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blank-potato · 21 days ago

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You Exist Behind My Eyelids

Pairing: Bob Reynolds x Reader

Summary:

“Bob,” you hiss. “He’s always looking at me.” Yelena raises an eyebrow, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “And?” “And smiling at me. Like I just saved a kitten from a burning building or something. He lingers. He watches me eat. He asks how I slept. He walks me to the damn kitchen.” “And is that a problem?” Yelena asks curiously, chewing on her granola bar but clearly hinting at something you can't pick up on. You stop to think. It felt like you had fallen into an alternate reality where Bob didn’t ignore your existence… where he smiled when you walked into the room, where he made you breakfast and stayed close without needing an excuse. Or After getting back your memory, you struggle to come to terms with the life you've returned to. It's one where Bob cooks for you, and smiles at you, and you have no idea why.

Tags/Warnings: 18+ Explicit Content, fluff, implied smut but no smut, sex dreams, angst, abandonment issues, self deprecation, jealousy, memories/flashbacks, acquaintances to friends, friends to lovers, Chekov's diary, the new avengers interfering (a little)

WC: 13.7k

A/N: Title from See You Again by Tyler, The Creator and Kali Uchis. I heard your cries for a part 2 to Loving You Is Easy and I hath delivered. Sorry that this took entirely too long to finish, I hope you like it!

Part 1

***

Losing your memory was a trip. Almost a month of your life where you’re drawing a complete blank.

Not to mention, everyone is weird now, like more weird than usual.

Especially Bob.

He’s been at it for ages. Making up all sorts of culinary creations and giving them to you like offerings. They taste good. Not just good, incredible.

The amount of effort and care he’s been putting into waffles, omelettes, pancakes, French toast… it was quite nice. And it was driving you crazy because every bite felt like more than just food. Like affection, like something familiar, like a feeling your brain was trying desperately to name.

One morning, after you’ve sufficiently stuffed yourself with the golden, cinnamon-sweet French toast Bob made for you, you set your plate down and lean over to Yelena.

“What’s going on?” you whisper urgently.

Yelena blinks at you, unfazed. “With what?”

“Bob,” you hiss. “He’s always looking at me.”

Yelena raises an eyebrow, as if this is the most obvious thing in the world. “And?”

“And smiling at me. Like I just saved a kitten from a burning building or something. He cleans my dirty dishes. He asks how I slept. He walks me to the damn kitchen.”

“And is that a problem?” Yelena asks curiously, chewing on her granola bar but clearly hinting at something you can't pick up on.

You stop to think. It felt like you had fallen into an alternate reality where Bob didn’t ignore your existence… where he smiled when you walked into the room, where he made you breakfast and stayed close without needing an excuse.

You supposed it was better than the little tango you’d dance every day, trying to stay away from each other. This was something, at least. But still… it felt strange. Off. Like you’d wandered into the middle of a story you used to know by heart, only to find the pages had been torn out and rewritten in someone else’s handwriting.

Now he was bringing you breakfast, offering to walk you to med checks, lingering a second too long when your fingers touched over a cup of tea, and you didn’t know how to feel.

“Are you sure you can’t tell me what happened during those weeks?”

“The doctors said we can’t. If they come back, they’ll come back on their own, don’t worry,” She says, giving you a reassuring pat on the back.

It’s a tough pill to swallow, but what else could be done? You settle down with a tired sigh, trying to quiet your thoughts, when Alexei strides in, boots thudding against the floor.

“We’re out of those little frozen pierogies. I need them. For strength,” he announces to the room.

“Well, I’m sure we could get someone to—” you start, but Yelena cuts in smoothly.

“One of us should go get it, right?” she says, way too innocent to be trusted.

There’s a pause. Like an invisible signal has passed through the room, one that everyone seems to pick up on except you and Bob.

“Maybe…” John adds, barely suppressing a smirk, “You and Bob could do it?” He looks directly at you, voice casual, but his eyes are all mischief.

“Great idea, Walker…” you mutter, audibly sighing in annoyance, arms crossed as you shoot him a look.

Bob shrinks just a little at your tone, shoulders drawing in like he’s trying to disappear.

“For once,” Ava adds with a smirk, not missing a beat.

You glance at Bob, who’s very determinedly not looking at you but is definitely turning a little red.

“Fine, we’ll go. You all seem weirdly insistent on it.”

The rest of the team had been doing stuff like this since you got your memories back, like when you’d mysteriously end up on Bob babysitting duty more often than the rest of them or how you’d always seem to be sitting next to Bob for everything.

You arrive at the grocery store, donned in caps and sunglasses as if they were good disguises.

“Let’s just get in and out as soon as possible.”

“Right,” Bob agrees. You nod, looking at the list of things that you need to get.

He drives the trolley slowly and carefully. You look at him, he’s calm, collected, and quite focused, even if it is just a grocery run. You feel a small smile creeping onto your face when suddenly he looks at you. It’s like being struck by lightning, throwing you into complete disarray.

You stumble, tripping over your own feet, but he catches you before you fall headfirst into the display of canned tomatoes.

Bob doesn’t usually get this close. Being near you, even touching you, was rare nowadays, but he loved to feel close to you. If it was just for a few seconds, then he’d have to cherish those few seconds.

“Are you alright? You seem distracted,” Bob comments gently, concern flickering in his voice. And he’d know, he pays more attention to you than you even realise.

“I’m perfect. Just…testing your reflexes,” You lie, he looks sceptical, but for your sake chooses not to push on it.

“Let’s get fruit, I think we’ll be murdered if we get nothing but junk food.” You say, and you go towards the fruit and veg aisle. You look around, still acutely aware of Bob’s presence — the lingering sensation of his arm around you clinging to your skin like a phantom touch. Putting it out of your mind, or at least trying, you go to grab some apples. But of course, Bob reaches for it too, and when your fingers brush against his, everything goes white.

Suddenly, you’re no longer in the grocery store but somewhere that feels familiar, even though you’re sure you’ve never been there before.

The smell of fresh coffee and old books fills your senses, warm and nostalgic. Soft light filters in through high windows, dust motes dancing lazily in the air. The quiet hum of a memory presses in around you, gentle and comforting.

“This one’s one of my favourites. You should give it a read,” Bob says, stepping into view and handing you a slim, worn paperback.

You take it slowly, your fingers brushing against the creased spine. The cover is faded, the title barely legible—a collection of poetry, clearly well-loved. You turn it over in your hands, tracing the edge of a dog-eared page, deep in thought.

“What?” Bob grins at your expression. “A guy can’t enjoy poetry?”

You look up at him, surprised by the easy vulnerability in his tone, the way his eyes are both playful and sincere. “You just surprise me,” you reply with a small smile. “Didn’t take you for the type.”

He shrugs, leaning back against the worn wooden bookshelf. “Guess we’ve both got sides we don’t know about each other.”

You glance back down at the book, the scent of aged paper filling your lungs. “What’s your favourite poem in here?”

Bob doesn’t answer right away. Instead, he watches you for a moment, then nods toward the book. “Page 43.”

You flip to it, eyes scanning the lines. It’s quiet. Soft. Something about ache and longing and finding peace in someone else’s silence.

“I found home not in walls or cities, but in the stillness between your breaths.”

“...And in the way your eyes forgive before your words do,” Bob finishes from just behind you, his voice soft, like he knows every line by heart.

You glance over your shoulder at him, lips curved into a small, half-smitten smile. “This is as good as the pizza,” you tease gently.

But your voice falters because your gaze gets caught.

The way the late afternoon sun filters through the window behind him, bathing him in light. All you could focus on was the hue of his eyes and how the sun made the grey flecks in his eyes dance. This little moment, in the back of this little bookshop—hidden away behind leaning stacks and dusty, time-softened shelves—was captured in your eyes like a photograph. A photograph you wanted to live inside.

The memory fades out as you come to standing holding a bag of apples after you went to god knows where.

“Are you okay?” Bob asks.

He’s tilted his head, that ever-steady presence beside you, and looking at you with that familiar concerned expression, the one you’ve become so accustomed to.

“Yeah, I just…” You trail off, not really knowing how to explain yourself. These little flashes had been happening more often. They were sweet, almost unbearably sweet, always unexpected and more often than not about Bob. You were told there’d be side effects when you woke up, but never in a million years did you think they’d involve Bob-related daydreams. Or memories. Or whatever they were.

You shake it off with a faint smile, eyes drifting to the apples in your cart. “I think I might make something with these apples.”

Bob lights up instantly. “Can I help?”

His enthusiasm is boyish, almost endearing, like he’s been waiting for you to let him in, even if it’s something small. And in a rare moment of softness, maybe without overthinking it this time, you say, “Yes.”

His grin grows wide, and you swear he stands a little straighter, like your answer meant more than you even realised.

You turn the cart down the next aisle, rattling off the other things you needed to buy, and he walks beside you, a little closer than before.

***

This was hell. Since the grocery store incident, you’ve been going crazy. Bob has been on your mind, and he refused to leave. He’s seemingly dead set on helping you out, whether it was waiting by the elevator until you came back from a mission and walking you to your room without saying a word, or showing up with coffee before you even realised you needed it — Bob was there.

And since he was always there, the accidental touches and sudden flashes became more frequent. One minute he was handing you a water bottle when you stepped off the treadmill, and the next you were in a haze, frozen in a daydream that made Bob look like the perfect boyfriend.

It was messing with your head.

It was messing with everything.

The lines were blurring, and the more he smiled at you, the more you never wanted him to stop.

But having a crush on Bob?

That was impossible, it’s just your mind playing tricks on you. You had to do something, and what else could you do but distract yourself?

Later that night, you walk out of your room… You’re all dressed up and feeling a little out of place, like you're playing a role you’re not quite used to yet.

The team stops you in your tracks — they’re all looking at you like you’ve grown a new head.

“Where are you going? Hot date?” Ava asks, raising an eyebrow, trying to keep a straight face but clearly intrigued.

“Yes, actually,” you reply, and you’re not expecting their reaction.

The entire team lets out a big sigh of relief.

They're barely able to contain their excitement. These little, painful moments of watching Bob chase after you were over.

Finally, you and Bob had—

“You look incredible,” Bob says, stepping into the living room in very comfy attire — sweater, sweatpants, and socks that didn’t match.

“Where are you headed?”

His hair was a little tousled, like he had just woken up from a nap, but his eyes were locked onto you like you were the only thing in the room. He was definitely awake now.

The whole team freezes. If you weren’t going on a date with Bob, then who?

“On a date.”

“Oh.”

“Some guy asked me out when I was grabbing coffee down the street, so I said yes,” you say, voice light, but there's a nervous edge you can’t quite shake.

“Oh.”

The look on Bob’s face is downright painful; he looks like a kicked puppy, stunned and quietly devastated.

His jaw tenses, his eyes flicker down for a moment, and then he forces a smile onto his face, one that looks practised, perfect for situations like this.

“I hope you have fun.”

He’s trying to sound genuine, but you don’t miss the crack beneath his words, the emotion he’s holding back, just barely. And even though you’re standing right there, it suddenly feels like you’re a million miles away.

“Thanks…” you say softly, with a tight, uncertain smile, making your way past him.

Your perfume trails behind you like a memory he’s not ready to let go of, lingering in the air even after you disappear into the elevator.

No one says anything, but Bob can feel their eyes on him.

He doesn’t need to look to know what they’re thinking: the tension, the pity.

Bob felt deeply; he always had. He was sensitive in ways he rarely let anyone see. This… this was just another step closer to breaking. Ever since he lost you, he had been pretending it hurt to be without your love. That he didn’t miss holding you in his arms, falling asleep with you next to him. He didn’t have enough time with you, not nearly enough. He was filled with regret for not realising how he felt about you sooner, for every moment wasted. He’d give anything for just one more minute with you, just for you to look at him like you loved him, just one more time.

He missed you so much it hurt in places he couldn’t name.

But now? Now, with you going out with someone else and he was more jealous than he knew what to do with. He couldn’t bear the thought of losing you for good.

His eyes glowed an ominous gold, the power starting to pulse and flow through his body like a rising tide he couldn’t hold back. His jaw clenches as his eyes drop to the floor, lights flickering at the edges of his vision, energy straining to stay in check.

Maybe you and he would never get back to the place where things felt simple.Maybe he had just been fooling himself this whole time.

He was tired and angry, and confused… but mostly just sad.

Empty, even.

The glasses on the table start shaking ever so slightly, getting ready to break. He can feel control slipping through his fingers like sand, like it always does when emotions win.

He keeps his eyes downcast, fists clenched tight.

By this point, he’s not even pretending to listen; he can hear muffled voices around him, but nothing’s going through.

Just static. Just you, walking away.

Maybe you were done with him.

Maybe you’d never want him again—not the way he still wanted you.

Yelena steps in, calm and grounding, taking him gently by the arm to stop him from spiralling.

“It’s okay…” she says softly, steadying him with a hand on his shoulder.

He’s surrounded by people who care, and it helps.

He’s still shaking, still unravelling inside, but he’s able to get it under control just enough.

The lights above flicker— once, then twice — before it steadies and stops.

He breathes out, slow and bitter. He had to get used to this, didn’t he?

You weren’t in love with him anymore.

“I-I’m sorry… I should just go to bed…” he mutters, voice low and tired.

“You shouldn’t be alone right now,” Yelena says, voice firmer now, no room for argument.

“Let’s just put it out of your mind, hm? Together,” she suggests, gently guiding him toward the group.

Bob nods, silent, and sits down on the couch beside her.

“Who knows, maybe the date will be a disaster,” John offers with a smirk, trying to lighten the mood.

“Thanks, Walker,” Bob replies dryly, managing a ghost of a smile.

***

The date is lacklustre, to say the least. The guy, Brandon, had taken you to some fancy restaurant, and you’re sitting across from him, trying to give things a chance, but it wasn’t looking good. He orders for you without asking, rattling off a dish you’re not sure you’ll even like. And he spends more time talking about the wine list than asking you questions.

This is why you didn’t go on dates.

Reaching out to take your hand, he says something, but you’re not listening. You become lost in another world again, your vision fading to white.

You’re not in a restaurant but standing beside Bob at the kitchen counter, the two of you surrounded by ingredients as you make milkshakes together. The soft hum of an old record plays in the background, and the air smells like vanilla and chocolate syrup.

“Are you sure we need this much caramel?” you ask, eyeing the generous scoop he’s just dropped into the blender.

Bob nods, he’s in the zone, completely focused, like a master at work. His expression is dead serious, like crafting the perfect milkshake is a mission worthy of national security clearance.

You smirk. “What about this?” you say, dipping a spoon into the ice cream and smearing a stripe across his cheek.

His head jerks toward you, eyes wide with mock outrage. “Oh, it’s like that?”

Before you can react, he lunges, scooping you up effortlessly and lifting you off the ground as you laugh, flailing gently in his arms.

“I surrender! I surrender!” you cry between breathless giggles.

“I’ll let you go… for now,” he says, setting you back down carefully, his hands lingering around your waist just a moment longer than necessary. It sends your heart into a full pitter-patter rhythm you swear he must hear.

He grins at you, eyes sparkling. “You ready for the best milkshake of your life?”

You nod eagerly.

Then he hits the blender.

And instantly regrets it.

A violent whir erupts, followed by a flurry of milk, caramel, and ice cream erupting like a dairy volcano, splattering both of you as you recoil in shock. You both fumble to turn it off, and the whirring stops.

“You forgot the lid?” you ask, wide-eyed and dripping.

“I forgot the lid,” Bob admits, blinking through specks of ice cream, then bursting into laughter.

He grabs a towel, cupping your face and gently wiping you down.

“I’m sorry, I messed up.” He’s smiling, but it’s faint; you can tell it’s starting to weigh on him. “Don’t be sorry. It’ll make for a good story,” You say before swiping a bit of the milkshake off his nose and licking it off your finger. “Plus, this is delicious. It’s the perfect milkshake, I meant it!”

Bob chuckles, his nose crinkling a little as he tries to hide it behind his hand, but you see it. That unguarded laugh, the way his eyes soften, the corners of his mouth lifting just a bit too wide.

It’s one of the most beautiful things you’ve ever seen.

“Hello? Are you listening?” your date asks, sounding increasingly more frustrated.

“Yeah, I uh…I’m listening…” You lie, nodding just enough to seem polite.

The next few minutes are a blur—you see his mouth moving, but not a single word registers. All you can think about is Bob.

There’s a story being told, something painfully dull about his job overseas and him bragging about how many people report to him. But it all fades to white noise the second Bob slips into your thoughts. His laugh, the way he wrinkles his nose when he smiles, the milkshake incident… everything else pales in comparison.

“I’m so sorry, but I… I can’t do this,” you say suddenly, standing up and grabbing your coat.

Your date calls after you, confused and annoyed, but you don’t look back. You don’t owe him an explanation.

You just have to get home and figure out what all these strange and not-so-strange feelings about Bob really mean, or at least push them down so far you never have to deal with them.

***

The elevator beeps, signalling you’ve arrived at the top floor, and you’ve never been more glad to be back at the tower.

As the doors slide open, you kick off your shoes and step into the dim hallway, moving carefully through the darkness. But before you can reach for the light switch, you spot Bob on the couch.

He’s curled up, completely at peace, eyes closed as if the weight of the day finally caught up with him. Peeking into the kitchen, you see a plate of your favourite food sitting untouched, cooling on the counter.

You wonder if he’s been waiting up for you.

You walk over quietly, heart softening at the sight. But then you notice him shivering slightly in his sleep. You can’t believe he fell asleep here, nowhere near as comfortable as his own bed must be. You don’t want him to wake up with a crick in his neck.

You can’t exactly lift him to bed, so instead, you rush to your room and grab your softest, warmest blanket. Returning, you gently lay it over him.

“Much better,” you whisper, feeling a little proud, like you’re doing something right for once.

Just as you’re about to head back to check if he’s fully covered, disaster strikes.

In his sleep, Bob shifts suddenly, pulling you down with him. You find yourself trapped between him and the blanket, heart pounding as you try not to wake him.

“Bob, hey, you have to…” You start softly, your voice barely above a whisper as you look up at him.

You’ve never seen him this close before, only in your daydreams. His eyelashes are longer than you ever imagined, casting delicate shadows on his cheeks. His lips look soft, inviting even in sleep. Each breath he takes now feels impossibly fascinating, like you’re discovering something new about him with every rise and fall of his chest.

“Fine… I’ll sneak out later,” you mumble to yourself, barely audible.

Your body, surprisingly, begins to relax. You stop fighting the closeness and instead lean into his touch, the warmth and quiet presence settling over you like a balm.

It feels right—comforting in a way you didn’t expect—but underneath it all, there’s that familiar, quiet ache. That sense of something unresolved, poking at the edges of your mind.

But that’s a mystery for another day.

And bit by bit, you give in to the comfort and end up falling asleep while breathing in the scent of his shampoo.

You blink awake, the feeling of kisses peppering your skin holding all of your immediate attention.

It’s soft and light, gentle enough to make you giggle.

There’s warmth, tufts of messy brown hair tickling your collarbone, and the feeling of strong arms wrapped tightly around you…

Realising those arms belong to a certain Bob Reynolds — not just any Bob, a shirtless Bob — your eyes widen as you shoot upright. “What are you…?” you start, glancing around in disbelief. You’re in a bed. His bed.

“What a hyperactive girlfriend I have,” he chuckles, easily laying you back down against the pillows with maddening tenderness.

Your brain can barely compute the fact that he said girlfriend. He smiles down at you like the sun just rose in your eyes, and you’re so easily disarmed, like you’ve been here a thousand times before.

“I don’t think you realise just how beautiful you are,” he coos, brushing his fingers softly across your bottom lip.

Those words…They feel like déjà vu.

They settle somewhere deep in your chest. Familiar. Comforting. Dangerous. It was so easy for him to say, and you didn’t know how to feel.

“Want me to help you relax?” He says, his voice suddenly like music to your ears.

You nod, your body moving on its own like you’ve been possessed, and he starts slowly slipping your clothes off, all the while looking at you like you’re a wonder of the world. His touch is light but teasing. Like he knows exactly how to leave you desperate, on the edge and needing more.

He kisses his way around your body, treating it like a temple. Every inch of you is on fire with even the smallest of touches.

His fingers curl in the strands of your hair, anchoring you to him as his lips press gently to your wrist, then trail upward with slow, deliberate care.

His legs are tangled with yours beneath the sheets, warm skin against skin, every brush of contact pulling you deeper into him.

Overtaken by the sensations, you find yourself pulling him in for a kiss you never wanted to end. His mouth meets yours like he’s been waiting for it, like he knows it — his tongue slipping past your lips like it’s second nature, like it’s always belonged there.

“Can I?” He asks, catching his breath, his fingers at the bottom of your shirt, so eager to just rip it off of you. “Yeah,” You reply breathlessly, needing his touch.

He pulls back slightly, his fingers gently caressing your cheek, and before you know it, you’re naturally leaning into his touch, the warmth of his hand soothing you. There’s a sweet look in his eyes, full of tenderness, and somehow you feel like you can read his mind. An unspoken connection that almost scares you. He opens his mouth to speak, “I love—”

You wake up with a loud gasp. What in the ever living fuck was that? You were convinced that whatever it was couldn’t be real, but the alternative, that you were having sex dreams about Bob, wasn’t that much better. Morning has come, and you’re still in Bob’s arms (a fully clothed Bob thankfully) on the couch; he’s fast asleep. You scramble to get away from him before he wakes up; you don’t feel like explaining anything. But in your attempts, you unintentionally punch him in the stomach.

“What the—?” Bob groans as he rolls on top of you. Being woken up with a punch couldn’t be pleasant.

The two of you tumble off the couch in a mess of limbs, and he lands squarely on top of you.

The blanket twists around you both, tangling you in a heap on the floor.

Feeling his body pressed against yours sends your heart into a frenzy. His hands are on either side of you, caging you in as he hovers above, clearly trying not to crush you.

“I’m so sorry, how did we even…?” he stammers, brain still trying to wake up.

“I–I came home last night and saw you on the couch. You trapped me and I just wanted to give you a blanket and—and…” You stutter, tripping over the words like they’ll somehow save you from the burning embarrassment.

“I’m so sorry,” Bob blurts out again, his cheeks flushed and his voice cracking slightly.

It seems the embarrassment wasn’t one-sided; he’s just as flustered, maybe more.

And yet, neither of you is making a move to get up.

Sure, you were mortified beyond belief, but being this close to Bob reminded you of your dream. His warmth came off him in waves, making you feel comfortable despite your racing heart. The soft, stormy blue of his eyes looked down at you with something that made your chest ache.

It felt too good.

You wanted to give in, to dive into this feeling even though you knew you shouldn’t, because if you did, there might be no going back.

Your eyes snap up just in time to see Ava standing a few feet away, one brow raised and a sly smile tugging at her lips.

“I didn’t want to interrupt.”

***

You were avoiding him again. It had been three days, and you hadn’t eaten a single one of his pancakes, and you only responded to him with short one-word answers where possible.

Bob knew it wasn’t because of the date. He’d overheard you complaining to Yelena about it in the training room.

So it was him.

He doesn’t know what he did.

And nothing he tries seems to get through, it’s like the walls he’d started to gently tear down were rebuilt overnight… only now, they had defence systems he couldn’t even begin to navigate.

He’s alone in the Tower now. The silence presses in. And it’s on his mind. Your diary.

He knows that the memory-wiped version of you once told him he could read it. But it still feels iffy. Like he’s crossing a line. Still… it feels like he’s out of options.

You won’t talk to him anymore. You barely look at him. And the ache of not knowing why is driving him insane.

So he finds himself at your door.

The rest of the team is out on a mission, so it’s all quiet, just the sound of his own beating heart ringing in his ears.

Opening the door quietly, he steps inside.

It smells like you. Feels like you.

He walks over to the drawer where you once said you kept it, hesitates for just a second… and takes it quickly.

His chest tightened with frustration as he flipped through the pages of your diary, still unsure if he even should be reading it. But maybe it held something that could explain everything. Maybe it held what your issue was with him and why you were always avoiding him like the plague.

“Bob is avoiding me in the kitchen again. I don’t get why it’s so easy for everyone else but not me… I want to talk to him, but trying too hard is never safe. Why get attached?” he reads aloud softly, the words catching in his throat.

He swallows hard, guilt curling in his stomach. That wasn’t how it was supposed to feel for you. He thought he was giving you space. He thought maybe you needed it. That his presence might be too much.

Bob flips through more pages, the paper whispering as he searches for clarity, for a lifeline, until his eyes land on another entry.

“I can’t be around Bob… We’re too similar. If anyone could see through me, it’d be him. That’s why I avoid him specifically. If he saw me then and I mean really saw me, I don’t know what I’d do.”

He flicks to the next page, and your voice echoes softly in his mind.

“He’s gentle and complex, and sometimes he looks like he’s carrying the weight of the world alone. I just can’t seem to get through. I catch myself staring when he doesn’t notice, and wonder if I’ll ever be able to connect to him. It’s useless anyway, but I can’t help but wonder.”

And then the line that crushes him:

“Everyone leaves, so why give them the opportunity?”

The air feels heavier now.

It hits him, this wasn’t about him being cold or distant. This was you trying to protect yourself. You were trying not to hope, because hoping meant giving someone the power to hurt you. And all this time, he’d been holding back, afraid of messing it up, of overwhelming you… never realising you already cared. Deeply but quietly.

He shuts the diary slowly, holding it to his chest for a moment like maybe it could absorb some of the emotion threatening to spill out of him.

And now he knows.

Now he understands why you flinched at closeness, why you left before anyone could ask you to stay.

He just had to show you that he’s not going anywhere.

***

Bob couldn’t push — he didn’t want to come on too strong.

He just wanted to spend time with you, to get you to let him in again, even if it was just in small, quiet moments.

Bob pauses in the doorway and sees you sitting in the lounge, your feet curled under you and your attention half-lost in a book. “I don’t mean to bother you, but can you help me with something?” he asks, voice hopeful.

“Me?” You blink up at him, startled. “I’m sure Yelena could help you instead,” you immediately deflect, the words coming out sharper than you intended. He stiffens slightly, withdrawing into himself almost instantly.

“Oh. Yeah, yeah, that’s okay. Forget I asked,” he mumbles with a sad smile that barely reaches his eyes. He turns, slinking away like he’s used to retreating when he feels unwelcome.

But the moment he’s out of sight, guilt claws its way up your throat. You didn’t mean to make him feel small or dismissed. That wasn’t fair. You slam your book shut and jump up from the couch.

“Wait… I’ll help you,” you call out, your voice apologetic.

He stops in his tracks and turns back to you, surprised. “Really?”

You nod, walking up to him. “Yeah. Sorry… I didn’t mean to sound so cold. What do you need?”

“I know this is weird, but could you help me brush my hair?” He asks quietly, his voice barely above a whisper, before he quickly backs up, almost tripping over his own feet. “Actually, you don’t have to. It’s—”

“I’ll do it.”

Next thing you know, he’s sitting on the floor between your legs and you’re on the couch, brushing his hair gently with a hairbrush, with the TV on.

“Your hair is really soft,” you murmur absentmindedly, almost as if forgetting who you were talking to.

“You think so?” he replies, tilting his head slightly back to look up at you.

You smile faintly, sorting through any small tangles with your fingers. “Yeah, it’s nice.”

“Oh shit, does that tingle?” you ask suddenly, catching the way he shivered when you touched a certain spot behind his ear.

“Yeah,” he says with a sheepish chuckle, “but it’s not a bad tingle.”

For once, not overthinking it too much, you just sit there, both of you watching TV, catching up on the episode of your favourite show that you’d missed.

“Remind me what’s happening again?” Bob asks, brow furrowing as he points at the screen.

“So basically, earlier on in the season, the girl found out that her real father isn’t the janitor, but actually—”

“The guy who kidnapped her dog,” he interrupts, already confused.

“No, no, sweet innocent Bob. That’s his evil twin,” you say, completely dead serious, grinning as you catch his wide-eyed reaction.

He smiles up at you, charmed by how engrossed you are in this ridiculous show. It was a small thing, but a glimpse into what could be, if you just let go. You were like the sun, and he was content just basking under your light for as long as he could.

“What? Is there something on my face?” you ask, suddenly self-conscious under his gaze.

“No, I, um…” He hesitates, eyes dipping away before flicking back up to you.

“I’m talking too much, aren’t I?” you mumble, looking even more sheepish as you fidget with the corner of your sleeve.

“No, no… I could listen to you talk for hours,” Bob replies genuinely, with a soft smile. It makes your heart stutter, your breath catch. No words can form; you’re completely lost in him. He clears his throat, feeling his cheeks starting to heat up.

“Who’s in the love triangle again?” he asks suddenly, tilting his head, saving you from gawking at him like an idiot.

You perk up immediately with a gleam in your eye, ready to unload a full essay’s worth of information. “It’s actually a love pentagon…”

And just like that, you’re talking and laughing and massaging his scalp as you comb through his hair, both of you caught in a rhythm that felt unexpectedly natural. Maybe actually talking to Bob wasn’t so bad.

***

The next day, you traipse back into your room after a gruelling mission. Getting back into the swing of things is harder than it looks, especially with the exhaustion weighing on your shoulders and flashes of Bob being unexpectedly cute popping into your head every time you try to focus on fighting. Not to mention, you actually enjoyed brushing Bob’s hair, feeling his hair beneath your fingertips, watching him react when you’d graze a sensitive spot. This was insanity, and you needed to document it.

Looking around the dim room, your eyes settle on your dresser. You move over and reach for your diary, something you haven’t written in for far too long.

You yank open your drawer, grabbing your diary with the full intent to emotionally unload every irrational (but valid) feeling bubbling in your chest.

But you notice your diary is sitting on a stack of paper. You take them out and freeze them.

Pictures.

Your brows knit as you start looking through them.

They’re all of Bob.

Photo after photo, in different lighting, from different angles, in different places. Him laughing, him holding coffee, him at the bookstore you dreamt of. One of him eating a sandwich with ridiculous focus. In every single one, he looks… happy. Radiant, even. Just Bob, but lighter.

You stare at them, a hollow kind of confusion forming in your chest. You don’t remember taking these. You don’t remember any of this.

Which only means one thing… these were from the weeks you lost your memory.

You rack your brain for a possible explanation. Were you stalking him?

But then something shifts. You look closer. The angles aren’t distant or hidden. They're up close. Comfortable. Personal.

These were moments. You flip to the next photo, Bob looking right at the camera, smiling, soft and warm like whoever was behind it was someone he cared about. Like he was on a date.

And then more photos, but they were of you.

Walking through New York, holding an ice cream, grinning ear to ear. At a crosswalk, arms thrown out like you were catching the wind. Hair wild. Laughing like you hadn’t felt a single burden in your life.

You hadn’t smiled like that in so long. You were practically glowing. Something inside you cracks wide open. What the hell happened in those missing weeks? And why does it feel like…you were happy?

Like really happy.

With him.

You spring up, heart pounding, knowing you need to get to the bottom of this. Grabbing the pictures, you dash over to his room. Your hand hovers over the door, ready to knock, but then you freeze. What would you even say? What if the answer isn’t what you want to hear? What if it changes everything?

The doubt claws at you, but the questions won’t let you turn away.

But before you could think of what to say, Bob called your name. You turn your head to the side, he’s on his way back to his room. He notices the expression on your face and knows it’s something serious.

“I… we need to talk,” you say, your voice shaky but determined.

Bob nods silently and walks over, letting you into his room. The moment you enter, you’re hit with a wave of familiarity, like you’ve been here before, like this conversation has already started somewhere deep in your memory.

You take a deep breath and sit down next to each other on the bed.

“I know why you’ve been really friendly recently. In the weeks I lost my memory…” You begin, watching his expression closely.

Bob’s eyes soften, like you’ve finally understood something important. “We became friends, didn’t we?”

He pauses, looking a little sad at the word “friends,” but when you pull out the pictures, his face changes.

“I… I remember,” he says quietly. “But these pictures… I’ve never actually seen them before. I only remember you taking them.”

His mind drifts back, replaying memories of the two of you inseparable, back when love was the only thing on both of your minds.

“It’s been a long time since I’ve looked happy like that,” you admit, flicking through the photos. You notice a flicker of quiet sadness cross his face as he looks at them. He must miss who you were, the version of you that these pictures captured.

“If you’re willing, I’d like to try again. Get to a place where things aren’t so uncomfortable. If you were able to do it with me then, maybe you could do it with me now.”

Bob recognised this was a huge step forward. He knew it wasn’t easy, maybe it never would be, but being your friend sounded like a gift he didn’t want to take for granted.

“I’d love to try,” he said softly, hope shining in his eyes.

***

Being friends is hard. It takes effort, and you don’t quite know what you’re doing, so it’s hard, but good.

It feels good to connect, even if it still scares you to try. There’s a quiet exhilaration in the small moments, like watching a movie together or just sitting side by side without any pressure.

You even made him an omelette the other day, and you swear he almost cried.

“It can’t be that good,” You protested.

“No, no, it really is,” he said, the quiet part he kept in his head being, “Because you made it for me.”

Now, you’re sitting with him again, the comfortable silence wrapping around you. He’s quiet, and you can tell he’s thinking about telling you something. Since this whole “friend thing” began a few days ago, you’ve become something of an expert in Bob’s body language—the way he fiddles with his hands when he’s deep in thought, how his eyes light up when he’s interested in something.

“What do you want to ask?” you interrupt his mid-thought.

He looks at you with a meek smile. “I was just wondering if you wanted to go get coffee? Kinda craving one.”

You pause for a moment, then reply, “Sure, that sounds… fun,” a shy smile working its way onto your face.

You both step out of the tower and onto the street. It’s a grey, overcast day, clouds hanging low, but after everything, just walking beside him, step in step, feels like a kind of quiet relief.

You don’t talk much, but the silence isn’t uncomfortable. If anything, it’s peaceful. Bob seems more at ease now, no longer walking on eggshells around you. It’s subtle, but it means everything.

You watch his back as he walks ahead, the strands of his hair being tousled gently by the wind. Your footsteps slow, then stop entirely as the now-familiar sensation creeps in like a thread tugging at your consciousness. Just like that, you’re being pulled away again.

You open your eyes to the soft glow of fairy lights and the sight of Bob with his back to you, working meticulously to finish what looks like a little surprise just for you. There are cushions, blankets, and pillows all arranged into a comfy blanket fort in the living room. He’s focused, tongue tucked slightly into his cheek as he ties the last bit of fabric to the back of a chair, glancing over his shoulder.

“Are your eyes still closed?” he calls out.

You quickly squeeze them shut again. “Yeah, still shut.”

You can’t help the smile tugging at your lips as you listen, hear the faint shuffle of him putting on music, the soft groan when he stubs his toe against the coffee table, and the patter of his footsteps approaching until he’s standing right in front of you. You can’t see him, but his presence is warm and unmistakable.

“Take my hand,” he says gently.

“I can’t see your hand,” you reply, trying not to laugh.

“Oh. Right.” You hear the smile in his voice as he reaches for you, carefully guiding your hand into his. His fingers wrap around yours, steady and warm, and he helps you to your feet.

“Eyes still closed?” he checks.

You hum in agreement.

“Open them.”

You blink your eyes open and are immediately greeted by the sight of the blanket fort in all its cosy glory. It’s strung with twinkle lights and layered with soft throws and fluffy pillows. Inside, there are even two mugs of something warm and a plate of pancakes waiting.

“After you,” he says with a quiet pride.

You both crawl inside, and it's everything. A little safe haven carved out of nothing. You settle down next to him, your shoulders brushing.

“This is perfect,” you whisper.

“I’m glad you like it,” he replies, sheepish but glowing with quiet pride. He takes a breath, hesitating just a beat. “I know it must be scary… not knowing who you are. I just wanted to do something to make it a little easier. Is that dumb? It’s dumb, right?”

You reach for his hand, laying yours over his, gently tracing your fingers across his knuckles. “It’s not dumb at all.”

Your eyes meet, and something clicks into place. It’s like exhaling after holding your breath all day, like sinking into a familiar rhythm, like… coming home.

Not to a place, but to a person.

You’re barely out of your daze when you hear the sudden ringing of a bike bell heading straight for you.

Before you can react, Bob’s arm wraps around you, pulling you out of the way just in time as a bike messenger speeds past. You stumble slightly, but he steadies you, and suddenly your head is resting against his chest.

His shirt is soft beneath your cheek, and the scent of him fills your senses—it’s faint, clean… something warm like vanilla and cinnamon.

You pull back slightly, just enough to look up at him, and for a moment, you're looking at him the way you do in your daydreams. The world slows. His hand lingers on your arm, his touch reassuring, grounding.

You feel safe. And maybe, for the first time in a long while… hopeful.

“Thank you… You saved me,” you say, the words almost teasing but laced with something softer underneath.

“I’ll always be around to protect you from bikes,” Bob replies gently, smiling like he knows something you don’t.

You nod, and just as he’s about to start walking again, you reach out and take his hand. You don’t know why you did it. It’s like your body moves on its own. His fingers twitch slightly in surprise, and when he looks over at you, his eyes are wide.

“Just in case,” you murmur, trying to explain it away.

“Just in case,” he echoes, quieter this time, like the words mean something more to him than he lets on. He smiles, that soft, rare kind of smile he saves for you, and keeps walking, your hands still clasped.

Walking inside, you’re immediately hit with the comforting smell of fresh pastries and ground coffee beans. It’s like a hug for your nose.

You step up to the counter and order your go-to, adding with a smile, “Oh, and can I get extra whipped cream?”

The barista nods. “Yeah, it’s just two dollars more.”

You nod again, already fishing out your card and tapping it without hesitation. Bob steps up behind you in line, casually scanning the pastry case while you wait for your receipt.

Then you see it.

The barista perks way up when it’s Bob’s turn, her voice turning a shade sweeter. “And what can I get started for you?”

He rattles off his order, and before he can finish, she cuts in, eyes shining. “And do you want that with extra whipped cream?”

Bob blinks, caught off guard. “Uh…”

“On the house,” she adds, flashing him a smile that practically sparkles.

“Sure, why not?” he says, still half-confused, then turns to you with a helpless shrug and a smile. You narrow your eyes, watching the barista giggle to herself as she starts prepping the drink. She was so obvious.

“Thanks,” He says before going over to meet you at the side where you’re loading your coffee a little aggressively, your mind still occupied by Bob and that girl.

“Almost ready to go?” Bob asks, ever casual, sipping from his coffee like nothing in the world could possibly be complicated.

But your eyes land on his cup, and immediately, something’s off. There’s too much black ink scrawled across it for it to just be his name. It’s only three letters for goodness' sake.

You lean in slightly, narrowing your eyes.

Numbers.

Your stomach twists. Your jaw tightens. And before you can think twice, the words are out of your mouth.

“She gave you her number,” you say flatly, ignoring his question entirely.

He glances at the cup, like he hadn't even noticed. “Oh… huh.”

That’s it? Huh?

The annoyance rolls off you in waves, and you hate that you can’t fully explain why. You cross your arms, shifting your weight, suddenly far too aware of how tight your chest feels.

You catch yourself and try to shake it off, but there’s a weight pressing down on your ribcage, a sharp little ache like something is stepping right on your heart.

Why did you feel so... jealous?

Bob wasn’t yours, there was no reason to be mad at a girl flirting with him, you should be happy for him, even.

But all that was true, why did this feel like a sucker punch you weren’t prepared for?

Bob’s still looking at the cup, then back at you, head tilted. “You okay?”

You force a smile that doesn’t quite reach your eyes. “Yeah. Totally. Let’s go.”

***

Since that day, something in you had shifted. You learned you may or may not have a jealous streak, and you had finally started to settle into being friends with Bob. It was nice, and makes you regret the time you spent avoiding him.

And you had really started to realise just how much effort Bob had been putting into just being your friend, even when you were cold, unreceptive, and distant.

It wasn’t fair.

You wanted to make it up to him.

And what better way than with a milkshake?

You thought back to that daydream you had, or maybe it was a memory.

If the whole milkshake-making thing was real, then he should love this.

If it wasn’t… well, hopefully he still did.

Bob’s up early, being knocked out of sleep by the summer heat. He gets up to get water and hears something unexpected. The sound of a blender whirring at 6 am.

He walks into the kitchen, rubbing the back of his neck, only to see you standing at the counter, fiddling with the blender.

There are a few unsuccessful batches of whatever you’re making scattered around, splashes on the counter, a sticky trail leading to the sink. You bite your lip in concentration, brow furrowed, completely absorbed in the task. He thinks you look so cute like this.

Bob says your name, and you freeze like a deer caught in headlights, like you’ve been caught red-handed.

“Bob. You’re here.” You say it like it’s a surprise, like you weren’t hoping he'd find you.

He furrows his brow slightly, a curious smile tugging at the corners of his lips. “What are you doing?”

There’s no point in hiding it now. You sigh and admit, “Making you a milkshake?”

He blinks, surprised, and then he’s smiling. Really smiling.

It’s that slow-building kind of joy that lights up his whole face, the kind that makes your heart clench.

“For me?” he asks, almost in disbelief.

You nod, a little sheepish. “I wanted to do a trial run this morning. Just in case it sucks.”

Bob chuckles, stepping closer and leaning on the kitchen island, his eyes warm and fixed on you.

“I doubt it would,” he says softly, and he means it.

“Can I have a taste?”

You answer, “Knock yourself out,” feigning an air of nonchalance when in reality you’re nervous as hell.

You didn’t want him to hate it, especially after you’d loved and eaten your weight in pancakes these past few weeks.

You just wanted to do something nice, to let him know how much you appreciate him.

He grabs a spoonful and lets it dance on his taste buds. At first, his eyebrows furrowed. That couldn’t be good, right?

Then he looks up at you, a slow smile spreading across his face. “How did you know I like salted caramel milkshakes?” he asks, genuinely surprised.

You hesitate, unsure how to explain.

“I…” you start, then take a deep breath. What were you supposed to say? 'I saw it in a daydream, which may actually be a memory, but I’m not sure?'

So instead you say, “Just a feeling.”

“It’s the perfect milkshake,” he says, eyes shining with genuine delight.

“Not quite,” you answer with a playful smile, crossing your arms.

He grins mischievously, taking a little scoop and smudging it gently on his cheek. “Now, it’s perfect.”

You laugh, reaching up to wipe it off, and for a moment, everything feels light and easy.

You spend the rest of the morning together, sharing the milkshake — one glass, two straws, since you’d only made enough for one.

Between sips and smiles, the distance between you shrinks, and for once, you don’t want to push anyone away.

Later that night, you stand quietly by the window, staring out at the living room. Your eyes land on the now-empty space where the blanket fort from your daydreams had been, still vivid in your mind.

“You’re deep in thought,” Bucky’s voice cuts through the quiet, calm, but knowing, as he stands across from you.

“I’m deep in thought a lot these days,” you sigh, not bothering to mask the exhaustion in your voice.

You take a deep breath, eyes still fixed on the ghost of that memory. “I know you can’t tell me what happened in those weeks I lost… but ever since then, I’ve been seeing things. Glimpses. I don’t know what’s real and what’s not, but they all revolve around one thing.”

You don’t say it, but you don’t have to. The look Bucky gives you says it all—he knows you’re talking about Bob.

“How does it feel?” he asks gently.

“Hm?”

“The memories. How do they feel?”

You open your mouth, then close it again. How do you explain something like that? It’s more than just an emotion, it’s a moment. Like wrapping your hands around a mug of hot chocolate on a cold day or finding one last cookie you didn’t know you had.

“It feels… good,” you say at last. “It feels right.”

Bucky watches you for a moment, then leans forward slightly, thoughtful. “If it feels right, maybe your subconscious is trying to tell you something.”

You turn to him, your voice quieter now, more unsure. “Should I listen to it?”

Bucky offers the faintest smile, the kind of smile born from experience, from hard lessons learned. “The head lies a lot more than the heart does. If something in you feels at peace when you’re around him… maybe that’s your answer.”

You nod in as you watch him walk away, before something occurs to you, “...wait, I didn’t say anything about any him.”

“You’re not too hard to read, especially when it comes to him.”

You lay your head against the cool glass, your skin too hot, your heart twisting in ways you couldn’t explain. Embarrassment flooded through you. Whatever this was, this feeling that had been unravelling you from the inside out, it was getting harder to ignore.

But then there was the smile tugging at your lips, soft and involuntary. And that strange flutter in your chest.

You knew.

Even if you weren’t ready to say it out loud, you knew.

The floor creaked softly behind you, and you lifted your head to see Bob standing there, that same poetry book you’d seen him with before held carefully in his hands.

“Bob,” you breathe.

Just seeing him makes your heart skip. Was that normal? Or were you sick? Emotionally compromised? Both?

“That book…” You murmur. “Will you read me something from it?”

He’s a little surprised, but he nods. “Of course.”

And then, before you can second-guess yourself, you’re reaching for his hand, guiding him to the couch with you. It’s easy in a way it never used to be, natural like you’ve done it a hundred times before.

You sit next to him, close enough to feel the warmth radiating from his side. He flips through the pages, reading from one page and then another.

“I have no idea what this means,” he admits, pointing to one of the lines with a soft chuckle, “but I like the way it sounds.”

“I like the way it sounds too.”

But it wasn’t just the poem. You liked the sound of his voice. It was smooth and warm, like chocolate on your tongue or honey in tea. Every word he spoke wrapped around you like a spell, one you weren’t sure you ever wanted to break free from.

You slowly, carefully, lean your head onto his shoulder.

“Is this okay?” you ask, voice small and scared of his rejection.

He freezes for a moment, then nods. His face doesn’t flush, but his ears are bright red. The reaction makes your chest ache most softly.

There’s a quiet, almost shy joy in his expression at how close you are. He clears his throat, trying to regain composure, and begins to read again. Each line, an ode to you.

***

There’s a soft knock on your door. You get up, waddle out of bed, and suddenly face to face with Bob.

“I missed you,” He breathes out, you don’t even get to respond before he’s lifting you off the floor and carrying you back to your bed.

The entire time, he’s whispering sweet nothings into your ear between his kisses—soft murmurs like, “All mine…” and “Need you so bad.”

His breath warm against your skin, his voice low and urgent, making your heart race.

Then, with a playful grin, he gently tosses you back onto your bed, his eyes locked onto yours.

“Can’t spend another second away from you,” He whines, as he places himself between your thighs.

“So…” You’re forced to pause, distracted by his lips and teeth, marking your neck in desperation, “Insatiable.”

He gets down on his knees suddenly and pulls you to the edge of the bed. Immediately, he pulls off your shorts, or rather tears them off, his strength getting the better of him. But he leaves your panties on, happy to see that you’re already soaking through the fabric.

“I liked those shorts.”

“Trust me, you’ll like what I do to you a lot more.”

He lays a kiss against your clothed pussy, making you squirm. “Don’t tease me,” You beg, and all he does is smile up at you, as if he’s innocent. He rubs your clit through your panties, working you up then moving away, over and over again.

“If you want me to do something,” He drawls as he leans in, his breath now against your ear, “You’re gonna have to scream my name.”

“Bob!”

You jolt upright in bed, heart racing, breath uneven. You’re still half-lost in the throes of the dream. You can almost imagine Bob’s lips on your legs, travelling upwards until—No. You wouldn’t finish that thought.

Thankfully, you're in your own bed. Not curled up against Bob. Not still on the couch where you fell asleep.

You press a hand to your chest, trying to steady the frantic rhythm of your heart. It’s hammering, wild and traitorous.

Okay. Deep breath.

The sun's already crept past the blinds, washing your room in soft morning light. Somewhere down the hall, Bob is probably making breakfast. Casual. Unbothered. Probably completely unaware that you just had a dream that could get you both kicked out of the Avengers’ group chat.

You groan and flop back onto your pillows, covering your face with both hands.

You just hoped he carried you to bed before the dream started. Because if he did it afterwards and there was any talking in your sleep involved, then you might actually have to fake your own death and move to a remote cave in the mountains.

You try to reason with yourself.

Telling yourself that it was just a dream. Probably because his voice was the last thing you heard before drifting off. That’s all. A subconscious reaction. Harmless. Totally harmless.

After a shower, you toddle out of your room, hair still damp and wearing the comfiest clothes you own. You peek out from behind a wall—and lo and behold, there he is.

Bob. In the kitchen. Making something that definitely smells like your favourite breakfast.

You pause, eyes locked on him.

His back is to you, sleeves pushed up, hands moving with an ease and purpose that feels borderline unfair. You watch the muscles in his forearms flex slightly as he flips something in the pan, and your brain betrays you. You can only imagine how those hands would look even better wrapped around your thighs—

No. No. Nope.

You slap that thought out of your head like it's a mosquito. Not going there again. Not right now. You keep watching, borderline creeping, when suddenly a voice nearly kills you on the spot.

“Spying?”

John.

You jump about a foot in the air, clutching your chest like an old Victorian lady. “For fuck’s sake, Walker!”

John leans against the wall next to you, smug and sipping coffee like he didn’t just give you a heart attack. You swear, if you weren’t so mortified, you might’ve actually punched him.

“No. Just… observing,” you breathe out, barely.

“You were definitely spying,” he says, far too amused. “If you drooled any harder, there’d be a puddle at your feet.”

You glare at him, cheeks heating. “I wasn’t– shut up. I wasn’t drooling.”

He lifts an eyebrow and sips again, like he doesn’t believe you for a second. “Sure. Just saying... if you actually talked to him, it might be more effective than… whatever this is.”

You grumble something under your breath and peek back around the corner.

Bob is still there. Still cooking. Still completely unaware of the internal crisis he’s causing.

Maybe John had a point.

Unfortunately.

You could watch him all day—had been, actually. Bob’s presence drew your attention like gravity, and the longer you kept your feelings bottled up, the crazier you felt.

The best way to go about it was the scariest. You had to confront him directly.

You bide your time, waiting until late evening, when most of the tower was quiet and the others were off doing their own thing. Your heart was thudding like it knew what you were about to do.

You found Bob alone in the common area, and you cornered him, explaining your plight to him.

“And basically, I’ve been having these daydreams and actual dreams, which I think are actually memories or something. So I have to ask, or rather confirm, during those weeks when I lost my memory…”

You gulp.

“We had sex, right?” You mumble, looking around the room.

Bob’s eyes widen. His mouth opens and closes once before he finally manages to speak. It feels like it takes forever.

“…No,” he says, gently. “We didn’t.”

Your stomach drops. “Oh. So that was just…?”

Your voice trails off, and all you want is for the Earth to open up and swallow you whole.

Someone should pack you in a crate, slap a “fragile” sticker on you, and ship you to a remote island. You’d just admitted to having sex dreams about the man to his face.

Bob shifts, suddenly flustered himself. “Wait, no—I mean—not that I wouldn’t have… I mean, we just didn’t want to rush anything, especially while you were still trying to figure things out. We were… really close. I cared a lot. I still do.”

The twinkle in his eyes when he saw the photos, the way he pulled you out of the way when the bike almost hit you, him smiling at you when you brushed his hair… It all clicked.

“We were…” You clear your throat, willing yourself to speak clearly, “In love?”

“We were in love,” Bob admits softly.

“That’s why the daydreams I’ve been getting… they’ve felt so real. Because they were real, once. They’re pieces of us,” you say softly, your voice trembling with the weight of the truth.

Then, gathering every bit of courage you have, you ask the question that’s been haunting your mind.

“Do you still love me?”

This felt like the edge of something, like one wrong word would break your heart forever. You told yourself you’d accept it if he didn’t. If he only loved the girl who took pictures of him eating sandwiches, and made milkshakes with him and not the girl who had shut him out and avoided him for weeks. But three words from him shut your thoughts up.

“I never stopped.”

It all goes quiet. He said exactly what you wanted to hear, what you needed to hear.

You collect your thoughts, standing in front of a man who loved you so deeply.

You’re scared, giving your heart away is no easy thing.

But looking at him, seeing the warmth and honesty in his eyes, you know it’ll be safe with him.

“I think…” You pause, shaking your head slowly as if the words might fall into place with movement alone. “No, I—I know that I love you now.”

His eyes soften, but you can still see the flicker of uncertainty dancing just behind them.

Then, quietly, he asks the question that matters most:

“How do you know that you love me?”

You know what he’s really asking.

You step closer so he sees it in your eyes as well as your words.

“When I tried to imagine a life without you, I felt sad. Actually, that’s not quite right. I felt… empty. Like if you left, you’d be taking a piece of me with you.”

You reach for his hand, lacing your fingers together.

“When I’m with you, it’s like a world that I never used to understand finally makes sense. Like everything’s… aligned. But when you’re not around?” You breathe in shakily, then smile softly.

“I still imagine what it’d be like if you were.”

You pause, smiling just thinking about it.

“I just… I love you with everything I have, and I don’t know if I’ll ever remember falling in love with you the first time, but I’ll never forget falling in love with you this time.”

As soon as you say that, Bob wraps his arms around your waist, pulling you close, and kisses you. A kiss full of all the weeks he’s waited for this moment. To hold you, to know that you love him as much as he loves you.

He kisses you again and again, whispering, “I love you,” with every touch of his lips, each word a promise.

***

For the next week, life is all pancakes and stolen kisses. You were buzzing with joy, glowing in a way that made it impossible to hide how happy you were. The team was happy, too, that you and Bob were finally happy. Even if you were nauseatingly cute with the forehead kisses and shared hoodies.

He read to you most nights until you fell asleep, sometimes with the book still in his hand. You’d basically made Bob’s bed your own by now—memorising the dips in his mattress, the way he mumbled in his sleep, the exact rhythm of his heartbeat.

The kitchen had become one of your favourite make-out spots. Something about the early mornings, soft lighting, and the smell of coffee just made it impossible to keep your hands off each other. One day, all he was doing was trying to get his coffee, and next thing you knew, you were grabbing him by the shirt and kissing him like it was the last time.

“Can’t keep my hands off you,” you gasped, breathless between kisses.

Bob turned slightly red, eyes twinkling. “I can tell.”

Then he was lifting you onto the kitchen island with zero hesitation, his hands running over your hips, mouth finding your neck like he’d done it a thousand times before. You were both so wrapped up in each other that you didn’t hear the door until—

“Ahem.”

You froze.

Alexei stood there, arms crossed, and a smirk tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Don’t let me stop you,” he said dryly. “It’s… cute.”

You buried your face in Bob’s chest, mortified. “I’m going to die of embarrassment.”

Bob just chuckled, one arm wrapped protectively around you. “Not before I do.”

That night, as you fall asleep next to Bob, listening to the steady rhythm of his heartbeat, your head resting on his chest and his fingers lazily drawing patterns along your back… all you could think was: How could this possibly go wrong?

It felt too good, too right, like everything in your life had finally clicked into place. The way he held you, how safe and warm it felt to just exist beside him. The world outside could fall apart, and you’d still feel like you were exactly where you were meant to be.

But somewhere deep in your chest was the smallest flicker of fear. Not loud enough to ruin the moment, but enough to make your fingers clutch his shirt just a little tighter in your sleep.

Because sometimes, when something feels this perfect… it almost doesn’t feel real.

You sit up in your bed, disoriented… but something feels off. It’s cold. Bob’s not there.

“Bob?” you call out softly, but there’s no answer. Just silence.

You scramble off the bed and start searching the Tower, calling out his name as you move through hallway after hallway. But everything feels… off. No trace of leftovers on the kitchen counter, or jackets draped over the back of the couch. No clutter, no noise. It’s been completely scrubbed clean.

Like the team was gone.

Or like they were never even here at all.

Your heart thuds in your chest as you open Bob’s door and finally come face to face with him.

“Bob, where did you—?” You stop dead. Everything in his room is packed up. Boxes. Bags. Drawers empty.

“You’re leaving?” You barely even get out the words.

“No… you’re leaving me,” You say, your voice shaking but resolute. “Please say something. What did I do wrong?”

He doesn’t speak. He looks distant, vacant, like he’s looking right through you.

“Bob, say something!” You cry out.

You step forward, trying to reach out for him… but suddenly, it’s like he’s stretching farther and farther away. Each step feels heavier, your legs like lead, like you’re being dragged through thick marsh. No matter how hard you try, you just can’t get to him.

“Please just…” your voice cracks, eyes burning, “Please wait for me.”

But he doesn’t turn. He keeps packing, his back to you like a wall.

“Bob, please!” You plead again, desperation flooding your voice. “Please tell me what I did, tell me how I can fix this. Just don’t…”

You fall to your knees, the weight of it all crashing down on you like a tidal wave. Your voice is barely a whisper now.

“Don’t leave.”

But it’s no use.

It’s like you don’t even exist to him anymore.

When you wake up, it’s still dark out, just the blue-grey blur of dawn slipping through the blinds. Bob is beside you, still asleep, his arm loosely draped across your waist like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go.

You know—you know he loves you. But you’re scared. That at the drop of a dime, he’s going to leave, and you won’t see it coming. It won’t be loud or dramatic. It’ll be soft. Quiet. The way people drift away when you’re not looking. Every time you look at him, it’s like you’re already preparing to lose him.

The walls went straight up, and Bob noticed immediately. From waking up alone to not seeing you all day. You weren’t gone, but you barely looked at him. Every glance was half-hearted, every smile short-lived. You were slipping. He felt it.

He finds you in your room, sitting on the floor with an old shoebox of memories cracked open. You're looking over pictures of the two of you—early days, sunlight and laughter in your eyes. Your fingers linger on the edges like they burn.

When you see him enter, you pack them away fast, like he’s caught you doing something shameful.

“You’re avoiding me,” Bob says, standing in the doorway.

“I’m not. I’m just busy. Is it a crime to be busy?” you snap, sharper than you meant to. But it’s easier this way. Back to the same old routine of building distance, of pushing before you can be pulled. This felt easier. Safer. Who were you kidding?

Bob doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t step back. He walks in and sits down beside you, close but not crowding.

“I know why you’re pushing me away,” he says, voice low but steady. “I’m not going to leave you.”

You want to believe him. God, you do. But your chest tightens like it’s been waiting for the moment to crack.

“People always say that,” you whisper, not meeting his eyes. “Right before they do. And how do you even know that’s what I was thinking about?”

“I…read your diary—”

“You read my diary?” you in, your breath catching. That was a line—a clear invasion of privacy.

“I know I crossed a line,” he nods, guilt flickering across his face. “But you told me to. Before you lost your memories, you said it might help me understand you, and I feel like I do.”

You teeter on your heels, looking around the room like you might bolt at any second. Your heart is pounding too loudly to think clearly. Bob steps forward, into your space, grounding you.

“You’re not going to lose me,” he says, steady and soft. “I see you. And I love who I see.”

You shake your head, almost laughing, but a step away from crying at the same time.

“Bob, you don’t mean that. You can’t mean that,” you say, voice cracking under the weight of everything spilling out of you.

“I do,” he says firmly. “Every part of you. Every little quirk. I see it, and I love it.”

“You…” Your throat closes. “I’m broken, Bob. People always leave. My own mother left. You don’t understand—I'm a mess. I fall apart, I shut people out, I push them away. It’s why no one sticks around. I’m a complete wreck.”

You suck in a breath, trying to swallow your panic. “Let’s just… cut this off before you see the worst parts of me and realise I’m not worth it.”

He gently turns your face back toward his, fingers warm and sure under your chin. His eyes, those kind ones, are locked on you.

“Loving someone, truly loving someone, isn’t conditional,” he says quietly. “It’s not about perfection. It’s messy and complicated and terrifying sometimes. But when I fell in love with you the first time, I felt something I’ve never felt before. It’s like my whole world opened up,”

He pauses, swallowing hard.

“And then… I got to fall in love with you all over again. It’s been beautiful, every single moment spent with you has been a gift.”

He cups your face in his hands now, and you relax into his touch.

“I’m not going anywhere when things get tough. I won’t run when you break down, or when it gets ugly. I choose you. I love you. And nothing is going to change that.”

The dam breaks.

Tears spill down your face like a waterfall. All the things you’d held in for so long crash out of you like a wave you couldn’t hold back anymore.

“I… I love you too,” you choke out, voice trembling. The words taste like surrender and relief all at once.

He cradles you in his arms, holding you like he means it, like he’s anchoring you to something steady. Something real.

You bury your face in his chest, letting yourself be vulnerable for once,

You’re safe.

No more pretending. No more running. For the first time in a long time, the future doesn’t feel like a ticking bomb. It feels like something you can face together.

And maybe that’s what being in love really is. Not the absence of fear, but choosing to stay in spite of it.

“Can we get ice cream or something?” You ask.

“Of course.”

***

Now that you were done dealing with your issues alone, both of you felt lighter… like breathing came easier. It’s like the weight of silence had lifted, and suddenly, you couldn’t be away from Bob—not for long. His presence had become your anchor, your gravity.

Your phone didn’t charge, but that’s irrelevant, not when you get to wake up next to Bob, his hair messy and arms around you like the night hadn’t ended.

You stubbed your toe on the edge of the nightstand, but that also doesn’t matter, because Bob loves you, and nothing can ruin your day.

You hear a commotion in the kitchen—raised voices, something clattering—but that shit doesn’t matter either. Not while you’re in love. Not while you're wrapped in this hazy, glowing calm that makes the world feel muted and far away.

You wander into the kitchen, still in a dream, still floating like you have wings... There’s an argument going on. John and Ava’s sharp voices are now muffled, like static through so you barely register it.

The argument only becomes real when you notice something flying toward your face.

A frying pan.

It soars across the room in an elegant, absurd arc—spinning once, twice—and hits you smack dab in the face.

You’re still happy though; you were thinking about Bob as you hit the ground.

A while later, you wake up in the medbay, which you had become very accustomed to. But this time… this time it was different. It was like everything came rushing back in full colour, flooding your brain all at once.

You look at the empty chair beside your bed, and you remember exactly how Bob looked when you first woke up with amnesia. His messy hair was in front of his eyes as he slept.

You remember trying to make him pancakes and failing miserably. You remember pretending to be a couple on the subway. You remember your first kiss. You remember everything.

It’s like your heart snapped back into place.

You tumble out of bed, heart racing. You need to see him. Now.

“Should you be up already? And I’m so sorry about the frying pan—it was all Walker’s fault—” Ava stammers, rushing toward you.

“It’s okay, it happens,” you say, brushing it off with a dazed grin. “Where’s Bob?”

“In the kitchen?” she says, still concerned, watching you wobble toward the door like a drunk moth.

You run—well, hobble—off in search of your Bob, adrenaline and longing pulling you down the hall. Until you find him.

He’s in the kitchen, putting together snacks like a man on a mission. Quiet, focused, gentle.

“Bob!” you call, your voice cracking from emotion and recent concussion.

He looks up instantly, eyes widening in relief. “What are you doing out of bed—?”

You jump into his arms, surprising him — he catches you, confused by the sudden burst of excitement.

“Pancakes.”

“Oh. Do you want me to make some or—?”

“No, pancakes!” you exclaim, unable to contain your joy.

His eyes widen as the realisation hits him. “You remember?”

“Everything,” you say, pressing a soft kiss to his lips, stealing the breath from his lungs.

Your fingers tangle in his hair, and in that moment, you never want to let him go again.

“Really?” he asks, voice full of wonder.

“From our first pancake to our first kiss on the rooftop. I remember it all,” you whisper, your heart full. “You really didn’t give up on me.”

“And I never will,” Bob replies, pulling you back into a tight hug.

Your hearts beat in sync as you hold each other close, and in that moment, you both feel completely whole, finally, together.

“Remember when we said that we’d… y’know, when my memories came back?”

“Right now?” He blinks at you.

“Now. Take me to your room, or we can do it right here, I don’t care.”

Bob blinked once—just once—before everything in his expression changed. His eyes darkened with intensity, lips twitching up into the beginnings of a grin. He wasn’t complaining one bit.

Bucky, however, was.

From somewhere behind you, Bucky let out a string of protests. “Guys, this is a shared space! Kitchen! Food prep happens here!”

“Fine, we’ll take it elsewhere for your sake.”

You jump and wrap your legs around his waist, arms around his neck, clinging to him like a koala.

He catches you easily and carries you through the hallway, past the curious eyes of the rest of the team, who were all internally celebrating like their favourite slow-burn finally paid off.

He doesn’t even flinch, doesn’t stop, just keeps walking with a purpose only you can give him.

He pushes open his door, kicking it shut behind him, and lays you down gently on the bed like you’re something rare and delicate. He hovers above you, eyes searching yours with a tenderness that makes your chest ache.

“Are you sure?” he asks, his voice low and steady, though you can see the hope flickering behind his gaze.

You cup his cheek with your hand, thumb brushing lightly under his eye. “I’ve never been more sure of anything.”

He kisses you, slowly at first, like he’s afraid to break you, but then with more certainty. His hands slide to your waist, pulling you closer, grounding you even as the world starts to tilt.

Except it’s not the world that’s tilting.

It’s you.

You lift your head just enough to meet his eyes, your fingers curled lightly at the nape of his neck. “Is this going to happen every time we kiss?”

He raises an eyebrow, his smile smug but affectionate. “Is that a problem?”

You laugh, a real laugh that bubbles up from somewhere deep in your chest, and press your face into his neck, nose brushing the warm skin there. “No… but it does give me a few ideas.”

Masterlist

1K notes · View notes

laserbobcat · 2 months ago

Text

A WIP i'll never finish, i tried! I started this before march and will never finish it properly. I'm glad I had the energy to at least clean the last panels enough. I was trying a new style/process and it doesn't stick. Anyway, I'll just tell the rest of the story since I (probably) won't draw it, and maybe some of you like to read:

Nari turns into a god again, to his surprise. Turns out it's because the Lamb fucked up a new age reversing ritual they're trying out, and turned themselves into a baby. Too weak of a vessel, so the crown had to jump ships back to him. Narinder enjoys this IMMENSELY. Makes a dramatic evil laugh and give some kind of speech about how the Lamb is stupid and he's the boss now. He tells Aym and Baal to babysit the Lamb until they're old enough to be trained like they both were and "Maybe this time around they will learn obedience" and exits- also dramatically. The cultists start to panic, what the hell is that giant god, what do you mean it's Narinder are you kidding me? The tsundere Lamb's friend? The grumpy fisherman? Oh no what are we gonna do without the Lamb etc etc... Until Leshy laughs out loud and says "Just ignore him and wait a day or two, he's gonna get tired of bossing people around and miss his precious Lamb. He'll find a solution." Aym deadpan says five, Leshy says five days seems too long he'll cave in sooner than that, but Baal says "No we mean five minutes." And BAM the temple's door open again and Narinder is here yelling MORTALS I need you to remember EXACTLY the words they made you chant, I need it to reverse the ritual!

He quickly realized that this Lamb will not be HIS Lamb, HIS lamb is gone for good if he doesn't cook some good magic real quick. And that's the start of a period of time where Nari has to bust his ass trying to undo the Lamb's failed magic. I had bunch of stuff in mind, including: -Lambie being the worst and most insufferable baby ever. No one sleeps on their watch, and no one gets to be distracted for a second otherwise they start eating rocks. their yell is the loudest noise ever heard. The goat is a joke next to them. Everyone has the tired parent trait now. -Narinder smashing people to death when they're annoying and distracting him from his research. He adds their name to "the resurrection list" for the Lamb to deal with later. The followers somehow get used to it. -Morgan trying his best to keep Leshy away from his irritated brother, despite his intense need to annoy him at the worst time possible. -Narinder yelling "Fetch me my thinking Lamb!" and then squishing the baby between two fingers like a squeaky toy to help him focus (the baby enjoys that) -Saleos and Irene forcing a huge ass exhausted and irritable 19 feet god to take a rest, maybe go fishing to get some air. -Narinder accidentally hitting his head on the door frame of the temple. A lot. -Narinder reluctantly having to officiate the important rituals "I don't care about your damn crops but let's get this over with- NO we're not having an exhibitionist dance go back to work!" -Thena having to read most of the Lamb's writing for him because they write in cursive that is so pretty it's unreadable -Thena making him realize how much work the Lamb is doing everyday. Narinder keeps in mind that he will have to make him rest later. The end would be Narinder finally managing to reverse the ritual, and a butt naked, befuddled adult Lamb appearing on the floor of the temple. Narinder takes the crown off of his head and throws it at their face, and yells at them while changing back into his mortal form and stomping out of the temple: "You IDIOT baby god trying to CREATE new magics when you're not even able to master the old ones completely I CAN'T BELIEVE you would try something so stupid do you even realize how much of a pain in the ass it was to understand your weird logic and clean your mess I SWEAR if you ever do something like that I'll let you rot in whatever pit you dig for yourself AND DON'T YOU DARE SAY ANYTHING ABOUT THE RESURRECTION LIST-" And slams the door on his way out, leaving the lamb astounded.

Cut to Narinder getting back to his house in his tree, and flopping on his bed, exhausted. He massages his arms, visibly relieved to have them back to normal, without the pain. He sighs with a little smile, stretches, curls into a ball and falls asleep.

That's how the lamb finds him later when they carefully come to talk to him after hearing about all of what happened. Except the black cat loaf on the bed changed into a baby.

Rinse and repeat.

2K notes · View notes

holdinggrudges · 4 months ago

Text

oxytocin - sam winchester

pairing: sam winchester x reader

content: EXPLICIT 18+, porn without plot, genuinely there is no plot, fem!reader, established relationship, fingering, unprotected p in v sex, edging, dom/sub dynamics like..a little bit, soft dom sam, size kink but also only a little bit, no use of y/n

word count: 2.3k

summary: Sam has a thing about control. So when the pieces don’t quite fall into place—when a hunt goes a little sideways, for example—Sam can get a little…twitchy. Antsy, irritable. What you’ve learned, though, is that it’s all too easy to give him back that control. To let him take it from you.

notes: i thought this was finished two days ago and then ended up writing, like, a thousand more words. whoops. anyways uhhh...i've never written anything quite like this before (this is my first ever legit pwp lmao) so uhh if it sucks don't tell me i'll cry.

crossposted on ao3

Sam has a thing about control. You can’t fault him, of course; it’s actually sickening to think about how often his autonomy, his freedom of choice, has been wrested from him. Him turning into a bit of a control freak seems, frankly, like the best case scenario. It does mean that when the pieces don’t quite fall into place—when a hunt goes a little sideways, for example—Sam can get a little…twitchy. Antsy, irritable; you love him to death, but he’s a damn terror to be around when a hunt doesn’t go your way. What you’ve learned, though, is that it’s all too easy to give him back that control. To let him take it from you.

Two thick fingers press into your cunt, slow and leisurely, like he’s got all the time in the world, like you’re not falling apart in his lap. Like he doesn’t have you so wet it’s probably dripping down his wrist. He has your legs hooked over his, keeping you spread and open for him as he teases you. His smirk presses to your temple, your cheek, just below your ear as he plasters your face with soft kisses. “You’re doing so good,” he mutters, his lips brushing against your neck with the praise. “So perfect for me, you sound so pretty like this. Tell me when you’re close, okay, baby?”

God, you’re not sure you’ll ever get there like this. “Sam, please.” You’re not above begging, not in the slightest, especially not right now. You feel like you’ve been here for hours, panting and whining on Sam’s lap. For fuck’s sake, you’ve still got your sweater on.

You feel more than hear the little laugh your whine drags out of Sam, a rumble in his chest where you’re plastered against him, a puff of air against your throat. “You need some help? Hmm?” he asks, dragging his unoccupied hand up your stomach and rucking your sweater up as he does. At the same time, his fingers curl inside you, stealing your breath and sending your head lolling back on his shoulder.

“God—” Your hands scramble to grab onto something, anything, searching for purchase. In the end, one lands on Sam’s wrist as his hand cups your breast, the other grasping at the sheets below you, twisting them in your grip.

His thumb brushes over your nipple, drawing a choked whimper from your throat. “Answer me, baby. Can you come like this, or do you need more?”

How are you even supposed to think like this, let alone speak? “Fuck, Sam—” you manage to babble out, turning your head to hide in the crook of his neck. The smell of him floods your senses, pine and musk and just a little bit of sweat that lets you know he’s not as unaffected as he pretends to be. “More. I need more, please.”

“There you go,” Sam coos at you. Then he shifts the angle of his hand so the meat of his palm grinds against your clit with every thrust of his fingers, dragging a guttural moan from your throat in the process. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? My good girl.”

Curses spill from your lips like a chant as everything ramps up tenfold and leaves you struggling to keep up. Sam’s fingers, practised and precise, drag against your g-spot with every thrust and, combined with the pressure against your clit, they have you moaning and babbling incoherent pleas in moments. Your chest heaves with your panting, gasping breaths as the pressure in your gut grows and twists and builds until it threatens to send you careening over the edge.

Sam’s wrist twists in your grip until you release it, letting that hand fall to white-knuckle the sheets below you with the other one. With his hand newly free, Sam draws his fingertips along your jaw and tilts your head up until he can see your face. “You’re so beautiful,” he says, sweet as candy, as if he’s not taking you apart. “Talk to me, baby. How’re we doin’?”

Oh, he’s such a dick; he knows how you’re doing. Your pussy is pulsing around his fingers like a heartbeat, he knows damn well. He just wants you to say it. But you know what game you’re playing. “Sam…”

He presses his thumb to your lips, and his turn down on a frown that you know—you know—is performative, but that puppy look still digs its claws into your head. “Come on.”

“Oh, fuck—” Sam curls his fingers, and your gut pulls so tight you almost forget to breathe. “Okay, I’m close, God, Sam, please—” You know it's coming, but it still comes as a stone cold shock to your system when Sam’s fingers still inside you and the pressure of his palm disappears from your clit. Your cunt flutters as the bliss that had been moments away fades out of reach; your thighs futilely trying to close, press together, but you're stopped by Sam’s legs holding them open.

Sam carefully unsheathes his fingers from your cunt, and you could damn near sob.

He coos over the sound of your whine. “I know. But you're so pretty like this, sweetheart, so good for me.” His hand leaves your face to catch yours as you reach down to finish the job yourself, bringing it up to press a kiss to your knuckles. “Uh-uh. You trust me, don't you, pretty girl? I’ll take care of you.”

You narrow your eyes, glaring even as you twist your hand to tangle your fingers with his. “You’re evil.”

His laugh puffs over your lips as he leans down to press a quick kiss to them. It’s a little uncoordinated, and certainly not the best angle. But it’s a sweet apology. “Maybe I just thought you'd rather come on my cock.”

Your next inhale is sharp, a response to the way his words make your neglected pussy flutter. You twist a little further, your nose bumping his with how close you are. “Are you gonna let me?” you ask, and your lips brush against his as you speak.

He hums, and his eyes crinkle with the grin that he presses to your lips. “Say please—” he murmurs, the words washing over you like a wave— “and maybe I will.” Your hand tightens around his.

God, but if the power trip doesn't look good on him. The word comes out on a breath, just barely a whisper of, “Please.”

Sam swallows the plea with a kiss, draws a gasp out of you as his teeth sink into your bottom lip and tug as he pulls away. “Please…what?” he urges, dragging a line of hot, open kisses along your jaw and down the line of your neck. “Come on. You want it, don’t you? Use your words.”

You tip your head back, and you’re sure Sam feels you swallow around your need because the next kiss he lands on your throat is biting. “Please,” you say again, “please let me come on your cock.”

Sam’s smile against your throat is so bright it almost burns, and he releases your hand from his grip. “Anything for you, baby.” He presses one last kiss to the base of your neck before his hands come up under your thighs, lifting you off his lap. “Come on.”

You help him maneuver you until you’re laying on your back on the bed, and you take the opportunity to stretch your legs out, groaning at the stiffness from having them in that position for so long.

Sam kneels beside you, his hands squeezing at your thighs. “You alright?” he asks. His hands smooth up your legs to your hips before he draws them back down again in a pseudo-massage.

You nod. “I’m okay,” you tell him, and then you let your thighs fall open to make room for him. You get the pleasure of watching his eyes snap from your face to your cunt, his pupils swallowing his irises whole. “Want you.”

He lifts his gaze to yours again, and he holds it as he hooks his fingers under the waistband of his boxers and pulls them down and off. “Whatever you want, beautiful,” he says, climbing over you and settling with his hips between your thighs before he pulls his shirt over his head. He tosses it aside and braces his hand beside your head.

Entirely shameless, you reach out to press a hand to his chest, admiring the solid planes of his stomach flexing as he holds himself up to hover above you. His muscles shift, a body perfectly designed to drag the tip of his cock through your folds. Your breath catches in your chest, your hand smoothing up and over his shoulders to tangle your fingers in his hair.

He smiles, then his hand settles on your thigh. “C’mere,” he mutters, drawing your leg up over his hip. Your other leg follows suit, your ankles crossing. Keeping him close. “There you go.” With that, he presses inside you. He slides in easy—you weren’t exactly hurting for prep—but the stretch of your cunt around him still has you groaning in tandem with him.

“Fuck, Sam—” you gasp as he bottoms out, his hips kissing yours. Somehow, you always manage to forget just how big he is until you’re so full you feel like you can feel him in your throat.

Sam’s hand that’s not currently holding him up drags the hem of your sweater up until it’s bunched around your shoulders, leaving you, essentially, bare for him. He trails his fingers down your torso, watching the goosebumps that bloom on your stomach as he traces your skin. “Good?” he asks, his voice tight with the effort of keeping still inside you.

“Yeah. So fucking full,” you moan, your eyes fluttering shut as his hand cups your breast. “But yeah, I’m good.”

“Good.” He draws out, dragging along your walls until only the tip is left inside, and you brace for the punch of the next thrust. But it never comes. He lingers, teasing, until you open your eyes to see him smirking down at you. “You wanna beg for it?”

“Oh, fuck off,” you groan, pressing your heels into his back in an effort to press him forward. He doesn’t budge.

“I think you’re gonna,” he says, ducking his head to press his lips to the hinge of your jaw. “You wanna come? All you have to do is say please—” He brushes his thumb over your pebbled nipple, pulling a whimper from your throat— “and then I’ll fuck you so good, you know I will. Just let me hear it.”

You turn your head to face him, staring him down, breathing in his air as you consider his proposal. You lift your head to brush your lips against his. “Please fuck me.” If you hadn’t been paying attention, you wouldn’t have noticed, but his hand flexes just so where he’s cupping your chest. “Sam. Please.”

Sam draws you into a proper kiss at the same time he slams home into you. Although, a proper kiss is maybe not the best way to describe it. It’s more Sam licking into your open, panting mouth, swallowing the desperate, airy moans that his thrusts are punching out of you. The pace he sets isn’t fast, but it’s deep, and with his tongue on your mouth and his hand on your tits, it feels like you can feel him everywhere, like there isn’t a single part of your body that isn’t being consumed by him.

“My beautiful girl,” Sam rasps as he pulls away. He drags kisses down your neck, and then skips right over the bulk of your sweater to scrape his teeth over your nipple at the same time his fingers pinch at the other. Your chest spasms on a sobbing moan, your nails scraping down his back, aching for purchase. The feeling is overwhelming, lighting up every nerve ending you have until the only thing you can think about is Sam—Sam’s mouth on your chest, Sam’s voice soothing heated skin, Sam’s fucking cock taking you apart. “You sound so wrecked, baby, look at you.”

“Sam—” His name drips from your lips like a mantra, over and over and over like it’s the only thing you can say anymore. You’re so close, teetering so close to the edge that a light breeze could push you over. “God, please—”

His hand abandons your chest, smoothing down your ribs and over your hip bone. “I got you. I said I’d take care of you, didn’t I?” he says, and then he flattens his tongue over your nipple as he shoves his hand between your bodies to rub at your clit.

It’s over—your whole body trembles with it, and you cry out as your orgasm crashes over you. Sam’s hips stutter where he’s fucking you through it, and then you feel him spill into you, the spasms of your pleasure having pulled him off the cliff right along with you.

“Oh, fuck—there you go,” he gasps, his hips slowing to a stop as you both ride out the recovery. “So perfect, so good for me.”

With the last of your energy, you lift your hands to his face to drag him into a spent, sloppy kiss. “Took such good care of me,” you mutter into his mouth, shivering while he takes the opportunity to carefully slide out of you. “Love you so much.”

In a few minutes, the two of you will have to stumble out of bed to the bathroom, clean up and truly recover. But right now, Sam’s smile against your lips warms your chest enough to forget about his cum dripping from your cunt. “Love you too.”

#grudges writes ;#sammy !!#dividers by toastray #sam winchester x you #sam winchester x reader #sam winchester smut #sam winchester #supernatural #x reader #supernatural fanfiction #ao3 #ao3 link #spnfandom #spn

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warlockslovetomeow · 2 months ago

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mdni. explicit sexual content. mechanic!rafayel x apprentice!female reader

mechanic!rafayel who always works with music playing softly in the background. jazz mostly, or old french ballads. he hums sometimes without even realizing it, his voice always coming out low and haunting. the mesmerizing sound stays with you long after you’ve left the garage.

mechanic!rafayel who barely looks up when you mess up a part, just walks over slow and says, “you’re too tense. machines feel it.” then gently wraps his hands around yours and guides the motion like you’re an instrument. he's deliberate with his touch. almost sinful.

mechanic!rafayel who never lights the cigarette behind his ear. just toys with it, rolls it between his fingers when he’s thinking, taps it against his palm when you’re around and making him lose focus. one day you ask why he even has it and he meets your eyes with a tempting smile before responding with, “keeps my hands busy when they’re not on you.”

mechanic!rafayel who still remembers the first day you walked into the garage—bright-eyed, hopeful, smelling sweet enough to stir something within him. he’s never found that exact perfume again, but it doesn't stop him from searching. doesn’t stop him from finding the closest thing, drenching his fingers in it, and rubbing it into his skin while he fists his cock and imagines it’s you pressed up against him begging for more.

mechanic!rafayel who flirts like it’s a reflex. never over the top, always just enough to make your stomach twist. when he catches you staring while he paints a car, he’ll turn and murmur, “enjoying the view, my dear apprentice? lucky for you, it doesn’t mind being stared at.” he'll wink at you playfully, a fleck of paint on his cheek, and you swear you could drop to your knees for him right then and there.

mechanic!rafayel who has a beat up sketchbook he never lets anyone touch. you assumed it was full of car designs until you caught glimpses of hands, eyes, the curve of a neck that looked too familiar. one night, you realize it’s you he’s been drawing. dozens of times. the pages warped and curling from how often he’s touched them, some smeared where his slick fingers fumbled the pencil as if he was too desperate to finish the drawing when the thought of you had already wrecked him.

mechanic!rafayel who once leaned over your shoulder to correct your wiring, breath brushing your ear, voice barely a whisper, “good girl. see? she listens when you touch her right.” and it took everything in you not to whimper, not to turn your head and chase the heat of his mouth with yours, your body clenching tight with the effort to stay still.

mechanic!rafayel who’s always calm and controlled until you ask for help with something simple. the way your voice softens when you need him, the way you look up through your lashes, it hits him like a crashing wave. he feels it. the heat flooding his chest. the twitch of his cock before he can catch himself. he tries his hardest to stay composed, but it’s getting harder with each passing second.

mechanic!rafayel who finally snaps and eats you out in the garage on the hood of his most prized car. his hands are bruising your thighs and his face is buried inside you like he’s been starving for a taste. “wider,” he murmurs, voice hoarse, “don’t make me ask again.” when you cry out in pleasure, he moans as if he himself just finished from the sound alone. he doesn't break eye contact, mouth relentless as you drip onto the hood of the car.

mechanic!rafayel who doesn’t give a damn if there are customers waiting out front, he’s too busy feasting on you like you’re the only thing he’s ever wanted. he talks you through it in that velvet smooth voice, teasing even as he ruins you—“mmm… that pretty little sound again. you like when i touch you like this?” his fingers dig in harder as your thighs tremble, eyes flicking up with a lazy, adoring grin. “louder. i want them to hear you.”

a/n: divas uni is touching me all over rn but do not fret, i have not forgotten about this AU. sylus x mechanic reader is almost done teehee

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lovelylittlegrim · 5 months ago

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Paint it Black

Steddie (Steve Harrington x Eddie Munson)

pre-relationship - 1.4K words - no warnings

———————————————————————

“I like when you paint your nails.”

Eddie startles at the sudden sound of Steve’s voice, even with how softly he spoke. It’s been quiet for a while between them, a movie playing in the background that they’ve both seen before, the voices just muffled ambiance.

He looks up to find Steve staring at him. “What?”

“Your nails.” Steve holds up his own hand, wiggling his fingers like maybe Eddie will understand better if he sees what Steve’s talking about. “I like when you paint them.”

Eddie looks down at where he’s been steadfastly applying black nail polish to his right hand, it’s harder than doing his left but he’s had a lot of practice and he’s damn near perfect at it these days. The layer is even, glossy, not a smudge to be seen.

“Uh, thanks,” he says slowly, unsure what else there is to say. He peeks back at Steve through his bangs.

Steve hums and drops his hand back to the couch, he continues to watch Eddie even though Eddie’s finished.

“Do you want me to paint yours?” Eddie doesn’t know why he’s asking. He’s never seen Steve with painted nails before and… he can’t imagine it when he thinks about it. Steve in his crisp blue jeans and his clean polos, black on his nails. It would look so out of place. Like some dirty part of Eddie rubbed off on him. Tainted him.

“Yeah,” Steve says.

Eddie blinks. “What?”

“You can paint them, it’s not like anyone else will see.” Steve slides off the couch, joining Eddie on the floor at the coffee table. He drops his hands on the stained wood and splays his fingers. “I’ll take it off before my shift Thursday.”

“You’re serious?”

“Why not?” Steve gives a single shoulder shrug, a smile pulling at one corner of his mouth. “It’s not the first time my nails have been painted.”

That makes Eddie pause. “It’s not?”

“Robin paints my toes whenever she sleeps over. They’re probably still purple actually, I haven’t bothered to take it off, not like anyone sees my feet.”

“Oh,” Eddie huffs at the mental image of Steve with his face coated in a face mask and lotion, his bangs pulled up in a little rubber band and Robin painting his toenails every color of the rainbow.

Actually, it’s kind of cute. He wants to see Steve like that.

“So,” Steve drums his fingers on the table. “You gonna paint them?”

“Yeah,” Eddie pulls lightly on one of Steve's hands, drawing it closer to himself. “Don’t move.”

Steve doesn’t. He sits quiet and still, watching Eddie work without complaint. When Eddie’s done he leans back to inspect all of the nails, wiping at an edge here and there to clean it up, uncaring that he’s staining his own thumbs. When he’s satisfied he leans back in and lightly blows at the paint.

Somewhere above him, Steve’s throat clicks, and Eddie glances up at him through his lashes curiously.

“You’re much better at it than Robin,” Steve says after a beat. “She gets it all over my skin, doesn’t even try to clean it up.”

Eddie laughs, air puffing right out of his lungs. “I’ve met Robin so I’m really not surprised.”

He picks up one of Steve’s hands, turns it left and right to make sure he sees the paint from every angle, and makes sure there are no rough patches or opaque spots he needs to go over. He doesn’t know why he cares so much about it looking good, Steve’s just going to take it off in less than twenty four hours.

He drags his thrums lightly over one of Steve’s knuckles and then lets go, his fingers curling in on themself. “All done.”

Steve holds his hands up, fingers spread to see Eddie’s work. “It looks great.”

And it does.

Eddie grins as he twists the polish closed tightly and stuffs it back into his bag. He watches with something close to fond amusement as Steve very carefully settles back against the couch, hands on his knees so he doesn’t touch anything until the paint is well and truly dry. Eddie settles next to him, his own hands already dry enough to not cause a problem but he mirrors Steve and they watch the rest of the movie, making snide little comments about the acting and the plot.

He doesn’t let himself think about the feeling of Steve’s warm hand in his or the feeling of Steve’s eyes watching him so intently.

It’s not good for his health.

—

It’s two days later before he finally sees Steve again, the movies in Eddie hand already grievously late. Robin will chew him out but he knows Steve will waive the late fees with a stern waggle of his finger like a disapproving parent and tell him to do better next time. He’s so dorky, Eddie doesn’t know how the guy was ever cool in highschool except… Well, he does, because even now Steve is annoyingly good looking, better looking in Eddie’s opinion. More rugged even though he’s still so put together, confident in different ways and funny.

The bell jangles loudly when Eddie enters family video.

Robin looks up, eyes narrowing instantly. “You're late, Munson.”

Eddie winces. “Please accept my most humble apology, I was otherwise inconvenienced on the eve of these returns.”

“You mean you forgot until Wayne told you this morning.”

“Yeah.”

She snorts and holds her hands out for the videos. When Eddie gives them to her she says, “I better not have to rewind them.”

Eddie thanks Wayne over and over in his head for having the forethought to do that before forcing Eddie into Robin's clutches. “They are.”

“They better be.”

Eddie takes his time browsing the stacks of tapes. He knows what’s here, he spends most of his time bothering Steve and Robin but Steve’s on break in the back and he wants the chance of seeing him before he leaves.

It’s another ten minutes of staring at Night of the Comet before the door to the back opens and Steve strolls out. He spots Eddie instantly and Eddie grabs the movie he’d been stalking with and heads for the counter.

“Hey,” Steve grins. “You finally returned your movies.”

He holds his hand out for the new tapes and Eddie goes still. His eyes wide as he takes in Steve’s hand.

“Your nails,” Eddie says, ignoring all semblance of a greeting. “They’re still painted.”

Steve glances down at his hands, laughs a little quiet and awkward. “Yeah, does it look weird on me?”

“No.” Eddie thought that it would. That Steve, perfectly put together Steve Harrrington, would look tarnished and sullied by Eddie with the black paint. That he would look tainted by all that Eddie is but… “I like it.”

“Oh,” Steve grins, drags Eddie movie choices closer to ring them up. “Me too, it’s kinda like having you around even when you’re not here.”

Eddie swallows hard. “Yeah.”

It’s just a little splash of black paint, but it makes Eddie want impossible things just to see it still there. He wants more of himself on Steve. His clothes, his rings, himself. He wants to cover Steve in the things that he loves, show everyone that this pretty and perfect boy is something that Eddie Munson treasures.

“Will you paint them again?” Steve asks without looking at him.

“I’ll paint them anytime you want,” Eddie says honestly. He hands over a few crumpled bills to pay as he remembers how easy the moment between them had been. How quiet and perfect. He would probably do anything for Steve Harrington and he’s not even embarrassed to admit that.

Steve’s smile is soft.

“Thanks,” he says and then holds the tapes out to Eddie. He glances over his shoulder at Robin who is doing her best to pretend she’s not watching them. Steve huffs and turns back to Eddie, lowers his voice and leans a little across the counter. “How about tonight?”

Eddie glances back down at Steve’s still perfect nails then up to Steve’s face, his dark eyes watching Eddie just as intently as they had two days ago. His nails don’t need to be touched up yet. “Yeah, I’m free.”

“Great,” Steve says, hand brushing Eddie’s as he hands over a receipt. “I'll see you later?”

“Yeah, yes, I’ll be there,” Eddie stumbles over the words.

When Eddie leaves his head is a mess of want and confusion and hope. So much hope.

#steddie #steve harrington #eddie munson #stranger things #fanfics #paint it black #nail polish #kinda wanna do a second part but idk #LLG writes

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nereidprinc3ss · 2 years ago

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behave

in which fem!reader REALLY wants spencer's attention while he's working

18+ (no smut but sex is talked about) warnings: mentions of sex, spencer grabs readers wrist to stop her from doing something but its not violent, reader is referred to as a girl, no use of y/n, um i think that's it WC: 870 a/n: i have damn near 40 pages of spencer WIP so im biting the bullet and posting some of it. also.. if you want a plot... babe this is not the place for you im sorry... ive never even heard of a plot actually. i dont know about rising and falling action... i dont believe in that. it sounds fake

It feels like Spencer has been at his desk for hours.

And for hours you've been lounging on the couch, reading your book in silence so as to let him work. But you're becoming... antsy. Impatient. Every time you drop your book and stare at him, willing your white-hot gaze to draw his attention; nothing. He just keeps shuffling papers, signing, writing, reading reading reading.

At ten, you give up.

You make a show of slamming your book shut, sighing, slowly sitting up, stretching, standing, stretching again--when you turn your head, expecting your little performance to have at least earned a look from him; still, nothing.

"Spence?" you ask, innocuously, as you round the couch and draw toward him carefully, slowly, on light feet. A display of faux innocence. It’s not that you intend to bother him, per se--you're just so bored.

He hums in response, eyes still glued to his work as he searches for something among the mess of paper.

You come to a stop in front of the mahogany desk, tracing the edge of it idly with wandering fingertips.

"What are you looking at?" you ask, in reference to a photo he seems to now be studying intently.

"Nothing you need to see," is his muttered response, quickly flipping the photo face down on the desk and picking up a form walled in migraine-inducing tiny black text. You watch the way he scans the paper, brow knitted, and eyes squinted, clearly not paying you very much attention.

You move languidly around the desk, letting the wood drag against your hip the whole way, before reaching for the overturned photo--just to see what he'll do.

Spencer catches your wrist, his grip gentle and warm but not without portent. "What did I just say, grabby?"

Sadly, they're the most words you've gotten out of him since this afternoon.

You sigh dramatically and drape yourself across his lap, looping your arms around his neck. To your initial satisfaction he shifts slightly to accommodate you--and then continues to look over your shoulder like he hardly notices the pretty girl on top of him.

"When will you be done?" you purr, tracing his jaw with a finger.

"I'll be done when I'm done."

God, he can be stubborn.

"Can you be done any sooner than that?"

"What do you think I'm going to say to that," comes his flat reply, still not sparing you a glance. You watch enviously as his eyes dart down the paper he's reading over your shoulder.

"Then I'm staying right here until you're finished."

"You can stay here if you can behave."

You scoff, bunching the fabric on the back of his shirt in your fists. "What do you mean, if I can behave?"

Finally, you hear Spencer set down his pen, and he leans back in his chair to regard you. His gaze finally on you is like an ice bath. You literally have to repress the urge to shiver under his evaluation; the slightly raised eyebrows, the line of his mouth a little harder than usual. His 'you know exactly what I'm talking about so don't play dumb' look.

For a few tense seconds, you let your eyes dart between his, not wanting to break first. Unfortunately, you think that look of his could freeze saltwater.

"Fine," you mutter, flushing when you look down at his shirt collar instead. If you're being reasonable, he probably is doing something important. You drag your gaze back up to his and see that his eyes have softened.

"Thank you," he says, gentler, squeezing your leg before running his hand over it back and forth a few times. "I know I'm not being very fun today. When I'm done we can do whatever you want to do."

The urge to say, 'whatever I want to do?' is strong, but you manage to bite your tongue as he reaches back over you to continue his work. Instead, you content yourself to lean against him, allowing his solidity and warmth to envelop you for some immeasurable stretch of time.

Rain starts up, battering the windowpane and accented by deep rolls of thunder. The scratch of Spencer's pen on paper, the rustle of files, and the scent of patchouli and amber begins to lull you into a doze--a comfortable place between awake and asleep. It's the kind of comatose unconsciousness that bends and liquifies time, and you don’t even realize you fell asleep until you’re waking up.

Spencer murmurs your name, brushing your hair carefully out of your face. "Did you fall asleep, angel?" His voice is soft, just above a whisper.

"Mhm," you groan, rubbing your eyes. "How long has it been?"

"A few hours," he sighs. "That file took a lot longer than it should have, I'm sorry."

You're still bleary as you speak next;

"The thing was sex."

"What?" he laughs, rubbing your leg as you adjust yourself in his lap.

"You said we could do whatever I wanted to do when you were done, and it was sex. But now I'm tired."

"Let's get you to bed," he begins, "and revisit the sex idea in the morning. Does that work for you?"

You smile against his shirt, eyes already fluttering closed again.

"Mhm..."

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fic #spencer reid x fem!reader #spencer reid #spencer reid imagine #spencer reid x self insert #criminal minds #spencer reid x y/n

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lilbluustar · 3 months ago

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wonbin's toxic traits as a boyfriend

wonbin is the typical boyfriend who seems calm, relaxed, always cool... but when you scratch a little deeper, you realize that he has an intense and passionate side that leaves no one indifferent.

ᯓ possessive... but he disguises it very well

wonbin is not the type to tell you "don't wear that" or "don't talk to such-and-such a person", but that doesn't mean he doesn't think so.

If you wear something that draws too much attention, he's not going to ban you, but he is going to look you up and down, smile a little sideways, and say in a low voice, “i hope only I have the privilege of seeing you like this up close later.”

If a friend of yours acts too affectionate with you, Wonbin isn't going to say anything about it... but the next time he sees him, he's going to give him a tighter-than-usual handshake and look him straight in the eye.

ᯓ proud and stubborn in arguments

if there's a fight, Wonbin is not one to get into heated arguments... but he's one who won't give in easily.

if he thinks he's right, he's going to stay quiet, folding his arms, just looking at you while you finish talking.

and if you say something that hurts him, instead of reacting in the moment, he will say a cutting phrase and will prefer to walk away for a while to calm down.

but be careful... if the fight is strong, he may decide to sleep on the couch just so he won't give in first.

ᯓ his independence makes you doubt if he really cares about you

he's the type who doesn't need to be glued to you 24/7 and can go days without writing you first.

if you tell him "you ignored me all day", he responds with "but we didn't do anything wrong, did we?" as if he doesn't understand why it bothers you.

you never feel like you can complain to him because technically he doesn't do anything wrong, but his lack of initiative makes you feel replaceable.

ᯓ he's the type who stays quiet when he gets angry

if something bothers him, his reaction is not to argue... it's to ignore you.

he can be with you in the same room and give you one-word answers with a stone face.

if you ask him "is something wrong?", he says "nothing", but his silence screams otherwise.

ᯓ he's too attractive and knows it

he's not intentionally flirtatious, but his very presence attracts everyone.

when you tell him that someone is looking at him with too much interest, he just laughs and says "ah, yeah?" without doing anything about it.

the worst thing is that it's not that he enjoys the attention, but he doesn't actively reject it either, which leaves you in an uncomfortable limbo.

ᯓ quiet but VERY jealous (and dangerous when he is)

he's not the type who will throw a tantrum if you talk to someone else, but his attitude changes subtly.

when he gets jealous, you can see it in every damn move. he's the type to make you feel in trouble without needing to say much.

he stops making eye contact, his responses become curt and his tone of voice drops to a disturbingly neutral level.

if you ask him what's wrong, he responds with a simple "nothing, do whatever you want."

ᯓ he doesn't talk about his feelings until he explodes

he can be fine for weeks, not mentioning anything that bothers him, until one day he blurts out "you always do the same thing."

and you are in shock because you didn't even know he had built up so much resentment.

ᯓ he has infinite patience, but when he loses it, it's scary

you can prank him, tease him and he won't react... until one day he blurts out "can you stop?" with such a serious tone that you feel you crossed the line without realizing it.

ᯓ if he feels hurt, he walks away instead of talking it out

he doesn't seek revenge, he doesn't do drama, he just shuts down and starts acting like he doesn't care that much about you.

and that hurts more than any fight because you know something changed, but he won't tell you what it was.

ᯓ is the king of awkward silences when he's upset

if he feels you did something wrong, he won't say it, but the atmosphere around him becomes tense.

makes you feel like you have to guess what happened because he's not going to explain it easily.

ᯓ when he gets emotional, it takes you by surprise

he's calm and relaxed most of the time, but suddenly, in the middle of the night, he'll say things like "i don't know what i'd do without you."

and leave you in emotional crisis because he doesn't usually talk like that, so now you think something's wrong with him.

ᯓ his love is firm, but his expressions of affection are not constant

there are days when he is the most affectionate boyfriend in the world and others when he barely hugs you.

not because he has lost interest, but because he just isn't always in the same mood.

but his inconsistency leaves you confused and wondering if you did something wrong.

wonbin is that quiet boyfriend who seems laid back, but when you get to know him well, you realize he's a volcano just waiting for the right moment to explode. isn't toxic in an obvious way, but his extreme calmness and the way he processes emotions can make you feel insecure without him even realizing it. he's the kind of boyfriend who doesn't go out of his way to show his love with words, but if he puts his arm around your shoulders in public, it's already a great show of affection.

#wonbin riize #wonbin #wonbin imagines #wonbin smut #wonbin scenarios #wonbin hard hours #wonbin hard thoughts #park wonbin #riize wonbin #riize #riize imagines #riize reactions #riize hard hours #riize drabbles #riize scenarios #riize x reader #riize smut #riize fluff #riize is 7

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iamsebastiansstan · 1 month ago

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for granted, in vain - stepbro!NAC x fem!reader

PART 2/2 OF STEPBRO!NICK - CLICK FOR PART ONE

summary - If this is something he’s capable of, he’s never deserved her in the first place.

He starts walking backwards in a daze when her hard voice stops him.

“Fuck you if you go back to her, Nicholas.”

In a voice that he doesn’t recognize, he says, “Fuck me, then.”

wc - 8k - MINORS DNI !

warnings - dark!Nicholas so beware, angst, hurt/comfort, stepcest, manipulation, oral (m and f receiving), crying during sex, dirty talk, face slapping (mostly the non sexual kind), p in v sex

A/N - good God this took ages to finish, I'm sorry. I feel like I started this series with a bang and part two is a likkle flat... especially because it's so plot-heavy lol but I still hope you like it!! lemme know what you think my Darlings, I love you always <33

It goes on like that for a while.

The secrecy, the careful nature with which they handle their relationship, they get used to it, they manage well, make sure not to lose each other in the process.

It is still deliciously forbidden, and Nicholas never would have thought that he’ll get to live this fantasy of his, which makes it all the more special that he finally does.

Mom and dad leave them alone, mostly, but it is still too risky to go all the way like they want to- need to, at this point- and the danger connected to finally fucking his stepsister for real licks at his spine with more discomfort than he likes to admit. She doesn’t ask, never did again, after that first time, and despite his newfound controlling nature and incessant obsession with her, he doesn’t want to push.

He pushes with other things, has before, but not with this. When he fully makes her his, he wants her to have demanded it beforehand.

Holding back isn’t easy, though, never has been, with her.

When she’s on her knees for him, begging with her eyes, he almost breaks the skin on his thigh the way he’s digging his nails in, all to hold himself back. When he loses himself between her thighs, stretching her open until she’s crying with it, he has to bite his lip bloody to keep from just sliding in without much preamble. It takes a lot of restraint, which thankfully, Nicholas does have, thank you very much.

He finds his heart aching for her. When they’re at the breakfast table and her laugh pierces his chest, the epitome of happiness in that sharp sound; when they bicker needlessly, jokingly, about things only they have come to understand about each other; when the sun illuminates her skin just so, makes her appear like an angel before him, come to free his damned soul.

And damned it is, for what he feels for her, for how angry it makes him, for how it causes him to act around her- towards her, even- when she deserves so much better. So much better than him.

When the new semester starts, too soon for anyone’s liking, they decide to keep their distance at college. The last thing they need is prying eyes on them, the questions their friends would undoubtedly ask if they saw them interacting more than usual.

She doesn’t like it, he knows.

“We could just tell them that we’ve gotten closer over summer break,” she pouts, head on his chest.

He plays with her hair a little, entertains the idea, decides against it.

“Any kind of change will draw attention, (Y/N),” he drawls, “attention that we can’t afford. Not now.”

“Yeah, but-“

“Drop it,” he snaps, leaves no room for argument. It’s tearing at him, not giving her what she wants, but he’s got to be smarter than that. If he lets her push, he’ll give in, and damn them both.

The way she deflates squeezes at his heart a little, but his big brother protectiveness doesn’t allow him much leeway.

He doesn’t fuck anyone else either, for that matter, and while her eager throat and skilled hands pull orgasm after orgasm from him whenever he demands, it’s just no comparison to what it feels like to sink into a willing, wet body, a tight pussy that he gets to shape for his cock, even if just for one night. It’s stupid, really. Hornyboy-brain is all it is.

It costs him, inevitably.

His friends coax him out of hiding and take him to a party to celebrate the start of the new semester and he agrees, because if there’s anything he likes, it’s the comfortably humane way the colder months announce themselves at the end of September, would leave his bare arms chilly if not for the alcohol thrumming through his system. He says yes when they ask him to come and he says to her when she asks him if she’s allowed to go with her friends and he says yes to the knee-length dress she wants to wear that night. Nicholas is in a charitable mood.

They arrive separately, though it gnaws at him, the fact that her friend Stacy or Casey or whatever the fuck will drive them, the fact that he doesn’t know her little group and thus doesn’t trust them with her. But he has to. He’s had to so far, and all had gone well. Nicholas makes his way through sweaty bodies, smiles at a handful of familiar faces, gets himself a drink that tastes way too strong to have mercy on his liver and downs it in one go. Tonight is for letting go, and he plans to do exactly that, shed the armor of responsibility that he himself has put on his broad shoulders and just be Nick for a few hours, the Nick he was before she corrupted his every thought, every single fiber of his being.

He knows it’s not fair to put this on her, but if he puts it on himself, he’ll break. So he lets the poison seep into his thoughts and lives with the guilt, at least for one night. Tomorrow, he’ll make her breakfast and kiss her sweetly under the shower and promise her that soon, he’ll claim her completely, and he will be hers in return. Nicholas gives as good as he gets, always has. Tonight, though, he will allow himself to be unhinged.

The bass is pumping something fierce, making his bones shake, and he loses himself in the crowd of people dancing in the spacious living room, the mansion they’re in providing generous space. It’s beautiful here, the way the chandelier catches the colorful lights, the way they’re all here to enjoy their youth while building a future for themselves. There’s so much stress and desperation in those godforsaken lecture halls, those endlessly long hallways, but here, the feeling of freedom flows through the atmosphere so heavily they can taste it on their tongues.

All he feels around him is skin, rubbing against his and filling his nostrils with sweet perfume, heady cologne, clean sweat. It’s intoxicating in the best way, reminds him of a time before he wound himself into knots over a woman he can’t love the way he wants to, and when he drives his hand through his damp hair, looks ahead, he can see her staring at him from where she’s perched atop the kitchen counter.

She’s sitting with her thighs slightly spread despite how high her dress is riding up, smokey eye dangerous and hair mussed as if she’d gotten fucked before this. He knows what that looks like on her, one way or another. The air around her is arrogant, little sister petulant, and it makes him grit his teeth. A drink gets handed to her by a nameless girl and she accepts it, doesn’t take her eyes off his as she lets the tip of her tongue play with the white rim of the red plastic cup, and if Nicholas wasn’t a handful of shots and two handfuls of drinks in, he’d feel anger surge in his chest. Now it’s only need, desperation in a way, recklessness.

When an unfamiliar hand, dainty and soft, touches his arm he doesn’t back away, doesn’t stop looking at her when he grabs a wrist, spins a body around- a back to his front- and starts a slow and dirty grind that makes the hairs on his neck stand up. She’s sipping now, face unbothered if it weren’t for the fire in her eyes, the kind of fire you ought to put out immediately before it swallows you whole and makes you regret ever having lit the match.

The girl in front of him has blonde hair down to her curvy ass, hips perfect for grabbing, and he closes his eyes when he inhales her scent, smells spice and danger, gives into it with a lick of his tongue against the side of her bared throat. The music is humming around him, but his ears are ringing, but he refuses to look up, to back down, to show his sister the power she has over him. He was a fool to think he’s got the upper hand. All that he is, all that he wants to be, starts and ends with her.

The pair of lips pressing on his only surprise him a little, and he kisses back feverously. The taste is all wrong, the contours of her face as well, and none of it is her fault. Still he holds on, cradles a head and licks at some teeth, bites softer than he knows he’s capable of, doesn’t hand out marks where they haven’t been earned.

When she pulls away, dirty smile playing on red lips, he exhales harshly and leans down to her ear.

“I’m gonna get a drink, you want anything?”

She shakes her head, gets on her tippy toes so he’d hear her.

“No, thank you. But will you come back?”

The cheek in his grin is as fake as his lust for her, but if there’s one thing he knows how to do, it’s play it up for the big show.

“A’course.”

It’s the first time he looks up since he allowed himself a taste of this stranger, and when he finds her glaring daggers at him, he grits his teeth and bears the pain. Making his way through the crowd proves to be easy with his height and built, and he ends up standing face to face with her sooner than he’d like. He steps between her thighs, a safe distance apart, leans his upper body closer.

“Where are your friends?”

“Doing coke in the bathroom.”

“Are you serious?” His fists clench.

She shrugs, nods once.

“You’ll never see them again, you hear me?”

He can’t hear her scoff, but he can see it, can see the corners of her mouth turning up cruelly while the heat in her eyes goes from a simmer to a boil in zero point two seconds.

“What about blondie? You gonna see her again after tonight? Or is this just another one of your hump and dump stories, hm, Nicholas?”

He deserves this, but he hates it, nevertheless.

“That’s none of your business, (Y/N).”

He knows it’s mean for no reason, but he can’t help it. He can’t have her the way he wants, the way he needs, for now and forever, so why even bother? Why prolong the inevitable, spend years gathering ammunition only to shoot himself in the heart, kill her in the process? Nicholas thought he knew what pain was. She came along and showed him how she could prove him wrong.

“Do you get off on talking to me like that? Like you haven’t-“ her voice breaks, she swallows hard before continuing, “-like you haven’t spent all day today holding me, telling me how beautiful I am in my dress, how beautiful I made myself look for you. And now look at you. Hanging onto the first girl that throws herself at you.”

The monster in him that’s been clawing its way to the surface decides right then and there to bear its ugly head.

“Beats sitting alone and watching the person that won’t fuck me try to fuck someone else.”

His words slice through her, deflating her with one sentence. His ears are ringing again, for a different reason this time. Nicholas can’t believe he just said that. Put the girl he loves in front of him in a room full of spectators and started distributing lash after lash, watching her bleed out because of him. He doesn’t notice the moment his hands start shaking, the moment the bile starts rising in his throat, the glass of her teary eyes the only thing he can focus on. Knows he can’t take this back, wishes he could, thinks it might be for the better.

If this is something he’s capable of, he’s never deserved her in the first place.

He starts walking backwards in a daze when her hard voice stops him.

“Fuck you if you go back to her, Nicholas.”

In a voice that he doesn’t recognize, he says, “Fuck me, then.”

***

He ends up not doing it.

The girl- Tara is her name, as it turns out- doesn’t seem to mind much, hands him his shirt that she gracelessly tore from his body, presses a small kiss to his cheek.

“’m gonna go back to the party, ‘kay?”

He nods wordlessly and waits until he hears the click of the door closing, then lets himself fall heavily onto the bed in the guest room of the house. He thinks about locking the door, but his legs feel like lead, preventing him from getting up. What the hell is he doing? What the hell was he thinking, talking to her like that? His baby, his (Y/N), the girl that relies on him so heavily yet twists his heart into knots until it feels like it’s going to stop.

If he goes there with her, he knows, he’s never letting her go, and what good would that do for her? Her brilliant little self would be stuck with him, with his average grades and later his average job, hiding from their family and friends, putting on a front so they wouldn’t be questioned; with his bad temper and violent grip, his loud voice and the fear, the guilt that eats at him day in and day out. He’d pluck that beautiful rose from a prosperous garden and watch it wilt on his windowsill. Gladly, at that, so long as it’s within his eyeshot.

Nicholas can’t do that to her. Thinking about letting her go kills him, but he can’t do that to her.

He fixes his clothes and his hair before stepping out of the room and into the booming of the music downstairs, looking around to make sure nobody saw him. Sneaking out of the house is easy now that everyone’s too drunk to pay him any mind and he almost makes it to his car that he’s parked two houses down- away from anyone that might stumble outside and fuck with it- but luck is not on his side tonight and he gets noticed.

“How was it, huh, Nick?” he hears her voice, slurred and mean, and it sends a shiver down his spine.

Not here, not now, not like this, please. But he can’t move when she goes on.

“Was she good for you? Obedient, just the way you like? She let you throw her around, make you feel like a real big man, huh? Answer me!”

Her grip is tight as she grabs him and turns him to face her, albeit clumsily. He lets her, because at this point, he deserves every hiss and snarl she sends his way. No, he won’t answer her, same way he won’t meet her eyes, can’t.

“Why don’t you want me?” she sobs, lets her head fall forward to rest against his chest. Nicholas inhales sharply, his sight getting blurry. “I try so hard, and yet… you just don’t wan’ me. Did you get bored, is that it? Is there- Can I do anything to- to-“

“Stop!” he snaps, grabs her by her shoulders and pulls her away, looks at that tear streaked face, those blotchy cheeks, that cherry red mouth. Wants to kiss it, reels himself in, hates himself for even the thought. “(Y/N), please… please don’t.”

All at once, her face hardens.

“Don’t what!” she screams, makes him scared that someone will overhear their heated argument, but the lawn is empty of people and every house on the street is dark. “You don’t, Nicholas! Where the fuck is all of this coming from?”

His eyes close without his say-so, trying so hard to keep his patience in check.

“You’re the one who’s throwing this all away, and for what?” she continues, oblivious to the sound of his heart cracking. “For that girl in there? She that good, Nick?” He tenses when she gets close again, the tequila on her breath making him nauseous as she nuzzles his cheek with her nose, starts peppering his skin with kisses. “I can be just as good, big brother, I promise. Let you do anything you wan’, don’t gotta have any limits, not with you. Please, Nicholas. Please, just gimme a chance, wanna prove it to you, wanna be your good little girl, pl-“

“I said fucking stop it, (Y/N),” he yells when he can’t take it anymore, grabs her hair in a tight fist and yanks her head back, makes her look up at him. He’s seen that fear in her eyes before- seen it directed at him, even- but it’s always been clouded by lust, by need. Now it’s pure, unadulterated, and it makes him swallow down bile. “You think that I don’t want you, stupid girl? You think I don’t die a little every time you fucking ask me for this, and I have to say no? What have we been doing that you think this isn’t all I want? All I fucking want, you hear me?”

His cheeks are damp but he doesn’t care, can’t bring himself to stop.

“It’s all I want,” he finishes weakly, presses his face into her hair as he tries to calm his breathing down. He loosens his grip while he’s at it, suddenly aware of every strained muscle in his body. Nicholas feels bone-deep tired.

“So why deny us, huh? Why are you doing this to-“

“All I want,” he starts, voice hard through how shaky he’s feeling, “is to take you to parties and dance with you and kiss you when you’re tipsy, feel you up a little, take you home and tuck you into bed but I can’t. And all I want is to hold your fucking hand when we walk down the halls of our college, but I can’t. I can’t tell my friends about you, I can’t know if you’re only mine when I let you go out with your fucking friends, I can’t have any of that. How much longer, huh? How much longer can we take the hiding until it fuckin’ breaks us, baby?”

He just wants her to see. He’s not the bad guy here, he’s doing this for her.

The tremble in her lips makes his stomach turn, knowing his words are the cause for it.

“So why pursue me in the first place, Nicholas?” she snaps, angry now, and it makes his temper rise. As if she’s the only one hurt by this. “Why not leave me alone, huh? You are the one who started this, and you pushed and you pushed and now you’re, what, scared? You should’ve just left me be, fuck!”

“Do you think I knew I’d fall in love with you when I first started this?” he bellows, ears ringing at the urgency of his words, the anger, threatening to choke him if he doesn’t get them out, consequences be damned. His grip on her arms tightens despite her wide-eyed stare. “I didn’t fuckin’ like you, (Y/N), I couldn’t stand you when I first had you. I wanted to fuck you up for being such a brat. But then,” all his bravado, all the air in his lungs leaves him at once and he gentles his hands, moves them into her hair as he eyes her face. That beautiful face. “But then you turned out to be the best girl f’me. Just needed a firm grip, didn’t you? Needed your big brother’s guidance.”

There are tears streaming down her rosy cheeks again, stirring up something ugly in his gut.

“You fucking ruined me, is what you did, and now that I’m trying to be selfless for once, you won’t let me! What the fuck do you want from me, huh? Fuck you!”

She’s staring at him slack-jawed, eyes wide, but he can’t bring himself to care. He’s angry and he’s drained and he wishes he were numb. There’s still some tequila in his father’s cabinet, he’ll sneak that when he gets home, drink it by the pool and do his best not to drown himself in the chlorine filled water.

He shakes her off and steps away. “Call a cab when you decide to go home, don’t you fucking dare get in a car with those whore friends of yours, y’hear me? I mean it, (Y/N). I see you coming home in anything other than a taxi, I’ll make you regret it in a way you won’t like.”

There’s that fear again, but that’s a good thing. Maybe that’ll make her stay away. He’s too out of it to drive, so he walks.

***

He heard her enter the house last night, saw the cab drive off. It didn’t take her long to come home, and by then, Nicholas had already abandoned his plans of drinking himself into a stupor. Better to avoid that hellish hangover. He’s proud of himself today.

Leaving his room is not much of an option to him and when he really does have to, he first makes sure she’s nowhere to be found. He sneaks food into his room and only uses the bathroom once his bladder feels like bursting. It’s a small price to pay for avoiding the awkwardness that’d come with running into her.

Monday comes around and they have to leave for classes at the same time, which means they have to get ready at the same time. Nick isn’t looking forward to that.

She stumbles out of her room when he’s on his way back to his from the bathroom, and the tense eye contact they make feels like it’s inevitable. She opens her mouth as if to say something, but he steps aside and disappears before she can, heart in his throat. He hates this. Hates it so much, wishes he didn’t have to do it, wills himself not to give in.

The next few days pass by like that, with the air thick around them. She tries, always does, his girl isn’t one to back down that easily. For once he wishes she would.

At breakfast she sits next to him, drives her toes along his calf. He ignores it, keeps chewing his oatmeal.

“Nicholas, please,” she whispers, conscious of their parents bustling around the house, getting ready for work. “Let’s talk.”

It only takes a moment, but his appetite is gone. He lets his spoon fall into the bowl with a clink before he pushes his chair back, its scraping against the floor undoubtedly making gooseflesh appear on her skin, and he gets up to leave the room. Healthy breakfast and heartbroken little sister abandoned behind him, but that’s what he’s got to do.

In the bathroom when he’s getting ready for bed, she steps behind him, presses her chest to his naked back, surely feels his pulse hammering. She knows his weak spots, so it slices like a knife when she whimpers, “Big brother, please… Please, don’t do this,” into his ear, and it takes all of his willpower to not slam her against the door and ravish her mouth right then and there. He bends to spit in the sink, doesn’t bother wiping his mouth before his sharp elbow finds her body, doesn’t hit but shoves her firmly away from him so he can exit the room. Her inhale, sharp from the hurt he just caused, stays with him until he falls into a fitful sleep.

Ignoring her is the highest form of cruelty she thinks he can allow himself right now, but Nicholas knows better. It’d be crueler to take her for himself, keep her, keep her away from everyone and everything that isn’t him, because that is what he wants. And she’d let him. Stupid, wide-eyed girl she is, she’d let him. And he’d hate himself for it. Hate how much he’d love it.

It's been so long that he’s surprised that he still recognizes the sound of it, but once he hears it, he can’t ignore it. Grip tight on that last thread of patience, he waits with clenching fists for her bedroom door to open before he storms into the hallway, grabs her throat and slams her against the wall next to the bathroom door. Her gasp of surprise gets lost to him when he sees the apprehension, borderline fear in her eyes, but he ignores it. Finds her hand and wrenches the soiled toy from her grip, throws it on the ground and, without breaking eye-contact, crunches it under his foot.

It satisfies him for only a second, then he feels numb.

“Who do I go to now, when I have this… problem?” she asks, voice small, and even the thought of her with someone else makes him boil over with rage.

Making sure she hears every syllable he mutters; Nicholas gets close to hiss, “I ever see you with someone else, it’ll be the end of you both, do you fucking hear me?”

He knows it’s unfair, but she needs to know that, despite everything, she’ll never not belong to him. Not while they share a roof.

He waits for her shaky nod before he disappears again, leaves her leaning against the wall.

***

Nicholas is unsure of her play here. She doesn’t let up, no matter how many times she’s shrugged off, rejected, ignored. It pains him immensely to do that to her, but what choice does he have? His obsession had reached a new, scary height, and he doesn’t want to bear the weight of her ruin on his conscience.

It's almost midnight, he’s had a long, shitty day- hell, a shitty week, even- and he’s looking forward to a hot shower and the softness of his mattress under his aching back. Steps sluggish, he makes his way into the kitchen, sees the leftover lasagna in the microwave and decides to heat it up despite the late hour. He’s got to be up in six hours. Fuck his life.

He doesn’t know what’s wearing him down the most: how stressful college has been lately, how tense the atmosphere at home leaves him, or the fact that he hasn’t gotten off in days, all his fantasies looping back to his little stepsister, making him even more frustrated than before; but when he hears the pitter patter of her naked feet approaching him, he leans his forehead against the cabinet and pleads instead of ignoring, “Not now, (Y/N). Please. I can’t. Not now.”

Nicholas knows he’s a cruel man, knows what he’s capable of, how low he can stoop when he needs to, but let it be said, once and for all, that his girl is not a smidge better than he is. She observes, memorizes, pouts, attacks. She puts herself back together for the sole purpose of him having something to chip away at. That is his doing, he knows. He’s carved her into an entirely new animal.

Rosy scent fills his nostrils when she plasters herself to his back, and he doesn’t need to look to know how stunning she is.

“Did you mean it, big brother?” she rasps, intertwines her hands in front of his stomach. At his questioning hum, she clarifies, “When you said you loved me, did you mean it?”

The pain slices through his gut like a dull knife, and he’s so, so tired.

He nods.

“I know,” she says, “I’ve known for a while. I can feel it.”

It’s just about the worst thing she could’ve said, her words hitting and making him crumble as he swiftly turns around, ears ringing with rage. It doesn’t take much to bring her to her knees, pliant as she is, and as soon as her glossy eyes meet his, her head cracks to the right, the shape of his palm immediately blossoming on her cheek.

The microwave dings, but the sound is not nearly enough to snap him out of his delirium.

Her cheeks feel soft against his fingertips when he grips them, turns her head to look at him.

“Yeah?” he hisses, lets go and strikes her again, in the opposite direction this time. “You feelin’ it, huh? You feel loved right now, baby?”

One more, then one more, one more, he loses count. She starts crying because this is a trigger point for her tears, he smirks devilishly because he knows that, of course he fucking knows that. But she lets him. Looks up at him again and again, after every strike, silent begging in her eyes as if she’s saying if this is what it takes to have you, I’ll give it to you, if this is what you need, I shall give it to you.

It fills him with rage, sadness, gratitude. A mix of emotions that threatens to overwhelm him.

By the time he’s done, her cheeks are fiery red and tear stained, the skin of his hands pulsing slightly. She took it like a champ, despite the snot running down to her lip, despite her labored breathing.

God, he’s so stupid for not checking if their parents are asleep. He should’ve, but he lost himself in her. If they had gotten caught, it would’ve been her fault, yet again.

“That’s what it’s like, with me,” he breathes, gets really close so he can whisper those words into her mouth. “’s that what you want, little girl? Is that what love is, huh?”

She doesn’t skip a beat.

“With us it is,” she sobs, eyes darting down to his lips and back to the chocolate of his eyes. “I love you, Nicholas.”

Hearing those words come from that gorgeous mouth is like a round of buckshot to his brain, and he gives in, gives in to the heaven and the hell that awaits him.

She’s easy for him to pick up- his body made to support hers, he feels like- and she immediately wraps her legs around his waist, finds his hair and pulls him towards her cherry red lips. They taste like salt and a rotten promise and he’ll take that over the heartbreak he’s felt these past few weeks any day.

This house has been his home for long enough that he doesn’t need to watch where he’s going as he walks them to the bathroom, doesn’t need to detach his mouth from hers, doesn’t have to stop the suck of his lips around her tongue. Seating her onto the countertop, he pushes away gently and locks the door, starts the shower, takes his shirt off as he watches her do the same. Nimble fingers undo her pants, his strong grip tears them off her long legs, leaving her in a sweet matching pair of underwear. Meant for daily use, comfortable, not for the debauchery he plans for tonight.

Well, not plans exactly, he thinks as he undoes his own belt, gets rid of his own pants under her watchful gaze. He wasn’t planning this, and he doubts that she was, either. He’s following something that feels like instinct, is taking his time as if he’s seeing her for the first time. Maybe he is, in a new light, at least. The way her eyes sparkle as they trace him top to bottom, he assumes it’s the same for her.

They don’t break eye contact when he removes her underwear first, then his own, no need for greedy gazes. This is theirs, has been theirs, from the beginning of time. This feels like coming home.

Legs around his torso again, one wide step into the shower, matching sighs as the steam of the hot water engulfs them. Careful not to get her hair wet, Nick angles her away from the stream, kisses her until her grip on him is lax enough to let go. An exchange of words is not needed as they watch each other through hooded eyes, as they use gentle hands and familiarly scented products to wash each other, prepare each other, take care of each other. The knot in his stomach is the tightest it’s ever been, and he knows it’s because added to the pleasure and lust is now the undoubted thrum of love he feels for her. He can’t wait to release that into her body, cock so hard it makes his skin vibrate.

While rinsing her off, he leans down to whisper, “You’re so beautiful, little girl. Your face, your body, they will bruise after tonight.”

Her head falls back onto his shoulder, getting the tiny curls on her nape wet.

“Wanna hurt for you,” she whimpers, lip trembling. Her tears are barely visible through the steam. “I’ve missed it, Nicholas, you have no idea.”

And that’s the crux of it all, isn’t it?

He indeed has no idea. He has no idea how she so willingly presents herself for slaughter by his hand. He thought himself sick and twisted, but her naked need makes even his veins run cold.

“God, you’re so fucked, (Y/N),” he chuckles, no humor behind it. He turns her around forcefully, doesn’t ease his grip on her upper arm. He tilts his voice down a notch, coos, “Did you get dropped on your head as a baby, sweetheart? Did mommy and daddy not love you enough as a child? What happened to you that crossed your wires enough to let me do this to you, huh? Have you got no self-respect at all?”

It's all her fault. He wants, but so does she. He needs, and she lets him. Her fault.

Her smile is gentle, almost sad, when she reaches up and tucks away a strand of his hair.

“Maybe it’s just you.”

Huh. Maybe it is.

His lips feel numb as they press against hers, insistent tongue making itself a home in her too-honest mouth, and together they stumble through the process of drying each other’s skin, following rubs of a towel with kisses and licks. It’s their floor so they have no qualms about leaving the bathroom naked, and he leads them into his room automatically. He wants her surrounded by his scent, drowning in it, claimed on the outside the same way he’s going to claim her on the inside.

Nibbling teeth graze his pounding pulse point before she whispers, “Do me bare tonight, big brother. ‘ve been on the pill for weeks now.”

That request, those tiny words, make his brain short circuit for a second before he smashes his body into hers, throws them onto the bed together. He kisses every inch of skin he can reach without moving his head too far away from hers, wants her to see the fire in his eyes.

“Made for me, weren’t you?” he pants between presses of lips, between the sounds of her moans, “Oughta thank your parents for this masterpiece, this wretched little fuckdoll they’ve gifted me, fuck. ‘m gonna load you up so good, you’ll have to pray that none of it takes.”

She whines all little sister overwhelmed, grabby hands on his toned body, seeking out the cock he hasn’t let her touch in weeks. She’s a come greedy girl, always has been, playing with it every chance she gets. Tonight, he’ll make sure to breed her up good so she can find new games for her body to play. It’s his turn right now, though, the hunger for her body clawing its way up his dry throat. Skilled togue licking a path down her neck, between her breasts, over her soft tummy and to her throbbing mound, Nicholas doesn’t break eye contact as he licks a sweep across her center.

Her legs fall open obscenely, as far as they will go, and her wide eyes don’t dare look away from his face. He’s got her right where he wants her, pinned like an insect under his heated gaze.

“Missed this cunt,” he moans, parts her swollen lips with his tongue before teasing at her dripping hole, smirking at the way it’s pulsing. “Even though you haven’t been good for me, I know nothing can fill my little girl up the way this fat cock can.”

“B-been good, only t-touched once,” she stammers, and he chuckles darkly.

“Aw, only once and I caught you doin’ it? Unlucky.”

Her knuckles in her mouth keep her from screaming as he starts sucking ruthlessly on her clit, thumbs pushing her pussylips apart to tease at her entrance. He’s not going to give her prep, wants her tight and wet around him, wants to punish-fuck that cunt apart and show her what happens when she’s being a tempting little whore.

It doesn’t take long for her orgasm to crash through her smooth body, making her grip the sheets as hard as she’s gripping his hair, causing him to hide his hiss in her skin. It’s okay, though, she can hurt him all she wants. It’ll never compare to what he’s going to do to her. Spitting her own juices into her mouth and watching her swallow them down greedily, open her up for more, makes him feral. He wants to drench her in everything he can give her.

“Nasty bitch,” he grins, makes her whine in delicious embarrassment, spits onto her tongue and smacks her on the mouth as she gulps it down.

“Yours, Nicholas,” she moans, “Say it, please, say it, make me.”

“You’re mine,” he moans, bites into the delicate skin of her neck and holds her down through her scream. He draws a smidge of blood, can taste it, keeps it for himself. “You’ve been mine, and you always will be mine. Nobody gets to have you like I do, to fuck you up the way I will.”

“Wan’ it, ‘m not scared.”

That statement makes a cruel laugh escape his throat as he climbs up her body, places his knees on either side of her head, grips his cock in one hand and smacks it on her stuck out tongue a couple times, revels in her whining. His balls are aching something fierce, but it’s easier to take now that he knows she’s there to let him dump all that come inside of her.

“You oughta be,” he smirks before he grabs her hair and shoves his dick as far back into her throat as it will go, no preamble, no mercy.

She chokes immediately, because of course she does, he hasn’t given her any time to adjust, but he doesn’t care. Nicholas’ mission for tonight is to show her that he owns her fully, and if he says she doesn’t need a voice for speaking, then he’s the one who gets to take that away from her.

“Yeah, take that dick,” he groans through grit teeth, guiding her head back and forth the way he likes, the way she wishes she could take him, but he makes sure to keep control and have her struggle one hundred percent. “Missed this, didn’t you? Choke f’me, little girl, that’s a good stepsister.”

The thrashing sound behind him comes from her legs, but she makes no move to give him their agreed-upon sign for when she can’t safeword out, and he takes advantage of that fully. Pulls out, slaps his spit-soaked length across that gorgeous face, pushes back in. Groans at her constricting throat, cants his hips up to feel her chin against his full balls. When her tears and spit and sobs have satisfied him enough, he gets off her and pulls her into his lap, kisses her deeply.

“Need you,” she sobs against his mouth, licks his bottom lip, “Wanna feel you fucking me, I’ve waited so long, Nicholas.”

Who is he to deny his babysister anything?

He keeps her in his lap as he lines his cock up with her drenched pussy and pulls her down as he thrusts up in one fluid motion. A wide palm muffles her screams, and already he’s addicted to the feeling of making sure her agony goes unnoticed. It’s probably ripping at her walls on the inside, the way he so ruthlessly gave her the entirety of him, but he wants her to feel it, wants her to keep feeling it for days.

Her body is lax, but he doesn’t mind, gives her his bicep to hold on to, snaps his hips up to feed the tightest little hole he’s ever been in, fighting through the dizziness.

“That’s a good baby, fuck,” he pants, sucks at her chin, “yeah, scream for me. Let everyone know what your brother is doing to that cunt, you sick little fuck.”

“So de-e-ep, N-Nick,” she whines in gargled syllables, and he grins as he punches up.

“Not gonna stop ‘til your cervix is the same color as my cockhead, y’hear me?”

“Fuck,” she whines from deep within her chest, ruts her hips against his as if in heat, and he can’t suppress the nasty grin that makes its way onto his face.

This is her being delirious with need, unapologetic in the way she’s chasing her pleasure, selfless with how she’s breathing through the pain he’s undoubtedly causing her just so he can feel good. She was made for him; he’s never been surer of anything in his messed up little life.

A large palm on her stomach, a slight push, has her tearing up. “You feel me here, baby? I’m turning your body inside out, y’feel it?”

A shaky nod, nothing more.

He fucks her like that for a while, hauls her up and down his cock, meets her on the comedown, bites and sucks at the skin of her face and tastes the salt there. Nicholas has been close ever since he stuck his dick inside her sister-sweet pussy, but he’s good at holding it off. That self-control he keeps talking about, as you can see. He’s proud of himself.

When her body seizes up at one particularly hard thrust, he knows he’s got her number.

“That the spot, huh, baby?” he grins, bites his lip in concentration as he hits it again, gaze never leaving her bug-eyed stare. “That the spot I own? The little spot your big brother’s gonna make you come with?”

“G-gonna, plea-please, need- need it, b-big brother, n-“

“Let go for me, (Y/N). Lemme feel my baby’s cunt clench around this fat cock.”

It’s pure porn, the way they fuck, the way they talk- but it’s heaven, the way she clenches around him and comes with a choked cry. Her heart is hammering against his chin where he’s got it pressed to her chest, looking up at that ecstasy-stricken face. If this is heaven, she is his God.

The fact that he has to use most of his strength to hold her down when she comes surprises him, pushes him so close to climax he has to grit his teeth until they hurt so he wouldn’t let go so soon. Her body is spasming, trying to buck off him, but he’s willed to fuck her through it until she’s shaking with it, nearing overstimulation. Once she’s done, breathing labored but body lax, he grabs her thighs and flips them so he’s on top of her, nestled deep within her guts and comfortable. When he starts giving it to her from that position, her hands start flailing until they find his back, short nails digging into his sweat-soaked skin.

“Yeah, jus’ lie there and take it,” he groans, nails her g-spot with every trust, knows where it is blindly. “Good little girl, good little fucktoy. Fuck, making my cock feel so good.”

“You’re fucking me,” she’s gasping, genuinely surprised as if she’s been in a trance so far. “Your cock is inside me. Your big fucking cock. And you’re fucking me. Fuck, Nicholas… fuck.”

It’s then that she comes again, taking them both off-guard, and Nicholas has to still completely so he wouldn’t just cream her tight pussy up right then and there. She works him good, too good.

“Fuck, (Y/N),” he laughs, as if mesmerized, “what the fuck are you doing to me.”

Her tears are running freely now, body shaking under his as he lines himself up and pushes in in one long, brutal thrust, giving her no time to adjust before he’s hiking her legs up over his shoulders and snapping his hips into hers. He’s close and he can feel it, bites his lip as he stares into her clouded eyes. There’s droplets of his sweat on her face and he moans when her sweet tongue darts out and licks some of them up. She’s his. She’s his and he’s hers but she is his.

“Fuck, fuck- oh baby, gonna-“

“Come inside me, big brother,” she breathes, voice shot. “Give your baby your babies.”

He squeezes his eyes shut and lets go, loses all his brain capacity along with his load, slumps over her powerlessly when he finishes. The way she immediately starts stroking his back makes him smile into the skin of her neck, pressing a small kiss there.

They hold each other, sweaty and sated and bone-deep tired.

“Y’re mine now,” he whispers into the side of her face, kisses here there.

She hums.

“Been yours for a long time now, Nicholas.”

He supposes she has.

***

It’s a slow process, the getting closer without raising suspicion. They start with hanging out more, talking more where people can hear them, helping each other out with assignments and chores. Their parents love it, how they’re getting along better than ever.

What they’ll never know is that it’s been a long while since they’ve slept in separate beds, that almost every night Nicholas fucks (Y/N) to tears while whispering what a good little sister she’s being to her big brother, that they’re the same brand of twisted and loving it. They’ll never know that each piece of furniture they help their kids pick out for the new apartment they’re moving into together, in a city far away that offers better postgrad programs than the college in the one they live in, will have their combined juices on it at some point. They’ll never know why exactly (Y/N) let herself get officially adopted by Nicholas’ father, why she chose to take on the last name everyone else in the family has been carrying for years now. They’ll never know that in that city, their kids don’t tell anyone that they’re stepsiblings, but that they’re a young married couple, having moved shortly after the wedding to start a new life together, that the little detail about their relation is something they only mention when Nicholas is balls-deep inside his little girl and wants to make her even wetter than she was before. They’ll never know that Nicholas loses his temper, sometimes, and decorates their little girl’s cheek with his fingerprints. They’ll never know how she cries when he does, but he’s her big brother who knows what’s best for her, so she lets him.

They’d never understand that this is what makes them happy. They’re together, they’re happy, and it’s all his doing. He did this, built this relationship up, nurtured it into something livable. He did this, not her.

He did.

taglist (imma tag this off the top of my head sorryyy): @exqorcism @lalavenderangel @nicholaschavezbby @emluvsuxo @hoeforanakin @faeromis @niteskysx @makebanks @aisforarlili @khloberry <3

#mine #my writing #stepbro!nicholas x fem!reader #nicholas alexander chavez #nicholas alexander chavez fan fiction #nicholas alexander chavez x reader #nicholas alexander chavez x fem!reader #nicholas chavez x reader #nicholas chavez #nicholas alexander chavez x you #nicholas Chavez x you #grotesquerie #monsters the lyle and erik menendez story

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phantomarine · 2 years ago

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Clam's Quick Tips for Starting Your Very First Webcomic

Howdy! Here are the three bits of advice I tend to give people who ask me about getting into webcomic-making. Maybe they can help you jump into the fray with a little less fear.

1) Make Your First Chapter a Pilot Episode

You will be told by webcomic veterans to start with a short, simple comic idea first - which is wise - but if all you can think about is your big magnum opus, then you might as well hop in, right? Otherwise you'll just be glancing back at the other cooler project forever.

But if you can't start with a small simple story, start on a small, simple part of that larger story. Your first chapter should be a snapshot of the main conflict - show us a simple scene with few characters, ease us in slowly, keep things clear and focus on emotion/impact/clarity. Get the audience to care by offering something easily digested, but full of promise.

Once you're done with that 'pilot' chapter, and you're feeling more comfortable with the whole comic process, you can open the gates and show us the larger world. At that point, you'll be way more ready.

2) Simplify Your Art Style For Your Own Sanity

Always try to make your webcomic's art style as simple as possible - the standard rule is to use only 75% of your artistic skill for every comic page you make. Otherwise you will burn out quickly and terribly.

But you also need to be PROUD of your art style. If you're really feeling itchy, add a couple bells and whistles to your style so you can look at the finished page and say "Yeah, looks cool." You'll find the right balance the more you draw.

Also, don't be afraid to change your art style as you go along. Ultimate consistency is often impossible in webcomics anyway - so embrace your desire to try new things, streamline your work, whatever you feel needs to happen to be happiest. Sometimes the coolest part of reading a webcomic is noticing that style change - so don't hesitate to embrace it!

3) Resist the Reboot! RESIST!

The curse/blessing of drawing the same things over and over is that you'll inevitably get better at drawing those things. The trouble comes when you look back at old stuff and start thinking "Damn, I could draw that way better now."

You must recognize that this feeling never goes away. Not after a hundred pages. Not after three hundred. Not after a thousand.

I think everyone should be allowed one soft reboot for their first webcomic. Redraw some panels that bother you. Change up some dialogue if it doesn't make sense with your new story ideas. Do maintenance, basically. One of the beauties of webcomics is that they can be easily edited, without reprinting a whole book or remaking a whole game.

But if the ultimate purpose of a webcomic is to tell a story, then constant reboots will just be retelling the same story - slightly better each time, but the same at its core. We've heard it before. Most audiences would rather you save your strength and just keep going, rather than circling back year after year and going "Wait wait wait! I'll do it better this time."

Reboot early, not often, and only when you absolutely must! You're a storyteller, and you're constantly getting better at telling your story. Don't be ashamed of it - look back how much ground you've covered, and keep walking!

---

That's a good start. Happy webcomicking - don't be afraid to jump in, but be prepared to learn a lot very quickly. And if this advice doesn't work for you or adhere to how you did it, that's absolutely fine - webcomics are diverse by nature, and so are their creation processes. Feel out what works best for you, and good luck!

#phantomarine #webcomic #advice #just talking #writing

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pinkrangermemes · 1 year ago

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EPIC: The Musical

lyrics that absolutely fuck me up, feel free to change pronouns and such as needed

"A mission to kill someone's son, a foe who won't run, unlike anyone you have faced before."

"I'd rather bleed for you."

"This is the will of the gods."

"Don't make me do this."

"The blood on your hands is something you won't lose. All you can choose is whose."

"You're as old as he was when I left for war."

"How could I hurt you?"

"I'm just a man who's trying to go home."

"When does a man become a monster?"

"When does the reason become the blame?"

"Forgive me."

"We should try to find a way no one ends up dead."

"You can relax, my friend."

"Think of all that we have been through. We'll survive what we get into."

"This life is amazing when you greet it with open arms."

"I see in your face there is so much guilt inside your heart."

"Have you forgotten to turn off your heart? This is not you."

"Have you forgotten your purpose? Let me remind you."

"Don't forget that you're a warrior of a very special kind."

"Don't disappoint me."

"What gives you the right to deal a pain so deep?"

"Don't you know that pain you sow is pain you reap?"

"Your life now is in my hand."

"A trade, you see. Take from me like you took from me."

"You shall be the final man to die."

"It's just one life to take."

"When we kill him our journey's over."

"Captain?"

"You've hurt me enough."

"When I kill you, my pain is over."

"Mark my words now. This is not the end."

"Remember them."

"Who hurts you?"

"If nobody hurt you, be silent."

"He's still a threat until he's dead."

"Finish it."

"What good would killing do, when mercy is a skill more of this world could learn to use?"

"The blood we shed, it never dries."

"I am your darkest moment."

"I am the infamous _______!"

"This way, you won't disappoint me."

"This way, you won't waste my time."

"Unlike you, every time someone dies, I'm left to deal with the strain."

"I'll remind you, I saw you as a friend, but now we're done."

"This way, you won't plague my life."

"This way, you'll close the door and have your damn goodbye."

"Since you claim you're so much wiser, why's your life spent all alone?"

"You're alone!"

"This day, you sever your own head."

"This day, you lost it all. Consider this as my goodbye."

"Don't forget how dangerous the gods are."

"How much longer 'til your luck runs out?"

"You rely on wit, and people die on it."

"I still believe in goodness."

"Lead from the heart, and see what starts."

"And what will we do when it tears us apart?"

"You're like the brother I could never do without."

"How much longer 'til your strength takes leave?"

"I can't have you planting seeds of doubt."

"Keep your friends close and your enemies closer."

"Sometimes killing is a must."

"Friends turn into foes and rivalries."

"Never really know who you can trust."

"The end always justifies the means."

"So much has changed, but I'm the same."

"I'm left without a choice and without a doubt."

"Ruthlessness is mercy upon ourselves."

"You are the worst kind of good 'cause you're not even great."

"You are far too nice."

"Mercy has a price."

"Unlike you, I've got no mercy left to give."

"The line between naivete and hopefulness is almost invisible."

"What have you done?"

"I am your darkest moment, the monster that always draws near."

"Remember me."

"There's only so much left we can endure."

"Think of your past and your mistakes."

"No, I'm not a player. I'm a puppeteer."

"I can hardly sleep now, knowing everything we've done."

"It's a game of wits, but you don't have to play."

"A foe like ____ is not to be messed with."

"You could be hurt or you could beat her."

"I'll help you conquer her."

"Wouldn't you like your outcome preferred?"

"Don't thank me, friend, you very well may die."

"Did you do something to them?"

"I don't know who you are or why you're here, but let me make this one thing clear."

"I've got people to protect, friends I can't neglect, so now there is no turning back."

"Back at home my wife waits for me. She's my everything, my _____."

"Maybe showing one act of kindness leads to kinder souls down the road."

"This land confuses your mind."

"All I hear are screams every time I dare to close my eyes."

"I no longer dream, only nightmares of those who've died."

"Why would you let _____ live when ruthlessness is mercy?"

"I keep thinking of the infant from that night."

"____, when you come home, I'll be waiting."

"Even if you're the last thing I see, I'll be waiting."

"I took too long."

"I'll always love you."

"Your past is always close behind."

"I see a song of past romance."

"I see portrayals of betrayal and a brother's final stand."

"I see a man who gets to make it home alive, but it's no longer you."

"We've suffered and sailed through the toughest of Hells, now you tell us our efforts were nothing?"

"I see a wife with a man who is haunting. A man with a trail of bodies."

"How has everything been turned against us?"

"How did suffering become so endless?"

"Do I need to change?"

"What if I'm the monster?"

"What if I'm the problem that's been hiding all along?"

"If I became the monster, and threw that guilt away, would that make us stronger?"

"So what if I'm the monster lurking deep below?"

"If I gotta drop another infant from a wall in an instant so we all don't die, then I'll become the monster."

"I'll become the monster."

#since I haven't seen one yet #epic the musical #roleplay prompts #rp prompts #roleplay starters #rp starters #rp memes #roleplay memes #epic the musical starters #sentence starters #rp sentence starters

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shaddork · 3 months ago

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The Star That Wouldn't Die - Chapter 3

Jason Todd x Fem!Reader

< Previous - Masterlist - Next >

Summary:

A camera flash catches Red Hoods attention, and it gives him the perfect excuse to go visit you.

Word Count: 4,707

AN: I feel like I should mention I'm cross posting this on a03 under the same username.

-------------------------------

The Wayne family definitely knew that something was up. However, they shocked Jason. Keeping their noses firmly out of his business. At least mostly. They’d made a few comments, enough that Jason knew that they thought he was acting strange, and had no clue why he was acting strange. Good, he planned to keep it that way. He’d done good at keeping them in the dark the part three weeks. the topic the hell alone. For the most part at least, and it had only been three weeks anyways. Three weeks of checking on you after he finished his patrol and wasn’t busy with a case that needed more immediate attention. Three weeks of the stone that had lodged itself in his heart growing heavier with each time he laid his eyes upon you.

He’d learned a lot about you in that time, watching anybody closely for any significant period of time you were bound to learn things about them. Jason wasn’t complaining, you were mesmerizing in spite of the guilt that was continually growing. It wasn’t every day that you were up so early in the morning. Sometimes you woke up early and watched TV before disappearing into the portion of the apartment that he couldn’t see, sometimes you stayed up late, dragging a large easel, placing various sizes of canvas on it, and painting with music playing. You still drew, but that was obvious from the first night that he spotted you. You danced while you painted, danced like no one was watching, and he supposed that you didn’t think anybody was, so why would you dance like somebody was watching?

He didn’t have a damn clue what your schedule or job was. He could have looked you up online, it certainly would have been easier, but he was enjoying trying to puzzle your life together from a distance. It was satisfying, like figuring out who the murderer in a murder mystery book was before the protagonist did. Things clicking into place, faint memories rematerializing within his bruised and beaten mind.

Sometimes while you painted you used a soft brace on your dominant hand, did you have some sort of wrist injury? If so it wasn’t bad enough to require a braced that forced your wrist into a certain position, that would’ve been extremely inconvenient for drawing and painting. You used your wrist a lot while doing so, therefore you opted for one only one that provided extra support for your wrist while painting, and you usually took it off afterwards.

You still read comic books. Curling up on your couch with a few volumes, wrapped underneath colorful blankets until you needed to get up to go do something. He vaguely recalled you reading a comic book to him when he was young. But the memory was hazy. It was like trying to look at something through a blindfold with a few holes poked into it by a sewing needle. It was at the apartment building where he used to live, but he couldn’t recall exactly why you were reading it to him, especially since he enjoyed reading so much. Things about his past regarding you were starting to come back to him, slowly, painfully slowly and without as much detail as he’d like.

Each memory made his heart ache the more and more he saw you.

He hadn’t seen you touch any of the books on your shelves, did you ever read them anymore, or just comic books? If you didn’t read books that much then why did you still have so many?

You’d had a friend over one weekend at night, playing some game on the TV in the living room. He couldn’t tell what game exactly, and as far as he knew he was never that into video games in the first place. But you were animated, extremely so. Laughing loudly and pretending to fight the woman who you were playing the game with. You had to be close with her, the two of you weren’t overly touchy, but neither of you seemed afraid of touching each other. She’d spent the night in your apartment. How'd you meet her? Were you that touchy with everyone, or just people who you were considerably close with?

He’d thought about breaking in to explore while you either weren’t home or were asleep, but that felt like a step farther than he should go. He was already pushing it with how much time he spent just watching you from afar. He wondered what you smelt like, that's such a strange thing to wonder.The more he watched you, the more questions spiralled in his head, and the harder it was getting to pay attention while on patrol. Maybe he should stop.

Tonight it was particularly difficult to focus on patrol. For one, It was a slow patrol, a few petty unplanned and unorganized crimes, and keeping an eye out for any leads on the drug case he was working. There was some new dealer, but they’d been annoyingly elusive. Hiding in the shadows rather than announcing their presence like the big names that operated within the city. Probably a good thing since that either meant they were a small time dealer or it was a bad thing and he’d have a whole pain in the ass case to deal with now.

For two, he couldn’t stop thinking about you. Questions spiraling through his mind like a cat 5 hurricane. He’d even dreamed about you. He just wished he was able to recall the details of the dream.

Really he was lucky it was a quiet night since he was so distracted tonight. He still had a few go overs left of patrol when he was assaulted with the flash of a camera while he was mid jump between buildings. The second his feet hit the rooftop of the building he was moving to he whirled to where it had come from. What the fuck?

Reporters weren’t an uncommon occurrence, but he wasn’t nearly as popular to cover with photos as the bats. And the reporters never used a flash at night like this. It was probably a new Gotham transplant that didn’t realize exactly how dangerous the city was.

He finally spotted where it had come from. The rooftop of the crumbling apartment building he’d lived in before Bruce had found him stealing the tires off the batmobile. Bright hair.

Wait, bright hair? He squinted, he was wrong about it being a Gotham transplant. You really should have known better. It was you, camera in hand. He could’ve sworn his heart skipped a beat at the vision of you with your eyes - and camera - trained on him, did you want his attention, otherwise why would you have used the flash? And then you took another photo of him before the girl he’d seen at your house grabbed your arm and started hauling you towards the fire escape.

“Quit pulling so hard bethany!” Your voice was loud, and he was stuck there feet cemented to the rooftop, mouth parted slightly, eyes wide, watching your friend haul ass down the fire escape dragging you with. “I don’t want to damage my camera!” The camera which was now hanging from a strap around your neck and hitting your chest as you made your way down the fire escape.

He could feel his breathing get shallow and his head get light.

“I swear it’s like you have a death wish woman! Broken camera is better than being killed.” He could have killed the two women if he wanted to, even with the frantic running down the fire escape. That was a fucked up thought, killing you? The stone in his heart got heavier.

Then you laughed, blissfully unaware of his dark thoughts. Uncaring that he was still standing there and staring at you and your friend. You weren’t afraid.

The sound of your laugh was melodic, he thought it was getting harder to breathe. You managed to pull your arm out of your friend's grasp, slowing down briefly on one of the steps to shove the camera into a bag, despite your friend's protest and insistence that you needed to leave. Your eyes met his for just a moment, and you waved at him, smiled and waved. Smiled like the earth turning to reveal an astonishing sunrise peeking out just over the horizon.

Would his smile have the same effect on you as yours had on him?

“I’m going to check you into a mental hospital one day because you are not fucking sane!” And with those last words your arm was being grabbed again and you were stumbling the rest of the way down the fire escape and towards the main road, disappearing from his stationary line of sight.

What the fuck? Why were you back in crime alley with a camera, and taking photos of him? Did you know? No, there was no way this had to be a simple coincidence, right? With how freaked out your friend - Bethany? - was it had to be. There was no possible way that you could know about him, know that he was Jason. That he was your Jason. No fuckin way at all. But he couldn’t think of any explanation for it. A random civilian going to crime alley just to take a photo of him, nevermind the fact you used to live here, you didn’t anymore. It was…your friend had been right. It was insane.

And it gave him an excuse.

A good excuse.

The perfect excuse to go into your apartment through the window to confront you about what the hell you were doing. An excuse to talk to you. After all, you were the one who had interacted with him first, in a sort of round about way.

You were firmly out of sight when his feet finally decided to uncement themselves from the rooftop below him. He’d finish patrol first. Yeah, that was a good idea. Patrol first, your apartment after. Hopefully your friend had gone home by then.

Maybe talking to you would ease some of his guilt over forgetting you, over watching you from your window like he was the biggest creep in the universe. At least he wasn’t as bad as Bruce or Nightwing and hadn’t bugged your place.

-------------------------------

The rest of patrol went fine. A couple more small crimes - a store being robbed, a lady being robbed, a random street brawl - really it was unfortunate that he didn’t get any new leads on the new drug dealer, but now he got to investigate an entirely different type of lead.

You weren’t in the living room, but the lights were on so you were most certainly home. Was your friend in the apartment with you?

It wasn’t too difficult to get into your apartment through the window. It was locked, but it hadn’t set off any alarms. The security of the apartment was questionable, he realized now. That would have to be fixed eventually. If you were tolerant of the Red Hoods presence in your life.

Looking around for a moment. He could see the sketches taped to the wall more clearly now, it looked like a storyboard? He wasn’t sure if that was the right term or not. Starting at the top left corner and moving right a rough - but impressive - sketch of two characters fighting revealed itself. That was certainly interesting. Did you make comic books, were you an animator?

The apartment was quiet as he made his way away from the living room. Two doors were present in the hallway beyond the kitchen, and the decorations remained similar throughout. Brightly colored walls, except in the hallway there were paintings and photos hung up. He looked for the Robin painting you’d done, and it wasn’t there. His heart clenched, did you get rid of it? He hoped not. He hoped you still held onto his memory like it was a treasured item. Hoarded the memories you had of him like a dragon laying atop its pile of gold.

He hadn’t done that. He hadn’t been given the chance to do that. But he would start doing that now. Burning every detail of any interaction you cared to bless him with into his mind. He wouldn’t forget again.

Not again.

The photos in the hallway mostly consisted of ones with your friends, none of him but maybe you hid those, paintings of landscapes in Gotham and then a painting that were clearly fanarts. Fuck you’d gotten more than good at it through the years. You were downright amazing. The colors and shapes were vivid but not overbearing, it reminded him of renaissance paintings. He thought it was better than renaissance paintings.

A painting of Geralt of Rivia atop his horse Roach was the primary painting in the hallway. He remembered reading those books actually. Couldn’t remember who recommended them. They were good, he should read them again. Maybe it had been you who got him into the Witcher.

Only one of the two rooms had a light on in it, which made it easy to pick which one to go into. The one on the right side, the one with light peeking out from underneath it. The outside of the door was painted like a blue police box. Weird. The other door was plain.

He hesitated at the door for a moment, was he really doing this? Going to talk to you? He couldn't let you know who he was, he couldn’t act like he knew you, could he do that? He didn’t know, and a cold serpent made its way through his veins, wrapping itself around his chest. He really hoped that he was able to pull it off, he hoped that his hands wouldn’t start shaking.

The door opened easily, your back was to it, standing on a plastic sheet shoved underneath an easel for painting, bright hair pulled away from your face and held in place with some sort of hair clip. You had a pair of headphones on, he probably could have been making more noise and you would have been entirely unaware of his presence. Strange, he hadn’t actually thought about being quiet as he made his way through the apartment. You were humming, he didn’t know the song, and he couldn’t see the canvas you were working on.

The room was clearly your primary workspace. More sketches taped to the wall behind a mahogany desk with three different monitors on it, one of them held up in the air by an arm that looked moveable and a digital pen sitting in a holder below it. Probably something drawing related, he was certainly no expert on the topic of anything art related. There were paint splashes on the wall you were facing, various colors, not all of them bright, not all of them colorful. Canvases and various physical art supplies sitting on shelves and propped up against the floor. A stack of six large canvases propped up against a wall with a sheet thrown on top of them. The room was surprisingly tidy. And the walls hadn’t been painted anything, at least not on purpose.

The fan was on, but even with it the room reeked of a sharp chemical smell. He had a feeling that if he didn’t have his mask on then his nose would have been burning. The mask filtered the air a lot, the fact he could smell it at all was…impressive and scary. There was no way this was healthy to breathe in for any period of time. And then there you were, casually humming and breathing it in like it was no big deal, seemingly unbothered by the smell.

The room was small, it only took a few steps forward and he was able to grab onto your arm, spinning you around to face him. Headphones falling off your ears and landing around your neck in the process. Unsurprisingly, you squealed with the movement. Surprisingly, before anything else you were glancing back at the canvas you’d been working on. “What the fuck?! My painting you made me streak it! You-” And then you stopped, seemingly realizing who was standing in front of you. Eyes going wide and arm pulling against his grip to try and free yourself.

He didn’t let go.

The snake of anxiety didn’t loosen its constriction around his chest.

“Why were you taking photos of me.” He hadn’t meant to be nice about the question, but he also hadn’t meant to be mean about it either. But his voice modulator built into his mask made it sound significantly more threatening than he’d intended it to be. Voice warping in a strange, unnatural, robotic way.

You almost seemed to relax at the question that he had framed as a statement before going rigid again, eyes still wide and pulling back against his grip. “First off, let go, you’re being rude.” You stared at him, waiting for him to let go. At least until he thought you realized he would not be doing that. Not yet anyways. “I needed it for an art reference.”

“An art reference?” He repeated. Finally letting go of your arm, you used your dominant hand - paint brush still between two fingers to rub at where he’d been holding it. Had he hurt you? He didn’t think that he’d grabbed a hold of it very tightly. Just enough that you couldn’t get away.

“Yes. An art reference. There is an appallingly low amount of decent photos of your boots.” You motioned over towards the paintings with the sheet thrown over them. “I’m working on a series of paintings for a gallery exhibit. This is the last one that I plan on doing.”

At the motion he took five steps over to the paintings, pulling the sheet off of it. The first one that he saw in the pile was of Batman, because of course it was. Then Batgirl, Red Robin, Nightwing, Robin, and spoiler. So you weren’t lying about that. Not that he’d been particularly expecting your words to be a lie. He couldn’t picture you as a liar, even with his lack of memories surrounding you. But there was an act he had to keep up, one where he knew nothing about you.

“So let me get this straight. You’re working on a series of paintings of vigilanties, and you went to crime alley hoping to spot me so you could take a photo of my boots?”

“Batfamily. Not just any vigilantes thank you very much. And yes. I did. You’re not ... you’re not gonna kill me for taking a photo of them are you?”

He had to force a laugh back down into his throat at that. He was using it as an excuse to talk to you, and here you were thinking that he was going to kill you for taking a simple photo of him. It shouldn’t have struck him as funny, a lot of things shouldn’t have, did. “No. That’s a…fine reason.” He tried to glance at the painting you were working on but you blocked it with your body. Tried to anyway. He could see right over your head so it wasn’t like you could block him from seeing it.

It was still rough, a colored pencil sketch was down, and there were base colors and some shading started. He didn’t understand how you turned the paintings from its current shape into something like the ones propped up on the wall. Let alone how you turned a blank canvas into a breathtaking piece of art. The boots were close, but not quite. He didn’t think about his words before they were coming out of his mouth. “I’ll make a deal with you. Entertain me, and I’ll let you look at my armor all you want for reference.” This was a bad idea. It could put you in danger. But it could also get him closer to you.

You squinted at him, clearly distrustful of his words. “Guns.”

“What?”

“You leave the guns and any other weapons at the door. I can’t promise to be entertaining while painting and I’m not dying for not being entertaining enough. I’ll give you a book and you can sit and read. Paintings like this aren’t a one night project, you come back to serve as my art reference until I'm finished with the painting.” You had no clue, no clue he’d been watching you from afar and found even just that immensely entertaining. He didn’t think you could be boring.

He didn’t vocally respond, but stepped towards the door and started moving some of his weapons onto the floor in a pile. He still kept some of the smaller weapons on him. He wouldn’t be completely disarming himself. It wasn’t even you doing anything to him that he worried about. He probably should have been, but he wasn’t. They were kept in case of emergencies.

You stared at him for a moment, eyebrows raised and mouth slightly agape. Probably shocked that he’d agreed to the terms, and shocked with yourself for agreeing. After all, he was a dangerous crime lord who had a tendency for killing. You left the room, going and grabbing a book off one of your shelves in the living room, coming bak and handing it to him.

The Odyssey. The Robert Fagles’ translation of it. The book was clearly old, fraying edges, the spine starting to come undone. Well loved, he called it. Several of his books he’d read so much that even being careful with them they ended up in this state. “Feet up please.”

He obliged, holding his feet in the air for you while flipping the book open. There were notes in the margins, notes that were in an uncomfortably familiar handwriting. His own. And doodles in the margins of Odysseus and several other characters. That had to be you. This was…foreign. His heart twisted. You had one of his copies of the Odyssey, or you’d let him annotate your copy. He wasn’t sure which. Either way it made him feel lighter. You remembered him, still had objects in your life that he’d touched.

He remembered and loved this book, but he didn’t remember ever annotating it. The copies he’d gotten back from Bruce weren’t annotated. “It’s annotated.”

“Mhm. Old friend of mine had a habit of annotating books. We used to trade. He’d annotate, and then I’d doodle throughout it.” You were standing by his feet now, hand finding its way to the bottom side of his ankle and lifting it up while you looked at the boot. He didn’t think you seemed scared of him despite the fact he’d broken into your apartment, but then again, you didn’t seem scared of him when you waved at him after snapping those photos of him. “By the way, somebody waving at you isn’t an invitation to break into their place.”

The smile she gave felt like an invitation. But maybe that was just because he desperately wanted it to be an invitation. And you were handling this interaction shockingly well. A true Gothamite. A strange one, but a Gothamite all the same.

“Being out and about in public isn’t an invitation to take photos.”

You tsk’d at him. “Yet here you are offering yourself up as an art reference.”

His chest hurt. God he’d missed you. And he didn’t even really remember you. It was a strange feeling. One he doubted very many other people, if anybody, had experienced. He was relieved that you seemed amenable to interacting with him.

He sat and read while you investigated his outfit, boots, the way his pants were tucked in, bouncing between that and painting. At some point you cracked the window open to get better ventilation with how much paint and paint thinner you were using. It didn’t take long for him to get completely absorbed in the book. The space was comfortable, he was comfortable. When had the anxiety melted away and been replaced with this contentment? This calm almost serene feeling, like the sound of waves on a beach. Even the stone in his heart had lost weight. He never thought that merely being around a person could have this sort of effect on him.

He got absorbed enough that he was surprised when you put two fingers underneath the chin of his mask, tilting it towards you so that you could get a better look at the lenses on the mask. He wished your fingers were on his skin directly instead of on the mask he’d never be able to take off around you.

You didn’t say anything, letting him go and returning to your painting after a couple moments. He didn’t know how long it had been, the sun wasn’t starting to rise yet, but there had been a good amount of progress on the painting, starting to take shape as you continued to work on it.

Your headphones had gone back onto your head, but one of the ear pieces was shoved backwards off your ear and more on your head. Presumably so that you could hear him if he spoke to you. You hadn’t stopped humming either. Not singing the songs, no lyrics, just humming. Sweet. Quiet, humming.

More time passed before you put your brush down and stretched. “Alright, I have to go to bed. So you need to leave. Keep the book here. Come back tomorrow.”

“That counts as an invite right?”

“I need my reference, since you’ve offered I might as well take advantage of it. Use the door tomorrow. Meaning knock, not breaking into the apartment through the front door.” You almost sounded scolding, but there was a light smile gracing your face. He felt wobbly.

If he did that the chances of being spotted with you rose. Something that he wasn’t particularly a fan of. If he was spotted with you, then someone could come after you while trying to get him. Black Mask, Bane, deathstroke, anybody else who he’d pissed off. He had a lot of enemies. But then again, even just hanging around outside your apartment there was a chance someone realized what he was doing.

They wouldn’t be able to connect it to you as easily. The window had the same issue as the front door he supposed. Either way he’d have to make sure that nobody was watching and he wasn’t being followed. He was putting you in danger, he knew that, but fuck this had been so nice, the weight of the guilt was starting to return. He didn’t want to have to give this up. And he’d made a deal with you to keep coming back so you could use him as an art reference.

He was justifying this, or trying to. It was hard, emotions fought within him. But you were inviting him, and how could he turn you down? He didn’t know how. He was already hiding the fact that you knew him from you. He was supposed to be dead, he wasn’t supposed to be walking around as Red Hood. He wasn’t supposed to be re-reading a book that he’d annotated and you’d drawn in.

The whole situation was fucked up.

But then you pointed a manicured finger at him, “I’m serious Hood. You come back and knock on the front door, don’t go through the window like a creeper.”

…

“Okay.” He should ask your name, so he didn’t accidentally use it and have to come up with a reason for why he knew it. It would be smart. His mouth was dry, he had to force the words out. “What’s your name?”

You told him, first and last, and smiled at him. Fuck that smile. He could melt into a puddle of flesh and goo right then and there. “I figure that you won’t tell me yours.”

“Nope.”

Then he was gone, out of your front door. He was so fucked. Hopelessly devoted to a woman who he only had a few memories with. A woman who didn’t know who he was. A woman who made him feel so much with the smallest of words and facial expressions.

#jason todd #fanfic #jason todd x reader #jason todd x you #red hood #red hood x reader #the star that wouldn't die fic #writing

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