmth—simmering, electric—was unmistakable.

Jake.

Solaris.

He stood just behind your right shoulder, close enough that the edge of his cape brushed against yours with the breeze. The soft friction made the hairs on your arm stand at full alert beneath your suit, even as you kept your voice flat.

“You’re late.”

He moved up beside you slowly, with no apology and no rush, like he wanted you to feel the space between you shrink. “Only by seven seconds,” he said, his tone smooth as silk and just as smug. “I figured you’d want the dramatic pause.”

Your eyes flicked toward him, careful and calculated—but the second you met his gaze, it was over. He wasn’t looking at the mission site. He was looking at you.

His eyes traced your jaw, your profile, the faint tension in your stance. He looked like he wanted to say something that had nothing to do with guard patrols or blueprints. He looked like he had said it already, last night, in silence.

You turned back to the edge. “You always this irritating, or just when I’m trying to concentrate?”

His shoulder brushed yours, barely—but enough that the contact felt deliberate. “Only when you’re around,” he said under his breath. “You bring it out of me.”

You felt the words low in your stomach. Heat curled there, unwelcome, annoying.

You ignored it. Or tried to.

The warehouse below was dimly lit, but far from empty. You’d already marked four heat signatures outside, and Jake—without prompting—confirmed your suspicion as he let his gaze slip down through the roof like it was nothing.

“Five inside. Six if you count the one sneaking a smoke near the generator room.”

His voice was calm, measured, but there was something behind it. Something like… interest. Not in the mission. In you.

You didn’t look at him again. Not yet. “I’ll take the scaffolding. You distract the north patrol and disable the alarm node.”

“That wasn’t in the plan,” he said, almost like he was challenging you.

“It is now.”

He smirked—a slow curve of his mouth that was far too confident. “Didn’t realize you wanted to see me show off again.”

You shot him a glare. “I don’t.”

“Sure.” He shifted his weight, cape brushing your arm again. “But you don’t not want to.”

Your jaw flexed. You wanted to shove him off the rooftop, or maybe shove him into a wall. The line between both options was too thin tonight, and the fact that you were even thinking it made your pulse spike.

You moved without warning, launching across the scaffolding like a whisper through steel and shadow. The wind caught your cape as you landed two levels down, knees bent, breath perfectly controlled. Your body knew the motions by instinct—precision, silence, grace.

From above, you heard him laugh quietly. Not mocking. Impressed.

You ignored the sound and dropped lower into the yard, weaving between shadows and shipping crates. Two guards. One step. A twist. A knee to the jaw. They went down before your boots even hit the ground.

He landed on the opposite side of the compound a second later—louder, but no less lethal. A pulse of solar energy disarmed the rifles with expert timing. You caught the edge of his heat vision in your periphery, melting a sensor plate just before it could ping.

When you regrouped at the back door, your breath came a little faster—not from exertion.

He was already there, leaning against the rusted frame with that same damned look in his eyes.

His suit shimmered with leftover heat energy, his collar slightly torn at the edge from the earlier blast. The skin there—just above his heart—was flushed red from the impact. You looked. Just for a second. It was a mistake.

“You’re injured,” you said, sharper than intended.

Jake’s eyes dropped to your mouth, then back to your eyes. “You noticed.”

“You’re glowing hotter than usual. It’s distracting.”

He stepped closer—barely—but it made all the difference. “Everything about you is distracting.”

Your breath caught.

He wasn’t teasing this time.

You hated the way your body responded—alert, alert, aware. Of his warmth. Of his voice. Of how close you were standing and how little you trusted yourself to move away.

You turned toward the steel door to hide it. “We finish the mission.”

“We always do,” he said quietly, right behind you now. “But this doesn’t feel like just a mission anymore, does it?”

You didn’t answer.

Because it didn’t.

Because he was right.

And because the second your gloves brushed the keypad, your hand was shaking just slightly.

You didn’t see the blast coming.

One second, you were inside the control room, decrypting the last of the shipment files. The next, Jake’s voice shouted your name—and then the floor cracked open beneath your boots.

Steel snapped. Concrete split. And then: darkness.

You landed hard, shoulder-first, in what felt like a sublevel maintenance shaft. Air rushed out of your lungs as the dust settled around you in a slow, suffocating cloud.

You blinked. Moved your fingers. Pain bloomed sharp across your ribs—bruised, not broken. You sat up fast, adrenaline overriding everything else.

“Jake?”

No answer.

“Jake!”

“I’m—ugh—here,” he groaned. His voice echoed from a few feet to your left. “Not dead. Just… incredibly uncomfortable.”

You turned toward the sound, cowl lenses adjusting to the dark. The glow from his chest symbol was muted but visible—just enough to guide you through the twisted wreckage of metal and rock.

He was half-buried beneath a collapsed panel, one arm pinned awkwardly, suit scraped and shoulder bleeding just under the golden trim.

You didn’t hesitate.

You dropped to your knees beside him, hands already reaching for leverage. “Hold still.”

“Didn’t plan on going anywhere.”

You braced your feet and pushed—hard—gritting your teeth as the panel gave way with a groan. Jake hissed as his arm came free, the muscle underneath twitching in protest.

You slid your arm behind his back and helped him sit up slowly. He leaned against the wall with a heavy exhale, the heat from his skin pulsing against yours through your armor.

“Okay,” he muttered. “That sucked.”

“You should’ve stayed out of the blast radius.”

“I was trying to keep it off you.”

You froze. “I had it handled.”

“I know,” he said. “I just… didn’t want to watch you get hurt.”

The words were soft. Barely spoken. But you heard them too clearly.

You turned away quickly, activating your comm link—but all you got was static. Jammed. You scanned the walls. Reinforced. No signal. No way up.

“We’re stuck,” you said tightly.

“Yeah.” Jake let his head rest back against the wall, then glanced at you. “I’ve been trapped in worse places.”

“With me?”

He smiled—slow, crooked, and entirely too pretty for someone bleeding out of his shoulder. “Not yet.”

You should’ve said something cutting. You should’ve rolled your eyes and told him to shut up.

But your throat was dry. Too dry.

You shifted to sit beside him, pressed shoulder to shoulder in the narrow space. The air was warm from his proximity, the heat bleeding off him like a second sun. Your skin burned where your arm touched his, even through layers of fabric and reinforced plating.

He glanced sideways, eyes catching yours.

For a long time, neither of you spoke.

Your chest rose and fell, steady but slow. His breathing was deeper—strained, a little uneven. He tilted his head slightly, face inches from yours in the dark.

“I like this,” he said suddenly.

Your eyes snapped to him. “What?”

“This version of you,” he said, voice low and rough. “Not glaring. Not disappearing into shadows. Just… here. With me.”

You swallowed. Your throat was tight.

“I don’t usually let people see me like this.”

“I know,” he murmured. “That’s why I’m trying not to blink.”

You were too aware of how close his mouth was. How soft his voice had gone. How the dim light from his crest outlined the slope of his jaw, the curve of his lips, the dark lashes casting faint shadows over his cheekbones.

You said nothing. You couldn’t.

So he did it for you.

“I think about you, you know,” he said. “When we’re not on missions. When I’m flying. When I’m in the medbay and you don’t show up.”

You turned to him slowly, pulse slamming in your ears. “Why are you telling me this now?”

“Because you’re not running.”

“I don’t run,” you whispered.

“Exactly.”

You should have said something smart. Something cold. You should’ve pushed away from him and told him to stop being reckless, stop being soft with you.

But instead, you didn’t move.

Instead, your eyes dropped to his mouth.

And his breath caught when he noticed.

You weren’t supposed to feel like this. Not toward someone like him. Not toward the boy with solar energy in his bones and hope in his veins. You were made for the dark. You were trained to be cold.

But he looked at you like you were something warm.

Like you were already burning, and he was the only one who could feel it.

He leaned in—just barely. Close enough to feel, not touch. His voice was a thread between you.

“I want to kiss you right now,” he said. “And I’m not going to unless you tell me to.”

The silence stretched.

Your chest rose slowly. Deliberately.

Then, without breaking eye contact, you said—

“…Don’t wait.”

The air in the vault was thick, heavy with dust and heat and something else — something electric, crackling in the space between you. Your lips barely brushed his, tentative at first, testing boundaries you hadn’t dared cross before. Then, slow and sure, the kiss deepened, a desperate promise in the dark.

His hand cupped your jaw, thumb tracing the tense line of your cheekbone. You felt the steady pulse of his heartbeat under your palm, wild and uneven, matching your own.

For a moment, time fractured — the world outside vanished. No suits, no missions, no expectations. Just two people tangled in shadows and heat.

Then the faintest tremor shook the vault, reminding you that reality wasn’t far behind. You pulled back, breath ragged, eyes searching his.

“We should—”

“Don’t,” he murmured, voice rough. “Not yet.”

You swallowed, the taste of him lingering. “Solaris—”

“Call me Jake.”

The vulnerability in his voice surprised you. The boy beneath Solaris, raw and unguarded.

You nodded, heart hammering. “Okay.”

For a few long seconds, you just sat close, shoulders touching, the silence speaking louder than words.

But eventually, the cold reality seeped back in — the mission, the danger, the walls closing in.

“We need to get out,” you said, steadying your voice. “Before someone comes looking.”

He nodded, strength returning to his posture. “Together.”

You glanced at him, a new warmth in your eyes. “Together.”

As you worked side by side to clear debris and find an exit, the kiss lingered between you — a spark promising this was only the beginning.

The narrow hatch hissed open, spilling cool, stale air into the claustrophobic vault. You and Jake crawled out, blinking against the harsh lights of the Watchtower’s lower deck. Your suits were scuffed, clothes dusted with grime, and your hearts still pounding—not just from the crawl through the wreckage but from what had passed between you.

Jake pulled off his damaged gauntlet, wincing as he flexed his fingers. “We make a hell of a team.”

You gave a tight smile, the ghost of your kiss still burning on your lips. “More than I expected.”

He caught your gaze, his own warm and searching. “You okay?”

You hesitated, then nodded. “Yeah. Just… processing.”

He stepped closer, voice dropping. “Me too.”

There was a silence pregnant with all the words neither of you dared say. Then, Jake broke it with a crooked grin. “So, about that kiss…”

You rolled your eyes but laughed, tension breaking like a wave. “You started it.”

“Maybe,” he teased. “But I’m not apologizing.”

“Good.”

His hand brushed yours—not quite touching, but close enough to send a spark racing up your arm. You swallowed hard, heart thrumming like a drum. “This changes things.”

Jake nodded slowly, eyes darkening with a mix of something fierce and tender. “Yeah. It does.”

You looked away first, then back again, ready to face whatever came next. “Then we figure it out. Together.”

He smiled, his hand finally closing around yours, fingers curling with a gentle certainty. “Together.”