#this is exactly what they look like in my mind

[neellscapsule]

seven minutes in heaven

summary | clark likes to know what other people think of 'superman'. he very much wishes to know your thoughts of him as well.

pairing | clark kent x female!reader

warnings / tags | pure fluff with a bit of suggestive stuff (language & actions). reader knows clark is superman but he doesn't know she knows. making out. reader is scared of the dark

word count | 5k

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

i've written this with david!clark on my mind but you can picture him hoverer you want.

DAILY PLANET, METROPOLIS – 8:43 AM

Clark had arrived early—earlier than most. He always did. Something about watching the city wake up through the floor-to-ceiling windows of the bullpen made him feel a little more… human. There was serenity in it. Metropolis, with all its chaos and stories and rush hours, looked a little kinder before nine a.m.

Jimmy was already typing away at his desk, which faced Clark’s. Lois stood between them with a coffee in hand, already on her second espresso of the morning, clearly gearing up for whatever press conference or mayoral disaster awaited her by noon.

“Can we just talk about it?” Steve Lombard’s voice carried from the bullpen’s break area, hands waving through the air like someone who had opinions and no shame about unleashing all of them.

“No,” Lois replied, not even looking up.

“C’mon! You can’t tell me that wasn’t a complete disaster. Superman literally ruined the game.”

“He didn’t ruin the game, Steve,” Clark said, trying not to smile. “He saved fourteen people from a collapsing skybox.”

Steve waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, lives were saved—great. But Metropolis Monarchs were this close to winning against Gotham, and the game got suspended. Suspended! Who’s gonna compensate me for my front-row seat, huh?”

Lois sighed and walked over to her desk.

Jimmy muttered, “You had front-row tickets? Thought you said those were too expensive.”

“I know a guy,” Steve said smugly.

Clark tilted his head, amused. “I thought you said the guy owed you one.”

“He does.”

“Because you broke his nose in college.”

Steve gave a noncommittal shrug. “Tomato, tomatoe.”

Lois rolled her eyes, flipping through her tablet with one finger and sipping from her Planet-branded mug. “You cannot be seriously blaming Superman for that. Many people could’ve died. Including your precious Monarchs.”

“I’m just saying,” the man muttered, crossing his arms, “he could be a little more considerate of sports fans.”

Jimmy laughed. “You are so lucky he only gives interviews to Clark.”

Clark looked up, blinking at the sound of his own name. “I, uh—what?”

Steve waved a hand, grinning. “You’re his buddy, Kent. You tell him I said this. Tell him: stop saving people during prime time.”

He smiled politely, the way he always did when someone brought up his strange closeness to Superman. If only they knew. If only you knew.

Clark glanced toward the elevators just as the doors dinged open, and then—he blinked. And blinked again.

And there you were.

Late, as usual. Jacket flung over one arm, white shirt oversized and slipping off one shoulder, hair pulled up like you’d only had five minutes to get ready, and jeans baggy in a way that somehow made you look like you’d just walked off a photoshoot. You moved through the room like you’d always belonged there.

You did, of course.

But still, Clark’s heart did that thing it always did when he saw you—stuttered once, then settled into a nervous rhythm. You had no right looking that good before nine a.m. Or smiling like that. Or knowing exactly how to roll your eyes at Perry without getting chewed out for it.

And despite all that confidence, all that spark, you still had that soft, impossible kindness that made Clark Kent—alien, invulnerable, Man of Steel—feel like he was back in high school with a stupid crush he didn’t know what to do with.

“YOU’RE LATE,” Perry’s voice boomed from his office before you even reached your desk.

You paused mid-step, lips twisting into a smile, and turned toward the glass wall. You gave him a dramatic bow, jacket swinging behind you like a cape.

“Fashionably,” you called.

Perry looked like he wanted to protest, but instead muttered something unintelligible and waved you off.

You walked past Clark’s desk, dropping your oversized canvas bag onto yours with a thud, then straightened up and stretched. The white shirt you wore shifted, revealing just a peek of your baby blue undershirt. Clark didn’t stare. He just... glanced. Briefly. Respectfully.

You turned toward Steve. “So. What’d I miss?”

“Oh, you’re just in time,” Steve said with a grimace. “We’re dragging Superman for ruining last night’s game.”

You raised an eyebrow, slipping out of your jacket and hanging it on the back of your chair. “Dragging Superman? Wow. Bold of you.”

“I’m serious,” Steve grumbled. “Game of the year, and the dude shows up in the sixth inning. Collapses the whole upper deck just by flying too close to it or whatever. Whole stadium cleared out. Half the fans didn’t even get a refund. It’s outrageous.”

You didn’t speak for a moment. Instead, you leaned against your desk, arms crossed, eyes flicking toward Clark for a second—just one.

Clark looked down at his keyboard, willing his pulse to slow.

Jimmy said under his breath, “Here we go…”

Lois was already smiling, sipping her coffee like this was her morning entertainment. Clark watched you carefully. Waiting.

You tilted your head at Steve. “Let me get this straight. You’re upset because Superman stopped a structural collapse and saved a bunch of lives… during a baseball game?”

“He could’ve done it more subtly!” Steve argued. “You know, landed softly. Whispered the building back into place. Something!”

You blinked once. Slowly. “Are you okay? Like, do you need to lie down?”

Steve sighed. “I’m just saying, if he really wanted to be helpful, he’d learn how to rescue people and not ruin the entertainment. Even you, a fan, has to admit that.”

That grin of yours twitched wider. “A little more than a fan.”

He groaned. “Please don’t say something corny like he’s the last hope of humanity or some garbage. You know he ruined my evening.”

“Oh, you poor thing,” you said gently. “Did Superman interrupt your boy’s hang out?”

Steve groaned and threw up his hands. “See? This is what I’m talking about. You’re all obsessed with him.”

You turned fully now, facing the group. Clark kept his eyes carefully on you, letting himself observe but not linger. But then… he saw it. The little gleam in your eye. That something that always said, I’m about to cause trouble for fun.

“Would it kill you to admit he’s kind of hot?” you asked sweetly.

Jimmy nearly spit his coffee out. Lois choked on hers and coughed, wiping her mouth. Steve gave you a scandalized look like you’d just admitted to setting fire to a church.

Clark… froze.

You hadn’t looked at him, not even once. But his mouth went dry, and the collar of his shirt suddenly felt too tight.

“I mean,” you went on, still very casual, very chill, “he is. Come on. The suit, the hair, that whole boy scout, punch-you-through-a-building-if-you-deserve-it thing. You’re lying if you say that doesn’t do it for you.”

Steve blinked. “That is so messed up.”

“You asked for my opinion,” you said, brushing a loose strand of hair behind your ear. “I’m giving it.”

Clark managed a weak, baffled laugh. “Wait… wait, so… you do like him?”

And then—you looked at him.

He barely had time to register it before your eyes landed on his, steady and warm and just a little bit mischievous. You licked your bottom lip, slow, like you were thinking. That tiny action somehow scrambled the words in his brain and made his gaze flick down briefly before he jerked it back up.

You shrugged, casually pulling at the first button of your oversized shirt. “I mean…”

Another button popped.

He blinked again. “What—what are you doing?”

You didn’t answer. You just unbuttoned the next one.

The fabric slid open slightly. Beneath it, a glimpse of soft blue peeked out. Baby blue. Thin cotton stretched over your frame like it was painted there.

Clark’s thoughts turned to static.

Then came the third button. The shirt parted fully at the center.

Revealing, in pristine red and yellow print, the iconic Superman emblem—bold across your chest.

Clark forgot how to breathe.

Jimmy whistled. “Daaaamn, Y/N.”

The shirt rode up just a little as you moved—just enough to show a small sliver of your lower belly. And the world tilted slightly on its axis.

You grinned, the mischief now fully bloomed on your face. “What makes you think I don’t like him?”

Steve stared in horror. “You have merch?”

You nodded proudly. “Limited edition. They only made fifty in this exact cut. Got it at a charity auction.”

Jimmy gasped. “Was that the one with the signed cape?”

“Folded neatly in my closet,” you said, smug.

Lois just shook her head. “Don’t encourage her.”

You gave her a wink. “You love it.”

But Clark didn’t laugh. He was still blinking, caught halfway between flustered and something deeper. Something dangerous. Like longing.

You turned to look at him again. The smile softened a little.

He rubbed the back of his neck, trying to sound relaxed. “So… you’re a fan.”

You arched a brow, folding your arms slowly. “Big fan.”

Clark looked down, caught himself smiling at his shoes, and glanced back up at you. “I’ll, uh… let him know.”

You laughed once, under your breath. “Yeah. You do that, Kent.”

“I'm just saying he could've been more careful,” Steve grumbled again, still sulking at his desk like a man personally wronged by fate.

“You sound just as annoying as Lex Luthor right now,” you replied, sliding into your chair with a little huff, spinning yourself halfway before letting the chair settle again. “Just thank that nothing worse happened, Lombard. The game is going to be replayed anyway.”

Steve shot you a glare from over the partition, opening his mouth as if to retaliate, but Lois interjected first without even glancing up from her screen. “Don’t waste your breath, Steve. She’s right. You’re wrong. End of story.”

You smirked, clearly pleased with yourself, and Steve muttered something under his breath that sounded vaguely like “brainwashed Superman fan club,” to which Jimmy snorted and almost dropped his camera lens.

Clark stayed quiet, because truthfully, there wasn’t much else to say. He watched you lean forward, elbows on the desk, your fingers already dancing across the keyboard. Your hair fell forward, framing your face, and you absently blew a strand out of your eyes as you typed.

He knew you were busy. You always looked busiest when you were trying not to look distracted. But every so often, your gaze flicked up just slightly—to see if he was still looking.

He was. Always.

Hours passed, swallowed up by the endless hum of deadlines.

Clark was knee-deep in editing an article about zoning disputes in Metropolis’ Old Town district (riveting stuff, truly) when Perry’s booming voice once again demanded someone’s attention, this time calling for a meeting upstairs. Lois left first, muttering about how the man had a sixth sense for interrupting her flow, and Jimmy followed with his camera bag. Steve remained at his desk, grumbling and crumpling up another candy wrapper.

You? You stood, stretching your arms above your head and letting out a quiet groan that had Clark’s ears twitching before he even realized it. “Break,” you announced to no one in particular, grabbing your coffee mug. “If I don’t get caffeine right now, I’m suing.”

Clark glanced up, hesitated for a beat, and then rose from his chair too. He wasn’t sure if you noticed, but the way your lips curved just slightly told him you probably did.

The coffee machine was at the far end of the bullpen, tucked into a narrow room where the lighting was slightly softer and the noise of the office faded into a hum. You reached it first, fumbling with the old buttons.

Clark lingered behind, holding his own mug, not entirely sure what to say yet. He liked these moments—moments where it was just you and him, without the others. Moments where the air seemed quieter, your voice the loudest sound in the room to his ears.

You glanced over your shoulder, catching him standing there. “You following me, Kent?”

He smiled, sheepish. “Maybe. Or maybe I just really need coffee too.”

You smirked, turning back to the machine as it sputtered to life. “Convenient timing, huh?”

Clark stepped closer, close enough now to catch the faintest notes of your perfume—a warm, subtle scent he couldn’t name but recognized instantly. He didn’t need super-hearing to notice how your heartbeat kicked just a little faster when he leaned down to grab a stack of sugar packets from the counter beside you.

“So,” you said, filling the silence, “Steve’s still salty about Superman ruining his baseball game, huh?”

Clark chuckled softly. “I think salty might be an understatement.”

You let out a quiet laugh, shaking your head as you stirred sugar into your coffee. “It’s ridiculous. The guy saved lives, but oh no, a game was delayed. The audacity.”

Clark leaned a shoulder against the wall, watching the way your eyes brightened when you said it. You always looked lighter somehow when the topic of Superman came up, like it was something you could cling to when the world felt a little too heavy. He didn’t think you even realized you did it.

“You really like him,” he said, more softly than he intended.

You paused, spoon clinking against the ceramic as you looked up at him, head tilted slightly. “Of course I do. Don’t you?”

He cleared his throat, suddenly conscious of his own heartbeat picking up. “Yeah. I… I guess I do.”

You smiled slowly, and Clark swore it reached your eyes before anything else. “Good answer, Kent.”

He ducked his head, fighting the urge to grin like an idiot. “Do you, um… do you think he’s careful enough? Like Steve said earlier?”

You rolled your eyes so hard it could’ve been audible. “Steve’s just being Steve. Superman’s careful. You can’t save as many people as he does and not be. Does he make mistakes sometimes? Sure. He’s not—” you caught yourself mid-sentence, but the pause was deliberate, “—well, you know. He’s not perfect. No one is. But he’s close.”

Clark felt a strange warmth settle in his chest, the kind that wasn’t entirely about pride, though maybe part of it was. Hearing you defend him, not Superman the idea, but Superman the person, did something to him.

He watched you sip your coffee, the steam curling between you. “You, um… you light up when you talk about him,” he said before he could stop himself.

Your brow arched, and for a second he thought he might’ve crossed a line, but then you smiled—soft and a little teasing. “What, jealous?”

Clark blinked. “No! No, I just—”

You laughed, cutting him off. “Relax, Kent. I’m kidding.”

He rubbed the back of his neck, flustered. “Right. Yeah. I knew that.”

The machine let out a final sputter, and you stepped aside so he could pour his own coffee. He reached for the pot, but your hand brushed his first, and the contact was electric. He nearly dropped the mug.

“Sorry,” you murmured, not sounding sorry at all.

He swallowed, managing a small smile. “It’s fine. I… I don’t mind.”

Your gaze lingered on him for a beat longer than necessary, and then you tilted your head, playful again. “You know, for someone who’s Superman’s best friend, you don’t ask a lot of questions about him.”

Clark froze. “I—uh—well…”

You leaned a hip against the counter, holding your mug close, the Superman emblem peeking from beneath your still-unbuttoned shirt. “If I had that kind of access? I’d be grilling him constantly. What’s it like flying? How does he hear things from so far away? Does the suit ever get uncomfortable?”

Clark’s ears went warm. “I, uh… I think he’d probably be okay answering some of those. Maybe not all at once, though.”

You smirked knowingly. “You’ve asked him, haven’t you?”

“Maybe once or twice,” Clark admitted, fiddling with the handle of his mug.

You stepped closer then, not enough to crowd him, but enough that he could feel the warmth radiating off you. “Tell me one,” you said softly, leaning in just slightly. “Tell me something about Superman only you know.”

Clark’s mouth went dry. “Only I know?”

“Mm-hm.”

He hesitated. He could think of a hundred things, but every one of them was too revealing. He couldn’t tell you about how he’d memorized the rhythm of your laugh from rooftops far above the city, or how much he wanted to tell you the truth just to see your reaction.

So instead, he said, “He, um… he really likes dogs.”

You blinked. “Dogs?”

“Yeah,” Clark said, nodding quickly, grateful for the distraction. “He, uh… he once rescued this Great Dane from a flood. Spent half an hour drying him off with his cape before the owners came.”

Your lips parted, and then you laughed softly, shaking your head. “That’s… actually really sweet.”

Clark smiled, a little bashful. “Yeah. He thought so too.”

You nudged his arm gently with yours, that soft fabric of your shirt brushing his sleeve. “Thanks for telling me, Kent.”

He looked at you, really looked, and for a moment it felt like the world had slowed down to match the pace of your heartbeat, steady and warm and impossibly close.

“You’re welcome,” he said quietly.

You stared at him for a second longer, something unreadable in your gaze, before pulling back and lifting your mug. “Come on,” you said, walking ahead of him, “if we stay gone any longer, Lois is going to start a search party.”

He followed, his own mug forgotten in his hand, wondering how you made everything so damn complicated and so simple all at once.

You stopped by the break room door and turned the handle. Or tried to. The knob rattled but refused to budge, your brows furrowing as you tried again.

“Uh,” you said, giving it another twist, “that’s… not good.”

Clark frowned, stepping up behind you. “What’s wrong?”

You jiggled the handle, your voice flat. “The door’s stuck.”

He blinked. “Stuck?”

You pushed against it with your shoulder. “Yeah. Like, won’t-open stuck.”

Clark set his mug down on the tiny counter and stepped closer, towering behind you in the narrow space. “Here, let me try.”

You stepped back just enough for him to reach the door, but the break room was cramped—more like a glorified closet with a coffee machine—so the movement brought you shoulder-to-chest with him. Your elbow brushed his side as you shifted, and Clark did his best to ignore how warm that small contact felt.

He gripped the handle and gave it a firm twist. Nothing. He tried again, harder, leaning into the motion. There was a loud clunk followed by a snap.

The handle came off in his hand.

Clark froze, staring down at the now-detached metal knob like it had personally betrayed him. “…Oh no.”

You stared at the handle, then up at him, then back at the handle. “Did you just—”

“It was already loose,” he said quickly, holding the broken piece up in weak defense. “I barely touched it!”

You groaned, running a hand down your face. “Great. Just great. I told Perry the door was making weird noises every time someone opened it. Did he fix it? No. Did he even pretend to care? No!”

Clark set the handle carefully on the counter, trying not to look as flustered as he felt. “Okay, it’s fine. We can just… wait for someone to walk by, right?”

You crossed your arms, leaning against the tiny stretch of counter space. “Clark, you realize the bullpen’s probably empty right now? Everyone’s upstairs in the meeting.”

He glanced around the small room, taking in the reality of their situation. It really wasn’t built for two people. You stood on one side, your back against the counter, and he was barely two feet in front of you with his shoulders nearly brushing the opposite wall.

Your eyes darted to him, and he could swear there was the tiniest flicker of amusement hiding behind your annoyance. “So we’re stuck,” you said.

He cleared his throat. “Yeah. I guess we’re… stuck.”

A beat of silence passed. You lifted your mug, sipping slowly, eyes locked on him. “This isn’t awkward at all,” you deadpanned.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, heat prickling at his ears. “No. Totally fine. Completely normal situation.”

You set the mug down on the counter with a little clink. “Well, at least it’s you and not Steve.”

He blinked. “What?”

You smirked, leaning forward just slightly. “If it was Steve, I’d have to listen to him complain about baseball for the next hour. You’re at least tolerable.”

Clark laughed softly, ducking his head. “Thanks. I think.”

Another step closer, and you had almost no choice but to brush past him. The narrow room left little space, and your shoulder grazed his chest as you reached for the upper cabinet, pretending you needed napkins. Clark pressed his back into the wall to give you room, but it barely helped.

“Sorry,” you murmured, your voice soft.

He shook his head quickly. “You’re fine. It’s… it’s a small room.”

You pulled the cabinet open, grabbed a handful of napkins you clearly didn’t need, and turned to face him again. “Do you think anyone’s gonna notice we’re gone?”

“I hope so,” he said, then winced at how that sounded. “I mean, eventually. Not that I’m, um, in a rush to…”

Your lips curved, the beginnings of a smile tugging at your mouth. “You’re cute when you’re flustered, you know that?”

Clark blinked, his entire brain short-circuiting. “…What?”

You tilted your head, studying him. “I said—”

“I heard what you said,” he blurted, his face warming.

You laughed quietly, the sound echoing softly in the tiny room. “Relax, Kent. I’m just teasing you.”

He tried to smile, but it came out sheepish. “Right. Teasing. Got it.”

You leaned back against the counter, sipping your coffee again. “So, any bright ideas, Mr. Superman’s Best Friend?”

He forced himself to focus, scanning the door. “I could try forcing it open, but that might, um… break it worse.”

You arched a brow. “Worse than a missing handle?”

“Okay, good point,” he admitted, glancing at the hinges.

You shifted, your knee brushing his leg this time, and Clark froze like someone had hit the pause button on him. You didn’t move away immediately; instead, you tilted your head, eyes flicking up to his.

“Don’t worry, Clark,” you said softly, “I don’t bite.”

He swallowed hard. “I didn’t think you did.”

Your gaze lingered on him a second longer before you stepped back, giving him a little more space—but not much. There wasn’t much to give.

“So tell me,” you said, setting your mug aside. “What would Superman do if he was trapped in a room with no way out?”

Clark chuckled nervously. “He, uh… he probably wouldn’t get trapped in the first place.”

You grinned. “True. But if he did?”

“He’d… probably wait. Someone would come eventually.”

You laughed softly. “That’s your plan? Wait?”

He rubbed the back of his neck again. “Well… yeah?”

You pushed off the counter, stepping toward him again until there was barely a foot between you. “That’s boring,” you whispered conspiratorially. “You’re telling me Superman wouldn’t have a better plan than that?”

Clark blinked down at you, every nerve in his body screaming at how close you were. He could feel the warmth radiating off you, smell the faint trace of your shampoo, hear the subtle uptick of your heartbeat—

Focus, Kent.

He cleared his throat. “I, uh… I think he’d be more focused on making sure the other person was okay.”

You arched a brow. “So you’re focused on me, then?”

Clark’s breath caught. “I—uh—yeah. I mean, yes. I just don’t want you to be uncomfortable.”

You tilted your head, that mischievous glint in your eye. “You worried about me, Clark?”

He looked away, embarrassed. “A little.”

“That’s sweet,” you said softly.

For a moment, neither of you moved. The hum of the old coffee machine filled the silence, and Clark could’ve sworn the space between you was shrinking by the second.

Then you smirked, stepping back just slightly. “So, Kent,” you said lightly, “what are we gonna do while we wait for someone to rescue us?”

Clark opened his mouth, unsure what he was about to say—

The overhead lights flickered once, twice—then blinked out completely.

The break room was swallowed in darkness.

You went still instantly. Clark could hear it—the way your breath hitched softly, the quick flutter of your heartbeat like a drum in the sudden silence. You didn’t move, and for a split second, he wondered if you’d even blinked.

“...Okay,” you said softly, voice a little too tight, “that’s not ideal.”

Clark’s head tilted as he adjusted to the dark—though truthfully, he didn’t need to. His eyes cut through the blackness as easily as midday sunlight, and it was easy to see you standing rigidly by the counter, your mug clutched in one hand like it might be a weapon.

He took a cautious step closer. “Are you okay?”

“Fine,” you said quickly. Too quickly.

Clark’s brow furrowed. “You don’t sound fine.”

You let out a quiet breath through your nose. “I just… don’t really like the dark. Like, at all.”

He was already moving before you’d finished, closing the gap between you with careful, measured steps so he didn’t startle you. He could feel the tension radiating off you even from a foot away. “Hey,” he said softly, “it’s okay. I’m right here.”

You shifted slightly, shoulders hunched. “I know. I just…” You trailed off, as if embarrassed. “It’s stupid.”

“It’s not stupid,” he said firmly. He stopped just in front of you, close enough now that your shoulders brushed his chest lightly. “The dark can be scary.”

You gave a shaky little laugh. “You don’t sound very scared.”

Clark smiled faintly even though you couldn’t see it. “I’ve had a little more practice.”

You blew out another breath, trying for humor. “Great. So I’ll just… stand here and quietly panic while you’re all calm and mysterious.”

Clark chuckled softly, deliberately letting the sound warm the air between you. “I’m not that mysterious.”

“Mm. Debatable.”

“It’s probably just a blown fuse.”

“You’d think in 2025 they’d have figured out how to stop doing that,” you muttered.

“Well, this is the Daily Planet. We still use fax machines in some departments.”

You laughed, barely, but it cracked through the tension like a flicker of light. “God. Don’t remind me.”

He could tell you were still tense, though, your heartbeat still a little too quick. He wanted to help, to do something—so he leaned just slightly closer, lowering his voice like it was a secret. “You want me to tell you something embarrassing about myself? Might distract you.”

You hesitated, then whispered, “...Yes.”

He smiled. “Okay. One time, in Kansas, I… accidentally burned a hole in my favorite pair of jeans trying to iron them. Like, all the way through. Had to go to school with half a knee exposed.”

You let out a surprised laugh, your shoulders loosening just barely. “That’s it? That’s your embarrassing story?”

“Hey,” he said, mock defensive, “it was a traumatic day.”

You huffed a breath, finally moving. He could see your outline turn, just slightly, toward him.

“Clark?”

“Yeah?”

A pause. Then:

“You know I know you’re Superman, right?”

Silence.

Complete, still, shattering silence.

You were still facing forward, your expression unreadable in the dark. “I mean, I’ve known for a while,” you added, quieter. “I just… never said anything.”

Clark’s mind spun. “You… what?”

You let out a nervous breath. “I didn’t mean to say it like that.”

He stepped back, startled, his heart thudding hard enough that he swore you could probably hear it. “How—how do you—”

“Clark.” You turned toward him now, blindly, like you were following the sound of his voice. “It’s not like you’re subtle. You’re always disappearing when he shows up. You’re the only one he’ll talk to. And…” Your voice softened. “I just knew. I don’t know how, but I did.”

Clark turned toward you, panic curling behind his ribs. “Does anyone else—”

“No. Just me.”

He felt the temperature in the room rise a degree. Not from heat, not really. From tension. From the fact that he could hear his own pulse hammering behind his ears.

“Hey,” you whispered. 

You slid your hands up slowly, feeling your way to his shoulders, then to his neck, until your palms found his cheeks. You cradled his face gently, grounding him.

“Breathe.”

He didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath until you said it.

“There,” you whispered. “See? Nothing’s changed.”

Clark swallowed hard. He could feel your thumbs brushing the edges of his jaw, the heat of your hands warm against his skin. You were so close now that he could feel your breath against his lips.

“You’re not in danger,” you said gently. “You’re not exposed. I would never do that to you.”

His hands came up to your waist instinctively, anchoring himself. He could barely think. Your touch was soft, thumbs brushing lightly at his cheekbones.

You tilted your head slightly, trying for levity. “Feels a little like seven minutes in heaven, huh?”

The words hit him like a freight train. His throat worked, but no sound came out—just a thick swallow as his pulse spiked.

You bit back a small smile. “I was joking, Kent.”

He huffed out a laugh, though it was thin and a little shaky. “Right. Joking. I knew that.”

“You’re really bad at hiding things,” you teased, still holding his face.

Clark closed his eyes briefly, leaning into your touch without meaning to. “You don’t seem very scared of me,” he murmured.

“Should I be?” you asked softly.

He hesitated. “…I don’t know.”

“Well, I’m not,” you said simply. “You’re still you. Clark.”

That name on your lips sent a shiver down his spine. He opened his eyes, and even though you couldn’t see him clearly, you didn’t flinch. You just stayed there, steady, holding him like he was something precious.

“Thank you,” he whispered.

You smiled softly. “Anytime.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. The dark seemed to press in around you, but you didn’t feel scared anymore, not with him this close.

“Clark?” you murmured.

“Yeah?”

“If you’re gonna kiss me, now would be a good time.”

His breath hitched, and then he was leaning in, closing the final inch between you. His lips brushed yours lightly at first, tentative, but when you sighed softly against his mouth, he kissed you deeper.

You kissed him back instantly, your hands still cradling his face as you pressed up onto your toes. Clark’s hands found your waist, strong and steady, and before you knew it, he was backing you gently toward the counter.

Your back hit the edge, and he lifted you effortlessly, setting you on the cool surface as his body pressed closer. The kiss deepened, a low sound rumbling in his chest that made you shiver.

You pulled back just slightly, breathless, your forehead resting against his. “Wow,” you whispered.

Clark’s lips curved in a small, almost shy smile. “Wow?”

You laughed softly, brushing your thumb over his cheekbone. “Yeah. Wow.”

He kissed you again, slower this time, savoring it. When he finally pulled back, his voice was low, warm. “I didn’t mean for that to happen,” he admitted.

You smirked. “Liar.”

Clark chuckled, ducking his head. “Okay. Maybe I hoped.”

You leaned forward, brushing your lips against his softly. “Me too.”

The break room was still pitch black, the hum of the coffee machine the only sound besides your mingled breaths.

And for once, neither of you minded being stuck.

[coffee-and-geto]

SAY YES TO THE SET - SATORU GOJO

“You perv.” “Me? Are you blaming a man? What am I saying— YOUR man. Actually—your very lucky man.”

pairing: husband! satoru gojo x f!reader

summary: after a long, tough day, satoru usually comes home to find you there. however, you have a surprise planned for him, which he will be delighted to discover before turning it into yet another opportunity to jump on you!

warnings: MDNI, suggestive, dirty talk, fluff, quite domestic, mention of yuji, megumi and nobara, just a whipped husband with his beloved wife <3

wc: 1,714

Satoru Gojo fell in love with you more than once.

He’s always willing to do anything you ask for, because every time he looks at you, the white-haired man feels like a teenager again, exactly at the time he met and knew you were meant for him.

So basically, his love language is gift-giving.

Or commonly called by you spoiling a bit too much.

A little bit too much.

Not counting the times he literally booked an island for the two of you for your honeymoon, bought expensive vintage cars for your beautiful eyes, bought brands (yes, you read that right) as soon as you vaguely mentioned liking a brand or two in particular, or even bought several penthouses in every city you might be interested in visiting on your next trip with him.

As said, maybe a little bit too much.

Maybe.

But when it comes to spoiling him, it’s a whole different story.

Satoru acts like a puppy. A lost one? A loyal one? A clingy one maybe? You never can tell. He’s a mix of all possible puppy types. He almost feels undeserving of you spoiling him. The idea of you giving him or providing him anything doesn’t make sense in his mind.

Not a hint of patriarchy or dominance comes into play here, but rather because he prefers to give rather than receive.

It’s in his nature.

So one day, you decide to wait for him in front of his car after his long day at Jujutsu High. His students—Yuji, Nobara, and Megumi—wave to you from afar before heading back to their dormitory, while a slender figure approaches you with long strides.

“Is that a dream? Am I in heaven?” And immediately, Satoru’s arms find your waist to hold you tighter than ever in his familiar embrace.

“Maybe both,” you crackle, cupping his cheeks while your lips peck his whole face. “I checked your schedule and came earlier.”

He presses a firm, (loud) and loving kiss on your own lips. “I hope you haven’t been waiting long, love.”

“It’s never too long when I’m waiting for you.”

And damn.

He’s a full mess now, heart beating like a cannonball, body temperature hitting impossible degrees until his hands are sweating and he’s ear-blushing just as his teen self used to.

“Can we go to the mall right now?” 

A smile followed by a little scratch on his undercut? He’s already carrying you to the passenger seat while he busies himself with starting the engine as quickly as possible. And as if he were afraid you would disappear if he didn’t touch you, Satoru’s large hand rests on the inside of your thigh, the perfect spot for him to feel safe with you and for you. A huge smile refuses to fade, and you immediately guess that even under his black blindfold, Satoru’s smile reaches his eyes.

“What do you wanna do at the mall?” he asks casually, his free hand pulling that move he always does when parking — spinning the wheel in one smooth circle with just one hand, head turned over his shoulder as he checks behind the car.

And of course, you catch the way his Adam’s apple bobs slightly as he moves — a small detail that makes your thighs instinctively squeeze together.

“Some clothes. I need your opinion.”

He raises both eyebrows and holds out his free arm once he has locked the car. “Of course you need me for that. How could you even breathe without me by the way? You need my air.”

On the way, a cute lingerie shop catches your eye, and you gently pull Satoru inside.

He opens his mouth, a little confused at first.

“Didn’t you say clothes?”

“Aren’t they clothes?” you smile.

He clears his throat but finally glances at you. “Clothes. Alright.” But he was silently screaming naughty girl and you’re snorting.

The inside of the boutique is small and quiet, almost cozy. A few narrow racks line the space, each holding unique and delicate sets — but what really catches your eye are the dainty, coquette-style pieces. Soft pastel colors, flirty floral lace, and little sensual details that feel like summer tempt you enough to pick out one or two sets.

When you glance over at Satoru, he’s distractedly staring at the display of blue lingerie, eyes half-lidded and lost in thought.

“You know, I said I needed your opinion,” you comment, a small smirk tugging the corner of your lips, “so… if you like any—”

You don’t have time to say anything else before he’s already picked up a dozen sets of lingerie—your own items looking pretty meager in comparison.

Sighing, you head for the deserted fitting rooms. Perfect.

And as you turn to draw the curtains away from prying eyes, you come face to face with Satoru, standing with his feet firmly inside the fitting room, a questioning look on his face.

“Out.”

“Pretty, please—”

The next second, he is sitting on a chair, his left ass’ cheek still sore and kinda burning from your kick.

Putting on the first set, a light blue baby doll adorned with discreet white lace, you admire yourself in the mirror before opening the curtain slightly to call Satoru. He hurries to come in before even seeing you.

And when he finally gets to admire you, he has no comment to make. His gaze gradually softens behind his blindfold, his mouth slowly parts, and his arms, once crossed over his chest, fall to his sides, not knowing what to do with themselves. He’s dying to wrap them around you as he usually does, but something freezes him in place.

His eyes sparkle with admiration, but less mischief than usual.

Just pure love. It wasn’t the cute outfit that made him fall in love for the umpteenth time in his life. It was just you. You and your smile, anticipating his reaction—more specifically, about to laugh at a potentially charming and flirtatious comment he usually makes; your bright eyes fixed on him, your cheeks slightly flushed from the heat in the store and even more so in the fitting room.

“You are beautiful,” he finally says quietly.

A faint blush creeps up your cheeks, reddening them even more. “What about the baby doll?”

He shakes his head. “You are stunning in everything.” His arms finally wrap around you and he turns you toward the mirror, meeting your gaze, which you know is on you despite his blindfold. “See?” he whispers next to your ear, chest pressed against your back. “That’s my beautiful wife. The one I am lucky and grateful to see every day when I wake up. My first and only love.”

“Hey, you are not allowed to make me cry,” you protest, swallowing to make the lump in your throat go away as he kisses the side of your neck.

“Guilty as charged,” he sighs, stealing another kiss on your cheek and pats your hip. “Next one now.”

“Fine.”

The next isn’t as simple as the previous one. More girly, you think, eyes darting the small flowers all over the corset. An admiring whistle is heard right behind you, and through the reflection in the long mirror in the dressing room, Satoru has lifted a corner of his blindfold to admire you from head to toe. “I quite enjoy the view right now.”

“You perv.”

He takes a dramatic shocked expression and brutally hits his hand right where his heart beats. “Me? Are you blaming a man? What am I saying— YOUR man. Actually—your very lucky man.”

You hide your face behind your hands in an attempt to muffle your bursting laugh, and Satoru grins proudly, shoving his hand in his jacket’s pockets.

“Anyways. I love this one.”

“You do?” you ask, calming down. You spin around slightly to give him a 360 view of the set. “It’s… floral. I like the— What’s that look for?” you ask, your hands on your hips in a disapproving stance.

“Tell me, wouldn’t you look good if you wear that while I make you cum on my cock?”

Your face flushed immediately when your brain pictures it perfectly. “Satoru!” you hiss. “We’re not alone!” And you push him out of the dressing room, glancing nervously at the saleswoman at the store entrance, who looks at you with a slightly confused expression.

The third set is a simple pastel yellow nightgown that you picked up earlier. Its straps are made of lace in equally light shades of pink and turquoise with small fruity details—including mini grapefruits and lemons. It’s long enough to cover most of your torso and almost all of your rear. However, Satoru notices a second later that a single movement allows him to see that the nightgown comes with a thong of the same color, so thin that he almost didn’t notice it.

And before you even think about giving your opinion, Satoru is already lifting you up in his arms and pressing you against the wall.

You gasp, nails digging into his broad shoulders as his nose buries itself between your clenched legs. “Satoru, what—”

“Just let me eat you out in this set,” he mumbles, tone muffled as you struggle. “Pretty, please—”

“We can’t!” you protest. “The saleswoman could—”

“Is everything alright here?” she suddenly asks from behind the curtain. You didn’t even hear her come in.

Satoru freezes under the nightgown and holds his breath as you hold back from yelling at him.

“Y-Yes, I’m just on the phone right now,” you respond nervously. “Sorry.”

“Oh. No problem, take your time,” she responds sweetly before the sounds of her footsteps fades away.

And as if he had guessed that you were going to kill him on the spot, Satoru pressed a chaste kiss on your clothed clit.

You gasp, nails digging into his muscles even deeper. “I swear, if we get banned from another lingerie store—”

“That’s their problem,” he mumbles against your inner thigh now.

“Satoru, stop talking—”

“Only if you stop looking that good.”

You slap his head lightly. “Home. Now. I’m putting you on a leash.”

“Kinky,” he grins, looking up way too fast.

And with that, your very problematic, very whipped husband drags you out of the store with five lingerie bags and zero shame.

a/n: here comes a fic after 3 months of inactivity, i'm sorry! i have a lot to write and i'm planning soon to finish them, i promise <3 how are yall doing btw? i miss posting here 🥲

reblogs, likes and comments are very appreciated! <3

tags: @bearwithmoo @elliesndg @lymsfm @mutsu422 @drippymcdrippison @koshhin @v31v3t @wisheclairr @sanemistar @monokaix @starmapz

[cloverapple]

Sue me, but I think you’ll make more progress in five minutes of spiraling than in five years of trying to shift.

Hear me out:

Ever heard binaural beats? Put 528 Hz in one ear, 520 Hz in the other. You don’t actually hear either one directly. Your brain locks onto the difference: 8 Hz. Your awareness detects contradiction because it effectively responds to dissonance.

Reality works exactly like that. When you're fully holding:

“I already have it” AND “But I don’t see it right now,” you're living in a frequency clash.

The system hates that. Awareness can’t remain in pure contradiction. So it starts syncing to the resolution. It starts looking for that “8 Hz” that makes sense of the noise.

And when you crash out—when you’re crying, screaming, losing your mind over how the logic literally does not add up, because you KNOW, in every fiber of you, that this thing is yours but it’s not appearing—that moment is not a failure.

It’s not you wavering, it’s your awareness detecting a mismatch and equalizing.

The illusion is that you need to “believe better” or “assume more correctly” or “stay calm” for things to shift. Noooo. Realizing the bullshit is the gateway and crashing out is the recalibration. You're slamming two contradictory states together so hard that awareness is forced to adjust the observable reality to match your strongest signal— which, in that moment, is: “I KNOW I HAVE IT, BECAUSE I CAN’T INTEND TO HAVE SOMETHING AND NOT HAVE IT, SO IT MUST BE RIGHT HERE. I KNOW IT’S HERE, THE LACK IS FAKE!”

That creates movement. Five minutes of looking around at your CR like “I know I already have it, so what the fuck is this??” hits your awareness like a seismic wave.

Don’t fear the contradiction because you think wavering and checking the 3d kills your intention. Because the frequency of that dissonance is the only sound awareness can’t unhear.

“Wait, but won’t I then be observing a reality where I have it, but don’t see it?”

Well, is that what you intend? I know you’re smart. You intend to have your desire already. To shift. Now let go of this awful idea that they implanted in your mind, that if you check for proof, automatically you’re done for.

Check for proof, because if you don’t see it in front of your eyes right this second while intending to have it, then what you’re seeing simply isn’t real. Remember that the proof that you have your desire, is not seeing your desire itself, but the action (intention) you took to have that outcome.

I know you feel crazy. I know you’re practically tearing your hair out and wondering what the hell you’re doing wrong, why you’re not shifting.

But your logic is fine. Your sanity’s intact. What you’re feeling is the pressure of suppressed knowing. Like trying to sit calm in a burning building because someone told you you had to “trust.”

No. Scream. Bust the fucking door down. Delete Tumblr. Tell these bloggers (myself included) to shove their advice. You don’t need all of this, because you already know what’s yours. That’s why you can’t quit or let this go.

When you’re crashing out in tears, you’re not “blocking your manifestation,” you’re sweating it out like a fever breaking.

Stop thinking the dissonance means you’re wrong. It means you’re too right to ignore.

Caveat: the way I shifted after two years (more like a decade tbh, I’ve known about quantum jumping since I was ≈10) was by questioning the glitch, crashing out, and calling out the bullshit.

Even now, the way I continue to expand my consciousness, simplify my way of shifting/manifesting, and learn (realize) new things always comes back to:

“if I know w, have x, and can do y, THEN LOGICALLY I HAVE Z”

That’s why—to me—calling out the flaw in the illusion always works no matter what.

[sweetpeaaquarius]

hey, wanted to start by saying i love your fics!! finally worked up the courage to request 😂

just wanted to ask if you’d be interested in an azriel x f!virgin!reader fic? not in an “omg im so innocent” way, but in an “im nervous and don’t know what to do” way lmfaoo! if possible, was thinking a friends to lovers type scenario, with maybe some forced proximity to lead up (thinking some kind of mission?). maybe some hurt/comfort slight injury stuff thrown in if you’re feeling angsty…

honestly open to anything your creative mind can come up with. just looking for some sweet fluffy smut with az 😆

thank you and no worries if not interested!

Warmed by the Fire

Pairing: Azriel x f!virgin!reader

Summary: The mission seemed simple enough, but with Azreil, nothing is ever straightforward. After years of working side by side, the stolen glances grow longer, the touches linger closer, and the feelings between them become impossible to ignore.

Warnings: nsfw, smut, unprotected sex, foreplay/oral female receiving, friends to lovers, emotional vulnerability, insecurity, jealousy, injury, minor hurt-comfort, forced proximity, tension, fluff

Word count: 13,000

Author’s Note: I needed this, fluffy tension, a mission setting, some lowkey oblivious longing, and a reader who’s just trying her best. As you can probably tell, I had a lot of fun with the plot for this mission. Please feel free to message me; don’t be nervous about sending a request. I genuinely love writing them, and while I’m slowly making my way through my inbox, I do see you! I promise!

I was already at the meeting point, sitting on a fallen tree, eyes scanning the file in my hand. Reports of increasing thefts, villages and camps losing supplies, some more than others. Rhysand asked me to review the findings and investigate the area, hoping my ability to track residual magic might reveal something useful.

The map was spread across my lap, with red dots scattered along the eastern coast. Most items reported stolen were ordinary, including food, clothing, and weapons. Some were more concerning, such as large shipments destined for Illyrian camps, high-grade weaponry, and a cargo ship bound for Velaris that had been cleared out overnight. Jewels, enchanted artifacts, and rare books disappeared without a trace.

I’d been thinking about possible tracking spells for days, but I needed to be near the scene. Feel the magic in the earth, the trees, the air. Reading it off parchment only took me so far.

I was nibbling on the end of my pen when the ground beneath me trembled slightly, a gust of wind rustling the leaves overhead. I looked up just in time to see an Illyrian warrior descend from the sky, wings flaring then folding neatly behind him.

Azriel.

He glanced at me, the file in my hands, and my bag leaning against the tree.

“I could’ve flown you,” he said, shaking his head as he walked over and lifted my bag from the ground with ease.

“I’ve been stuck in that office for what feels like months. I needed the walk,” I replied, jotting down a quick charm idea before closing the file.

Azriel raised a brow. “This walk would’ve taken you hours.”

“Fine, I lied,” I huffed, pulling my hood against the chill. “I winnowed most of the way.”

A ghost of a laugh tugged at his mouth, but he said nothing more. We started walking, me leading him a few steps behind, as the path narrowed into a winding trail shaded by dense forest.

We made our way through a ravine into a valley, with silence settling comfortably between us. Azriel carried my pack without saying a word. He offered his hand when I needed assistance over a fallen tree, touch light and brief, his hands never staying longer than necessary.

We’d worked together before, training, reports, and the occasional shared mission. The thought twisted something in my stomach. Not fear, exactly. Nerves. Anticipation. The kind of fluttering unease that came with the unknown.

As the valley began to open up, I pulled to a stop and turned to scan the land. 

“I think here would be a good spot to set up camp,” I said, nodding toward the cluster of trees near a mossy rock outcrop. 

The village was just a head, an easy flight if needed, and this area was tucked far enough from the main paths to avoid unwanted attention.

Azriel nodded silently and dropped our packs near the largest tree, an ancient thing, gnarled and towering, its thick roots curling into the moss-covered earth. We were nestled in a hollow surrounded by stones and a soft, leaf-littered floor. The kind of place that could vanish entirely under shadow.

He began setting up camp without being asked. I lingered nearby, fingers tugging idly at the hem of my cloak, trying to ignore how fast my heart was beating.

It was just a mission, just a few nights in the woods with the spymaster of the Night Court.

“I’m going to go and scope the area,” I said, scanning the treeline.

Azriel, crouched near the base of the tree as he unrolled the bedrolls, looked up and gave a simple nod, then returned to setting up the tent.

I slipped into the trees, moving carefully through the undergrowth. My fingers brushed over bark and moss, the occasional stone, trying to pick up even the faintest magical trace. I cast a few low-level detection spells, quiet things meant to stir the air, reveal residue.

This would have been the easiest way to leave the village without being seen. The thieves would have had to pass through these woods, but still, there was nothing. No sparks. No hums. Not even the trees held a memory of the magic that might’ve been here, and the trees remembered everything.

If spellwork had been used, it was subtle, or cloaked by someone who knew how to cover their tracks.

An hour passed before I circled back to camp. The sun hung low now, spilling golden light through the canopy in soft, slanted beams.

Azriel had finished setting up. A small tent stood beneath the tree, with the fire pit already laid out in a neat ring of stones and kindling arranged. He’d unpacked supplies, canteens, utensils, and a cloth-wrapped bundle of dried food.

He glanced up as I stepped into the clearing. “Anything?”

“Not much,” I admitted, brushing a leaf from my shoulder. “If magic was used, it’s faint, or very well hidden.”

He nodded, unsurprised, and returned his attention to the small stack of papers he’d begun to sort.

I stepped into the tent to drop my satchel and froze briefly. My pack was tucked to one side, but the bedrolls were laid out side by side, blankets neatly folded, pillows set just far enough apart to pretend there was space between us.

The tent was small. Very small.

I let out a quiet breath through my nose, just a mission. Grabbing the empty sack bundled with our gear, I stepped back out.

“I’m going to gather some firewood and some water. There’s a stream nearby.”

“I’ll come with—”

“No, it’s okay,” I cut in, a little too quickly. I waved a hand. “You’ve done enough setting up. I’ll be fine.”

Azriel gave me a long look, unreadable, as always. Without a word, he held out a small black dagger.

The blade was the length of my hand, wickedly sharp. I could feel the enchantment humming through the hilt. This blade would cut through muscle and bone like silk.

I rolled my eyes, a small smile tugging at my mouth as I tucked it into my belt.

I turned and disappeared into the trees, moving slower this time, letting the forest breathe around me. I bundled fallen branches, dried twigs, and thicker logs under one arm. On my way back, I stopped by the stream and filled the canteens with icy water, the cold biting into my skin.

By the time I returned, the forest had dipped into twilight. The clearing glowed gold and blue, fading fast into shadows.

Azriel was seated against a tree now, sorting through maps and files, his shadows curling softly around him like a second skin, always watching, always listening.

I dropped the firewood beside the pit and began stacking it into a tidy pyramid.

“The essentials,” I said lightly, lifting the canteens like trophies.

His mouth twitched. Barely.

God help me, that was enough to make my chest flutter.

“I’ll start the fire,” he said, rising to his full height. He gathered the wood I’d collected, his movements precise and silent, and began placing it into the fire pit.

I sat in the spot he’d vacated and began sorting through the food packed: bread, dried meat, cheese, a few apples, and some dried fruit. I cut and tore pieces of bread, laying them out neatly on a cloth as Azriel finished building the fire.

With a wave of my hand, the fire lit, flames crawling up the wood, warming the circle of our camp. Another flick of my wrist and a ward shimmered over the camp, cloaking us from view. Azriel followed without a word, shadows pooling outward like fog, cloaking the flames from any distant onlooker. Outside, it would look like nothing more than another pocket of darkness.

I hummed softly to myself as he filled a small pot with water, setting it on a flat stone to warm by the fire. We worked in an easy rhythm, no instructions needed, just the quiet understanding of two people who didn’t need many words.

The sun sank fully behind the trees, and the firelight became our only source of warmth. I began to shiver despite the flames licking at the air. Without saying anything, Azriel pulled a blanket from the tent and draped it gently over my shoulders. He sat beside me on the log, close but not too close.

“Thank you,” I said softly, fingers gripping the worn fabric.

“You’re too cold,” he said, tone unreadable, eyes trained on the fire.

“I’ll warm up,” I murmured, nodding toward the food I’d laid out.

We ate in comfortable silence, the sounds of the fire and distant night creatures wrapping around us. It was simple: bread, dried meat, and fruit, but somehow satisfying.

Afterwards, I curled closer to the fire, choosing one of the smooth stones around it as a makeshift seat. I unrolled a piece of parchment and set it across my knees, flipping through the notes I’d brought.

My fingers moved absently as I scribbled a variation of a detection charm, eyes flicking between the fire and the trees. I tried to feel something, anything, but the forest was still muted. It didn’t hum, with magic. It was like whatever had passed through had scraped all the magic clean.

“Do you feel anything?” Azriel asked, voice low.

I shook my head. 

“Not yet, but something feels wrong. I don’t like how quiet it is.” I looked around. “It’s like... the forest has forgotten.”

That earned me a glance. He tilted his head, a flicker of curiosity passing over his face. “The forest forgot?”

I met his eyes. “Trees usually remember. Spellwork. Blood. Grief. It lingers, but here, it’s just blank.”

Azriel leaned back against the tree behind him, arms crossed. “Someone erased it.”

“Or used something that doesn’t leave a trace,” I murmured. “But even that should cause a ripple.”

We sat in silence, the fire casting golden light across his face. His shadows didn’t rise, didn’t seem alarmed, but I knew he was thinking it over, cataloguing possibilities.

“You always talk like that?” he asked suddenly, a thread of quiet amusement in his voice.

“Like what?”

“Like the trees are old friends.”

“They kind of are,” I said with a shrug. “They talk more than most people.”

He huffed a soft laugh, barely audible, but it made my stomach twist in the best kind of way.

The quiet settled again.

I felt his gaze, lingering for a second too long, and when I finally looked up from my notes, his eyes didn’t move away fast enough.

Eventually, I pushed myself to my feet and slipped into the tent. The temperature was dropping quickly, and my cloak and blanket weren’t doing much to stop the chill anymore.

I changed into warmer layers, soft leggings and a wool-knit jumper. Cozy. Plain. I tugged thick socks over my feet and wrapped my cloak around my shoulders again before curling up on the edge of my bedroll. Notes settled in my lap, and I tried to warm my fingers enough to finish scribbling down the last of my thoughts before sleep took over.

A moment later, the tent flap rustled.

Azriel ducked inside, careful not to let the cold air follow him. In his hands, he carried a small cup, steam rising in gentle curls.

“I thought you might be colder than you let on,” he said simply, holding it out.

I blinked up at him, then at the cup. I reached for it, the mug was warm in my palms, filled with lightly spiced tea.

“Thank you,” I murmured, softer than I intended. “You didn’t have to.”

“I know,” he said.

I sipped, the heat blooming in my chest. I wasn’t sure if it was the tea or the way he was watching me, unguarded, but suddenly, the tent felt much smaller.

I turned toward the tent wall, giving him privacy as I heard the soft clink of leather buckles, followed by the rustle of tight fabric peeling off skin. My cheeks warmed.

God.

The zip of his pants made me bite my lip. I shut my eyes hard and tried not to imagine the sharp planes of his torso, the way his tattoos might catch the light, or how far down they trailed—

“You can turn around now.”

His voice cut through the silence, shattering the image my traitorous brain had conjured. I inhaled and slowly shifted, placing my notes beneath the lantern hanging from the tent pole.

Azriel was now dressed in loose sleep pants, his chest bare. His Illyrian tattoos shimmered faintly in the low light, inked over golden-tan skin. My eyes skimmed across them before flicking, too late, up to his face.

He was watching me, amused.

“You don’t mind?” he asked, raising a brow.

I shook my head quickly. “No. As long as you’re not cold.”

He huffed a quiet laugh. “I’m used to mountain weather. This feels like home.”

“I’m sure,” I said, forcing a polite smile and turning back to my writing. I didn’t look at him again, not with him stretched out across from me, bare-chested and terrifyingly relaxed.

He slid beneath his blankets, the furs muffling his movements. Quiet as always, he pulled out a small, worn book. I didn’t catch the title. I was too aware of how close he was. His wings half-spilled onto my bedroll. His knees nearly brushed mine, despite my legs being crossed.

Occasionally, I felt his gaze flick toward me, subtle, so subtle I convinced myself I was imagining it.

I focused on my notes, letting the silence settle thick between us. It wasn’t uncomfortable; it never was with Azriel. His silence was grounding, his breath even and slow. His shadows hovered, soft and calm, resting at the edges of the tent like smoke.

I sipped the tea slowly, until the cup was empty, and my eyes kept drifting shut as I reread the same line over and over again.

My parchment was gently lifted from my lap.

I blinked up to find Azriel kneeling beside me, his fingers brushing mine as he took the empty cup from my hand.

“You need to sleep,” he murmured, voice low and quiet in the tent’s stillness. With one hand, he fluffed my pillow; with the other, he tugged back the blankets.

I was too tired to argue. I nodded and slipped beneath the covers, turning onto my side, facing away from him. The tent was small, barely wide enough to fit both our bedrolls. Not touching required intentional, careful space.

His wings brushed my back as he lay down behind me, a ghosting touch I knew hadn’t been intentional; he always kept them tucked in tight. Every breath he took seemed to echo through the narrow space between us. I closed my eyes and focused on the faint, distant crackle of the fire outside the warded tent.

The warmth of the tea, the travel, the weight of magic that still clung to the woods like morning mist, everything dragged me under.

Sleep took me fast.

Morning crept in slowly, the kind of soft grey light that barely filtered through the canvas walls. I stirred when something shifted beneath my cheek, something warm and solid. Definitely not a pillow.

A chest.

A slow, steady heartbeat thudded beneath my ear.

I blinked, my face resting on bare, warm, tattooed skin.

Azriel’s arm was wrapped securely around me, his hand resting at my waist. Not possessive. Not inappropriate. Protective. Natural.

His wings were folded around both of us like a shield, the leathery warmth cocooning us from the morning chill.

I shifted slightly, trying to pull away, but the movement only made his arm tighten, his wings curling in again on instinct.

I let out a soft breath. Reluctantly, I rested my head back against his chest. It was easier than pretending I didn’t want to stay.

A low groan rumbled through him, then he shifted slightly, his grip loosening just enough to let me breathe.

“Morning,” he mumbled, voice rough, sleep-heavy.

His wings slowly uncurled, letting the cold brush my skin again.

“Sorry,” he added after a beat. His eyes cracked open, meeting mine. “You were shivering in your sleep.”

“Oh,” I said, my throat suddenly dry. “Thanks.”

We were quiet for a long moment, a heartbeat too long.

Too long to pretend nothing had happened.

Eventually, I sat up, the blankets slipping from my shoulders. I didn’t look at him as I smoothed my leggings and reached for the edge of my satchel. My hands moved with quiet purpose, a way to break the moment without having to name it.

“I should head to the village,” I said, voice low but steady. “See if I can find any lingering traces of magic. A trail.”

Azriel was fully awake now, propped up on one elbow, eyes sharpening from sleep-soft to warrior-clear. “Do you want backup?”

“I’ll be more likely to catch subtle traces if I’m alone,” I said, tugging out fresh clothes: fitted trousers, a navy tunic, thick socks, and a wool-lined cloak.

He stood without a word, grabbing a black tunic from his own bag. “I’ll get the fire going. So you can dress in peace.”

He pulled the tunic over his head and shoved his feet into his boots. His shadows stirred, stretching outward like tendrils tasting the morning air.

I changed quickly, then stepped out of the tent to lace up my boots. I could feel him watching me. Those hazel eyes scanned over me, never leaving. He was already crouched by the fire, coaxing a flame from the kindling.

Laid out neatly beside him on a small cloth was a piece of bread, still warm from the flame, with a thin slice of cheese melted on top. A steaming cup of tea sat beside it. He was already eating, his eyes flicking from me to the food, a silent invitation.

I blinked at it, then at him. “You really didn’t have to.”

His only response was a small shrug and a muttered, “Didn’t want you passing out on the trail.”

The tea was warm and citrusy, creating a calming effect. The bread melted on my tongue, and as I ate, it seemed to warm something in my chest.

“I won’t go far,” I said again, tugging on my gloves. “Just enough to get a sense of the village’s edges. Maybe whatever passed through left a thread it couldn’t quite bury.”

Azriel nodded once, slowly. His expression was unreadable, but his gaze never left mine. “You’ll let me know if something feels off.”

I met his gaze, steady. “I will.”

He didn’t reply, just watched as I buckled the dagger to my belt once more, tucking it beneath my heavy woollen cloak. His shadows circled his boots in slow, curling ribbons, restless, a silent guard detail of smoke and silk.

I turned and left the camp. The walk down the valley wasn’t as long as it had seemed from above. The village came into view just beyond the trees, a scattering of stone and timber cottages, smoke curling from their chimneys into the pale morning air. It was quiet. 

I moved cautiously, my cloak brushing damp earth and frost-covered grass as I went through the outer fence, giving quiet nods to the few early risers working. Most looked at me, curious but polite. Guarded. I was unknown, harmless, maybe. A traveller. A woman on her own. Not worth stopping for.

The baker was the first to speak.

“You’re not from around here,” he said, squinting at me as he pulled a tray of flatbread from the oven.

“No,” I replied with a light smile. “Just passing through. I heard about the missing supplies in a nearby village. They mentioned this place too.”

His face darkened slightly. The warmth drained from his expression. “Us and the rest of the villages, I imagine.”

I nodded, agreeing.

He frowned. “I’m sure you’ve felt it,” he murmured, quieter this time. “It’s not just things disappearing anymore. It’s the air. It feels off. Wrong.”

I asked how long it had been. He answered with weary eyes, and I listened. Thanked him, then moved on.

One by one, I spoke to the blacksmith, the stable hand, and two elderly women knitting outside under woollen blankets. Their fingers trembled in the cold, but their voices remained steady. The stories repeated like a broken record: missing items, misplaced tools, lights flickering without a breeze, whispers no one could explain.

Still, I couldn’t feel anything in the breeze. No spark, no hum.

I wandered to the far edge of the village. A small gate stood ajar, leading into the forest, denser and wilder here. Beyond the trees, the cliffs loomed, jagged against the pale blue sky. The moment I stepped past the gate, I felt it.

Magic. Faint. Fleeing.

I paused.

The forest ahead was darker than it should’ve been. Sunlight tried to filter through the canopy but was swallowed by thick branches and shadow. I glanced back at the village behind me, then further up the ridge, toward where Azriel still waited at our camp.

The trace was faint, and by the time I returned with him, it would be gone.

I hesitated, then stepped into the forest.

The undergrowth was thick and uneven. The path we had taken yesterday was gentle by comparison; this one was tangled, slick with moss and frost. Stones shifted beneath my boots. A vine caught my ankle, nearly sending me tumbling. I caught myself against the bark of a tree, breath puffing in the cold air.

Far below, I could hear water, not a stream, but the roar of a river crashing into stone. The sound added to the eerie silence pressing in around me.

I whispered tracking charms as I moved, my fingers trailing bark and brush. Most faded into nothing, but one, rare and old, clung to the air like silver smoke. It unfurled before me, illuminating a trail of handprints, bent branches, and disturbed earth, unmistakable.

They had come this way. Two or three.

I should’ve gone back to Azreil. Instead, I followed the trail, deeper and lower into the valley.

It was as if time had bent beneath the trees. The light dimmed. The air thickened.

Eventually, the trail came to an end, vanishing into silence.

I stood there, heart thudding, listening to the strange stillness. Then I heard voices. Distant. Muffled. I crept forward and found them: three men pacing a makeshift camp, with tents, crates, and burnt coals.

A smuggler’s nest.

I couldn’t make out their faces, cloaked in shadow, but I could feel the magic clinging to the camp. Dull. Compressed. As though something was snuffing it out.

I tried to winnow back to camp and failed.

My magic didn’t just falter. It was gone.

I turned back, climbing, struggling through thick undergrowth. I whispered spell after spell, but the forest swallowed them all. I had stayed too long and gone too far.

I was completely lost.

The climb back was brutal. Vines tore at my hands. Mud sucked at my boots. At one point, I slipped and had to claw my way up on hands and knees, heart pounding, lungs burning.

Snap.

The vine I gripped broke, and I tumbled hard into a bed of jagged stone. My breath vanished. Pain radiated through my ribs, legs, and palms. I groaned and rolled onto my back, staring up through the tangled branches above.

The sun was dipping low; it was already late afternoon.

I had been gone far, far too long.

Crawling up the embankment, I pushed in the direction I hoped led to the village, or at least to our camp. Another hour passed, maybe more. My limbs ached. My body throbbed. I was soaked in sweat and grime, stumbling alone through a too-quiet forest.

God, this was stupid.

Eventually, I saw it, a patch of golden light spilling through the trees. I dragged myself toward it, breaking through the edge of the forest and into the clearing. 

Wings.

A dark shadow cut through the sun. I looked up.

Azriel landed hard. His boots slammed into the earth. His wings flared wide, his shadows whipping around him like a silent, fraying storm. His jaw clenched, eyes wild with fury, no, not just fury.

Fear.

“Where were you? What on earth were you thinking?”

His voice cracked across the glade. I blinked up at him, covered head to toe in mud and blood, pointing vaguely toward the ditch I’d just climbed.

“I found something—”

“I’ve been flying this goddamned ridge for hours,” he snapped, stepping forward, eyes dragging across every inch of me like he was searching for broken bones. “I thought—”

He cut himself off, breath ragged. His chest heaved like he’d run the length of the mountains.

I opened my mouth to speak, but he didn’t wait.

“You’re filthy. You’re bleeding.”

“It’s just bruises,” I muttered. “I slipped. I’m—”

“You disappeared,” he growled, his voice low and frayed.

“I had to follow the trail. I found a camp, Azriel. There’s something down there suppressing magic. I couldn’t winnow out. I could barely breathe in it.”

“I don’t care about the camp,” he said, his voice raw. “I care if you’re alive.”

Something sharp cracked in his expression, and before I could answer, he grabbed my wrist. “Come on.”

He began to pull me toward him, wings lifting to take flight.

“No, Az,” I said, pulling back. “It’s easier to track if we walk.”

I looked up at the sun. “It’s southeast.”

“We aren’t going to the camp,” he said flatly.

“Where are we—?”

“To the river,” he said. “You’re covered in mud, and you need to clean those cuts. I can’t—” He stopped, voice catching. “I can’t look at you like this.”

I started to argue, but the moment I opened my mouth, he pulled me against his chest. His warmth wrapped around me, shadows curling instinctively to hold me as he launched into the air.

We landed minutes later beside the river, not far from camp. I recognised it, the same river I’d gathered water from yesterday. Roaring, clear, ice-cold. He led me to a pool nestled between two boulders.

“I know you can warm it.”

“But Az—”

“Don’t argue with me,” he said, more sternly than I’d ever heard. “Bathe. I’ll bring fresh clothes and something for those wounds.”

I stared at him, at the storm still burning behind his eyes, and nodded.

“Okay.”

He gave a clipped nod, then vanished with a rush of wings.

I exhaled. Stripped off my cloak, now stiff with dried mud and torn along the hem.

It was my favourite.

Piece by piece, I peeled off the rest, boots, tunic, trousers, hissing as cold air met bloodied, bruised skin. A sharp sting pulsed from my ribs. Another cut throbbed along my thigh.

I whispered a warming charm and gestured over the pool between the boulders. The water’s surface shimmered, and steam curled into the cold air.

I stepped in slowly.

Pain prickled up my legs, tiny fires flaring across every scrape, but the warmth helped. I sank into the water, my arms floated beside me, and my head tipped back onto a smooth stone lip as I sighed, the breath shuddering from me.

God, I was tired.

Grime and blood loosened from my skin, the water swirling pink around me as I reached to scrub lightly at the worst of it. I flinched when my fingers brushed the jagged edge of the cut near my ribs.

I let my eyes fall shut.

I should have taken Azriel up on those training sessions.

Climbing that ridge, tumbling down it, and now sitting here bruised and bleeding, it was humiliating.

I let my eyes close again, the warmth of the water easing the worst of the ache as memory slipped in, soft as breath.

All our missions. Late nights elbow-deep in paperwork, heated debates over war strategies. The last assignment had been two days straight in the war room, maps and reports strewn everywhere, ink staining both our fingers.

We’d started on opposite sides of the table. We’d ended with me perched on its edge, Azriel between my knees, one hand beside my hip, the other gesturing over parchment I wasn’t even pretending to read anymore. I’d watched his mouth when he leaned in close. I hadn’t pulled away.

He hadn’t noticed, or maybe he had and just hadn’t acted. Maybe he didn’t mean it that way. Maybe I misunderstood.

The stones beside the pool shifted.

My eyes snapped open just as Azriel landed, shadows curling in behind him. A satchel hung from one hand. His expression was unreadable, but his jaw was tight, brows still drawn.

He crouched by the edge, laying out two bundles of clean clothes and an array of balms, wraps, and salves. 

“You’re not exactly subtle,” he said at last, tone dry. “I could hear you cursing the water from the ridge.”

I groaned and sank lower into the pool. “You could’ve waited another minute.”

“You could’ve screamed less.”

“I didn’t scream.”

“You did when you hit the river.”

“Well, the air is cold.”

He exhaled a breath that could have been a laugh. Some of the tension in his shoulders eased, just a little. He studied me again, not just looking, assessing. His gaze flicked over every bruise, every scrape.

“You can bathe too. If you want.” I tried to keep my voice light and casual, but it came out softer than I meant it to. “I don’t mind.”

His brows arched. “Are you sure?”

I nodded. “Only if you want.”

A pause.

Without a word, he stood and began to unbuckle his leathers. I turned slightly, keeping my eyes on the steam rising from the water. When he entered the pool, everything was silent, just the gentle ripple of water and a faint breath as he lowered himself in, feeling the heat on his old bruises.

“You’re hurt,” I murmured.

“So are you.”

I glanced at him, careful not to linger, but god, he was beautiful like this. His wings tucked close to his back, his muscles taut beneath wet skin, dark hair curling slightly from the river mist. He scrubbed a hand over his face and neck, then leaned back against a boulder across from mine.

We sat in silence for a while, only the sound of the river falling over rocks. 

His voice broke the quiet. “You scared me.”

“I got carried away,” I said, voice low. “Once I felt the magic, I just followed it, but I promise it was worth the risk. There’s something in that forest—”

“I don’t care what you found,” he cut in sharply. Water lapped gently between us, but his tone cut straight through it. “You could have been taken, or worse, and I wouldn’t have known.”

“I didn’t think—”

“You should’ve come back; we could’ve gone together, but you didn’t, and seeing you like this—” He stopped, exhaling sharply. “If you’d been more than hurt…”

He ran a hand through his wet hair, and the fury in his face had softened into something more vulnerable, fear and concern. 

“I’m sorry I scared you,” I said, shifting forward slightly.

He didn’t answer right away.

“I was more than scared,” he said eventually, his voice low. 

I swallowed. 

The heat in the water suddenly had nothing on the heat crawling up my spine. Those hazel eyes, darker in the fading light, studied my face with an intensity that made my chest tighten.

He inched closer, not much, but enough for me to notice.

His gaze swept over my cheek, to my mouth, then back to my eyes. 

“Tell me what you found,” he murmured, voice rough. 

“I think the thieves are using an artifact. One that suppresses magic.” I didn’t realise I’d moved closer, or maybe he had. We were close, now far too close to be professional.

My voice went quiet. “The forest felt like it was suffocating.”

He nodded, eyes flicking to my lips again. “And you didn’t think to come get me.”

“I didn’t want to lose the trail, and…” I hesitated. “I didn’t want to be wrong.”

His lips curved faintly. “Did you think I’d be mad?”

“No,” I breathed. “I just don’t like being wrong.”

That smile, small and devastating.

He reached forward slowly, and his hand brushed the water’s surface before settling gently on my waist beneath it. The contact was light, barely there, but I sucked in a breath, and then I hissed.

Pain shot up my side.

I stumbled back instinctively, covering my bare chest as I glanced down. Blood was trailing in the water, blooming softly from a deeper wound near my ribs.

“Shit,” Azriel said, instantly alert.

He turned, striding to the edge of the pool in one fluid motion. A towel was wrapped around his waist as he reached for the supplies. Without turning, he tossed me another towel, giving me privacy as I climbed out. The fabric clung to my skin, soaked red where the wound still bled.

“Sit,” Azriel said, already kneeling.

I obeyed, wrapping the towel tightly around me and sitting on a flat rock. The sun had dipped below the trees, leaving only the hush of river and wind around us. I held the top of the towel to my chest, clutching it as he gently pulled the edge away from my side to expose the wound.

“This will sting,” he said, dipping a cloth into a salve. His hands were steady as he cleaned the watery blood from my skin. His fingers brushed lightly along my ribs, heat blooming beneath his touch.

I watched him work, eyes tracing the hard lines of his jaw, the faint furrow of concentration in his brow.

“You’ve done this before,” I murmured.

He nodded. “Too many times.”

When the wound was clean, he began wrapping gauze around my ribs. His knuckles brushed the underside of my breast as he reached behind me to tie it off, hands lingering just a breath too long.

“You’ll bruise,” he said softly.

Neither of us moved, we were both wrapped only in towels, our skin still damp and glowing from the heat of the pool. That earlier moment, whatever it had been, hung between us tight.

He pulled away first, reaching for the clean shirt in the bundle. He held it out without a word, and I dressed slowly. So did he. We turned our backs to each other, the soft sounds of fabric, the stream, and the wind the only sound.

Azriel flew us back in silence, his wings tense beneath the twilight sky. They twitched when we landed, like they were still ready to carry him off again if something went wrong.

By the time we returned to camp, the sun had vanished behind the ridge.

The fire crackled as we entered the clearing. A jug of water rested on a flat stone. I lowered myself onto a log, flinching slightly as pain lanced through my sore ribs. The fresh shirt hung loose, but the bandage beneath pulled tight with every breath.

Azriel crouched by the fire, feeding it another stick of wood. The flames lit his face in shifting gold and shadow.

“I’ll need to look over your wounds again tonight,” he said, not looking up. “Especially your back. It’s bruised worse than I thought.”

“I fell down an embankment,” I whispered, cheeks heating.

“You fell down an embankment?” Azriel’s voice laced with dry amusement.

“The vine snapped,” I muttered defensively.

He huffed a laugh and rose, beginning to brew tea. When it was ready, he handed me a mug and sat beside me. Not quite touching, but close. His warmth radiated through the narrow space between us like a second fire.

I tried to focus on the flames rather than the memory of his hands on my skin. 

I took a sip of the tea, letting it soothe my throat. Silence stretched between us, but it wasn’t uncomfortable. It was heavy.

“Did you really fly over the whole ridge looking for me?” I asked.

He gave a quiet, humourless laugh. “Yes. Three times.”

I blinked.

“I couldn’t find your scent. The forest’s magic was too thick. I thought maybe...” He trailed off, eyes fixed on the flames. “Doesn’t matter.”

“It does to me,” I said softly.

His jaw flexed, something unreadable tightening in his expression. He turned to me, slow and deliberate. “Don’t scare me like that again.”

It wasn’t a command; it was something raw and personal.

“I won’t,” I whispered.

His hand rested on the log between us, close to mine. Our fingers brushed. My heart stuttered. 

I pulled back, uncertain, and murmured, “I’ll make something to eat.” 

Before I could rise, his hand reached gently to rest on my knee.

“I stopped in the village,” he said. “Didn’t get much out of them; they thought I was hunting you down. So I bought supplies and paid far more than I needed to.”

He pulled out a small parcel. Pastries. Dried meats. Goat cheese. Fruit.

His hand left my knee as he laid the food out between us. We ate in silence. Knees brushing, gazes lingering. A slow-building tension wrapped around us like the smoke from the fire.

When we’d finished, and exhaustion crept in, we retreated to the tent. My pain had worsened as the night wore on, and soon enough, Azriel had me lying down, fretting over me like I was made of glass.

He refused to let me read the notes I’d brought, much less write anything. 

“You’re supposed to be resting,” he said. “Not thinking.”

Of course, that sparked an argument, which led to me dictating, and him writing furiously with one of my pens.

“This is ridiculous,” I grumbled, trying to sit up. “Let me—”

I flinched, biting back a groan. He raised an eyebrow in smug satisfaction.

“See? Told you.”

I huffed in pain.

He knelt beside me. “Can I check them?”

I hesitated, then nodded.

I lifted my shirt just enough to reveal the bandages. The bruising had deepened, a bloom of violet and blue beneath pale skin. His hands hovered for a second, then touched.

He pressed along my ribs, firm but careful. A soft groan escaped me, and he stilled.

“Azriel,” I hissed through gritted teeth.

His hands gentled. I heard it then, his breath hitching.

“Roll over,” he said, voice lower. Rougher. “Let me see your back.”

I winced but obeyed, turning slowly. Azriel lifted my shirt higher and began working the balm into my spine. His touch was tender, but the pain struck like lightning. I cried out once, curling forward as tears pricked the corners of my eyes.

“Breathe,” he whispered. “I’ve got you.”

He moved slowly, carefully, his hands trailing over the curve of my back as he finished. Gentle. Steady. Present.

“It’s over,” he murmured. “Tomorrow, I’ll follow your trail into the forest. See what I can find.”

I shifted, propping myself up on one elbow. “We should go early. If we’re lucky, they might still be there.”

“You’re not coming,” he said, voice leaving no room for argument.

My brows furrowed. “What? Why?”

“You’re injured.”

“I’ll be better by morning.”

“I’ll go first. If it’s clear, I’ll come back for you.”

I opened my mouth to argue, but then, with the faintest flick of his wings, the candle blew out. Darkness wrapped around us, thick and quiet.

“Mature, Az,” I muttered.

I was still shivering when I slipped beneath the blankets. The silence between us now heavier than the cold. He didn’t touch me, didn’t speak, but I felt him there. Present. Watching.

“Thank you,” I whispered.

He didn’t answer.

Minutes passed. I turned onto my side and found him already facing me. His face was shadowed, unreadable, but his voice, when it came, was low and rough.

“Don’t do that again.”

I blinked. “What?”

“Disappear. Run off like that. You scared me.”

I opened my mouth, but he cut me off.

“I don’t care about the camp. I care if you’re alive.”

My breath caught. “I didn’t mean to—”

“I know.” He exhaled hard, scrubbing a hand over his face. “I know you didn’t, but if something had happened to you out there—”

He didn’t finish the sentence; he didn’t have to.

I shifted closer, barely an inch between us now. “I’m sorry.”

Azriel didn’t speak. Instead, he reached out, brushing a strand of hair behind my ear. His fingers lingered, just for a moment, and then dropped to the blankets between us.

“Sleep,” he murmured.

I didn’t, not for a long time, not with his scent surrounding me, not with the weight of his words curling around my heart.

I woke alone.

The tent was quiet, the fire outside faintly crackling in the early morning light. My body ached, stiff from injury and sleep, and the space beside me was cold.

Azriel was gone.

On his pillow, laid neatly where his head had rested, was a folded piece of parchment.

I reached for it, unfolding it slowly.

Food’s by the fire. Didn’t want to wake you. Going to scope out the camp from yesterday. I’ll be back soon. —Az.

A faint smile tugged at my lips, even as worry tightened in my chest.

Azriel returned just after the sun had cleared the treetops. I sat on the log by the fire, wrapped in a blanket, picking at the food he’d left, trying not to think too hard.

He landed without a sound, shadows curling quietly back into him.

“They’re gone,” he said, brushing dirt from his leathers. “The camp’s cold. Tracks heading southeast.”

I stood, slower than I would’ve liked. “Can we still follow?”

Azriel’s eyes flicked over me, lingering on the stiffness in my movements, the pain I couldn’t quite mask.

“You’ll be able to track the magic. The artifact left a trace in the air and slightly tainted the ground. I marked the path. We’ll follow it.”

He turned and began packing the camp in swift, practised motions. I moved to help. This time, he didn’t stop me, but his eyes kept drifting toward me, assessing and noticing every wince. Every falter. Always watching.

By midmorning, we were on the move.

The trail wove down the mountain, steep and slick in places. My ribs protested with every stumble, but I kept going. Azriel didn’t speak about it, just walked beside me in silence. He caught me when I slipped. Lifted me when I couldn’t manage the steeper drops. Even flew us over the rougher terrain when the trees thinned enough to allow it.

Eventually, we reached the abandoned camp. He was right, the earth glowed faintly, residual magic seeping into it like smoke into fabric.

I whispered charms under my breath, trying to identify the thread of power that clung to the place. Whatever had been here, it was suppressing the forest’s natural magic, stifling its breath. The spell felt half-familiar. Like something I’d read once, long ago. Not enough to place, but enough to make my blood hum with quiet anticipation.

We kept moving, further down the mountain.

Hours passed before the trees gave way to a valley and the village came into view.

Larger than the last. Busy even at dusk. Smoke curled from chimneys. Lanterns glowed in crooked windows. The scent of meat and hearthfire thickened the air. It felt almost peaceful. Almost.

Azriel had flown ahead earlier, and he confirmed what we’d suspected: the thieves had set up camp just outside the village limits. Close enough to slip in and out unnoticed.

We checked into a small roadside inn on the edge of town.

The woman behind the desk barely looked at me. Her gaze never strayed from Azriel, like he was something golden and worth worshipping.

She wasn’t the only one.

In five minutes, three different fae women and one man propositioned him with offers that made my stomach twist. Some offered drinks. Some offered themselves. All of it free. One even reached out and traced a nail down his leathers like she had a right to touch him.

He turned them all down with quiet disinterest. His shadows curled just a little tighter, but I saw how they looked at him, like he was something rare. Something to be devoured.

By the time we reached our room, a small, narrow space with a single bed and not much else, I was ready to snap. I dropped my pack and sank onto the mattress, trying not to glare at the door even though the desperate admirers had long since gone.

Azriel set down his pack. He glanced at me once, then hesitated.

“I’m going to scout the camp,” he said finally, his voice level.

I didn’t look up. I just sighed and shifted. “Okay.”

He paused.

I could feel the concern tightening around him. “Are you okay?”

I forced a smile and nodded. “Fine. Just sore from the trip.”

“I’ll recheck your wounds when I come back,” he said gently. “Apply more balm if you need it.”

Something about the thought of his hands on me again twisted in my chest.

“It’s fine,” I murmured. “I’ll bathe. I’ll check them myself. It’s just stiffness.”

His brows knit. “You don’t have to do that alone.”

“I can handle it.”

“I’ll get food while I’m out, then. Something hot.”

“You don’t need to,” I said, too quickly. “There’s a pub on the corner. I’ll grab something.”

“You’re not going to that pub by yourself.”

“Az—”

“No.” His tone sharpened, firm. “You’re not going anywhere. Not like this. Not when I can’t protect you.”

“I’m not helpless,” I snapped softly.

“I know that,” he replied. “But you’re injured, and I can’t lose you because of something stupid. Please.”

That stopped me.

Azriel never asked. Never begged.

I looked up then. His eyes were steady on mine. Soft. A little tired, but unwavering.

“Fine,” I whispered.

He lingered for a second longer, tension hanging between us, quiet and unresolved. Then he turned, and the door clicked shut behind him.

Silence returned.

I sat there for a long moment, heat prickling behind my eyes, not from pain, but from shame. That entire exchange had been ridiculous. I’d acted like some jealous fool, bristling over attention given to a man who wasn’t mine. Who had never been mine.

Azriel hadn’t flirted with them. He hadn’t even smiled. Still, bitterness coiled in my stomach.

Because he could have them, any of them, and me?

I was sore, stiff, and inexperienced. I wasn’t the kind of woman who knew how to touch a man like him. Not the type of woman who could satisfy him, make him stay.

Not the kind he deserved.

I ran my fingers through my hair, sighing quietly. Unclipped my cloak and forced myself into the bathroom. It was small, but warm, and for once, I didn’t have to use magic to keep myself from freezing.

I peeled away the bandages, cleaned the wounds, and let the hot water work its way into my aching bones. Then, dressed in the softest clothing I had, I crawled into bed.

I tried not to think about the way he’d looked when he said please.

Tried not to wonder if someone else had tempted him before he came back. Tried not to care, but I did, and that was the worst part of all.

Azriel returned just after midnight.

The door opened with the softest creak, followed by the near-silent hush of his boots brushing the floorboards. I didn’t turn, just shifted slightly, the candle on the bedside table flickering low, bathing the room in quiet amber light.

I’d been flicking through reports, or pretending to. Mostly, I’d been watching how the moonlight spilled in long strips across the floorboards, more comforted by its glow than by the words I wasn’t taking in.

“I’m sorry, I’m so late,” Azriel said softly. “I brought pastries. We’ll get something hot tomorrow.”

I kept my eyes on the page. “You don’t need to apologise. I’m not your keeper.”

It sounded fair. Dismissive, even, but the sharpness beneath my words gave me away, the same bitterness I hadn’t been able to shake since early evening.

The air shifted as he stepped inside. Wings folding close. The quiet thud of his weapons and boots hitting the floor. I heard the zip of his pack, the crinkle of paper, the unmistakable scent of sugar and cinnamon.

“I’ll bathe while you eat,” he said, already heading for the bathroom. “Then I’ll redress your wounds.”

I hummed in agreement. He hesitated for a breath, then closed the door behind him with a quiet click. A moment later, steam began curling out beneath the crack.

I reached for the pastry, biting into it: warm cinnamon and honey-coated bread. I’d thought about going out for food earlier, then changed my mind. Azriel would’ve hated that, and he was right. On my own, still healing, I wouldn’t have stood a chance if something had happened.

When I’d finished, I laid out the healing supplies and braced myself for the pain.

By the time the bathroom door opened, steam trailing behind him, I was sitting on the bed, report still in hand but long since abandoned.

My eyes flicked up, too fast to stop myself.

Shirtless. Pants low enough to make my breath catch. His damp hair clung to his forehead, and as he ran a hand through it, humming some quiet, unfamiliar tune, I looked away. Quickly.

“Lie down,” he said gently, stepping toward me.

I obeyed without a word, folding the papers and setting them aside. I shifted onto my back, lifting my shirt slowly to expose the bruises across my ribs.

He knelt beside the bed, uncapping the balm with practised ease. His fingers were cool, steady, his first touch stealing the breath right out of my lungs. I sucked in a sharp inhale, my body curling slightly on instinct.

He caught the motion, the wince I tried to hide.

“You’re doing better,” he murmured, voice low. “Barely any yelling this time.”

“Progress,” I muttered through gritted teeth.

He didn’t laugh. I just kept working the balm deeper into my side, my thumbs pressing in slow, practised circles. The muscles in his forearms flexed with each pass.

“Turn over,” he said, and his hands slid gently to my hips, guiding me. Firm, but careful, like he’d done this before. As I shifted onto my stomach, his palms lingered a moment too long.

Then came the balm again, slower now. More deliberate.

His thumbs found a knot low in my spine, and I groaned into the pillow before I could stop myself. The pain was sharp, but good, a necessary ache. One I’d been carrying too long.

“Sensitive,” he said softly, and I could feel the heat of his gaze even as I kept my face buried.

I didn’t answer. Just breathed through the burn, every nerve alight beneath his touch. It hurt, but it felt like my body had been waiting for this kind of hurt.

“You’re tense,” he said, voice lower now. Rougher. That edge was new. Different.

He pressed again, just above my tailbone, and pain flashed up my spine. Tears pricked at the corners of my eyes. I curled forward with a sharp inhale.

“God, Azriel,” I breathed. It came out softer than I meant. A little desperate.

His hands froze, just for a beat. Then resumed, slower now, moving higher, tracing just beneath my shoulder blades.

“You really do need to start training with me,” he said after a moment, rubbing balm into a deep bruise.

“You just want to take me down,” I mumbled, voice muffled as I bit back another groan.

He huffed a quiet laugh, fingers pressing gently over tense muscle. “No, but that would be a bonus,” he whispered. A breath left me as his hands stilled, then he tugged my shirt down.

I shifted, easing back onto the pillows with a wince. He sat beside me on the edge of the bed. I looked at him. Unfairly handsome, skin golden in the flickering firelight, dark hair still damp. He looked at me like he was on the edge of something, like he couldn’t hold it in any longer.

“You really don’t see it, do you?” he asked.

“See what?”

“How badly I want you.”

The words knocked the breath from my lungs.

He looked away. 

“After our last assignment, when we were stuck in that war room for days, I thought I’d made it obvious. I offered private training. Brought you coffee. Showed up to your office every damn day for two weeks.”

“I thought…” My voice faltered. “I thought you were just being kind. I figured maybe you felt sorry for me or—”

“Why would I ever feel sorry for you?”

His voice was soft but fierce. His brow furrowed, his eyes locked on mine.

“I wasn’t sure if you were... uninterested, or already seeing someone. Rhys told me you were single, married to your work, but I didn’t want to assume,” Azreil said. 

“You asked Rhys about me?”

His cheeks flushed. “I… did.”

“You want me?”

“I do.” The words came out rough. Honest, like he’d been holding them in for far too long.

Something inside me cracked open. Jealousy flared, raw and sudden. I thought of all the women who might’ve touched him, who knew what to do. I thought of how easy it must be for them.

I had never touched a man, never been wanted like this and never had someone like him.

“I’m not the one for you,” I whispered.

His expression shifted, hurt flickering across his face like a spark. “Did I misread this?”

“No!” I said quickly, stumbling over the word. “No. I want you. God, I do. You make my heart race, Az. But I…”

My hands trembled in my lap. I forced the words out.

“I’m not experienced,” I said at last, voice barely above a whisper. “I’ve never—never been with anyone.”

For a moment, he didn’t react, then realisation dawned.

“You’ve never…?” he asked gently.

I shook my head, shame crawling up my neck.

“You’ve never had—?”

“Please,” I whispered, heat flooding my cheeks, “you don’t need to say it again.”

“No,” he said quickly. “I’m not judging. I swear. I just… you’re so beautiful. I thought you’d have a line of men.”

“I never found the one,” I said quietly. “And Rhys was right. I got good at being alone. At pretending it didn’t matter.”

Azriel let out a long, uneven breath. His gaze met mine, soft but flickering with something close to desire.

“Can I finally kiss you now?” he asked, voice hushed. “Or are you still waiting for your ‘one’?”

My breath hitched, and I paused. 

“I want you to be the one.”

His eyes closed for a beat, like the words broke something open inside him.

“I’ll be your one,” he murmured. “Your only one.”

His hand reached for my cheek, thumb brushing along my jaw, and then, his mouth was on mine.

A soft moan slipped from me as our lips met. It was gentle, careful, as if he were learning the shape of me. His hand braced beside my thigh, the other cradling the back of my head, holding me like something precious.

When we finally pulled apart, his breath was uneven.

“Are you okay?” he whispered, brushing a strand of hair from my face.

I nodded, eyes fluttering shut.

He kissed the corner of my mouth, then the hollow of my throat. My body arched instinctively toward him.

“Tell me to stop,” he murmured, lips grazing my skin, “and I will.”

“I don’t want you to stop.”

He kissed me again, deeper, slower. His body lowered gently over mine, every part of him warm and steady. Skin to skin, we tangled together, his weight comforting rather than overwhelming.

When he slipped my shirt off, I shivered, not from the cold, but from the way his eyes devoured me like he’d been waiting a long time. Like I was something sacred.

“I’ll go slow,” he promised, lips brushing over the centre of my chest, then lower. “If you change your mind—”

“I’ll tell you,” I whispered. “I trust you.”

Something shifted in his gaze at that; his expression softened with unspoken emotion. His mouth found mine again, deeper this time, as he eased me back into the mattress. His hands moved over my skin, mapping scars and bruises, cataloguing the places to avoid, and the ones that made me gasp.

His hands settled at my hips, and my legs instinctively wrapped around his waist. I could feel him, solid and hard, pressed against me, his restraint obvious, his every touch reverent.

He waited at the waistband of my pants, silently asking. I lifted my hips in answer. His breath hitched.

He exhaled my name like a prayer. “God, you’re more beautiful than anything I’ve ever seen.”

“Wounds and all?” I whispered, my fingers trailing down his ribs, leaving goosebumps in their wake.

“Wounds and all,” he echoed, voice husky. 

He kissed down my chest, finding my nipple with his mouth. The sensation curled through me like liquid heat. When his tongue swirled over the sensitive bud, a soft moan left my lips. Then his teeth grazed, gentle but purposeful, and my back arched.

His fingers trailed lower, settling between my thighs. I parted them for him instinctively, and the sound of my own wetness meeting his fingers made embarrassment bloom inside me.

I tensed.

His eyes opened, still half-lidded with lust, and found mine. His mouth didn’t stop its worshipful attention on my breast.

“I’m sorry,” I whispered, voice small, heat curling in my belly.

“Why are you sorry?” he murmured against my skin, his thumb brushing over my clit, and I gasped, the sound helpless.

“Because I’m so—”

“Wet,” he finished for me, and I could feel his grin against my chest. “Yes, you are.”

I huffed, half-embarrassed. “I—”

“Don’t ever apologise for that,” he said, almost sternly. “It’s perfect. You’re perfect.”

His mouth trailed lower, kissing down my stomach, slower and slower. I arched involuntarily, my fingers sliding into his hair, desperate for something to anchor me.

“Oh, God,” I gasped as his mouth replaced his fingers.

He moaned against me, the vibration rippling through every nerve in my body.

His fingers began to slide inside me, slow, careful, coaxing me open. I saw stars. His tongue and fingers moved together in a rhythm that defied reason, pulling sounds from me I’d never made before, my moans echoing off the walls, the air charged with something feral and raw.

“Azriel,” I moaned, hips rising off the bed. His free hand gripped them, holding me steady as his tongue worked in slow, sinful patterns. He moaned again, as if drunk on the taste of me.

His fingers curled, there, and I arched again, thighs trembling around his head.

He found that spot again, and again. My whole body locked tight.

“Azriel,” I panted, the pressure building fast, too fast. “I—I can’t—”

I did. 

I shattered, falling over something I didn’t know I’d been climbing. The moan that tore from my throat was almost too much for my ears, raw, high, utterly helpless.

Azriel didn’t stop. He kissed me through the aftershocks, slow and reverent, his mouth brushing along my inner thighs as I trembled. 

He finally pulled back. I blinked down at him in a daze, watching as he brought his glistening fingers to his mouth and sucked them clean, eyes never leaving mine. His lips, chin, and jaw gleamed in the candlelight.

“You taste like heaven,” he murmured, crawling back up to settle between my legs.

At some point, his pants had come off, and I hadn’t even noticed. I was only aware of the ache between my thighs and the way his bare body pressed against mine.

My eyes trailed down instinctively. His hand was wrapped around his cock, pumping once, twice. I gasped softly.

He was… huge. Thick and hard, the head flushed and glistening with precum, nestled in dark hair. Beautiful and intimidating.

“Are you sure you want this?” he asked, voice low but sincere.

I nodded, breathless. “I do.”

His hand moved to my thigh, gently parting me. He positioned himself carefully, the tip of him nudging at my entrance.

“I’ll take care of you,” he whispered, leaning in to kiss me. “I’ll go slow.”

“I trust you,” I said again, voice trembling but steady.

He pressed into me, inch by inch. My breath caught, hands clutching his shoulders as I felt my body stretch around him.

His jaw clenched. 

“Fuck—you’re so tight,” he groaned, holding still once he was fully inside, like it took everything in him not to lose control.

I winced, body adjusting. He didn’t move, his thumb brushing soothingly along my side.

“Are you okay?” he whispered again.

I nodded, voice barely audible. “I am.”

Relief flooded his face. He kissed my temple, then slowly, carefully, began to move.

Each thrust was measured, deep and steady. The pain eased into pleasure, and soon I was moaning again, helpless against the rhythm he built between us.

“Oh…” I whimpered, overwhelmed. Every inch of me was alight.

Azriel moaned shamelessly, as if he wanted me to hear how good it felt, like the sounds I made were undoing him.

God… I wanted to keep undoing him.

Azriel’s thrusts deepened, still careful, still measured, but more insistent now, each one dragging a helpless moan from me. The pain had long since melted into something hotter, headier. My body had adjusted to the stretch of him, and now it was only pleasure, sharp, sweet, and building fast.

His hand gripped my thigh, angling my hips just slightly, and then he hit something inside me that made me cry out, my back arching off the bed.

“There,” he groaned, like the sound of me undid him.

“Azriel,” I panted, nails digging into his back. “There, again, please—”

He obeyed. Over and over, that spot, perfectly. I was unravelling, hips rising to meet his, every part of me clenching around him.

“Fuck—god, you feel so good,” he gasped, breath shuddering. “You’re perfect, so perfect—”

The pressure inside me coiled tighter, unbearable in the most exquisite way. I couldn’t breathe. Could barely think.

“I’ve got you,” he whispered, kissing my throat. “Let go for me. Come with me.”

His hand slipped between us, fingers finding my clit in perfect rhythm, rubbing tight, slick circles as he thrust deep once more, and I broke.

My orgasm crashed through me like a tidal wave, my entire body arching beneath him. My cry was loud, unrestrained, his name on my lips like a prayer.

Azriel groaned, low and raw, and then he was following me over the edge. His body tensed, shuddered, his hips pressed deep as he spilled inside me, moaning into the crook of my neck. I felt it, the warmth of him, the pulse of release, the way he clung to me like he might come apart.

For a long moment, neither of us moved. Our bodies tangled, breath coming in gasps, sweat-slicked skin pressed together like we were trying to become one.

Azriel shifted, gently pulling out. I winced, and he immediately stilled, eyes searching mine.

“Did I hurt you?” he asked, voice hoarse with worry.

“No,” I breathed, hand brushing his cheek. “You didn’t.”

Still, he moved quickly, disappearing into the bathroom. I heard the water run, and when he returned, he carried a warm, damp cloth. He cleaned me gently, whispering soft apologies every time I flinched. His brows were drawn, mouth tight with concern.

“I should’ve stopped sooner,” he murmured, as he dabbed at the inside of my thighs. “I pushed too far.”

“You didn’t,” I said quietly, reaching for him. “Azriel, look at me.”

He did. His eyes were glassy, the weight of everything behind them.

“You were perfect,” I said. “You were everything I needed.”

He let out a slow breath, his shoulders easing just a little. Then he tossed the cloth aside, pulled the blankets up, and gathered me into his arms like I was something fragile.

I curled into his chest, our legs tangled, his warmth enveloping me like a second skin.

His thumb stroked lazily along my spine, up and down, again and again.

“You’re sure you’re okay?” he asked softly.

I nodded against him. “I am. I promise.”

He kissed the top of my head. “I was afraid,” he admitted. “Afraid I’d ruin it for you. That I’d mess it up.”

“You didn’t. You couldn’t.”

A beat of silence. 

He whispered, “I’ve never wanted anything this badly before.”

I looked up at him, brushing my fingers through his damp hair. “What? Me?”

He nodded, a little sheepish. “You. Us. This. All of it.”

My heart thudded. “I’ve never had anyone take care of me like that.”

He kissed my forehead. “You deserve to be taken care of. Every time. Every way.”

We lay there in the quiet, heartbeats slowly settling. His shadows danced lazily across the ceiling, like they too had been soothed by the closeness.

“I didn’t think it would feel like that,” I whispered, eyes fluttering shut.

“Like what?”

“Like more. Not just physical, emotional, like it meant something.”

He pulled me tighter to him. “It meant everything.”

We fell into silence, a comfortable quiet. His breathing slowed, deepened. Mine matched it, our bodies pressed together beneath the blankets. My fingers traced idle patterns across his chest, feeling his heartbeat.

Sleep tugged at me, and just like that, we fell asleep curled into each other’s arms. 

That morning, we woke in a silence so soft it felt sacred.

The light was just beginning to slip through the curtains, golden and pale, casting a warm glow over the room. Azriel’s arm was still draped around my waist, his breath steady against the back of my neck. I could feel the rhythm of his heartbeat, slow and sure, pressed into my spine.

My body ached in new places, pleasantly sore. The balm he’d applied the night before had done its work; the worst of the bruises and cuts were fading into nothing more than memory, but that deep, unfamiliar thrum from our night together lingered, intimate, impossible to ignore.

I shifted slightly, and Azriel stirred behind me, groaning softly.

“You okay?” he murmured, voice thick with sleep.

I turned in his arms, meeting his drowsy gaze. “More than okay.”

He smiled, small, private, and leaned forward to press a kiss to my temple. “Good.”

We didn’t speak after that; there was no need. We dressed in the quiet, exchanging soft looks and slower movements, as though neither of us wanted to break the fragile spell of our time together. When we finally stepped outside, the world beyond our room felt stiller, suspended.

Mist clung low to the cobblestone streets of the village, swirling around our feet as we walked. The scent of dew and woodsmoke filled the crisp air, and the first hints of dawn light filtered through the tall pines bordering the edge of town.

Azriel’s hand brushed against mine as we made our way toward the thieves’ camp that he had spotted and monitored the night before. We reached the edge of the ridge overlooking the camp, and Azriel stopped without a word.

Below us, the scene was already unravelling. A small group of men moved quickly between crates and bundles, packing up stolen goods with no urgency, as if no one was watching. I could see gleaming weapons, bolts of cloth, sacks of food, rare books and scrolls, all of it looted from the township that night. It was far more than any of the reports had indicated.

Azriel scanned the area, jaw tight, eyes sharp.

He looked at me. He pointed silently to a twisted tree just beyond the ridge. I nodded and stepped behind it, taking cover beneath its crooked limbs. His shadows slithered around me, cool and watchful, like sentinels.

I waited, listening.

A few heartbeats later, the quiet broke. Grunts, the clash of steel, the thud of bodies hitting the earth. Low swearing. Someone cried out, a brief, pained sound, then nothing. Silence returned as swiftly as it had been shattered.

When I peered back around the tree, Azriel stood alone in the centre of the now-empty camp.

The men were gone, but blood trailed across the stone and dirt, dragged in lines leading away into the trees.

He’d taken them, quite and efficiently, without a single scream.

I didn’t ask where they’d gone. I didn’t need to.

Azriel caught my eye and lifted a hand, beckoning me forward with a single motion.

I stepped into the clearing, my boots crunching over gravel and blood-dried leaves. The air was thick with metallic tang, but his shadows curled softly now, lazily winding around his shoulders like they were settling after a job well done.

“The site’s clear for you to analyse,” he said, his voice low and steady. “I contacted Rhys last night after I found their camp. I’ll send word that he can bring the reinforcements to collect the prisoners.”

I nodded, already turning toward the mess of crates stacked near the centre of the camp, but before I could take a full step, Azriel moved closer.

His hand came up, fingers rough with calluses but impossibly gentle as they brushed my cheek. He leaned down and, without hesitation, pressed a soft kiss to my forehead.

“Stay safe, okay?” he murmured.

Before I could reply, he tilted my chin and kissed me, brief and warm.

“I will,” I whispered.

His eyes lingered on me, concern flickering through them. Then he stepped back, shadows rising around him like a second skin, and vanished into the tree line.

I stood there for a breath longer than I meant to, watching the place he’d disappeared, the warmth of his lips still ghosting over mine. I turned back to the clearing, pushing away the strange ache blooming in my chest.

Something was wrong.

Even with the camp emptied, the trees felt too still. The forest air was thick, almost dense. My own wards were faint, barely registering against the magical resistance that clung to the area like fog. Whatever had been here, it had not wanted to be found.

I whispered detection spells beneath my breath as I moved slowly between the remnants, crates, splintered weapons, scraps of parchment and torn maps. I brushed my fingers over them, searching. Nothing.

Until I felt it.

A thrum, not in the air, but in my chest. Like a second heartbeat, low and steady and pulling.

Drawn by instinct, I moved to the far end of the clearing, where a battered canvas tarp fluttered weakly over a makeshift table, and there it was.

A box.

Small. Black. Ornate. Onyx carved with intricate gold filigree. Its jewelled clasps glinted like eyes in the shadows, watching.

It was beautiful, and wrong.

I didn’t think. I reached out. The moment my fingers grazed the lid, a pulse shot through me. Not painful, cold and knowing.

This wasn’t just magic.

It recognised me.

The box tugged, not physically, but in the space between breath and thought. It wanted me, as if it had been waiting.

Another pulse. Sharper. Hungrier.

My mind reeled back six months to a report Rhysand had handed me, almost dismissively. A list of flagged artifacts from a failed transport manifest. I hadn’t cared at the time, barely skimmed it.

This box was in there. High-risk. Highly unstable. Magical containment takes priority.

My fingers hovered over the lid.

Just a bit more, and I’d lift it, just to see, just to know—

“Stop.”

The voice was velvet over steel.

My hand froze.

I turned, heart leaping into my throat.

Rhysand stood a few feet behind me, silent. His violet eyes were locked on the box, as shadows coiled tightly around his boots, magic shimmered at his fingertips, controlled, but ready.

He wasn’t smiling.

“Don’t touch it,” he said again, his voice a quiet command that cut through the silence like a drawn blade.

I froze. My fingers hovered mere inches above the lid, trembling slightly. The box still pulsed, as if sensing my hesitation, as if pleading.

I slowly pulled my hand back. A tingling remained in my skin, like static, or something deeper, something alive, still curled beneath my fingertips.

“You know what it is,” I said, my breath catching in my throat.

Rhysand’s eyes finally left the box and met mine. “I do.”

He stepped forward, but not too close, stopping a few feet from it as though the thing radiated heat or poison.

“It was onboard one of the cargo ships that sank six months ago,” he said, his voice tight. “We thought it was lost to the sea.”

I stared at the box again. The ornate gold filigree seemed to shimmer, catching the faint light like a smirk in shadow. 

“What is it?” I asked, my voice quieter now, my spine prickling.

Rhysand’s jaw flexed. He exhaled slowly through his nose. “Inside is a suppression crystal, an ancient one. Looks harmless enough, just a polished black stone. It’s a containment artifact. We use stones like it in the prison to nullify magic.”

A chill crept down my back. My eyes flicked to the box again. The lid sat still and silent, but I could feel it pressing against the edges of my awareness, as if it were listening.

“I felt it call to me,” I admitted, barely above a whisper. “Like it recognised me.”

Rhysand’s expression darkened, the corner of his mouth tightening.

“That’s exactly why you shouldn’t open it,” he said, his voice quieter now. “It doesn’t call to you. It feeds off you. It latches onto whatever power it finds and twists it into submission. Devours it. Then buries itself in your mind until you think it belongs to you.”

The silence after his words felt heavy.

The box said nothing, but it knew.

By the time we returned to Velaris, my entire body ached. Between cataloguing stolen goods, reactivating containment wards, and sending magical documentation to tracking teams, I was running on fumes.

Azriel had taken the lead on interrogating the captives, trying to uncover how they’d gotten their hands on the artifact. Whether they’d truly pulled it from the sea, or robbed the ship before sinking it, no one knew, but it would be days before we had the full picture.

I collapsed into my office chair late that night, surrounded by stacks of parchment, half-read manifests, and exhausted magical seals. The smell of old paper and ink made my eyes sting, and the last thing on my mind, though it tugged at the edges, was the memory of Azriel’s hands on my skin.

I hadn’t seen him since the morning at the camp, and I’d told myself not to expect anything more. That it was just one night.

Which is why I froze when the office door creaked open.

Azriel stepped in, a takeout bag balanced in his gloved hands. The scent hit me before anything else, rich spices and warm bread from my favourite Sidra restaurant.

“Az,” I breathed, stunned.

He said nothing at first, just strode forward and began clearing space on my cluttered desk, setting down the bag with careful precision. Steam curled from the containers as he unpacked them, and my stomach growled on cue.

“I promised you hot food,” he said, glancing up, shadows curling lazily around his shoulders. “And I doubted you’d make time to eat with the mountain of paperwork you always bury yourself in.”

He moved around the desk, reaching for me. One arm wrapped around my hips, pulling me close. His other hand gently tucked a loose strand of hair behind my ear before leaning down to kiss my forehead, then my lips, slow, reassuring, and familiar.

“You really didn’t have to,” I mumbled as he helped lower me back into my chair. He took the seat across from me without a word.

“I couldn’t let my girl work all night on an empty stomach,” he said simply, opening the first container.

My heart stuttered.

“Your girl?” I asked, voice barely audible over the rustle of parchment and paper.

Azriel looked up, brow raised. “What?”

“You said... your girl.”

He blinked once, then the barest smile touched his lips.

“I thought that was clear after last night.”

A slow grin crept onto my face. My pulse quickened.

“Well,” I teased softly, “I guess I am your girl.”

Azriel shook his head with a low chuckle and passed me a warm container.

“You were always my girl,” he said, voice like velvet, eyes like midnight.

God help me, I believed him.

[luveline]

May I request a Johnny Storm x reader where reader is a spy that was sent to get info out of the fantastic four but ends up falling in love with Johnny

ty for requesting <3 fem, 1.1k “What’s that?” 

“That?”

You nod, fingertip pointing at the box under Johnny’s bed. He, having been sat rather unassumingly in his favourite chair, follows your gaze, and goes completely still.

“That’s my, uh. Collection.”

“Your collection.”

“Uh-huh.”

His collection of what?

You lift yourself up where you’d been laying on his floor and turn onto your stomach, shuffling toward the end of his bed to reach beneath it. The box is slim and flat but hefty, bending your hand where you attempt to grab it one handed. The other hand keeps Johnny away, and your giggling is only a quarter fake at this point as he mutters expletives. 

“Be careful!” he says. 

“I’m not gonna ruin your pornography, Mister Storm,” you croon. 

“I mean with your hand. It’s a heavy box.” 

“Oh.”

His laugh borders maniacal as you pull out his box, but you don’t get why. He’s like, always like this. Always happy. Even when he’s angry, it’s like he’s not truly angry. He runs on fight or flight, flight flight flight, but you’ve learned he gives it good when he needs to. 

He’s half adrenaline, you think. Makes sense for a boy who can spontaneously catch flame whenever suits. 

“What is this, then?” you ask. 

“My box.”

“Thank you, Johnny. You’re truly one of the greatest minds of your generation.”

“Open it.”

You look at him from over your shoulder. He’s joined you on the floor, a warm hand pressed to the small of your back, his blond hair softer in the warm lighting. You’d make a joke about being ginger-headed if you thought he’d take it well. You’re uninterested in becoming human kindling, and you don’t trust Johnny Storm to keep you safe. 

Or, that’s what you insist. 

“I better not see any pin-up girls in here,” you warn lightly. 

Right, ‘cos, unfortunately, unkindly, Johnny Storm thinks you’re in love. Like, you’re going steady, monogamously, and another woman’s photo might piss you off. 

“I wouldn’t have that kind of stuff,” he says. His cheeks seem to pink with your knowing stare. “Anymore! I don’t need pin-up girls, do I? Got the real deal right here.”

“Shut up.” 

He obeys. 

Johnny pulls you into a sitting position. He’s gentle. You want to hit him (you wouldn’t) (it’s about protecting your best interests, even if you know you couldn’t hit him now, not when he’s only ever touched you nicely). 

“Promise it’s not illicit?” you ask. 

“Baby,” he laughs, which is a whole other thing. Like, who does he think you are. “Just open it.”

You crack open the cases latch and flick the lid. The hinges are tightly sprung, and it stands at three-quarter mast by itself. There, inside two velvet borders, lays a circle rattle in the shape of a duck, and a letter folded into a thick square. 

You realise you’ve stumbled onto something precious, but Johnny stops you before you can close the box. 

“That was mine,” he says, “and my mom’s, before.” 

“It’s carved?”

“It’s wood.”

You hesitate to pick it up. “Can I?”

“Sure you can. I told you to open it.”

You put the box between you and Johnny and bring the rattle closer for inspection. Shaking it gently reveals a sound like dried rice plinking against thin walls. There’s a notch at the bottom where the rice might’ve been poured inside. It’s… so human. So fragile. It’s nothing like you thought Johnny would be. 

Even his room. You’d expected a grand, almost palatial sort of thing full of modern gadgets and, perhaps, a few distasteful posters —Johnny Storm, the single sweetheart of Manhattan, you hadn’t believed it for a second. Thought him rude and boyish, scowled at his infomercials and rolled your eyes whenever his infernal billboards darkened your apartment window. You’d figured him out before you got here. You knew exactly how to make him want you: rich boy wants what he can’t have. He needs intrigue, delight, a fight and a good long chase, and then, before he could lose interest, a kiss. Maybe something rather less chaste, only, Johnny doesn’t let you get him into bed. He kisses ardently and laughs into your mouth whenever your fingers flirt with his belt. Talks about movies and shopping and dates, instead. 

“I should’ve given it to Franklin, I know, but I couldn’t, you know. Couldn’t bear to give it away yet,” he says, starting brave, ending soft. 

“That’s okay,” you say, though you can’t work out why. “You don’t have to give it to him yet, or ever. Franklin has enough. You can keep it safe.”

“It was selfish, though. He should get something from his grandma.”

“Mm, maybe. I don’t know, though, baby. I think Franklin has more than enough. You can share it with him later, when he’s older. When he knows how important it is.”

“Yeah.” 

You squint at his tone. “What?” 

“Nothing, just… can’t trust myself to take it out of the box.”

“Why not?” you ask.

“I’m sort of made of fire. Like, I’m made of fire? You’ve seen me do that, right?”

“Sure, but you control it.”

He shrugs. “And one day I won’t be able to.”

“Shut up. You don’t believe that. Shut up!”

His eyes widen slightly. “It’s not always easy.”

“I didn’t say it was. I figure that’s why you’d never do that. It’s not easy, and Johnny doesn’t do easy.” 

“You know I love it when you talk about me like I’m not here–”

You press your hand to his face, annoyed, worse when he licks at your palm, slightly less when he gives it a nibble. 

You place the rattle back carefully into the box and close it.

“You could’ve read it, you know,” he says, taking your damp hand and pressing it to his neck. 

“Why?”

“Why what?”

“Why would you let me?”

He doesn’t look sick, but it’s a shade of nausea. Too much sincerity for the poor guy, you think, turning your hand in enough to stroke the slope of his neck. He relaxes some under the touch. The pit of your stomach gives a sickly twist.

“Don’t let me, Johnny,” you say, rubbing at his jaw with your thumb. 

He snorts, turning his head to bite your thumb. “Quit it,” he says, muffled from behind your skin. You wrinkle your nose at him, not that that matters to him. He just keeps on biting you. “Let you do whatever you want. But me first.” 

You take your hand back and wipe his spit into his thigh. You have no idea why it makes him cackle. 

[secretsofafangirll]

thinking about clark and roommate reader...brain go brrrr😵‍💫

word count: 2235

they met in college in metropolis, both journalism majors with a minor in communication studies. they had a lot of the same classes and shared a lot of the same interests, so naturally, they ended up hitting it off really well.

after class they would go to a local coffee shop to study, playfully bantering back and forth. they would end up just staying out late in clark's car, neither of them able to hangout in the other's dorm due to policies.

eventually, y/n would crack a joke about "just moving in together" but clark thinks it's a great idea. he would stutter and flush in the cheeks but he gets the word across. he thinks you two should move in together.

you both start looking for places for rent, or even for sale, and you end up finding a place in the city. a two bedroom, one and a half bath apartment with a full kitchen. within two weeks you're moved in.

every night turns into a three hour dissertation about the whatever the fuck you guys want. "jaden from poli sci makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon and eat them" all the way to "when i was little i was scared of the 'angels watching over me'" were topics you covered on the couch while 'friends' re-runs played lowly on the television.

as time went on, you two got more comfortable. those nights spent on the couch turned more than friendly. before, you would be on separate cushions but now he's laid out on the couch with a head on the headrest and your laying between his legs, head on his chest with his arm around your waist. he gives you 'goodnight' kisses and sneaks a hand under your shirt, tracing shapes into the soft skin of your back.

when you don't feel like cooking, he quick to order take-out, always knowing exactly what you like. he'd find himself feeding you the first bite, guiding the fork into your mouth, and laughing hysterically when food dangled from your mouth or sauce smears onto your face. seeing his face light up is the highlight of your day, so you don't mind.

when you do feel like cooking, it becomes an experience. clark gets home from class or the gym and finds you at the counter, vegetables on the cutting board. "what are you doing?", he would ask as he dropped his bag and hooked the keys on the rack. he would walk up behind you and look over your shoulder, leaning his hands on the counter beside your hips. "i'm building a lego set. what does it look like i'm doing, clark?", would be your sarcastic reply. he's just pinch your hip and blow raspberries into your neck in response. he would join you soon, only making things harder, as he was honestly bigger than the kitchen. "clark, honey, step out," you would point to the couch with a spatula. "wha-," he would complain, his face dropping. "step out," you'd instruct, not backing down. he respects you too much to disobey, so he would walk to the couch glumly. the food ends up being delicious and he makes sure you know.

"you're insane, y/n, i mean, really," he would moan as he scarfed your creation down. "what did i do to deserve you?" is what he's asking as he holds your head in his hands before he plops a kiss on your forehead, then both of your cheeks, and your nose. everywhere but your goddamn lips.

then comes relationship talk. by the time you're out of college, you start dating. or at least wanting to date. college boys aren't worth fighting for but men are, so you hit the town. it comes surprisingly easy for you to get guys; it's the guys that come that are the problem. of course, you would confide in your roommate about this. one night, after another failed date, you're laying in clark's bed beside him, propped up on an elbow, as he played with the t-shirt of his draped over your body.

"he was nice, don't get me wrong, but he was so small. i'm all for body positivity, but what the fuck is going on?" you would rant to him, "why does it feel like we were having an ozempic off the whole time? his waist was legit smaller than mine," clark would laugh, eyes crinkling and teeth gleaming. you would push his shoulder but you were smiling too, "i'm dead serious, he was so small. i just want a big man. like, a manly, big, strong man. is that too much to ask for these days?" you didn't even realize what you were saying but clark did. he always listened to every word you said, and he heard them too.

that night you fell asleep in his bed and woke up to his arm wrapped around your waist and his face in your neck. you didn't move and neither did he.

when you both start working at the planet, you only get closer, if that was even possible. you start staying up even later to piece sources together and get head starts or sprinting finishes on articles. when there's work gossip, you both can't help but indulge in that same cuddly position you always find yourself in. when you're actually at work, the same habits apply. your desks are right across from each other and you always turn around to talk to one another. at 3, like clockwork, he meets you at the coffee machine to make another cup and you guys chat for 15 minutes.

"those two...," jimmy olsen observes with lois, the two staring as you guys laugh at whatever inside joke you're telling. "those two...," lois would echo, shaking her head. "aren't they roommates?" jimmy asks, taking a sip of his own coffee. "yup," lois would affirm, bringing her own mug to her lips too, "it couldn't be written any better." jimmy would agree with a simple hum, "mmm, mmm."

one night, the work crew organized a night out. just a few of the best people are invited to a bar to relax and have some fun after all the hard work they do at the planet. y/n is in the shower, washing the office off, the glass door foggy, when clark barges in. they've both made it a habit of talking to each other when they're in the shower. you can't really see anything but a shape anyway (you can see clark's head over the top of it). "hey, y/n, where did you put my converse shirt? the small one that's black?" he would ask from the doorframe, watching your slender, blurry figure sway as you rinse your body. "small? dude that things, like, a large," you laugh, turning the water off. clark, on autopilot, hands you your towel and you step out carefully, skin damp and hair in a bun atop your head.

"yeah, whatever, it's small on me," he admits sheepishly, "anyway, where is it? i wanna wear it." he taps his foot impatiently, letting you push him against the doorframe with a hand on his chest as you walk past him.

"it's in my closet, hang on," you tell him, leaving wet marks on the ground as you walk to retrieve it.

"oh, so you weren't gonna give it back?" he teases, following you into your room, avoiding your steps. he plops down on your bed as you walk into your closet. you come out with his shirt and your own pair of comfortable clothes to wear while you do your hair and makeup.

"no, idiot," you tease back, throwing the shirt at him, which he catches with one hand. you pull a t-shirt on over your towel and allow it to reach mid-thigh before you drop your towel and pull on a pair of panties. "i was gonna give it back, but it just looks so much better one me," you smile as you pull your panties up your legs. his downward gaze and bitten lip don't go unnoticed by you. when you walk past him to go back into the bathroom, you grab his chin and give it a little squeeze. his eyes follow you all the down the hall.

when he's ready, he lays on your bed waiting for you to be done. "are you almost done?" he would whine, huffing dramatically every time he heard you dig for another product in your bag. when you finally finish your hair and makeup, you just need to get dressed.

"clark, i need your help," you say as you walk out of the closet. "should i wear this top," you point to the one you have on, "or should i wear this top?" you hold a different up and let him choose.

"definitely the one you have on," he says decisively and almost too quickly. what you settle on is a denim mini-skirt, a lace maroon tank top, with one of clark's old leather jackets over it.

clark drives there but he lets you play music. your knees are turned inward as he drives, doing air drums and guitar and singing the lyrics at him. he just smiles and laughs and adores you when you aren't looking. that night, one drink turns into six and, before you know it, you're drunk and feeling good and feeling trusting. lois becomes your first victim.

"I haven't had sex in soooo long," you tell her, and quite loudly as well to be heard over the music. "i think i need to fuck someone bad." she would just pat your back, "sure, honey," and guide you to clark, who typically became responsible for you when you were drunk. "she's talking nonsense, clark. you need to take her home," is what she tells him before running back to jimmy.

"clark!" y/n exclaimed, wrapping her hands around the back of his neck, reaching up on her tip toes, "my favorite person ever," you hum into his chest, feeling his strong arms wrap gently around your waist. he lets you hug for a moment before he peels you away gently. he pinches your chin to make you look at his face.

"you feelin' okay, sweetheart?" he asks, even though he knows the answer. when you only smile drunkenly with your eyes closed, he nods and politely excuses himself from the conversation he was having. he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you tight into his side, keeping you close to him in the crowd. he had to park kind of far away, so when you make it outside and walk half a block, you start to whine. "what's wrong, baby?" he asks, the pet name feeling like second nature.

"my shoes," you whine, pulling on his wrist, "hurts," you huff like a child and stare up at him through your lashes. how can he say no to you? he thinks to himself. he wordlessly, and mindlessly, wraps an arm around your upper back and another under your knees and scoops you up. you don't even really react, it's just become so normal. you only mutter a drunken thank you and nuzzle into his firm chest.

he takes the two of you home, changes you into comfortable clothes (another one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties), takes off your makeup, brushed your teeth, and makes you a glass of water. he carries you to the kitchen while he makes your water and sets you down on the kitchen counter. he hands you water and watches as you take a sip, then set the glass down beside you. you beckon him over with the wiggle of a finger, which he immediately obeys.

"i love you, clark, you know that?" you ask gently, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. he hums as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, pushing the long t-shirt of his that adorns your body higher. "i mean it, like, I really love you. so much," you smile, playing with his hair.

"i love you too, y/n," he agrees, wrapping his arms around his waist and at your lower back, "so much, sweetheart." he tightens his grip on your body and pulls you closer to him. he places a kiss to the top of your head and you wrap your legs around his hips, knowing he wants to pick you up. he hoists you up into his arms, hands holding you up under your ass. he walks with you in his arms, carrying you like you weigh nothing, and gently lays you down on your bed. he makes sure you're comfortable and reaches to turn off your lamp. you grab his wrist before he can.

"stay," you demand softly, giving his wrist a gentle tug. he looks down into your eyes, hunching down slightly, "please." at that soft plea, he obliges and slips into the bed beside you.

that night the two of you fall asleep with your head buried in his chest and his hands wrapped fully around your body. your leg is thrown over his hips and he has an arm wrapped over it with a hand under it. his other arm is under your abdomen, clutching you as close to him as he possibly can.

you're not just roommates anymore.

[besidesjustmyamour]

roommate!nanami at the beginning of a bdsm dungeon era.

roommate!nanami who didn't really indulge himself in horny things because they were deemed 'unprofessional'. like for instance, that time when you were watching fifty shades of grey just for fun.

"what are you watching?" "fifty shades of grey. this movie pisses me off." "then why are you watching it?" "because i'm bored. c'mon, you haven't seen it?" "i have not." "this is going to be fun."

roommate!nanami who visibly grew more and more concerned as the movie went on. you watched his reactions more than the actual screen, tantalizing, grinning, laughing at his horror.

"why is he doing that to her? is this enjoyable?" "i mean, who knows? it looks funny." "she doesn't seem to find it as humorous as you do." "you're getting too worked up over it. this is just a movie." "that doesn't make it right. does this... interest you?" "i mean... i don't know. maybe?"

roommate!nanami who, for all his horror and theatrics, couldn't stop thinking about that movie. thinking about doing that... to you. how pretty you would look, skin flushed, moans choked, eyes bleary. he had to take a few steps back, grip the counter. you glanced at him over your shoulder, brows knitting together in concern.

"ken? are you okay?" "yes. i'm fine." "you don't look fine. you look... sweaty." "i do not look sweaty." "go take a bath before dinner or something."

roommate!nanami who replayed what you said. the movie pissed you off---therefore you wouldn't want that to happen to you. the movie happened to piss him off too. there was obviously no chemistry between the leads and the sex felt rushed. clipped, even.

sex with you wouldn't feel like that. he would worship you.

roommate!nanami curled a fist against the shower walls, trying to drown his feelings under the relentless patter of water on his back.

"you still look weird. what's going on? did i do something wrong?" "what? no. why would you assume that?" "it's just... ever since we watched that movie together... i don't know. do you think i'm a freak or something now? i was... y'know, just messing around. i'm not..." "what are you trying to say?" "if i grossed you out or something, i'm sorry. i'll stop." "we were watching a movie together. there's nothing strange about it." "then why are you acting weird?" "... it's been a stressful week at the agency." "oh, ken. is there anything i can do to take your mind off of it?"

roommate!nanami didn't think this would be happening. not in his wildest dreams. not in his dirtiest fantasies. he wouldn't dream of hurting you... but sometimes you could be such a brat.

you were sprawled out beneath him, completely naked, and somehow you were everything he wanted and more. he grabbed your wrist, yanking you up and pulling you against his still-clothed body.

"how's that for blowing off some steam?" you teased.

"better," he mumbled, leaning in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "but you're still talking too much." he spun you around and bent you back over the bed, pushing your body down against the mattress. "less noise, more obedience. that's what i need right now."

"w-whatever you need," you repeat, voice muffled into the sheets. there's some kind of sick satisfaction that blooms in his chest when you're drooling into his bed and he hasn't even touched you yet.

"is this what you wanted? when you made me watch that movie," he whispers, breath ghosting across your body.

"i-i didn't make you do anything!" you protest.

roommate!nanami pushes you back into the sheets, ripping a fratured moan from your parted lips.

"no, you knew exactly what you were doing, showing me that." he swings a leg over your hip, caging your body underneath his. "you want me to do this to you. you're going to scream my name until the entire complex knows exactly who you belong to."

"ken," you groan. "i've never heard you---mmph---like this before."

that's because you don't know what the fuck you do to me.

roommate!nanami doesn't say that. instead, he hooks his fingers under his tie, loosening it around your neck and pulling it over his head. you feel the warmth of his fingertips trail up your body, suddenly grabbing your wrists and pinning them back down.

his voice is muffled when he speaks again, presumably because his tie is caught between his teeth. "can't... can't wait any longer." the smooth tie slips around your wrists pulling them together and locking them over your head.

roommate!nanami's fingers part your clenched thighs, two thick digits plunging knuckle-deep into your soaked folds without hesitation. he pumps them in and out of your squelching heat, curling them to rub against that sensitive bundle of nerves deep inside you.

you arch off the bed, and without a slip of movement, his other palm splays flat across your back, guiding you back into the sheets you scrabble at with your tied hands.

"this is how i know you wanted this," he murmurs, ever calm and soothing, voice crackling up your spine. "you just wanted someone to boss you around, is that it? someone to put you in your place?"

roommate!nanami chuckles low and deep. it's a sound of amusement and mockery that passes the wane of his lips, pressed up against your neck.

it's strange. tension is seeping from his coiled muscles, but he hasn't even undressed yet. fully clothed, but your choked sobs as you buck against his fingers, hips rolling against the tilted plane of his arm is all he needs for tonight.

the morning after, you wake to the warmth of his bed. roommate!nanami is nowhere to be found. for a moment, you wonder if last night really did freak him out to the point of fleeing.

but his figure appears in the doorway, leaning against the frame, honeyed eyes washing over you appreciatively. in his hand is a plate of buttered toast, just the way you like it.

"you think i'm a freak for liking that, don't you?" "it was intriguing. i don't mind helping you out with your... interests." "that makes it sound like you kind of liked it too." "perhaps 'kind of' is an understatement." "woah, nanami kento is a secret freak?!" "..." "i'm kidding, i'm kid---wait. seriously?" "you're getting a little too bold." "you think i need to be punished again?" "perhaps."

okay, so maybe the movie wasn't all bad.

a/n: i rewatched fifty shades of grey with my friend and it was absolutely just as horrible as the first time and EW she was like 'omg are you into that' and i was like 'uhm... no???' and she was like 'okay rope bunny' tsk tsk dividers by bbyg4rlhelps !!!

[formulafanfics13]

Cold Hands, Filthy Heart - MV1 & LN4 🔥

Masterlist

Summary: The ice bath was a post-race reward, or maybe a punishment, depending on how long you could keep your mouth shut. Max didn’t mind either way. He let you climb into his lap in the freezing tub, let you sink down onto his cock slow and deep, let you ride him until your moans got too loud and your head tipped back like a siren call. Which is exactly when Lando walks in. With a framed fan painting. For Max. And Max? Max doesn’t stop.

Warnings: smut, dom!Max, public/semi-public sex, slight exhibitionism, Lando walks in mid-sex, orgasm control, choking (light), face grabbing, degradation + praise, possessiveness, threesome

It started as a dare, or maybe a punishment. It was hard to tell with Max. One minute, you were bickering in the post-race debrief, throwing jabs about his tire degradation while Christian looked like he wanted to retire mid-season, and the next, Max was dragging you into the Red Bull motorhome, shoving open the ice bath room with that same dead-eyed calm he used to brake late into corners.

“You think you’re hot shit?” he muttered, pulling off his shirt. “Let’s see how long you last in here.”

“You first,” you smirked.

And now you were in his lap, riding him in the fucking ice bath, water sloshing around your waist, Max’s cock buried so deep you could feel him in your throat. You weren’t dating. Barely even on talking terms most weekends. But the second you’d dropped into the tub and slid onto his lap, bare and defiant and freezing, Max had grabbed your hips and took you like he’d been waiting all season.

Now his hands gripped your ass beneath the surface. One slapped across the swell of it, water stinging the skin as he rocked up into you. “Louder,” he growled. “Come on, fuck like you drive.”

“Fuck- Max-” Your head fell back, mouth open on a moan as your thighs trembled around him. Cold water clung to your skin. Max didn’t stop. Didn’t even blink. Just watched you with that same fucking smirk.

And that’s exactly when the door burst open. “Yo,” Lando’s voice rang out. “I got that painting-”

Silence. You froze. Max didn’t. He drove his hips up again, cock punching into you deep enough to make your breath hitch.

“Oh my fucking god,” Lando groaned, still holding the fan-framed canvas in both hands like a peace offering from hell. “Seriously? Seriously? In the fucking ice bath?”

You turned your head, gasping. “Lando- get out-”

“Not yet,” Max said, voice deadly calm. “She hasn’t learned her lesson.”

You squirmed in his lap. “You’re fucking insane-”

Lando looked torn. Flushed. Eyes darting between your dripping body and Max’s relaxed dominance. “Mate,” he said weakly. “You didn’t say you were gonna-”

“She climbed on,” Max said coolly. “I just didn’t stop her.”

Lando’s eyes flicked down to where your thighs spread around Max, water turning cloudy with movement. Then back to your face, your flushed, wet, desperate face.

“Fuck,” Lando muttered. “You want help?”

Your brain stalled. Max grinned. And that was it.

Lando set the painting down gently like it was sacred. Shrugged off his hoodie. Walked over with the kind of slow, careful amusement that said he knew exactly what he was doing.

You tried to speak. Tried to say no, or maybe wait, or maybe fuck me harder, you weren’t even sure anymore.

But Max just grabbed your jaw, turned your face toward him, “Say thank you.”

You whimpered. “Thank you.”

“Good girl.”

And that’s when Lando sank to his knees beside the tub. “Let me taste her,” he said casually, already pulling your leg up over the rim as Max raised himself onto the other side of edge so he could stay in you from behind. “Bet she’s sweet under all that attitude.”

You cried out as his mouth found you instantly, tongue dragging up where Max was still inside. The mix of hot breath and freezing water, Max fucking up into you and Lando sucking your clit, it was too much.

You came like that. Hard. Helpless. Max held you still as you bucked and writhed between them, Lando moaning against you, Max whispering filth in your ear.

“Now she’s ready,” Max muttered.

They traded places. Max pulled out. Lando stood. And without ceremony, Max pushed your head forward and said, “Open your mouth.”

You obeyed. Max watched with wicked satisfaction as Lando slid in, cock heavy and hot against your tongue. You gagged. He groaned. Max’s fingers tightened in your hair as he held you there. “Use her,” Max told him. “She’s still a brat.”

Lando fucked your mouth like he’d been dying to for weeks. Max gripped your thighs again, slipped two fingers back inside your soaked cunt, pressing deep and curling hard. You were nothing but a moaning, choking mess between them, stuffed and stretched and ruined.

“Holy fuck,” Lando groaned. “She’s drooling all over me-”

“She likes it,” Max smirked. “Look at her.”

You came again. Right there. With Lando in your throat and Max’s fingers inside you.

Lando gasped. Pulled out fast. “Shit-gonna come-”

“On her chest,” Max said simply. “Then we’ll switch.”

Lando obeyed. Hot and filthy across your tits, sticky and fast. You barely had time to breathe before Max flipped you around, bent you over the tub edge, and slammed back into you with a low growl.

“Lando,” he said, gripping your throat. “Hold her open.”

Lando stepped close again. Grabbed your jaw. You didn’t even think. Just opened your mouth. This time it was Max’s turn to come, buried deep, body shuddering, hand pressing on your back as he emptied inside you like he’d earned it.

Because he had. Because you never stood a fucking chance.

[54nboo]

‘bandaids.’ bob reynolds.

summary: bob reeeeeeeaaaaaalllllyyyyy likes your new suit.

pairing: bob reynolds x thunderbolts!reader

insp by: @opheliabbarnes perv bucky. i also JUST watched a bob edit with the song ayo technology by 50 cent and wow… boner city

word count: 3.3k

cw: very suggestive themes, bob is super pervy and super dirty minded, reader has a semi skin-tight suit, mentions of erections, mentions of public sex, mentions of wanting to die, mentions of sex, mentions of masturbation, mentions of just lots of stuff.

a/n: this is my first ever slightly saucy fic guys… be kind to me world… thank you opi for proofreading love you my day one

minors dni 😠

"hey, do you have a band-aid? ava mentioned you have a stash— oh."

bob's hand freezes on your door handle. his sentence dies in his throat, like he had hit a wall mid-sentence— the wall being you, halfway into your suit, bare back turned, zipper still undone. your arms are stuffed halfway into the sleeves, suggesting that you've been struggling with it for a while now.

you're not exactly naked, but there's a considerable amount of skin on display for bob to see— shoulder blades, spine, the soft curve of your lower back— stretching all the way down to where the suit is bunched and clinging desperately to your hips, caught on a zipper that refuses to budge.

"oh hey." you smile as you greet him, watching him in the reflection of your mirror, "great timing. can you zip me up?"

bob pauses in the doorway. he wasn't expecting you to welcome him in. he wasnt expecting you to be smiling at him as if he had walked in on a normal day— like your back wasn't half-bare and your suit wasn't clinging to you in all of the right places.

but he's not complaining. not even a little. there's a small part of him that feels like he should be ashamed of entering your room without knocking, but when has it ever failed him? it was only last week when he had come knocking to ask if you had seen his missing sock and walked in on you pulling on a pair of tight jeans.

they had no business being that tight, and you had no business squeezing into jeans a size smaller than you really needed.

you had just looked up at him and raised an eyebrow, and all he could do was nod and stammer as he backed out of your room. sock be damned. he had thought about it for three days straight, and then every so often when he closes his eyes.

but this? he would never forget this. this was jerk-off material.

"yeah." he licks his lip. his voice is calm— casual— but he can't hide how his eyes trail down the length of your legs, "yeah, i can do that."

he steps further inside your room, making sure to let the door click softly behind him. he tells himself it's because you wouldn't want anyone else to see you like this, but he knows it's because he doesnt want anyone else to see you like this— not when you look so guarded, so unbothered, like it means nothing to you when it's tearing him apart in real time.

you turn slightly as you pull your hair back for him, and bob swears he could combust right then and there. the sunlight streaming in from your window hits your back with the utmost precision, highlighting every line and every dip of your skin that the suit doesn't cover.

his fingers twitch at his side. he's not even touching you yet and his mouth has gone dry— completely, humiliatingly bone dry. tongue stuck against the roof of his mouth, breath immensely shallow, and his heart pounding in that pathetic traitorous way it always does around you.

"you're not..." he blinks, faltering for a moment as his eyes catch the curve of your back. his voice drops, barely audible, "wearing anything under it?"

"under what?” you raise a brow at him, “my suit?"

bob hums. it’s quiet, like he regrets it but can’t bring himself to take it back. what the hell possessed him to ask that.

and you laugh. "i'm wearing underwear." you answer like it’s just an innocent and genuine question— like bob isnt imaging your boobs pressing flush against your suit, or that he isn’t hoping you get a little cold and your nipples peek against the fabric.

you're so close that he can smell you. warm skin, the faint sweat that sits idly on your neck, and the subtle smell of something that lingers in your clothes.

and then bob reaches out. his finger tips graze the zipper where it rests against your lower back, and for a second, he just... pauses. not because he doesn't know how to do it, but because the the contact alone is enough to completely unravel him. you're so warm.

he starts to pull the zipper up. as his knuckles drag against your skin, he watches as goosebumps trail up your spine.

"your hands are cold." you laugh, light and easy, like you don't care. like you don't feel how low he reaches down your back.

he wants to die. right there. on the spot. just collapse and never get up so he doesn't have to deal with the awful humiliation of how bad he's holding himself together. you dont say anything, just raise a brow like you know, and that's somehow worse.

"sorry." he mumbles, "it's, uh— a little cold in here."

it's a dirty white lie. the room is fine. he's the problem.

bob's fingers fiddles with the zipper, pulling it up. he tries to ignore the way the suit tightens around your body, like it was tailored specifically to ruin him. every inch he closes seems to draw the fabric tighter, wrapping around you like a second skin.

the suit shrinks around the curve of your ass and the dip of your hip, and all he can do is watch shamelessly in the mirror as you slide your arms in, the fabric slotting perfectly under the swell of your breasts, sculpted around them in a way that should be illegal.

"who's hurt?" you quietly ask as you smooth the sleeves of your suit, taking a look at yourself in the mirror.

“oh, uh…” bob finishes the zipper with a satisfying click. he lets his hands fall to the front of his lap, interlocked to hide the growing bulge in his pants, "mel."

"she's still here?"

bob hums, "val wants to see the suits. she put her hand on the counter where alexei dropped a glass earlier. yelena got all the glass out of her hand... but.." he licks his lips, "she's still bleeding pretty bad.”

your lips curl into a smile and you look up at him as you strap your utility belt on, and oh god, bob wants to die, "is that what that noise was?"

bob hums, but his mind is far away. he wishes you wouldn’t look at him like that. like you aren’t even surprised that it was him that showed up at your door. like you knew he’d come with a flimsy excuse like val and a cut that isn’t even his.

you just look so good, and not even because your suit is skin tight. don't get him wrong— being skin tight definitely helps, but there's another reason why he's hiding his lower half behind his hands. its because you look strong. bob almost wants to ask you to throw him onto your bed just to see if you can.

he watches as you walk over to your closet and reach up to the highest shelf— your suit straining against your waist and ass— and pull out a small tin of band aids. bob watches you unscrew it, your gloved hands moving easily over the can.

"you um... you have so many." he swallows, eyes flicking from your hands to your face.

"yeah.” you let out a breathy laugh as you pull two out, “turns out you don't really need them when you live with assassins who don't even cry when they get stabbed."

you hand them to him and he takes them without a word. his fingers brush against yours— not even for a second— and it short-circuits something in his chest.

you dont walk back to your closet and reach for the highest shelf like he wants you to. you dont stretch on your toes and give bob the agonising view of your suit riding up your back and give him an excuse for staring like an idiot.

instead, you place the tin on your desk— simple, casual, and thoughtless. and somehow its worse, because now bob knows you’re not doing it on purpose. youre not stuck in the same tormenting spiral like he is, and you’re certainly not hot for him like he is for you.

and then he watches you walk to the door, too enamoured— hypnotised, really— by the way the fabric of your suit clings to your thighs, how every step you take stretches it just right, tight and smooth and totally unfair.

he doesn’t even realise you’re leaving under your hand shifts on the door knob, pulling the door open. you turn back to him— real slow— and smile at him like you hadn’t just rearranged every single thought in his brain.

“you coming or what?” you ask as you hold the door open.

and god help him, he doesn’t even think. he just surges forwards towards you like you’ve got a leash around his neck and all you have to do is tug.

you and bob walk into the living room. it’s already chaos— the team standing around in front of valentina like they’re being strip-searched, and mel standing off to the side typing down all of valentina’s complaints into her ipad.

“i mean, if i wanted someone to look like they’d just crawled out of an arsenal, i’d have asked alexei.” valentina drawls as she circles yelena like a hawk, eyeing the bits and bobs on her suit, “this doesn’t scream hero. it screams… assassin.”

yelena doesnt even blink, “that’s because i am one.”

then valentina sees you and bob walk in. her eyes drag over you first— dissecting your suit choice with critical eyes— and then she cocks her head at bob, who’s holding mel’s bandaids.

“ah, there you are.” valentina pivots mid monologue, her heels clicking against the linoleum as she beelines towards you two. she makes a grabbing motion for bob, who holds the bandaids out, and she takes them. “there’s your bandaids, mel.”

mel scuttles forwards with a small smile and takes them with a small ‘thank you’. valentina barely acknowledges it and turns back to you.

"it's a bit... skimpy... don't you think?" she says, lips turning like she’s being generous with her wording, “i did give you two options, didnt i?”

bob wants to disagree. he wants to say no, the suit fits perfectly— or maybe something worse, something honest— like it almost fits too well, and that you look so good that he hasn’t looked away from you ever since he stepped foot in your room. but he doesn’t.

you dont miss a beat— "i'm a stealth specialist, valentina. did you expect me to choose the one that sounded like maracas every time i walked?"

bob lets out a small sigh of relief at your words. he likes your suit just the way it is. he really likes your suit. more than he should. its actually kind of a problem.

valentina doesnt try to argue with you. instead, she just exhales sharply through her nose and waves you off like youre an annoying fly in her orbit. “whatever. natasha romanoff wore something similar and look how popular she was— and bonus, you’re the only one who doesn’t look like a linebacker!”

yelena, from across the room, scoffs under her breath.

valentina ignores her. “oh, and don’t get it all destroyed or anything. your suit isn’t cheap and i dont want to have to buy you spares if i don’t need to.”

“i’ll try not to.” you give her a half-assed smile and turn on your heel, already walking towards the elevator, “wouldn’t want to inconvenience you.”

valentina’s voice follows you, “where are you going?”

“to test out the new suit.” you call over your shoulder as the elevator doors slide open for you, “gotta make sure it holds up before i go out and destroy it.”

valentina opens her mouth like she’s about to say something, but surprisingly— for the first time in her life— she has nothing to say.

you step inside and give your team a smile, but catch bob rooted into the ground like he’s deciding whether or not he’s allowed to follow. you press a hand against the doors to stop them from closing.

“you wanna join me, bob?”

bob doesn’t answer. he just moves— fast and clumsy, almost tripping over his own foot in his rush to get to you. when he slips into the elevator next to you, you pretend not to notice that he’s smiling like a complete idiot.

“honestly? its not that bad. a little tight on the thighs, but i’m not exactly complaining.”

bob hums in agreement.

“apparently it’s bullet resistant, heat-resistant, stab-resistant… basically every-resistant you can think of. that’s probably why val said it wasn’t cheap.”

bob nods.

“i mean, she called it skimpy, but if you think about it, it’s way more tactical. less fabric equals less drag. it’s simple physics, bob.”

you're talking to him— about how the suit can fit accessories and weapons if needed, and how it feels sleeker and way lighter than your old suit— but bob isn't listening.

bob is good at fake listening. it's a bad habit that’s become a skill. he knows how to nod at all of the right times, and sometimes even bothers to give a half-asses reply if he knows you're not paying close enough attention.

he hears you— he thinks he does— but the words just mesh together into a big pile of alphabet soup. all he can focus on is the curve of your mouth, the shine of sweat on your temple, and god, the way your suit clings to you every time you move.

right now, he's more preoccupied on how your suit stretches thin against the curve of your ass rather than the bullseye you just hit with your dagger. he's chewing on his thumbnail as a vice, barely resisting the urge to just reach out and pull you in by your thighs. his spot on the floor helps hide the bulge in his pants, and his arm is stuffed under his shirt, pinching the skin on his stomach to at least try to hold back.

it’s even harder when you’re showing him these awesome new parts of the suit and dragging your hands against your body like it isn’t driving him absolutely insane. he really would be interested and pay attention if you didn’t look look like that.

he swears he could drop to him knees right now and worship the ground you walk on. kiss the space between your shoulder blades. say something stupid and reckless that destroys all the respect you have for him. he would grab you and crazy passionate love to you right in front of everyone if you had asked him to.

“you’re staring.”

bob blinks— caught. you’re looking down at him like youre about to discover every thought he’s been thinking for the past hour, and his stomach drops. his mouth opens and then shuts again.

“i was just trying to…” he scratches the back of his neck, nodding like he knows what he’s talking about, “y’know… focus. on your form.”

you raise a brow, “my form?”

“yeah.” he nods, “it’s really, uh… efficient.”

you’re so close that he can feel the heat radiating off of your skin, and if it was even possible, he feels his dick strain even harder against his pants. he has to bite his lip to keep himself from making a sound.

“okay.” you shrug.

bob’s not really giving you much to work with, but he’s good company. instead, you turn around and point at a strap across your back. it’s twisted and digging into your skin, and no amount of reaching behind you is fixing it. “you mind helping with this harness? i can’t reach it.”

bob doesnt want to get up. not because he doesn’t want to help— he wants nothing more than to help you— but because his entire body has betrayed him. he’s been sitting on the floor the entire hour acting like he’s simply keeping you innocent company— but there’s nothing innocent about the building, burning tension pressing against his pants.

he didn’t know what he expected. if anything, he had done this to himself. you’ve been moving around the training room in that damn suit, stretching and working out and talking to him while he sits there and ogles you. he could’ve solved this hours ago with a quick bathroom fix, but no, bob had to be selfish and have you all to himself by sticking himself to you like glue.

and now you’re asking him to come and touch you?

bob thinks he might be cursed. or he’s being tested. or both.

he gets up. he hopes— prays— that you dont suddenly turn around and look at him, because then you’d see it— all of it. by the time he’s behind you, he feels rabid. he’s almost afraid he might drool on you.

“it’s digging in kind of weird.” you tell him as you pull your hair out of the way, “just needs to be untwisted.”

his finger slips under the strap, sliding down against your back and grazing against your spine. you know he’s just trying to untangle it, but you don’t expect him to be breathing down your neck.

“this one?” he murmurs, dazed out of his fucking mind.

“mm-hm..” you don’t flinch or move. if anything, you lean into his touch.

you don’t mean to, and neither does he— but somewhere between his hands brushing against your harness and your shoulder dipping to give him more access, you both start to lean into each other— just slightly, just enough— and the space between you disappears like it was never there to begin with.

and then you shift. just a little. just enough to feel it. the press of something firm against the small of your back. its barely a second, but it feels like years for bob. the press of your back against his cock wrings out a small whimper from his mouth.

he wants to die.

he freezes behind you. his hands are still working clumsily at the twisted strap, and suddenly every ounce of his blood is either pooling in his cheeks or rising to the tip of his dick.

did you notice? did you hear him? you must’ve. there’s no way you didn’t hear his pathetic whimper. it was right there—

his finger slips from your back and he steps away. you start to turn around, and he’s convinced this is it. he expects you to look at him with disgust, or tell him that you think he’s a gross pervert and that you never want to see him again. he wouldn’t blame you.

but no— you’re smiling at him like he’s just done you the biggest favour. like you hadn’t just accidentally bumped into the biggest and most humiliating problem that was currently ruining his entire life.

“thanks, bobby.” you beam like you hadn’t just reset all of the chemistry in his bloodstream, “you mind getting me some water? i’m exhausted.”

bob swallows so hard that it hurts, “yeah. no—no problem.”

he turns, and practically scampers away like a disgraced rat— head down, footsteps clumsy, still trying to hide the absolute mess he’s become underneath your presence— and then he hears you.

“hey bob?” you call.

he freezes and turns. his eyes are so wide and guilty, and his hands fumble with the front of his sweater like it’ll shield him from the absolute humiliation bleeding through his entire body.

“you might wanna…” you tilt your head, your lip tucked between your teeth like you’re resisting the urge to laugh, “sort that out before anyone else sees.”

bob stops.

oh. my. god.

[wildrose325]

It's the first week of August.

I haven't had tumblr in... what, 7 years? Christ. I was 25...7 years ago.

It's the first week of August 2025. I'm 8 months pregnant with Charlie, my baby boy, and I'm so excited to meet him. Honestly, I never thought I'd want to be pregnant again. It's special, if strange. I hated it so much with Rosy, and I still hate aspects of it but that sheer surrealism of it is gone, I suppose that's because I'm already a mom, I'm not transitioning from being a teenager to being a mom, I'm transitioning from being a Young Mom to being, really, a grown adult. 32.

I remember being 9 years old in dance class, looking at the corner of the floor and thinking about 32. How far it felt. How unreal, to be an adult. And, idk, I know i've changed a lot (thank god) but in many, many, many ways I haven't changed a bit. I still have the same mind, same way of viewing the world. Short temper, easily riled. I've learned to be able to put others ahead of myself, Rosy and Tey and now Charlie.

I'm sitting at my kitchen island with coffee, watching my goats explore the backyard. We just got a chicken coop and 16 chickens last weekend. We're in our forever spot, not forever home though. Even then, it won't be forever. I'll up and leave all of this in a moment when Rosy needs me elsewhere. I deeply hope she has children at a younger age than 30, so I can be a very present grand parent and help her with everything she needs, so she doesn't feel so alone. Motherhood is very isolating, in a nonsexy way.

"The pain isolation!"

"...but you like pain isolation."

"NOT like this."

We've been in Asheville what, a year and a half? That's longer than most places we've lived! It still doesn't feel exactly like my home, Asheville is wayyy too liberal. It feels like someone else's town that I'm visiting, still. All of North Carolina does. But i'm settling down, becoming familiar with places. Our home feels like our home. Finally, no plans for movement, upheaval. It was so necessary for Rosy. She was really suffering from the move from Virginia, leaving her friends and home. She still cries about it.

But here! Man, the freedom. The farm life, the friend group, the building of something Teylor and I have dreamed about for 12 years. We have a real family now.

“August rain: the best of the summer gone, and the new fall not yet born. The odd uneven time.”

—

~ Sylvia Plath (via conflictingheart)

ugh. plath will always have a special, suicidal place in my heart

[ztarvokwrites]

💔LaDS men realising they made a terrible mistake far too late💔

How long has it been now? A few months? A year? You lost track of time, far too pre-occupied with self-healing and regaining your confidence to keep up with it. You hadn't even thought of them since about three months after you broke up.

Now, with your new partner or your new family, you're happier than ever. But the world is truly a small place, as you meet eyes with him again after so, so long.

an: TO THE ANON WHO REQUESTED THIS. YOU HAVE NO IDEA HOW MUCH I LOVE YOUR BRAIN AND HOW IT WORKS. OH MY GOSHHHH!!! i was literally thinking of something similar the other day :D THANK YOU ANON and thank you everyone for being so supportive!! <33

PART 1 | PART 2 (you're here!) | ALT. PART 2 (soon!)

genre: angst, comfort (kinda?), closure, unresolved feelings/closure (rafayel)

word count (minus intro): 6.4k (6,488)

remember to drink water and enjoy! <3

⭐️Xavier⭐️

It has been about a year or two after you two went separate ways. You eventually leave the Hunters Association, siting personal problems as a reason to quit and your colleagues decide to throw you a goodbye party — in which you avoid Xavier like your life depended on it, as it hurt to look at him. After that, you decide to travel the world before finally circling back to visit Linkon City with a new life.

Arriving at Linkon City with your partner and your 2 month old son in your arms, you smile. Despite the temporary pain these familiar sites have given you, you can't help but feel relieved that you're back home, exactly where you belong. You fail to notice a familiar man exit the Hunters Association as you walk past, his gaze falling on you like he's just seen a ghost.

Blue eyes dart between the infant in your arms, your partner, then back to you. There's a sudden lump in his throat that won't go away, no matter how hard he swallows. He desperately needs to talk to you, but how can he do that when you're clearly not alone? He looks down, as if trying to gather his thoughts, before deciding to catch up to you.

As you're placing your son in the pushchair that your partner is holding, you notice someone approach from your peripheral. Strapping your child in, you straighten up and turn, only to meet the eyes of the one who shattered your heart and your pride into a million speckles of stars: Xavier. Your partner raises a brow before you gather your thoughts and gently shoo him away, placing a kiss to his cheek.

"I'll meet you at the apartment, okay?" You whisper, smiling at him. Your partner nods, placing a soft peck to your lips before leaving with your child. Once they're gone, you turn to Xavier, immediately noticing the way his eyes dart away.

"...Hey," He mutters, voice soft and barely audible.

"Hey," You respond, ignoring the dull ache in your chest.

"...Can we talk...?"

And that's how you both find yourselves sitting down in the nearby park, opposite each other on a bench as he begins to explain himself.

"So, I... Wanted to confess to Emcee, but..." He trails off, shaking his head. "I.. I just couldn't. Not after finding out she's dating someone else and...." He hesitates for a second, flashes of you handing your son off to your partner flashing in his mind. He sighs, shoulders sagging as he leans his elbows on the table. "...Not after what I did to you. I felt awful, and I still do. There's not a day that goes by where I wish I could've given you more of me."

You don't know what to say, his openness after all this time catching you off-guard. There's a silence that accompanies you, only being broken by the rustling of the trees and chirping of the birds above. A grey cloud looms overhead as you look him in the eyes.

"...Xavier," His name rolling off of your tongue sounds like heaven to him, but he knows that his name isn't the one you call every day. Even so, his eyes soften. "...You were... I loved... Everything about you back then."

Back then.

"I know," Xavier responds, voice softer now as he shakes his head. "I know and I am so, so sorry. I really wish I could've just ran after you that day and fixed everything, but..." He glances at what dangles around your neck; a locket in the shape of a heart. He purses his lips before looking away. "I know that I'm far too late."

Another long, almost emptying silence.

"...You look happy," Xavier is the one to break it this time, looking at you with a small smile that makes your chest tighten. You swallow the upcoming lump in your throat with a small smile of your own. "...You have a partner. A family... That's good... I'm actually glad to see you happy like this. You look brighter, if that's even possible..." You're taken aback by how well he seems to be taking this, considering you've seen him jealous more times than you can count.

But you notice the distance in his eyes has he smiles at you, like he's accepted whatever fate has given him. Your chest aches, yet all you can muster up is a small smile of your own as you speak.

"...Thank you..." You mumble, tone wavering just a little. There's nothing else you can say, nothing you can think of to ease the awkwardness of seeing each other again. Xavier stares at you for a little while before looking away, fishing something out of his pocket.

"I... Kept the necklace," He mutters, holding it out in his hand. You watch as his thumb gently caresses the metal heart on it, running over the words 'In the sky of stars, you shine the brightest'. You have to swallow the lump in your throat and blink away the tears that threaten to spill. "It reminds me of us... Keeps me comforted, in a way... I tried looking for you everywhere, but now that I've found you, I..." He looks at you, noticing the tears welling up in your eyes. "...I'm at peace. Knowing you're well, knowing you're happy. Even if I'm not the one bringing you that happiness anymore, seeing you smile so genuinely like that just means that you're being treated well by your partner... He is treating you well, right?"

His sudden shift in tone makes you lightly laugh, catching him by surprise.

"Sorry, sorry," You giggle, wiping a tear from your eye before it could fall. "Yes, he is treating me well, Xavier."

"...Then why did you laugh?"

"Because I almost forgot how jealous you could get," You reply, smirking slightly. "Your tone shift was crazy!"

"I'm not jealous, I was just..." He pauses, a small blush on his cheeks as he puts the necklace back into his pocket. Scratching the back of his neck, he sighs. "Okay, I might be jealous. But I'm being honest, too. I'm glad you're being treated well, you deserve it," Now that the tension has somewhat settled, you can smile a little wider. "How old is your child, by the way?"

"Almost 2 months old now," You answer, keeping your tone light as you leans your elbows against the bench table and rest your chin in your hands. Xavier smiles, relaxing a little.

"Looks like you," He remarks, chuckling softly. You grin softly, snickering yourself as you agree. "Seriously, I don't think I saw an ounce of him in your kid. I knew your genetics were strong, but I didn't think they were that strong." You cracked up at his teasing, tilting your head back a bit as you laugh.

The two of you continue your conversation, your reunion that was once sad and awkward now turning into one of cheerful laughter and smiles. Above the sound of the rustling of the leaves, you hear the wheels of a pushchair approaching. Turning your head, you see your partner returning with your now sleeping child. Meeting his gaze, you smile and he seems relieved.

"Everything going well, I see," He notes, chuckling as he plants a kiss to the top of your head. He turns to Xavier with a hand outstretched for him to shake. "Caleb. I believe you work with Emcee?"

Ah. Right. You almost forgot about that.

"Hi," Xavier responds, shaking his hand. "Yeah, I do... I think she mentioned you a few times."

Before they could carry on their, quite frankly, awkward conversation, your baby begins to stir awake, small whines and cries leaving his mouth. You look over at him and coo, parental instincts taking over.

"Looks like our little pilot is hungry," Caleb mutters, gently booping his nose before he turns to you. "We should get her home, Hon."

"Yeah," You nod, standing up. You smile at Xavier, waving goodbye to him. "Bye, Xavier. I'll see you around so we can have another catch up, yeah?" Xavier nods, waving goodbye as he watches the three of you disappear from his line of sight. He sighs softly, slouching. His heart aches, the fact that you're no longer his hurts, yes — but he's grateful that you're back in his life.

And he is not going to mess this up. Ever again.

🐟Rafayel🐟

Ever since you left, ever since he fucked it all up, he's been nothing like his normal self. His creativity has taken a severe nose dive and so has his self-esteem. Even Emcee has noticed it and she didn't have to ask why.

Because she saw you run past her and Caleb on the day Rafayel shut everyone out, tears leaving a trail on the ground. Her heart sunk that day, knowing exactly what must've gone down for you to run out so dramatically like that.

But even so, her heart aches for her painter friend, too. The way he can't look at her for more than a second, the way he tries his best to find any trace of you. You were his muse, his masterpiece, his... God, he wants you to be his Bride. But you were gone just like that.

One year passes and Thomas finally drags him over to Chansia to get him some damn inspiration because poor Tom is sick and tired of him moping around. He simply cannot find any more patience left in him to pick up after his junk-food messes anymore.

Rafayel does not want to be here. He wants to be at home, not wandering the Scenic High Street this futuristic city has to offer. It's not until they reach Chansia's beach where something catches the aggravated artist's interest.

He has to do a double- no, triple take when he sees what looks like you in the distance, walking hand in hand with a man that's not him as he holds your flip-flops in his free hand. He's still as he watches from afar, watching your face crinkle as you smile and laugh at whatever your new boyfriend said.

The Lemurian's heart stutters, then stops. You used to look at him that way. You used to laugh like that with him. He used to hold your flip-flops whenever the two of you went for a romantic stroll on the beach. But he's not him anymore, is he?

His heart yearns for you, just as the tide rises and rages against the shore. Just as dark clouds begin to roam overhead. Just as specks of sunlight try desperately to reach the ground. Time seems to cease as you look his way, your eyes flickering from the sudden raging tides to him.

Rafayel feels his heart pound in a panic, looking away immediately and staring at the ocean's stuttering waves. Without a second thought, he runs and leaps into the ocean, completely ignoring everyone and everything else as he swims and swims away. Thomas, realising the sea's tide changing yet again, turns to find Rafayel, but he is nowhere to be seen.

"...What the fuck?!" He exclaims, frustrated that he dragged him all this way just for him to disappear.

Many hours later, as the sea finally calms and the moon glistens in the waves, Rafayel returns. He ignores Thomas once he gets to his hotel room and leaves with his sketchbook, a canvas, easel and other art supplies. Thomas sighs, sort of relieved that he's got some inspiration at last. But his concern lingers.

Rafayel arrives at the beach again, sitting down on a rock overlooking the photogenic ocean. From late night to sunrise, he remains in place, sketching with trial and error before finally painting with vibrant hues. When the sun rises high in the sky, he's finally done painting and waits for the sea's gusts to gently dry the paint to the canvas.

Thomas raises a brow upon his return, seeing a fire in his eyes that he hasn't seen in a long time. He watches as he places the canvas down, away from his manager, and sits down at a desk, writing something on paper — a letter. When he's done, he uses wax and a stamp to seal it shut before writing your name on the front. He hands it to Thomas without a second glance.

"Thomas, at my next art exhibition, I want you to find her and give her this letter," Rafayel says with renewed passion hidden behind a wall of sadness. "And that art piece will be displayed," He points to the canvas. "But it's not for sale if anyone asks. Got it?"

Thomas, with surprise in his gaze, nods, opening his phone to make some rather enthusiastic phone calls.

On the day of his art exhibition in Chansia, you arrive with your boyfriend, Jeremiah. As you're looking around, he gets a phone call and has to step out, leaving a lingering kiss on your lips before he leaves. You smile softly, watching as he leaves to go outside, the sun illuminating his figure until he's out of sight. Footsteps approach you and when you turn, you're met with the sight of Thomas.

"...Hello, Thomas. It's... Been a while," You mutter, eyes flickering from his kind face to the letter in his hand. You raise a brow, a silent question as to what he was doing.

"Yes, it's been... Far too long," His tone lacks the jovial attitude you were used to hearing during these events and you noticed the slight sweat on his brow. Was he nervous? Why? He hands you the letter before you can say anything else. "Here," He says, "This is a letter from Rafayel. Read it when you get home... Please."

Your heart stiffens. A letter from Rafayel? Is he serious? By the look in Thomas' eyes, he is. You can only nod in agreement before waving goodbye to Thomas as he left to greet more guests. Absentmindedly, you hold the letter in your hands and read the handwriting on the front: addressed to only you, in elegant handwriting. Yep. Definitely Rafayel. With a sigh, you stop in your tracks and put the unopened letter in your handbag before looking up.

In front of you is a lone piece of art, The colours blend and swirl to create a scene all too familiar to you; a woman and a man strolling along the beach, hand in hand. They're smiling, happy, and glowing. The sun's rays shine upon them like a spotlight, further emanating their ecstatic glow and enveloping the world around them in a dark blue hue. Among the sea of blue, lacoste green and suns purple, is a lone fish. It swims, just barely visible in the distance. It's light steel blue base colour stands out, tiny details of pale turquoise and uranian blue scales making the fish shimmer, in a way.

You notice the aura that surrounds the fish — an almost sad, regretful aura — and you feel as though someone has taken an arrow to your heart and stabbed it over and over again. Your gaze sweeps to the nameplate at the bottom of the frame.

Pais et Solitude - Not For Sale

The painting. The name. The fish. It all points to the day you saw him and the meaning behind his unreadable gaze that day.

Footsteps, light yet bordering on rushed, approach you and stop by your side. You don't have to look to know who it is, as his familiar scent invades your senses and leaves you almost speechless.

"...I'm sorry," Apologises Rafayel, his voice soft as he speaks those two words from the depths of his soul. You swallow thickly, hesitating as if he's going to say anything else. But he doesn't, and maybe that's worse for you. You feel a heaviness in your chest as you respond, unspoken and unresolved feelings making the tension almost unbearable.

You open your mouth for a moment, eyes flickering between all the details you've noticed on the painting, before you speak, trembling lips curving into a small smile as you quickly glance at him.

"...I know."

🐦‍⬛Sylus🐦‍⬛

Apparently, he can afford distractions.

But who does he blame? Not you. Not Emcee. Himself. He blames himself.

A week after he told you (rather rudely) that your relationship with him was over, Mephisto had come to him. After accessing his memory, Sylus felt a sting in his chest when he saw Emcee walking hand in hand with a man with silver hair and blue eyes. It wasn't hard to see how in love they seemed to be, so Sylus eventually closed the laptop and tried to forget he ever saw that.

But what he's struggling to forget is you. It's like you're haunting him every time he closes his eyes or goes to sleep. You've started appearing in his dreams, where you're holding his hand and smiling sweetly at him. He always wakes up in a cold sweat. Luke and Kieran have picked up on his sudden change in attitude, as they spot him moping around or angry most days. They don't bother to ask him about it.

You're on his mind so much that he thinks he's actually seeing you at his house, sitting on the couch or sleeping soundly on the bed. It's driving him to the point of insanity. God, it's almost like he can still smell your floral scent...

He snaps one day, when it gets too much, he sends Mephisto out to look for you — something he scolds himself for not doing sooner, seeing as it's been about a year since he's seen your face. Turning to his laptop, he opens Mephisto's live feed and watches as the crow perches himself up on a tree branch and looks down, immediately zeroing in on you through the window of a small restaurant.

You smile at something, at someone. Sylus swallows, throat suddenly becoming so dry that not even the finest wine at his disposal seems to wet it. Sitting across from you is a man, showing you what looks like pictures of an animal on his phone. Sylus can't make out what you two are saying, but whatever than man says, it makes you smile.

So, you're happy. There's a smile that reaches your eyes, a flush to your cheeks... It's an expression that Sylus wishes to see again in person. More specifically, he wishes to be the one to make you smile like that again.

...But he can't bear to ruin this for you. He just can't bring himself to do it, to find you and grovel at your feet and ask for forgiveness in hopes you'll take him back. The moment you make eye contact with Mephisto, Sylus is quick to make him return. There's a heavy thump in his chest as flashes of your smile echo in his mind. The urge to touch you, to feel you, to love you is overwhelming. But you're someone else's darling now, it seems. He can't touch.

But that doesn't mean he can't talk.

That's how he found himself knocking at your apartment door, something he hasn't done in what feels like forever. The moment you open the door, clad in your pyjamas and slippers, his mind goes completely silent. The moment your eyes meet his, your brows raising in surprise, his mouth opens.

"Who is he to you?" Fuck, he wants to punch himself in the mouth! Why the hell would he say that?! God, the way you look at him now just makes him want to turn around and leave.

"Wow, Sylus," But god, his name from your lips makes him want to stay. You cross your arms and lean against the door as you speak. "Not even a 'hello'? A 'how are you'?"

There's a silence that's unbearable, and you're looking at him as if he's grown a third head. Your mind must be racing — after all, he didn't respect your wishes of never wanting to see him again — but here you both are, hesitating. A sharp sigh from you is what breaks the never ending silence.

"Come in, sit down and shut up," You say that last part half-heartedly, curious as to why he's here and to what he wants from you. The door slamming behind him makes him visibly jolt as he sits on your couch. The moment you take a seat on the other end of the couch, he speaks.

"I'm sorry," His unusually sombre tone catches you off guard. Meeting your surprised, yet curious gaze, he continues. "I'm not here to beg for forgiveness, or to force for you to come back to me, but I am here to apologise. The way I broke up with you that day was, in fact, cowardly. The letter, the way I spoke to you — everything. I... Your face when you walked out that day has haunted me ever since... And I only realised my guilt when Mephisto spotted Emcee with another man."

You're stunned. Surely, he was smarter than that? But, you know he's serious, at least.

"...It took you seeing her in love with someone else to finally see me," You speak, leaning forward slightly, arms folded. "Is that what you're saying?"

"...Yes," He sighs, pinching the bridge of his nose as if to scold himself for his cowardice and stupidity. "It's... Shameful, really. Knowing that if I had just waited, I would've seen her with him and still had you in my life... But I pushed you away, because of the bond her and I shared many, many moons ago. I wish I had acted differently, or communicated better with you. Maybe then, I would've kept the person that made my dark, crimson world a bright pink."

You don't notice the sting in your eyes until a tear falls down your face. Your hand comes up and wipes it away, and his hand itches to do the same, to feel your skin against his. But he's always respected your boundaries.

"If you waited," You say, "I would've waited, too. In fact, after our breakup," Sylus feels a little sting at the way you speak, the way your voice slightly trembles and breaks. "...I waited for you to come back to me, to take it all back..."

"...But I didn't."

"No, you didn't..." You trail off, watching as your phone on the table vibrates with a call from your boyfriend. But you don't answer it. You let it ring and go to voicemail. Sylus eyes the name on the screen: Zayne.

"Does he treat you well?" He asks suddenly, making you stunned. You wipe your eyes softly before responding with an affirmative answer and nod of your head. Sylus smiles softly at this. "That's good. You deserve someone who treats you the way you deserve to be treated," He pauses before responding with a much softer tone, "...Like royalty."

Sylus rises from his seat, hands in his leather jacket pockets and red eyes watching as you stand up, too. Your thumb wipes a stray tear away before it could drop from your jaw.

"...I'll be leaving now," He says, staring at you. His Adam's Apple bobs as he fights the urge to pull you in and kiss you with all the passion he could muster. But he doesn't. He'll just be ruining you all over again, and he really doesn't want that. Sylus speaks as he walks over to your front door, opening it. "I wish you luck and happiness, Y/N."

"...Yeah," You mumble, giving him a brief smile. "You too, Sy..." You close the door behind him as he steps out with a small smile of his own. The moment it's shut, you watch through the peephole as he disappears out of sight, presumably out of the building. With your heart hammering in your chest, you lean your back against the door and sigh heavily, not knowing exactly how to feel.

Sylus, on the other hand, waits until he's out of the apartment building entirely before reacting. Once far enough away, he leans against a tree and lets out a deep breath, followed by a sharp hiss. God, it hurts. His soul hurts. But seeing you smile like that again and hearing your voice, perhaps for the last time, is all worth it to him.

❄️Zayne❄️

Zayne moved like a zombie stuck in a never ending cycle — especially since the break up. He didn't expect for it to hit so hard, but it hit. And it hurt. A lot.

You were his warmth in his cold, bleak world. And you were gone, just barely within reach. He saw you, yes, but you wouldn't dare interact with him. He'd check up with your doctor frequently to the point where they had to ask him to tone it down. Zayne couldn't help it, since your presence at Akso Hospital was a bittersweet distraction, but he complied anyway. He didn't want to make you even more uncomfortable, so he left you alone in the end.

Until one day, a year later, Greyson enters his office after having talked to you. He gives Zayne his papers as per usual before just... Standing there, lips pursed as if he has something to say. The stoic cardiac surgeon didn't notice until he glanced up from his papers.

"If you have something to say, Dr Greyson, I suggest you say it," He speaks lowly with an exasperated sigh, turning a page. "You know it's not good for your head to bottle up thoughts."

"It's Y/N," Zayne hears Greyson's voice cut through the air, immediately making him abruptly stand with concern in his eyes. Greyson takes a step back at this before quickly reassuring him before he could rapidly ask questions. "She's okay! I promise," Zayne immediately relaxes before glaring at him with a silent urge to continue. "...It's just... She came in to Dr Smithers' office for her checkup with another man. When she saw me, she introduced him to me as her boyfriend. She... Told me not to tell you..."

The silence that follows is both deafening and chilling. Yet, nothing is more piercing than the look Zayne is giving Greyson. It's a look of cold, silent shock and jealousy that's masked by a single glance, yet Greyson can see though that mask perfectly well. Taking the hint, said doctor swiftly leaves Zayne's office, letting the surgeon simmer in his own emotions — something very dangerous for him to do.

Zayne sits back down in his chair, hands in his head and eyes closed as he tries to pull himself together and process this information. In his thoughts, he remembers wanting to chase after you, to talk to you, to take it all back. But now, you have someone else on your tail, right by your side through thick and thin, just like he once was. That man, whoever he may be, is not Zayne.

And that's what's difficult for him to digest.

It takes him embarrassingly long for him to pull himself together and when he does, he realises that his schedule is over for the day. That fact alone makes him stand up and move with renewed vigour, taking off his lab coat and quickly changing into something more appropriate for what he was about to do.

Talk to you.

If he's remembering your schedule correctly, you should be waking up at this ungodly hour of four in the morning. One message to your old roommate confirms his memory. Putting his phone back in his pocket and taking a deep breath, he raises his fist and knocks.

And then, he waits.

You, clad in your pyjamas, sleepily opens the door without looking through the peephole. Upon realising who it is, you rub your eyes with a small, confused murmur.

"Zayne...? It's four in the morning... How'd you find me and why are you here at this hour?" You question through your haze. Hearing your sleepy voice makes him clam up.

"Your old roommate gave me your address," He hesitantly explains, knowing how bad this must look for him. "I'm sorry about this, but we need to talk."

"...Can I at least get dressed first...?"

Zayne's green eyes scanned your body before quickly looking away. He nods with a clear of his throat and a bright red blush dusting his cheeks and ears. Moments later, you re-emerge and he takes you to a café you two used to frequent for lunch dates. That's when he opens his mouth and talks, steady hands now slightly trembling as he holds his mug.

"...I went after her, like you said to," He begins, swallowing thickly and avoiding your gaze for a moment before looking at you. "I told her how I felt, but she just saw me as a brotherly figure, and so I let it be... I didn't ask much about what's happening in her life after that. So, when Greyson came in to tell me she has a partner, well I—" He cuts himself off, noticing your surprised gaze. You were sure that Emcee didn't have a partner, and that she liked Zayne, too, since they grew up together. But, apparently not. Zayne clears his throat and takes a sip of his hot chocolate. "...That got me thinking more about us... About you."

"...More?" The thought of him thinking about you reverberates though your mind, making you curious. Zayne can only nod, the flush on his cheeks returning. He continues speaking, telling you his regrets and how he oh-so desperately wanted to reach out to you again and make amends, but you kept avoiding him.

"I wanted to give you your space," He further explains. "To give you room to breathe and heal, so I gave up pursuing you." Hearing that come from him hurts more than you realise, but you have to force yourself not to cry.

"Zayne," You whisper with a sigh, feeling guilt. "I'm sorry for avoiding you like that--"

"Don't," He says, voice soft yet stern. "I don't want you to apologise for wanting space. You should never apologise for that." You nod reluctantly, looking out the window as you take a sip of your lukewarm drink.

"...Greyson talked to me today," Zayne breaks the silence, making you look at him with raised brows. "He said you came in with your partner." Although his expression is unreadable, you can sense the tension lingering in the air. You furrow your brows and groan.

"I knew I should've told Yvonne..."

"She would've told Greyson, then Greyson would've told me anyway," Zayne says, amusement in his tone as the tension shatters.

"...Maybe I should've just kept quiet, then," You respond, eyes squinting slightly in your own amusement. Zayne shakes his head with a brief smile.

"I would've found out either way, whether they told me or not," He speaks, tone soft. "...So, how is this new partner of yours?"

And that's how you ended up talking about your new partner, blabbering on about his occupation, how it's still early in the relationship but he treats you well, so on and so forth. Zayne actually finds himself smiling, as seeing you smile as you talk makes the ice in his soul melt. You notice him smiling at you and clear your throat.

"...I'm happy that you're happy, Y/N. You deserve every morsel of devotion that man gives to you," He says honestly, making you blink.

"Zayne-"

"You know I mean it."

And he really, truly does. Even as you two part ways with promises to catch up, you know he really, truly means it.

🍎Caleb🍎

The moment he could meet up with Emcee again was the moment he also told her about how you two broke up. The look that she gave him will forever haunt him — the look of pure rage. Caleb knew he was screwed the moment Emcee started chewing him out for how he behaved with you. As if he wasn't feeling bad enough after watching you storm out of his apartment, she told him to go after you and apologise for being a dick or else she will refuse to see him again.

And so, he began looking. But not because of Emcee's ultimatum, but because he knew deep in his heart that he wanted to find you. However, there's one problem.

Why the fuck were you so hard to find? You were no longer on Skyhaven's database, which means you most likely left Skyhaven for good, and you either changed your phone number or got a new phone entirely because he can't trace you there either. It was driving him insane, but the chip managed to keep his emotions at bay.

Regularly, Emcee would check in on Caleb to see how he was doing, but months pass with no luck. Until one day, about a year later, they meet up again and Emcee lets him know a little something.

"She works at the Association now," She whispers, as if she wasn't supposed to tell him. Caleb looks at her with an unreadable yet shocked expression as she continues. "I know, I should've told you, I''m sorry! But she told me to promise to keep it a secret from you. She's doing really well now and--"

"Really? That's good to hear," Caleb interrupts with a smile that doesn't quite meet his eyes. "I'm glad she's doing better. And don't worry about it, Pips," He sighs. "I understand why she would want to keep this to herself."

"But there's something else I need to tell you," Emcee hesitates. "...She's dating someone else." Caleb stares at her for an uncomfortable amount of time, his smile dropping and eyes darkening.

"She's what." He mutters, his tone immediately shifting. Emcee feels a chill roll down her spine, and she gives him a warning glance.

"Caleb, don't," She warns. Caleb's eyes flicker. "Please tell me you're not gonna do something stupid the next time you work with the Hunters Association. Y/N is happy, Cay. So please, don't ruin this for her."

Caleb can't argue with Emcee when he knows, deep down, she's probably right. He sighs, nodding, giving in.

"...I won't do anything, Pipsqueak," He smiles softly, ruffling her hair. "I promise. You have my word."

It's not until two weeks later where he finds out that the Farspace Fleet and the Hunters Association are working together on a mission. To say Caleb is interested to see how you are is an understatement, but he must keep his enthusiasm to himself.

Arriving at the Hunters Association HQ in Linkon, he greets Captain Jenna accordingly and begin some obligatory small talk, until his eyes land on someone approaching. You.

You seem to meet his gaze and freeze, watching as he stares at you, his pupils dilating like a cat smelling catnip. You quickly look away, fully intent on turning on your heel and strolling back to your office, until Jenna calls you over.

"Ah, Captain Y/N, there you are," Jenna's voice pierces through your thoughts and you force yourself to look and smile at her as you approach. "Perfect timing. Both of you, follow me to my office and I'll give you both details on our upcoming mission."

After leading you both to her office, she's just about to take a seat when her phone rings. She lets out a disgruntled sigh before stepping out to take it, leaving you two alone in silence.

Almost immediately after she leaves, Caleb turns to you, facial expression unreadable. The way he turns makes you stuck to the ground, feet refusing to move as you stare him down. The thing is, he's not using his Evol at all, so your nerves are solely to blame for you being frozen right now.

"I'm sorry," He breaks the silence, catching you off guard. Your feet finally turn as you face him. "For treating you like shit, for making you feel as if you were insignificant in my life when I was supposed to love you. You didn't deserve that." You take a small step back as he continues, sitting down on one of the chairs in Jenna's office.

"I told Emcee everything. How I felt about her and what happened between us. She chewed me out and I deserved it," He doesn't break eye contact with you, allowing you to see the turmoil beneath the stoic façade he has on almost all the time. "...I'm not here to ask for forgiveness, 'cos we know that I don't deserve it. I'm not here to ask for you to come back to me, either — because that won't be fair on you. I just want to apologise and then leave you alone for good. I don't care how much it'll hurt me as long as it keeps you happy. That's all I care about."

He breaks eye contact after that, taking his hat off and placing it next to him. He runs both of his hands down his face, dry skin coming off on his gloves. You grimace slightly at the sight of him wiping his hands on his pants. You always disliked any type of dry skin, which was why you always insisted on doing your skincare routine with him when his skin got too dry for your liking. Remembering that, you sigh.

"...I don't want you to leave for good, Caleb," He immediately looks up at you as you speak, his stoic mask fading away. "But I do want you to go back to using that moisturiser I left behind." He can't help but laugh at your words, glancing at his gloves before back to you.

"We can stay in contact, that's alright with me," You eventually say after clearing your throat. "We can have a proper talk and I can tell you about my boyfriend-" Caleb's face immediately darkens at that, but you glare at him in response. "Don't start." His face changes, apologetically looking at you with puppy-dog eyes.

"Sorry..." There's a pause after his apology, and then, "He is treating you well though, right?"

"Yes, Caleb."

"Are you su-"

"Caleb," You warn, glaring at him again.

"Yeah, yeah, I know. I'll shut up about it now," He says, putting his hat on and standing up. "But if he ever hurts you in anyway, I will know about it."

"Emcee will tell you, I know," You roll your eyes, crossing your arms with a smirk. "Don't worry. I've grown thicker skin over time. He won't have the balls to hurt me." Caleb chuckles at that before Jenna walks back in, closing the door behind her.

"If you two are done, then let's get down to business. Take a seat," She says, sitting down at her desk. As you two sit, you fight back a smile, knowing that now — no matter what relationship you may have with him — Caleb will be by your side... Sort of.

note: THIS TOOK SO LONG I'M SORRY :'((

[danysdaughter]

Forever Mine

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 21.2k words

summary | you were the best thing that ever happened to him — and that was exactly what you wanted him to believe.

tags | (18+) MDNI, unprotected sex, rough sex, oral sex (f!receiving), two smut scenes, stalker!reader, obsessive!reader, manipulative!reader, gaslighting, psychological manipulation, soft control, emotional dependency, baby trapping, breeding kink, fluff, smut, domestic fluff, hurt/comfort (manipulative), dark romance, power dynamics, emotional possession, flipped stalker trope, strategic relationship building, marriage, parenthood, bucky barnes is whipped, found family (manufactured), groomed attachment, soft!dad bucky

a/n | me if I was in the MCU (jk)

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @uzmacchiato

April 2024 First Meeting

Bucky wasn’t a fan of spring in the city.

Too many people. Too much noise. The air too warm for layers, but he wore them anyway — hood up, gloves on, jacket zipped — because it was easier to feel overheated than exposed.

He kept his head down as he moved through the crowd on West 47th, letting the noise of traffic drown out the chatter in his own skull. Morning rush hour meant no one looked too closely. Perfect.

Or it should have been.

He spotted you only in passing at first — standing near the edge of the sidewalk, angled toward a shop window, holding a small hand mirror. You were brushing your fingers along your cheekbone, touching up lipstick maybe. Hair catching the morning light, coffee in the other hand. The kind of ordinary picture he was used to glancing past.

Only, as he stepped closer, you turned. Quick — almost too quick.

And then the coffee hit.

It was hot, sharp against his jacket sleeve before he even registered you stumbling back. The paper cup dropped from your fingers, liquid soaking in fast, blooming across the front of your white blouse.

“Shit—” The word came out before anything else, his hands coming up uselessly, hovering between your shoulders and your arm like he wasn’t sure if he should touch you. “I’m— I’m sorry. I wasn’t—”

You glanced down at the spreading stain, jaw tightening like you were holding something in. “I— I have a meeting,” you muttered, like you were talking to yourself more than to him. “Of course this happens now…”

Bucky winced. “Here—” He was already shrugging out of his jacket, the air hitting his sleeves like a reminder he’d regret this later. “Take this. Just to cover it up until you can—”

You shook your head immediately, taking a step back. “No. It’s fine. Accidents happen. Don’t worry about it.”

“Let me at least buy you another coffee,” he said quickly, still holding the jacket out like maybe you just hadn’t heard him. “And a shirt or something—there’s a shop right around—”

“I’m fine,” you cut in again, softer this time, almost apologetic, like you didn’t want to make him feel bad but also really needed to get away. Your voice had that rushed edge to it, but not frantic. “Seriously. I just need to go.”

Bucky glanced at your blouse again, the dark coffee already drying in jagged edges. He could practically hear Sam in his head telling him to stop letting people walk off with problems he’d caused. “I really don’t mind—”

“It’s fine,” you repeated, stepping sideways into the flow of the crowd. “Water under the bridge. Totally fine.”

You gave him one more faint smile — not dismissive, but final. Then you turned and slipped into the moving stream of pedestrians, your pace quick, almost purposeful.

He hesitated, jacket still in his hand.

For a second, he thought about following — just enough to press the jacket into your hands whether you wanted it or not. But the crowd had already swallowed you up. And it wasn’t like he could shout after you without drawing attention.

Still, he stood there for another beat, scanning the faces ahead as if you might turn back.

You didn’t.

────────────────────────

One Month Later Second Meeting

Bucky wasn’t really paying attention to much of anything when he pushed his cart down the produce aisle. Just the quiet hum of the refrigeration units and the low music overhead, some ’80s pop song playing like it was trying too hard to cheer people up.

He stopped at the fruits section, scanning the shelves for plums. He didn’t even know when they’d become a habit — something about the taste, the simplicity of them, the fact it helped him remember things.

That’s when he saw a woman.

Standing by the stacked baskets of peaches and plums, head tilted as you inspected one like you were weighing the worth of it. The aisle was empty except for you, which meant there was no mistaking it.

It was you.

The woman from the street. The one he’d dumped a cup of coffee on last month.

Most people would’ve turned around right there. Pretended they needed something from the other end of the store, avoided the potential awkwardness.

But for reasons he couldn’t explain — maybe guilt, maybe curiosity — Bucky kept walking forward.

“Plums,” he said when he reached you, his voice coming out rougher than he meant.

You glanced up, brows pulling together in a faint, confused crease. “Sorry?”

Bucky cleared his throat, tried for a faint smirk that probably looked nothing like one. “They’re good this time of year.”

It sounded stupid the second it left his mouth.

Your confusion didn’t fade.

He rubbed at the back of his neck. “Uh— I’m… the guy who spilled coffee all over you. Downtown. About a month ago.”

For a beat, you just stared at him like you were searching your memory. Then your expression shifted — the small widening of your eyes, the slight downturn of your lips in recognition. “Oh… right,” you said slowly, almost hesitant.

“Yeah,” he muttered, suddenly hyper-aware of how ridiculous this was. “That was me.”

“Hi,” you said, the word soft, polite.

“Hey.”

It hung there between you for a second, both of you standing in front of the plums like neither quite knew what to do next.

Bucky cleared his throat, shifting his weight from one foot to the other. “Listen, about that coffee—”

You were still holding the plum in your hand, looking at him like you weren’t sure if he was about to apologize or confess to some bigger crime.

“I, uh…” His mouth twisted like the words physically hurt to get out. “I’m sorry. I should’ve been paying more attention. I just—”

He trailed off, realizing he was rambling to someone who probably hadn’t thought twice about it since.

You hadn’t said anything, just stood there, watching him with that polite, unreadable expression.

Bucky let out a quiet sigh, trying again. “I’m James,” he said finally, sticking to something simple.

Your mouth curved into the faintest smile, like you were both amused and maybe a little charmed by how bad he was at this. You told him your name, and it sat warm in his mind the second you said it.

“Right.” He nodded, a little too fast, and then… nothing. Just the hum of the cooler and the faint sound of some kid whining two aisles over. You both stood there, staring in this weird not-uncomfortable but definitely awkward silence.

Yet you didn’t seem in a hurry to leave. Not in the way most people in the city were — always glancing at their phones, shifting toward the exit. You stood there, weight relaxed, like you were giving him the space to figure out whatever the hell this was.

“Hey,” he said after a beat, surprising even himself. “Do you… wanna grab a cup of coffee? You know, for the one I spilled on you.”

Your brows lifted just slightly, your smile curling into something softer, almost confused, like you couldn’t quite tell if he was serious. “It’s ten p.m. on a Tuesday.”

“Decaf, then,” he said, not missing a beat.

The corner of your mouth twitched like you were trying not to laugh. “You don't look like you drink decaf.”

“Not usually,” he admitted, shoulders lifting in a small shrug. “But I figured… you know. Fair’s fair.”

It came out gruffer than he intended, like an apology and an invitation wrapped into one. He could feel that familiar, awkward heat creeping into the back of his neck, but he kept his gaze on you, waiting.

You tilted your head, letting the silence stretch just enough to make it look like you were actually weighing the offer. Your eyes dropped briefly to the plums in your hand, then back to him, like maybe this was a coin toss in your mind.

Bucky stayed still, watching you — and maybe that was why it felt like a bigger deal when you finally let out a small, almost reluctant breath and said, “Okay, James.”

You said his name slowly, like you were trying it on for size. No flicker of recognition, no double take, no oh-you’re-that-guy-from-the-news. Just James.

And that… did something to him. Most people knew who he was now, or at least thought they did. You didn’t seem to care — or maybe you didn’t know — and somehow, that made your answer feel more genuine.

Bucky’s mouth pulled into the faintest smile, one corner higher than the other. “Alright then.”

────────────────────────

He ended up picking a small café a few blocks from the grocery store. One of those places with low lighting, scratched wooden tables, and the faint smell of burnt espresso that clung to the walls. It was quiet enough for conversation, but not so empty that it felt like an interrogation.

They got their coffees — his black, yours decaf — and a couple of glazed donuts because it felt like the kind of thing you were supposed to get with coffee. You took a seat by the window, the city lights outside casting a warm reflection across your face.

You were the one to break the silence. Leaning back in your chair, coffee cupped loosely in your hands, you asked, “So, James… what’s your deal?”

He blinked. “My deal?”

You nodded, casual, like you weren’t digging for anything too deep. “Yeah. You just… I dunno. Seem like you’ve got a story.”

That threw him a little. Most people either knew the story or thought they did. You didn’t seem to. And maybe that was why he stumbled over his answer. “Uh… nothing special. I keep to myself. Do my thing.”

You arched a brow, a faint smile tugging at your lips. “That’s vague as hell.”

“It’s the truth,” he said, shifting in his seat.

You just smiled knowingly, like you could see through him, but didn’t press. Instead, you glanced at the donut on your plate, tore off a piece, and popped it into your mouth. You chewed, swallowed, then said flatly, “These donuts are terrible.”

Bucky’s head jerked slightly at the bluntness, and before he could help it, a huff escaped him. It was quiet but real — the kind that crept up unexpectedly. “Guess I’ve had better,” he admitted.

“I work in a bakery,” you said simply, sipping your coffee. “So I have the authority to say that.”

“Maybe I’ll have to come by,” he said without thinking. “Try some of your desserts.”

You looked at him, eyes glinting, head tilting just a fraction. “Is that some kind of innuendo?”

“What? No—” He almost choked on his coffee, sputtering a little. “No, I was being serious. Actual bakery stuff.”

You bit back a laugh, but the way your lips twitched gave you away. “Relax, James. I’m just messing with you.”

He shook his head, smiling despite himself. “Yeah, I’m starting to figure that out.”

It was strange, how easy it was to talk to you. Bucky wasn’t great at… this. Conversations usually felt like work — too much effort to keep up, too many pauses he didn’t know how to fill. But with you, he didn’t notice the time passing.

You’d sip your coffee, tilt your head, say something that made him laugh without meaning to, and it all just… happened.

And you smiled a lot. Not the fake kind either. The real ones that crinkled the corners of your eyes, that made him wonder what you looked like when you laughed so hard you couldn’t breathe.

He caught himself staring more than once, and when he realized how long they’d been sitting there, the barista was already hovering. “Sorry, guys. We’re closing up.” Her tone was polite, but it was still the gentle shove toward the door.

Outside, the air was cool, city sounds echoing off the buildings. You both stood there for a second, neither really sure what came next.

You were the one to break it. “Well, thanks for the coffee,” you said softly, giving him that same easy smile, “I’ll see you around, James.”

You turned slightly, like you were about to go — and maybe that’s what made him do it.

“Wait—” He shifted his weight, running a hand over the back of his neck. “I mean… we should… uh…” He frowned, trying again. “Go out. Sometime. You and me.”

It came out more like an order than a question, and his jaw tensed like he was annoyed at himself for it.

You looked at him, eyebrows lifting just a little, like you were amused but not in a mean way. “Are you asking me, or telling me?”

Bucky’s mouth twitched in a half-smile. “Guess I’m not good at either.”

“Guess not,” you said — and then, without missing a beat, “Alright. When and where?”

That made him freeze for half a second, eyes narrowing like he had to replay your words in his head. “Uh—”

You just stood there, patient, still smiling like you had all the time in the world.

“Tomorrow,” he blurted. “Uh… that diner on 8th. Six o’clock?”

“Okay,” you said easily, like you hadn’t just completely hijacked the momentum of the conversation.

And just like that, you turned, walking away into the night — leaving him standing there with the ridiculous thought that he already wanted to see you again.

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The Next Day First Date

Bucky didn’t remember agreeing to the date so much as the fact that it had just… happened. You’d looked at him with that easy smile and said, “When and where?” — like it was nothing. And somehow, without thinking, he’d said tomorrow and six o’clock.

Now it was tomorrow. Six hours away. And he was pacing his apartment like a caged animal.

It had been decades since his last real date — and if he didn’t count that mess with that waitress last month (which he didn’t), then this was his first since 1942.

Leah had been kind. Pretty. She’d said yes when he asked her out, and for a moment he thought maybe he could do this, maybe he could be… normal. Then she’d mentioned Yori’s son, and the bottom had dropped out. That wasn’t a date. That was guilt with beer.

This though? This felt like something else. And maybe that was the problem.

Because you were just… a pretty girl. That should’ve made this easier. But it didn’t. You had a way of looking at him that knocked him off balance, like you could see right through him without making him feel exposed. You laughed easily. You spoke without hesitation. You weren’t awkward — hell, you probably didn’t even know what awkward felt like.

Meanwhile, he felt like a guy trying to speak a language he hadn’t practiced in eighty years.

He stopped pacing long enough to glance at the jacket draped over the back of his chair. Too formal? Too casual? In the forties, you wore a suit and tie. In 2024, people wore jeans to weddings. The idea of showing up underdressed made his stomach tighten — but overdressed felt just as bad.

He sat, bounced his knee. Stood up again. Every time he thought about the way you’d smiled at him, that slow curve of your mouth, he felt something coil in his chest. It wasn’t nerves exactly — more like… anticipation.

Not that he’d admit that. To himself or anyone else.

By the time the clock ticked past five, he’d changed shirts twice, Googled “first date small talk” (and immediately slammed the laptop shut), and muttered a few possible openers under his breath. None of them sounded right.

Catching himself in the mirror, he tugged at his collar and smoothed his hair back. He looked… fine. Not good, not bad. Just fine.

He told himself it was just dinner. Just a date. Just you. But that didn’t explain why his chest was tight, or why his palms felt damp.

You were just a pretty girl. And he was just a guy trying to keep up.

At least, that’s what he thought as he grabbed his keys and stepped out into the warm May evening.

────────────────────────

Bucky had been sitting in the booth for five minutes already — too early to be casual, but late enough that he hoped it didn’t look like he’d been waiting all day.

The place wasn’t fancy, but it was clean, warm, with a faint hum of conversation that made it feel… safe. Neutral ground. He’d picked it for that reason.

The flowers sat in front of him, wrapped in brown paper — not a big bouquet, just enough to look thoughtful without overdoing it.

At least, that’s what he hoped.

He’d stood in the florist shop for ten whole minutes debating whether flowers were still something you did in 2024, or if they’d come across as… desperate.

Maybe he was desperate.

His gloved hands tapped against the table as his eyes flicked to the door every time it opened. He ran through a hundred worst-case scenarios in his head — the conversation dying after two minutes, you looking bored, him saying something that made you leave.

And underneath it all, that other thought.

The one that never quite left him.

You didn’t know who he was. Not really.

You didn’t know you were about to have dinner with someone who’d been a murderer, a weapon, a name whispered in fear for decades. You didn’t know the blood on his hands.

A part of him felt relief at that — maybe you’d just see him as a guy named James, nothing more. But the guilt hit just as fast. It wasn’t fair. You didn’t get the choice to decide if you wanted to sit across from someone like him.

His knee bounced under the table. His hand curled around the flowers again, like the rough paper could ground him.

The door opened. And everything went quiet.

You stepped in like you weren’t even aware the whole world could tilt toward you without trying. Black dress, simple but clean lines, fitting you just enough to make his chest tighten. His first thought was that he’d underdressed. His second thought was that he couldn’t look away.

Your eyes found him in the corner, and that small, slow smile broke across your face.

It wasn’t wide or showy. Just… soft. The kind of smile that made the noise in his head fade, made his shoulders lose a fraction of their tension.

For the first time all day, he wasn’t thinking about what he was going to say, or if he’d mess this up. He just knew you were walking toward him.

And that, somehow, felt like enough.

You slid into the booth across from him, the faint scent of your perfume slipping into the air between you. Up close, that black dress looked even better — understated, but it clung just enough in the right places to make his throat tighten.

His hand went to the bouquet almost on instinct, pushing it toward you like he was afraid if he didn’t do it immediately, he’d chicken out.

“Uh… these are for you,” he said, voice low, awkward, almost apologetic. “Figured it… y’know. Might be a nice thing.”

You blinked down at them, and he had no idea if you were surprised, amused, or trying to decide if you even liked flowers. That hesitation stretched for a beat too long, and his stomach tightened. Maybe this was too much. Maybe—

Then you looked up at him, smiling in that slow, deliberate way again. “Not many guys bring flowers anymore,” you said, taking the bouquet. “Guess I’ll have to forgive you for being old-fashioned.”

Something about the way you said it made him huff out a laugh — but he still shifted in his seat, the tips of his ears warming.

“Old habits,” he muttered, full on knowing you wouldn't catch the double meaning.

You brushed your fingers over the petals like you were committing the flowers to memory before setting them gently beside you on the seat. “They’re beautiful,” you added, and for a second, he felt like maybe he hadn’t already messed this up.

When the waiter came to take your orders, you didn’t look at the menu for long. Confident, decisive — nothing like him, who kept second-guessing whether the steak here was even good.

As soon as the waiter left, you leaned in just slightly, elbows resting on the table. “So, James… was this place your first choice? Or did you have, like, a list of approved restaurants for a random Wednesday night?”

He smirked — or at least tried to. “I’m not that bad.”

“You seem like the type who thinks about these things,” you teased.

If you only knew, he thought.

You twirled the straw in your water glass, glancing at him over the rim. “So… you said last time you just keep to yourself. Do your thing.”

He nodded, keeping his posture casual even though he could feel every muscle in his shoulders locked tight. “Yeah. That’s pretty much it.”

You leaned in just a little, chin resting on your palm. “Okay, but… what’s your thing? Like, what’s the long-term goals?”

Bucky blinked. “The what?”

Your lips curved and you tilted your head, almost amused. “Your goals… long-term.”

It was such a simple question, but his mind went blank. He opened his mouth, then closed it again, trying to come up with something that sounded halfway decent. “I dunno. I, uh… haven’t really thought about it.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “So you’re just floating through life, huh?”

He frowned, but there was no edge to it. “Guess so.”

“Not the worst thing,” you said, sitting back and taking a sip of your drink. “Some people like the drift.”

He studied you for a moment. You didn’t ask it like you were judging him, or trying to dig too deep. It was just… curiosity. Pure, easy curiosity. And yet somehow it made him feel like you could see right through him.

“What about you?” he asked, deflecting.

You shrugged. “Work. Pay my bills. Try not to lose my mind in the process. I’ve got smaller goals — learn how to make a croissant that doesn’t deflate, try every cocktail on the menu at O’Malley’s, maybe get a dog one day.”

A laugh slipped out of him before he could stop it. “That’s your big plan? Pastries, alcohol, and a dog?”

“Pretty solid life, if you ask me.”

He shook his head, smiling to himself. He’d expected this to be awkward, expected to feel the way he always did around new people — like he was under a microscope, like every move was being analyzed. But with you… it was just talking.

The waiter came back with your plates, setting a steaming plate of pasta in front of you and a medium-rare steak in front of him. You thanked the waiter without breaking eye contact with Bucky, like you didn’t want the conversation to slip away.

“So no dreams of retiring on a beach? No cabin in the woods?” you asked as you picked up your fork.

He thought about it for a beat. “Cabin sounds nice.”

“There you go.” You pointed your fork at him. “Long-term goal: cabin. Look at you making progress.”

Bucky huffed a laugh and shook his head, but inside, he was already picturing it — and, to his own surprise, you were in that picture too.

The conversation didn’t slow down after that. It wasn’t forced, either — just one topic folding into the next, your questions pulling him along, your little comments sparking thoughts he didn’t even realize he had.

Every time you smiled, his chest felt like it loosened a little. Every time you laughed, it felt like something in him woke up just to listen.

And before he knew it, the plates were cleared, the check was paid, and you were both standing at the door, the cool night air rushing in.

“You, uh…” He scratched at the back of his neck. “You headed home?”

You gave him that small, easy smile that made him feel ten years younger. “Yeah.”

“Can I… walk you?” He tried to sound casual, but it came out tentative, like he wasn’t sure if it was overstepping.

You tilted your head in that way you did when you were thinking, then nodded. “Sure.”

Something about that word — the way it rolled off your tongue, unhurried and warm — made his pulse skip. He held the door for you, falling into step at your side as you stepped onto the quiet street.

The city was winding down, streetlights casting halos on the pavement. Your heels clicked softly against the sidewalk while his boots fell into a slower rhythm to match yours.

For a while, you didn’t speak, and that was fine with him. He found himself just… watching you out of the corner of his eye. The way the breeze tugged at your hair. The way you tucked your hands into your coat pockets but kept your shoulders loose, like you weren’t afraid of anything.

“You live far?” he asked finally.

“Couple blocks,” you said. “Don’t worry, I’m not gonna make you walk across the city.”

He smiled at that, but didn’t say anything else, afraid he might break whatever this was — this quiet, this ease.

When you finally stopped in front of a brownstone, you turned to him, your eyes catching in the streetlight. “This is me.”

Bucky nodded, shifting awkwardly on his feet. “Right. Uh… thank you for asking me to walk you.”

That earned him a soft laugh. “Pretty sure it was your idea, James.”

He blinked, thrown for a second, then nodded again, sheepish. “Yeah… yeah, right.”

And then… nothing. His mind blanked. If this had been back in the ’30s, the polite thing would’ve been to kiss your cheek, tip his hat, say goodnight like a gentleman. But it wasn’t the ’30s anymore. People had boundaries. And he had no idea if crossing that invisible line would ruin everything.

Still, the urge was there — humming beneath his ribs, pooling low in his chest. You looked so damn pretty in that black dress, the flowers he’d given you cradled in your hands. He could smell your perfume, faint and warm, and it was killing him not to close the distance.

You caught it. The way his eyes lingered, the faint crease between his brows. That tiny flicker of indecision.

Your teeth caught your bottom lip like you were thinking about it and that was when you stepped forward — deliberate, slow, your heels clicking against the pavement.

You didn’t just close the gap — you took control of it. One hand lifted, your fingers curling lightly along the line of his jaw, your thumb brushing over the scruff on his cheek. His breath caught instantly, eyes locking on yours, the flicker of surprise almost boyish in his expression.

And then you leaned in.

The kiss was soft but unflinching, holding him there for a few long, head-spinning seconds. His brain stalled completely — no wariness, no hesitation now, just you, the faint press of your body, the taste of your lipstick, the warmth of your palm against his face.

By the time you pulled back, his lips were still parted like he hadn’t realized it was over.

“Thank you for the date,” you murmured, giving him that small, sweet smile again, like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Goodnight, James.”

And just like that, you stepped past him and slipped into the building, leaving him standing there on the sidewalk — still feeling the ghost of your touch on his cheek, still trying to remember how to breathe.

────────────────────────

Three Days Later Second Date

You didn’t expect him to ask you on another date so soon.

But here you were — only three days after your first date, and Bucky Barnes was already inviting you out again. Saturday evening. A picnic date in Central Park, of all things.

Not some busy lawn where people tossed frisbees or jogged past, but one of those quiet corners where the trees closed in enough to give you privacy, the sound of the city tucked far behind the green.

It was… old-fashioned. Which made sense, given who he was.

You sat across from him on a checkered blanket, a wicker basket between you — the whole thing looked like it had been pulled straight out of some black-and-white film. He’d even brought sandwiches wrapped in brown paper, a couple of glass bottles of soda, and what you were willing to bet were store-bought cookies.

And like before, you kept the conversation going. Asking him about the park, about what kind of food he liked, about what he did when he wasn’t… well, whatever it was he actually did now. He’d answer, but never with much detail — pausing often, like he was trying to figure out the right words, like he was still deciding how much of himself to give away.

That was fine. You didn’t need him to hand over his life story.

You already knew that.

It wasn’t hard to smile, nod, and throw in the right laugh at the right time. You leaned into his pauses, let the silences hang just long enough to make him want to fill them. He’d shift a little when you tilted your head at him, his eyes flicking to your mouth like he wasn’t sure if he should be looking there.

If he thought you didn’t notice, he was wrong.

And all throughout the date, between bites of sandwich and sips of soda, you couldn’t help but wonder when he’d actually confess who he really was.

You’d already known from the moment he bumped into you — hell, from before that. But you wanted to hear him say it.

So, you decided to give him a little push.

You let your gaze drift away from him mid-conversation, scanning the trees, the open green beyond.

Slowly, your brows drew together, the faintest frown pulling at your lips. You didn’t speak at first — just kept glancing around, your expression tightening like you were trying to puzzle something out.

Finally, you said it. Soft. Almost embarrassed. “James… people are starting to stare. I don’t… I don’t know why.”

The shift in him was immediate. His shoulders, relaxed a moment ago, pulled tight. His jaw clenched. His eyes darted past you, scanning the edges of the park.

You tilted your head at him, feigning confusion. “It’s fine,” you added quickly, like you were trying to brush it off, “I just… thought maybe I had something on my face or—”

“No.” His voice was quiet, but it had that weight to it, the one that made people shut up and listen. “It’s not you.”

You blinked at him, all innocence. “Then what—?”

“Maybe I should walk you home,” he cut in, already beginning to gather up the blanket and basket. “There’s something I need to tell you.”

You kept your face neutral — maybe just a little uncertain — but inside, you could feel the hook sinking deeper.

“Okay,” you murmured, and let him help you up, his hand firm but careful at your elbow.

It was sweet, how gentle he was. It was even sweeter knowing you’d planned this moment from the start.

The walk back was quiet at first. The city sounds filled the gaps between you — the low hum of traffic, a siren somewhere blocks away, the occasional rush of wind that made you hold your skirt down.

You noticed he kept glancing at you like he was trying to time something, trying to figure out the right moment.

Finally, a few blocks from your place, he let out a sigh. “So… my name isn’t just James.”

You looked at him, brows raised, a faint smile tugging your lips. “Okay…?”

“It’s James Barnes,” he said, watching your face for any flicker of recognition.

You tilted your head slightly, the smile still there. “Barnes. Got it.” Like you were just making a mental note, nothing more.

Bucky let out a slow breath, then shook his head faintly. “No. James Buchanan Barnes.”

The name landed like a weight between you. You stopped walking without meaning to, staring at him as the pieces “clicked” together.

“Oh.” Your voice was soft, your eyes a little wider now. You brought a hand up, half-covering your mouth. “Oh my god—wait. I’m… I’m an idiot.”

He frowned immediately. “What? No—”

“I knew I recognized you from somewhere,” you rushed out, shaking your head at yourself. “And here I’ve just been—God, I’m so—”

“Hey,” he cut in, his tone sharper now, trying to pull you out of it. “Don’t do that. Don’t—don’t make it a thing about you being stupid.”

You bit your lip, looking away, embarrassed. “I just… I feel like I should’ve known—”

“I liked that you didn’t,” he said, and there was an odd softness to it. “I kind of liked you not knowing who I was. It was… nice. Normal.”

You looked back at him then, letting your gaze linger, like his words had just made you see him differently.

“Normal’s good,” you said softly.

You took a couple more steps, the sound of your shoes clicking against the pavement, before glancing over at him. “So… why do things have to change?”

That stopped him in his tracks. He looked down at you — really looked — eyes scanning your face like he was searching for something underneath your words.

“You’re really okay with that?” he asked finally, voice low. “Going out with… someone like me?”

Your brow furrowed, your lips pressing into a faint, almost thoughtful purse.

“Are you?” you countered gently.

He blinked, caught off guard. “What?”

“Are you okay with it?” you repeated, tilting your head a little. “Because… it seems like you’re the one who’s more hesitant about this than I am.”

He exhaled sharply, his gaze sliding away like the weight of his own history was tugging it down.

“I mean,” you continued, your voice even, not pushing but not backing away either, “I get it. Because of… yeah.” You let the word trail off, letting the unsaid things hang in the air — the things you knew he thought about himself every day.

His jaw tightened, and for a moment you swore you could almost hear the gears in his head turning. He looked back at you, his blue eyes clouded but intent.

“Yeah,” he murmured finally. “Because of… yeah.”

You studied him for a second, watching the way his jaw shifted like he was still carrying the weight of that confession.

“So…” you tilted your head, voice easy but deliberate, “what do you want me to call you? James… or Bucky?”

He didn’t answer right away. His brows drew together, really thinking about it, like the question was heavier than you meant it to be.

Finally, he exhaled, gaze settling back on you. “James,” he said quietly. “I… I like being James with you. I’m trying to get used to being Bucky Barnes again, but…” he hesitated, the corner of his mouth twitching almost sheepishly, “James feels… easier. Lighter. With you.”

A slow smile spread across your face, soft but deliberate. Without breaking eye contact, you slipped your arm through his, your hand looping into the crook of his elbow like it belonged there.

Leaning in just enough for your lips to brush against his cheek, you murmured, “Good ’cause I like being with James.”

It was quick, simple — but you felt the way his stride faltered for just a fraction of a second, his breath catching like he didn’t know what to do with the way those words landed.

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One Week Later Third Date

The first date was to hook him.

The second was to soften him — to show him you were safe, someone he could trust without even realizing it. Someone who’d never push too hard, never pry… but who’d listen to every word like it mattered. You knew exactly what that would do to a man like James Barnes.

And the third? The third was to turn trust into something else entirely.

The kind of connection you couldn’t just walk away from without feeling the absence like a phantom limb.

You’d kept the night light — a small jazz club tucked in the quieter part of the city, a little whiskey, easy conversation, nothing too loud or overstimulating. You let him set the pace, let him laugh more than you talked, let him think he was the one leading.

By the time you were back at your building, he was looking at you like you were gravity itself — and you didn’t let him look for too long before you moved in.

You barely had the key out before his hand was on your hip, the other bracing against the doorframe, his breath warm against your mouth. The kiss hit fast — a low, almost desperate press of lips that made you smile into it. You could taste the whiskey on his tongue, feel the tension in the way his body pressed into yours.

Your back hit the cool metal of the door, and you let out the kind of quiet sound that made his fingers flex against your side. His mouth dragged from yours to your jaw, his stubble catching on your skin as you tilted your head, giving him space, giving him permission.

His metal hand skimmed down your waist, and you could feel the restraint in him — the way he wanted more but was holding back, trying not to push too far too fast.

You, on the other hand, had no such reservations. Your fingers curled in the fabric of his shirt, tugging him closer until there was no space left between you. You caught his mouth again, deeper this time, teeth catching his lower lip before your tongue traced against his. He made a low sound in his throat, one you filed away instantly — a tell, a weakness you could pull from later.

Then, suddenly, he broke the kiss — just enough to breathe, just enough to murmur against your mouth, “We should… probably slow this down.”

You blinked up at him, lips still parted, feeling his breath ghost over them. “Yeah… yeah,” you said, though your fingers were still hooked in his shirt like you had no plans to actually let go.

There was a beat — that awkward, suspended moment where neither of you knew what to do with all that tension — and then, completely straight-faced, you asked, “So… you got any hobbies?”

The question caught him off guard so hard you could see it in his face. His brow furrowed, mouth opening like he wasn't sure if you were joking. “Uh…” He blinked a few times, like he was flipping through a mental list that was embarrassingly short. “I like to… read?”

You nodded, like you were genuinely considering this while still catching your breath. “What have you read?”

There was a stumble in his answer, his gaze flicking briefly away as though embarrassed. “Uh… The Hobbit.”

You pulled back half an inch, your brows lifting. “The Hobbit? You read The Hobbit?”

He shifted his weight, defensive but sheepish at the same time. “…Yeah?”

And without missing a beat, you grinned and said, “That’s kinda hot.”

The corner of his mouth tugged up, almost disbelieving. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you confirmed, your voice low enough to make him swallow.

And then you were both leaning in at the same time, the kiss reigniting instantly, just as heated as before — maybe more. His hand slid up your side, the other finding the back of your neck, and you could taste the faint trace of a smile against your mouth before it turned hungry again.

You didn’t break the kiss when you pulled him through the building’s front door, not even when you started walking him backwards toward the stairs. His hand stayed locked at your hip, your mouth moving against his in hot, deliberate bursts between breaths.

The elevator ride was a blur of glances and unspoken tension — his chest rising and falling, your lips still tingling from where his teeth had grazed them. You could feel the battle in him, that rigid line between wanting and restraint.

By the time you reached your apartment, you had no trouble coaxing him inside. You guided him straight to the couch, giving him a gentle push until he sat, his legs spread slightly, hands resting awkwardly on his knees like he wasn’t sure what to do next.

You took care of that.

Climbing into his lap felt natural — slow, unthreatening, like you were still playing. You straddled him, your knees pressing into the cushions on either side, your hands resting lightly on his shoulders.

Bucky’s eyes darted to yours, and then down to your mouth. You could see it again — that hesitation, the restraint. So you leaned in, brushing your lips over his once, twice, before deepening the kiss just enough to coax him into leaning forward, his hands finally settling on your hips.

You were just getting lost in him again, the warmth of his mouth, the press of his hands, when Bucky pulled back suddenly. His breathing was uneven, his forehead resting briefly against yours before he leaned back enough to meet your eyes.

“I, uh—” He cleared his throat, clearly uncomfortable. “I haven’t… done this. Not since… 1942.”

You blinked, tilting your head, the corner of your mouth tugging upward. “You mean—”

He gave a small, almost sheepish nod, his cheeks heating.

A slow grin spread across your face. “So… this’ll be like your first time again?”

“Don’t say it like that,” he muttered, but the flush in his face deepened.

You bit back a laugh, leaning forward to kiss him again — softer this time, deliberate — your hand coming up to cup the side of his face. When you pulled back just enough to whisper, your tone was almost teasing. “Don’t worry… I’ll be gentle.”

His jaw flexed, his blue eyes flicking away for a moment before coming back to yours. “I’m just… worried I won’t last.”

You gave him a small, knowing smile. “That’s fine,” you murmured, your lips brushing his as you spoke. “We have the whole night.”

And before he could answer, you kissed him again — slow, coaxing, until you felt him melt back into it.

You rolled your hips against him, slow at first, then harder, letting the friction build until you could feel the hard line of him beneath you.

“Fuck—” he groaned, low and almost pained, his head tipping back for a second before you dragged his mouth back to yours.

His metal hand slid up your back, cold even through your dress, the contrast making you shiver as his flesh hand gripped your ass, pulling you against him in a way that made you gasp. You rocked on him harder, and the sound he made — somewhere between a groan and a curse — went straight to your core.

“Jesus, doll…” he muttered against your mouth, his voice wrecked, his hips twitching upward involuntarily to meet your movements.

You grinned against his lips, rolling your hips just right, grinding down until he was cursing under his breath. “You like that, James?”

His response was a rough, desperate kiss, his tongue sliding against yours, tasting you like he couldn’t get enough.

The rhythm between you grew messier, hotter — all friction and panting and little sounds that filled the quiet apartment. Your dress had ridden up around your hips, and his grip had turned bruising, like he was fighting not to lose control completely.

Your lips broke from his just long enough to whisper against his ear, “Take a breath, James.”

His grip loosened a fraction, and you leaned back, still straddling him, your hands sliding to the straps of your dress. His eyes followed every movement like he couldn’t look away.

You let the straps fall slowly down your shoulders, holding his gaze the whole time before sliding the dress up and over your head, then tossing it aside.

The way he looked at you — hungry, reverent, like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed — made your chest tighten in a way you didn’t expect. You reached behind you, unhooked your bra, and let it fall.

Bucky’s breath caught, his jaw flexing like he was holding something back. His gaze raked over you, lingering in places that made your skin feel like it was burning, but he didn’t reach out — almost like he thought touching would break the spell.

You smiled, leaning forward to press a kiss to his mouth before murmuring, “Your turn.”

He hesitated, and you knew why. You could feel the tension in him, the way his body stiffened when your fingers brushed the hem of his shirt.

“You can,” you said softly, but with an edge of certainty that left no room for doubt. “I want to see you, James.”

For a moment, he looked like he might refuse. Then, almost reluctantly, he grabbed the back of his collar and pulled the shirt over his head.

You didn’t let your gaze flick away from the scars that marred his skin, or the gleam of metal that caught the low light of your apartment. You let your eyes take in every detail, slow and deliberate, until his breath started to quicken under your stare.

“God, you’re beautiful,” you said, and meant it in a way that made him swallow hard.

You leaned in, pressing your mouth to his neck, tasting the salt of his skin. You let your lips travel to the edge of his jaw, down to his collarbone, over a scar that looked like it had been there for decades. Your fingers traced the seam where flesh met vibranium, and you kissed it like it was the most natural thing in the world.

He shuddered beneath you, and you felt some of the tightness in his body begin to melt.

“See?” you murmured against his skin. “Nothing here I can’t handle.”

His hands found your hips again, steadier now, and when you kissed him this time, he kissed you back without hesitation, pulling you closer, letting you feel every inch of him.

Your fingers slid into his hair, keeping him close, and you could feel the last traces of tension bleeding out of him. That guarded, wary edge he carried like armor was slipping — and you were the one peeling it away.

When your lips left his neck, his mouth moved lower without you even asking. His head dipped, and his lips brushed over the swell of your breast. You let out a low sound, arching into him, and that was all it took — he wrapped an arm around your waist and took your nipple into his mouth like he’d been starving for it.

“James—” your voice cracked, your nails digging into his shoulder.

He groaned against your skin, the vibration shooting straight through you, and you swore you could feel him getting harder beneath you. His tongue circled, teasing, before he sucked hard enough to make your breath hitch. His other hand came up, fingers rolling and squeezing your other nipple until you were practically squirming in his lap.

“Fuck—” you gasped, heat pooling low in your belly, “—you have no idea what you’re doing to me.”

He pulled back just enough to look at you, lips slick, eyes dark with something feral.

You didn’t even try to play it cool. “I need you,” you said, the words spilling out rough and desperate. “I need you in me right now or I’m gonna fucking die.”

For a split second, he froze — like the full force of your want for him had short-circuited his brain. Then his jaw set, and his hands gripped your hips tighter, almost bruising.

“…You sure?” he asked, voice low and gravelly, like it physically hurt him to wait for your answer.

“James,” you whispered, leaning in until your lips brushed his, “if you don’t fuck me right now—” you bit his lower lip, hard enough to make him groan, “—you’re gonna regret it.”

That was it. Whatever was left of his guard shattered. And you didn’t wait for permission — you didn’t need it. Not when you could feel him, hard and heavy against you, straining against the denim.

Your hands moved between you, fumbling for the button of his jeans before dragging the zipper down in one smooth, determined motion. Bucky’s breath stuttered, his hips jerking involuntarily when your fingers slipped inside, brushing over him through the thin cotton of his boxers.

“Fuck—” he hissed, his metal hand gripping the couch cushion like he was afraid to touch you too hard.

You looked him right in the eye, daring him to stop you, and then you shoved his jeans down just far enough to free him. His cock sprang out, thick and flushed, and you wrapped your hand around him, stroking once just to feel the way he twitched in your palm.

His head fell back, a low groan rumbling from his chest. “Baby—”

“Shhh,” you murmured, shifting just enough to hook your fingers into your panties and drag them aside. “I can’t wait.”

Before he could even process it, you lined him up and sank down in one slow, deliberate motion.

Bucky’s entire body jolted beneath you. His hands flew to your hips like he was going to push you away — but instead, his fingers dug in, holding on like you were the only thing keeping him grounded. His eyes were wide, mouth parted, chest heaving.

“Holy—fuck—” The word came out broken, almost like a whimper, and that alone made you clench around him.

You leaned forward, your breasts brushing his chest, your lips grazing his ear. “Told you I’d be gentle,” you whispered, rocking your hips just enough to make him groan again. “But right now? I’m gonna make you lose your mind.”

Your nails dug into his shoulders as you started to move — slow at first, letting him feel every inch of you clench around him, before you shifted your weight and began to ride him in earnest.

Bucky’s head dropped back against the couch, a ragged moan tearing from his throat. His flesh hand slid up your thigh, gripping hard, while his metal hand stayed fixed at your hip like he was terrified you’d pull away.

You set the pace — hard, fast, bouncing on him until his thighs flexed beneath you, until his hips started to jerk upward in time with yours.

The moment he began thrusting into you, the sound that left him was almost pained — years of restraint breaking all at once. “Ohhh, fuck—baby—”

You leaned in close, your lips brushing the shell of his ear, your breath hot as you whispered, “That’s it, James… just like that… give it to me.”

He groaned again, a shiver running through him at the sound of his name on your lips.

“You feel so good inside me,” you breathed, grinding down between bounces so he could feel how wet you were for him. “God, you’re so deep—”

His hips snapped up harder, faster, chasing that rhythm. You rewarded him by dragging your lips along the line of his jaw, sucking at his neck until you knew you’d leave marks there — marks he’d have to think about later, maybe even hide.

“Fuck, I’m—” His voice broke, his metal hand clutching you tighter, forcing you down onto him as he drove up into you with desperate, uneven thrusts.

You kissed his ear, biting lightly before murmuring, “Don’t hold back, baby… I want it all.”

That did it — his eyes screwed shut, a choked noise spilling out as he slammed up into you like he was trying to get even deeper, every thrust shaking through both of you.

“Shit—” he hissed, forehead pressing to your collarbone like he needed the contact to ground himself. But it didn’t last.

With a sudden growl, Bucky shifted beneath you, his hands gripping your waist like you weighed nothing. Before you could react, he twisted the two of you, rolling you onto your back without ever slipping out of you.

Your gasp turned into a moan when he settled above you, caging you in with his broad shoulders, bracing himself with his metal arm against the couch. His flesh hand slid under your thigh, pushing your leg higher, deeper, until the angle made you see stars.

Then he started moving — really moving — and the couch creaked in protest under the pace. Deep, filthy thrusts that had you gasping his name, every snap of his hips forcing you further into the cushions.

“Jesus, James—” you panted, nails digging into his back.

He groaned against your neck, his breath hot and ragged. “Can’t—stop—” he managed between thrusts, like he was talking to himself as much as to you.

Your head tilted back, mouth falling open as you pulled him down for a desperate kiss, swallowing the sounds he made. You felt the tension in him, the way each movement was turning rougher, more unrestrained.

“That’s it,” you murmured against his lips, pulling his metal hand from the couch and pressing it to your throat — not enough to choke, just enough for him to feel how hard your pulse was racing. “You feel that? That’s what you do to me.”

He groaned like the words burned through him, his hips slamming into you harder, faster. His eyes locked on yours, glassy and wild, and you knew right then he was gone — lost completely in you.

Your hands clung to him, nails dragging down the scars of his back as his pace grew erratic — that telltale stumble of rhythm that told you he was teetering right on the edge.

His forehead pressed against yours, breath ragged, eyes squeezing shut like he was fighting it, trying to hold on.

“Don’t—” he started, but you cut him off, voice low and sweet against his ear.

“James… I want you to finish in me.”

He froze for a fraction of a second, hips buried deep inside you, his entire body trembling. “You— you don’t—”

“I want it,” you whispered again, cupping his jaw so he had to look at you. “I want you. All of you. Don’t hold back from me.”

Whatever control he’d been clinging to shattered.

A deep, guttural sound ripped from his chest as he slammed into you harder, desperate, chasing the inevitable. His metal hand drifted to your thigh, holding you open for him, while his flesh hand fisted the couch cushion beside your head like he was trying to keep himself from completely falling apart.

Your own release crept up fast — too fast — his thrusts hitting that perfect spot over and over until your legs were shaking around his waist.

“James—” you gasped, pulling his mouth to yours, kissing him deep as you clenched tight around him.

The sound he made against your mouth was half a groan, half your name, and then he broke. His hips stuttered, buried as deep as they could go as he spilled into you, the heat of it pushing you right over the edge with him.

You cried out into his mouth, your nails sinking into his shoulders, your entire body arching into his as the two of you came together — messy, unrestrained, yours.

When it was over, he collapsed against you, chest heaving, his face tucked into the crook of your neck like he couldn’t bear to let you go. You could feel the rapid thud of his heart, the way his breath still came hard and uneven.

Your fingers threaded lazily through his hair, still a little damp with sweat, your other hand tracing soft circles along the line of his spine. His weight was heavy on you, solid, grounding — and you didn’t push him to move.

“Hey…” you murmured, voice barely above a whisper, like you were afraid to disturb whatever fragile peace had settled over him. “You alright?”

There was a long pause. You could feel the slow rise and fall of his chest against yours, the subtle shift of his breath against your collarbone.

And then, without lifting his head from where it was tucked into the warm crook of your neck, he spoke — low, almost like he didn’t mean for you to hear it.

“I’m more than alright,” he said. “I’m… perfect.”

The word sounded foreign on his tongue, like it had been years — decades — since he’d felt it.

You smiled, not the teasing kind you’d given him earlier, but something softer. Your hand cupped the back of his head, holding him there like you were keeping the world away from him for just a little longer.

“That’s good,” you whispered. “That’s just how I want you.”

He let out a sound that was somewhere between a sigh and a hum, his arm tightening around your waist, pulling you closer. You could feel how reluctant he was to let the moment pass, how badly he needed this — to be held, to be wanted without condition.

You didn’t press for words. You didn’t need them. Every small shift of his body against yours, every quiet breath into your skin, told you what you needed to know.

And somewhere in the quiet hum of the moment, you felt it — the shift.

The wall he kept between himself and the world? You’d just stepped inside it.

────────────────────────

Three Months Later

The quinjet hummed around them, the steady vibration of the engines filling the space. Sam sat across from Bucky, leaning back with that look on his face — the one that meant he was bored enough to start prying into someone else’s business.

“So,” Sam started casually, “you gonna tell me about her, or do I have to drag it outta you?”

Bucky didn’t even look up from checking the mag on his sidearm. “About who?”

Sam gave him a flat look. “Don’t play dumb with me, man. The mystery girl you’ve been seein’. The one that’s got you walking around like you’re… I dunno, not completely miserable.”

Bucky clicked the mag back in place and set the gun down. “You’re imagining things.”

Sam leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Oh, am I? Because last time I called you, you sounded—” He put on an exaggerated, low imitation of Bucky’s voice — “‘busy.’”

Bucky’s lips twitched, but he stayed silent.

“C’mon,” Sam pressed. “What’s she like? What’s her name?”

Bucky stared at the floor for a long moment, jaw tight. “None of your business, Sam.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “Translation: you really like her and you’re afraid I’ll scare her off.”

Bucky shot him a look. “No.” A pause. “…Maybe.”

That got Sam grinning. “Uh-huh. So what’s she like?”

Bucky hesitated. He could’ve brushed it off. He could’ve just said “normal” and left it at that. But Sam was his friend. His only friend, really. “She’s… different,” he admitted reluctantly. “Smart. Funny. Knows how to make me shut up without even trying.”

Sam chuckled. “Sounds like a saint.”

Bucky looked away, fingers flexing against his knee. “…I really like her.” The words felt heavier than he expected. “Like… more than I should.”

Sam tilted his head. “Yeah? That’s good, right?”

Bucky didn’t answer.

Sam leaned forward a little. “You know her well?”

Bucky’s brow furrowed. “…What’s that supposed to mean?”

“I mean—where’s she from? Family? Friends? What’s she do, besides makin’ you act all—” Sam gestured vaguely at him—“less grumpy?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened. “Why are you asking me this?”

Sam held up a hand. “I’m just sayin’, Buck… after everything you’ve been through, maybe make sure you know who you’re lettin’ in.”

Bucky’s eyes flicked up to meet his. “I do know.”

“Do you?” Sam’s tone wasn’t accusing, but it was steady. “Look, I’m not tryin’ to mess with you. I want you happy, man. I just don’t wanna see you blindsided.”

Bucky sat back, arms crossed, irritation creeping in. “…You done?”

Sam gave a small shrug. “Yeah. I’m done.”

But Bucky could still feel the words sticking in the back of his mind, even as the quinjet kept on toward their mission.

────────────────────────

Five months.

If someone had told Bucky Barnes back in Wakanda that he’d be here now — in a steady relationship, with someone who actually wanted him around — he’d have laughed in their face.

And yet… here you were.

Perfect. Too perfect.

You were all the things he didn’t think he could ever have — kind without being condescending, patient without pitying him, sweet in ways that didn’t feel fake. You listened when he talked. You didn’t push when he didn’t. You gave him space when he needed it, and held him close when he didn’t know he needed that, too.

And God, you were genuine. Or at least, you seemed to be.

That was the problem.

Bucky had lived long enough to know that perfect didn’t really exist. Not for him. And that little voice in the back of his head — the one that kept him alive through decades of torture and conditioning — kept whispering that nothing this good could be real.

At first, it was just little thoughts. Harmless. Easy to shove aside. But lately it was growing. Festering. Like a splinter buried too deep to pull out.

He’d watch you laughing at something stupid on TV, hair falling in your face as you leaned against him, and his chest would tighten — not from love, though he did love the moment — but from the sharp, nagging fear that there was something he wasn’t seeing.

He told himself it was paranoia. That Sam’s questions months ago had just gotten under his skin. That you’d given him no reason not to trust you.

Still…

He now noticed when you’d change the subject after certain questions. He noticed when you’d smile just a bit too easily in moments that should’ve felt vulnerable.

He noticed because he couldn’t not notice. It was wired into him to see the things other people didn’t.

And the worst part?

The more that doubt grew, the more he hated himself for having it. Because if he lost you over nothing — over his issues — Bucky knew he’d never forgive himself.

────────────────────────

It was supposed to be an easy night. Movie, takeout, you curled up against him — the kind of thing he’d learned to look forward to.

But his head wouldn’t shut up.

You were leaning into his side, hand absently tracing the seam of his Henley, your attention on the movie — and Bucky could feel himself pulling away. Not physically, but somewhere deeper.

He hated it. Hated that he couldn’t just enjoy the damn moment.

Still, the words came out before he could stop them. “So… what was it like growing up in Chicago?”

You glanced at him, a little surprised at the question, but answered. Simple, vague. He pressed again, asking about your family, your friends, places you used to hang out.

After the third or fourth question, your brows knit together. “Why are you asking me all this?”

Bucky tried to keep his voice even. “I just realized I don’t know that much about you.”

You tilted your head, confused. “You know plenty.”

He shook his head slightly, the frustration prickling under his skin. “No, I don’t. You know everything about me — hell, the world knows everything about me — but I…” he trailed off, jaw tightening. “I know next to nothing about you.”

Your eyes narrowed a little, your nose scrunching the way it did when something rubbed you the wrong way. “The whole world doesn’t know everything about you, James. But sure, they know more about you than most. That’s not my fault.”

You shifted, pulling away from his arm and standing up, crossing your arms loosely over your chest. “Why are you acting like this?”

And that was it. The dam broke.

“Because I don’t know if I can trust something that feels this… perfect,” he snapped before he could rein it in. “Every time I ask something real, you dodge it. Every time I try to get to know you — really know you — you smile and change the subject. And maybe that works for other people, but not for me. Not after everything I’ve been through.”

You just stared at him, your expression unreadable.

Bucky raked a hand through his hair, his voice low but hard now. “If we’re gonna be together, I need to know you’re not hiding something from me. I can’t— I won’t— go through another situation where I don’t see it coming until it’s too late.”

You didn’t answer him at first.

You just stared down at the blanket bunched on the couch, jaw tight, like you were holding something in.

Bucky’s chest was already tight, heart thudding harder than he wanted it to. He waited.

And then, finally, you spoke. Your voice was quiet. Flat at first. “It was true when I said I didn’t have family in Chicago.”

Bucky’s throat bobbed. He stayed still, watching you.

You took a breath, still not looking at him. “My mom died when I was six. Home invasion.”

He blinked, the words hitting him sharper than he expected.

You swallowed, your voice dipping even lower. “Thing is… I didn’t even know she was dead at the time.”

Bucky’s stomach knotted.

“I remember brushing her hair that morning. Talking to her. Asking why she was still sleeping in the afternoon.” You let out the smallest, bitter laugh. “I fell asleep on her chest that night. The next day too.”

A shaky breath escaped you as you reached up and wiped a stray tear with the back of your hand.

“It wasn’t until the police came… three days later… because the neighbors noticed the window was broken…” Your voice cracked, and you pressed your lips together for a second before finishing. “…Three days. I spent three days with her body, thinking she was just… asleep.”

Bucky’s hands curled into fists against his knees, the weight of your words sitting like lead in his gut. He felt sick. Guilty. Ashamed for even pushing.

Finally, you lifted your head — slowly. Your eyes were glassy, rimmed red. You met his gaze, and your voice was barely above a whisper.

“Do you feel better now?”

Bucky opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

“Do you feel closer to me now?” you asked, your lips pursed, like you were holding yourself together by a thread.

And all he could do was stare at you, feeling that ache in his chest grow heavier, every ounce of irritation he’d felt earlier dissolving into raw shame.

You stared at him for a long, long second. His face, his expression, his guilt — all of it. And then you scoffed. Soft, sharp, bitter.

Your gaze dropped, breaking away from him like it hurt to look. “You know what…” You shook your head, your voice low but cutting. “I think I’m gonna go home.”

Bucky’s shoulders stiffened. “What?”

“I just—” You exhaled hard through your nose, the sound almost like a laugh but with no humor in it. “I don’t wanna be here right now.”

Something in his chest lurched. It was like you’d just reached in and yanked him out of whatever fog he’d been sitting in. His whole body went tense.

“Wait, no—” He shot up from the couch so fast the blanket slid off his lap and onto the floor. “Sweetheart, please… don’t—”

You were already stepping toward the door, grabbing your bag from where it hung on the chair.

“Just—listen, okay? I didn’t mean—” He was moving around the coffee table to get to you, words tumbling over themselves, his voice rushed, almost frantic. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t’ve pushed, I— I’m an idiot, I don’t think sometimes—”

You didn’t slow down, didn’t look at him.

“Please,” he said again, softer now but still desperate, his metal hand twitching at his side like he didn’t know if he could touch you without making it worse. “Don’t walk out like this. Not like this.”

Your fingers wrapped around the doorknob—only for it not to turn. You froze, looking up. Bucky’s metal hand was braced flat against the door, holding it shut. His knuckles were tight around the edges of the plates, his arm locked like he was physically anchoring you there.

“Please,” he said, his voice low, strained. “Don’t go.”

You didn’t look at him. Your eyes stayed fixed forward, shoulders tight. “Let go of the door, James.”

He didn’t move. “I’m sorry,” he rushed out, voice breaking at the edges. “I didn’t mean it like that. Please don’t leave like this.”

Your head tilted slightly, your breath sharp through your nose. Then, slowly, you turned to face him.

“I can understand,” you said quietly, “where all your doubt and mistrust comes from. God knows you’ve had enough reasons to feel that way.”

His eyes flickered, guilt written in every line of his face.

“But what you said to me tonight—” You shook your head. “It wasn’t fair.”

“Baby, I—”

“No.” You cut him off, your voice soft but final. “Maybe we’ve been spending too much time together. Maybe… we should take a little time apart.”

His chest rose and fell hard, panic tightening every word. “No. No, I don’t want that. We can— we can fix this. I just—”

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” you said, stepping back from him and the door. “When I feel better.”

The look in his eyes nearly stopped you—but you turned away before it could.

You opened the door and stepped into the hall, leaving him standing there, still holding the doorframe like he needed the support, the silence in his apartment pressing in around him until it was deafening.

────────────────────────

The next morning, sunlight bled through your blinds in soft, dusty lines, warming the sheets around you. You stayed in bed longer than usual, lazily tracing your fingers over the fabric, listening to the faint hum of traffic outside.

Your phone was on the nightstand, face down. You knew it would already be buzzing.

This was part of your next move. And, maybe, just a little bit of punishment for going off script.

Your past was your past — jagged, bloody edges smoothed down by time, but still yours. Messy, ugly, yes — but more than twenty years behind you. He had no right to dig it up like that. No right to look at you like you were some puzzle he needed to solve to make you safe.

And last night, when you’d told him, I’ll call you tomorrow, you already knew you wouldn’t.

Almost like clockwork, it started.

The first text came before nine.

Morning. I’m sorry about last night.

Then another, a few minutes later.

Can we talk? Please?

By noon, there were six more, all variations of I didn’t mean it, please call me, I just need to see you.

By mid-afternoon, the messages tripled. The tone shifted — still apologetic, but heavier now, more desperate.

And then the calls began.

The first time his name lit up your screen, you let it ring until it died out. The second time, you silenced it before the first ring finished. The third, you just let it buzz in your hand, your thumb hovering over accept, knowing you wouldn’t press it.

You read every message. You didn’t respond to a single one.

By early evening, you could almost see him — pacing his apartment, jaw tight, thumb running over the edge of his phone like it was a trigger. Telling himself to stop. Telling himself to give you space. Failing miserably.

That gnawing, hollow feeling would be sinking in now. The weight in his chest. The restlessness in his hands. The way he’d keep thinking of the sound of your voice, the feel of your touch, the way your smile hooked him without effort.

The withdrawal was starting to take hold. And the best part? You didn’t need to lift a finger. He’d come to you.

────────────────────────

You had given him four days. Four, maybe five, before the silence became unbearable and he caved. Before he came knocking at your door like a stray, looking for warmth, for you.

But he surprised you. He lasted a week. Seven whole days without seeing you. Without hearing your voice. Without touching you.

When the knock came, it was almost quiet enough to miss. Three soft raps against the wood, tentative, like even his hand was unsure whether it should be there. You paused in your kitchen, head tilting slightly toward the sound, the smallest flicker of a smile tugging at your lips before you schooled it away.

You weren’t expecting anyone. Which meant there was only one person who could be standing on the other side of that door.

You took your time crossing the room, letting your bare feet make soft thuds against the hardwood, your expression carefully shifting into something neutral. Concerned, maybe. Curious. Certainly not expectant.

The lock clicked, and you opened the door slowly. And there he was.

God, he looked miserable. Pale, like the color had been drained out of him. Dark, heavy bags carved into the skin beneath his eyes, shadowing them, making the blue seem even more raw. His hair was a little disheveled, his jaw unshaven, like he’d been too busy — or too restless — to care.

For a moment, he just stood there, his broad shoulders rising and falling as if the walk to your place had been exhausting. His eyes moved over you like he was memorizing you all over again, as though a week apart had been months.

When he finally spoke, his voice was soft — hoarse, like he’d been swallowing too many words before they could escape.

“Can I come in… please?”

The “please” was quiet, almost fragile, carrying the weight of the days you’d kept yourself from him. The kind of please that made you want to pull him inside and fix every inch of him.

But you didn’t move right away. You let the moment stretch — just long enough for him to shift uneasily on his feet, his hand tightening around the strap of the bag slung over his shoulder, his gaze darting from your eyes to the floor and back.

You pursed your lips, your hand still resting lightly on the edge of the door, like you were actually considering telling him no.

Your eyes held his for a long moment. He didn’t look away. He looked like a man ready to take whatever you decided to give him — even if that meant shutting the door in his face.

You let the pause drag just long enough for his shoulders to sink, for his jaw to tighten in that quiet, bracing way that told you he was preparing for rejection.

Then you shifted. Your head tilted slightly, and your lips softened into the faintest, unreadable smile. Without a word, you stepped back, swinging the door open wider.

He moved past you immediately, the tension in his frame palpable — like stepping over your threshold was the first deep breath he’d taken in a week. You caught the faint scent of his cologne as he brushed past, that worn, familiar mix of cedar and soap and something faintly metallic.

He stopped just inside your living room, his hands flexing uselessly at his sides. He didn’t sit. Didn’t touch anything. Just stood there, taking you in like he wasn’t sure where to start.

You closed the door quietly behind him, leaning against it for a second, letting him feel your eyes on his back.

“Are you okay?” you asked, your voice soft but even.

He turned halfway toward you, his mouth opening like he wanted to say no, but what came out instead was, “I… couldn’t stop thinking about you.”

Your brows rose slightly, but you didn’t move closer. You stayed where you were, making him bridge the space.

And of course, he did. Slowly, he crossed the room toward you — every step careful, like he was afraid to spook you. His gaze searched your face, looking for some sign, some opening.

“I’m sorry,” he said finally, his voice low and thick. “For what I said. For… all of it. I just—” He exhaled sharply, shaking his head. “I messed up. I know I did.”

You let your silence hang in the air between you, your expression unreadable, forcing him to keep going.

“I just… I don’t wanna lose you,” he admitted, and that raw edge in his voice almost made you smile. Almost.

You didn’t answer right away.

You just stood there, your arms loosely crossed, studying him like you were trying to decide if the man in front of you was worth the trouble. Your silence stretched long enough that he shifted his weight, his shoulders tensing like he was bracing for you to tell him to leave.

“You really hurt me, James,” you said at last, your voice quiet but heavy. No anger. Just disappointment. You watched the way his jaw tightened at the sound of his name, the way his eyes dropped for half a second before finding yours again.

“I know,” he said immediately, almost desperately. “And I hate myself for it. I was—” He hesitated, searching for the right word. “—stupid. I was scared, and I… I let it get in my head.”

You tilted your head, letting your gaze run over him — the pale face, the dark circles under his eyes, the slight slump in his frame. “And what happens next time you get scared?” you asked softly. “Do I get accused again?”

He flinched. It was subtle, but you caught it.

“I’m not gonna make that mistake again,” he said, his voice firm in that way that meant he was trying to convince himself as much as you. “I swear, sweetheart, I’ll do better. I just… I need you to give me that chance.”

You let your lips press together in a thin line, then slowly exhaled, glancing toward the floor like you were weighing his words. “I don’t know, James,” you murmured. “I don’t know if I can trust that yet.”

The panic that flickered in his eyes was quick, but it was there. He stepped closer, lowering his voice. “Please. Just—don’t shut me out. I can’t…” He stopped himself, swallowing whatever words were about to come out, but the meaning was clear.

You let the silence hang between you again, long enough for him to start fidgeting with his gloves. Then, finally, you gave a small sigh, softening your expression just enough.

“Alright,” you said quietly, as though you’d just made a reluctant decision. “One more chance.”

His relief was almost palpable — his shoulders loosening, his exhale shaky.

You gave him a faint, almost weary smile, then stepped aside toward the couch, letting him follow you deeper into your space. He trailed after you like a man starved, grateful just to be let close again — exactly where you wanted him.

Then, with a slow exhale, you stepped toward him. He straightened a little as you closed the space between you, his hands twitching at his sides like he wanted to reach for you but didn’t dare.

“James,” you said quietly, your eyes locked on his, “you hurt me.”

“I know,” he murmured. “I know, and I’m sorry.”

You studied him for a beat longer… then finally lifted your hand to his jaw, your thumb brushing over the rough edge of his stubble. He leaned into your touch like it was the first bit of warmth he’d felt in days.

And then you kissed him.

Not forgiving, not yet — but slow and deep enough to make his knees go weak. You felt the way his breath caught against your lips, how his hands finally came up to your waist, pulling you in like he was afraid you’d vanish again.

He melted into you, completely. His shoulders dropped, his tension bleeding out as his mouth moved against yours with quiet desperation. It wasn’t just a kiss to him — it was an anchor, proof you were still here.

You broke the kiss just long enough to whisper against his lips, “Please don't make me regret this.”

“I won’t,” he breathed, already leaning back in for more.

This time, the kiss turned hungrier. You tugged at his shirt, pulling it over his head, your fingers splaying over the warm muscle of his chest. His breath hitched when you pressed your body against his, and when you guided him backward toward your bedroom, he didn’t resist for a second.

By the time you pushed him down onto your bed and straddled his lap, his hands were everywhere — his flesh hand gripping your thigh, his metal one sliding up your spine like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to hold you closer or never let you go again.

“God, I missed you,” he murmured against your mouth, the words almost a groan.

You smiled faintly, brushing your lips along his jaw. “Show me,” you whispered.

And he did — with a kiss that turned into something far rougher, far more desperate. The kind of sex that blurred the lines between apology and need, that left him gasping your name like a prayer.

By the time it was over, he was sprawled against you, damp with sweat, his face buried in your neck, muttering quiet promises you knew he’d keep — because now, after this, he’d be even more afraid to lose you.

────────────────────────

Six Months Later May 2025

You stood in front of the mirror, smoothing the rich red fabric over your hips, letting your gaze linger on your reflection. The dress clung perfectly — a slow curve from shoulder to waist, from waist to the flare just above your ankles. Your lipstick matched it exactly, and you’d taken extra care with your makeup, the soft glow on your skin catching the warm light of the room.

You tilted your head slightly, tucking a stray strand of hair behind your ear, checking the angle again. Every detail was deliberate. Every choice calculated.

You didn’t hear him at first — not until the familiar weight of his hands slid around your waist from behind, his chest fitting flush to your back like it had always belonged there.

“Mm,” Bucky’s voice was low, already warm with something heavier than words. His head dipped, the scrape of faint stubble brushing against your neck as his lips found the spot just below your ear. He kissed once, slow, then again — lingering, like he needed the taste of you before anything else tonight.

You felt his breath as he murmured, “We could skip dinner.” Another kiss. “Stay in instead.”

The faint scent of his cologne mixed with the heat of him pressed against you, his nose grazing along your jaw as if he was memorizing it. His hands splayed wider over your stomach, pulling you closer, and you caught his reflection in the mirror — eyes half-lidded, locked entirely on you.

“It’s our anniversary,” you reminded softly, though your voice didn’t carry much protest.

“Exactly,” he murmured, lips brushing against your skin again. “I want you to myself tonight.”

You turned slowly in his arms, the soft fabric of your dress brushing against his shirt as you faced him. His hands didn’t leave your waist, thumbs stroking absent circles over the curve of your hips.

You smiled, slow and knowing, letting your hands slide up from his shoulders, fingers curling into the hair at the back of his head. You felt the way his breath deepened under your touch, his body leaning into you like it was instinct.

“Dinner first,” you murmured, your tone soft but edged with promise. Your nails scraped lightly against his scalp, just enough to make him shiver. “And then…” You tilted your head, brushing your lips against the corner of his mouth without giving him the kiss he was angling for, “…you can have me for as long as you want.”

His eyes darkened immediately, the muscles in his jaw flexing as if he was weighing whether to argue. His hands slid lower on your waist, pulling you that fraction of an inch closer until your bodies were flush, the heat of him pressing through your dress.

“You’re killing me,” he muttered, his voice a low rasp. His mouth found your neck again, one slow, hot kiss just under your ear.

“That’s the idea,” you teased, still stroking the back of his head, guiding him without force, letting him think he was the one choosing to stop.

For a moment, he just breathed you in, his lips lingering against your skin like he was storing it away for later. Then, with a quiet groan, he finally leaned back enough to look at you — frustration and hunger warring in his eyes.

“You’d better eat fast,” he warned, but his grip didn’t loosen, his thumbs still brushing over your hips like he needed the contact to keep steady.

────────────────────────

The restaurant glowed in warm, golden light, the kind that softened everything it touched — the gleam of the silverware, the deep reds of the wine in your glass, the way James’ eyes caught the low light like they were lit from within.

A year.

It felt strange, thinking back to that first coffee after the grocery store — how awkward he’d been, how carefully you’d drawn him out. Every step, every move since then, deliberate on your part. And yet, sitting across from him now, you knew it wasn’t all calculation.

You’d worked for this. Planned for it. But somewhere along the way, it had stopped being just strategy.

Because you did love him. You just needed him to love you more.

Your lips curved softly as you looked at him, letting your gaze linger in a way that you knew would make his pulse skip. He was watching you like you were the only thing in the room worth seeing, his elbows resting loosely on the table, wine glass untouched in front of him.

It was still startling sometimes — the intensity in his eyes when he looked at you. Like he was memorizing you, every time. Like he was afraid if he blinked, you’d be gone.

“You’re quiet,” you said, your voice light, teasing just enough.

“Just… taking you in,” he replied, and there was no hesitation, no attempt to disguise it.

You tilted your head, letting a slow smile bloom across your face. “After a year, you’d think you’d have me memorized by now.”

“I do,” he said without missing a beat. “But I still like looking.”

The corner of your mouth lifted, a warmth settling in your chest that you didn’t have to fake. You reached across the table, your fingers brushing over his hand, the contact grounding him. You could feel the subtle shift in his posture, the way his shoulders eased as soon as you touched him.

The waiter came and went, dropping off plates you barely noticed. The whole time, his attention never strayed from you. It was the kind of focus you’d nurtured, protected — and now, it was yours entirely.

And as you sipped your wine, your thumb idly stroking over the back of his hand, you thought about how far you’d brought him from that guarded, skeptical man you’d met.

He’d come to love you exactly as much as you’d wanted. Now you just had to make sure he never stopped.

And now… now you just needed to secure it.

Preferably with the ring you’d seen carefully hidden in his drawer — the one where he kept his dog tags and those other small, weathered pieces of his life he couldn’t let go of. You’d found it weeks ago, tucked inside a worn leather pouch. Platinum band, simple but heavy. Not new. Not flashy. The kind of thing James would choose for forever.

You hadn’t let on that you knew. You’d just been waiting for the moment.

So when he ordered the soufflé for you—“her favorite,” he told the waiter—you sat up straighter, gaze fixed on the dessert menu as though you weren’t paying attention, feigning complete ignorance.

By the time the warm, delicate dish was set in front of you, you’d already pictured it. The glint of the band as your fork broke the surface. His hand reaching across the table, his voice low and a little nervous. The quiet satisfaction of knowing you’d planned every step to this moment.

You took your first bite, light and airy, the sweet steam curling up toward your face. Your heart was steady—your smile soft, practiced—as your fork dipped again, searching.

And then… nothing. Just chocolate. Just a normal soufflé.

You blinked once, twice, forcing your expression to stay exactly the same. You made yourself hum softly in appreciation, licking a smear of chocolate from your spoon as though you hadn’t expected anything else.

James was smiling at you, leaning back in his chair with that relaxed warmth you’d learned to draw out of him. Completely unaware of the tiny shift in your chest, the cool note under the sugar on your tongue.

“Good?” he asked.

You smiled, perfect and easy. “Perfect.”

And you let the conversation move on, your face never betraying the faint, careful recalibration already happening in the back of your mind.

────────────────────────

You weren’t even a full step into the apartment before he was on you — hands gripping, mouth crashing into yours like he’d been holding himself back all through dinner and was done pretending now.

His lips were hot, desperate, devouring yours with a hunger that stole the air from your lungs. You felt your back hit the wall, the cool plaster stark against the heat of his body pressed flush to yours. His metal hand braced beside your head, caging you in, while his flesh hand roamed — down your waist, over your hip, gripping hard like he needed to feel every curve at once.

You gasped into his mouth when his thigh pushed between yours, the friction already enough to send sparks straight through your core. He swallowed the sound greedily, his tongue sliding against yours, his kiss rough and claiming.

“God, this dress…” he growled against your lips, his fingers dragging the hem up your thigh without hesitation. “Been thinkin’ about gettin’ you out of it all night.”

You arched into him, grinding against the thigh wedged between yours, your hands threading into his hair and tugging hard enough to make him groan. He bit your bottom lip in return, one hand cupping your ass and pulling you harder into him until you could feel exactly how hard he was through his pants.

“Bucky—” you breathed, but it came out more like a moan when his mouth trailed hot, wet kisses down your jaw to your neck. His teeth scraped over your pulse before his tongue soothed the sting, his breath coming rough and fast against your skin.

Your dress was bunched high now, his fingers already finding the edge of your panties, dragging along the lace just to feel you shiver.

“Tell me you want me,” he rasped against your throat, his voice low and filthy, more command than request. “Say it.”

“I want you,” you gasped, your nails digging into his shoulders. “I want you now.”

That was all it took. His mouth crashed back to yours, kissing you hard as his hand slipped under the lace, fingers teasing you until your knees nearly buckled.

When you broke the kiss suddenly, your palms pressing against his chest to push him back just enough to catch his confused, darkened stare.

“Wait here,” you breathed, lips still swollen from his mouth. “I have a surprise for you.”

His brows knit, suspicion and curiosity mixing in his expression. “What kind of surprise?”

You just smirked, stepping out of his reach and smoothing your dress back down over your hips as you started toward the bedroom.

“Hey—” he started, pushing off the wall to follow you, but you turned, holding up a hand.

“Nope,” you said firmly, your tone light but edged with finality. “You can’t come in.”

Bucky’s eyes narrowed, a half-smile tugging at his lips despite the heat still written all over his face. “Why not?”

“Because,” you said simply, already stepping inside, “it’ll ruin the surprise.”

And before he could take another step, you closed the door and turned the lock with a decisive click.

On the other side, you heard him let out a low, frustrated groan, the sound deep in his chest. “You’re killin’ me, baby,” he muttered through the wood.

You just smiled to yourself, leaning back against the door for a second before moving toward the closet, already planning exactly how you’d make him wait — and exactly how you’d reward him for it.

So you took your time with the zipper, letting the red dress pool at your feet before stepping out of it and draping it neatly over the chair. The silk lingerie you’d chosen for tonight was new — deep black, sheer in just the right places, the lace framing your curves in a way you knew would undo him the second he saw you.

You ran your palms slowly over your hips, adjusting the straps, smoothing the garter into place. The mirror caught the way the fabric clung to your skin, the way your hair fell loose over your shoulders. You looked like a secret — one meant to be unwrapped slowly, savored, and remembered.

And all the while, you let him wait outside the door, pacing, restless, already half-gone with anticipation.

If Bucky was too scared to take the next step — to slide that ring from his drawer onto your finger — then you’d take the step for both of you.

Marriage was fine. Marriage was symbolic. But it wasn’t permanent. What would keep you and James together forever was obvious.

A baby.

Your reflection smiled back at you, slow and knowing. You’d stopped taking your birth control a week ago, carefully tracking your cycle. Tonight fell just before ovulation — the point when your body was primed, when the odds were stacked in your favor.

You adjusted the bra’s clasp and smoothed your hands down your stomach, picturing his expression when you stepped out there. The way he’d grip you, lose himself in you, be far too lost to think about anything but the moment.

And afterward… well. By then, the future would already be in motion.

You reached for the door, letting the anticipation hang for just another heartbeat before unlocking it. The lock clicked, and you turned the handle slowly, letting the door creak open just enough for the light from the bedroom to spill into the hall.

Bucky was right there. He’d been pacing — you could tell by the restless way his weight shifted from one foot to the other, the faint flex of his jaw.

And then his eyes landed on you.

The change was instant.

Every ounce of tension in him coiled tighter, his pupils blowing wide, his gaze dragging over every inch of you with sharp, hungry precision. You saw the way his throat worked as he swallowed, the muscle in his jaw ticking like he was holding himself back by the thinnest thread.

“Jesus Christ…” he muttered, almost under his breath — not reverent, not even surprised, but like the sight of you had just punched the air out of his lungs.

You leaned lightly against the doorframe, letting the strap of your bra slide just enough against your shoulder to make his eyes follow the movement. “You like?” you asked, voice slow, sultry.

His answer wasn’t words.

In two steps, he was on you, his hands already at your waist, pulling you into him hard enough that your back hit the doorframe. His mouth crashed onto yours, hot and rough, teeth catching your lower lip before his tongue swept in, claiming you with an almost desperate urgency.

You felt the hard line of him through his pants, pressed firmly against your stomach, and the way his hands roamed like he couldn’t decide what part of you to touch first. His metal hand gripped your ass with possessive force, while his flesh one dragged up your side, fingers brushing the edge of your bra, curling like he was about to tear it off.

He broke the kiss just enough to breathe against your mouth, his voice ragged, almost animal. “You’re fuckin’ killin’ me.”

Then his lips were back on you, trailing down your jaw to your throat, biting just enough to make you gasp before sucking hard enough to mark you. You could feel his restraint fraying — every touch growing rougher, more urgent, the kind of need that burned through thought entirely.

The door to the bedroom was still open behind you, and he was already walking you backward through it without breaking from your mouth.

You barely had time to register the way his arms shifted before he bent, gripping you under your thighs.

“Bucky—!” you gasped, the sudden lift catching you off guard, your legs instinctively wrapping around his waist.

He carried you like you weighed nothing, his mouth never slowing — moving from your neck to your collarbone, kissing, biting, sucking with the kind of hunger that had your back arching into him.

You laughed breathlessly, the sound breaking into a moan when his head dipped lower, his mouth closing over your nipple through the thin lace. His teeth caught the peak, his tongue flicking against it, the heat of his mouth soaking through the fabric until it was damp.

“Fuck—James—” you panted, gripping at his hair, your nails scraping against his scalp.

He growled low against you, the sound vibrating into your skin, and then you were being dropped onto the bed — not carelessly, but with the controlled force of someone who needed you exactly where he wanted you.

You bounced once against the mattress, the lingerie strap sliding further down your shoulder, before he was over you, caging you in with his arms. His hair had fallen loose from where you’d been gripping it, his breath rough and fast, eyes fixed on you like prey he was about to devour.

He didn’t wait for permission.

His hands were already roaming, pulling at straps, pushing lace aside, his mouth finding every inch of newly exposed skin like he’d been starved for it. The kiss he dragged back to your mouth was hot, messy, almost uncoordinated in its urgency, and you felt his hips pressing hard into yours, grinding as though the friction alone might undo him.

“Been thinkin’ about this all fuckin’ night,” he rasped against your lips, his voice almost shaking from how badly he wanted it.

His mouth left yours suddenly, his breathing heavy, eyes blown wide and fixed low like he’d just made a decision he couldn’t come back from.

“Lay back,” he growled, already moving down your body.

You barely had time to register it before his hands hooked behind your knees, spreading them wide. The cool drag of his metal fingers along your inner thighs made you shiver, while his flesh hand gripped firmly, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

Then he was kneeling between your legs, lowering himself until his broad shoulders pressed against your thighs. He dragged you closer in one rough pull, your ass right to the edge of the bed, before hiking your legs up and over his shoulders.

The lace of your panties didn’t last long — he pushed them aside with a flick of his thumb, the air hitting you for a second before his mouth was on you.

You gasped sharply, your fingers fisting in the sheets as his tongue slid through your folds, slow at first, then firmer, more deliberate. He groaned low when he tasted you, the vibration making your hips twitch.

“Fuck, baby…” he muttered against you, already diving back in like a man starved, his tongue circling your clit before sucking it into his mouth with filthy precision.

Your back arched, a breathless moan spilling out as your hands flew to his hair, tugging hard enough to make him groan again — and the sound went straight through you. His grip on your thighs tightened, keeping you open, keeping you his.

Every movement was hungry, urgent, like he was trying to memorize the taste of you. He alternated between deep, slow licks and fast, sharp flicks of his tongue, never giving you a chance to settle, keeping you right at that dangerous edge.

“James—” you gasped, your thighs trembling against his shoulders.

He pulled back just enough to look up at you from between your legs, his mouth glistening, eyes dark and wild. “Not stoppin’ ‘til you fall apart for me.”

And then his mouth was back on you, more relentless than before, his need to taste you completely taking over.

He didn’t let up — not even a little.

Every stroke of his tongue was purposeful, calculated in that chaotic, desperate way only Bucky could manage — half control, half raw instinct. His flesh hand gripped your thigh hard, fingers digging in, while his metal hand pressed flat against your hip, holding you down when you tried to buck up into him.

The room was filled with the wet, obscene sounds of him eating you out, the low hum of his groans vibrating against your most sensitive spot. You could feel every flick, every pull of his mouth, like it was designed to unravel you completely.

“Fuck, James—” Your voice was breaking now, your grip in his hair tightening until your knuckles ached.

He only groaned in response, the sound deep and rough, like the taste of you was driving him half mad. His tongue changed pace — slow circles, then sudden, precise flicks — keeping you from finding any kind of rhythm, keeping you teetering.

Your breathing quickened, legs twitching against his shoulders, your thighs trying to close on instinct, but his hands were unyielding. He knew exactly where you were, exactly how close.

“That’s it, sweetheart,” he murmured against you, his lips brushing your soaked skin before sucking your clit back into his mouth. “Come for me.”

That command — the sheer gravel of his voice — tipped you over.

It hit you hard, your body arching off the bed, a sharp cry leaving your lips as the orgasm rolled through you. Your thighs clenched around his head, your fingers pulling hard at his hair as you rode the waves, every nerve ending singing with him between your legs.

But Bucky didn’t stop. He kept working you through it, licking and sucking until you were trembling, breathless, your hips twitching at the overstimulation. Only when you whimpered his name in that needy, almost pleading tone did he finally lift his head.

His mouth was glistening, his lips red and swollen, his eyes so dark they were nearly black.

“Not done with you yet,” he rasped, crawling up your body without breaking eye contact.

You barely had time to breathe before his mouth was on yours — hot, messy, and deep — and you tasted yourself on his tongue. His hands were already pushing your knees wider, lining himself up without ceremony, his cock heavy and hard against your entrance.

“Gonna fuck you with your taste still on my mouth,” he growled into the kiss, and then he was sliding into you, deep and slow at first, groaning low as your walls clenched around him.

The stretch had you gasping, still sensitive from his mouth, your nails raking down his back as he pressed all the way in, his hips flush to yours.

“Fuck… you feel perfect,” he panted, his forehead dropping to yours for a moment — before pulling back and thrusting into you again, harder this time, setting a pace that told you he was about to fuck you until neither of you could breathe.

The first few thrusts were deep and heavy, knocking the air from your lungs, the kind that made your body jolt and your nails sink deeper into his skin. Bucky’s breath was already ragged, his mouth hovering over yours, stealing your gasps with every push.

Then something in him snapped.

His pace shifted — no more measured control, just raw, driving force. He fucked into you like his body was working on instinct alone, hips slamming into yours hard enough to make the bed creak beneath you. The sounds between you were filthy — wet, sharp, every thrust punctuated by the slap of skin and the low, guttural groans tearing from his chest.

“James—” you moaned, your voice cracking as his cock hit that perfect spot over and over, each thrust deeper than the last.

“Can’t… fuckin’ stop,” he ground out, his hands gripping your hips so tightly you’d be marked in the morning. His metal hand slid up to hold your thigh high, opening you up even wider so he could drive into you with everything he had.

Your back arched, breasts brushing against his chest, and he ducked his head to mouth at your throat — biting, sucking, marking you like he needed the world to see who you belonged to. Every movement screamed possession, his body claiming yours in the most primal way.

The way he was fucking you — it was the definition of breeding, even if he didn’t know it. Every thrust was deep, purposeful, like he was trying to get as far inside you as possible, to make sure you’d feel him long after he was gone.

And you let him. You wrapped your legs around his waist, locking him in, pulling him closer until there wasn’t a single inch of space left between you. “Don’t stop,” you gasped in his ear, your voice low and urgent. “I want it all, James. Every drop.”

That broke what little restraint he had left.

He growled — an actual, raw sound from deep in his chest — and slammed into you faster, harder, the bed frame thudding against the wall in rhythm with his thrusts. His head was buried in your neck, his breath hot and frantic, his hips driving like he was chasing something buried deep inside you.

You could feel him getting closer — the tension in his thighs, the way his thrusts grew rougher, more erratic. His teeth scraped your skin as he gasped, “Fuck—gonna—”

“Yes,” you cut in, your nails dragging down his back. “Inside me. I want it inside me.”

That was it.

With a guttural curse, his hips slammed into you one final time, burying himself to the hilt as he spilled inside you. The heat flooded you in thick pulses, and he stayed there, grinding into you through it, his breath breaking, every muscle locked as if his body refused to pull away.

You tightened your legs around him, keeping him there, your hand stroking through his hair while you whispered soft, breathless praise into his ear — feeding the moment, cementing it.

By the time his weight finally slumped over you, his cock still buried deep, you could feel his heartbeat pounding against your chest.

And you knew. If this worked—if tonight went exactly as you’d planned—he'd be yours forever.

────────────────────────

One Month Later

It had been exactly a month since that night. The night you’d set everything into motion.

Now you sat on the closed lid of the toilet, elbows on your knees, staring down at the small plastic stick in your hands. Two pink lines. Clear as day.

The satisfaction that curled low in your stomach was warm, steady — not giddy, not frantic. This was what you’d planned for. What you’d worked toward. You let yourself sit in it for a moment longer, letting that small, satisfied smile pull at your lips.

Now came the real work — finding the perfect way to tell him.

And James? He was right where you’d left him. Sitting on the couch, watching some old movie, waiting for you without any idea how much his life was about to change.

You rose slowly, placing the test gently on the edge of the sink for a moment as you composed yourself. The smile softened, the corners of your mouth pulling down just slightly. You practiced the look in the mirror — worried, almost sad, like you weren’t sure what to think.

Perfect.

When you finally opened the bathroom door, you moved slowly, your bare feet making soft sounds on the floor. Bucky glanced over from the couch immediately — and the moment his eyes caught your face, you saw it. His posture changed, that quiet alertness switching on like a flicker of electricity.

“What’s wrong, baby?” His voice was low, careful, already tinged with concern.

You stopped just a few feet from the couch, chewing your lip like you didn’t quite know how to start. Then, without a word, you held the test out toward him.

He frowned slightly, reaching for it — and then froze when he saw.

For a long moment, he didn’t speak. His eyes stayed on the little stick in his hand, his brows furrowing like the two pink lines were in a language he couldn’t quite read.

Then it hit him.

His gaze flicked up to you — wide, uncertain — then back to the test again. His fingers tightened slightly around it, his jaw working like he was trying to form words and finding none.

“I… I thought…” he finally managed, his voice rough, unsteady. “I thought we were keeping it safe.”

You blinked at him, letting your eyes go wide, your bottom lip trembling just enough. “We were,” you said quietly, almost like you were trying to convince yourself. “I mean… I thought we were.”

His hand went through his hair, dragging hard, the motion jerky and restless. “I—” He stopped, his breath catching. “I just… I don’t understand. This wasn’t—”

He cut himself off again, and you let the silence stretch, watching him wrestle with the storm behind his eyes. His chest rose and fell faster, his grip on the test loosening until it rested in his palm like it was fragile.

You stepped closer, your arms wrapping lightly around yourself, shoulders curling inward as though you were smaller somehow. “James…” Your voice was so soft it was almost a whisper. “What are we gonna do?”

His head lifted at that, his eyes searching your face — and finding what you wanted him to see. The uncertainty. The fear. The quiet plea for him to take control, to protect you.

“I—” He swallowed hard, shaking his head slightly. “I don’t know yet. I just… I need to think. But we’ll figure it out. We’ll… we’ll figure it out.”

He reached for you then, pulling you down onto the couch beside him, his arm curling protectively around you even as his mind clearly spun. You let yourself lean into him, your cheek against his chest, feeling the rapid beat of his heart.

Inside, you were calm. Because he’d just said we’ll figure it out. That was all you needed to hear.

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Two Months Later

The morning light spilled across your bedroom, soft and golden, catching on the band of platinum wrapped snug around your left hand.

You turned it slowly, admiring the way it glittered in the mirror. Simple. Heavy. Perfect.

Your eyes shifted lower, to the faint swell beneath your tank — the tiniest curve of your belly, only just beginning to show. Three months.

You ran your palm over it absently, your reflection looking back at you with a knowing smile.

It had been a month since James proposed. You could still see the scene perfectly when you closed your eyes.

He’d cooked for you that night — your favorite meal. You remembered the smell of garlic and herbs filling the air, the low hum of old music coming from the speaker, the way he kept glancing over at you when he thought you weren’t looking.

At the time, you’d thought he was just a little more fidgety than usual. Later, you’d realize he’d been working up the nerve.

After dinner, he’d reached into his pocket—slow, careful—and set a small box on the table between you.

“I want to spend the rest of my life with you,” he’d said, voice just shy of steady, blue eyes fixed on yours.

You’d blinked, keeping your tone careful, hesitant. “James… are you sure this isn’t just because of…?” You’d glanced down toward your stomach without finishing the sentence.

His face had shifted instantly, that stubborn line setting into his jaw. “No,” he’d said firmly. “This isn’t about obligation. I love you. I don’t want to be with anyone else. And I’m in this for the long game, sweetheart. Always have been.”

You’d let the silence linger just long enough for him to reach across the table, his hand covering yours, his thumb brushing your ring finger like it already belonged there.

“Say yes,” he’d murmured. “Please.”

And, of course, you had.

Now, standing in front of the mirror, the ring catching the light and the small curve of your belly just beneath it, you couldn’t help the small, satisfied smile that spread across your face.

Everything was falling right into place.

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Eleven Months Later July 2026

The door shut behind him with a dull click, the sound of the lock sliding into place almost drowned out by the faint hum of music drifting from the kitchen. Something warm and rich was in the air — garlic, maybe rosemary — and for the first time all day, Bucky felt his shoulders start to loosen.

He let out a slow breath, setting his briefcase down and dropping his keys onto the entryway table. They landed with a soft clink against the wood, right beside the silver picture frame that had been there since the move.

His gaze found it immediately, like it always did.

You, in your wedding dress, smiling down at the tiny bundle in your arms — your daughter, barely two months old, swaddled in ivory silk to match you. She was sleeping in the picture, her face soft and serene, her little fists tucked against her chest.

And there he was beside you, in the fancy tux he’d married you in, looking straight ahead at the camera. But even in the photo, it was obvious — his eyes weren’t on the lens.

They were on you. Like they always were.

The tiredness in his bones eased just a little as he stood there, taking it in for a few seconds longer before he made himself move, the smell of dinner pulling him down the hall toward the kitchen.

From the doorway, he could see you — hair pulled back, one of his old t-shirts hanging loose over your frame, swaying your hips gently to the rhythm of whatever old song was playing as you stirred something on the stove.

You didn’t even hear him come in—not until his arms slid around your waist from behind, the heat of his body pressing into your back. You startled just slightly, then relaxed immediately into the familiar weight of him.

“Something smells good,” Bucky murmured against your neck, his voice low and rough from the day.

A smile tugged at your lips as you tilted your head, giving him room when his mouth brushed your skin in a slow, lingering kiss. You turned in his arms, hands resting on his chest as you leaned up to give him a proper kiss — warm, unhurried, the kind that felt like a homecoming all on its own.

“I’m making beef stew and roasted vegetables,” you said when you pulled back, watching the faint flicker of relief cross his features. “Your favorite. Should be ready in a few minutes.”

His shoulders seemed to ease instantly, the tension melting from him as his thumb traced the edge of your hip.

“So you can go get undressed,” you added with a little smile, “and greet a special someone.”

That got the faintest, tired laugh out of him. “Yeah?”

You nodded toward the living room, where the faint sound of a baby’s cooing could just be heard over the music. “She’s been waiting for you.”

His face softened instantly, his lips curving into the kind of smile that was only for her—and for you. Without another word, he kissed your forehead and slipped out of the kitchen, already tugging at his tie as he headed toward the sound.

Bucky rounded the corner into the living room, the exhaustion of his day already fading as his eyes landed on the little playmat spread out across the floor.

There she was.

Shelly — four months old, dressed in a soft pink onesie, kicking her legs and swatting at the dangling toys above her with all the chaotic energy of someone discovering the world one grab at a time.

“Hey… Seashell,” he said softly, and the moment she heard his voice, her head turned toward him like it was instinct. Her little face lit up, her mouth curling into that wide, gummy smile that made his chest ache in the best way.

“Oh, there’s my princess. My pretty girl,” he murmured as he crouched down beside her, his voice low and warm just for her.

Her legs kicked faster, arms flailing as if she could launch herself into him by sheer willpower.

“You waitin’ for me, huh?” he asked, leaning in to press a kiss to one chubby cheek, then the other, then back again, his scruff making her squeal and squirm in delight.

She answered him with a long string of babbles — high and excited, her tiny hands reaching for his face like she had something very important to tell him.

“Oh yeah? You talkin’ to me, Shell?” he grinned, catching one of her hands gently in his and pretending to listen with the gravity of a serious conversation. “Uh-huh. No kidding. That so?”

Her blue eyes — his blue eyes — locked on him, bright and full of life, while every other feature was you. And he loved that. Loved that she was the perfect blend of both of you, but in all the ways that mattered, she was entirely her own little person.

“You’ve been keepin’ your ma company while I’ve been gone?” he asked, pressing another kiss to her cheek just because he couldn’t help himself. “Good girl.”

She rewarded him with another loud squeal, her tiny fingers curling around his thumb like she never wanted to let go.

From the kitchen doorway, you watched them for a moment — Bucky still crouched on the playmat, talking to Shelly like she was giving him a detailed report, his big hands so gentle as he scooped her up and pressed her close.

By the time you set the table, she was tucked in her highchair, the soft click of the tray locking into place as Bucky adjusted it. She babbled happily, smacking her palms against the surface while he set a small bowl of mashed sweet potato in front of her.

“Alright, Seashell,” he murmured, scooping up a little on the tiny spoon. “Open wide.”

She did, but halfway through the bite, her blue eyes flicked toward you. When she saw you setting down the stew, her legs started kicking again, and she let out a happy squeal.

Bucky grinned, glancing over his shoulder at you. “See? She’s a mama’s girl,” he teased.

“Only because I feed her the good stuff,” you shot back, sliding into your seat.

Dinner was easy. Domestic. Bucky took a bite of his stew, then scooped up another spoonful for Shelly, making exaggerated faces until she giggled and leaned forward to take it. He kept his left hand on the table, fingers brushing yours every so often as if he couldn’t stop reaching for you.

You caught him stealing glances between bites — that same soft, almost disbelieving look like he still couldn’t believe this was his life. His wife. His daughter. The warmth of this apartment.

Shelly babbled between spoonfuls, her little voice filling the air with nonsense words that Bucky responded to like she was telling the best story he’d ever heard.

“Oh yeah? You don’t say,” he told her seriously before looking at you. “She’s tellin’ me all about her day.”

“Sounds like she’s got a lot to say,” you said, smiling.

“She gets it from you,” he teased, but the way his eyes lingered on you for a second longer told you exactly where his heart was.

It was easy. Simple. Exactly the picture you’d worked for — and now, it was your reality.

You watched him from across the table, the way his big hands looked almost comically careful as he held that tiny spoon, coaxing Shelly into another bite. He talked to her the whole time, his voice low and soft, filled with a patience that seemed endless when it came to her.

“Good girl,” he murmured when she swallowed, leaning in to press a kiss to her cheek before scooping up the next spoonful. She giggled, kicking her little feet, babbling something that made him grin like she just told the best joke in the world.

And your heart… God, your heart felt so full you almost didn't know what to do with it.

Every step. Every careful choice. Every word, every moment, every move you made — it was all for this.

James Buchanan Barnes, sitting at your table in your home, feeding your daughter with that kind of quiet devotion that didn't need to be spoken to be felt. Completely, entirely yours.

And Shelly… your perfect little girl, with his eyes and your smile, the living proof of everything you worked for.

You didn't feel smug. You didn't feel victorious. Not right now. What you felt is love. Pure, unfiltered, bone-deep love for the man across from you and the baby between you.

And as you watched them together, Shelly reaching for him with those tiny hands while he laughed and kissed her again, you felt it — a burst of true happiness so strong it stole your breath for a second.

Your husband. Your daughter. Your family.

Exactly as you planned. Exactly where they belong.

Forever yours.

a/n — I had to cut a bunch of gaslighting scenes, as well as reader's backstory scene. and a fluff scene where bucky talks about the wedding and baby ☹️. and I still had a whole thunderbolts arc, and more manipulation where she includes Shelly in it, sigh.

General Bucky Barnes Masterlist:

@xamapolax @gilwm @shereadzzz @princeescalus @Onlyheretowastetime @Madlyinlovewithmattmurdockk @holycastoroli @s-sh-ne @Finnickodairslut @macbaetwo @xoxoloverb @Ashpeace888 @Bethjs-2005 @theewiselionessss @bythecloset @rougettq @herejustforbuckybarnes @deedzreads @novaslov @LuminousVenomVagrant @sgtjbbhasmyheart @avivarougestan @shoutingcardinal @shellsbae00 @sired4urmama @aoi-targaryen @winchestert101 @n3ptoonz @jeongiegram @fckmebarnes @Excusememrbarnes @thealloveru2 @avgdestitute @Millercontracting @ellierosed18 @buckmybarnes @Lilac13 @Fayeatheart @c3liaaaaa @Ozwriterchick @miaspaperplanes @EspressoPatronum454 @melsunshine @slutforsr @thousandsplendidsunss @c-grace56 @barnesonly @theoraekenslover

those who couldn't be tagged are in bold :(

[tarotwithavi]

Pick a picture : What turns them on about you?

Not just your body but your whole vibe.

For your future spouse, current partner, crush or someone who has been on your mind lately.

Support this broke reader by leaving a tip 😝 jkjk but I would really appreciate it though.

TIP JAR

PAID SERVICES

MASTERLIST

Pile 1

Alright so whoever this person is whether you’re reading this for a future spouse, a boyfriend, a situationship, or just someone lingering in your energy they are so, so attracted to you that words literally fail. Like I’m not even kidding when I say this person is turned on by your entire vibe, your aura, your energy, your personality, your body everything. You’re the type of person who’s really expressive. When you talk about something you love, it’s like the whole universe pauses. Your eyes light up like stars, your hands move around animatedly, and your body language says everything your words don’t. It’s magnetic. And they can’t stop watching you when you're like that. What’s even sexier to them is that not everyone gets to see this version of you. You’re selective. You don’t just give away your inner world like that. Even though you do express yourself in these unique, creative, almost dreamy ways sometimes, the real depth of you is hidden. They love the fact that they can’t figure you out. You’re spontaneous, unpredictable, and full of surprises. One moment you’re soft and dreamy, the next you’re fiery and chaotic and they eat it up. You’re nothing like the people they’ve met before who were so easy to read, so boringly predictable. You? You’re a wild card. They cannot put you in a box no matter how hard they try, and that’s exactly what drives them crazy in the best way. Physically, oh my god, they’re obsessed. Especially with your hands. Like seriously, there’s something about the way you move your fingers, or maybe the way your nails look, or how your hands just flow when you're doing something it’s sensual And hypnotic. Some of you might actually be artists, maybe you do pottery, painting, clay work, crafting, anything that gets your hands dirty and it’s such a turn-on for them. I literally got this visual of their masculine hand slowly guiding yours as you shape a pot, two fingers barely touching and it’s giving tension. They wanna do that with you. You know what I mean 😝 They’re also obsessed with your lips especially when you’re passionately talking about something. Like when you're deep in your thoughts, explaining something you're interested in, your voice, your lips, your energy everything about that moment turns them on in a way they can’t even explain logically. You’re not just attractive you’re mesmerizing. Your back? Yeah. Let’s talk about your back. That’s a weakness for them. Especially when you wear something backless or off-shoulder it’s GAME OVER. Like they just lose it. There’s something so elegant, yet sensual about it. It's like you exist to destroy them slowly, and they’re totally fine with it 😭 To them, you’re literally a dream personified. You’re everything they never thought they’d actually get to have in real life. The way you speak, the way you carry yourself, the way you give glimpses of your inner world, the way you exist it’s all so intoxicating. You’re their wish come true, their obsession, their art, their muse, and they’d do anything just to keep you close. They never, ever want to lose you. Not even a little bit. One thing is that they’re completely, shamelessly, head-over-heels for you, bbg. 💋

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Pile 2

You are someone who’s incredibly patient. You’re the type of person who allows others to grow at their own pace. You don’t rush anything. You wait, you observe, and you nurture. It’s like you understand that good things take time. You might even enjoy gardening or have a bunch of plants around you because there's this grounded, earthy energy in you. You find beauty in watching something bloom slowly, and this person sees that. They see it and they love it. In their eyes, you’re whimsical. Ethereal. Almost unreal. Like a fairy, a little too magical for this world. I also feel like some of you could even practice witchcraft. They don’t just like you, they worship you. Like genuinely, they look at you and feel like you’re something sacred. Something they never thought they'd encounter in real life. You’re also a dreamer. You get lost in your own little worlds inside your head. You fantasize a lot and sometimes even when you’re sitting right next to them, it’s like your soul is off in another realm. And that drives them crazy. They want to know everything about what goes on in that beautiful mind of yours. They want to explore your thoughts, your likes, your dislikes, your daydreams especially the ones you never speak out loud. They want to know where your mind goes when you're zoned out and not paying attention to the world. They want to follow you there. And oh my god another thing? You’re so argumentative. You don’t back down. You don't shut up. You say what you need to say, and you say it like you mean it. And surprisingly (or not so surprisingly), they love it. They’re obsessed with how bold you are. The way you call them out, the way you challenge them, the way you argue back instead of just quietly agreeing it turns them on so bad. Especially because this person? They’re used to being respected. They’re used to people shutting up around them. But you? Nah. You challenge their authority. You fight back. You don’t care if they think they’re “important.” And it’s so hot to them, it’s embarrassing how much they like it. Also, I feel like some of you are dancers or used to dance at some point. Maybe you’ve joined a dance club or you're just naturally gifted when it comes to rhythm and movement. And you know what that means? Dancers usually have flawless body language. The way you move is like silk gliding over water. Every movement, every little flick of your wrist or sway of your hips, it’s magnetic. They literally can’t take their eyes off of you. You also have this professional side. Like whether it’s in school, college, work, or just day-to-day life you know how to handle yourself. You come across as put-together, focused, and capable. And let me tell you they find that extremely attractive. When you’re in your element teaching, explaining something, taking control they’re just sitting there, completely turned on and amazed by your presence. Like how can someone be this perfect? Okay, so I got this vision of a web. And what I interpret from it is that they're tangled in your energy. It’s like no matter how hard they try, they can’t untangle themselves. They try to forget you, to move on, to stop thinking about you but it’s impossible. You’re in their head, their heart, their body. You’re everywhere (did you by any chance perform a love spell recently?). That’s the kind of power you have over them.

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Pile 3

Alright so I see that you are someone who's incredibly knowledgeable like, actually smart, not just pretend-smart-for-aesthetic. You might speak more than one language, or maybe you’re just really well-read, updated on all kinds of topics, or deeply informed about different cultures, traditions, and ways of life. You carry the kind of brain that stimulates people. And trust me, this person? They are so turned on by your mind. Your intelligence pulls them in. It’s sexy. Sexy brain ig. There’s this effortless elegance in the way you carry yourself. You walk with grace, you speak with purpose, and you have this calm, composed energy that makes people take you seriously. You’re the kind of person who knows how to handle situations with class, never losing your cool even when it would be totally justified. It’s giving… royalty. Like actual regal energy. You feel rare. Elegant. Uncommon. A whole luxury soul. I also get that you’re someone who values intimacy. Deep, soul-shaking intimacy. Not just physical stuff, but emotional, spiritual, cosmic-level connection. You’re not into this hookup culture that’s become so normalized lately you crave something real. You’re the kind of person who’d rather wait 100 years than waste your energy on someone who isn’t truly meant for you. You have standards, boundaries, and a deep understanding of your own worth. And honestly? It intimidates most people. But to this person? It’s the hottest thing about you. And they feel the same way. This person you’re asking about, whether it’s your future spouse, crush, partner they see eye to eye with you on this. They also find it hard to connect in a world where everything feels so surface-level. So when they met you? It was like, "Finally. Someone who gets it." Someone who isn’t afraid of slow love, deep talks, and soul-to-soul connection. They cherish your conversations. Those hours that go by like seconds, when you're both spilling thoughts like poetry and talking about things that matter , they live for that. That’s when they feel closest to you. also… your hair? They’re obsessed. Whether it’s the texture, the way it smells, the way it falls across your face, or just the vibe it gives it drives them wild. You’re the kind of person they could watch from across a room and feel enchanted by, simply because your presence is that strong. You might be someone who values memories a lot. Maybe you carry a camera around, or you're always clicking pictures, journaling, collecting little pieces of life. You might have traveled a lot, or you just hold memories close to your heart. Either way, they admire this side of you. It feels intimate, romantic, and timeless. And okay… let’s get a little spicy. They love your chest. Like… a lot. 😝 They may act casual about it, may pretend not to look but they sneak glances all the time. It’s one of their secret obsessions. They’ll never say it out loud (at least not yet), but it’s giving "can't stop looking but gotta stay respectful" energy. I sense that they come across as calm, polite, and collected. The gentleman type. Very "I have control over my desires" energy on the outside. But ohhh, if you could peek behind that mask you’d see how unhinged they actually are for you. 👀 They’ve got thoughts. Deep, dark, unspoken fantasies. But they’d never admit them because they’re lowkey shy. They try to be all composed, all proper, but the minute they’re alone thinking about you? Yeah… not so gentleman-like anymore. IYKYK

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[stories-i-guess]

No.

no! Just no!

this isn’t being brutally honest, this is being BRUTAL! FULL. STOP.

When people think of brutally honest people, THAT’S NOT A BRUTALLY HONEST PERSON!

THATS A DICKHEAD WHO THINKS THEY CAN GET AWAY WITH THINGS

Being brutally honest isn’t always being a motherfucking asshole! It’s being unable to keep your thoughts in your head and having them spill out!

it’s being awkward because you accidentally said exactly the way you felt in exactly HOW you feel it!

Being brutally honest isn’t “You look stupid rn fr, harharhar”

NO!

being brutally honest is “You look super good right now and it’s making my palms sweaty and legs shaky and I shouldn’t have said that out shouldn’t I? I can’t keep my mouth shut huh? Why am I still talking I should not be talking and I don’t wanna continue talking because I feel like you’re gonna laugh at me!”

And sure, it can sound rude every now and then! Like saying “that shade of yellow is making my eyes burn…” or “I think that font looks ridiculous and we need to change it asap!” But do you notice how that can easily be interpreted as either in bad taste or straight up mean?

NOT THE SAME AS ANTAGONIZING PEOPLE!!!

I am a brutally honest person! I say the things that come to mind without filter very often!

My BROTHER is NOT! He says EXACTLY what he wants to say, and it’s rude.

But HE’S the person everyone thinks of when they think of brutally honest!

AND IM SO DAMN TIRED OF BEING ASSOCIATED WITH THAT

[swiftiethatlovesf1]

Mistaken Identity, Perfect Match

Heyy guys, I hope you enjoy this Max x reader one-shot.

If you want to read more stories of mine here's my general masterlist.

Living in Monaco had its perks—glamour, ocean views, fast cars—but love wasn't one of them. Between running your multimillion-dollar tech company and navigating the egos that came with fortune, dating had become a disheartening game of missed connections and shallow intentions. That’s why, when you were venting over drinks with Charles about how every guy either wanted your money, your mind, or a photo with your car, he’d raised his eyebrows and said, “I might know someone.”

You had squinted at him. “If this is a setup, Charles…”

He’d only smirked. “Just trust me. He’s decent. A bit… intense. But you might like that.”

That was three days ago. Now, you were standing in front of a small, quiet restaurant tucked into the hills, one of Charles’ favorites. Your black silk dress fluttered slightly in the warm coastal breeze as you checked the time again. You weren’t nervous. You didn’t get nervous. You were just… curious.

A flicker of movement caught your eye—a tall man walking toward the restaurant. Blond hair and blue eyes.

You’d seen him before. In the paddock. Interviews. On podiums. Max Verstappen.

He was Charles’ friend?

You stepped forward as he reached the entrance. “Excuse me—Max?”

He paused, jaw tight. “Can we not do this right now?”

You blinked. “I’m sorry?”

“I’m just here to have a quiet dinner. I get you’re a fan, but can we keep this respectful?”

You were stunned. “What?”

“I’m serious,” he continued, exasperated. “I just want some privacy tonight.”

You stared at him, bewildered. “I’m not—” But he had already walked past you into the restaurant.

Your mouth hung slightly open before you pulled out your phone and called Charles.

“Hey, is your friend here?” you asked, still trying to recover.

“Yeah, he just arrived,” Charles said. “He should be at the table now. Far corner, near the window.”

You lowered your phone slowly and turned to follow the same path Max had taken. You walked in, scanned the tables, and froze.

There he was. Max. Sitting at a table for two, phone to his ear, clearly in the middle of a conversation.

His eyes met yours. For a second, confusion danced across his face—until, slowly, as if the pieces were clicking into place, his expression changed.

You didn’t need to hear the call to know exactly what Charles was saying on the other end.

Max was your date.

His mouth parted slightly as he stood up, still holding the phone, lowering it slowly. You raised an eyebrow and crossed your arms as you reached the table.

“Well,” you said, unimpressed. “Are you always this charming, or did I just catch you on an off day?”

He winced, slipping his phone into his pocket and rubbing the back of his neck. “Okay. I… might owe you a massive apology.”

You sat down, cool and composed. “You might?”

He gave you a sheepish look. “I thought you were a fan.”

“I was trying to be polite,” you said. “Now I’m just curious why Charles thought this would be a good idea.”

Max let out a breath, leaning back in his chair. “Yesterday, after the race, I had a really bad encounter with this woman who followed me into the hotel lobby, tried to grab my arm for a selfie, and when I told her to stop, she screamed and told security I pushed her.” He shook his head. “I’ve just been… on edge. It’s not an excuse. I just… I guess I reacted without thinking.”

You watched him. He looked genuinely remorseful. Not the arrogant persona people always complained about online.

“Well, Charles wasn't wrong about the intense part,” you muttered, and he laughed—quiet, but real.

“Can we start over?” he asked, leaning forward slightly. “Hi, I’m Max. I was a massive jerk five minutes ago, but I’m trying to be better.”

You tilted your head. “I’m Y/N. I’m not a fan. I’m a CEO.”

That made him smile. “Now I’m intimidated.”

You smirked. “Good.”

The tension eased a little as you ordered food, the conversation gradually flowing into safer territory—Charles’ terrible matchmaking track record, your ridiculous schedules, your mutual love for sushi.

Max was sharp, surprisingly funny, and attentive. He asked about your company with genuine interest, and when you teased him about being grumpy, he actually took it with grace.

You sip your wine as the tension between you and Max begins to thin, your mutual sarcasm slowly giving way to something warmer. There’s a brief lull in conversation as the waiter sets down your dinner: fresh pasta with truffle for you, a steak for him.

“So,” you say, twirling your fork, “besides offending innocent women at restaurants, what else do you do in your free time?”

He chuckles, dropping his knife for a second. “Mostly racing. Some sim racing. A lot of travel. Honestly, it’s not that exciting outside the paddock.”

You raise a brow. “No hobbies? No scandalous side projects?”

Max leans back, crossing his arms. “I actually spend most of my free time at home with my cats.”

You blink. “You have cats?”

He nods, suddenly looking… almost proud.

“No way.” You grin. “I have two.”

His eyes light up a little. “Seriously?”

You nod. “One’s a Russian Blue named Nero. The other is a street rescue. A total diva. Her name’s Cleo.”

Max’s smile softens. “I have three. Sassy’s the boss, obviously.”

You laugh. “Cleo once locked me out of my own office by lying across the biometric scanner. I had to call tech support to override it.”

Max snorts. “I had to cancel a video interview once because Minoes decided to take a nap on my laptop and overheated the whole thing. The PR guy was not amused.”

“Finally, someone who understands the struggles of working under feline dictatorship,” you say, grinning.

He leans forward a little, playful now. “Do yours do that thing where they ignore you all day but decide to scream into the void at 3 a.m.?”

“Every night,” you say. “I think mine are plotting something. Like a slow coup.”

“Same,” Max agrees. “It’s definitely a coup.”

For the first time since you sat down, the conversation flows effortlessly. You talk about the weird places your cats like to sleep (his: on the kitchen counter; yours: inside your gym bag), share stories about your worst vet visits, and discover you both have the same obsession with those ridiculous cat treat-dispensing puzzles that never actually work.

“You know,” you say, sipping the last of your wine, “this date got significantly better once we started talking about cats.”

Max smiles, a bit softer now. “Yeah. I think that’s when I officially stopped being an asshole.”

You laugh. “There was a brief window before that too. Right after you didn’t run away screaming.”

“I considered it,” he teases. “But then you sat down like you owned the restaurant, and I was too scared to move.”

You tilt your head, feigning modesty. “It’s the CEO energy.”

He leans back in his chair, relaxed now. “It’s working.”

You glance at him, his eyes no longer hidden behind defensiveness. And just like that, the earlier awkwardness feels far away—like a bad prelude to something surprisingly enjoyable.

As dessert arrives, Max picks up his spoon and glances at you.

“Thanks for staying,” he says quietly. “After the way I acted… you really didn’t have to.”

You pause. “I almost didn’t. But then I remembered Charles has terrible taste in wine, not people. So I figured I’d give it one course.”

He smirks. “And now we’re at dessert.”

“Guess you passed the test,” you tease, stabbing a spoonful of tiramisu.

He pretends to sigh in relief. “I’ll alert the cats that the mission was a success.”

Maybe, just maybe, Charles had been right after all.

[ppixienous]

☆ superman gets struck by... *checks notes* sex pollen?!

☆ a/n — i imagine reader physically & aesthetically to be a very 2004!catwoman-esque character. this is my first time writing about sex pollen, so please a little bit of grace <3! and as always, written with black!reader in mind, but anybody can read! (ok, but like i actually had fun writing this??)

☆ warning — use of sex pollen. thief!reader who goes by the name "nyx". no use of y/n. lex being a perv. god's name being used in vain. p in v action (unprotected). sub!superman. use of the word "mommy". voyeurism(?). mentions of oral. slightly proofread. male masturbation.

☆ word count — 1,816

you're just an honest, humble villain.

taking over the world? never interested you. killing innocent civilians? very much beneath you. standing side by side defeating do-gooders with mr. clean himself? please, you could laugh.

but diamonds, jewels, money, oh my. how great did obtaining those valuable items please you more than any heinous act could. and you decided you could score once more tonight!

through the grapevine of lex luthor, you heard a nearby bank had the big three, few guards, and a simple escape route. it made you briefly question why he would give you that intel, but you chopped it up to his unfortunate crush he had on you—of course not reciprocated.

it was quite easy. a little bit of sleep powder blown into the face of the guards, threatening one to disable the security system and open the large walk-in vault for you, then knocking him out.

you practically moaned entering the vault. more money than you have ever seen at once, sitting green and pretty, waiting for you to take it home. diamond and gold twinkling in the corner calling your name, promising you that it would look gorgeous adorning your neck, ears, and hands.

"god, i could cry right now."

"you can cry in prison," a deep voice declared from behind you, "exactly where you'll be going." superman. of course.

with a sigh, your turn to face him with a wad of money in your hand, "hiya, supes. can't ya let me have just a 'lil bit of fun?" though you couldn't stand any of them, you always favored superman to be the do-gooder to thwart your plans. simply because he was hot. "i've been a really, really, really good girl supes," slowly, one foot in front of the other crossing over with a sway of your hips.

wrapping your arms around his neck as you leaned your body weight into his and stood on your tippy-toes to whisper in his ear, "y'know you wanna." you could hear his breath hitch.

so engulfed into staring into his blue eyes—god they're so blue, a loud BANG! boomed from the vault closing. the sudden noise made both of you jump, which surprised you, isn't he supposed to have superhearing? mmtch, what a poser.

"what the hell?"

"what in the world?" what a prude, too.

the sound of the vault handle turning and locking grabbed your full attention as you ran to you, pushing against it. "c'mon superman! use that superstrength of yours to get me the hell outta here!" walking over to where you are standing, superman, with all of his might, pushes against the steel door.

he punches, pushes, kicks, eye-laser beams the door. all futile, but very fun to watch him struggle. he huffs as he catches his breath.

he turns to see you laying comfortably on top of the stacks of money. half of your body laying off the edge as one leg lazily sways and your fingers dance along the money, "superman, save me! save me! pfft, whata joke!"

"no, something's not right. it...smells funny."

you shrug as you watch him eye around the sealed room, "blamin' it on smells now. gosh, supes. maybe y'jus—"

your words interrupted with a piercing nose making you wince in pain. a small crackle broke from the ceiling speakers, "so glad to see my two favorite people so cozy." luthor.

jumping down, landing on your feet, you see light pink dust creep into the room. "what the actual hell?!" your eyes widening in fear, superman flies over to you, using his cape as a mask for your face so you don't breath in the unknown dust.

"what is this luthor? what do you want?!"

"i just want to have a little fun. doesn't that sound familiar, nyx?" the tone of his voice disturbed you greatly, it sounded too lustful. but for some reason, you felt funny.

well not, funny, but warm and tingly. and wet… oh my god, i'm turned on! clamping your thighs tight together, you felt your clit throb and throb and throb. it felt painful and non-stop. you bit your lip at superman as the sensation became stronger.

"hmm, seems to have already overcome her. won't be too long until it's you superman. have fun, i know i will."

the speaker let out one more crackle after luthor said his goodbyes. god, it's hot in here. superman could hear how fast your heart is beating, how erratic your breathing is. yet, he started feeling a tightness in his trunks.

not now, he thought to himself. he stares into your eyes, seeing that your pupils are completely blown, nothing but black. but holds a look of desire in them. "there has to b-be another—mmph—way out of here. ju-just keep this against your face."

you nod as he scans the room, walking around. deciding to sit against the money, your latex suit feels tight and hotter than normal. you look down to see your nipples piercing through your top. jeez. pressing down against your nipples, you try your best to flatten them, but it feels really good. the small of his red cape highlighting against your black latex as you squeeze your breasts. 

moans escape your lips the more you squeeze. your hips mindlessly begins to roll, making your clit rub against the fabric. god you felt like a whore, getting off to tit squeezes. but you couldn’t help yourself, it feels too good.

lost in your personal moment, superman can’t help but to hear your soft moans and soft squelching noises from your pussy. enthralled by it, he makes his way over, standing right in front of you. your breathing skips as you feel your tight hole pulse and cream. “fuck…”

struggling to catch your breath, you still don’t feel satisfied. feeling eyes gawking at you, you smile and pant, “enjoyed the show? i think ya got the same dilemma as me, supes.” his pupils blown, a curly tendril sticks to his damp forehead, and the best part, his print sticking out like a sore thumb in his trunks. “if this dust is what i think it is, and i’m pretty damn sure it is, our best option is to help one another out.”

he stayed quiet, but by the look on his face you could tell he is going through inner-termoil. you stood up, taking your sweet time walking over to him, feeling your slick drip down your thighs. “it’ll make you feel so much better, if you just give in,” you kiss his jaw as you softly palm his dick. giggling, you could feel his pre-cum leaking through his trunks. “please, superman. i’m asking as nicely as i possibly can. I need you to save me. i need you deep in my pussy.”

——

“g-goodness, nyx—plop, plop, plop—i’m so close.”

if future you spoke to yesterday you and told you that you were gonna end up fucking superman in a locked bank vault, you would’ve laughed in your face and ask what are you on. but now?

superman sitting on the floor with his legs stretched out as you straddle him with your arms wrapped around his neck. his dick–long, thick, topped with the prettiest shade of pink—welcoming itself inside your tight, warm cunt. looking down, you see your pretty white cream coat his dick. god, he feels so good. 

“please let me cum, please.” he looks so pretty begging. his normal slicked back hair is sticking entirely to his forehead, the curls more defined due to the sweat. tears falling from his eyes, making his blue eyes more vibrant than usual. his fingers kneading into the flesh of your round ass—how many times he’s found himself staring at your ass and now he can finally hold it.

leaning in close to him, you steal a kiss from his lips. The kiss being for two different reasons—him begging you to allow his release and you continuing to assert your dominance, not caring for his desperation of cumming. your teeth clash against each other as he whimpers in your mouth.

pulling away from his plump lips, a string of saliva connects the two of you by your lips. you smile as his bottom lip wobbles. “mmf, fuck—i don’t know if you deserve t’cum yet,” the sound of wet sex intensifies. superman’s eyes roll to the back of his head as he squeezes your flesh harder. he’s definitely not gonna make it.

“look at me baby. say “mommy, can i please cum? can i please cum in your pussy?” c’mon, baby. you got it.” 

superman, with tears in his eyes and down his face, locks eyes with you as you hold his face with your hands. he croaks, “please mommy, can i cum? can i please cum in your pussy?”

leaving a peck on his lips, you nod and smile down at him, “yes baby. fill me up.” as soon as you give him the green light, superman flips you onto your back and lays on top of you. he thrusts deep inside of you, his tip roughly kissing your cervix. the feeling was too much for the both of you. 

keeping one arm around his neck and one hand gently on his face, you pull him in close—your bodies molding into each other. his thrusts gets sloppier by the second. with a straggled moan, superman releases warm ropes of cum inside of you while you squirt over him. he thrusts and thrusts until he feels the last drop come out. 

your thumb soothingly rubs against his cheek as you both catch your breath. his body laying lazily on top of yours, you press a kiss against his lips, which he begins to deepen. moaning into his mouth, you can still feel how hard he is inside you. 

gently pulling away, you eye the superhero and ask, “so are you still gonna take me to jail?”

“i think that’s the last of our worries,” he snickers then moves closer to your lips for another kiss. 

you press two of your fingers on his lips to stop him, “well if that’s the case, supes—i need you to clean me up,” you nudge his head down to where your pussy is, “start with your tongue.”

—

over at lexcorp, lex luthor observed the whole 2 hours. once he had you and superman locked in, he eagerly dismissed whatever staff he had in the room with him. 

seeing you control superman as if he wasn’t the strongest out of you two, had lex scrambling to unfasten his belt and free his aching dick. 

with a stroke, lex shuddered as superman’s mouth found a home on your breasts. he moaned around your brown nipple and two fingers slid into your soaking cunt. 

how did Lex come up with this plan? hell, he wasn’t even completely sure himself. but he knows for sure, he’d do it again.