#But not without a bit of angst first | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

aeyumicore · 4 months ago

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captive bird - caleb 夏以昼

tension boils over during the thunderstorm in caleb’s living room—things get heated. what really happens in captive bird when caleb and mc are finally honest with how they feel about each other.

━ .ᐟ✧ PAIRING: caleb x female reader (afab)

━ ✧.˖ GENRE: smut, porn with plot, porn with feelings/angst, fluff, canon story continuation

━ .ᐟ✧ WORD COUNT: 13.4k

━ ✧.˖ WARNINGS: mdni, explicit sexual content, SPOILERS TO CAPTIVE BIRD (main story), more compliant with original chinese script, not incest (it’s very clear they are not related and do not feel related), unprotected sex, oral (male and female receiving), fingering, virginity loss (male and female), panty sniffing/licking (while on female mc), panty stealing, multiple orgasms, light choking, improper use of Evol, lots and lots of dirty talking (caleb is a vocal man), lots of pet names (princess, brat, baby, babygirl, and the occasional pip-squeak), cumming on stomach, cum…licking?, use of gege, size difference, use of Y/N, lots and lots of main story/lore/anecdote references, lots of feelings and angst, references to caleb’s right arm, bratty mc/brat tamer caleb

━ .ᐟ✧ LINKS: ao3 | captive bird video (also has entire ch2)

━ ✧.˖ A/N: vomits everywhere DON’T LOOK AT ME,,,,,idk how this got out of hand….i was hoping it would be MAX 9-10k…it’s 13k….anyways i hope you enjoy <3 first of many love letters to caleb, my babyyy.

if you cannot tell yes caleb is my favorite….far far behind is sylus and then behind him is zayne. but i fear it is not even close.

this is the first installment of my “””planned””” caleb series - essentially it’ll be smutty moments throughout the canon content: main story, five star mems, bonds, etc. no schedule, no promises. i will write when i feel inspired <3

lore and plot build up is probably 4k words and the smut is like 9k. It goes lore → smut so you can skip the plot and go straight to the smut if youd like LOL

THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL NEVER POST MY FICS ON OTHER TUMBLR BLOGS. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND ON AO3.

✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖ nsfw | minors dni | 18+ only | minors dni | nsfw ✦ . ˖ ✧ .ᐟ ˖

part one | part two |

“Our reporters out in the field confirmed the lockdown will be lifted after being in effect for weeks. The Farspace Fleet assures everyone that the explosion in the Cascade District will not happen again–”

The newscaster is cut off when Caleb shuts off the television, coming up behind you. True to his word, three days had passed and it seemed the situation in Skyhaven was on the cusp of “resolving.” You’d finally be able to return home soon.

Home–to Linkon. It used to be Caleb’s home too.

On the other hand, your prickly relationship with Caleb had only tensed further in the past few days. You’d exchanged maybe a handful of words, not for lack of trying on his part.

After he had clasped the monitoring bracelet onto your wrist, he may as well have locked away the last bit of hope you had that the Caleb you once knew was still under that prim and poised Colonel’s uniform.

In your time at Skyhaven, he’d proven time and time again that the Caleb you grew up with, the gege you once loved, was gone. And what remained was someone you did not recognize, and didn’t know if you cared to.

And yet, in the three days you locked yourself in the hollow room of his suffocating home, he’d still cook every meal for you, despite being gone much of the day. Three times a day, without fail, a tray of your favorite Caleb specials would show up at the foot of your door, accompanied by small and ridiculous sticky notes that pulled relentlessly at your heartstrings.

Caleb always loved notes. He used to say it was your guys’ thing.

But now, you weren’t so sure there was a you and him anymore.

“After all this is over, the Fleet will return to the Deepspace Tunnel. You’ll be safe. For now,” Caleb’s words cut through your thoughts. You nearly jump at the sound of his voice, this being the most you’d allowed him to say to you lately.

What’s more jarring is the idea that the Farspace Fleet is leaving Skyhaven. You’d forgotten that they hardly ever stationed here–spending most, if not all, their time patrolling the Deepspace Tunnel.

“So you’re just going to leave again? Without saying anything?” you bite out, overwhelmed by a bitterness you hadn’t quite processed since reuniting with him.

Caleb smiles, a ghostlike smirk that doesn’t meet his eyes. It’s riddled in self deprecation and pity, “You won’t have to see me anymore. Shouldn’t you be happy?”

He doesn’t give you a chance to respond before he chuckles and grabs your wrist, “I’m about to leave. Let’s have dinner together.”

Between the idea that Caleb is leaving you yet again, and him making yet another demand of you, you violently rip your arm away from him. Your words are venomous as you spit them out, “So I have to listen to the Colonel even when it comes to eating and drinking now?”

You storm away from him, sitting on the couch in the living room, hands clenched in your lap. Your gaze is fixed on your angrily quaking fists, and in the corners of your vision you see Caleb seating himself on the ottoman in front of you.

“You can be mad, but don’t let it affect your health,” he holds out an apple in front of you, a silent offering. It's perfectly red opulent skin only makes you bristle with more annoyance.

“I’m not mad.”

Caleb chuckles knowingly, “Growing up, I knew you better than anyone.”

His voice doesn’t change but there’s an undercurrent of emptiness that makes you look up at him. He doesn’t meet your eyes, his cheek resting on his fist as he turns the apple in his fingers, the ruby skin glinting under the lights.

“I could see through your lies before you could blink. Bite your lip, and I could instantly tell you were upset.”

He speaks as if remembering something precious he’d lost, violet eyes briefly flickering to yours before they cast downward again, focussing on the apple like it might solve your problems.

“Then tell me, since you know me so well, what am I thinking right now?”

Before he can respond, you continue, “I’m thinking…how did you turn into someone I can’t even recognize?”

Part of you regrets the words as soon they come out. But the other part, the larger part, wants him to see what you see. To feel what you feel. You think that part of you wants to hurt him like he’s been hurting you.

Caleb chuckles darkly, putting the apple back into the fruit bowl on the coffee table with the other perfect and untouched apples, “I know. You’re thinking a chip got put into my brain and it changed who I am, right?”

His shadowed gaze meets yours, unfathomable emotions shining through the eyes you once found immeasurable comfort in. He reaches out to hold your cheek, his fingers grazing your jaw. The look in his stormy eyes makes your skin crawl, and yet his touch is so unbearably familiar that you can’t help but lean into him.

“What if I told you…I was always this person?”

Your breath catches at the inexplicable hope that clashes with the sinister darkness shadowing his face. His deceptively simple words have you unconsciously inching away from him, your mind reeling as you struggle to accept them. Refuse to accept them.

Could he really always have been this person?

Could you really have been so deluded that you’d fallen in love with a complete stranger?

No, not a stranger–but someone who never even existed to begin with.

You recoil, not from his touch–but from his words, your spine hitting the back of the couch. There’s a split second where Caleb’s face falls, a flash of the sweet innocent boy you were yearning for finding its way to the surface. But then his face hardens, his Colonel’s mask slipping back on.

He stands before you, between your parted knees, his height looming over you like the impending storm that brews just outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of the glass cage that was his home.

Caleb’s voice is so rough you almost don’t recognize it. His fist grasps the back of the couch beside your head, trapping you between it and him. You can’t bring yourself to push him away, your chest pounding at his proximity, eyes instinctively drawn into the curves of his lips as he speaks.

“It’s you who’s still living in a fantasy, Y/N.”

Those hauntingly beautiful amethyst irises search yours for even a glimmer of understanding. You’re nearly consumed by the stark contrast of the frenzy and despair in them.

“The people who want your power–who’d hurt you. They should all just…disappear.”

Caleb speaks with such a sinister conviction, as if he’s swearing a solemn oath to you. One that paints your skin with goosebumps at just how serious you can tell he is. How much of his humanity he’s willing to throw away–for you.

“You’re only safe when you’re by my side.”

He smiles at you, a deceptively warm smile that reminds you of the gege who always bandaged your knees and shielded you from the thunderstorms that reminded you of the roar of Wanderers. The Caleb your heart found itself inexplicably yearning for, no matter how much you told yourself you shouldn't.

But the flickering darkness–the frantic despair in his deep purple eyes pulls you back into reality, like a blackhole swallowing all the light around it.

“I’d rather be in danger than live like this, Caleb!” the sheer anger you’d held onto from the last three days boils over, tears of frustration pooling in the corner of your eyes.

Your next words come tumbling out before you can stop them, knowing just how much they’ll hurt him. You’re not even sure they’re true–but once the floodgates open, you can’t shut them.

“I don’t need you!”

Caleb’s gentle smile transforms into one of disbelief as your palm rests on his chest, finally finding the strength to push him away. When he glances away from you, his eyes darting around frantically, he looks hopelessly lost. A plane adrift.

“Don’t need me?”

His voice is incredulous as he grabs your wrist, holding it above your head. His grip is firm and unyielding, but not enough to hurt you in the slightest. Caleb always knew just how much you could take, after all.

It doesn’t take much for him to pin you firmly against the couch, leaning in closer to cage you into the furniture. In the back of your mind, you know you should shove him off–slap him even.

But all you could focus on is the way his long eyelashes are so close you could count them. How you can feel his heated breath fan across your parted lips, practically able to taste him on your tongue.

You can’t find it in yourself to put up a fight, unable to even tear your eyes away from him as the dark expanding universe in his irises searches yours. All you can do is weakly, pathetically, hit his arm.

“Then tell me, what do you need? I can give you anything.”

Did you want him to leave?

Your heart pounds at his words, the raw honesty and vulnerability dripping off of them, so serious it was nearly a threat. The desperate glint in his eyes was unlike anything you’d ever seen before.

You didn’t recognize him in the slightest.

“You want to return to Linkon? Then we can go back to Linkon.”

Could you return to Linkon with him? To the place where you’d held Caleb’s hand for the first time and inevitably fallen in love with the gege who’d protected you all your life? A man who was now no more than a ghost of who he once was.

“If you want to return to the past, then we can rebuild our old house and live together again.”

House. Not home. Because that’d been destroyed in the same explosion that’d killed your Caleb.

“And if one house isn’t enough, I’ll build you an entire maze.”

A maze. Designed with the illusion of a way out, but in reality you knew it’d just be another way to keep you caged in like a little helpless bird all over again. Flying around aimlessly–lost.

“I’ll decorate it with everything you could ever want. It will be the most beautiful, stunning garden you’ve ever seen.”

Caleb holds your face possessively as he speaks, as if you might disappear at any moment. His thumb catches stray tears as they descend your cheek. The devotion in his yearning eyes is boundless, a void threatening to swallow you whole.

A dream world just for the two of you.

“No one will ever be able to find you ever again. I’ll protect you forever.”

The dream shatters into a million glass fragments, the shards embedding into your heart that had bled and scabbed over so many times these past few weeks in Skyhaven that it was unrecognizable.

You press your free palm into his chest, pushing back gently. There’s no frustration or urgency this time, just a heartfelt plea that you can’t quite place.

“Caleb…you shouldn’t do this.”

The words feel foreign as they leave the tip of your tongue.

“You’re my…” the term feels like acid but you force it out, needing to get through to him. Your open hand on his chest closes into a tightly clenched fist.

“My…brother. You mean more to me than anything.”

For a long time you hadn’t felt like Caleb was your brother. You don’t really know if you’d ever felt like he was. The only thing you were certain of was that Caleb had become the most precious person in your life.

And you loved him. Was in love with him.

But it was too late to tell him that now.

For now, you needed him to see reason. That the world he envisioned for the two of you was nothing more than a faraway dream, and dreams existed only in the whispers of the night.

Caleb freezes, before biting out a bitter chuckle–halfway between a scoff and a sneer. The Colonel’s mask slips off, fluttering to the floor entirely. The wild look in his eyes is reminiscent of a caged beast that’d been whipped one too many times.

“Hah–brother?”

You struggle as Caleb pries your hand off his chest, not really knowing why you’re fighting him. It’s hard to think, with him so close to you, your resolve fading with each moment that passes.

You vaguely hear the bowl of apples on the coffee table being knocked over, unceremoniously tumbling to the ground. Caleb hovers above you, his face darker than the torrent of storm clouds just outside the glass windows.

“Y/N, your biggest mistake was believing that I could play the part of your perfect brother forever.”

You can’t tell if it’s the terrifying roar of thunder or his shocking confession that makes your heart pound so violently it hurts. Your fist quivers as you pull back, but Caleb only holds you tighter, unwilling to let you go.

The weight of his words crushes you–stealing your breath away, until there’s nothing left but the wreckage of your resolve.

“Day after day, I’ve endured. I’ve held myself back. But now…”

His voice is so low that you can barely hear him over the clap of thunder, gravelly with a hungry desperation that makes your toes curl against the carpet.

“I’m done playing pretend.”

The lightning outside flashes, illuminating his shadowed eyes revealing the depth of his turmoil. Without the carefully knit Farspace Colonel’s mask he always wore, Caleb was an open book, wearing his heart so openly on his sleeve that you could see every twisted thought.

Temptation, desperation, yearning, guilt, sin. All that he had shouldered and endured alone, donning the role of the supposed “older brother” like a shield, unwilling to risk losing the most precious thing in the world to him.

You.

And after weeks of seeing nothing but the cold, faraway, unforgiving Colonel of the Farspace Fleet, you were drawn to this Caleb like a moth to a flame.

Illogically, irrevocably, and so deeply that it hurts you.

Caleb swears under his breath, shaking his head as if trying to snap out of a daze. His grip on your wrists loosens, but he doesn’t let go. His words come out in a forced choke, almost as pained as his anguished stare.

“Don’t. Don’t look at me like that unless you’re willing to admit you’re done playing this game too.”

You can hear the blood pounding in your ears, your face no doubt as red as the apples that had tumbled to the ground. Your thoughts race a mile a minute, trying to reconcile what you’d always felt for him, telling yourself you shouldn’t, with what he was confessing to you now.

What if you were never part of the game to begin with?

“Like what?! I’m not doing anything!” is all you can find yourself saying, almost petulantly, deflecting from what’s threatening to spill over. His skin felt impossibly hot against yours, his fingers nearly branding your wrists, reminding you just how much you’d come to feel for him.

Reminding you of exactly who your heart was so violently pounding for in this exact moment.

Caleb shakes his head, a dark breathy chuckle escaping his lips as he releases your hands from above your head, instead gripping the couch behind you, boxing you in again. The storm outside fades away, until it’s only him, looking at you with an entire universe’s worth of longing reflected in those lavender halos.

His hand lifts to your cheek, hesitating before he uses the knuckles of his fingers to wipe your tears away, stroking along your jaw. It’s impossibly innocent, and yet you find your thighs clenching against him.

“Tell me I’m insane.”

You blink up at him trying to process what he was asking of you, the same exact things you had been telling yourself for…years.

“Tell me…it’s all in my head.”

Caleb’s voice is nothing more than a desperate whisper, pleading with you to tell him what he needs to hear. Yes…or no. Whatever it is, he just can’t play this game anymore.

“Tell me you don’t feel…this.”

His long fingers slowly, tentatively, thread into your hair, his thumb stroking your jaw as he gently grasps your face, tilting you closer to him. Your eyes flicker to his parted lips that are so close you could just inch forward and taste them.

You definitely felt it.

“I-I don’t. Caleb…we can’t do this.”

You lie through your teeth, still holding onto the last fray of restraint you had left. The last, dying, part of you that wanted to keep the memory of you and Caleb exactly how it was. In a beautiful crystal box, that you could cherish and protect forever.

Unchanging, undamaged, untouched.

Perhaps…that’s what Caleb thought he was doing when he kept you here in his glass home. Keeping you alive.

“Didn’t I say I could always tell when you’re lying, pip-squeak?”

His amethyst eyes are hooded with a deep swirling caution, warning you. That he can see right through you–he’s always been able to. And he’s never taken well to you keeping things from him.

You try to bite back the visceral shiver at that sweet little pet name he so effortlessly called you, even when he was looking at you like a lion would a sheep.

Caleb lowers himself so he’s kneeling before you, his knees pressing into the edge of the couch between your legs.

“You’re trying to preserve a fantasy–a dream. But I’m right here, in front of you,” he urges, his voice broken and raw. Taking your hand, he presses your palm to his chest–his heart. Even through his shirt, you can feel the ridges of his muscles heaving with the weight of his heavy heart beats.

“Caleb…” you murmur, halfway between a warning and a plea. The feeling of his heart beneath your palm blurs the line between reason and desire.

Caleb shuts his eyes, drawing a deep and shaky breath.

“Don’t say my name like that,” he growls, his fingers digging into the expensive leather of the couch, so forcefully that it threatens to rip.

“Don’t say my name like I’m already gone. I’m right here.”

The vulnerable plea in his voice is so thick that you choke, tears welling in your eyes as you stare up at him, his eyes reflecting the same Caleb who used to point out planes as they flew by in the sky, promising you the world.

Maybe you were the one who’d imprisoned him.

Trying desperately to hold onto the Caleb you knew. Blind to the fact that he was right in front of you, even if he’d shed the feathers you once knew. Forcing him into the tiny suffocating cage of what you wanted.

He was right here. The Caleb who wore your hair ties on his wrist, the same one who dried your wet hair, who always looked for your face in every crowd.

The same Caleb who always did anything and everything to protect you, ever since he held your hand for the first time.

And you’d punished him for it.

Your hands come up to hold his face in your palms, holding his gaze with unyielding regret. Caleb’s breath audibly catches at your touch, his face instinctively nuzzling into your palms, eyes shutting in a brief second of respite.

“I…” you start, trying to find the words. But they escape you, stuck in your throat, where your heart clenches with repentance. Caleb is incredibly patient, stroking circles into the back of your head, not pushing you.

You try again, “I’m…” You curse yourself inwardly, eyes prickling.

Why couldn’t you just fucking say it?

You were the coward, after all.

Caleb’s thumb brushes against the corner of your mouth, careful not to stroke your bottom lip like he so desperately wanted to. His other hand clenches into a tight fist that trembles with the weight of his restraint.

He gives you that half smile that’s so effortlessly Caleb that what’s left of your resolve snaps.

“You don’t have to say it,” he reassures, almost dejectedly, his beautiful bright violet eyes falling, dimming like a burnt out bulb, “It’s okay.”

Even when he’s falling apart at the seams, his first instinct is to protect you.

His breathing is heavy, lips parted, as his eyes flicker to your lips. The longing is so evident in those amethyst irises, but the light fades with every second that passes. Fighting with every instinct in his body, his thumb brushes along your jaw one last time before he releases your face, getting onto his feet.

“Just…have dinner with me before I go–please.”

Your eyes widen, heart pounding painfully as you watch him back away from you.

No.

You were done living in this fantasy you’d built. The dreamland you’d woven for Caleb and yourself. It was just as much of a prison as the one he’d put you in.

Before you know what you’re doing, you reach out to grab his wrist and yank him back. Taken utterly by surprise, Caleb falls back toward you with little resistance. Almost falling into your lap, his hands shoot out to the couch behind your head to steady himself, his forehead nearly pressed into yours.

“What are you–”

Before your courage fades, you thread your fingers on either side of his face into his soft hair. You lean in the rest of the way, resting your forehead on his, his bangs prickling your skin. Your breaths mingle, his lips so close you could almost feel them–how soft they’d feel against your own.

Do. Don’t think.

You push your lips to his, swallowing his subtle gasp of surprise, pulling him as close as he can possibly get with his knees pressed up against the seat of the couch.

Caleb hesitates, his hands remaining respectfully by your head, his lips still.

But that lasts for less than a fraction of a second before his hands are gripping the back of your head, fingers tangled aggressively in your hair, teeth nipping at your bottom lip, groaning unabashedly into you.

Caleb’s lips are soft, slotting perfectly against yours like two broken pieces of glass. His teeth gently graze against your lip, begging for more. He’s the perfect balance of hungry and tender, demanding and delicate.

You can tell he’s holding back, adorably so–not wanting to cross any boundaries unless you haul him over those lines. Despite that, he can’t help but cup the back of your head possessively, pulling you impossibly closer against his torrid lips.

Finally giving into what you’ve dreamt of for years possesses you with a boldness you’ve never experienced. It isn’t long before you’re teasing the seam of his lips with the tip of your tongue, wanting in.

Caleb groans, one hand cautiously shifting to your hips. He hesitates, and you use your own palm to press him into your waist, begging him to hold you tighter.

In one swift motion, he has your legs swung over his thighs, not going so far as to seat you on his lap. You sit on the cushion beside him, his arm cupped behind your back, the other holding your jaw. Your own hands are looped around his neck, inhaling his breath as your own, your tongue desperately tangled with his.

To your dismay, Caleb pulls away, his fingers gently holding your chin. He pants, broad chest heaving with desire, tilting your face so that your eyes level with his.

“Tell me you want this.”

He fights with every instinct in his body that tells him to take your lips in his again. The way your beautiful eyes flutter at him, your lips perfectly parted so that he can feel your warmTH fan against him.

He’d spent his entire life forcing himself to look the other way–convincing himself that he should be the brother figure he thought you needed. Resolved his heart to still every time he saw those very fluttering eyes and intoxicating lips.

But now you were unraveling that very carefully crafted resolve, imploding it like a collapsing star.

“I need to hear you say it, Y/N.”

You were a coward, but Caleb always made you brave.

Swinging your thigh over his lap, you straddle him, pressing him deeper into the couch. Caleb swears under his breath, his hands instinctively resting on your waist, locking your body against his. Holding his face in your hands, you bring him in so close his long eyelashes tickle your cheek.

“I want this. I want you.”

Caleb’s swallows thickly, his Adam’s apple bobbing with the intensity of his need, “God, you have no idea how many times I’ve imagined you saying that.”

He weaves his hand into the back of your head, pulling you to him, consuming your moans once more. His tongue claims every inch of you, causing your mind to go blank, throwing all prior restraint and reason out the window.

Your body rolls instinctively against his lap, gasping when you feel something solid and thick right where your undoubtedly soaked panties press against Caleb’s lap.

His fingers tighten against your hips, threatening to leave fingertip shaped bruises, ripping his lips away with every ounce of self-control he has left.

“Y/N…this is your last chance to tell me to stop,” he rasps, eyes clouded over with a dark animalistic gleam. A desire that could only be born from years of pent up yearning and restraint.

“Once we start…I don’t know if I’ll be able to stop,” he murmurs, holding your cheek so adoringly. It’s clear that, while he’s giving you an out, he prays to the Gods that you won’t tell him to stop.

With a pointed roll of your hips, earning you a delicious breathy moan from him, you grip the back of Caleb’s head, tugging on his hair. You pull his head against your chest, cradling him affectionately.

Caleb inhales a sharp breath at the sound of your pounding heart against his ear. How many times he’d stayed up, fraught with haunting nightmares, listening to this very sound, to your steady breathing, grounding him to this reality.

“I’m done playing pretend, Caleb.”

You can feel his entire body go rigid beneath you, his thick muscles tensing with heated desire. He lifts his head, his eyes meeting yours, his thumb swiping against your bottom lip with reverence.

“Then…let me show you what’s real.”

With very little effort, Caleb picks you up, gripping your thighs and wrapping your legs around his waist. You squeal, looping your arms around his neck, hanging on for dear life.

“A little warning next time would be nice,” you grumble as he walks you, presumably, to the bedroom he had given you. His bedroom.

Caleb chuckles, his frustratingly infectious laugh, pressing a wet kiss into your jaw, “You used to beg me to carry you like this all the time. Suddenly you don’t like it?”

Your cheeks heat up at the memories of all the times he’d carried you around when you feigned being too exhausted to move, “It’s different now.”

You find your back being pushed against the cold and hard surface of the bedroom door.

“You’re definitely right about that. Back then…I couldn’t do this.”

He presses his lips into the curve of your neck, biting down with just enough force to make you clench against his solid body, crying out in surprise. Your reaction elicits a deep and warm chuckle from him. He kicks open the room of the bedroom and sets you down gently on the plush of the mattress.

He keeps his fingers pressed firmly into your thigh, keeping it hooked against his waist. Your chest heaves with desire, looking up at him expectantly. He hovers just an inch above you, kneeling between your legs, elbow pressed into the bed beside your face, caging you in.

“You’re…” he rasps, fingers digging into the plush of your thigh. He trails off, at a loss for words as his eyes rake down your lips, to your wonderfully exposed neck, to the defined curves of your collar. He clenches his fist, trying to calm down and stop himself from absolutely devouring you.

Breathtakingly beautiful.

“I’m what?” you tease, biting your lip at the way his eyes travel down your body, like it was his first time seeing the sky. Your hand travels from his jaw to trickle down his pulse, fingers teasing the bare skin where his silver necklace normally sat, the dogtag forgotten somewhere on the living room couch.

He groans, knees buckling under your touch. You gasp when you feel his excitement against you, your body instinctively arching up to grind against him. The sensation feels so mind numbingly intense that you can’t help but let out a soft moan, your eyes squeezing shut in embarrassment.

Caleb hisses, his fingers digging in, almost painfully, to your thigh. His hips chase the feeling, bucking against you again, making both of you groan. He holds your jaw tenderly in one hand, forcing you to look at him, his voice rough with lust.

“You’re a brat,” he murmurs, sinking down to your neck, “Gonna be the death of me.”

He trails a kiss of heated kisses down your pulse point, using his tongue to draw the most beautiful moans from your kiss-bitten lips. When he reaches your collar, he laughs into your burning skin.

“Nothing else to say, princess?”

You whine at his condescending tone, never a fan of losing to him. Mustering up your courage, you trail your hand lower until they tease the waistband of his pants. You don’t give him a chance to protest before you slip your fingers in, gasping when they meet the hot leaking tip of his cock. It’d hardened to the point that it could practically sit at his belly button, so you didn’t have to reach very deep for what you wanted.

You revel in Caleb’s string of choked expletives, biting back the moan that threatens to escape your own lips when he sinks his teeth into your shoulder, desperately trying to stave off the orgasm you’re already building in him.

Years of yearning, restraint, and being completely and utterly uninterested in anyone that wasn’t you had truly eaten his stamina.

It only encourages you to wrap your fingers snugly around him, giving him just one single languid stroke.

Caleb’s fingers find your wrist, closing tightly enough to stop your ministrations, a dangerous warning reflected in his eyes. You can see his pulse pound in his neck, his breath coming out heavy and forced.

“Let’s not forget who’s in charge here, hm?” he grits hoarsely, deceptively calm, trying his best to hide how completely unraveled you have him with your pretty little fingers wrapped around him. When he has you panting so divinely beneath him, like he’d dreamt of for years.

With your hand caught in his, your eyebrows furrow in challenge. Your free hand weaves into the back of his head, pulling him back down so you can press a teasing kiss into his neck. When he stiffens above you, you sink your teeth in, marking him as yours, which he’d always been. At his hiss of ecstasy, your hips buck up to drag against his bare erection, nearly able to feel how wet you’d gotten through your panties and through your jeans.

“Such a tease,” he grounds out, his purple eyes burning with a dangerous desire, “Who taught you to be such a brat? Cause I know it wasn’t me.”

Your eyes flare with indignation, despite how badly your body literally quivers for him

“Not a brat. You’ve just always been a sore loser,” you taunt, pressing another heated kiss into his pounding jugular, this time letting your tongue tease him.

With a feral growl, you find both of your hands pinned above your head with just one of Caleb’s bigger hands, his grip punishing and addicting. He pushes his cock right into your inner thighs, giving you a taste of what’s to come.

“You’re going to regret that, baby.”

With his free hand, he undoes the buttons on your blouse, yanking it open. Your coat had long been forgotten, probably somewhere on the couch, leaving you completely naked before him. You hadn’t worn a bra since you’d been stuck inside for the last three days, and with Caleb being at the base most of the time, you didn’t see the point.

You yelp as the cool air-conditioned breeze hits your bare nipples, not noticing the way Caleb’s eyes widen, his pupils dilating like he’d been concussed.

“Why aren’t you…” he trails off, his eyes doing their damn best to stare into your eyes and not at the soft plush of your breasts. The way your beautiful skin leads up to your hardened nipples that are just begging to be tasted. He doesn’t finish his thought, swearing like a sailor.

Caleb’s violet eyes search yours, pleading with you.

“Tell me one more time.”

You trace his jaw with your fingertips, trying to ignore how painfully exposed you feel. His eyes flutter shut, his cheek nuzzling into your hand. Like a puppy.

But when his eyes open again, there’s a ravenous fire that reminds you more of a rabid wolf than a sweet little house pet.

“Tell me you want this. Because...” he pauses, his fingers tracing down your collar, stopping right before the swell of your chest.

“I can’t go back to playing house. I can’t go back to pretending to be your big brother. Not when I’ve tasted you.”

Your heart flutters, core tightening, at his simultaneously sweet and filthy words. Gently wriggling one hand free, you grab his finger that rests on your collar, guiding his hand down. Caleb’s breathing grows incredibly heavy and off-beat as he watches you lead his hand to cup your breast.

You bring his face to yours, whispering, “Caleb…”

“Please. I can’t wait anymore.”

Caleb’s eyes widen noticeably, cursing, “God you–you’re so fucking beautiful. Especially when you say my name like that. You have no idea what you do to me, do you?”

With one hand still pinned above you, the other holding his hand to your chest, you crane your neck up, pressing your forehead to his.

“Show me, Caleb.”

At the sound of his name rolling off your perfect tongue yet again, Caleb snaps. Gone was the chivalrous restraint he’d been hell bent on exhibiting.

He brushes his thumb across your bottom lip before pulling your chin to his, consuming you in a mind numbing kiss. You’re so distracted by his tongue against yours that you don’t notice when his fingers close around your nipple, rolling it torturously.

You tear your lips away with a moan, your back arching into him.

Caleb chuckles, between trailing kisses down to your chest, “Needy little thing, huh?”

You’re about to snark back at him until he takes one of your nipples into his lips, letting his tongue circle it tenderly. You bite your lip to stop the embarrassing sounds that threaten to escape, the warmth of his mouth driving you to insanity.

Caleb snakes one hand to your lip, gently unfurling it from your teeth. He’s still attentively devouring you when he forces himself to tear away for one second.

“Don’t you dare hide those pretty sounds from me,” his voice is commanding, every bit of the Farspace Colonel you’d come to know. Except this time, the Colonel makes you shiver with desire and not fear.

His thumb presses deeper, teasing your tongue. Growing impatient with how you hold back your cries, he sinks his teeth into your hardened nipple.

“Nngh–Caleb!” you all but scream. You can feel him smiling against your chest before he alternates to the other, drunk on the noises you cry for him. The taste of your skin on his tongue.

“You always were so good for me.”

With his lips latched onto you, he uses his free hand to unbutton your pants, tugging them down until you’re in nothing but your soaked panties. His fingers trickle down, teasing the waistband. Before he goes further, he grips your chin, bringing your hazy eyes to his.

“More?” he murmurs tenderly, trying to get a temperature check on how you feel. He’d be damned if he ever made you unhappy again.

You sit up on your elbows, peering down at him. He’s flushed from his cheeks to the tip of his ears, his lips shiny with saliva. You let yourself revel in how devastatingly handsome he is, a sinful thought you’d denied yourself many times before.

God, you needed him so fucking badly.

Desperate to make up for years of lost kisses, you pull him in for another. When you finally pull away, you press his forehead against yours, your breath uneven, noses touching.

“More. Please.”

Caleb grins, “That’s my girl.”

Pushing you back against the bed, he sucks a trail of hickeys from your neck, to your breasts, down to your stomach.

In between his kisses, he murmurs, “Let me worship you like I’ve always wanted to.” You whine when he gets to your legs, sucking a bruise into your inner thigh. Your instinct is to pull away, acutely aware of how close he was to your soaking panties.

But Caleb’s fingers dig into the plush of your hips, effectively locking you against his desperate breath and wild eyes. He continues his relentless attack on your quivering thighs, purposely letting his nose brush against your panties, using his fingers to tease them to the side, letting his warm breath caress your most sensitive parts.

“You’re fucking soaked,” Caleb growls, almost in awe, “God, you spoil me.” He’s so close that he can smell you, his mouth literally watering in anticipation.

You whine, at your wit’s end, “Caleb, don’t tease.”

“Always so impatient,” he chuckles with a crooked grin, “I didn’t hold myself back for nearly a decade just to rush this.”

You groan in frustration, tears nearly forming in your eyes from the pure desperation, “You’re such a–hnngh!”

You cut yourself off with a breathy cry, more of a screech, when Caleb presses his tongue into the soaked fabric of your panties, nearly wedging himself into your leaking lips.

He groans as he tastes you. Even through the fabric you taste like a fucking drug. If heaven had a taste…this would be it.

“I’m such a what, princess?” Caleb chuckles breathlessly into your pussy, using your same teasing taunt from earlier.

You’re about to reach over to smack him when Caleb finds your clit, even through the underwear, his lips sucking obsessively. Your hips buck up into his mouth, back arching off the bed, only to have Caleb press his big hand into your stomach, pushing you back down.

“Dreamt about this, you know?” he grunts into you, practically taking a deep inhale of your intoxicating pheromones, his nose pressed into your underwear, as his tongue works you into a frenzy. He renders you unable to speak, even though you want to beg him to move your panties to the side.

He licks another stripe, this time between your lips and all the way until the tip of his tongue strokes your clit, making you squeal.

“Dreamt of how you’d smell.” He can’t help but breathe in a shaky breath, intoxicated by you, drunk off your scent.

“Dreamt of how you’d taste.” He finally tugs your panties down your thighs, nearly cumming right then and there at the sight of your naked core, glistening for him. Like a hormonal teenage boy.

“Hah–Caleb!” you’re cut off when his lips latch onto your bare clit, suckling gently as his fingers start to tease your folds, gathering up your copious slick with his fingertips and smearing it around.

“Dreamt of how you’d call my name. Just like that, babygirl.” He continues to devour you like a five course meal, better than any recipe he’d ever perfected. You tasted so divine on his tongue, he feared he’d never come back from this. Never be able to be without you. Always wanting to dive in between your legs, devour you until the only thing that dared leave your lips was his name.

“God you taste…” he can’t even complete his thought before his tongue is wedged between your slit again, lapping you up greedily. You’re too lost in your own pleasure to tease him, your eyes fluttering backwards.

“Can you take a finger, princess?” he groans shakily, practically begging. His breath is hot on your sensitive core, making you tremble.

“Y-Yes–mmf–please,” you huff, fingers carding through his hair as he nuzzles happily between your thighs. Like a bear with a honeypot.

“That’s my girl,” he breathes against you before slipping one finger into you. You gasp, the sting from just one digit taking you by surprise–thicker and longer than your own. But it doesn’t necessarily hurt.

Caleb bites the inside of his cheek, trying to focus on licking up the honey between your legs and not how unbelievably tight you are around just one finger. His cock leaks with the urgent need to feel you, and with how beautifully you’re unraveling for him, he has to fight from cumming untouched.

“You’re so…tight,” Caleb groans, almost in awe. He only had one finger in you. And you felt like that. You can only respond in a string of strangled moans, completely lost in the sensations that ripple through every nerve ending.

“Sh-shit,” he mutters, imagining what you’d feel like wrapped around his length as you clenched against his one finger. You were dangerous.

“Gonna need to stretch you out. Can you take another, sweet girl?”

You nod, not really knowing what he’s saying–too lost in this whole new world of ecstasy Caleb is introducing to you. But you trusted him with your entire life.

Gently, Caleb adds another one of his lengthy fingers. You wince at the stretch, the pain ebbing over the pleasure, causing tears to spring to your eyes. Caleb instantly stills, suddenly hovering above you, his fingers still deep inside you. His purple eyes are crinkled in concern, his free hand brushing the stray strands of hair off your cheek.

“Hey,” he murmurs tenderly, his thumb catching stray tears, “You with me?”

You writhe, still adjusting to the stretch of his second finger, the pain dulling slowly. His still fingers start to feel unnatural, the need for friction growing with every passing second.

“I’m–angh–I’m good,” you pant, “C-Caleb–please. Move.”

Caleb nearly chokes, his cock lurching at your tearful and needy plea. He slowly starts to move his fingers in and out of you again with the utmost gentleness.

“You’re doing so good for me, Y/N,” he pants, trying to keep his own orgasm at bay, “So wet and–hah fuck–warm.”

You whine at his praises, your gut knotting in excitement, the sensation returning back to a tingling pleasure.

Caleb gently scissors his two fingers, pressing his tongue against your core once more, desperate for another taste.

“I can feel you squeezing my fingers,” he rasps in between sucking at your sensitive bud, “Feel good, princess? You like it when I praise you?”

You whine, nodding as best as you can, too far gone to feel ashamed. Your heart squeezes when you suddenly wonder just how Caleb had become so skilled with his fingers, with his tongue.

But you’re pulled out of those thoughts when the man in question starts flicking his tongue with renewed vigor and passion. An overwhelming pressure builds in your gut that makes you writhe with a mix of anticipation and anxiety.

Caleb presses you back down, flat against the bed, “Tell me, baby. Let me hear you.” He jerks his fingers, simultaneously flicking his tongue against your clit. His hips buck repeatedly, groaning into your core as he fucks into the mattress.

The lewd sounds of his fingers inside you makes your cheeks burn with want. The vibrations that roll off his tongue and straight into you send you reeling.

“C-Caleb, it feels–I-I can’t..take much more,” you squeal, feeling like your abdomen is going to burst. You almost want to shove him off, overwhelmed by your impending orgasm. Yet you can’t get enough of his hand, his mouth, on you.

“I’ve got you,” he murmurs against you, fingers still inside you, “Cum for me, Y/N.”

Your breathing grows erratic, reduced to nothing but cries and moans, as he quickens his pace, curling his fingers to a hypersensitive part inside you. Your eyes go wide as the tension in your belly combusts, pleasure searing through your entire body like a wildfire.

Your fingers dig into the comforter, your back arching off the mattress. Caleb groans as he listens to your unabashed cries, his name on your tongue like a prayer.

“Angh–Caleb! Oh God,” you whimper as he continues to devour you, even when you’re gushing. If it didn’t feel so mind blowing you’d be embarrassed that you were dripping quite literally on his face.

“Fuck–dreamt of how you’d fall apart for me, just like this. But you’re…so much fucking better than my silly little fantasies.”

His fingers start to slow as your body trembles with overstimulation. You watch as he withdraws them, entranced by how they glisten and drip with you. With how exquisite you taste, intensified by just how many times he’d fantasized about this very scenario, he can’t help but lick his fingers absolutely clean.

You shakily sit up on your elbows, a mix of mortified and turned on watching him drunk off your slick. Your chest and gut both flutter, your teeth clamping down on your lip.

You wanted to taste him too.

Standing on your knees with him, you wrap your arms around his neck, taking him by surprise as you press your lips to his. His grunt is swallowed by your eager tongue, the taste of yourself confusingly arousing as you kiss him fervently.

His hands hold your waist tight against him as he kisses you passionately, reverently. You can feel his massive erection against your stomach, his skin soft and burning against yours. It leaks profusely, smearing against your naval.

Eagerly, breaking away for only seconds, you lift Caleb’s shirt up, scrambling to get it off of him, wanting him to be as exposed as you.

While you have him off guard, you weave one of your hands with his, clasping your palms together. Resonance always came effortlessly to Caleb and you–as natural as breathing. Using your Evol, you manipulate Caleb’s gravity Evol, flipping him beneath you and onto the bed. Your tongue is still tangled with his as you lay atop him, swallowing his chuckles. Your cheeks warm as you try and summon your most alluring self, pressing soft and heated kissing down his jaw, into his thrumming pulse, his thick shoulders.

“You’re so damn cheeky,” he groans, voice gravelly with pent up need, inexplicably turned on by the way you can control his Evol like second nature. His cock twitches as your lips make their way down his body, needing to be buried inside you more than ever.

As you descend further, lips at his abdomen, your intent becomes clear to Caleb. And while the thought of your lips around his dick makes him twitch like a virgin, which he unabashedly was, his impatience to be inside you grows to a painful peak.

He sits up, his hands finding your chin and tilting you to look at him. His voice is ragged, barely holding back the animalistic desire he feels for you.

“Hey, no. You don’t have to. Let me worship you today.”

He doesn’t mention that the feeling of your lips on his burning skin, nearing his painfully hard erection has him just about ready to come undone. Untouched.

You roll your eyes, shoving him back down. You don’t push very hard but he lets himself fall back, weak to your every want and whim.

“Haven’t you always wanted this, gege?” you grin teasingly, unsure where your confidence comes from. Your lips brush against the veins on his pelvis that lead to his very excited member. He jerks involuntarily, cursing under his breath–the familiar pet name now carrying an entirely new meaning.

“Sweethe–fuck,” Caleb chokes as your lips find their way around his thick leaking tip, deliberating shutting him up.

You do your best to pull your teeth back, not having much experience doing this, especially not with one so…big.

But big was an understatement. Caleb was…massive. He had girth as well as length, two prominent veins painted across the pink skin, standing incredibly tall against his abdomen.

Maybe you should be scared–terrified, of how that would fit inside you later. But it only makes you want to please him more.

Caleb’s fingers unconsciously find their way into your hair, tugging ever so gently. He does his best to stop himself from thrusting up into your impossibly tight throat.

“Hah–s’fucking…” he groans, voice haggard and forced as if he can’t breathe, “God, always knew that pretty little mouth would be perfect.”

His words encourage you to dare further, your tongue flicking against his leaking head, lapping up the leaking beads of his arousal. It’s surprisingly sweet, tinged with saltiness, no doubt from his addiction to apples, which makes it easier for you to take him deeper.

Caleb’s hips thrust up gently, his inexperienced excitement nearly controlling him completely. You relish in the way he almost uses your throat for his pleasure, slightly ashamed to think about how many times you’d imagined Caleb using you roughly.

Your thighs clench at the thought, a throaty moan escaping. Caleb’s hips stutter as the deep vibrations of your cry push him closer to painting your mouth milky white.

His voice comes out hoarse, almost harsh, “That’s enough, sweetheart. Come here.” He gently lifts your chin, his impossibly thick cock still buried down your tight throat.

You whine, not stopping, wanting him to come as undone as he had rendered you. Your whine only sends Caleb closer to the edge with a strangled hiss.

You feel the familiar feeling of his Evol wrapping around you, lifting you off, and throwing you under him. You roll your eyes as he hovers above you, his eyes level with yours.

“Always throwing me around with your Evol,” you grumble as if you hadn’t done the same thing moments ago.

Caleb grins, the entire room nearly lighting up with his handsome smile. His fingers trace down your lip to your throat, his hand wrapping around it gently.

“Would you rather I throw you around myself? That can be arranged.”

Your breath hitches as he pulls his pants the rest of the way down, giving you a brief reprieve to really admire his naked body. Caleb had always been well built, even in high school. But now, as he hovered above you, you were painfully reminded of just how much Caleb had grown up.

There was a reason Caleb attracted women left and right all throughout your lives. It literally got so excessive to the point he’d ask you to show up to campus and pretend to be his girlfriend to stop the countless advances. But now, after the explosion, after assuming the position of Colonel of the Farspace Fleet…

He was unreal.

Caleb chuckles, a teasing glint in his violet eyes as he grazes his thumb against the corner of your mouth, “Careful pip-squeak, any longer and you might start drooling.”

When you only respond with a silent glare and a gentle punch to his chest, his very muscled chest, Caleb grins and presses a tender kiss to your pouting lips.

“Later, we will discuss why you’re so good at that. For now…” he trails off hoarsely, entirely serious, despite his teasing tone.

“For now let me show you what you’ve done to me, hm? How utterly you have destroyed me for anyone else.”

Your heart flutters at his words, throat prickly with emotions. Was it really possible that the two of you had felt the same way about each other for nearly your entire lives, both unwilling to speak up?

“How many times I told myself I was crazy, that I was just supposed to be your gege.”

He takes the base of his thick erection into his hand.

“How I had to physically remove myself from the house when you’d wear those god-forsaken shorts.”

He drags himself up and down your leaking core, gathering up your arousal and lathering it against his burning cock. God you were so unbearably wet he had to fight from diving back face first in between your legs.

“How painfully I’d ache when you curled up next to me, claiming to be scared of the thunder.”

He intentionally presses his tip harshly into your clit, making your eyes roll and your hips buck, a strangled moan of his name escaping your lips.

His voice grows strained as he lines himself up with your entrance. While you were anxious of what you knew was coming, your body craves him like no other, your hips instinctively grinding, as if to impale yourself on him.

“How completely you own my heart.”

Caleb captures your lips in a searing kiss, eagerly consuming your cries of satisfaction as he gently rubs his engorged head against your unbearably tight heat. The anticipation eats at you, but you find yourself pulling your lips away.

“I-I’ve never…” you murmur shyly, trailing off, hoping he gets the message without needing you to spell it out. You grip the sheets nervously, your knuckles white.

Caleb’s eyes snap to yours, so quickly his neck nearly cricks. There’s an unprecedented swirling fire in his irises. He hisses, a string of curses that you can’t quite make out, the hand holding the base of his cock shaking.

“You can’t just…You’re trying to kill me aren’t you, pip-squeak?” he growls, restraint hanging on by the thinnest of threads. He buries his face into your neck, taking deep breaths of your intoxicating scent.

“Is that bad?”

He lifts his head from your shoulder, holding your face in his hands, letting his erection rub freely against your slicked pussy.

“No. No. But you’re making it impossible not to…” he groans, slamming his palm down onto the bed.

He sits up, taking your jaw into his hands, cupping your face with all the adoration in this world and the next.

“I haven't either. I’ve only ever wanted you. In high school, at the Academy…In this life, and every life after.”

“Ever since you held my hand for the first time, I’ve been yours.”

His words are so utterly devastating–sincere and painfully raw. It makes your chest constrict, your breath choked off. You find yourself rendered speechless again, despite how many confessions of your own were swirling in your mind, threatening to burst.

Instead, you pull him towards your lips, only able to convey the depth of your own devotion with your actions. Caleb grunts into you, relenting as you demand entrance to his mouth. You lose yourself in him, guiding him to reposition himself at your entrance.

Caleb nips at your bottom lip, his painfully hard dick in his hands once more, pressing gently into you.

You rip your mouth away in a pained squeal as he enters you, stretching you in ways you’d never fathomed. You’re so lost in the sting you don’t even notice the way Caleb’s knees buckle, his palm shooting out to catch himself before he falls on top of you, a string of hoarse expletives escapes him.

Caleb’s fingers gently brush away the hair that's fallen onto your face, the graze of his soft skin momentarily distracting you from the burning ache. His touch is so unbearably tender, it completely masks the way he’s falling apart at the seams, fighting his body’s instinct to explode white and hot inside of you.

“I’ve got you, princess,” he murmurs, his lips ghosting from your jaw into your neck, “You’re so perfect for me. Can you take a little bit more?”

The muscles of your thighs quiver violently at the strain of your body trying to accommodate his stupidly large dick. And while it burns like nothing you’ve ever felt before, you can’t bring yourself to tell him to stop.

In the mush that he’s rendered your brain, you can vaguely hear yourself babbling, “C-Caleb–nngh–I-I can take more. Always wanted you–ngah–s’bad.”

Caleb’s amethyst eyes blacken, his jaw tightening sharply.

“Y/N…you can’t just say things like that–say my name like that and expect me to–hah–keep it together,” he rasps, the thin thread of restraint, on the verge of snapping.

Your eyes squeeze shut, the tears spilling from the corner of your eyes. Your fingernails dig into the thick ropes of muscles in his shoulders, pulling him closer. The sting makes his teeth clench, inadvertently sinking another inch into you.

“Mnngh–need you Caleb, I’ve always n-needed you,” you whimper, lips against his ear. Caleb stiffens.

“Fuck–okay baby. I’ll give it to you. I’ll give you everything.”

You look down as he sinks yet another inch into you, his vein throbbing as it tries to nestle into you. Even through the searing stretch, you’re mesmerized by just how big he is, and how he’s fitting himself so perfectly inside you. The muscles of Caleb’s abdomen tremble with restraint, doing his best to keep from pounding into you.

Caleb kisses your cheek, softly licking up your stray tears.

“G-God the real thing is so much better than anything I could’ve ever dreamt up,” he grunts, squeezing your hips tenderly as he tries to bottom out, “Wanted this–wanted you for so damn long.”

The initial pain had ebbed into a dull ache that was quickly bleeding into the same ecstasy he’d just given you with his tongue.

“Ngah–wanted you since I can remember Caleb,” you confess brokenly, thick with the release of imprisoned emotions. You do your best to reach your shaky hand up to his perfect face, moving his sweat-dampened hair out of his eyes. He leans into your touch on instinct, that boyish charm returning to his face as his eyes shut in pure adoration.

“A-always…hah–have. So badly.”

Caleb groans at the genuinity in your confession, his normally purple eyes blackened almost entirely.

“So–nngh–you feel so incredible. I shouldn’t have wasted so much fucking time,” he groans, thrusting the rest of the way, bottoming out in your perfect little cunt.

Your cries are half way between a squeal and a moan as you feel him hit your cervix, pain blending overwhelmingly with the vast sea of pleasure.

“Caleb, s’too big–it’s too much,” you wail, feeling nearly split in half as his cock throbs inside of you, pulsing with the primal need to mark you. You look down and nearly yelp when you see his massive erection buried between your thighs–it was far too massive.

“You can, baby. You can take it,” he groans, bucking his hips ever so slightly, desperate for the feeling of your heavenly walls wringing him.

“Be a good girl, yeah? For me?” Caleb murmurs, his teeth nipping at your pulse, which earns him a beautiful moan from you. Your stomach flutters at his deceptively innocent pleas, your deep-rooted desire to please him, your perfect gege, taking over.

Your eyelids feel unbearably heavy as you stare into his heated irises, nodding eagerly.

Caleb exhales a shaky breath, bending down to press a burning kiss to your lips. You return it with equal fervor, whining when he pulls away, too quick for your liking.

He chuckles breathlessly, wiping the drool from your lip tenderly, “Say it, sweetheart. Need to hear you say it.” He punctuates his demand with the slightest shift of his hips, causing the thick head of his cock to brush against a particularly sensitive spot in you.

“Oh god Caleb–! I can take it, I can take it, please!”

Caleb hisses as his hips start to move. He hikes your thigh up, and you instinctively wrap your legs around him, caging him against you. His fingers dig into the soft flesh of your rear, holding you impossibly closer to him as his pelvis snaps into your skin. The sound of wet skin colliding against each other rings loudly in your ear, lewd and filthy.

His thrusts are erratic, trying to find a suitable rhythm without losing his mind and taking you like a rabid beast. His other hand kneads at your breast, fingers toying with your perfectly pebbled nipples.

“Hah–taking me so well, always–nngh–knew you’d be absolutely perfect wrapped around me. Thought about it so many damn times.”

You bite your lip so hard you think you might draw blood, squeezing your eyes shut as his movements quickly blur the line between pleasure and pain. Your eyes flutter open when you feel Caleb’s thumb against your lip, prying your teeth away.

“Look at me Y/N. Let me see those beautiful eyes.”

Despite his rough movements, his eyes are jarringly tender, looking at you so adoringly–as if he wasn’t rutting into you like a madman.

You force your eyes open, blinking rapidly with the weight of the ecstasy raining down on your body. You briefly look down at where he’s connected to you, too fucked out to even notice the reddish-pink sheen coating Caleb’s member.

When your eyes flutter shut again, Caleb tsks, pressing his palm against the hypnotizing bulge against your stomach. Physically being able to see where he was buried so perfectly inside you drove him just to the edge of cumming, unable to stop himself from touching it.

Your eyes widen, squealing as you feel your walls harshly clamping down on his cock, nestled right at your g-spot. Caleb himself falters at the sensation, growling as he twitches uncontrollably inside you.

That was a mistake. You were already impossibly tight as it was, making you bare down on him only served to push him headfirst into the climax he’d been staving off.

“Baby,” he pants raggedly, “Nngh–shit–!” His hips stutter, knees buckling, burying himself into the curve of your neck. He bites down on your pulsing skin, forcing himself to pull out of your warm embrace, as he releases seemingly endless ropes of thick milky cum onto your beautiful stomach.

You whine at the loss of him buried inside of you, your core fluttering around nothing. You prop your chin up, getting lost in the way he paints your stomach, fisting himself furiously through his climax.

“Can’t control myself around you,” he grits through his orgasm, jaw slacking, “Not anymore.” Every defined muscle of his toned body quivers with the power of his orgasm.

Shivering at the sensation of his burning release splattering on your abdomen, you reach up to cup his face as he cums. Of course, he leans into your touch on instinct, the onslaught of emotions intensifying his climax.

Your body aches at the hollowness, but it quickly dissipates as you watch Caleb’s face, beads of sweat pebbling his skin, contorted in a pleasure so intense, a pleasure you’d given him. Squirming at the sight of him, still spurting cum, your fingers find your clit desperately.

Your eyes squeeze shut as you touch yourself to the image of him writhing above you. Not even a split second later, you feel the pull of gravity, your wrist being yanked away and pinned above your head.

“What do you think you’re doing?”

You whine as Caleb presses back against you, his cock replacing where your fingers had just been, “Y-You already–You don’t have to force yourself Caleb. I can–”

Your words are caught in your throat when Caleb lines himself back up with you, smearing the combined arousal messily around, teasing you relentlessly.

“You’re crazy if you think I’m done with you,” he grins widely, using his clean hand to realign himself. You glance down and realize Caleb is still unbearably hard, even after the absurd amount he’d painted your stomach with.

He slips back into you, your eyes rolling back at the familiar stretch. Except it’s so much more intense this time, your body knowing just what Caleb could do to you, and craving it like nothing else.

“Oh God just like that, Caleb–please!” you cry, pride gone with the wind, as he starts an earth-shattering rhythm, hips rolling into you with precision and purpose.

Caleb curses, the oversensitivity heightening every sensation, every desperate thrust into your perfect angel cunt, “Tell me, princess. How do I make you feel?”

You try to force your mind to cooperate and find the words that you want to say, “Feels…feels so–mnngh–Caleb!”

You can vaguely hear him laughing warmly as your mind goes blank, the thick head of his leaking cock pounding into you ruthlessly. He’d practically mapped out every sensitive nook of your pussy and he fully intended on taking advantage.

He gently grabs your throat with his free hand, applying pressure with only his fingertips and not his palm.

“Hm? Feels like what, sweetheart?” His thrusts slow to a tortuous pace, enough to have you squirming for more but not enough to push you over the edge of release. And he knows it.

“Caleb, don’t fucking tease me,” you whine breathlessly, “Hah–Pleease.” Your hips move against his pelvis, trying to chase the pleasure yourself.

“Needy little brat,” he murmurs affectionately, “You know I can’t say no to you.”

With those words Caleb starts pounding into you with renewed vigor, hell-bent on making you cum just as hard as he just did. His fingers wedge between your joined bodies, easily finding your clit and rubbing just how he knows you like. The familiar tension in your gut builds at an alarming speed, your body desperate to release after being even slightly edged.

“In return, you can show me how much you’ve wanted this, hm?”

His knowing words, the underlying authority in them, make you whimper with a mix of arousal and embarrassment. The combination of his relentless touch, his filthy whisperings,

Fuck, the Colonel of the Farspace Feet was your absolute undoing.

Caleb’s own muscles tense as his sensitive cock, hardened beyond belief again, starts to twitch inside you once more. You’d literally just milked him dry and he still couldn’t get enough. He probably never would.

“Oh god, so c-close Caleb!”

“Yeah? Show me how much you’ve wanted me to fuck you senseless, baby.”

He punctuates his demand with a twitch of his fingers against your clit, driving so deeply into you that you nearly choke. Your back arches so deeply it hurts, the cold feeling of his cum still painted across your stomach, a long forgotten sensation in the back of your mind.

“How much you want to cum on your gege’s cock.”

Your body shudders as you come undone explosively against his violent thrusts. Your fingers dig into his biceps, making Caleb hiss with satisfaction, his eyes unable to tear away from your gorgeous face as you cum on him.

“Oh god–please! Mnngh Caleb, c-cumming. Wan’ to cum for you s’bad! Don’t stop–please!”

Caleb groans at your filthy words, his own hips stuttering as he fucks you through the endless waves of pleasure, feeling every contraction of your perfect little cunt.

“Juuust like that, give it to me sweetheart.”

Your thighs tremble violently as he rocks you through the unprecedented pleasure. With your eyes rolled back, your tongue slightly lolled out, crying out for him repeatedly. Caleb can’t stop himself.

In your fucked out state, you can vaguely feel the caress of his gravity Evol, his hands still busy working at your clit and your breasts. It maneuvers your thighs so that they’re pressed firmly into your chest, nearly folding you in half. He uses his Evol to grab a pillow, throwing it under your lower back, completely changing the angle at which he ruts into you.

“C-Caleb–” you gasp, eyes wide as the pleasure turns sharp, “S’too much. Feels…”

Despite feeling unbearably sensitive, your eyes still flutter in bliss. You want to tell him to stop, but your body physically refuses, still curling up to meet his thrusts. At this new angle, your knees nearly on either side of your head, his cock practically buries itself into your throat.

“I’m sorry,” he rambles, “I’m sorry.” But he doesn’t stop. “A little more, yeah? You can take a little bit more for me, right baby?” Just by his voice alone, you can tell he’s on the verge of another powerful orgasm.

Something about the way his violet eyes bleed with desperation, with devotion. Your body finds its way inexplicably bending to his every will, readying itself to take more of him. Even through the sting of overstimulation, even through the ache of how deeply he has your body folded into a mating press.

Ignoring the uncomfortable feeling of his cum smearing messily across your stomach, you sit up to press your forehead against his, your hips screaming in protest as your body is bent even further.

“Cum–mnngh–Cum inside me Caleb, want to feel you. Need you s’bad.”

Caleb’s eyes widen, his rough movements nearly stuttering to a complete stop.

“What? Don’t play with me right now, Y/N,” he seethes through grit teeth, willing his hips to stay still, “You can’t just–hah fuck–say that.”

Your eyes roll at Caleb’s slow and controlled thrusts, each one deeper and more punctuated than the last. You force your mind to cooperate, fingers weaving into his hair, “M’serious. Please Caleb, for me?”

Caleb swears, picking up his pace again, each thrust deliberately bruising past your g-spot, stretching you to your breaking point.

“God, you know I can’t say no to you,” he growls, “You know how many times I’ve thought about filling you up?”

“You can say—nngh—no, you just don’t want to,” you playfully quip through your tear-blurred vision. Caleb’s jaw ticks at your blatant teasing.

“The mouth on you…” he nearly murmurs, voice gruff and controlled, “Let’s give that filthy little tongue something else to do.”

You let out a high pitched whine when Caleb thrusts harder. You feel him trail two fingers along your stomach, the moist sensation of him catching some of his cum making you convulse as you near another orgasm.

When Caleb brings his right hand up to you, slick fingers brushing against your lips, you can’t even protest. Because you want it. But he absolutely did not need to know that.

“Open,” he murmurs, clean thumb stroking your chin, two dripping fingers so close they almost graze your lips.

You want to curse your traitorously submissive body because your mouth parts on instinct, allowing Caleb to put two fingers into your mouth, pressing gently onto your tongue.

The taste of his salty-sweet pearly essence renders you a submissive desperate mess, your hands coming to grasp his forearm as you clean his digits, peering at him through your eyelashes.

He groans, a strangled curse on the tip of his tongue, as he watches you suck on his fingers. His pupils are blown, drinking in the sight of you, hips faltering, overwhelmed by how fucking beautifully you fall apart for him. How effortlessly you unravel him.

“Just like that, princess,” he coos, “God, it’s like you were–hah–created in a lab to drive me insane.”

You whine against his fingers, feeling an orgasm more violent than a hurricane brewing in your core. Your pelvis aches with the weight at which he fucks you into the mattress but all you can feel is him. And the otherworldly sensations he rains down upon you, your body’s pleasure already second nature to him.

“Now be a good girl and cum again.”

His skilled thrusts, his animalistic demand, his smoldering purple eyes that watch you with a terrifying blend of obsession and devotion–it’s all enough to send you plummeting towards your third climax of the night.

In your nearly blacked out state, you don’t even remember that Caleb’s fingers are still toying with your tongue when you bite down to stay conscious amidst your explosive finish. He chokes, knees buckling, but doesn’t flinch–nor does he withdraw his hand. In fact, he only seems to fall deeper into the abyss that is you.

“Shit–shit, Y/N!” Caleb’s moans wash across your lips, his damp forehead against yours, letting you bite down on the fingers of his right hand. Reveling in the sensation of your teeth digging into his digits, your perfect gummy walls fluttering around him.

“Gonna fill you up,” he rasps, the pain pushing him over the edge, “Take it all for me, yeah? You can do that for me right, baby?”

His words make your entire body tighten up even further, biting harder, squeezing tighter. The wet sounds of your arousal against his pelvis, pounding into your thighs, mixed with your screams of his name have him all but combusting, exploding white, hot, and plenty inside of you.

“I can–I can!” you practically beg, drunk off the feeling of him exploding inside you, “W-Want it–want more.” His fingers fall from your lips as you speak–much to his dismay.

Caleb groans, unable to stop rutting inside of you at your heated pleas, using the frictionless thrusts to push his cum as deeply inside of you as he can.

“There’s my perfect girl–nngh–take it all. Look at you, taking every last drop for me.”

Your hips ache in protest, but in your fucked out bliss you can’t find yourself saying anything but his name, repeatedly, tenderly, reverently. The feeling of him inside of you, the bulge of his cock visible on your naval, the warmth of his cum almost ebbing to even your fingers, his unbearably sweet and filthy words.

“Caa–leb,” you moan brokenly, the intense overstimulation clearing your hazy mind.

Caleb presses his lips to yours, still gently thrusting into you. You whine into his mouth as he pushes your thighs deeper into your chest.

He kisses you absolutely breathless, a line of spit trailing from your lips to his as he pulls away.

“Yeah, princess?”

You desperately tap his broad chest, “Heaavy.”

Caleb chuckles, shifting his weight off of you, leaving his dick inside you still. You moan when you can finally put your legs down, every muscle in your body aching and trembling.

“Sorry pip-squeak, got carried away,” he murmurs tenderly, shifting all his weight onto his elbows, still hovering above you, cock still nestled inside you.

You squeak when he twitches inside you, feeling incredibly sore.

“Caleb, if you don’t pull out of me right now…” you grumble with a playful glare, “Say goodbye to your penis.”

Caleb chuckles, forcing himself to pull out of you despite how his body aches to stay inside you. He groans as he slips out, a moan of your own escaping as you flutter emptily.

“Always resorting to violence.”

You briefly peek at him, still kneeling between your legs. He’s still hard, faint streaks of pink mixed with both your essences. With his Evol, he catches a box of tissues in his hand, tenderly cleaning the mess between your legs, and then himself. You wince at the sight of blood on the tissues and look away.

You shut your eyes, enjoying the afterglow of each other’s last night together. You don’t see when Caleb grabs your used panties, wet with your arousal and his saliva, stuffing them into the side of the mattress. To retrieve later.

Caleb flops down beside you. You’re about to lay your head on his chest when you feel him lifting you, with his arms this time and not his Evol.

“Hey!” you yelp, but he only gently places you on top of him, pressing your cheek into his chest, right where his heart thrums. Your previous resistance dissipates, as you hum happily, nuzzling into his embrace.

He laughs breathlessly, running his fingers through your hair gently.

“You’re like the stray cat that would show up at our door every morning. Hissing and swatting when we tried to pet her, purring and mewling when we gave her our breakfast scraps.”

You smack his chest lightly.

“Ow,” he chuckles lightheartedly, “Nevermind, at least that cat was nice sometimes.”

The silence washes over the pair of you. It’s comfortable and warm, but a heavy tension hangs in the air, both of you knowing the bubble will pop once the unspoken words are uttered.

“Caleb…” you start gently, but he squeezes you tighter against him.

“Don’t,” he says firmly, almost a plea, “Just…don’t say it. Not yet.”

Your heart clenches at his vulnerability, not knowing how to console him. You both know what’s coming.

Pressing a tender kiss into his chest, you prop yourself up to look at him, his amethyst eyes bright under the soft ambient lighting.

“I can’t stay in Skyhaven.”

You choose your words carefully, but Caleb and you both know what you’ve left unsaid.

I can’t stay with you.

Caleb is silent, though his grip on you tightens imperceptibly, his heartbeat quickening alarmingly.

“I know.”

His voice is small, arms holding you tighter. As if you might disappear right then and there. To him, you might as well be.

“I know I can’t keep you here, even if it’s for your safety. No matter…how much I want to.”

He strokes your naked back, trying to commit every ridge, every goosebump to memory, “I…I don’t know how to take care of you anymore.”

Your chest throbs inexplicably at his words. That’s what you’d wanted him to see all this time, isn’t it? That he’d stuffed you into a cage, plucking your feathers until you could no longer fly.

“You could come back with me,” you say, “Linkon is your home too.” You're only half serious; you knew he couldn’t just leave the Fleet.

Caleb smiles up at you, but it’s a haunted, bittersweet smile that doesn’t meet his eyes. In fact, his eyes are as hollow as you’ve ever seen them, almost staring right past you, into a blackhole behind you.

“I can’t leave.”

Those three simple words, raw and unfiltered–his soft and broken face, remind you of the Caleb you thought you had lost. The Caleb you were so desperately trying to get back.

He really was right in front of you.

Like the sun finally coming out after a day of rain, it dawns on you that maybe Caleb had never been your captor–the one who locked you in a gilded prison and watched from outside as your wings fluttered into the golden bars.

You realize that Caleb was a captive bird in that same cage, preening your ruffled, fraying feathers as you struggled, bound by the same fate that chained you.

Except Caleb’s wings were also clipped by the weight of your expectations, imprisoned by the image of him that you’d so desperately clung to. That you forced on him–punishing him when he didn’t fit the mold.

And while you were being set free, he’d stay locked inside that glass cage, watching you fly through the clouds.

Watching the thunderstorm outside, you reminisce, “Do you remember that nest of baby birds in the big tree in front of the house?”

Caleb is taken aback, but he nods, laughing softly, “Yeah. I remember we’d always worry when it rained if the fledglings would be okay.”

The rain patters against the massive windows, just like the days after the birds had hatched.

“You’d always wonder…if the baby birds would fly off once the rainy season ended–going their separate ways. It always made you so sad.”

Caleb stops breathing for a second, unsure why you remember those musings from your childhood. He’d intended them to be inconsequential; he’d never expected you to hold onto them. He keeps his eyes on the unending crystal raindrops streaming down the windows.

“Yeah. I’d always wonder if the birds would come back–after leaving the nest.”

He briefly ponders if you were awake those nights–when he was awakened by nightmares and the only way he could breathe again was to sit by your head as you slept, weaving his fingers with yours. Watching those same baby birds from your window.

You look at him, your chin propped on his chest, leaning into his palm when it comes up to tuck your hair behind your ear. Your voice is tender and melancholic when you finally find the words, pressing a soft kiss to where his heart beats under yours.

“Sometimes, they come back.”

.ᐟ✧ THIS IS MY ONLY ACCOUNT. I WILL ONLY POST ON THIS ACCOUNT AND AO3. i am not @/aeyumicores or @/aeyumiicore or any variations of my blog name.

✧.˖ i do not permit translations or reposts of my work on tumblr, ao3, or others. please do not reuse my blogpost headers, dividers, or layouts. these are original designs of my own.

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theonewiththefanfics · 1 month ago

Text

Peace in the Darkness (one-shot)

Synopsis: Bob knows Y/N isn't one to go back on her words. So when she doesn't show up to go through with their plans, he starts to worry. Luckily for him, Yelena knows how to break-and-enter. And doesn't mind invading her personal space.

Pairing: Robert 'Bob' Reynolds x fem!Reader (ex-Black Widow)

Genre: fluff, lil bit of angst

Warnings: sickness because I've been sick this past weekend and life sucked, swearing, Bob being an anxious little bean, alluding to violence, but nothing else, really :)

Word count: 6623

All characters belong to Marvel. Also - Bob has my heart

If Bob paced any more behind Y/N’s door, he was sure to wear a track into the concrete floor.

His hand had hovered over the panel separating him from whatever lay beyond, about twenty times in the past hour or so, yet just as his knuckles were about to meet it, he pulled back with a shake of his head and began his pacing once more.

“I should just knock,” the man muttered to himself, blue eyes warily watching the door, hoping it would creak open without his interference, but alas, it remained as immovable as it had always been. “She’s not gonna mind. You’ve woken her up in the middle of the night before, and she wasn’t angry then. She won’t be angry with you.”

And even still with those thoughts in his mind, Bob couldn’t get himself to do it, his anxiety overriding his motor skills.

It wasn’t that he was incapable of action. He was. It was more so getting to the action where he faltered. His therapist, someone Bucky had helped him find, had told him even two steps forward and one step back was still a step forward.

Like the first time he’d reached out for help after a nightmare, where he could feel the Void curling inside him, just waiting until his emotions reached a bubbling point so he could take over.

“What did you do?” the therapist, a take-no-bullshit kind of woman, had asked. “To stop the Void from emerging?”

Bob shrugged, knee bouncing up and down, not daring to make eye contact. “I uh – I went to Y/N. I just… I heard she was still awake and knew if the Void was gonna come out, someone had to… You know… be aware and take me – him – down.”

“And who is Y/N?”

Now that was a loaded question he wasn’t fully yet ready to answer, so he settled on the objective truth. “She’s my teammate. We live across the hall from one another.”

“And how did she help?”

“She…” Bob bit down on his lip. “She invited me inside her room and we just… talked. She had some music playing… I – I guess she helped me take my mind off it all and… stuff…”

The woman hummed. “And why was she the first person you thought to go to when things got bad?”

He wanted to say it was because she was the closest one to him, physically being right down the hall, that they were the only two people occupying the floor, but the truth spilt out before he could even contain it, “Because I knew she wouldn’t be mad at me. If – if I woke her up. She… she wouldn’t be upset I was there.” Because she was one of the few people who wasn’t afraid to touch him, despite his powers and the Void.

But just because she hadn’t been upset with him those few times he’d sought her out, didn’t mean she wouldn’t be angry with him that specific day. Otherwise, why hadn’t she stuck to her promise?

The previous week, right before Y/N had been shipped out to Malaga on a mission, she’d promised him that once she was back, the two would go to a bookstore together, Bob’s supply already dangerously low.

Now, though, three hours had passed from the time they’d set last night, and Y/N was nowhere to be seen.

He’d let the first hour pass by, thinking maybe she had to catch up on some paperwork the team had to file after a mission. When hour two had come and gone, Bob had started to become anxious, but still, he told himself she was probably just resting, no doubt exhausted by the mission, and he would never be one to take away time she could be using to heal. But as hour three had started to roll, Bob couldn’t help the nervousness entering his body, and that was how he ended up behind Y/N’s door.

Gently, he placed an ear against it, hoping to hear the slightest sound, maybe a soft movement of her feet padding against the carpeted floor, but the only noise invading the silence was the echo of his heartbeat.

Bob sighed, head hanging low and fingers plucking at the hem of one of his sleeves as he turned around, ready to go back and wallow in self-pity, when Yelena’s raspy voice made him look over his shoulder.

“Bobik? Everything alright?” she asked, the nickname Alexei had bestowed upon him, making warmth bloom in his chest. Not ‘Bobby’, a name that made him flinch, but a soft ‘Bobik’, a name that made him feel cherished.

The blonde was decked out in her combat gear, clearly just having arrived from a mission, so the fact that one of her first instincts was to check in on him made his body flush. He was still trying to get used to the fact that people actually cared about him, not as an experimental subject, not as a wannabe superhero, but just about him. About Bob.

“Oh, yeah,” he stammered, giving Yelena a tight-lipped smile, but he couldn’t control the way his hands wrung together, betraying the anxiousness he was feeling. “Everything’s A-Okay.”

For a second neither of them moved or said anything, and just as Bob was about to venture down to his room, Yelena crossed her arms, cocking her hip to the side and raising a single brow.

All he could do was sigh. She was one of the few people it was hard to lie to, whom he didn’t even really want to lie to. “It’s just that… umm… Y/N and I were supposed to go to a bookstore a while ago, but she uh… well, I haven’t seen her all day… and when I asked around, nobody else has either. Ava even said she didn’t come up for breakfast, and she wasn’t in the kitchen for lunch, so…”

“That does not sound like her.” Yelena’s nose scrunched as she went closer and knocked against Y/N’s door, a motion that came so easily to her, yet Bob had struggled for ages to even lift his hand. “Lubov moya,” she sing-songed in Russian. “Are you in there?”

And once again, only silence responded. As the moment stretched, Bob slowly started to roll back and forth on his feet. God, why hadn’t he thought about how she could already have left the tower ages ago!

But no, it wouldn’t be like Y/N to just leave him hanging or not let at least one person know where she was.

Unless… unless she’d gone out to do something she didn’t want the others to know about… to tease her about… like maybe she’d gone on a date.

“It’s – it’s alright,” Bob let out a strangled chuckle, as thoughts whirled inside his head. “She just probably forgot about it, or something more important came up.”

But the ex-Widow just knocked again, ignoring Bob’s spiralling. “Legushka?” she called out, the nickname rolling off her tongue with a concerned yet teasing lilt.

There’d been this one time John had called Y/N that, snorting as Alexei had translated the meaning of the word (froggy or little frog), and where usually she’d respond with an eye roll to Yelena or their sort-of-kind-of adoptive father figure, Walker received a bloody nose and grade-two concussion.

Only Yelena had the privilege of calling her fellow ex-Red Room alumni such absurd names without any consequences. And, well, sometimes Bob could too, but he wrote it off on the fact that Y/N just tried to make him feel included, and no other reason…

“Snookums? My little pookie-wookie?” Now, Yelena was just making things up as she went, no doubt hoping to get at least some sort of a response from Y/N, but when even that didn’t accomplish anything, with a grumbled, “alright, fine, be that way,” she crouched down, pulling out a picking set from her boot.

Bob’s eyes widened in alarm, hissing at the woman, “What are you doing? Don’t do that!”

“Well, we have to get in somehow,” Yelena just shrugged, the noise of metal softly scraping against metal invading his senses.

“Not by breaking and entering Y/N’s room!”

The blonde let out a squeak of indignation. “I am not breaking and entering!” The lock clicked open. “For one – I didn’t break shit. And two – the door is open. Now it’s just entering.”

“She is going to kill us, and I will not be coming to your rescue.”

“Please,” Yelena replaced her picking tools back inside her boot. “We have too much history between us in the Red Room for her to decide this is the final drop. As for you…” Yelena smirked. “Let’s just say, I know things you don’t.”

“Wait, what? What do you know? What things?”

But she didn’t respond, only opened the door.

Bob wanted to protest, wanted to say they shouldn’t be invading Y/N’s private space like that, wanted to shake Yelena down for whatever information she might possess. If it had anything to do with feelings he hoped Y/N might have for him. That most likely, there was a reason she wasn’t answering, even if she was there, and that most likely, she just felt bad about not wanting to hang out with him, but didn’t want to hurt his feelings by saying so, which he was totally fine and cool with and –

Yelena poked her head inside, and where usually, Y/N’s place was brightly lit by the daylight, her curtains drawn back to allow it to be illuminated, pure darkness greeted them, as Bob, shame curling in his stomach at such invasion, peered over Yelena’s head to take a glance.

He associated Y/N’s room with peace.

Cream colored walls, dark brown curtains with a plush carpet, emerald settees resting atop it and a large bookshelf taking up a whole wall with softly glowing nightlights in the shape of sprouting mushrooms would be plugged in during the night, and plastic glow-in-the-dark stars creating real and made-up constellations on the ceiling – that was the space he considered his true home.

Every free inch was covered in some knick-knack or a souvenir, as she had a tendency to collect small things, but she also had a tendency to gift them to others.

She was kind. Caring. Thoughtful. She was Bob’s safe place.

Yet now it was pitch black inside.

Yelena was clearly just as worried as he was, because when she looked up from her still crouched position, confusion marred her face.

“Malishka?” she called out as she stood, slowly entering the room, Bob following as their eyes adjusted to the lack of lighting.

He shifted his gaze around only to settle on a large moving mound on the bed, so with Yelena as the lead, they moved towards it, when finally a voice rasped from somewhere beneath the ungodly amount of blankets. “Malishka is dead. Come back tomorrow with a warrant. Or a casket.”

Every single doubt that’d permeated Bob’s mind vanished at the realisation of what was really going on.

Y/N hadn’t forgotten about the plans they’d made. She hadn’t found something better to do with her time or decided he was simply not worth her while.

Y/N was sick.

And by the sound of it, badly.

Bob’s heart clenched at the thought. They all seemed so indestructible, but it was moments like those, where he was reminded that some of them, especially Yelena and Y/N – the two people he’d grown to care most about in the weird little team he was a part of – were simply humans. And humans could get ill.

Gently, Yelena sat down on the side of the bed, her fingers rooting around the coverings before an opening was made, a pair of Y/E/C eyes squinting at the intruders. “Can you please close the door? My eyeballs hurt.”

“Oh, shit!” Bob cursed softly, padding to the door and closing it, once again plunging the room into complete darkness. “Sorry.”

He wanted to rebel against the black that now surrounded them, he wanted to panic and spiral, to have at least one of those nightlights be turned on, but somehow, through a sheer sense of will, he steeled himself against the rising tide. Whether it was because he knew light would hurt Y/N, or whether it was because he felt safe with the two women, despite not really being able to see anything that wasn’t an inch away from his face, Bob couldn’t tell. Well… he could, but he wasn’t going to say it out loud, because that would make things real…

“Can you please breathe quieter, Lena?” Y/N groaned from her cocoon. “My head’s pounding as is.”

“Oh, sweetheart,” Yelena cooed, placing the back of her hand against the other woman’s forehead to feel for her temperature. “I think you might have the flu, huh?”

Y/N sniffled. “I dunno what I have, but whatever it is, I blame Walker.”

Bob looked at Yelena, the man still hovering by the bedside table, not wanting to invade the space between the two. “Has John been sick?”

“Not that I’m aware.” Yelena ghosted her hand over Y/N’s cheek before standing up and going to what he knew to be the bathroom. After a quick second, she returned with a wet cloth, laying it over her friend’s forehead. “But we can always blame him.”

A delirious smile appeared on Y/N’s face. “We can, can’t we?”

“Of course.” Yelena nodded. “Would it make you feel better if I went and beat him up?”

“I think it would, yeah… Can you stab him too?” Y/N asked as an afterthought.

“Anything for you, legushka moya.” Yelena brushed a sweaty Y/H/C strand from where it’d plastered itself down against her cheek. Bob’s heart ached at the tender motion, fingers twitching at his side with the want to do the same, but he restrained himself. “But tell you what, before I go and seek revenge on Walker, how about I go and make you some soup, and Bob will keep you company. Sound okay?”

Instantly, it was like someone had turned the light switch off, Y/N’s smile dropped, and she harrumphed. “Bob can stay, but no soup.”

“Soup always makes everything better! Besides, Bob said you didn’t go to breakfast or lunch. You have to get something in you,” Yelena scolded the woman. Despite them being barely a month apart, she acted like an older sister to Y/N.

The sick girl just whined. “I’m not hungry. I’m achy and icky and gross, and I just wanna rot away in my bed.”

“Well, you need to get food in you,” the ex-Widow countered, hands on her hips. “Do not move. I will be right back. Bob, please keep an eye on her.”

“As if I could go anywhere,” Y/N scoffed, but it fell only on Bob’s ears, as Yelena had already made her exit.

On instinct, his fingers started fidgeting with the hem of his shirt, a nervousness taking over his body. After a moment of unsurety of what exactly he was supposed to do, a croaky voice whispered, “You should go, Bob. I know Lena said to stay, but I don’t want you to catch whatever wasting disease I have."

An involuntary smile blossomed on his lips at her care about his well-being, despite being so sick herself. “I uh, I don’t think I can get sick anymore, so no worries there.”

He noted the small frown on Y/N’s lips as she eyed him up and down. “Show off,” she muttered, but didn’t tell him to leave again, rather said, “ ‘M sorry about today, by the way. Should’ve at least gotten out of bed and told you I wasn’t fit to walk in civilised society. I’m sorry if I worried you.”

“No!” he said, trying to quell her guilt, sitting down onto the bed, and to his own surprise, brushing a finger down her cheek without even thinking. “No, no, no… you’re not feeling well, so don’t even worry about me. I’m just glad that, you know, you’re not bleeding out on the bathroom floor or something.”

Bob’s whole being lit up when, despite Y/N being evidently unwell, she snorted, no doubt remembering how about a month prior when she’d returned to the Watchtower after a mission, she’d pretty much traumatized both Bob and John, as they’d found her half-dead on the kitchen floor, munching on a peanut butter and jelly sandwich, blood pooling around her at a rapid pace.

“Seriously!?” John had scoffed as he helped Bob lift Y/N up from the floor, the two men supporting as much of her weight as possible as they dragged her to the elevator and then to the med-floor. “PB&J? That was gonna be your last meal?”

“Hey!” Y/N protested. “It was the only thing I could manage to make before the wooziness set in. You know, from having been turned into a walking-talking shishkabob.” She chuckled deliriously, looking at the man who had the biggest crush on her in the world, yet she didn’t even know about it, and now she could potentially die. “Huh. Shish-ka-Bob.” Then she booped his nose and promptly passed out.

Safe to say, he’d spent the next few days hovering in the med-bay, and when Y/N had been discharged, off-missions for a while, but allowed to rest in her room, he’d hovered in the hallway behind her door, just to make sure the things he saw during his nightmares, the images that the Void tried to tell him were real, actually weren’t.

But Y/N didn’t know that.

She didn’t know the true extent of what went on inside Bob’s mind or heart, didn’t know the real depth of the feelings he had for her.

She didn’t know how much the nights she allowed him to spend in her room meant to him.

She didn’t know how much the little trinkets she brought back for him as a souvenir from whichever corner of the world she’d been sent to, mattered.

She didn’t know that if the tower suddenly caught on fire and he could only save three things, he’d rush inside the flames to take the three little cat figurines sitting on his shelf.

It had been after she’d returned from a solo mission in Japan, Bob having pretty much worried himself sick, only to have her bound up to him, still dirt-covered and bloodied, but the smile on her face was as bright as the morning sun. “Look!” She presented the white, red and gold porcelain cats. “It’s the three of us! Me, you and Lena! They’re so cute!”

That night, he’d fallen asleep with the three little waving felines looking over him, golden night-light illuminating the statuettes.

So, in a moment like this, where Y/N was the one who needed support, he could only hope and pray, she felt it from him.

Gently, Bob brushed a palm against her forehead, taking off the wet towel that’d now warmed up to her skin temperature. But he hadn’t anticipated that, despite being bogged down by most likely the flu, her reflexes were still Black-Widow-quick, as her hand shot out from underneath the blankets, grabbing onto his wrist and pressing his hand against the skin of her neck. “Oh, you are so warm,” she sighed, cuddling the appendage.

“S-so are you!” Bob didn’t necessarily know what to do. “Alarmingly so, actually.”

“Yeah,” Y/N puffed a breath, still not releasing the death-grip she had on his hand. “That’s probably the 103 fever I have going on.”

Instantly, his anxiety skyrocketed.

He knew he ran warm. He pretty much always had the AC on in his room, especially at night, as he was a complete contradiction of a human – he was abysmally hot all the time, mainly thanks to the Sentry serum, but he was most comfortable in a sweater and sweatpants while swaddled up like a burrito in a blanket.

His heart thudded in his chest as Y/N snuggled closer to his touch, while he worried he was doing her harm. Yes, a fever was the body’s natural way of fighting off viruses or infections and whatnot, but a too high a fever was also dangerous, and he'd never forgive himself if he made it worse.

“Y/N, you’re really burning up.” Bob chewed on the inside of his cheek. “Can you please let me go? Just for a second,” he added on, as she whined when he tried to slip his hand away. “I’m just gonna get you a new cold compress. Please…”

“But I don’t want you to leave!”

“I’m – I’m not gonna leave,” he whispered, terrified that if his voice was any louder, any clearer, she might pick up on the emotion he was trying to suppress. “I promise, it’ll be just a second. I won’t even go outside the room.”

For a moment, Y/N’s grip tightened on Bob, holding him closer than ever, but then, with a sigh of defeat, she released him.

He was quick, just like he said he would. Even in pure darkness, his eyes having adjusted to the lack of light now, probably thanks to the Sentry serum, he dampened the cloth with cold water and wrung out the excess, getting back to her, in the time it took for Y/N to shift from lying on her side to being on her back.

She’d somewhat untangled herself from the cocoon of blankets, and Bob had to stop mid-step as he noted what she was wearing.

It was his sweater. Well, one of the many he had, but it was something of his nonetheless.

And he could physically feel how something broken and cracked inside him got stitched together. Some deep, still-hurting part of Bob, that always managed to whisper a negative thought, how he didn’t matter, how washing the dishes and doing the chores was nothing compared to what everyone else in the tower did, fused back together, the Void’s incessant noise quietening. With just a simple glance at Y/N, who had found comfort in something of his when she was feeling bad, Bob felt a part of him heal.

He didn’t comment on it, though, half-terrified if he did, she might think he was mad about it, when in reality it was the complete opposite. And an insatiable need had now settled somewhere in his chest, a want to see her in all of his clothes. And maybe nothing as well…

“H-here,” Bob stammered out, before taking a deep breath and sinking down next to Y/N on the bed. Gently, he placed the towel along her forehead, and he couldn’t help himself as his thumb brushed along her jawline, tracing a small scar, no doubt from some mission. She leaned into his touch like a sunflower leaned towards the sun. “Is there anything I can get you?”

“No,” she shook her head, and this time, when her hand met his, she intertwined their fingers, as if afraid he might disappear. “Just stay, please.”

“Always.”

And there really wasn’t anywhere else Bob wanted to be.

The thought of spending the day at a bookstore, some ungodly sweet concoction that resembled a coffee only in spirit, in his hand, was only appealing because he would be going with Y/N there.

“We’ll go when I get better, I promise,” she muttered, as if having read his mind while snuggling closer to the palm he’d placed on her cheek.

“Books can wait.” Bob hoped his voice was low and soothing as he spoke, blue eyes still trained on the sweater that covered her body, his own feeling all fuzzy at the image. “Just rest.”

When he didn’t get a response or even a little hum of acknowledgement, he looked up only to find Y/N’s features slack with sleep, her chest rising in slow and steady breaths.

Bob wanted to curl up next to her, to have his hands wrap around her waist, and have her head rest on his chest as he buried his nose into her hair, because this was the highest degree of trust anyone could have in him. For Y/N to find peace and safety with him while she was in such a vulnerable state, catapulted Bob onto Cloud Nine. He knew darkness would always try to press in, try to find the cracks and strike when he was unawares, but this time he wasn’t afraid of what might be lurking in the shadows. Not when he knew he would have to be the one to step up, if only to protect the one he loved most in the world.

He sat there like that, entranced with the sleeping beauty on the bed, a thumb softly grazing her cheek, making sure Y/N was as comfortable as possible. He was so attuned to her and her sleeping form, that when the door cracked open, he was startled by Yelena coming in, a tray in her hands as she blew on a steaming bowl of soup.

“Okay,” once more the blonde sing-songed as she walked inside the room. “I have chicken-noodle soup for our little sick-bug.”

There was some grumbling from Y/N as she was brought out from her slumber, but despite all her protests, she rose into a sitting position, Bob’s hand on her back a steady help. She eyed the bowl with suspicion. “Who made it?”

“Do not worry, Dad was nowhere near the pot. He might be lurking for the leftovers now, but this!” She lifted the bowl above her head like it was a diamond, “is all from yours truly.”

Y/N sniffed the air. “Well, I guess it smells edible… not that I can smell much.”

“Then this is exactly what you need.” Yelena slid the tray to rest on Y/N’s knees while Bob helped her adjust against the backboard of the bed and was rewarded with the most gorgeous smile ever. “Here you go, legushka. Now, I’ll go get some paracetamol and VapoRub, and by the time I get back, I expect that bowl to be empty. It will do wonders for your sinuses, trust me.”

She didn’t argue, just let out a resigned sigh and nodded, taking the spoon in her hand. “You know, back in the Red Room, Mistress Vera said the best kind of medicine is a good beating. Will get you right back on your feet.”

“Yes, well, that is why Mistress Vera is six feet under.” Yelena fluffed up a pillow behind Y/N before nudging her chin up with a finger. “As is the whole of Red Room.”

“I mean right now, I think I’d rather get a good beat-“

“Eat,” Yelena interrupted whatever she was about to say.

“Fine, fine, Jesus…. You’re worse than Mistress Vera…”

Slowly, without moving her gaze from Y/N, Yelena stood to hover over her. Even Bob could feel the menacing aura she exuded – an older sister ready to torment her younger one. “And if you don’t eat every single noodle, every single piece of carrot and celery and chicken, you will be wishing Mistress Vera were here. Understood? Legushka moya?”

Though Y/N was bleary and tired, she was unwavering as the two Black Widows engaged in a stare-off. Unfortunately for her, though, she was the first one to break, as she rubbed at her teary eyes, probably because of the light that was filtering into the room from the open doorway.

“Damn it, Lena, fine! I’ll eat the stupid soup!”

“Good.” The blonde straightened out, a self-satisfied smile on her face. “Because Bob will tell me if you don’t. Won’t you, Bobik?”

His eyes turned so wide he was afraid they might fall out of his head.

God.

Oh god no.

He was stuck between a rock and a hard place as Y/N glowered from below her lashes, sniffling, while Yelena cocked her head to the side.

Ultimately, though, his loyalty to the blonde and wanting nothing but the best for the well-being of the woman he was in love with, no matter what she might say to counter the effectiveness of the soup, won out. “Yeah. I – I will.”

Y/N scoffed, turning her head away from him as Yelena pressed a triumphant kiss to the top of her hair before leaving.

“Traitor,” she muttered.

Bob looked down at his hands, which he had resting in his lap as he worried the inside of his cheek. “I just want you to get better, Y/N…”

“And I just wanna lie down and die, but neither of you is letting me.”

“But who’s gonna go to the bookstore with me if you die?” He gave her a small smile, hoping to elevate her sour mood.

“I dunno, John?”

Bob gave her a look, their gazes meeting. “You actually think John can read?”

If Y/N had been eating the soup, no doubt she would’ve choked with how she threw her head back in a loud laugh, as Bob tried to steady the tray, the broth sloshing a bit out of the bowl.

“I’m sorry,” she chuckled, their fingers brushing as she held the platter and pulled it closer. “Didn’t mean to make a mess.”

“Don’t be.” The smile on his face was probably ridiculous, wide enough to make his cheeks hurt. “Laughter’s the best medicine or uh… something along those lines.”

“You should tell Mistress Vera that. Might have to use a OUIJA board though.” Y/N winced as the hot liquid slid down her sore throat, slowly chewing on a piece of noodle.

Admittedly, Bob didn’t know much about her time in the Red Room. He’d seen her shame rooms, just like he’d been privy to Yelena’s and the rest of the Thunderbolts’, as she’d been there when the Void had attacked New York, but once he came out of it, once they told him what he’d done, the feeling of having violated their privacy… he never asked either of them to talk about their time there.

All Bob knew was that Mistress Vera had been Y/N’s handler, as she’d been trained separately from Yelena and her sister Natasha. Only after the original Avenger had broken her out of the trance induced by the mind-control serum used to keep the Black Widows under the Red Room spell, did Y/N join the two in helping them take down the organisation.

“Oh… oh shit, I’m sorry,” her words of apology brought him back to the present, away from the thoughts of what she’d had to go through as a child, where a sore throat wouldn’t have been healed by a gentle touch, but a brutal beating.

His brows furrowed as he looked around, thinking she might’ve spilt the soup, but there wasn’t anything there. “Whatever for?”

“The dark!” she said, like it was a crime she’d committed. “Bob, you can put in some of the nightlights. They’re by the plugs.”

“Oh, that’s…” He shook his head, for once happy to be surrounded by mostly shadows because that meant Y/N couldn’t see the furious blush covering his face, while his longish hair obscured his smiling features as he glanced down at his hands. “It’s okay. I don’t mind actually.”

“But you don’t like the dark…?” The sentence was more of a question than the solid statement it used to be.

Bob shrugged, pulling down the sleeves of his sweater. “This isn’t that bad… and if it helps you feel better, your eyes to not hurt, I don’t mind.”

“I don’t want you to ‘not mind’ things. Bob, if you’re uncomfortable, you should put in at least one nightlight. Seriously. They’re not gonna boil out of my skull or something.”

“My comfort isn’t as important as your health right now.” He shifted on the bed.

“Of course it is!” The offended squeak Y/N let out would have made him smile, had it not turned into a violent coughing fit.

After she was done hacking her lungs up, Bob’s hand running up and down her spine, hoping to at least somewhat soothe the ache, he lifted the warm bowl of soup closer to her. “Eat. Or I will tell on you to Yelena.”

“Stukach,” Y/N mumbled in Russian, glaring at him as best as she could. Alexei and Yelena had introduced him enough to the language (mostly swearwords, which they said were the most important words) for him to understand she’d called him a snitch, but if being a snitch would motivate her to eat and get better, so be it.

With a fond gaze, he watched as she finally got some food into her, and once she was done, he took the tray away, placing it on the nightstand, a hand of his acting on its own accord as he brushed a finger along her cheek. “Better?”

“Yes. But don’t tell Lena that. She’ll just be insufferably smug about it.”

Shaking his head, Bob helped Y/N settle back into bed, tucking the blanket under her chin, but before he could even move a foot, her hand shot out, curling around his wrist once more.

“Bob?”

“Yeah?” He looked where the woman lay against the plush pillows, head slowly sinking deeper into the down.

“Could you… umm… and that is only if you really can’t get sick… could you maybe stay with me? Just until I fall asleep…”

He was sure his heart had skipped a beat. Or maybe it’d done a full-blown gymnastics routine, somersaults and all, because it definitely wasn’t beating in its normal rhythm in his chest.

“Y-yeah, of course, if that’s what you want.” Bob swallowed hard, nodding. “Just, uh… let me bring the tray to the kitchen, and then I’ll be right back.”

And with a small “okay” from Y/N as his dismissal, Bob scurried out of the room like lightning.

The hallway light was blinding compared to the darkness of the room he’d just spent about an hour in, but for the first time in his life, he craved it. Because in that darkness was safety and peace. In that darkness lay a body, curled up on a bed, covered in his sweater, waiting for him, hoping he’d help her get better.

He barely acknowledged Ava or Bucky, who called out to him, asking if he was alright, as he grabbed a couple of water bottles from the fridge and some of the pretzels Alexei had stashed behind pots and pans, hoping to hide his hoard. He wouldn’t mind, Bob reasoned. Y/N was like another daughter to him, and if she’d eaten the soup, despite all her protesting, maybe her appetite was gonna be coming back sooner rather than later, and he wanted to be stocked up on snacks. Besides, he could just blame Walker if needed.

When he returned, he was instantly enveloped by Y/N’s scent as if it were its own form of blanket.

“Hey,” Bob whispered, not wanting to break the settled peace. “I’m – I��m back.”

He mostly heard rather than saw shuffling on the bed, but as his eyes adjusted, he noted Y/N had moved to the side furthest from the door, opening up some space on the bed.

She’d done so before during the nights his mind had been restless, but somehow this felt much more intimate than when insomnia forbade him from sleeping.

Slowly, as if afraid this moment would be ripped from him if he moved any quicker, Bob placed the waters and pretzels on the ground, sliding in next to her, turning to face Y/N with one hand under his cheek, the other on the mattress between them.

“Thank you,” she muttered, the ghost of a smile on her face as her hand slid from below the blankets and rested atop his. “For taking care of me.”

“I–I mean, I didn’t –“

“You did,” she interrupted his stammering, tightening the grip she had on him. Gently, he flipped it palm up so that her fingers could slide between his. “And you still are. So thank you.”

And once again, like he’d said before, he simply replied, “Always.”

With that single word spoken, Bob watched as Y/N’s eyes drooped closed, her breathing evened out, and once again she was deeply asleep. Yet even when in dreamland, her hold on him never wavered. Not when she twisted out from the cocoon and scooted closer to him, not as chills overtook her body and Bob held her through them, not as the fever broke and a small sigh of relief escaped, her body slowly returning to a normal temperature.

For the first time in his life, Bob had found peace in the darkness, all because of the woman lying in his arms. And when it came to claim him too, he gladly fell, knowing that when he awoke, she would be there, much like she’d be in his dreams.

***

BONUS

“Oh my god! Oh my god, oh my god, oh my god, this is so cute!”

It was a harsh whisper-yell that brought Bob out of his slumber.

He peeked an eye open, noting the unmistakable shape of Y/N’s form in his arms. She was still sound asleep, her body curled around his like that of a koala’s, head tucked below his chin, while one of her arms had a death-grip on his waist, a leg thrown over his hip.

One of his own arms was underneath her, completely numb. From the feeling of it, it’d probably been there for ages, but if this position meant she was comfortable and could have a good sleep, he’d deal with the pins-and-needles a hundred times over if necessary.

Turning to look over his shoulder, Bob found the culprit or rather culprits of the noise as he was met with the faces of Yelena, Alexei, Bucky, Ava and John all looking at them through a gap in the door, the Red Guardian with a phone in his hand, no doubt taking pictures of the two cuddling.

“You guys,” he mumbled, a blush of embarrassment crawling its way all over his body. “Can you pipe it down? Y/N’s asleep.”

“How is Legushka?” Yelena whispered into the room. “Did the fever break?”

“Yes!” Bob hissed, turning away from the team and curling tighter around the body he had in his hold. “Now, can you all please leave? You’ll wake her up.”

“Sorry.” Bucky raised his hands in apology. “I told them not to disturb you. Come on! Out, everyone!”

Obviously, he more than Y/N, would get mercilessly teased about it, but he could take it, if it meant a bit more time with her in his arms, but just when he thought he’d gotten away with it, Walker just had to shout a loud, “Yeah, fucking get it, Bobik!”, making Y/N spring up.

She took a confused glance around at the room before her eyes settled onto Bob who was on her bed, red-faced and mortified.

“The toad did it,” Y/N said, her tone serious as a heart attack.

Bob blinked once. Twice. “What?”

“I swear the toad did it,” she mumbled, evidently delirious from sleep and the flu, but slowly moving back to lay down next to him, curling into the man’s body like it was where she belonged. “The toad ate the last strawberry. Damn thieving amphibian…”

Come morning, he would ask about the toad and the strawberry and if it had anything to do with Yelena’s nickname for her, but for now, Bob just pressed a light kiss against Y/N’s forehead, eyes slipping closed, listening to the melody of her breathing.

One day, he would tell her how he really felt.

One day, he would give his heart to her.

One day, he hoped, she would trust him with her own.

But for then and there, Bob was content with his present. With the peace he’d found in the darkness.

Tags: Marvel tags: @nerissa98 @asguardiansoftheavengers @crazybutconfidentaf @pizzarollpatrol @desir-ae A/N: we are so back baby, Tower fics incoming! Bob, my love, my life... you bet your ass I'm probably gonna write something where OG Avengers are still alive and living in the tower with Thunderbolts*!!! The chaos that would ensue is giving me life Tags are always open

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pencil-n-pen · 5 months ago

Text

ALL I DO IS TRY, TRY, TRY

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post prison! spencer x genius fem! reader

masterlist | ko-fi | next

summary: all your life, you’ve been second-best. Even now that you’ve been chosen to be an agent of the BAU, you’re just a replacement for Spencer Reid. What could change now that’s he’s out?

cw: there is a bit of an age gap, i imagined reader in her early to mid 20’s, nevermind how it isn’t accurate for working at FBI. this is a criminal minds fic, so there are graphic depictions of violence, as well as implied/referenced child neglect/abuse in readers childhood, reader is somewhat a genius

tropes/tags: slowburn on readers end, Spencer is flirting from the beginning, HURT/COMFORT, angst, bit of a sick fic in one scene, bit of soft dom! spencer as a treat

a/n : this came to me in a prophecy. full disclosure i haven’t actually seen the prison arc yet so if there’s any inaccuracies shhhhhh look at the fluff

also !! this is a LOOOOONG one. strap yourselves in. grab snacks and drinks

slipped in some very slight father figure Hotch bc that’s my crack

title taken from Mirrorball by Taylor Swift

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Spencer Reid is absolutely nothing like you’d thought he’d be.

From how the team talked about him, you’d been expecting a short, slight man. Someone quiet and meek and non-threatening.

And Dr. (Agent?) Reid was quiet. But not in the don’t-notice-me way, but in the I-know-what-I’m-doing-and-don’t-need-to-say-it way. He quietly commanded attention and respect. One look at the man told you he was not somebody to fuck with.

He was also really, really, really hot.

It was unfortunate and difficult, truly, because he’s your senior agent, someone who’s got more than a few years on you in both field experience and general age. He’s a genius- insanely good at what he does and there’s no refuting that.

But most of all, he’s kind and respectful and just genuinely a good person. And also good looking. Did you mention that yet?

He clicks seamlessly into place with the team in a way you’ve never managed to do in the time you’ve been with him. And after all, why would you? You’re just the rookie transfer with a bit higher than average IQ. Nothing to brag about. Nothing like Spencer.

You were a data analyst with the FBI before your boss told you: “The BAU is looking for a temporary genius. I put your name in the ring. Hotchner must’ve been impressed with something, cause he picked you. I know you’ve completed the training courses for their team, so pack your desk. You’ve got a new assignment.”

And just like that, every single one of your dreams came true. And then promptly burst into flames and burned to ashes when you realized what exactly your position on the team was: Temporary and replacing.

It makes sense, you guess. The team grew to rely on Reid’s quick wit and intellect. And beyond that, they’re an agent short. And you fit the bill well enough: swift and intelligent. Nothing more, nothing less. It became clear during the first few weeks that no one on the team had any intention of liking or particularly getting to know you beyond a professional capacity. And you get it, you really do. You don’t name the dog you’re gonna get rid of.

With the exception of Penelope. But you don’t think she has the ability to ignore someone without a clear reason.

So you did your job and you were good at it. Held the team at arm’s length even when they warmed up to you. Kept your head down, stuck to yourself. This way, it’s easier to stop yourself from leaning into JJ and Prentiss’s jokes, or to stamp down the glow in your chest from Hotch’s approval.

All of this hard work goes sailing straight out the window and spattering on the concrete below when Reid comes back. Because all it took was one case together- one. And then you’re hopelessly in love with the guy you replaced.

And it’s all kinds of terrible, because it’s Reid. He’s not only your coworker —soon to be ex, because now that he’s back you’ll be out of a job— but he’s also so incredibly out of your league it’s not even funny. But he keeps smiling at you and including you in conversations and saying hi to you and asking your opinion on things during cases as if you would have more to add than he does.

It’s very hard to keep him at arms length. And because Reid is Reid he drags everybody else over with him and then you’re bonding with a team you have a week left with, maybe two.

Spencer Reid has weaseled his way into your life one stupid smile at a time.

—

The case is going terribly.

What started as a run-of-the-mill serial killer case in some nowhere town turned into huge investigation because Spe— Reid figured out its relation to a cold case from a neighboring town decades prior. And then, to top everything off, just so happens to be near enough to your hometown that your mom saw you on the news when JJ was giving a statement.

And now she won’t stop calling.

Prior to this, you haven’t talked to your mom in about seven months. Now? She’s calling upwards of twelve times a day.

“Mom,” You say, tucked in one of the police stations back rooms, pinching the bridge of your nose, “I’m working, I can’t just come out to see you—“

“But you’ve never visited! And your finally in town, and—“

“I’m not in town, I’m a four hour drive away from town.”

A sigh crackles through the line, her voice tinny. “You know, your brother always made time to visit family, and your younger brothers—“

“Are younger than me and more successful, yes mom, I’ve heard it all before. Now if you’ll excuse me, I’m trying to catch a serial killer.”

You snap the phone shut before she can protest, effectively ending the call. You sag against the wall, sighing deep and weary. Exhaustion clings to your bones. It’s not just your mom. This case, being physically close to your hometown, everything— it’s weighing you down. You spend more time in the hotel bed tossing and turning than sleeping.

Even Em— Prentiss had shot you look when you’d came in this morning- though jury’s still out about whether or not it was an are-you-okay look or a you-better-be-good-for-the-case look. You’re hoping it’s the former.

The room you’re in is empty- the precinct that called for the team went under renovation and remodeling last year, so some of the rooms have fallen into disuse, apparently. It’s dusty, and filled with boxes and papers and weirdly, one or two condom wrappers. You wish you were surprised.

Your phone has been put strongly on silent, and you’re not expecting anyone to find you for at least twenty minutes. Of course, you don’t need twenty minutes. You just need five.

You just need to collect yourself for a moment. A few minutes to breathe, to get your mom’s words and the unpleasant memories they bring out of your head; to will the shake out of your hands and the cold creeping in your lungs.

So when the door opens, you nearly jump out of your skin.

Spencer walks in, phone clasped in one hand and a worried expression on his face.

“We’re getting ready to give the profile.”

“Oh,” You peel yourself off the wall, discreetly wiping at your face. You hadn’t noticed the frustrated tears carving lines down your face, “Sorry, I’m coming.”

He frowns as you come closer, and panic begins to beat like a drum in your chest.

“Is Hotch upset? I just had to take a call, I thought it would—“

“Slow down,” He says, raising his hands. “Hotch isn’t upset. Is something wrong?”

“No,” You say quickly, too quickly, because his frown deepens.

“You’ve been taking a lot more calls recently and you’re always upset after they’re over. Is someone bothering you?”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “My mom. We’re a four hour drive away from my hometown. She saw me on the news when JJ gave her statement.”

Something flashes in his eyes when you say your mother, but it’s gone before you can decipher it.

“You don’t want to see her.”

He says it flat-toned and blank. Like it’s a fact.

It is a fact.

“No,” You confess, “I’ve never been close with my parents. I haven’t spoken to her beyond a text in years, and I haven’t texted her in months. Then she sees me on the news and I’m back on her radar again.”

You chuckle, but there’s no humor in it. “Oh, the folly of the disappointing daughter.”

He tilts his head, questioning. “You’ve made something of yourself. You’re a special agent. That’s not nothing.”

“Yeah, well. It’s not Doctor or Lawyer or C.E.O or anything else my brothers or cousins have made of themselves, so,” You shrug. “Disappointing.”

“Well that’s stupid,” Spencer says, a small curl to his lips, “You keep all of those stupid people safe by catching serial killers.”

“You’re a doctor. Did you just call yourself stupid?”

He shrugs, mimicking your earlier action. “I’m not that kind of doctor.”

You look down to hide the smile on your face but he ducks down, catching it anyway.

“Hey,” He says, eyes catching yours, “If you want to talk, you know where to find me.”

You (hesitantly) look up to meet his gaze. “Thanks, Reid.”

His face does something weird. Contorts at the words, just for a second. Like he just bit into something sour.

And then it’s gone.

“Of course.”

—

For the rest of the case, everytime your phone rings, Spencer looks at you. You’re getting close to just throwing the damn thing off a roof, if it’ll convince him to stop looking at you like that. You don’t know what to do with it. The look he gives you tastes like worry, and you don’t know what to do about Spencer Reid worrying about you.

You never meet his gaze. You know he’s looking, but you never look back.

Finally, the case comes to an end. Actually, it goes out in a literal blaze of glory— the unsub lights his kill shed on fire.

All of it would have burned to ash if you hadn’t run into the structure and and snatched the murder weapon and the most damning pieces of evidence: the printed photographs the unsub took with the victims.

It’s a win because you saved the evidence.

It’s a loss because Hotch looks pissed while the paramedics check you over.

Well. You assume he looks pissed. You’re staring resolutely at your shoes.

Finally, the paramedic gives you the all clear —just some minor burns here and there, you got lucky— and you no longer have a human buffer and excuse to avoid talking.

The silence stretches out between you two. Eventually, you cave.

“Hotch, I’m sorry—“

He holds a hand up and you clamp your jaw shut.

“Did you not hear me give the order to stay back?”

“I just thought—“

“We are a team, agent. I need to be able to trust not only that you’re going to follow my orders but be able to work together with the team. Now, you’re not doing either of those things.”

You frown. “I do follow your orders.”

He sighs. “You didn’t today. And more importantly, you’re not acting like a member of this team. You don’t call for backup. You don’t ask for help. You do good profiling work, agent. But if you can’t work with this team then we might need to reconsider your position here.”

That… doesn’t make any sense.

Hotch catches the confusion on your face. “Something wrong, agent?”

“I just— I was under the impression that I would only be working with the team for a few more weeks…?”

Now it’s his turn to look confused. “You may have been hired at an inopportune time, and until the first year is over it is a probationary basis, but pending review, you are and always have been a permanent member of this unit.”

You blink. “Oh.”

He’s quiet for a moment. “You didn’t think you’d be staying for long.”

You shake your head, your world turned on its head.

He hums. “You should buy earplugs. Rossi snores.”

You drop your head into your hands.

“And agent?”

You look up.

“You did good work today. You have a team. Learn to use them.”

He walks away, leaving you to process this crisis-inducing information.

So. You’re not leaving the team. You’re a profiler. Forever. This is your job now.

So does that mean you weren’t replacing Spencer? So why were you hired? Anything you can do multiple people on the team can do better. Why would Hotch pick you?

You stare at the pavement, which gives you a perfect view to watch Spencer’s shoes walk into view and hear him settle next to you.

“You’re a little young to be having a mid-life crisis.”

It takes you an embarrassingly long time to respond, partly because you’re not sure what to say, but also, the length of his thigh is pressed against yours and it’s hard to think when he’s emanating warmth and you can’t stop yourself from thinking about how it would feel to touch, skin to skin.

“Well,” You croak, “I did just get some pretty big news.”

He leans back on his hands, raising an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Looking up at him was a mistake. Bathed in the glow of the ambulance and the light from the moon, you can see just how long his eyelashes are, and how his lips move when he says your name.

Oh shit.

“Sorry, what?”

His face twitches in a smile. “I asked if you were okay. You were staring.”

You flush from your neck to the tips of your ears. “Sorry. It’s been a long day. I’m fine. I was just thinking.”

“About?”

See, he always does this. Most people would end the conversation there and move on. And that’s fine. It’s normal. But Spencer asks. Like he’s interested.

You shrug. “I thought… I thought I was leaving the team in a few weeks. Turns out i’m staying.”

He starts swinging his legs on the edge of the ambulance, though where his almost brush the ground, yours swing several inches above it. “Why did you think you were leaving?”

You laugh softly. “My boss told me the position was temporary. And in my excitement of getting it I may or may not have… not read the paperwork?”

He clicks his tongue. “Oh, honey.”

The tips of your ears burn. “I was excited!”

“To get a job staring at gruesome crime photos?”

“To help people.”

“What? Data analysis not helping people enough?”

“Do I even have to answer that?”

He snorts, his body shaking against yours. “You’re a consulting analyst. That’s the big leagues.”

Now it’s your turn to huff. “Is there a big leagues for data analysis?”

He leans his head down to look at you. “Well, maybe miss smarty-pants over here made a league of her own.”

The shade of red you turn must be visible, dark and bad lighting aside. “You have an IQ of 187. Can you really call me a smarty-pants?”

He tilts his head, giving you an assessing look. You recognize it. He gives case files the same look.

A faint shudder runs down the length of your spine at that precise, clinical gaze.

It should concern you, unnerve you.

It doesn’t.

“No, I’m positive. You’re a smarty-pants.”

You look away, unable to hold the intensity of his gaze.

“Hey, no. Come on, you gotta own up to being a smarty-pants. Otherwise you ruin the effect.”

“Am I supposed to start wearing sweaters and Converse, then?”

“Well, that wouldn’t be owning the smarty-pants look.”

“Do we have to keep the smarty-pants thing going?”

“Took your mind off the burns, didn’t it?”

You blink, realizing that you haven’t noticed the dull sting of the minor burns littering your body for a few minutes now.

But that has less to do with Spencer speaking and more to do with the fact that he’s here. Touching you. If you focus really hard, you can feel the chords of muscle lining his arm.

“Uh,” You stutter, momentarily flabbergasted by the way he’s looking at you. Like it’s important to him— you not being in pain. “Yeah, yeah, I guess. Well. I feel them now.”

“Oh, shame. I guess we’ll just have to keep talking.”

You furrow your brows. “Don’t you have somewhere else to be? Shouldn’t you be helping finish wrapping up the case?”

He shrugs. “I’m right where I want to be.”

That’s a decidedly very loaded statement that are not going to unpack.

You’re not going to unpack to jolt of pure electricity you feel from it, either.

—

You may or may not have lied about just how sick you were, exactly.

“You know,” Rossi says after you hack a cough into your elbow for what has to be the fiftieth time in as many minutes, “That’s starting to sound less like the plague and more like desperation.”

You sniff harshly, taking a swig of cough syrup and praying this isn’t the king with codeine in it. You didn’t read the label very well. “What do you mean?”

Prentiss raises an eyebrow. “He’s saying that most people on their veritable death/bed opt to sleep comfortably in their own beds in their own homes rather than on a plane to hunt down a violent killer.”

You think if your apartment— it’s cozy, at least, but still a glaring reminder of the reason you told Hotch you were fine to come in- loneliness.

You have heated blankets and warm lighting and books and tea —boxes and boxes of tea— and all manner of things that make you happy. But no amount of things can replace, tangible human connection.

You knew the ache of spending the day in your apartment would sting worse than the cold. Fever, Whatever you have.

“I’m thinking of a word,” JJ says, mock tapping her chin thoughtfully, “Starts with work, ends with holic.”

“I am not a workaholic,” you wheeze. “I am fine.”

“Yes,” Prentiss says, raising her other eyebrow. Oh no. Not the double eyebrow raise. “Because this is exactly what the picture of health looks like.”

To avoid answering, you take another swig of cough medicine.

“Just do you know,” Spencer says, “You’re about one tiny sip of that away from overdosing. I’d cool it on the cough syrup.”

“But I’m still coughing.”

“Have you given it any time to work?”

“It’s been thirty-ish minutes since I took the first dose.”

He levels you with a look at your usage of dose. “Why don’t you wait a little longer before committing suicide via shallow breathing and seizures.”

You wave a hand. “It’s fine. I know how to take care of myself when I’m sick.”

“Is your version of taking care of yourself just continuously taking medicine until the symptoms become bearable?”

“You’re un-bearable.” You snort at your play on words, but grow quiet because when you look up, the entire team is looking at you. “What?”

“You never joke.” JJ says.

“And I think I’ve heard you laugh exactly two times, and I’m pretty sure one of them was a sneeze.” Rossi says, a look of vague disbelief on his face.

You squirm in place. “It’s not that big of a deal.”

“Uh, yeah it is. You’re definitely too sick to be on a case if you’re laughing.”

“Come on, it was barely a chuckle—“

Spencer looks around. “Yeah, what’s the big deal? I’ve heard her laugh before.”

JJ and Prentiss snap their heads to him in tandem. “What?”

Now he looks vaguely uncomfortable. “I just don’t get why it’s such a big deal.”

“That’s cause you showed up late to the party,” Em- Prentiss says, “You didn’t meet her when she first came. She was all genius consulting data analyst.”

“I wouldn’t call myself a genius—“

“Yeah,” JJ chimes in, “I only ever saw her smile to be polite.”

“Wait,” Prentiss says, brows pinched, “You heard her laugh and you didn’t tell us? You knew we were trying to see who would make her break first.”

“You guys were trying to make me laugh? Is that what was happening all that time? I almost called Hotch like, thirty times because I was concerned for you guy’s mental wellbeing. I thought you’d had a nervous breakdown.”

JJ snorts. “Nope. Just tried to see if the rumors were true about all data analysts being robots.”

You cough into your elbow. “You guys make it seem like I was some sort of frigid bitch.”

“Frigid, yes. Bitch, no.”

“Hey!” You retort, then wince as the volume of your own voice makes your head pound harder and makes your throat sting worse, “I wasn’t that bad. Also, I was nervous! I’m the youngest person here by like, a long shot. I wanted to be professional.”

“I for one enjoyed it,” Rossi cuts in, “It was all blunt business. Straight to the point. No beating around the bush or gossiping. A few people here could learn a thing or two.”

“See?” You gesture. “Rossi agrees with me.”

Just about everyone on the plane gives you the exact same look. Hotch especially, who’s stayed silent during the entire exchange, looks troubled.

Once you land (an ordeal that normally doesn’t bother you, but today, had you worshipping the porcelain altar) Hotch pulls you aside.

“Agent,” He says before you climb into the car that’ll take you to the police precinct, “I can’t have an agent not at peak performance on this case.”

You frown. “What are you saying?”

“I’m saying you’re too sick to work this case—“

“No, no, I can work, I can do it—“

“—In the field. You’re working from the station until we wrap up. Understood?”

You sigh, knowing when you’re beat. “Understood.”

He gazes at you for a second. “You might want to call out of work entirely the next time you’re sick, you know. The less time you spend resting the longer it’ll take to get better. I expect to see you taking care of yourself at the precinct.”

You blink. “Are you… dad-ing me?”

He almost smiles. “Well, I am a father. It’s bound to come out sometimes.”

The joke soothes your concerns of him being upset with you (again.) You suppose it would’ve been warranted —Hotch never gets upset without a reason— but still. He’s the only one you occasionally struggle to read.

The good news is by the time you make it to the station, your medicine has kicked in.

The bad news is when you get to the station your medicine has kicked in.

“Spencer,” You say, spinning in a spinny chair and staring at his blurry face. “Did you know that elephants have prehensile—“

“Do not finish that sentence.” He says, glancing back at the team, all in various stages of concern, disgust, amusement, and annoyance. “Did you take non-drowsy cough medicine?”

“Yes! I didn’t want to be tired.”

He scrubs a tired hand down his face, then nudges a sealed water bottle across the table to you. “Drink that.”

You wrinkle your nose. “But my throat hurts.”

“Drink it anyway.”

You snatch the water bottle, grumbling the whole time as you crack the seal and gulp down the water, not realizing how thirsty you were until this very second.

You lean your forehead on the table head still pounding from the pressure in your sinuses. You feel a prickle in the back of your neck, signifying that the team is still staring at you.

With great effort, you lift your head, tilting your chin up and trying to summon all the self confidence you don’t actually have.

“I am making a fool of myself. Please disregard my actions until I am no longer ill. This won’t happen again.”

Words are hard. Speaking is hard. With a groan, you drop your head back on your arm.

“Ah, there she is.”

“Knew that laugh had to be a fluke.”

“Cold medicine must be working.”

There are other mutterings about stubborn geniuses and workaholics and data analysis and Spencer staying at the station and—

You snap your head up. “I’m fine. I don’t need a baby-sitter. Spencer would be most useful in the field. He’s one of the best shot’s on the team.”

“And when it comes to needing a marksman I won’t hesitate to get him,” Hotch says, “But for now, I need my two geniuses to put their heads together to solve this case.”

Feeling cowed, you avoid Spencer’s gaze as the team files out of the room you’ve all set up in, instead grabbing a file from the center of the table. You really are being stupid. You should’ve stayed home, now you’re a liability, not to mention a walking biohazard. Fuck, why couldn’t you just think before you—

“I can hear you spiraling from over here.”

You lift your gaze, eyeing Spencer who hasn’t even put down the case file he’s reading.

You look back down. “I wasn’t spiraling.”

“You’re really going to lie to a profiler?”

“We’re both profilers.”

“Yeah, well, you have an obvious tell when you’re worrying about something.”

“I do not!”

You hear the quiet shuffling of papers.

A sigh leaves your lips, and you press the heels of your hands to your eyes. “I’m really sorry, Spe— Reid. I didn’t mean to drag you here with me.”

If he notices your slip up, he doesn’t give any indication of it.

“Who said anything about dragging?”

“I know you’re a germaphobe, and I’m a walking biohazard, and now you’re stuck here going over case files and, and I’m a liability right now—“

“Slow down,” He says, interrupting your slew of word vomit. His voice has dropped an octave, gaining a richer note. You should stop thinking about his voice. “I’m fine. You’re fine. The team is more worried than upset. You’re not the first person to come to work sick. And you won’t be the last.”

“They keep staring at me.”

“Because your current state and manner of behavior are disrupting their pre-conceived notions and set opinions of your character.”

You scrunch your nose. “Don’t get all clinical on me,”

You hear a small huff of laughter across the table. “I’ve come to work far worse than hopped up on cold medicine, believe me. Don’t worry about it. Just focus on working the case.”

Slowly, the itching under your skin settles, and you manage to swallow the lump in your throat. Eventually, you peel your hands away from your face and do what he says.

Hours pass by in a blur of text and you and Spencer occasionally either bouncing ideas off each other or making small breakthroughs. Spencer handles the relay of information because you can’t really go more than three full sentences without hacking up a lung. Seriously, what is cough syrup good for?

Sometime past midday, you start flagging. The words start blending and smushing together and your head gets harder and harder to hold up. You’re jolting yourself back awake every five minutes, forcing your body to just bear through the illness for the sake of productivity. You got yourself into this mess, you deal with the consequences.

You’re just… so tired. Maybe you’ll close your eyes, just for a few minutes. To get energy. And then you can get back to the case.

Just for a few minutes.

—

“She out?”

“Like a light. Powered through for a lot longer than I expected. But dextromethorphan gets us all in the end.”

A low whistle. “Poor kid. The ‘proving yourself to the team’ phase is rough.”

A hum. “I think it’s more than that.”

A beat passes.

“You got her?”

“Yeah,” Something soft and good smelling, like pine and coffee and something almost rich settles over your shoulders, “Yeah, I got her.”

—

When you wake, your neck is sore but you’re not cold, which is strange considering you remember falling asleep in a table.

Oh god you fell asleep on the table.

You jackrabbit up in place, knees knocking against the underside of the table. Hissing in pain, you tug the warm thing further around your shoulders which is—

Holy fucking shit it’s Spencer’s sweater.

Said man is nowhere to be found, and the conference/briefing room you’re in is dark. Not only did someone turn the lights off (you’re pretty sure you can guess who) but it’s dark outside. Meaning you didn’t just take a short nap.

You slept the entire day away.

Cold dread seeps into your shoulders. “Oh my god I’m so fired. Oh shit. Fuck, Hotch is going to be so pissed—“

The door opens and you stand, whirling around to face the doorway and then instantly regretting it when spots dance across your vision and your head swims.

You stumble, grabbing the edge of the chair for support and squinting at the figure in the doorway.

“Hotch?”

“Nope,” Spencer’s voice rings out in the room, “Guess again.”

You groan, sinking down into the chair. “Am I fired?”

He snorts. “Seeing as Hotch bet that you’d fall asleep before dark, I’d say no.”

“He bet against me?”

“Actually, everyone else thought you’d only last an hour. He bet for four.”

“How long did you bet for?”

He sets a mug in front of you, steaming tea wafting up and warming your face. “Three hours. You metabolize cough syrup better than I thought.”

You take the mug in your hands, warming your fingers but not actually taking a sip. “Mmm. Told you I’ve done this before.”

“I don’t think that’s the brag you think it is.”

You chuckle, which quickly turns into a cough.

“Drink your tea,” He commands softly from across the table, sleeves pushed up around his elbows and papers spread about him.

You dutifully take a sip, something restless growing calm in the back of your skull.

You eye is forearms, hoping the look-over you’re giving them is subtle. (It probably isn’t, but come on. A button down with the sleeves rolled up while you’re wearing his sweater is practically sinful.)

“Do you… want the lights turned back on? I’m awake now, so.”

He flips over a piece of paper, then scribbles something on a sticky note. “You were sleeping. And you have a headache. I can see just fine.”

“My headache isn’t that bad, really, I’m fi—“

He levels you with a look, and you sink a little lower in your chair. “Do you at least want your sweater back?”

“No. Keep it.”

“Careful, maybe I’ll just keep it forever,” You joke.

“I’d be fine with that.”

What. The. Fuck.

You stand, pushing out the chair with a loud screech. “I’m just gonna— bathroom,” You splutter, your face blazing and stomach doing a gymnastics routine, “I’m gonna use the bathroom. Bye.”

You’re screaming internally the entire way to the bathroom, and once you get there, open-mouthed silent screaming in the privacy of a stall.

Because. He said. He didn’t even look up. He just. And he. Maybe he—

No, no, no. You are not about to entertain that notion. Not again. He was just being nice. That’s all. That’s all.

Collecting yourself takes about five more minutes, and then you’re walking back to the conference/briefing room when you realize you never took the damn sweater off. He watched you scramble out of that room to the bathroom he has to know you weren’t using, with his sweater on.

This is the end for you, then. That’s it. It’s over.

You mentally slap yourself. Get it together. It’s fine. It’s fine. Everything is fine.

You re-enter the room marginally calmer than you left it. You slide into your seat, sip your tea (that he made you!) and keep working on the case.

You pretend you can’t see him smirking from across the table.

—

The case doesn’t last too long. The team catches the guy in the act of beating his next victim. Thankfully, you manage to save the poor woman before he finishes his plan, and with being caught red-handed, it’s fairly open and shut. Case closed. Which is great, because you really aren’t sure how many more nights you can suffer through trying to sleep in the hotel bed.

You have this thing, when you’re sick. You can’t sleep anywhere but the couch. Your couch. You figured (apparently foolishly) that it wouldn’t be too bad, since the crux of the issue is that you hate sleeping in your bed when you’re sick, but no. You’d spent every night of the case tossing and turning and coughing yourself out. Your lungs were tired. Your body was tired. You were tired.

Spencer raises an eyebrow at you when you board the jet. “You haven’t been near-overdosing on cough syrup again have you?”

“No,” You grouse, rubbing your face with your hand. “I’m like, not even sick anymore. I just didn’t sleep well.” For several nights in a row.

“Mmm,” He hums, non-committal.

You practically collapse into your usual seat on the jet, hunching in yourself and attempting to make yourself comfortable in the seat.

You blink your eyes open when you feel the seat jostle next to you. “Reid?”

He’s already pulling out a book. “What?”

“This isn’t your seat.”

“We don’t have assigned seats.”

“No, but you always sit over there.”

“And now I’m sitting here.”

You narrow your eyes at him, trying to decide if you want to argue him on the point or not. You decide against it, because arguing will draw attention to the fact that you’re sitting next to each other having this conversation at all.

You settle back into your seat. “Whatever. Hope you’re not a loud page-turner.”

“Is that even a thing?”

You shrug, eyes falling shut again.

After a few minutes, you shiver, unconsciously scooting closer to the warmth of the person next to you, your sleep-addled brain barely processing the fact that it’s Spencer you’re pressing your shoulder into.

He repositions next to you, shoulder jostling you. You grumble, dropping your head to his arm. Now much closer, your nose fills with the smooth, all encompassing smell that is Spencer.

The dull chatter that fills the plane, the warm body next to yours, and, despite your earlier complaints, the quiet, gentle page-turning lull you into an easy sleep.

—

“Are you drugging her or something? I’ve seen her sleep more this week than I have in her entire time on the team.”

“The only drugging she’s done was voluntary.”

“Her neck is going to be so sore when she wakes up.”

“Sore? Mine would be broken if I did that.”

“Ah, the joys of youth.”

A beat passes. Then another.

“She’s a bit young, don’t you think?”

“Emily don’t start—“

“Just saying, Spence. HR would get a kick out of this.”

“Not like it never happens. We’ve all walked into supply closet B at the wrong time.”

“This isn’t meaningless sex though.”

“…No.”

Silence.

“Are you sure you’re alright?”

A deft hand re-adjusts your head to a more comfortable angle. “I will be.”

—

Landing jolts you into wakefulness and off Spencer’s shoulder. It’s not embarrassing. It’s not. It’s only weird if you make it weird.

When you’re all back at HQ, you pull Hotch aside.

“Can I talk to you for a minute?”

He nods. “In my office.”

You stalk up the stairs, aware of the eyes following your back. You step into the office, shutting the door behind you and pretending it doesn’t feel like sealing your doom.

He sits, gesturing for you to do so too, but you shake your head.

“I won’t be long. I just wanted to apologize.”

He blinks. “For?”

“I shouldn’t have come in. I was a liability, and it was unprofessional. Next time I’ll act with more discretion.”

Selfish, Your mother’s words echo in your head, your father’s words following suit: Try harder.

He laces his fingers together, resting him on his desk.

“Do you know why I chose you?”

“Because Reid was gone, and you needed a ge— someone smart.”

“Every member of my team is intelligent. That’s not why I chose you.”

He reaches down, opening a desk drawer and pulling out a newspaper clipping.

Your breath hitches when you read the words on it.

“Garcia found it,” He says, scanning the piece of paper. “‘Professor’s Assistant saves college class from school shooter’. You were sixteen.”

You look down at your shoes. “It was the scariest moment of my life. I didn’t— he came in, and I was behind the door getting paper, and he didn’t see me. He… I knew people would die if I didn’t do something. I tackled him. He shot me twice before I managed to kick the gun away. I almost bled out.”

He nods, putting the clipping down. “That’s who I chose. Not the genius. Not the consulting data analyst. Someone who wants to help people.”

He puts the clipping back in his drawer. “I’m not going to write you up for not having a healthy work-life balance. No one in this bureau does, and if they say they do, they’re lying.”

You sigh, rubbing at your face. “Now I look stupid for asking to talk.”

“It’s not an imposition. You’re a member of my team. That makes your wellbeing when you’re on the job my responsibility.”

Unable to form a response to that, you manage to stutter out a thank you, and then flee from his office, collapsing into your chair at your desk with a sigh.

A mug is set in front of you. Different mug, same tea, same hand.

“I think you need to reevaluate your opinion of Hotch and what kind of person you think he is.”

You take the mug with a glare. “I was reasonably concerned.”

“You thought you were going to get written up for coming to work sick?”

“It was a logical conclusion to draw,” You pause, taking a sip of the tea, which is just as good as it was last time. Actually, it’s slightly sweeter, and it soothes your throat more. “And stop profiling me. What’d you put in this?”

“Stop being so easy to profile,” Spencer says, crossing his arms. “Honey. They didn’t have any at the station.”

It’s quiet for a few moments: him staring at you, you pretending he’s not staring and sipping your tea.

“You should go home.”

“Why?”

“Because you’re still sick. Don’t tell me you just can’t wait to write all this paperwork.”

“Maybe I am.”

“No you’re not,” He picks up your jacket from where it’s hanging off the side of your cubicle and plops it in your lap. “Go home. I’ll sick Hotch on you.”

You stand, shrugging your jacket on and pointing an accusing finger at him. “You’re a cruel man.”

“Mhm. Sure. Go home.”

You grumble all the way to the door, but quiet when you look back to see him watching you fondly. He gives you a little two finger wave, and with the sheer amount of heat that rushes to your cheeks, you have no choice but leave immediately.

Stupid genius co-workers.

—

The next week brings wellness and a lull in cases.

Unfortunately, that also means you don’t have an excuse to put off your paperwork any longer.

Spencer taps the top of it with a slender finger. “Did it get bigger since the last time I saw it?”

He’s hanging around your desk for… some reason. He came to drop off paperwork from your last case, and then stuck around for some unknown purpose.

“No,” You groan, setting your mug of coffee aside and grabbing the first paper off the stack. “Still the same pile I’m procrastinating on.”

“Good luck,” He huffs, finally turning and walking back to his own desk. It’s still in your eyeline, if you crane your neck a little.

You sigh, grabbing your earbuds from your desk, knowing you can’t put the paperwork off any longer. You’re pretty sure Records is going to start sending you death threats soon.

Making your way through the pile is slow going. It’s terrible. The only part of working with the BAU you hate is the paperwork. It’s tedious and never-ending and it always gives you a headache.

The only times you get up are to use the bathroom and get more coffee. JJ kindly tells you that you should probably leave your mug in the break room after your sixth or so trip. Spencer, somehow, appears in the room, and rattles off the symptoms of caffeine overdose.

You leave the mug there.

You continue working well after everyone else leaves. It gets dark, people go home, office lights go off, and while the pile has largely decreased in size, it’s still not finished.

You have to finish. Hotch had made an offhand comment about turning in your paperwork on time and now you have to finish it. To show him you’re not lazy.

You’ve only got a little bit of paperwork left when a hand taps you on your shoulder.

You yank your earbuds out, blinking blearily. “Wha?”

Spencer’s face swims into view. “Come on, time to go home.”

“What are you doing here?”

“Making sure you didn’t fall asleep and forget to go home. They do lock the doors at a certain point. Ask me how I know.”

Your brain is moving like sludge, and it takes you several minutes to process what he says. He continues standing in front of you, patiently waiting for you to respond.

“But… the paperwork.”

“Will be here tomorrow. Come on, up we go.”

You whine as he takes your hands, hauling you to your feet. You attempt to scrub the sleep out of your eyes while messily moving papers about so your desk doesn’t look like a copy machine threw up all over it.

He pushes your jacket into your hands and you shrug it on, grumbling all the way through the doors and out to the parking lot, Spencer in tow. He follows dutifully behind you, and everytime you look back at him to voice your complaints all he does is smile.

“It’s cold.”

“That does tend to happen in winter.”

When you get to your car, he reaches out, tugging on your wrist.

“Hey,” He says, looking down at you, eyes deep pools of some emotion you can’t identify, “Drive safe, okay? It’s icy.”

“My commute isn’t that bad. And I’m,” You break off with a huge yawn. “Not even that tired.”

“That doesn’t inspire much confidence, smarty-pants.”

“Oh, so we’re locked into the smarty-pants thing, huh?”

“Yep.” He says, shoving his hands in his jacket pockets and popping the P.

“Well then what am I supposed to call you? Robot-Reid?”

“How about Spencer?”

His words hang in the night air, mingling in the puffs of air from both of your mouths.

“…What rhymes with Spencer?”

“Sensor, denser, dispenser—“

“Dis-Spencer,” You say, smiling to yourself. “I like the sound of that one.”

“You know dis comes from—“

“The latin word dis, and the prefix is used to denote a reversal of absence of an action, expressing negation, or expressing completeness or intensification of an unpleasant or unattractive action.”

He chuckles, smiling down at his shoes. “That’s why you’re the smarty-pants.”

“Oh please. You know all of that and then some.”

He shrugs. “Maybe, maybe not.”

You both stand in the cold of the parking lot, neither willing to leave yet.

Before you can think better of it, you dart forward, throwing your arms around Spencer’s neck and mumbling “Goodnight, Dis-Spencer.”

You step away quickly, awkwardly giving him a small wave before hurrying into your car and driving away.

Smooth.

—

The next case is… really rough.

Two spree killers, working as a team. A father and a son; the son was groomed into the lower position.

Not anything you haven’t seen before. Trained for. Studied.

No amount of studying could have prepared you for the cold grip of dread that gripped your throat like a vice when you finally confronted the unsubs, and heard eerily familiar words uttered from the father:

“You’re a good for nothing son! I wouldn’t have had to do this if you weren’t such a disappointment of a child! Why couldn’t you have just been more like your siblings?”

The son was killed before anyone could intervene.

Wrapping up the case left you shaken— you’d watched with hollow eyes as the boy��s body was zipped in a body bag.

A hand landing roughly on your shoulder shoves awareness back into your body and you flinch, hard, whirling around with your shoulders raised to meet the oncoming threat.

Only it’s not a threat. It’s Hotch. And he looks concerned.

You force your body to relax. “I’m sorry, I’ll go help question the rest of the family—“

“Are you okay?”

You blink. “What?”

“Are you alright?” He asks again.

“Yeah, I’m, I’m okay. It just… reminded me of something.”

Hotch purses his lips but doesn’t say anything. He looks he’s going to say something, but then decides against it.

“Help Reid get the last of the evidence. Once you two are finished head back to the station. We’ll meet you there.”

You nod, inwardly relieved about not having to deal with the family members. You might start actually crying.

You sidle up to Spencer who’s tagging blood splatters on the carpet. He wordlessly hands you a pair of gloves. He doesn’t ask. You don’t tell.

You work side by side for the better part of two hours, occasionally conversing with the local police or helping the crime scene investigators tag evidence.

If he knows what’s bothering you, he doesn’t say. You wouldn’t have an answer anyway. You’re far too gone in your own head.

You follow Spencer to the break room back at the station, watching him quietly make two mugs of tea. He presses one into your hands with a gentle command to let it cool for a few minutes. The mug is warm in your hands. Spencer is standing next to you, a mug of his own in his hands. Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

You chant this mantra in your head while you wait for the rest of the team to come back.

Your parents aren’t here. You’re fine.

Spencer doesn’t ask before sitting next to you on the jet. He just does. He hands you a book, then opens his own.

You don’t read a single page. He must know. Still, he says nothing, just presses a little closer to you when he sees your hands shaking.

The team gives the two of you space when you finally land. You stumble off the jet, trip backpack slung over your shoulder, legs wobbly and breath uneven.

You’re not sure why the case upset you this much. Your parents don’t upset you this much. They just— they make the same kind of comments, and so did that father, except now his son is dead because he killed him—

“Hey,” Hotch approaches you slowly, makes sure you can see him. You hate that he feels the need to do so. “Take tomorrow off. Stay home. Recuperate.”

“I’m fi—“

“We all have tough missions and I would do the same for any agent,” He says, clasping you gently on the shoulder. “Besides. We both know you haven’t been sleeping well.”

Your lips twitch. “Isn’t there a rule against profiling each other?”

“That rule is for all of you. Not me.”

He gives your shoulder one last squeeze before departing.

You manage to haul yourself into HQ and out to the parking lot, cursing as your cold fingers fumble with your keys. Frustrated tears begin to well in your eyes and you press the heels of your hands to your face, sucking in a shuddering breath and begging it all to just stop.

Someone gently pries your hands open, pulling your keys out of your clenched grip. Your shoulders shake as you heave, gasping for cold night air that burns on the way down.

A hand finds its way to the back of your head, pressing it forward into something warm and solid. Another arm wraps around your waist, keeping you close, while the hand on your head drifts down to your neck, squeezing and rubbing intermittently.

“I’m sorry,” You cry, rubbing your face and smearing your tears across your hands, “I don’t know why, it just—“

“You don’t need a reason,” Spencer says, spreading his hand out wide so it covers the entire nape of your neck, “Sometimes it all just gets to you.”

You nod into his chest, lowering your hands from his face to wrap around his torso, clutching it like a lifeline.

“I don’t want to go home tonight,” You whisper, ashamed. “I’ll dream of it. And them. And it’ll be cold and alone—“

“Come home with me,” He says, voice a little breathless while he holds you closer, “Come home with me.”

He says the last part a little desperate.

You sniff. “Okay.”

You hesitantly pull away from the hug, but not before Spencer’s hand moves from your neck to your face, his thumb brushing away the tear tracks on your face. He drops his head down, and you feel the gentlest brush of lips against the skin in between your eyebrows.

“Let’s go home.”

He tugs you along by the hand, helping you into his little old car, tucking your bags into the backseat. He lets the radio play softly while he drives, loud enough to quiet your thoughts a bit but not so loud as to overwhelm you.

He helps you out of the car when you arrive to the apartment building, carrying one of your bags up the stairs- you’d insisted on carrying the rest of your stuff.

He unlocks the apartment door, ushering you into the warmth and comfort that is Spencer’s home.

It’s exactly like you pictured, if not tidier. A bit more modern than you’d imagined. Books are everywhere of course, but so are knick-knacks and trinkets and other little bits of things that are so decidedly Spencer. There’s even a quilt on the couch.

He sets your bag down by the door. “The shower is down that hall to the left. Use whatever products you need to. Do you have any clothes to change into?”

You chew on the inside of your lip. “In my luggage, yeah, but they need to be washed.”

“I can put them in the wash while you shower. In the meantime, you can borrow something of mine.”

You shuffle in place. “I don’t wanna impose—“

“Please let me do this for you.”

The raw, rough edge to his tone makes you pause. You nod in acquiescence.

He takes your hand in his again, tugging you into his bedroom. With one hand, he opens drawers, handing you his smallest pair of sweatpants, and a large, worn, and incredibly soft Caltech sweatshirt.

“I’ll have to cuff these,” You mumble when he hands you the sweatpants, “My legs are half the length of yours.”

“You’ll make it work, I’m sure. Now shoo. I’ll have laundry and food finished when you get out of the shower.”

The bathroom, like the rest of the house, is clean and neat, and to your relief, houses more than just a five-in-one in the shower. Spencer actually owns multiple products for you to choose from and it hits you while you’re lathering the body wash you chose because of how good it smelled that you’re in Spencer’s shower, showering with his body wash, about to put on his clothes.

You’re going to smell like him. His clothes will smell like him. Everywhere in the apartment smells like him.

You decide to blame the near permanent flush on your cheeks on the heat from the shower.

When you exit the shower, fresh and drowning in Spencer’s clothes, he’s standing at his kitchen island, putting the final touches on two bowls of soup.

You almost tear up again. “You made me soup?”

“It’s widely regarded as a comfort food for people who are ill or otherwise sad, and is most commonly made in the wintertime.”

He gives you a little jazz hand, gesturing to the soup as if saying ta-da!

You really do tear up then.

He’s in front of you in an instant, hands poised to help. “Hey, hey, what’s wrong? Do you not like soup? I can make something else, or we can order in, or—“

You scrub at your face with the sleeve of his sweatshirt. “You’re just, you’re just really sweet.”

His face softens. “Oh, honey.”

He envelops you in the second hug of the night, except this time you’re crying in earnest now. Your crying about your parents, about the nights you went to bed hungry because your Dad told that you were smart, and to figure something out, but you were too young to work any of the kitchen appliances. You’re crying about your first best friend, who ditched you the second your brother asked her out. You’re crying about all the classes and friendships you missed out on while you were in the hospital with gunshot wounds. You’re crying about how your parents didn’t visit you once. Not even when you were in the ICU.

Spencer holds you through it all, a steady rock against the battering waves crashing in your head.

After a few minutes, you wear yourself out, quieting down to sniffling, your shoulders hitching.

He pulls back, studying your face. “Are you ready to eat some soup now?”

You nod, blinking the final tears out of your eyes. “I got snot on your shirt.”

“That’s why we invented washing machines.”

He keeps up a stream of idle chatter while you eat, explaining all the different major soups in the world and where they came from. It’s a balm against your weary mind, lulls you into peace and safety.

Or maybe that’s just the effect Spencer has on you.

When you finish your food, he takes your bowl, deposits it in the sink, and then takes your hand and leads you to his bedroom.

“I don’t have a guest room, so you can take the bed,” He says, voice soft. “There’s extra blankets in the closet next to the bathroom if you get cold.”

He turns to leave, but a stab of panic slices down your chest, and your hand is reaching out and grabbing his wrist before you can stop yourself.

He pauses, turning back around. “You want me to stay?”

You take your lip between your teeth. “I don’t want to be alone.”

He studies you in the dark of the room— clad in his clothes, face puffy from crying.

The muscles in his jaw work.

“I can’t do this platonically. If we do this—“

You surge up on your toes, grabbing his face and smashing your lips together so quickly your teeth clack.

He goes rigid, then kisses your right back, hands coming up to cup your face, squeeze your neck, smooth over your shoulders.

You pull away first, looking at him through your lashes with hazy eyes. “I can’t do this platonically either.”

He traces the planes of your face with his thumb. “You have no idea how long and how much I’ve wanted to have you right here, just like this.”

“Crying and sad?”

“Dressed in my clothes, in my apartment, in my bed.”

You pause. “You know, tonight, I can’t, I’m not going to have—“

“I’m not interested in sex with you tonight,” He says, reading your mind, “I just want to get that empty look in your eyes gone.”

“Just?”

“Well,” He says, tugging you down onto the bed with him, crawling under the covers and covering you both, “There are other things. A lot of other things, Like this,”

He presses a kiss to your forehead.

“And this,”

He pulls you flush against him under the covers, tucking your head under his chin.

“But mostly this.”

He presses one last kiss to the crown of your head.

“Really?”

“Really.”

It’s quiet for a moment before his voice breaks the silence.

“After I got out, all I wanted was something soft and gentle. Having something, someone soft and lovely to hold was all I looked forward to. And then I came back and I met you, with your polite introductions and the way you care so deeply about so much and I knew. I knew who I wanted to hold.”

“Wow,” You breathe, “Yours sounds so poetic. Mine is much less so.”

“Mmm,” He hums, “And what might that be?”

You press your face against his chest and mumble so quietly you’re wondering if he can ever hear you:

“I just wanted you to choose me. I wanted to be someone’s first choice.”

He’s so quiet after that you think he must not have heard you.

You’re on the verge of sleep when you hear his whisper:

“There couldn’t be anyone else for me.”

જ⁀➴

EDIT: if you want to be tagged in the sequel when it’s posted, please comment “tag me please!” or some variation of THE POST LINKED HERE !! if you comment asking for a tag on this post, you will not be added to the tag list. tag lists are hard to keep track of, so please keep them all in one place !! :)

EDIT TWO: THE SEQUEL IS UP !! It is linked at the top of this post under “next” :)

#girlblogging #spencer reid #spencer reid x reader #dr spencer reid #dr spencer reid x reader #soft dom spencer reid #soft spencer reid #criminal minds #criminal minds x reader #spencer reid x you #spencer reid x y/n #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fluff

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buckysleftbicep · 10 days ago

Text

exit wounds 𐙚 b.b

pairing: new avenger!bucky barnes x fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, choking, hairpulling, rough sex, degradation, overstimulation, unprotected sex, rough sex, creampie, possessiveness, dom!bucky, angst

summary: after you put yourself in danger once again during a mission, bucky finally snaps.

word count: 3.2k

author's note: hello my loves, i hope you enjoy this fic! also, i am currently looking through all the requests i've received and am excited to say i got started on a few! so please, keep sending them, fresh ideas always helps me write better! love you guys and please stay safe out there!

want him so badly

The storm broke before the mission did.

Rain pelted the shattered rooftops, thunder cracked above as you darted through the ruined alleyways of Bucharest, your pulse hammering in your ears. The objective was simple, get in, extract the intel, get out.

“Left. Take the left,” Bucky’s voice crackled through your comms, taut with command.

“I see the target,” you shot back, breathless. “I’m going in.”

“You go in alone, and I swear to god—”

You cut the line.

Not because you were being reckless. You knew what you were doing. You had spent hours upon hours studying the building’s layout, the guards’ rotations, and the window of opportunity that was already closing.

You didn’t need him barking orders in your ear. And you especially didn’t need your boyfriend second-guessing you when you were this close to securing the objective.

But then, behind you—boots pounded on wet concrete, close, fast, and furious.

“Fuck—(y/n)!”

Too late.

The intel was secured. The flash drive sat warm in the lining of your suit, pressed against your sternum. On paper, the mission was a success.

But the cost?

Three injured agents. A building engulfed in fire. And Bucky’s silence on the jet ride towards the nearest safehouse, the tension was thick enough to choke on. He hadn’t looked at you once.

Not when you handed Val the drive. Not when she nodded coolly and dismissed you without a word of praise. Not when the soft hydraulic hiss of the safehouse doors opened and when the rest of the team shuffled in like ghosts.

Now it was just the two of you. The others had scattered quietly, retreating to their temporary rooms for the night. The rain still dripped from your suit's collar, blood clung dry beneath your fingernails, and the silence between you and Bucky pulsed like a second heartbeat.

You peeled your damp tactical vest from your shoulders and tossed it onto the table. Every breath you took felt too loud in the stillness. Your skin was still buzzed with leftover adrenaline and heat, you didn't know if it was from the mission of the confrontation you knew was about to come.

You heard the final set of footsteps retreat, then the soft click of the outer door.

Still, you didn’t turn around.

“I had it,” you said calmly, your voice flat but controlled. “You didn’t need to come after me.”

He didn’t respond at first.

But you could feel him. The tension radiated off him like heat off an engine block. You didn’t need to look to know his jaw was clenched, his hands curled into fists at his sides. You could already feel his glare burning through your back almost as if it was trying to set you aflame.

You met his eyes—cerulean, but sharper than usual. Tense. Controlled.

“I got the drive, didn’t I?”

“That’s not the fucking point,” he snapped, the steel in his voice sharp now. “Three agents could’ve died (y/n). You could’ve died.”

“I didn’t,” you bit out. “And I wasn’t going to.”

His mouth twisted, his chest heaving once before he spoke again, voice splintering. “You think I give a shit about your stats? Your little field heroics?” His voice cracked then, just slightly.

“You think I want to scrape you off the concrete one day just because you were too stubborn to follow the damn protocol?”

You barked a bitter laugh. "Funny. You’ve been quiet up until now.”

He moved fast.

One moment, he was across the room. The next, he was inches from you, towering, taut with anger, fist clenched so tight you could see the veins straining in his forearm.

“You wanna say that again?” he asked, low and dangerous.

You squared your shoulders, refusing to flinch. “I said—”

“Don’t,” he cut in sharply. “Don’t test me tonight.”

“Why not?” you hissed. “You’ve been dying to explode since we landed Bucky. Go ahead. Yell. Blame me. Do what you always do when you don’t get your damn way—”

He didn’t yell. He didn’t move.

He just looked at you. And somehow, that was worse.

The silence that followed crackled with heat. His jaw tensed, eyes burning into yours like he was holding back with everything he had.

Then, slow and deliberate, he stepped forward, closing the space between you. His body radiated heat, tension rolling off him in waves.

“You think this is about me?” he whispered, dangerously quiet now.

“You think I give a fuck if I look bad in the debrief? I don’t care about orders, (y/n). I care about you. And you made the call without backup, without thinking. Again."

“I knew what I was doing,” you murmured, but it came out thinner now.

“And if you were wrong?” he snapped. His breath hit your cheek—damp, hot, ragged. “If I hadn’t gone in after you?”

You couldn’t answer. Because you didn’t know.

And suddenly the room felt too small. Too close. Your heart pounded against your ribs like it wanted out.

He was so close you could smell the rain still clinging to his skin, see the soaked-through fabric of his black shirt clinging to every line of muscle. His hair was still damp, curling around his jaw as his chest rose and fell with heavy, measured breaths.

He looked frayed at the edges, barely holding it together, and burning with fury.

“You scared the shit out of me,” he said, voice rough. “You think I care about the mission? You think I care about what Val thinks?”

Your breath hitched.

“I didn’t mean to,” you whispered. “I was just… I needed to prove I could handle it.”

He took another step forward. “To who?”

You blinked.

“To Val? The team?” He shook his head, eyes narrowing. “Or to me?”

You didn’t answer. You didn’t need to. Your silence said enough.

Bucky’s hand came up, not fast, not aggressive, but deliberate. It hovered near your jaw, then gently ghosted along the column of your throat. Two fingers settled over your pulse, barely there. Feeling it. Reading you.

“You think I don’t see you?” he murmured. “Think I don’t know what you’re trying to prove every time you run headfirst into danger like you have nothing to lose?”

“You don’t have to be reckless to be worthy of standing next to me,” he said, and something broke in his voice then. Softer. Almost broken. “You already are.”

Your breath stuttered.

You hadn’t meant to move. You hadn’t even noticed your body leaning forward until your chest brushed his. Until you felt the ragged breath he caught against your cheek, until your eyes met his, and everything stopped.

He looked at you like he was drowning in everything he hadn’t said, rage, fear, hunger, all of it right there in his eyes, barely held back.

His thumb brushed your jaw, tilting your chin up. His touch was light, barely there, but it felt like the only thing tethering you to the ground.

“You keep pushing me,” he said, voice low and quiet, the kind of quiet that carried weight.

His eyes didn’t leave yours. “Always testing. Always toeing the line.”

Your throat tightened as you swallowed, pulse fluttering beneath your skin. A slow ache bloomed between your thighs, the kind that only got worse when you held his gaze.

“And what if I’m doing it on purpose?” you murmured. “What if I want you to snap?”

Something shifted behind his gaze, a flicker of heat barely restrained, and the air between you crackled like a live wire. His jaw flexed, his body unmoving, and then, the corner of his mouth lifted. Slow, measured, anything but kind.

“You really want to see what happens when I do?” he gritted out

“Maybe I like seeing how far I can push you.”

You didn’t get a second to breathe.

His hand clamped around your throat, not hard enough to cut off your air, but firm enough to remind you who was in control as he shoved you backward.

You stumbled, caught off guard, and then—without warning, he turned you. One arm braced across your shoulders, the other sliding between your thighs. You barely had time to gasp before he was behind you, chest flush to your back, hips grinding into your ass.

His body pinned you in place, unforgiving and close, and suddenly there was no space, no air, nothing except the burn of him against you and the way your body reacted, fast, instinctive and shameless.

“You want to push me?” Bucky snarled, the words like gravel dragged through his teeth. “Then take it. Don’t you fucking run from it now.”

Your pulse throbbed wildly beneath his fingers. He felt it—you knew he did—because he smiled against your neck. It wasn’t kind. It was the smile of a man barely containing the storm underneath, teeth bared like a wolf on a leash.

You tried to turn your head, to spit something sharp, something defiant, but his metal hand was there in an instant, pinning your cheek to the wall with a ruthless kind of tenderness. Cold vibranium fingers spread across your jaw, holding you still like he was lining up a shot.

“Don’t move unless I tell you to,” he growled. “You don’t get to talk back. Not after the fucking stunt you pulled.”

Then—he tore your suit open.

The front zipper split with a vicious rip, teeth dragging down your sternum, and then the fabric was shoved roughly off your shoulders. Your bra came into view, your skin prickling in the open air, exposed and vulnerable and throbbing with anticipation.

He didn’t hesitate.

His mouth latched onto the side of your neck, sucking hard enough to bruise, and your body reacted instantly, arching toward him, heat coiling low in your belly, wetness pooling between your thighs before you could even think to stop it.

It was humiliating how fast he had you soaked.

“Fucking wet,” he hissed, voice sharp with satisfaction. His flesh hand slid down the front of your suit. Two fingers pressed through your panties and straight into your slit, finding you hot, drenched and needy. “You’re dripping, sweetheart. All that mouth and you still want me this bad?”

You moaned—shameless, high-pitched and he growled like it offended him.

“Pathetic.”

Your suit hit the ground in a heap, shoved down carelessly around your boots. He didn’t bother to strip you completely, he didn’t need to. He just yanked them down far enough to spread your thighs apart, leaving you open, exposed, and trembling.

Then you heard it—the heavy clink of his belt, the hiss of his zipper. Your body jolted at the sound.

“Look at you,” he muttered, low and mean. “Begging to be fucked like a slut after risking your life like a dumb little brat.” The words hit you hard and god, they made your pussy throb.

You clenched around nothing, slick dripping down your thighs, and the worst part was how much you loved it. How much you needed more, needed him.

Your breath stuttered, your hips tilting back instinctively, shameless in how fast you were unraveling for him. You didn’t care what he called you. As long as he didn’t stop. As long as he fucked you like he meant every filthy word.

He pumped his cock once—twice—right behind you. You could feel it already, flushed and hard and heavy, the tip brushing the curve of your ass as he lined himself up.

“You wanted this,” Bucky rasped, voice dragging low and dark. “You pushed me on purpose. You knew exactly what would happen.”

You whimpered, cheeks burning.

And then he laughed, low and cruel and knowing.

“You like it when I’m like this, don’t you?”

His cock dragged through your folds—slick with your arousal, bumping your clit before dipping lower, teasing your entrance with maddening pressure. You nearly sobbed.

“Y-yes… I like it,” you breathed, eyes fluttering shut as your thighs trembled. “I wanted it. I wanted this. W-wanted you like this.”

He slammed into you.

You cry out, the stretch splitting you wide open in one unrelenting thrust. No warning. No mercy. Your nails scraped against the wall as your body spasmed around him, pussy clenching instinctively around the thick length now buried to the hilt.

“Oh my fucking—”

He slapped a hand over your mouth.

“Be quiet,” he gritted out, breath hot on your ear. “They’ll hear you.”

You moaned into his palm, the sound muffled and desperate, tears stinging at the corners of your eyes as he began to move—long, deep thrusts that rocked your entire body.

Each snap of his hips sent you forward, your chest jolting against the cold wall with every brutal push. Your legs shook beneath you, barely able to hold you up under the weight of him, his rhythm, his heat, the relentless way he claimed every inch of your body.

His cock hit every spot inside you—deep, relentless, perfect in its punishment. Each thrust drove you harder into the wall, your palms flattened against the cold surface, fingers splayed like you were holding on for dear life.

The air was thick with the sound of slick skin and broken moans, the wet slap of him pounding into you again and again until all you could do was whimper, body shaking, needing more.

He was ruthless.

“You feel that?” he grunted, fucking into you harder. “You feel how deep I am? Fuck, princess, your pussy’s squeezing me.”

You nodded, eyes rolling back. Everything was too much. Not enough.

He grabbed your hair and yanked your head back, lips brushing your ear.

“You gonna come already? Just from this? From getting fucked like you’re made for it?”

You tried to speak, tried to form a word, a plea, anything but your mouth refused to work. All that came out was a desperate, broken moan, choked off by the force of him inside you.

Every muscle in your body was strung tight, overwhelmed, aching, begging for release, but all you could do was let the sound of your need echo in the space between you, raw and strung out and wordless.

He let go of your mouth and slapped your ass—hard.

“Say it,” he snarled. “Tell me how badly you want to come.”

“I, god—I need it,” you choked. “Please, need your cock, need you to—”

He pulled out. Completely.

You cry, voice raw with frustration.

Bucky laughed, voice thick with dominance.

“Look at you. Falling apart already. And I haven’t even gotten started.”

Before you could respond, he seized your wrists and twisted them behind your back, pinning them there easily with his hand. The cool press of vibranium against your skin made your breath hitch, your chest rising in shallow gasps.

You barely had time to brace yourself before he drove back into you—harder, deeper, with a force that knocked a strangled sound from your throat and sent sparks ricocheting through your core.

Your body jolted. Your mouth dropped open in a silent cry. His flesh hand wrapped around your waist, fingers finding your clit again—rubbing tight, relentless circles in time with each brutal thrust.

You were unravelling, your legs burned and your body trembled. You were a babbling, incoherent mess as your orgasm built again—rising like a fucking tsunami.

“Don’t you dare come,” he growled. You tried. Fuck, you tried.

But he was everywhere—his cock driving into that sweet spot deep inside you with ruthless precision, his fingers working your clit in tight, relentless circles that had you trembling. His voice, low and filthy, poured into your ear like sin itself, each word pushing you closer to the edge.

“Say it,” he rasped. “Say who owns you.”

You sobbed.

“You do, Bucky! You do—”

“Good fucking girl.”

And then he snapped his hips again, slamming into you so deep you felt it in your throat.

You came with a strangled cry, body seizing as pleasure tore through you like a live wire. Your cunt clenched around him in tight, desperate pulses, milking every inch as wetness spilled down your thighs, slicking his cock and coating both of you in heat and ruin.

You slumped forward, forehead pressed to the wall, barely able to hold yourself upright as your orgasm wracked through you.

But he didn’t stop, he kept going—kept fucking you through it like he was trying to brand you from the inside out.

You sobbed, body trembling uncontrollably.

“That’s it,” he snarled. “Take it. Cry if you want princess, I’m not stopping.”

Your knees gave out, barely holding you upright and then the second wave hit. He slammed into you hard, tearing through your body before you had a chance to catch your breath.

You clenched around him again, tighter this time, a cry ripping from your throat as you came all over his cock. Everything blurred, your vision, your thoughts, until all that was left was the sharp pulse of pleasure and the rough sound of him still moving behind you.

“Gonna fill you up,” he muttered, pounding into you with short, broken thrusts. “Stuff you full, just like you deserve. Let it drip down those pretty thighs. Let everyone see who fucked you like this.”

He groaned—loud, rough—and then shuddered, cock twitching as he spilled inside you. You felt the warmth of it, the pulse of his release, the way his entire body seemed to collapse into yours.

The only sound was your wrecked breathing, the whine of your body, and the soft drip of his cum sliding down your thighs.

You were trembling, undone in every possible way—mind blank, body limp, pleasure still echoing through your nerves. Your knees wouldn’t hold you, but he didn’t let you fall. His arms were around you instantly, strong and steady, pulling you into his chest like he could anchor you there, like he needed to.

His breathing was still ragged, chest rising and falling against your back. His lips pressed to your temple, slow and soft, and you felt the way he lingered, like he was grounding himself, too.

“You okay?” he whispered.

You nodded, barely able to speak. Tears still clung to your lashes, not from pain, not even from the intensity, but from the overwhelming ache in your chest.

He kissed your temple again. Then your jaw. Then the corner of your mouth.

“Don’t ever fucking do that again.” he murmured.

You blinked, surprised by the tremble in his voice. He wasn’t angry. Not now.

“I can’t—” he swallowed, brow pressed to yours. “I know you’re capable, I know you’re smart. But I can’t watch you walk into something like that again.”

Your throat tightened.

“I thought I could handle it,” you whispered.

He shook his head. “No. No more of that. If something happened to you out there—”

He cut himself off. Pulled you closer. One hand cradled the back of your head. The other still wrapped around your waist, like he was afraid you would slip through his fingers.

“You don’t get to scare the shit out of me like that,” he rasped, voice cracking. “I’ve lost so much—and, fuck, I can’t lose you too.”

He looked away, just for a second, like the words hurt to say.

“I wouldn’t survive it.”

You nuzzled into his chest, heart hammering. His scent, his warmth, the rasp of his voice in your ear, it was all too much and not enough.

“I’m sorry,” you said, small and hoarse.

Bucky didn’t say anything right away. He just held you tighter, kissed the top of your head.

“I know”

requests are open!

3K notes · View notes

lvrclerc · 3 months ago

Text

✶ BETTER THAN THE NOVELS

summary: you're a romance novel influencer that has never actually experienced romance. ironic, right? and when f1 driver lando norris accidentally becomes a constant presence in your life, he decides he can't possibly let that slide.

F1 MASTERLIST | LN4 MASTERLIST

pairing: lando norrisﾉf!reader

wc: 11.2k

cw: reader is a ferrari fan and is said to wear feminine clothing (dresses, skirts etc), reader has a race taking place in her home country but it's not precised where, takes place during a fictional season (w the 2025 grid), cussing, inspired by nick and cassie on tiktok, slight angst near the end for plot reason, otherwise just tooth-rotting fluff!

a/n: first fic who cheered! this is so self-indulgent and cliché but who caresss also its a long one so buckle up (editing was hell, ending is a bit rushed too sorry)

THERE WAS NOT ONE day in which @.whoisy/n, book influencer extraordinaire, did not pass her day with her head inside a romance novel.

You always liked reading. The passion struck you in late primary school when you first opened Percy Jackson and before you knew it, you finished the entire series in three days and begged your parents to buy you Heroes of Olympus. There was no going back after that. You couldn’t spend a day without your thirty minutes to an-hour reading session.

Like every girl raised with the idea of being a strong, independent female lead in the novel that was your life ─ at the sweet age of thirteen, dare I be precise ─ you never dabbled too much into romance. If it ended in a book you were currently reading, so be it, but you wouldn’t outwardly enjoy it. Why would you need someone in your life? You were so not like the other girls, you didn’t waste your time on boys or parties or things like that ─ you didn’t even wear pink!

Except that now that you have grown up, at the age of twenty-two, you liked wearing pink and bows, and because you spent most of your life buried in books with this idiotic, sexist idea of the “not-like-other-girls”, you never had kissed or dated anyone. Damn Rick Riordan.

I mean, you went on dates, sure, but they never went anywhere further than a “that was fun!” text and radio silence right after. It made you feel used, sometimes, but at that point, it was just something you expected whenever you took an interest in an individual.

The only thing that stuck with you as you got older was your passion for books. So after you resigned yourself to it, you dived into romances. Bad idea, really, because you started living vicariously through them.

Everything was so perfect: the storylines, the female leads, the guys and the girls and what they whispered into the other’s ear, and when they noticed small things nobody else would’ve noticed, proclaimed their love high and loud in heartfelt speeches, the awkwardness of a first love and the tenderness of a first kiss. A part of you, whenever you tapped your Kindle or rushed through the pages, ached a little in the middle of your incessant giggling. Something that yearned for a story like that - but you’ve learned against your will that nothing in the real world could compare to the stories or the movies.

You were doomed to die an old maid with many, many cats and a thousand bookshelves. It didn’t sound that bad, of course, but come on. You still held hope that maybe, one day, something like that would happen to you. Maybe.

One of your favorite subgenres was sports romance. There was something so romantic about running into someone’s arms after a well-spent game ─ you devoured the hockey ones, the basketball ones, even the football ones. More recently, though, you got into the motorsports ones ─ more specifically, Formula One.

There weren’t many, mainly because of the work that had to be done to dodge plagiarism: you couldn’t use the actual drivers or team, so you had to reinvent everything down to every detail. But for those that existed, you simply couldn’t let them go. You liked Formula One, it wasn’t a proper passion like reading was but it still was a nice pastime: you’d turn on your sketchy website that streamed F1 TV Pro to watch the Grand Prix and became impatient during the overly long summer and winter breaks. While you were more partial to drivers than to teams, you grew very fond of Ferrari as the years went by.

You were very vocal about your interests in your accounts. Obsessing so much over books gave you access to fandoms at a young age and a desire to have your own space within them. You quickly became a staple presence on BookTok, BookStagram, and BookTube after your first posts and videos went public. People found you funny, endearing, and relatable… not to throw yourself flowers, but you were. It’s that transparency about your Sahara-desert dry love life and your contagious excitement about your hobbies that made you so popular, reaching millions around multiple platforms.

People liked you, so people were kind to you. An advanced reader copy of a new F1 romance novel was on another level of kindness, though.

You hadn’t expected it, but it came in your mailbox with a sweet written word from the author, Leandra Moore ─ she was pretty influential and had written multiple New York Times-acclaimed New Adult romances. You didn’t even process everything she was saying, only that she liked your videos and your personality and ‘thought you might like her new work’.

What a stupid question. Of course, you did.

You devoured the 430 pages in a sitting. The sky, awfully bright when you got the package, was pitch black by the time you turned the last page. You were breathless, flushed, and smiling so hard your cheeks were beginning to hurt. “Silver Spring Race” was a wonder of brother’s best friend, secret exes, and second chance rom-com goodness, mixed with the adrenaline of the perfect F1 season, five out of five stars on Fable and GoodReads. You didn't waste any time: tripod, lighting, and you were already filming a review video in your almost ecstatic state, giggling away with the camera knowing full well you were sharing with a few thousand.

It was a simple review as you always did. Yet, it did way, way better than your normal videos ─ so much so that the book had to be released early. So much so that Leandra had the means to host a release party after the goddamn Miami Grand Prix. So much so that she invited you, personally and free of charge, as multiple other book influencers to attend the Grand Prix and the release party the day after.

Someone had to pinch you because holy shit, this couldn’t be your reality. You never confirmed something as fast as you did for that. Honestly, who wouldn’t?

The race had been an exceptionally good one. The sun was bright and hot but the slight breeze made up for the extreme Miami heat. You and your book influencer friends and acquaintances had amazing seats at the Beach Grandstands - some on the North and some on the South. You quietly wondered just how much money did Silver Spring Race generated for Leandra to get those sought-after seats.

There had been a few technical difficulties during the race, causing Pierre Gasly to DNF, and a narrowly avoided crash on Albon's part which cost him to lose standing. Ferrari was going strong, though, which kept you breathless from screaming until the checkered flag. Norris ended in pole position, with Verstappen following suit in P2 and Leclerc in P3. While it was not the outcome you hoped for due to your bias toward the latter's team, you had to cheer when faced with the radiant smile of the first-placed.

Now, the thing was to get out of the stands. That was a harder task, the Beach Grandstands were filled to the brim and before you could process what was happening, the flow of people separated you from your friends. No matter how much you fought against the current you couldn't help but be brought down to wherever they were going: guess you'll have to find a way out by yourself.

By the time people scattered, you were in an unknown setting with multiple staff members, all wearing different colors ─ pink, orange, red ─ and running around. You would have liked to stop one of them to ask where you were, or at least how you could access the parking area from here, but all passed you as if you didn't exist. You couldn't blame them, the Grand Prix had just ended, and they probably had ten thousand other things to do. You were on your own. Great.

You just wandered off and hoped you'd stumble upon a miraculous exit sign amidst the long and confusing hallways.

You definitely didn't expect to crash into Lando Norris.

You didn't realize it was him at first. The only thing you knew was that as you were looking around, finally finding somewhere open from where you could see the stands (but still not anywhere that looked like it could lead you to the parking lot), you back bumped full speed against someone.

You turned around, heart skipping because of the shock. Soon enough, though, your astonishment turned horrific when you gradually noticed the full can of Monster energy drink spilled on an orange tracksuit, staining it deep brown.

It couldn't get any more embarrassing. Until your eyes darted up and you saw a mess of curls and wide, green eyes. That's when your horror became panic. Holy fuck, you didn't just─

“Oh my god!” You exclaimed, after a few seconds of stunned silence. “I'm so, so sorry─ I didn't─ I was looking for the exit and I didn't see─ holy shit─”

You started aggressively looking in your small handbag, hoping─ no, praying, you brought some tissues with you. You spilled an energy drink on Lando Norris. His energy drink. Lando Norris was in front of you, staring at you like you were some wild, erratic animal. He was probably furious. You wanted to bury yourself six feet deep underground. “I'm sorry, I can't find any tissues I─”

He snorted.

You froze in your tracks, interrupting your rambling. A glimmer of amusement shone in the driver's eyes. “It's chill, don't even worry about it. It's not as if that was like, the only suit I owned.”

“Uh─” you started. “I'm still─”

There was something about your expression, maybe the fact you were opening and closing your mouth searching for something to say like a fish out of the water, that made him reiterate. “Really, it's cool. You can stop panicking.” After a pause, he continued, in a more reassuring tone. “Plus I'm already all sweaty and dirty, so not much of a difference.”

He was…? Heat furiously rose up to your cheeks and you couldn't tell if it was because of embarrassment or his words or how painfully aware you were of the situation. “What?”

This time, Lando's face was graced with a shit-eating grin aimed right at you. “From racing and champagne, you know.”

Oh.

Now you wanted to be five feet under. What was wrong with you? “Right.” You took a deep breath. You bump into Lando Norris, an F1 driver you admired for years no matter your loyalty to Ferrari, and spill an entire energy drink on him before accidentally stepping right into borderline sexual harassment. Get a grip, Y/N. “I saw. I mean, I was in the stands. Beach Grandstands. I saw you. Win the race. Congratulations, by the way!”

You sounded like a robot. Oh my god. You couldn't act less natural even if you tried.

Lando arched an eyebrow. “Thanks a lot. But uh, if you were in the stands─ what are you doing in staff quarters?”

Your heart lurched in your chest, realizing the impression you probably gave. “Shit. I promise I'm not a weird fan or anything, I'm not a stalker! Which is definitely what a stalker would say. But I'm not. I was dragged by the mass of people and I couldn't find the exit and nobody would tell me─”

Another laugh from him interrupted you and what surprised you was the absence of mockery: he sounded genuinely amused. You didn't know how to react to the fact he found your distress funny. “Are you always this anxious?”

“See, this whole…,” you made a circular hand gesture, “... situation is not helping my anxiety. So the answer would be maybe.”

Lando chuckled again and this time, an awkward smile found its way to your lips. “I wasn't trying to blame you, it was just a question. You can breathe. But the exit's not there.”

“Yeah, I think I noticed,” you sighed, pinching the bridge of your nose.

“It's through there,” Lando turned around and pointed to a slightly hidden door, but right above was a bright green exit sign. You were blind. “You just go straight and the parking lot shouldn't be that far.”

“Oh, uh. Thanks. I didn't see it,” you simply answered. Dusting off invisible dust from your clothes, you looked at him again. “Again, I'm sorry about the drink. Really.”

“I told you it's nothing, just go before a team member calls security on you, ‘aight?”

You aggressively nodded, which stole another breathless laugh from him that you decided to ignore. Right as you went through the door, the curly-haired driver called: “Hey!” You turned around, frowning in incomprehension.

“Next time you decide to sneak into McLaren's quarters,” Lando said, “at least wear the right colors.”

You quickly glanced at your Ferrari shirt, slightly cropped to go with your jean skirt. That's when the words echoed in your brain. “I wasn't sneaki─!”

Before you could finish your argument, he closed the door on you.

Walking back to your car, the realization of everything that went down the last 10 minutes slowly dawned on you. What the fuck had just happened? Was it real? Did you hallucinate? Did you just humiliate yourself like that in front of Lando Norris?

Most importantly: novels made meet-cutes seem so simple and easy, how did you manage to mess it up that bad?

A day later, you tried to push that interaction to the back of your mind, mainly because of how embarrassed you were about how you acted but also because otherwise, you wouldn't be able to think about anything else.

Once the night had comfortably settled, you confidently walked into the venue Leandra rented. It was an immense room in an even bigger hall, and so elegant you couldn't help but feel a bit out of place. You guessed that’s what you were supposed to expect when you partied at the same place the drivers usually did ─ at least that's what one of the girls told you: it was where they would throw after-parties when they had time after races. Fits the theme, you thought.

The decor was tasteful and themed in a way that didn't feel cheap, which was surprisingly hard to do, as you discovered as you mingled with Leandra Moore and her entourage. The buffet was delicious, the champagne was flowing, and there were professional photographers and signed illustrations of the two main characters of Silver Spring Race, along with a Fairyloot exclusive edition of the book. You could have died right here and there: the details were to die for.

Right as the music was getting louder, the conversations grew more deconstructed and the alcohol less diluted, you decided to step out for some fresh air ─ as much fun as it was, being socially involved for so long was tiring you out. If you wanted to last the night, you needed a little break.

The exit was notoriously hard to find, which gave you war flashbacks from yesterday you had a hard time pushing away, but you didn't spend as long finding it ─ just enough to regret the aesthetic choice of wearing high heels for the night.

By the time you got outside, your feet were aching for freedom. You quickly rushed to the stone stairs leading to the party hall and sat on the first step. The scenery was quite stunning: a fountain throned in the middle of the place leading to stairs, lightly illuminated by the white neons in the water and the warm hall light, and tall trees surrounding the square. You could have probably appreciated it more if you weren't so preoccupied with detaching those fucking straps of your ankles: why weren't they coming off, those little─

“Oof, looks like you need help again.”

Your hand froze on your shoe as the voice and accent hit a familiar spot in your brain. It took you a second to catch up, and around a minute to realize. Your heart dropped and you turned around, slowly, like the main character in a horror movie.

Lando Norris stood before you. Again.

Who exactly was controlling your life? Because the odds of this happening a second time were really, really low.

His hair was usually messy, and yet tonight they seemed more contained and professional. He wore a white shirt, and a few buttons popped open at the collar gave you an open view of a small gold chain around his neck ─ you had to drag your gaze away. Straight-legged black pants finished the look, topped off with black loafers. He looked miles away from the Lando Norris you accidentally ran into after the race. He probably showered.

He looked gorgeous, too. It would be a blatant lie to even ignore it, and that realization slightly took your breath away.

Yet, the only thing coming out of your mouth was a strangled, “I swear I'm not stalking you.”

A pause. You had serious issues.

And still, Lando laughed. Hard and loud, like the ones you saw in a few selected interviews when you were bored and scrolling on YouTube during the breaks. It made you feel slightly self-conscious. He breathed in as he walked toward you, a chuckle still in his tone when he spoke up. “I mean, I'd believe you this time but the coincidence's pretty big.”

An offended scoff escaped you and suddenly, all the thoughts about him being a celebrity, a renowned driver, a trust fund kid flew out the window right into the fountain.

“I'll let you know I was invited to an event here, thank you very much. I have other, more important things to do than follow someone around.”

When you realized what you said, your eyes widened. “Sorry, I didn't mean─”

But Lando was smiling.

“Nah, you did.” Right now, he stood right next to you on the stairs and you quietly wondered if he was going to sit down or keep looking down on you like that. Then you realized that you were, again, in the most improbable situation known to man. Anxiety swirled in your stomach.

“Soo… what event are you attending?”

You squinted your eyes up at him. “...Is this an interrogation?”

Lando simply shrugged. “Can never be too sure.”

Well, you couldn't blame him for that.

“A book release party. The author, Leandra Moore, happened to invite me and other people. She was the one that got us tickets for the race yesterday, too. I just went out to get some fresh air.”

He hummed in response. “Oh yeah, heard something about that. I guess you're legit, then.”

“Yes, I am!” When you looked up again, there was that shit-eating grin. You rolled your eyes to the high heavens.

“... Wait. Is your name Y/N?” He suddenly asked.

Huh?

You never mentioned your name to him. You don't think it was even brought up in the 15 minutes you two talked. A frown scrunched up your eyebrows. “Uh, yes? How'd you know?” Silence. “And I'm the stalker?”

Lando laughed a bit at that. He finally sat down next to you, and the heat of his exposed forearms somewhat close to your own made you panic again.

“Y/N as in WhoisY/N?”

The gasp you let out could have landed you a role in The Young and the Restless. There was no fucking way. Absolutely none. This is where you drew the line. “You can't possibly be watching my videos.” Your tone was resolute.

“Nah, not me. My little sister though, Cisca.” That made more sense than to imagine Lando Norris, McLaren's golden boy, giggling and kicking his feet in front of your last romance review. Still, it felt unreal. “She eats up every single one of your posts. You’re the reason why we have so many cartoon covers at home, that's why I thought you looked familiar at first. The book release party confirmed it.”

You didn't know what emotions you should let transpire first. The fact that you were a celebrity in the Norris family was enough to make your jaw drop, but the mention of cartoon covers added heat to your cheeks ─ you hoped he never opened his sister's books.

“She's so gonna freak out when I tell her I met you,” he said between laughs.

“She's going to freak out?” You asked in disbelief. “You're in Formula 1. She can't freak out because of me. I'm freaking out because of you!”

He didn't point out your statement, thank god, but his eyes didn't seem to miss it. “I'm her older brother, she uses that to make fun of me now. But no, definitely, she's going to freak out.”

“What even is my life right now.”

That, at least, made you both erupt in an unstoppable fit of laughter. When it died down, you finally had the space to ask the question sitting in your mind since he appeared behind you. “What are you even doing here?”

Lando arched an eyebrow at you. “Is this an interrogation?”

“Yes.”

He exaggeratedly rolled his eyes, clearly mimicking you. “There's a race after party in the hall. McLaren special. Also went out to get some air, DJ-ing was becoming suffocating.”

“Oh,” it clicked, and you started thinking out loud. “I guess the girls weren't lying when they said that's where the drivers partied. It makes sense Leandra would rent out this hall.”

“Why?”

You were pretty sure smoke could be escaping from you right now just by how flustered you were. “Uh. For promoting her book?”

“Yeah, I got that, but like… why would our parties have anything to do with it?”

Lando was becoming suspicious again. Somebody kill you right now. How do you keep messing it up? “Because… it's… an F1 romance?”

Blank stare. You were just as red as the dress you wore and ready to go home to cry yourself to sleep. Then he laughed, hysterically, and you couldn't feel more ashamed.

“That exists?” He asked, breathless.

You turned your face away from him. “Yes.”

“And you read that?”

“Leave me alone,” you added, “if she follows me, your sister does too.”

That seemed to make him stop, at least, to your devious satisfaction. “I think I'll need to take a look at her shelves when I go home.”

“For the good of the girl and mine, please don't.”

The cold night breeze brushed your arms and you were now very mindful of how thin the material of your dress was. You shivered, rubbing your arms with your hands. Lando was quick to notice. “Shit, sorry. I don't have a jacket. I would have landed it to you otherwise.”

You don't know what came over you, but you bumped your shoulder with his. “Wow, that was almost gentleman-like.” Where did this familiarity come from, you didn't know ─ you have known the man for no longer than an hour. But there was something about the easy-going conversation, the late night, and the champagne buzzing in your blood that made this scene… just like the ones you read about, in your favorite books.

As soon as that idea slithered into your mind, you forcefully pushed it out. That was another level of delusion, Y/N. Those novels fried your brain.

You got up before Lando could answer. “It's fine, I was going to go back to my hotel anyway. The party drained my social battery and my flight takes off early tomorrow, so it's better if I go to sleep.”

“Okay, sure. Let me walk you to your car at least.”

Oh shit. “... I don't have a car.”

He blinked slowly. “What do you mean? How'd you come here, then?”

“I carpooled with some girls who are not going home right now.” That was a very dumb idea now that you look back on it.

“So… how are you planning to get to your hotel?”

You didn't bring your wallet with you, so no chance of getting a taxi. “... I'll walk?”

“... Yeah, no. No chance. At night? Dressed like that?” He took you in, making you hyper-aware of the high slit and the almost sheer material of your dress. “I'll take you.”

You were stunned. So much for avoiding delusion or further embarrassment. “I can't possibly ask you─ I mean, you have a party─”

“If you think that after-party is going to end anytime soon, you're so wrong,” he chuckled.

In all honesty, you could have argued more, but Lando already seemed settled on his decision. He stood up, not before grabbing the heels you took off during the conversation and decidedly headed toward the parking lot. You hummed and followed suit as he started walking toward his car, your comments dying on your tongue. The improbability of what was currently happening was just too much for you to grace it with a thought, so a sentence would be crossing the limits.

The car ride was spent in comfortable silence as soon as you typed the address of your hotel in his GPS. Your eyes widened when his car came into view: a black 2018 McLaren Senna, with red accents, you hadn't seen so beautiful with your own eyes in a while. You had to bite back a gasp when you got in.

Lando rolled the windows fully down. The wind whipped strands of hair around as you watched the scenery roll by at a dizzying speed, making you wonder if he knew what a speed limit was. Soft bass music played on the radio, one you didn't know the lyrics to, but Lando did as he whispered-sang them. He looked calm behind a wheel that didn't belong to a Formula One car, the contrast was drastic. The driver met your eyes with a smile, and that was only then you realized you'd been staring. You turned your head as he laughed.

When your hotel came into view, you quietly thanked him for dropping you off and stepped out of the car. You didn't know what to do after that. Some part of you tugged at your mind ─ it was too good to be true, those things only happened in books. He was probably waiting for something in return. After a small wave to him, you were ready to disappear behind the doors and leave this night behind.

“Wait!” Lando called out from his opened window. Your stomach dropped. You knew it.

Hesitantly, you turned around.

“You're still wearing the wrong color,” he simply said, “I better see you in orange if you want my services next time.”

Relief washed over you and no matter how hard you fought it, a smile broke your carefully impassive facade. “Next time?”

Lando smiled at you. “Next time.”

And when he drove away, you couldn't help the butterflies in your stomach either.

As you lay in bed that night, you didn't push anything away. You processed what happened, today and yesterday. You didn't know how to feel or what to feel exactly, many emotions were contradictory, but maybe it was alright ─ not to know. To just let yourself feel without having to put a name on it.

When you grabbed the phone in your handbag, an Instagram notification caught your attention before you could even unlock it.

@.lando started following you.

A disbelieving, loud laugh escaped you. He did say there would be a next time.

After that it was safe to say, even though a little wild, Lando Norris had become a staple in your daily life.

The moment you got back home, you had received a DM by the driver himself asking if you traveled safely to which you couldn't help but reply with a “Stalker much?”. He simply answered that there was only a single flight going back to where you lived today, so it was easy to find on Skyscanner. As if it was the most obvious thing in the world.

It made you smile.

The texts continued. What first started as small conversations every two days, reacting to each other's stories or silly tweets with not much depth behind them gradually grew, over a month, into useless life updates, every day with no exceptions.

lando: just ate the biggest fucking sandwich today

lando: [1 picture attached]

lando: scooby-doo type shit

whoisy/n: i'm so hungry actually

lando: did u get sidetracked reading again

whoisy/n: it's LITERALLY my job

lando: go get something to eat you muppet

whoisy/n: yessir

whoisy/n: u'll never guess what happened in my book

lando: he cheated on her right

whoisy/n: …

whoisy/n: you WILL guess what happened in my book

lando: LMAOOO that was so obvious from what you told me

whoisy/n: i had sm faith in him. men!!!

lando: they're all the same

whoisy/n: RITEEEEEE QUEEN

Lando always asked about what you were currently reading. It didn't take a genius or an Oxford diploma to notice how much you loved it, not when your entire social media presence was built around it. You knew it wasn't performative and he enjoyed hearing you talk about it ─ he often sent texts during the week asking about your favorite character, at what page you were, and if they kissed yet. It was harder during weekends due to races. Somehow, he still made time.

Similarly, Lando took the habit of sending you long vocals at the end of his days, explaining what happened, what Oscar and him were up to, and how annoying the different media were. He still refused to tell you much about his team, because your allegiance to Ferrari was simply “outrageous” according to him. You gladly landed a listening ear, chiming with a helping comment whenever you could. The late evenings got later and the vocals longer and longer each passing week, and before you knew it you two were calling almost every night.

It was a normal occurrence. He would get ready for bed and you would drop your Kindle for an hour or two, even longer the rare times he didn't have anything planned the next day. You would talk about anything and everything at the same time ─ sometimes he'd rope you into downloading a game and playing it with him, sometimes you'd just remodel the world until one of you was too exhausted to keep playing God. Most of the time, it was Lando.

Due to its sudden start, this growing friendship of yours quickly attracted the attention of your entire following base as well as his. Lando commented on almost all your new Instagram posts and TikToks with random things that either had a link with what you were talking about or none at all ─ most often alluding to the many inside jokes that stemmed from your conversations. Every interaction succeeded in making everyone crazy, especially your followers: apparently, you were finally getting the sports romance you were dreaming about for years.

The thought crossed your mind, how could it not with the amount of allusions under your posts? The fan edits on your For You page? But you never let yourself linger on it for too long.

You and Lando were friends. Nothing more, nothing less.

The call you got that night was unexpected. Tomorrow was race day, the Canadian Grand Prix more specifically ─ and Lando never called before a race. You understood perfectly, something about being well rested and focused, so you usually sent a good luck paragraph he'd read in the morning and answer after the event. So why did his caller ID light up your phone screen as you were getting ready to go to bed, you didn't know.

You picked up without a second thought. “Everything's alright?”

“What happened to hello?” He chuckled, his voice grainy through the speaker.

“My God,” you sighed. “Hello, Lando. Is everything alright?”

“Why wouldn't it be?”

“You never call before race day.”

Silence. “Hello?” You called. “You're still there?”

“Yeah, sorry. Uh, it's just─ your books are so unrealistic.”

Your heart skipped a bit, and you sat a little straighter against your pillow. “What?”

“I couldn't sleep and I didn't have anything to do, so I picked up one of your F1 romances you recommended in your last video─” No. No, he didn't. “Throttled? By Lauren Asher? And I just─ it's so dumb.”

Your mouth dropped open and instead of letting out words, a small screech left your lips. “You─ you read─? Why?”

“Like I said, I couldn't sleep. Whatever, it's─”

“Embarrassing!” You interrupted Lando. “You read one of my─ oh my god. This is not the family-friendly kind either. And it's F1. Next time just punch me in the face, I’ll be less humiliated.”

A wheeze came from the other side of the phone. You buried your head in your pillows, trying to put out the fire in your face. “Oh yeah, definitely not family-friendly.”

You groaned in response but that didn't stop Lando from continuing. “As I was saying before you rudely interrupted me, it got most of the sport right but otherwise it's so… it took all the competitiveness out! That's, like, the entire point of F1! I thought you were a fan, how can you willingly enjoy that?”

“I mean, I know it's not the most accurate representation of F1,” you flopped on your back, “but it's kinda like Drive To Survive, y'know? Most people watch it for the drama. I read those for the romance plot.”

Lando scoffed at your words. “Even the romance plot isn't that good, Y/N. The whole part in which he throws a race to make her happy? That's such bullshit.”

“How so?”

“If you love her, you win a race for her.”

You couldn't put the words on it once again, but the way he said it constricted your chest with such tightness you had to take a long, calming breath. You had to concentrate to get out your next sentence. “Well, I don't know, it's not like I know anything about romance. I thought that was pretty romantic.”

“What do you mean, ‘don't know anything about romance'? You read this shit all day long.”

You let out a humorless laugh. “Yeah, but that's not the real thing. I've never actually dated or kissed anyone, so actual romantic gestures are like… foreign languages to me.”

A beat. Until you suddenly heard a mess of covers moving around, reverberating right in your eardrums. You hissed, and Lando spoke up again.

“You've never kissed anyone? Or dated?” He sounded stunned, which surprised you. It's not like you've tried to hide it. It grew to be your brand over time.

“Uh, yeah. Never.”

“You're shitting me.”

“No?”

“I can't believe it.”

You rolled your eyes. “Well, jeez, thank you for making me feel so great about being a twenty-two years old virgin, Lando.”

“No! No! I didn't mean it like that,” he screamed at his speaker. “You're just… you're you. You’re too nervous for your own good, true, but your cheeks get darker when you laugh, you fiddle with your sleeves when you don’t know what to say, and you constantly hum songs when it’s too quiet for you. You're smart, you're beautiful, you're passionate, you're funny…” He got quiet before continuing. “I don't get how anyone could pass up the chance to kiss you, that's all.”

Oh. Oh.

The fluttering in your stomach flew its way up to your throat, and for a little moment, you thought you were going to throw up. The silence stretched as you basked in Lando's words, left hanging in the thick air. Suddenly the screen didn't seem like enough space between the two of you.

Lando ended up breaking the stillness. “I just─ I think I should hang up. The race's tomorrow and it's getting─” A pause. You glanced at the time: 00:23. “Shit, the race is today.”

“Don't worry. Go to sleep, get those hours in and win tomorrow,” you answered in a shaky breath.

“Yeah. Yeah, that's what I'm gonna do.”

Still, neither of you clicked on the red button. “Lando?”

“Mmh?”

“Thank you. For what you said.”

“... I meant it.”

“Goodnight.”

“Goodnight.” He hung up.

You desperately tried to fall asleep, tossing and turning, fighting with your pillow and covers to get comfortable but the only thing your mind could focus on was the end sentence he uttered, the inflections of his voice a ghostly whisper in your ear. I don't get how anyone could pass up the chance to kiss you.

How did you successfully act as if that call never happened? You didn't know. You never were a good liar, less of a good actress. Maybe it was the way Lando carefully sidestepped the subject every time you nearly alluded to it that made you so good about ignoring it altogether.

It was nothing. You just blew it out of proportion, like you usually did. Maybe you should try self-help books instead of romances for the next few months.

No matter how bittersweet your feelings were about this whole situation, you chose to put them aside, simply because Lando had two free weeks starting today and he chose to put a few of his days aside to fly out to your town. For the first time in almost three months, you were going to see each other face to face. And under normal circumstances! That would be a first.

When he came out of the airport, with a gigantic suitcase for just a few days and his characteristic grin adorning his lips, all questions just vanished into thin air. You resisted the urge to jump into his arms but you didn't miss how tight Lando held you when he initiated the hug ─ you melted into him like snow in the sun.

Lando had rented a hotel room for his short stay, a good thirty minutes ride from you. He used it once before you both silently declared your home was way better than a five-star Hilton. He squatted on your couch and you'd sleep in your bed, the rare times you slept as most nights were spent playing video games and marathoning movies. Most of them were romantic comedies. Lando would complain about the lack of realism and you'd smack him over the head, and the movie would be watched in between snarky commentaries and heartfelt comments on your perception of love, sneaking glances at each other.

You tried not to let the latter get too much to your head.

However, Lando's trip had to end at some point. Too soon, it was the evening before his plane ride home and you were helping him gather the stuff he left all over the place ─ the state of your living room was deplorable, but you could cry about it tomorrow morning. In any case, you had to get ready since Lando established earlier there was no way in hell he was going to go back without going out at least once. You replied by saying you already went out a couple of times but according to him, visiting was not considered “going out.”

A good thirty minutes later, you crossed the threshold of your house, heels clacking on the pavement as you approached Lando. He was waiting next to your own car, black shirt half buttoned and messy curls hastily tamed. You had forced yourself not to stare too much ─ friendship established or not, you were still the same girl he found on the stairs in Miami and he was still undeniably beautiful. His eyes raked over you in silence, his lips parting slightly, and you found your normally confident walk faltering.

You hoped he thought of you just the same.

Then, breathlessly, “Wow.”

That's all it took for fire to flame up your face, drowning the blush you so carefully applied. You graced him with a little spin, which he applauded. “Well, you're not so bad yourself,” you added. Understatement of the year.

You walked to the driver's seat, but Lando's hand on the handle stopped you going further. “Nah, I'm driving tonight. I got a surprise for you.”

“What do you mean, surprise? Weren't we supposed to go to the movies?” You raised your eyebrows, confused.

“We watched, like, 30 movies and I've been there 5 days - I’m starting to overdose. Trust me and get in the passenger seat.”

“... You being so ominous is making it very hard to trust you, Lando.”

“I’m an F1 driver, I can drive your car.” He sounded offended you doubted him, even though you weren’t alluding to his driving skills at all. Still, the tone he employed when mentioning your car was almost offending you. Not everyone had a McLaren salary. “I meant the surprise,” you clarified.

“Ah. Well. Have a little faith in me, c’mon.” On these words, he climbed into the driver’s seat and closed the door on you. The audacity of that man, sometimes you couldn’t believe it. It didn’t leave you much choice than to take the seat next to him and watch the landscape go by. Quiet conversation was made as the sky tinged with dark, navy blue, and before you knew it Lando was parking in front of one of the most reputable ─ and expensive ─ restaurants in your town. It was safe to say you never put a foot in it before.

When you got out of the car, you almost jumped at him. “That’s your surprise?!” You whispered-exclaimed under his amused gaze. “You’re crazy. Downright mad.”

“I’m inviting you!” Like it was the most natural thing in the world, to just indebt yourself by inviting a girl to dinner. The smile he flashed at you was a mix of hesitation and enthusiasm, so bright that any protests and remarks about how you just couldn’t let him pay died in your throat. Instead, you thanked to which Lando answered by giving you his arm. You took it and entered the restaurant.

You couldn’t describe the meal as anything but luxurious, whether it was taste-wise or the plate’s presentation. Your surroundings were gold plated and yet the only thing you could focus on was how hard Lando was trying to make you choke on your food ─ the jokes were flowing just as much as the wine in your glass, any awkwardness you may have felt stepping into this place disappeared into thin air as soon as Lando started occupying the conversational space, like he could sense how tense you were.

Before you could even look at the dessert, he stopped you. “We’ll skip that,” he said. You threw him a strange look. “I have another thing planned, just go with it.”

How many surprises were in store for you tonight? You didn’t know, and your Excel-spreadsheet-on-vacations self was getting panicky. But if there was one thing you learned with Lando was that your incessant worrying was needless, especially with him. You left after he took care of the bill, being very careful about not letting the numbers in your sight, and climbed back into the car. The sky was now an inky black and the air was lukewarm on your bare arms. Lando rolled the windows down like he usually did, but this time let you be in charge of the aux ─ considering it still was your vehicle. Frank Ocean’s “Moon River” resonated in between hushed giggles and the chime of the wind in your hair. Flashbacks of that fateful night, three months ago, crept through your memories. You still couldn’t believe what it had come to.

You drove longer than you did before. This time, Lando parked on a cliff you had no idea existed, even though this was your town. And this time, when you got out of the car, your breath was taken away by just how many stars contrasted with the darkness of the night, the lights of the town too far away to blind them and instead joining them in a faraway source of light.

Marveling in front of the scenery stopped you from noticing Lando’s shenanigans behind you. He was awfully quiet, which wasn’t like him, so you turned around.

You found him on the roof of your car. Literally. With plastic goblets, the half-empty bottle of wine you had at the restaurant, and ─ you weren’t joking ─ a plate of pancakes. Your jaw dropped open, nearly hitting the floor. “What? How─ huh?” No full sentence could come out of your mouth at this moment, no matter how hard you tried.

“Don’t tell me you don’t like pancakes,” he pleaded, “I woke up way too early to make them not be eaten.”

You thought you dreamt yourself climbing on the top of your car to sit next to him, but it was all very real: you were wholly stunned, which he seemed to notice. Sheepish, he prompted a proper explanation, “I just thought I should, uh, properly thank you. For letting me stay at your house and all. This seemed less impersonal than the restaurant.”

“You stole the wine,” was the only constatation you were able to get out, barely. Emotions constricted your throat too tightly for you to utter anything else.

He laughed. “Took it when you weren't looking. ‘S not like they're going to reuse it so I took care of the waste.”

“Such an ecologist soul,” you teased.

“They call me Father Nature at McLaren.”

“How'd you…” Words weren't coming out easily. Your eyes darted from the bottle, to the pancakes he probably woke up at an ungodly hour of the morning to make, and Lando ─ who was waiting for you to speak like you were his saving grace. Nobody ever looked at you like that, you thought, like you meant something more than what you were. “How'd you get this idea?”

Your question seemed to fluster him a little. He ran a hair through his curls, eyes darting to the side. “Uh, that's what he did. The male character in your book. Nothing Like The Movies I think? I thought that'd be something you like, y'know?”

Your heart thumped against your chest like it threatened to burst out of it. He read a romance novel, one of the most recent ones you reviewed. He took note of your favorite scene, in which Wes was supposed to take Liz to a restaurant but ended up eating on the roof of his car. He reproduced it.

For you.

“I…” There was a sentence threatening to spill out that you're not sure you quite mean yet, but you were feeling it so deeply it was hard to keep it in check. “I don't know what to say.”

“Then just eat the goddamn pancake before they get harder than they are. Turns out, they're not really durable.” It surprised a chuckle out of you.

The conversation carried on after that. The slow hum of Frank Ocean's discography escaping from the car made the perfect soundtrack to the vast discussions about racing, books, and life in general. The longer Lando and you went on, the quieter your voice got until they were reduced to a little more than a whisper, almost into each other's ears. Your cheeks hurt from laughing, your pinkie was intertwined with his, and the bottle was empty by the time the clock on your lock screen showed midnight.

“How did you even find this place?” You looked around once more, taking in the city lights, the tall trees, and the numerous stars above you.“I've been living here for years and I never knew you could get such a good view. Plus, it's not like you sneaked out during the night to scout places out. Unless?” You gasped exaggeratedly.

And there it was again, the pinkish tint at the end of his ears and the avoiding looks. “Nah, no sneaking out. I… I mean, what I did was─”

“You…?”

“I googled ‘date idea’ in your city and this is one of the places that came up.”

All of the sudden, the reality of the situation slapped you in the face. How Lando's thumb was lazily drawing circles on your hand, the romantic lyrics of the song playing from the car, the wine and the restaurant and how your eyes have been switching from his eyes to his lips a bit too often ever since you parked.

“Is this…?” You could kiss him right now. According to how transfixed he was by your mouth, you didn't think Lando would mind much.

You leaned in ever so slightly. He never answered your half-question, and even if he did you don't think you could have heard it through the hammering in your ribcage. However, his lips were but a brush of air against your own.

Because a goddamn flash stopped you.

You both jumped in surprise, the harsh light blinding you for a split second. The other half of it was enough to realize what you were faced with. Lando was the first to voice it, in more of a hiss than a sentence. “Fucking paparazzis.”

He got off the car in a jump, but a flurry of hurried footsteps told you that by the time he reached the spot the light came from, there would be no one left. You jumped off as well, dusting off your dress. “Lando?” You were shaking. Somehow, you couldn't tell if it was from embarrassment, panic, cold, or the brutal withdrawal of the high you were in not even a minute ago.

“The fuckers ran away.” His voice betrayed the palpable anger radiating off him. “I should’ve known. They’re always fucking there.”

The mood was gone, replaced by the static of the cold night air and the missing warmth of each other. By a silent, common agreement, you both cleaned up your car’s rooftop and climbed back in your seats soon after. The soft music was gone, the windows rolled up and Lando’s hands were tense on the wheel. When you got home, nothing more but a small “goodnight” was exchanged ─ apart from a glance, as you crossed your bedroom’s door, but it was too dark for you to interpret what it could mean.

When you woke up a few hours later, Lando was already gone.

You knew it was too good to be true. Things like that happened to the type of girls in the novels, not to you. But when Lando wouldn’t answer your texts, or carried on his vacations and his first Grand Prix back without a care in the world, you still couldn’t be asked to describe the terrible ache in your chest. You should have known.

You couldn’t wrap your mind around it ─ that all the late night calls, the comments, the texts, the rooftop of your car and the soft sweep of his breath on your lips was so easy to brush off for him. Not when it was the ‘what ifs’ and ‘maybes’ of what could have happened that night that kept you up for so many sleepless hours. It left you wondering if any of it was real: the friendship, the sweet words, and everything in between, or if you were just the new mystery girl to toy with and give up when it became too complicated.

The heartbreak and betrayal weren’t even the worst part of the situation. You didn’t expect the photo to come out as quickly as it did, after McLaren had a good PR team and would be able to at least intercept it, right? Wrong. It came out two days later. The picture was slightly blurry but clear enough so you could perfectly see your face and Lando’s, dangerously close to each other, and your hands intertwined together.

The flurry of comments, DMs, and interview requests sent to you after was unbelievable. Your community did the best it could to try and get the tabloids off your back, bless them, but all the other sides of the internet were either begging for more information or calling you names. Still, Lando and McLaren chose to ignore the whole situation. Swallowing your pride and deciding to take the high road, you did the same. You read romance books, you reviewed them, you exchanged a little bit with your followers on social media, you watched movies ─ you carried on with your day-to-day life, even if it was with a little less vehemence and a growing dislike for the romantic genre you adored.

It was the first year a Grand Prix would take place in your city. A brand new circuit, with brand new challenges. Taking place in the middle of the season, you were ecstatic when it was announced a few months back. Now, seeing people walking down your street with bright orange shirts and a number 4 on their back on a Friday morning, the only thing you wanted to do was to close your blinds and crawl back into bed for the weekend.

Your plans were thrown in the wind not even an hour later by none other than Cisca Norris. With an Instagram DM. You started following each other a few days after your friendship with Lando had been noticed by the public eye, but you’ve never really spoken to each other. She looked like a sweet girl nonetheless.

ciscanorris: heyyyy

ciscanorris: ik we never talked

ciscanorris: and that might not be the bestest moment to get friendly

ciscanorris: but heyyyyyyy

Your eyebrows rose at the notification, but you weren’t about to let your situation with Lando get in the way of interacting with his sister ─ who had nothing to do with it in the slightest.

whoisy/n: hey cisca! dw at all, hows it going : )

ciscanorris: great!! hbu?

whoisy/n: tired, but apart from that nothing much

ciscanorris: rest well then!

ciscanorris: i’m going to be honest tho

ciscanorris: i’m not just texting you to ask how you’re doing

It should have surprised you yet it didn’t. The timing was too spot-on to be a coincidence, but you chose to live in ignorant bliss.

ciscanorris: are you going to the race this weekend?

whoisy/n: what do you think

ciscanorris: can’t blame you

ciscanorris: my brother’s an ass

That made you chuckle.

whoisy/n: i was thinking worse

ciscanorris: so am i

ciscanorris: but he wants to make up for it

ciscanorris: really

ciscanorris: he insists you should go to the race

whoisy/n: and he couldn’t text me and ask himself because…?

ciscanorris: doesn’t want to spoil the surprise apparently

ciscanorris: idk what he’s planning

Another surprise. Knowing how the last one amazingly ended, you were a little doubtful. Lando sent his sister to ask you to come as if she was the one racing, and now he had something planned ─ again.

ciscanorris: just check your mailbox and think about it

This was enough to pique your curiosity. You went out immediately, opening the little white mailbox next to your front door. There was only a small, brown letter with your address hastily written in black ink ─ you recognized Lando’s handwriting. There it was: a paddock pass, classic McLaren colors, with your name on it. With it? A note, same brown paper, same handwriting: “Please”.

That’s all it took to convince you to go. After all, you still had to get a proper apology.

This time, you entered the McLaren’s side of the paddock with purpose. The staff member at the entrance knew your name and even showed you the way ─ a sharp contrast with your experience a few months back. You stood above the garage, right in front of the track and near a decisive turn, though the number didn’t come back to you. It was a good spot, excellent even, it could be said to be better than the Beach Grandstands in Miami.

Yet, there was no sign of Lando.

You walked past Oscar in the hallways and the quiet driver just flashed you the tight-lipped smile you give to acquaintances in the street. You walked past his girlfriend, Lily, and you even passed by Lando’s dad, whose eyes widened in recognition but was clearly too busy to offer you anything more than that. Everyone but the man you came to watch the race for. You started to absentmindedly fidget with the bottom of your orange shirt ─ if that was his version of an apology, he was pretty shit at it.

The race started soon after your arrival, and the pit in your stomach dug deeper and deeper as you watched Lando do the formation turn. You suppose you were to wait until the end of the race, which made sense in a way, but you didn’t appreciate being put on standby like greenery on a windowsill.

The animosity dimmed when the sound of motors rang in your ears at lights out.

The circuit was brand new, and two days of preparations were not nearly enough to get acquainted with an entire novel track. Risks were high, and the probability of winning was evened out for everyone, which justified the cacophony of cars bumping into the others during the first lap as everyone found their footing. You believed Lando would have a good chance of ending P1 and snatching a victory in your city ─ it was the type of track and weather that favored him.

But Lando had started on pole position.

From the years you spent watching races and your general knowledge of him, Lando Norris didn’t do well when he started a race on pole. Most often, pressure got to him and he lost one or two places during the first few laps, which made you curse at the TV more than you’d like to admit. Unfortunately, it was exactly what was happening right now: you gripped the railing for dear life as Hamilton passed him, then almost broke your nail on the metal when Verstappen followed suit.

By the last lap, Lando had managed to stay P3 and keep his place on the podium, much to your relief, but the bitterness of pole escaping him was obvious in his behavior: champagne was sprayed all over him by his colleagues but he wouldn’t even look up from the ground, his traits disfigured by disappointment. Maybe some would see it as tiredness, but you knew better.

That’s why as soon as he walked down the podium to head to his team and to his garage, you darted downstairs to meet him.

It didn’t take long to spot Lando. His team surrounded him, clapping his shoulder and congratulating him with a bright smile. He barely returned them, scratching his neck in embarrassment. He was looking around like a lost puppy and you stood there, amidst the mess of elated people, unsure of what you should do or say. When Lando’s eyes set upon you, his expression went from disappointment to remorse in a split second.

He acted before you could. Rushing toward you, his voice was broken when he spoke up, trying to make himself clear above the surrounding noise. “I’m so, so sorry. I fucked it all up. I was─ that was shitty. My race was shitty.”

You blinked. “What?” You couldn’t understand the link to the race and your situation to save your life. “Lando, you’re P3.”

Lando ran a hand through his hair, gripping his curls. His eyes bore into yours, cutting off anything you might have wanted to add. “No!” He continued. “It’s not─ it’s not good enough. I should have been P1. It should have been me, up there. I worked… I worked so hard so I could…” He was breathless now, searching your face for something, even though you couldn’t tell what exactly.

“What are you even talking about?” Frustration elevated the tone of your voice.

“I was supposed to win the race for you!”

That shut you up. Incredulity coursed through you and your mouth, half-opened to say a sentence, couldn’t manage to get out a sound. His words didn’t make sense, and somehow you didn’t need to know more. Lando took your stunned silence as a sign to continue.

“I was supposed to win the race for you. I wanted to give you your book moment. You’re, you’re the type of girl that deserves to get swept off her feet, the grand gestures and all that!” He threw his arm in the air. “When you told me you never had that when we called that night, and the fact I could be the first one to do that for you… I never wanted something, someone, as bad.”

You felt yourself flush. “Everything else failed,” he kept on going, almost erratic, “I tried the heartfelt confessions but bailed right after, I tried to impromptu date but I forgot all about the fucking journalists. So I thought that- that maybe I could give it to you the way I knew best, by racing.”

His words, two months back, echoed in your mind. If you love her, you win a race for her.

“But I had to fuck that up too. I’m sorry, I’m really sorry.”

All of it was for you.

The way Lando looked at you, desperate and miserable, the way your feelings were overflowing out of you and him… it was almost too much for you to process. Your mind and heart were an unintelligible tangled mess you couldn’t make sense of, and in classic you fashion, the first sentence that spilled out of your lips was a teary-eyed, broken, “You’re so stupid.”

“I know.”

You quickly wiped the tears that started spilling down your cheeks. “Not in that self-deprecating way you’re thinking of. Don’t you think it would have been easier if you just told me all this instead of ghosting me for almost a month? Making me think nothing about all this was real? Is that why you weren’t texting or answering me, you were figuring out how to go about this circuit?”

Lando nodded bashfully. You let out a dry laugh. “You’re unbelievable. I don’t care about- that! I don’t care that you didn’t get pole position, I don’t care about your ‘failed’ attempts. I couldn’t care less. What I care about is you. If you had told me that instead of leaving…”

“I’m sorry, Y/N,” he apologized again. “I just─ I wanted─ I know I acted like a moron and I should’ve done better but I thought that if I─”

“I understand. I know.” Gently, you took his hands, furiously fisting the pans of his tracksuit, into yours. Apparently, it acted as an ice bucket dropped right on Lando’s head. He stared at you as if it was the first time ─ in a way it was. He was sweaty, dirty, and covered in champagne, his curls falling onto his forehead and you were standing there, almost as surprised as your first meeting. Except everything else had changed, and the man in front of you wasn’t just a guy driving in a fast car you liked watching on Sundays. “But I didn’t need it. You’re plenty enough all by yourself, without the grand gestures and book-worthy moments. I’m not a book heroine. I need something real.”

The space between the two of you suddenly seemed too vast for the emotions inside of you. One of Lando’s hands carefully slithered on your waist, as if to test the waters. The gentleness of his movement, its implication, stole the breath out of you. “How real are we talking?” He was trying to make light of the situation, but the underlying seriousness in his voice betrayed him.

“I think you know it by now.”

And just like that, his lips crashed onto yours.

It was an electric shock as if lightning struck you and spilled in your entire body. When he pulled back, you didn’t waste a second wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him right back in.

If his hands were considerate, never unraveling further than your waist and cheeks, his mouth was the complete opposite: hungry, intense. He kissed you like he had been holding back for so long it pained him not to touch you, and you kissed him back with the same vigor because you had been waiting just as much. He tasted like expensive alcohol and you were drunk on it, on the feeling of his lips on yours, his hands on your body. You couldn’t get enough. You don’t think Lando could either. It was messy, somewhat clumsy, his mouth wet and firm moving in sync against your own in haste and impatience.

But it couldn’t have been more perfect. Not for your first kiss.

“Really, right here? Get a goddamn room.”

You recognized Oscar’s voice, even though you couldn’t see him, which was an acidic reminder of where Lando and you both were. You broke the kiss first, and he let out a breathy laugh against your lips, sending shivers through your whole body. “That… was a long, long time coming,” he whispered.

“Whose fault is that?” He chuckled again. You did too.

You gave each other a bit of space, mainly for some well-needed air but also for the comfort of the staff around you. Still, Lando’s hand went up from your waist to your forearms, taking you in like it was the first time he saw you. His smile, wide and bright, brought the trademark heat to your cheek. “You wore the right color this time.” You were now hyper-aware of the shirt you wore, bright orange with a 4 printed on the back. “Good, I would've hated kissing you while you were wearing red. That equals cheating now, by the way.”

“Oh, really? You know, you still technically haven’t taken me out on a proper date,” you teased. “Don’t think you’re forgiven just yet.”

“Don’t even worry about that, I’ll take you out on the best dates ever. No paparazzis this time. You’ll even choose the movies.”

“Even if it’s a romcom?”

“I kinda grew attached to them because of you.”

“Promise?”

“Promise.”

Before you could get another comment out, a squeal replaced it as you felt the floor give up under your feet. It took you too long to realize Lando had swept you up in his arms, bridal style and was currently heading down a hallway. Your arms went up around his neck, this time for support. “What are you doing?” You asked with a giggle.

“Taking you to the driver’s room.” Even though you couldn’t manage to see his face, you could practically hear his grin, proud and cocky. “Going to give you reasons to forgive me, we can talk date ideas here.”

“What about the interviews?”

“They can wait.”

Playful protests escaped you under the incredulous eyes of the staff members who saw you disappear behind the white door. You didn’t care. At all. Anxiety be damned, as well as everything that held you back before. Because of this, what you had with Lando, felt perfect. Right. It might be too soon to call it love, but you had no doubt it would come to that sooner than later.

Because the way he held you, the way he kissed you, the way he looked at you, was undoubtedly better than any romance novel you ever read. Because it was real.

©drgnsfly 2k25. do not copy, steal, post somewhere else or translate my work without my permission.

#lando norris #lando norris x reader #ln4 #ln4 x reader #f1 x reader #f1 #formula one #mclaren #f1 fanfic #lando x reader #lando norris fluff #fluff #lando norris imagine #f1 imagine #ln4 imagine #ln4 fluff #ᯓ my writing.ᐟ

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alexiroflife · 11 months ago

Text

jjk men when you aren't feeling well but try to hide it...

"hello! i was wondering if you could write an angst but w comfort fluff headcannon w the jjk men? i was thinking reader has an injury or is sick but she hides it, but they find out. it would be great if you can, but if not i totally understand. your writing is amazing!!!" -anon

gojo, geto, nanami, choso, toji, sukuna

satoru gojo: (sprained ankle!)

you're fucked.

you know you are the moment you go to pick yourself up from your boyfriend's hardwood kitchen floors and wince in pain in reaction to the pressure in your left ankle.

you hiss, immediately stumbling back to a sitting position. You look over your outstretched foot to find that your ankle is rapidly swelling, and you curse under your breath.

this is so inconvenient. of all times to injure yourself, you of course had to a day before an important mission. you never handle injuries very well. you are always so quick to brush them off, or at least be in denial about them because you can't stand the thought of feeling helpless or incapable.

especially not when satoru gojo is your boyfriend, who unfortunately knows you far too well to overlook something like an injury to your ankle.

damn. what are you supposed to do? satoru will never let you out of his sight, let alone allow you to go on this mission if he finds out about your injury. as much as you love the way he looks after you, you're not in the mood to accept the fact that you may not be able to walk for a few days without his help.

you try to stand again, stubborn with determination. you grip onto the countertop and rise slowly on your able foot, then lean to press your injured foot down slowly. okay... not so bad! Maybe you can add just a little bit more pressure, and-

"fuck," you curse, sharp pain throbbing through your foot the moment you try to walk. You lift your leg immediately and whimper, leaning your body against the counter. "god dammit," you pout.

you should ice it, you think, but icing it will only make the injury more real. maybe it's not so bad, right? maybe if you just sit down for a bit and push it to the back of your head, it will go away?

you know it's not smart, but truthfully, you don't have the time to worry about a stupid ankle. you're sure you only irritated it. with some rest, you'll be fine.

you hop your way up the stairs with your hand gripping the railing tightly to your shared bedroom and ease yourself into bed. you decide you'll take a nap while you wait for satoru to come home, ignoring the simmering pain in your swollen ankle.

"babyyy!"

you wake suddenly to the sound of satoru's voice singing through the house. you jump and immediately hold in a whimper of pain when you accidentally shift your foot beneath the covers. you can tell solely by the lack of mobility in your ankle that it's, unsurprisingly, gotten worse.

you panic, moving quickly to prop your back up against the headboard. you fix yourself in the most normal possible position you can without agitating your foot, and you turn to the door with an innocent expression the second satoru bursts through with a beam.

"hey, pretty," he walks in and immediately crouches over the bed to wrap you up in a hug. you cringe as his lips meet every crook of your face, his body enveloping you in warmth. "missed you so much today," he sighs.

"missed you too, toru," you wrap your arms around his back. "how was your day?"

"same old same old. the higher-ups only get more annoying each day, if that's even possible," he grumbles into your ear, slumping against you. "what are you doing cooped up here all by yourself? you taking a nap?"

"yeah, I just woke up," you tell him with a hefty exhale, his lips meeting the crook of your neck lazily as he nuzzles into you. "you wanna take one with me, you big baby?" you giggle.

"god yes," satoru agrees. "but first, I'm starving. did you eat while I was gone?"

"nah, I waited for you, toru."

"well, you normally cook, baby, I was waiting for you."

you momentarily freeze and he pulls back reluctantly, not before dotting one more kiss to the crook of your jaw. you had completely forgotten about making dinner, but seeing how you couldn't even walk, those cards were off the table.

he looks down at you with his arms propped on either side of your figure on the bed. your ankle continues to throb, and while you try to hide the pain that you are currently in by shifting ever so subtly beneath him, his sapphire eyes catch the twitch in your brow and the motion of your body beneath his blindfold.

"not that I care if you cook or not. obviously you were tired..." he trails off. "you okay?"

fucking hell, damn those six eyes.

you nod despite yourself, keeping a soft smile as you brush your fingers over satoru's hair. "yeah, of course. just tired like you said. I'm sorry about dinner, it slipped my mind."

"don't you dare apologize," he ducks down to kiss your cheek loudly. "we can go out to eat. make it a date before your big mission tomorrow, yeah?"

you internally deflate. the idea sounds amazing, but going on a date would mean getting up, getting dressed, and walking out the door. you're unfortunately physically incapable of doing any of the above at the moment.

satoru watches the way your shoulders slump and your lips part as if to protest, and he tilts his head in slight confusion. "...or not..." he says slowly.

"sorry, toru, it's not that I don't wanna go, i just don't have the energy..." you excuse pathetically.

satoru's face tells you that he doesn't buy your words, but he complies nonetheless. "that's no problem, baby, we can order in instead."

you sigh and nod with a gentle smile. "that sounds great."

"someone's feeling real lazy today, huh?" he teases, hooking his finger into his blindfold to peel it from his face, revealing his bright irises gazing curiously down at you. "you sure you're just tired?"

"yeah... why?"

"i'm just askin," he says. his eyes dart over you one more time before he pushes himself up with an exhale and tugging at your arm. "come on, let's go to the living room to order."

why the hell does he want to move around so much?!

"um- why can't we just order here?"

a smile quirks on Satoru's lips as though you've made a joke. "cause, we'll be downstairs once the food gets here," he says.

you pucker your lips slightly and tilt your head. "can't we just eat it up here and you can go get it?"

gojo's eyes are now slim with suspicion as he pulls himself back over to you. "i mean, of course i can but you never eat takeout in bed, we always cuddle downstairs and eat."

"I'm tired, can't i change it up today?"

"you know i have no problem doing what you want and pampering you baby," satoru starts slowly. his eyes dash to your legs, and he suddenly notes that he has not seen you bend them in the few minutes he has been home. in fact, you had been rather stagnant instead of running up to clobber him when he entered the room, whether you were previously asleep or not. "but you're acting a little weird."

"no, I'm not," you deny adamantly. you have always been a poor liar, but in the face of Satoru Gojo, your lack of talent in the arena only proves to be more prominent. "you think too much, you know that?"

"you think so?" he raises a brow at you, a hint of playfulness remaining though it is steadily fleeting the longer he examines you. "you think i'm thinking too much if i feel like you're lying to me?"

you press your lips together tightly. "...yes."

"hm," he nods. "come here for a second, pretty," he requests, stepping back a bit to give you room to stand. "just real quick, then you can lay back down and I'll get us that food."

"why do you want me to stand?"

"i wanna give you a big hug," he opens his arms widely. "c'mon, give your loving boyfriend a hug. you'd never deny me that after such a long day."

"come hug me here, then," you roll your eyes, turning to look the other way as heat overtakes your body.

"i want to hold you and pick you up," he argues, knowingly. "just stand and walk to me for one second."

"no."

"no?!"

"no, i don't want to."

"don't want to or you can't?" he accuses, face falling along with his arms. he moves to sit at the edge of the bed beside your legs, resting a hand over your uninjured one. "why can't you get up?" he asks, this time a tad more serious.

"i don't feel like it, satoru, god," you murmur in annoyance, growing agitated with his swiftness to notice that something is wrong.

"don't 'satoru' me, baby, you're the one not telling the truth," he says. "what's wrong with your legs?"

"nothing."

"then stand up."

"no, satoru. stop telling me to stand."

"i will if you tell me what's wrong."

"nothing's wrong!" you shrug harshly, crossing your arms and suddenly taking interest in whatever is outside of the bedroom window. satoru stares at you intently for a moment then back down at your covered legs.

he gazes harshly between the two, pondering, before reaching over to rip the comforter upward to reveal your bare feet. you gasp slightly, jerking to stop him, when your swollen ankle is revealed.

his brows immediately angle and he leans to hastily look over it. "(y/n), what the hell?! what happened to your foot?"

you grow embarrassed suddenly, moving to brush his hands away. "it's not that bad, stop," you say, going to move your leg to the side when you hiss sharply.

"not that bad? baby, your ankle's the size of a golfball!"

"satoru, you're being dramatic."

"what happened?" he asks, concerned. "did this happen while I was gone?"

"it's fine, relax."

"(y/n)," satoru begins sternly. you can tell that you've pinched a nerve. "i'm about to lose it if you don't tell me how this happened and why you were trying to hide it from me."

you frown. "But-"

"Now."

you hug your arms around yourself with another meek shrug. "it's humiliating..." you murmur.

satoru softens slightly. "baby, humiliating? i'm worried about you getting hurt."

"yeah, but-" you sigh and close your eyes, your emotions suddenly getting the best of you. you hate feeling small and weak, as though you can't handle yourself, and you swear every time you injure yourself or get sick, it's the worst possible thing that could happen in the entire world. "i don't know. whatever."

"uh uh uh," your white-haired boyfriend tuts, leaning over the smooth his hand over your leg comfortingly. "it's not 'whatever.' i know exactly how you are. you can't fool me. is this about your mission tomorrow?"

"it's not just about the mission, toru, i just don't- i hate it when i can't do stuff on my own."

"you don't have to tell me something i'm already well aware of." you give him a look. "don't look at me like that. i know you like the back of my hand, and i especially know when you're uncomfortable."

"i get it, toru," you frown.

"why the attitude, hm?" he asks, leaning over to prop his elbow on the other side of you, his body resting against your lap as he peers up at you gently. "it's okay to get hurt- well, no, it's not okay for you to get hurt because it makes me wanna die, but you get what I mean."

your lips twitch in amusement momentarily, leading satoru to grin widely.

"there's that pretty smile."

"it's just-" you huff. "it was such a stupid thing... i rolled my ankle stepping down from closing the cabinets and when it started getting worse, i thought it was so dumb that something so small did that to me so i left it alone. now it's probably twisted, and i just feel really..."

"you're not weak," satoru interjects urgently. "if that's what you're saying, which i'm pretty sure you are. you're far from what i would call weak."

"still. it still made me feel weak. and i'm supposed to go on that mission tomorrow, and i don't know what the hell i'm gonna tell yaga-"

"forget the mission."

"...satoru, i can't just-"

"you can and you will. you have an injury, baby. you can't walk. it's okay, i'll talk to yaga and he'll get someone else on the assignment while I take care of you."

"but the fact that you even have to do that because i was clumsy!" you shake your head and look down. "it's so ridiculous. and i knew you were gonna worry..."

"of course i'm gonna worry, (y/n). no less than you'd worry for me."

"but you're you."

"so? do you worry for me any less because of that?"

"i mean... i know you're always gonna be fine, but... yeah, i guess."

"you guess?" satoru scoffs. "to think, my girlfriend doesn't care about me..."

"oh shut up," you nudge his head away. his grin remains, face turning back to you as he captures you in his soft gaze. "obviously I worry."

"then, there you go," satoru says. his free hand runs over your hip. "i know you can handle yourself just fine and that you're strong as hell, but whether you're going on a mission or stubbing your toe, I'm worrying 'cause i love you."

you pout slightly. "I love you too."

"i know," he beams, kissing your thigh. "so stop with that. as if you'd ever be weak for getting a little boo boo."

"yeah, but now you're not gonna let me do anything," you whine.

"is there really such a big problem with that?" satoru smirks. "try hiding an injury from me again, and you really won't be able to do anything. now let me see."

he pushes himself up to round the edge of the bed. he kneels down and cradles your foot in his hand delicately, fingers grazing the area of swelling. his brow angles. "can you move it?"

you shake your head slowly. "not without it hurting."

"in all seriousness, baby, you need to take better care of yourself. why didn't you ice it?"

"...i wanted it to go away."

"and you walked up the stairs after rolling your ankle?!"

"i wanted to get into bed!"

satoru lowers his head. "what am i gonna do with you? you're gonna give me a heart attack one of these days."

"it's really not that serious. i just need to rest it a bit and then I'll be fine-"

"i'm gonna go cook you some dinner, okay? then we can eat in bed and cuddle, and then I'll run you a hot bath later."

"satoru, i just said it's not that serious! please don't go burning down the house because of my ankle. we can literally still order food," you try to convince him, but the blue-eyed man is already on his feet, by your side, and kissing your lips.

"not another word. you're practically dying, now, i have to look after you."

"toru-"

"i'll be right back, i'm gonna grab you some ice and a pillow for your foot."

"satoru!"

but when you call him, he's already zooming out of the room and down the stairs. you sigh and plop your head back against the headboard with a soft smile. as humiliating as you find it to be injured, you can never say that gojo doesn't do everything he can, if not excessively more, to look after you when you are.

suguru geto: (cold!)

shit.

you step into the bathroom for the umpteenth time today to blow your nose, clearing your searing throat as you do so with a groan.

something in you knew this morning that you were coming down with a cold when you woke up to that dreadful scratch in the back of your throat, but the idea of getting sick physically ails you more than actually being sick does.

you're far too busy today to be weighed down by some common cold. you're in between meetings at work as you toss another tissue into the women's trash. You have paperwork to finish filling out by midnight, and you have to pick up the girls later from daycare.

how can you be sick of all things?

you know it's likely because you run yourself ragged more often than you need to, and suguru always tells you to slow down and take a breath, but you rarely listen to him. your life moves at a quick pace, constantly on the run from one task to the next, and you truly do not feel that you have the leisure of giving yourself one second to rest.

you're on the verge of earning a new promotion, and you need the money. you need the opportunities, and the accomplishments to care for the family you've built with geto. just as suguru works tirelessly to manage his cult, you work tirelessly to keep a living for yourself.

you're proud of the work you have done, truly you are, but at times it feels as though you are amounting to nothing, chasing promises of a higher position that have yet to come. despite the haziness of the path ahead, you push harder and harder each day.

suguru hates it, how you drive yourself to the brink of insanity day in and day out, but you can't help but be an overachiever. you can't help but work hard for those who may not even deserve it.

and now, of course, you're sick. you can feel your temperature spiking, your nose is stuffy, and your head is pounding. you want to go home and curl into bed, but you have responsibilities to fulfill. just a few more hours... then you're home with geto, with the girls, safe in bed just to wake up and do it all over again tomorrow.

you jump when your phone suddenly rings in your pocket. you pull it out to see your boyfriend's contact, and you straighten yourself up as best as you can to make it sound as though you aren't struggling to breathe through your nostrils.

"hello?"

"hey, babe, how's work going?" suguru's soothing voice echoes through the phone and you sigh, clinging to the comfort his tone provides. you miss him. you want to go home already.

"it's good," you lie. "i have a few more meetings. then some paperwork to finish, but I'll be able to get mimi and nana on time."

"actually, i called to tell you not to worry about that. i got finished up here with the group pretty early, so i'll be able to get them later."

you're relieved that you won't have to expose the girls to your germs in the car. "okay, thanks for letting me know. you need me to pick up some food on the way home?"

"no, we're gonna make pizzas later. the girls have been dying to try it making it from scratch forever, so i'll take them to the store once i get them."

"...oh. okay..." you nod. "there's nothing else you need me to do then?"

"just to come home in one piece," suguru says. "i'm trying to take some stuff off your plate, (y/n). you've been exhausted, and you can't tell me otherwise."

"sugu, I'm fine," you dismiss him, only to turn your head into your elbow to muffle a cough. you forget to mute the call when you do so.

"what was that? are you okay?" the dark-haired man questions quickly. "you're not sick, are you?"

"no, no," you deny fast, voice slightly hoarse. you clear your throat quickly. "something was just- stuck in my throat. but I'm fine. i'm not sick."

suguru's quiet for a moment, and you chew on the inside of your lip while you wait for him to respond. you know it's impossible to fool suguru, especially when it comes to matters regarding you or the girls, but you can't handle him worrying over you right now. his concerns would only bring you back to reality, pulling you from this cycle of overworking you've fallen into. you need to keep going. You can't stop, and if suguru knows you're sick, he will make you stop.

"suguru? you there?" you finally say.

"oh yeah, i'm here," he responds rather quickly, and you internally curse yourself. "what time do you get off?"

"uhhh..." you think about it for a moment. it's 3:30 now, and technically you only have an hour and a half left, but since the girls will be picked up by Suguru, you realize you can finish your paperwork in the office. "today's kind of a long day... so I probably won't be home until... 7?"

"(Y/n)."

"i know, i know, but listen, i just have to finish up this paperwork. that's all."

"weren't you just gonna do it at home?"

"well, yeah, but since you're getting the girls, it's kinda easier for me to finish it here..." you start mumbling lowly, knowing that whatever explanation you give is not one that suguru will willingly accept.

"babe, please just come home at a normal time today. you can't keep doing this to yourself."

"i promise it won't be past 7. i swear. just let me get this done, and I'll be home."

suguru releases a hefty sigh, and you can picture him rubbing his thumb against his forehead in stress. "7 o'clock, (y/n). i mean it. if you're so much as five minutes late, i'm coming over there myself with rainbow dragon."

you chuckle softly. "i promise it won't get to that. i'll be fine, alright? i'll text you when I'm headed out."

"okay. I'll see you in a bit."

after your meetings had ended, your cold symptoms grew worse. your coughs were more frequent, a pile of tissues were stacked at your cubicle, and the glare of your computer screen felt as though it was burning a hole into your already aching head.

you feel miserable, and as luck would have it, your boss placed a new stack of papers onto your desk to finish filling out before you went home on his way out of the door.

you're alone in the office now, surrounded by excess assignments, and you can hardly breathe through your nose. you check the time, and its thirty to the time you told suguru you'd be home. you groan, rubbing your hands over your face.

you're tired. your bones are aching. you want to be with the girls, you want to be home, you don't want to do this anymore. you're so burned out, it hurts, and you want to cry and collapse face-first onto your desk at the same time.

just then, your phone lights up with a message from suguru. you open it eagerly to be greeted with an image of the girls beaming up at the camera in the kitchen, hands covered in tomato sauce as they display them to the phone. beneath the photo, suguru types.

we miss you :(

you break, placing your phone down and shielding your face in your hands as the tears flow. god, you miss spending time with them. you're hardly home anymore because you've been so busy with work, and you're yearning to be held by your boyfriend, to hear the girls laugh, to sink into the bed combined with your deteriorating physical state makes you feel worse.

you miss having a life.

you don't know how long you spend crying in your empty office before your body shuts down on you completely. the energy you exerted shedding tears in addition to your long days at work send you into a deep sleep. before you know it, you're knocked out with your cheek pressed against one of your unfinished papers.

the second you failed to answer Suguru's text, he knew something was wrong. he calls, and calls, and calls after twenty minutes, but you don't answer. He wastes absolutely no time in calling up manami to look after the girls before trekking out of the house to you with rainbow dragon, just as he promised.

he's prepared to break a window when he sees the janitor leaving the building. he takes the opportunity to swoop in through the doors after grumbling something about his girlfriend being inside, before making his way up to you.

when he reaches your office, he finds you lying in the only occupied cubicle. His eyes go wide as he studies your slumped figure, walking slowly to where you're seated. he notes the tissues and cough drop wrappers crowding your space, then the tears that coat your lashes when he kneels down.

"jesus, (y/n)," he murmurs, swiftly getting to work and clearing your desk of all your trash. when he's done, he crouches by you again and runs a hand over your back. "baby, wake up for me. come on," he coaxes softly.

you stir, face tightening in discomfort. suguru sees the bags under your eyes and his frown deepens. Eventually, you wake with furrowed brows, adjusting your blurry eyes to the sight of suguru gazing down at you worriedly.

"sugu...?" you mumble weakly, only to be interrupted by a few coughs that rack your chest. suguru's heart aches.

"i knew it," he sighs, eyes hardening as his hand strokes over your warm forehead. "why don't you listen?"

"what are you doing here?" you grumble, picking your head up slowly. you're greeted with a retched reminder of your headache, and you wince, pressing your hand to your head.

"we had an agreement, remember?" he reminds you, and you slowly recall. you move to grab your phone and the time reads 7:15. "i wasn't joking."

"suguru..."

"stop," he immediately cuts you off. "look at you, (y/n). you've made yourself sick."

"it's just a- a cough," you murmur, rubbing your irritated eyes harshly.

"that's bullshit, baby," he tells you rather firmly. "i don't know why you're trying to hide this from me when i knew something like this would happen. we're going home."

"no, wait, Suguru, i didn't finish my paperwork yet."

"do you think I give two shits about your paperwork?"

his tone comes off rather harshly, and both of you notice. he blinks his eyes tensely and readjusts himself, attempting to reel in his anger. his anger for you, over your lack of care for your wellbeing, at your fucking boss for letting you work yourself like this.

"you've been killing yourself for weeks, (y/n). i won't let you anymore. this is the last straw."

"hold on," you urge. suguru looks down at you, befuddled. "i really can't just up and leave my work behind like this. I'm sorry, I can't."

"what's more important to you, (y/n)? being healthy or working yourself to death?" he proposes, almost pained by the latter. "if you cared about your well-being, you would have asked for an extension or at least had a conversation with your dick of a boss about doing this another time. anyone can see that you aren't feeling well, and someone who cares will tell you that enough is enough."

"don't make me do this, suguru," you whimper. suguru's face relaxes when he sees your eyes glossing over. "don't make me stop. I can't stop."

"baby," he curls his brows, holding your cheek in his hand as he kneels before you. "why are you doing this to yourself?"

"b-because, I have to..."

"no, you don't. i've been telling you this for years, you don't have to do this."

"but I need to make something of myself. i have to keep going. i can't just quit, because if I do, then what will any of this have meant? why have i been doing this?"

"you're breaking my heart, baby," suguru exhales. "this job doesn't define you. i see how hardworking, smart, and strong you are. i see the effort you put into everything you do. i see the commitment in your heart. i see it everywhere, all the time, and that is one of many reasons why i love you so much."

your lips wobble as you look into his hazel eyes as his voice and words melt you into his palm. you've been moving so fast all this time, you've been trying to prevent yourself from falling into suguru's warmth, which has always had the power to make you do anything he says.

"but I can't stand to watch you make yourself sick because you think there's more you need to do. this isn't good for you. you know it isn't."

you nod, red nose flaring as you sniff. "i know," you admit.

"so please, please take a break. i'm literally begging you. you need to come home and rest. i'll take care of everything else, just come home. lay down. come back to us. to me."

your shoulders jerk as a few tears drop from your eyes. "sugu, i can't do this anymore," you finally give in. "i don't even feel like myself. i just want to go home."

"then let's go baby, come on," he stands and takes you with him in his arms, pressing your body to his as he holds you. you sink into him, your exhaustion and your sickness finally crashing down over you. "i'm gonna fucking kill your boss," he murmurs into your hair.

you laugh weakly against him, closing your eyes. "later. just take me home, now. please."

"yes ma'am," he nods, kneeling down to pick you up into his arms. you wrap your arms around his neck, burying your face into his chest.

"m'gonna get you sick," you mutter.

"we can be sick together," he chuckles. "the girls and I can make you some soup. they've been obsessed with cooking lately," he says, leaning over to shut off your monitor before carrying you off to the elevators.

"that picture of them you sent earlier made me so sad. I miss you guys so much."

"i'm sorry baby, i didn't mean to upset you that much. i was only trying to guilt you a little into coming home early."

you slap his shoulder pathetically. "asshole."

"i know, i'm sorry," he kisses your head. "gonna get you all better in no time."

kento nanami: (low iron!)

you have always been a little anemic, and of course that never really posed as a terrible challenge for you until you ran out of iron supplements.

it is your responsibility undoubtedly to keep track of when you run out and when you need to restock, but recently, you've found yourself neglecting the habit.

you never did like taking iron pills, or any supplements for that matter. you feel as though they take too much out of your daily life, as though they're a burden to your existence, and the harder you think about it, the less inclined you are to keep track of it.

it's been about three weeks since you last took your iron, and while you would like to say that you have improved significantly, you would be lying.

perhaps the first few days of not taking your supplements was fine, but as time droned on, the symptoms kicked back in rather quickly. you are extremely tired all the time, you feel lighter on your feet as if you are going to pass out at any given moment, and your hands and feet are ridiculously cold though it is now the summertime, and the weather outside thoroughly contrasts your body temperature.

you're in denial about the changes, of course. you want to be able to feel fine without the crutch of your pills, but the reality of the situation is that you don't, and it's crushing you for some reason.

what's crushing you more is that you know how disappointed nanami will be to find out that you haven't been being responsible in stocking up on your supplements. he would normally keep track of when you run out in addition to you, but he's reeled it in a bit over the past few months because you wanted him to trust that you can handle taking care of something that you've managed all of your life, so he did.

and yet, here you are, trying to hide the symptoms of your iron deficiency that are only proving harder to veil. nanami has already asked you a few times if you are feeling okay over the past few weeks, therefore you know that he suspects exactly what is happening, but you brush him off each time.

"i'm good, honey," you'd tell him. "just had a long day. what about you? how are you feeling?"

you feel like shit lying to him, but you're afraid of being truthful for some reason. he would scold you, and you'd have to resort to the aid of your only weakness all over again.

god, why can't you just be normal?

you've even tried to ween off of the strict iron-sufficient diet that you've been on practically all your life because you feel like you have something to prove, especially in this world of jujutsu. how can you be a sorcerer with low iron? how can something so smell render you so weak? it's pathetic.

you don't want to think about it, in truth. you want it all to just go away. you want to be fine, to feel fine without eating certain things constantly or taking those damn pills, and you try to force yourself to, but it only grows worse the longer you hide it.

you stumble into your home after a long day of teaching and press your back to the door with a sigh. you know nanami won't be home for another forty or so minutes, so you kick your shoes off, go grab a water, and plop down on the couch.

you feel so tired. you pinch the bridge of your nose and close your eyes, leaning back. this is stupid, you think. you're being stupid. just reorder the damn pills.

but something stubborn within you refuses. something within you that must prove you can push past this.

you decide to watch some tv to distract you as you wait for nanami to return home. he suggested cooking for you tonight, so you rest until you hear him walking through the door.

"hi honey," he greets. you turn to smile gently at him as he rounds the corner. your cheeks pinch with happiness, your current turmoil momentarily forgotten when you see your husband approach. you go to stand and walk into his open arms, just like you normally do when he comes home.

you put the remote to the side and shoot up. your mind is occupied only by nanami as you move toward him, but you see his face drop and your vision turns upside down, and suddenly, you're falling.

kento is quick to react, ducking down impressively to catch you in his arms before you can hit the ground. you collapse into him, head dizzy and breath suddenly gone.

"sweetheart?! (y/n) are you alright? are you awake?"

you groan, shifting in his strong arms as they cradle you securely. when your vision regains focus, you're staring up at nanami's worried face, your body resting over his lap. you blink rapidly before realizing what just happened.

"oh shit," you whisper.

"(y/n)," nanami says your name again, caressing your cheek sweetly. "are you here with me now?"

"y-yeah," you nod, moving to sit up and press your hand to his chest. "i'm alright."

"absolutely not," he stops you immediately, pressing against you to lay you back down on his lip. you frown, looking up at him. "don't even try sitting up like that right now."

"kento," you start, growing worried by the tense look on his face. "i'm okay, really. i just sat up too fast."

"i know," he affirms, his thumb still smoothing over your skin. "and care to tell me why that alone is making you pass out?"

you can't find the words to respond as you stare at him, likely as guiltily as you feel. he hums knowingly.

"right," he sighs. "(y/n), how long has it been since you've taken your iron?"

and there it is. the very question you had been dreading.

"...i'm not sure what you're-"

"don't. really, don't," he interjects firmly and you shiver, rather unfamiliar with this side of your doting partner. "i'm still trying to adjust to the fact that you haven't been truthful with me. the least you can do is tell me how long it's been."

your heart drops. "kento..."

"i'm not in the mood for stalling, sweetheart. go on. out with it."

the sternness of his voice hardly matches the way he is holding you and stroking your cheek, but nevertheless, you feel awful. you avert your gaze and shrink into yourself. "three weeks."

"three?" he repeats incredulously, and you nod in shame. "i knew it had been over a week, but three, (y/n)?"

"i know," you mutter.

"why? after you told me not to check after you, to trust that you'd take care of yourself," nanami questions. "this is why i tried to help you. i know it can be a hassle sometimes, and forgetting is one thing, but to deliberately stop taking them when you know how much i worry about it... when you know how important it is for you?"

you bite hard on your lip and look away, brows curling. nanami notices immediately and softens himself, leaning down closer to you.

"my love," he starts. "i don't mean to upset you, but this is very upsetting to me."

"i know. i know, i'm sorry..." you whimper.

"but not because it's about me, (y/n), because it's about you. and you've been hiding this from me, of all things. i don't understand."

"i just didn't wanna take them anymore, ken," you say quietly.

the blonde furrows his brows. "you didn't want to take them? have you not been taking them for years?"

"i have but that's the problem. i'm a sorcerer now, and..." you exhale. "the point of being a sorcerer is to not have anything weighing you down, and this weighs me down."

"if anything, (y/n), not taking the supplements weighs you down more."

"no, i just mean- all of it, the whole iron deficiency, i hate it," you confess. "i'm tired of relying on something to be strong. i'm tired of being tied down to this. i wanted to see if i could overcome it, but i can't. i'll always have this problem, and it sucks, ken," you ramble. "if i could go without taking these pills and still do my job like i always have, then just maybe.... maybe i could be better. and i could prove that i... i don't need those stupid pills, or the extra greens, or the- whatever. just all of it."

nanami looks down at you rather sadly. "i had no idea you felt this way."

"i haven't always felt this way. it's just lately, i don't know, i feel pressured to go beyond."

"darling, your iron-deficiency doesn't make you any less talented than other sorcerers."

"i know. i mean, i should know, but i can't help but feel that way."

nanami presses his lips together, smoothing a knuckle over your cheekbone. "i'm sorry you feel like this."

"it's not your fault, ken. and i shouldn't have kept this from you, i know. i'm sorry. i just felt humiliated by it."

"there's nothing for you to be humiliated by," he reassures you. "your deficiency is no different from any of us having to feed ourselves or drink water in between missions to keep ourselves alive. it's a necessity, and though we are sorcerers, we live off of necessities to keep ourselves physically and mentally able to work. you have a responsibility to yourself. just like the rest of us. just because your iron's a little lower doesn't mean anything about who you are as a sorcerer."

"...i never thought of it like that. i've just been thinking of it as a burden."

"it's only a burden if you view it that way. you are a grade one sorcerer who i have watched climb the ranks effortlessly since we were in high school, all the while with an iron deficiency that you have always taken supplements for. that never stopped you," he says. "the problem comes in when you don't keep up with yourself and take care of those needs. just like how i'd be unable to work if i decided to skip my last few meals and drink less water."

"that makes sense," you mumble, capturing his soft brown eyes with yours.

"good," he nods. "(y/n) you can't neglect your needs like this."

"i know."

"i'm being serious. i'll start checking behind you again if i find out that you're not doing what you need to do to take care of your body."

"i know, ken, i'm sorry, i-" you stop yourself and shake your head. "i just let my insecurities get the best of me."

"then, let me handle taking care of your insecurities. you handle taking your supplements. do we have an agreement?"

you nod slowly. "yeah. we do. i'm sorry for lying again, ken."

"please don't do it again," he sighs, ducking to kiss your forehead. "but i know you wouldn't lie to me about anything else, and that you hiding this was solely out of fear."

you slowly move to sit up, and this time, kento helps you very gradually. he guides you back to sit on the couch and cups your face gently, pressing a soft kiss to your lips. "i'll go order some more iron and then get started on dinner. alright?"

you hum with a soft smile. "alright. i love you, ken."

he returns your loving smile. "i love you more, sweetheart."

choso kamo: (broken finger!)

it had fully been an accident.

you should have been paying more attention to what you were doing and at the same time, so should have panda.

it really was an honest mistake. you were standing in the doorway as everyone left the classroom, your fingers clutched around the frame as everyone filed out. you were asking around if anyone had seen your boyfriend, and yuta mentioned that he saw him with yuji earlier that day.

you thanked him, and just as you were about to pull your hand away, panda, who was the last out of the room, slammed the door shut behind him thinking you had already moved out of the way.

but you hadn't.

the door flew into your index and middle fingers and you screamed bloody murder. the cursed corpse as well as his classmates whipped their heads around, and to panda's horror, you were knocking your forehead against the wall with tears in your eyes as your fingers trembled in the doorframe.

"(Y/N), HOLY SHIT I'M SO SORRY!"

you hadn't expected panda to actually break one of your fingers, but you give the freak credit for his unnatural strength. you later find out that yuji and choso had gone out to grab food for you when you see a text from your boyfriend pop up asking what flavor ramen you want the second you learn that shoko will not be available until late tonight.

for the time being, you're given a finger splint and pain medicine as though you aren't freaking surrounded by jujutsu sorcery.

and god, did it hurt! like, really, really hurt. your fingers are throbbing, and the one that isn't broken is bruised and stained with some blood. you wish you could be angrier at panda, but his groveling before your feet on his knees eases your frustration a bit. after all, it hadn't been on purpose.

you're sent home and you are given no choice but to wait until choso returns, and you're... nervous. choso never handles the ailment of his loved ones very well. his spiritual and physical connection to his brothers wellbeings' often causes him to lose his mind every time yuji gets accidentally punched in the face during training, and when it comes to you? well, choso is just the same if not somehow worse.

you remember one time you got a papercut and winced when your finger made contact with soap. choso was quick to your side, grasping your wrist and looking over your hand as though it had been severed off.

one thing you have come to know in your relationship with the brunette is that he would (and has) killed someone for the sake of the people closest to him. he does not mess around when it comes to his family, and he certainly doesn't mess around when it comes to you.

and while you think he can be a bit excessive with making sure you're alright when it's hardly necessary, it's first and foremost endearing, and it only makes you realize that he will go ballistic the second he finds out that someone broke your finger.

he doesn't naively think that you can never go unharmed, though he would be incredibly content with the notion if it were plausible. he's familiar with scars, wounds, fights, and battles, and he knows you're in the very center of it just as much as he and his brother are. but still, he hates it when you're hurt. he wants to protect you as best as he can, or to at least prevent you from suffering any more than a sorcerer already has to suffer. he only wants you to be safe.

so to prevent him from having a heart attack, you decide it's better if he doesn't know about the incident. when you answer his texts before heading home, you mention nothing about your poor finger in hopes of him not finding out at least until after you're healed.

that plan of yours, however, fails when choso comes barging through the door three hours earlier than you expected him to return. your eyes go wide from where you sit on the couch, and you have no time to even go to hide your fingers behind your back when choso marches up to you, agitated.

"uh-" you're cut off when he grabs your arm gently and lifts it into the air, your taped crooked finger showcasing itself to him. you press your lips together at how poorly the plan to conceal this from him has failed. "cho-"

"were you gonna tell me about this?" his violet eyes fly to yours in a fury, and you're almost stunned by how aggravated he looks. his voice is calm, low, but his face is wrecked with concern and almost betrayal.

"...i was, but i wanted to wait because i didn't want you to freak out..." you say slowly, watching him softly. "like you are now..?"

"that's not fair, (y/n)," he frowns and you furrow your brows. "that's not fair at all."

"woah, hold on... are you mad at me?"

"i don't know," he answers you honestly, looking between your face and your trembling hand. "i'm... upset."

"who told you about my fingers, love?"

"yuji got a text from yuta," he tells you, moving to sit down on the space beside you with your hand still cradled in his. "he said that panda was begging me not to kill him, and this was after i had talked to you."

"oh..." you sigh. "okay, yeah, i can see how that looks."

"why didn't you tell me you got hurt? and pretty badly too? where's ieiri?"

"she won't be back on campus for another hour," you explain. "i didn't want you to worry, cho, i figured i'd just tell you after it was better, but..."

"why would you try to hide something from me?" he asks you, suddenly sounding hurt. it's clear on his face that he doesn't understand why you would conceal something as important as your health from him, whether it was small or not. you tell each other everything, and that shouldn't have stopped now of all times because you don't want him to worry.

"i didn't know you'd get so upset, cho, honestly," you tell him. "i-" you stop when a sharp pain shoots through your fingers and you gasp. choso's face drops and he gently sets your hand down to his lap, panicked.

"i'm sorry," he apologizes. "shit, you must be in a lot of pain."

"it's nothing i haven't experienced before," you try to reassure him, giving him a tight smile.

"why does that matter?" choso drags his brows together. "pain is pain. i don't like when you feel any of it."

you melt. "i know. i know you don't, i don't like when you feel any of it either."

"so don't... keep stuff like this from me, (y/n)," he says sternly. "please, i need to know. i don't have the same connection to you that i have with my blood brothers, but i'm still connected to you all the same. when you hurt, i hurt."

"i get it cho, i'm sorry," you nod bashfully. "i wasn't trying to make you mad. i just don't like it when you're stressed out."

"i'm always stressed out," he says flatly, and you raise your brows with a halfhearted smile.

"yeah, i know. so why stress you even more?"

"i'd rather be stressed about you if i'm stressing about anything," he says, looking over your face as the hardness in his gaze washes away. "you know you're everything to me."

"i know, baby," you push out your bottom lip, pressing your free hand to the side of his cheek and leaning in to kiss him. his ears burn when you pull away, and he sighs heavily.

"don't offend me by trying to hide stuff like this. it won't work."

"i'm sorryyyy," you giggle and choso grumbles incoherently under his breath.

his gaze goes back to your fingers and his brows curl. "how the hell do you slam a door on someone's hand?" he hisses.

"it was an accident, cho, he didn't mean it."

"i know, and i shouldn't really be angry at him but i can't help but be irritated because you're hurt..." his fingers graze the tape. "how bad does it hurt?"

"cho, it'll be okay."

"that wasn't my question."

you roll your eyes at his attitude with a soft smile. "it hurts as much as a broken finger would."

"right. sorry," he murmurs.

"you're okay, love, you don't need to apologize."

"i still wish i- nevermind," he refrains himself from discussing how he wanted to be there to protect you from such an unpredictable occurence. "is there anything i can do to help you feel better while we wait? do you need anything?"

"ummm," you try to think. "actually, could you grab a new pack of ice from the freezer? and... the snacks you got me earlier."

the brunette's face brightens slightly with the thought that he can do something to help ease your pain as you wait for shoko to return to the school.

he nods in determination, carefully sliding your hand into your lap and kissing your cheek before hopping up to run to the kitchen. he returns with the items you requested, placing the snacks down beside him and lifting the bag of ice over your hand.

"like this?" he eases the bag down and you wince, nodding.

"mhm. yeah," you strain out. choso watches your face sadly, hating the fact that you're hurting.

"i'm sorry for getting upset," he mumbles. you turn to look at him curiously. "i just love you a lot."

"i love you more, cho," you smile gently, leaning your head against his shoulder. he sighs, resting his chin atop your head as he ices your hand. "and don't worry, i get it. i won't try to hide injuries from you anymore."

"i really hope so."

"now can you pass me those chips please?"

toji fushiguro: (knife cut!)

toji is going to absolutely kill you, and you are dreading the moment he does.

he has always told you not to touch his weapons. even if you see any of them lying around his place because he never bothers to clean up in between jobs. his one rule when you're over is to leave them alone and to let him handle them when he gets back. he doesn't care how much you protest, he doesn't care that you want to help him pick up after himself.

no touching. that is all he asks of you.

and of course... one afternoon when he's out sorting out some finances with shiu and one of his knives is glaring at you from where it lay on the kitchen table, you can't help yourself.

you don't really think anything is going to happen. after all, you're not a baby, nor are you an idiot. you know how to handle a freaking knife and you know where to put it, and yet, somehow, you allow your arrogance with the task to distract you. you're not handling it as carefully as you should be, and the second you hear the keys jingling outside the front door, you panic.

the blade, naturally, fumbles in your grasp, and swipes through the air, over your palm, and to the carpet. you jump, stepping away as quickly as it falls. you feel a sting in your hand and look down to see the fresh gash stretching over your skin. you gape as blood slowly simmers from the wound, befuddled as to how something like this even happened so quickly.

you have no time to clean it when you hear the key inside the lock. you hurriedly pick up the knife with your unwounded hand, place it back on the table where you first saw it, rip a napkin from said table to press to your bleeding palm, and clench it into a fist just as the door opens.

toji immediately greets you with a raised brow, jade eyes eying you oddly as he steps in. "the hell are you gettin' into?" he asks, confused by the way you are standing against the wall when he enters.

you're quick to move into his space to distract him from the vision of his knife and from looking any further downward from your face. you lean up on your tiptoes, normal hand on his forearm as you kiss his scarred lips. "what do you mean?"

"why were you just standing there like that?"

"can't I wait by the door for you to come back?" you bat your eyelashes, and toji grunts, gazing down at you with lidded eyes as his hand comes around the small of your back. "i'm just happy to see you."

"you take a pill or somethin', doll?"

you glare at him. "now why would you ask me that?"

"you're just acting a little too nice, that's all."

you scoff. "i don't know what you're talking about, i'm literally always happy to see you."

"yeah, but i was gone for thirty minutes and you never make a show of it like this."

"why are you making it sound like i don't show you love? you're the one who's mean all the time," you retort sassily.

a smirk captures toji's lips as he ducks down to kiss you again. "that's more like it," he murmurs against you. "still ain't answer my question though."

"i literally did. i told you i was waiting for you."

"sure," he says, unconvinced. his eyes drag down your body and momentarily go to your fist when you swiftly wrap both arms around his neck, pulling him down to crash your lips into him once more.

his brows narrow and as you kiss him, and you can feel the blood on your hand seeping through your napkin. you curse internally, lowering your hand back down behind him as he pulls away.

"not that i'm against this," toji starts, voice dangerously low against your mouth. "but it feels like you're tryin' to distract me from something."

"why would i be doing that?" you ask gently, looking up into his piercing eyes. he hums, dragging himself away from you. he grabs your chin softly and tilts your head left and right, looking over your face. "what are you doing?" you ask.

"lookin' for whatever you're hiding."

"i'm not hiding anything, toji."

"uh huh."

shit. it's never a good sign when toji doesn't even try to pretend to believe anything you're saying, and the way he's looking over your face let's you know that he at least suspects you've done something to yourself that he should know about.

you keep your fist to his back as he looks over the rest of your body with a rather relaxed expression, which only means that he doesn't suspect you touching any of his weapons. yet.

you have to keep his attention away from the knife on the table so that he doesn't figure it out.

"can you stop messing around already? i wanna go take a shower," you try to say, but toji doesn't listen.

"turn around f'me."

"huh?"

"huh?" he mimics you, looking at you unimpressed. "turn."

you suck your teeth. "i hate when you get like this."

"and i hate when you lie, now turn."

you grimance. you can't turn around with him looking down at your hand, and you're sure by now that the napkin you hold is coated red. your eye twitches in that moment when you feel a line of blood drip down your wrist.

god dammit. you're so dead.

nonetheless, you try to keep your palm facing inward as you slip it from his back and turn over your left shoulder, which connects to the uninjured hand. the second your back is to him, you bring your bloody hand in front of you.

"yeah, no," you hear toji gruffly say. your heart hammers in your throat and you know what's coming next. he moves around you to wrap his hand around your wrist and tug at it.

you cringe, allowing yourself to accept your fate when he pulls forward your balled up hand.

"open."

"can't we just-"

"open."

you sigh heavily, slowly peeling open your palm to reveal the red-stained napkin balled in it, the line of blood rushing down your inner arm, and the slice that stretches across your hand.

toji's eyes blow wide, and before he asks you anything, he throws his head over his shoulder to locate the knife that sits on the table. "are you fucking kidding me, (y/n)?" he growls, turning back to face you angrily.

"okay, let's not act like this is so crazy!" you immediately defend, throwing your other arm up. "you leave your shit lying around all the time!"

"and every single time, i tell you that i'll take care of it. what the fuck, do i have to go child-proofing the house now because of you?"

"if you would just be more mindful of how you leave your space, you wouldn't even have to worry about shit like this! you shouldn't even have knives lying around in the first place."

"i'm a grown man, (y/n), i know how to avoid cutting myself with the weapons i use daily."

"you're being a prick."

"oh baby, you must not know me because i'm about to be worse," he grunts, eyes heated with fury, and you frown.

"toji, come onnn, it was an accident."

"what do i always say about my weapons, (y/n)?"

"i just wanted to help you put it away, is that so crazy?"

"what. do i say. about my weapons."

you deflate slightly, uneased by the rate at which toji is growing angry with you. "...not to touch them."

"so why the fuck did you touch them?" he growls, picking up the napkin in your palm and tossing it over his shoulder. he looks over your wound and clenches his jaw. "fucking hell, (y/n)."

"look, i'm sorry."

"shut the hell up and come on."

despite his rage, he leads you to the bathoom with surprising care.

when you arrive, he flicks on the light with his free hand and swipes up a cloth from under the sink. he turns to you, pressing it down to your wound to stop the bleeding. once it seems like it's done, he puts the cloth down and turns on the faucet. "put your hand under," he orders, guiding it to the cool water nonetheless.

the water hits your open wound bitterly and you jump, watching the blood run through the drain as toji washes your arm as well.

"sit," he nods over to the bathtub, shutting off the faucet.

you oblige mutely, shuffling over and holding out your hand. you sit slowly on the ledge of the tub and watch as toji shuffles through his cupboards for a bottle of peroxide, some bandages, and ointment. you dread what is coming, for you know your hand is gonna sting like a bitch.

toji thuds over to sit hunched on the closed toilet lid, leaning over to grab your hand again. you stretch your fingers out and he sighs, shaking his head. "so fucking hard-headed," he murmurs.

you watch him screw open the bottle of liquid.

"go slowly," you plead.

"it's gonna hurt all the same, doll," he tells you, and you pout. "you should listen next time, then maybe you wouldn't have to go through this."

"shut the fuck up."

toji clicks his tongue, glancing at you momentarily before leaning down and holding the bottle over you, grasping your wrist loosely with your hand above his knee. "keep still."

the peroxide comes flooding out of the bottle and onto your hand, bubbling instantly over your gash. you whimper, tensing your body and scrunching your eyes at the sting.

"i know," toji mumbles, smoothing his thumb gently over your wrist. "you're alright."

your fingers dig into your thigh as it continues to burn. toji leans over to put down the bottle and continues to caress your arm, lowering your hand to his lap. he blows over your palm slightly as the peroxide dries, and you eventually open your eyes.

"not so bad," he tells you. he leans himself back to reach for a new cloth then pats it around the gash, drying your hand and your arm. he reaches back again for the tube of almost empty ointment he found and twists it open, squeezing it over your wound. "shit, hold on," he stops. he lets you lift your hand as he rushes to wash his own before coming to sit back down at hold yours on his leg again, now with bandages in hand.

you watch him gently as he works the bandage over you with such attentiveness, a dip in his brow proving his focus. you suddenly feel guilty for making him worry.

"i'm sorry," you finally say again, this time with more meaning.

toji's green eyes snap up at you amidst his wrapping. "yeah?"

"i really was just trying to help you. didn't mean to stress you out."

toji sighs, pausing his movements to look you in the eye. "you need to be more careful. i tell you not to touch my stuff because it's not your responsibility. obviously i know you can yourself, but some of my shit's really dangerous and i don't want you gettin' hurt," he gestures to your hand. "it could've been a lot worse, but still."

"if you don't want me touching your weapons, toji, you should probably clean them up more," you quirk a brow and he exhales loudly.

"i'm seeing that now, yeah," he says. "i'll be more careful if you are. don't need my doll getting a bunch of scars 'cause of me, now."

you smile softly. "yeah. i won't touch your stuff anymore, i promise."

"...how about instead i just... teach you how to handle 'em the right way?"

you perk up. "really?"

"i don't see why not. i'd rather you know how to use some of it than see you scrape yourself up because you don't know how to hold a knife."

"don't be a smartass."

toji smirks, continuing with his wrapping of your hand. "i mean it. i'll sit down with you sometime to show you."

"...how about after we're done here?"

"don't fucking push it."

ryomen sukuna: (fever!)

you wake up in a cold sweat, shivering.

you groan in displeasure, rolling over, slightly discombobulated. it can't be any later than 7 am, but you are boiling hot. you press your hand to your forehead and curse. you're sweating profusely and you feel incredibly lightheaded.

you don't even have the energy to get up, but you know that you need to take your temperature. you shudder, carefully shuffling out of bed and wincing as every brush against your skin feels like the stab of a thousand pins and needles.

you lethargically make your way to your bathroom, the cool air hitting your neck and sending you into a fit of shivers. you cling to yourself, teeth chattering, and reach into your cabinet for a thermometer. with half-open eyes, you pop it under your tongue and make your way back to your bed, bundling up in your blankets and curling into a ball.

it feels like hours before the beep resounds, and you slowly lift it from your mouth to read the little digital numbers.

102.4. perfect.

you shudder in pain, tossing the thermometer to the side and nestling your face in your pillows. you feel like absolute shit, but you can't bring yourself to do much else. you need medicine, water, a cool compress, but none of those things you have access to currently.

you close your eyes as your mind swarms, body throbbing and shuddering with chills though the last thing you need is to be cuddled under the covers. you think maybe it will go away if you get some rest. maybe you just need to relax, to take some time in bed. you'll let sukuna know when-

shit! sukuna.

there's no way in hell or on earth that sukuna will allow you to go untreated if you tell him, but god, you don't feel like letting him know. despite his likely haste to make sure you have everything you need, you can only imagine the snarky comments about your fragility, your strange body, your vulnerability that he''ll spout.

you don't want to hear it. you don't want to hear any of it, because you're sure that if you do, you'll start crying. you're already worn down, clearly, and the last thing you need on top of a fever is your boyfriend joking about your weak state.

you elect to stay in bed and tell sukuna you'll see him another time if he pesters you today.

which of course, he does.

a whirlwind of alarming dreams that you almost thought were hallucinations are disrupted by the persistent buzzing of your phone on your dress. you groan, reaching out a shaky hand to blindly grab the device and answer the call, pressing it to your ear with no knowledge of who you're speaking to.

"yes?" you croak.

"can't answer a telephone call the first time it rings?" sukuna's voice thunders through the mic, and you lift your brows.

"kuna?" you try to say his name normally, despite the constant chatter of your teeth.

"who the hell else would it be?"

"sorry... i was asleep."

"at this hour?"

"...what'dy'mean?"

"jesus, woman, it's 2 in the afternoon. why the hell are you still in bed?"

you reel momentarily at his words. 2 pm? it was just 7 in the morning! have you really been sleeping all this time?

"oh..." is all you can manage to say before a chill wracks your body again. you cringe, curling into yourself and holding the phone away from you.

"oh?" the king of curses repeats. "what is the matter with you?"

"n-nothing," you respond quickly. "i guess i was up late last night. i was c-completely knocked out..." you tremble.

"last night you told me you were going to sleep early because you were tired, you brat."

fuckkkk.

how could you have forgotten about that? you hadn't been feeling well last night, which is likely the reason why you feel so much worse today, so you turned in early. "i- couldn't fall asleep until later, though," you mumble.

"you are attempting to deceive me," sukuna grunts. "care to explain why?"

"m'not, kuna," you sigh halfheartedly.

"what exactly do you take me for?"

you're really not in the mood for this. you're aching at this point, and you can tell your body temperature has only risen. you're so weak. you can barely even process the fact that you're on the phone, and you can't handle sukuna's attitude. not if he's not going to help, which you automatically assume that he won't.

"i'm going back to bed," you say softly.

"what do you mean back to bed?!" sukuna fumes. "seriously, what the hell is the matter with you. you sound ill."

"i'm not i-ill."

"then why do you keep stumbling over your words, woman?" he questions, his voice mellowing out into a steady intensity. "what is it now? your monthly plague? whatever you people call allergies?"

this is exactly why you don't want him to know. he handles these things too crudely, as if it's a burden upon his existence. "y-you ask too many damn questions."

"i wouldn't have to if you answered them. now talk."

"i'm fine, sukuna. i'm just gonna go back to sleep."

"you hang up this phone, i'm at your door in two seconds."

"that's impossible."

"try me."

you know he's serious, but you don't have the energy. you can't stay on the phone with him any longer, trying to speak like nothing's wrong. it's cold. so cold, but you're so hot. you're probably drenched in a pool of your own sweat, but you can't feel it. you want to sleep. you just want him to let you sleep.

your vision grows dizzy as you stare ahead, brows arching in discomfort. you think you press the end call button, but you can still hear his voice picking up in urgency... is he shouting? are you even on the phone anymore? you aren't sure.

your vision suddenly drifts into inky blackness as the phone rests beside you on your pillow. the last thing you are aware of before you slip into unconsciousness again is banging at your front door.

sukuna bursts into your apartment mere minutes after you stopped answering him on the phone. he looks about ready to kill, crimson eyes wide and pupils shrunken as he breathes heavily, looking all over your apartment.

he's stomping to your room and throwing the door open when he sees you laying in the bed. "(y/n)!" he barks, searching for some response from you, but all he recieves or nonsensical murmurs.

he moves quickly to the side of your bed and grabs at your shoulder, turning you over to find your sheets drenched and your face tight with discomfort. he falters, heart jerking at the sight. "...the fuck?"

he presses a hand to your sweat-drenched face and furrows his brows in concern. you're hot. too hot for the temperature of a human being, and you're sweating like crazy, mumbling things under your breath in your sleep he can't even hear.

"the fuck did you do?" he grumbles, starting to internally panic. he scrambles to remember what this could be. he knows of plague, of pestilence, so maybe you're suffering some form of that?

hell, he can't tell. not from a glance. he's not even sure if he knows how to help you. you're entirely too hot for him to brush this off like it's nothing, and you passed out in the middle of speaking to him.

he looks over and sees the thermometer on your sheets and leans over to pick it up. the screen reads a high number, which he assumes is the temperature of your body. curious himself, he prods open your jaw and tucks it into your mouth, pressing the button the way you had shown him when you had the flu to reset the time.

"come the fuck on," he growls as seconds tick by before it beeps, and he pulls it from your lips to read 104.7.

he doesn't know how far it is from your usual temp, but he knows it's high. too high.

he's quick to dial uraume for some more information, and the second he hears that you need immediate medical help, he's picking you up and making a run for it without even thinking that uraume can likely help you.

when you wake, you're blinded by nauseating lights blaring down overhead. "ugh," you groan, feeling light and disoriented. you turn your head to the side and blink, to find sukuna's face staring directly at you rather harshly.

you jump slightly, startled. "what-?" you start, scrunching your eyes to adjust to the sight before you. "sukuna? what are you..." you trail off when you realize that you aren't in your house, nor are you at sukuna's estate. instead, you're in a hospital bed hooked up to a series of fluids.

your eyes go wide as you sit up suddenly, only to be hit with a sudden dizzy spell that sends you leaning back into the bed.

"don't move," he orders, and you turn to him in confusion. never would you have expected to see the day that sukuna sits in a chair beside you in a hospital.

"why are we... what happened?"

"apparently you had a high fever," he answers harshly, fist-propping his chin up over his leg. "too high for you to be seen in my care, and too high for you to be lying in bed as though nothing was wrong."

your heart sinks. "how high?"

"when we got here, tipping past 105."

"...are you serious?"

"i had to come bust down your door to make sure you were alive. i put you on an empty roller downstairs because these fucking dumbass doctors can't see me and i had to get their attention so they could notice you. yes, i am serious."

he sounds pissed. and you hardly want to think of what he means by ‘getting their attention.’

"what do you have to say for yourself? for daring to lie to me? for pretending like you weren't on the brink of a much worse fate?"

"...i..."

"you're so lucky you're unwell, girl, because you don't even want to imagine the things i would do to you as punishment for putting yourself in such a ridiculous situation," he growls. "all you had to do was tell me and i would have taken care of it before it got worse."

you blink, almost dumbfounded. you still aren't all there, but you can tell that your fever has gone down significantly. you're no longer sweating and fewer chills wrack your body. "...huh?"

"did that fucking fever scramble your brain or what?" he fumes, eyeing you sharply. "you should have told me."

you part your lips slightly as you look at him. "honestly, sukuna, i didn't think you'd really... i don't know-"

"care?"

"no, not care. i just didn't think you'd handle it well. i didn't even handle it well myself."

"you believe me to be incapable of tending to sickness?"

"no, i just thought you'd like... not take it seriously."

sukuna's eyes darken, and you realize that you may have said the wrong thing. "in what reality would i fail to take any threat to your health seriously, whether you are frail or not?"

"see, that's what i mean. you always have to slip in something about me being frail."

"because you are. as a member of your species. look at where you lay currently," sukuna grimaces. "that is not an insult to you, it's an observation. it's an insult, however, to everyone else who isn't you."

you relax slightly. "then you were actually worried?"

sukuna scoffs. "why the hell do you think i'm sitting in a human hospital with your sick ass right now? i thought we were past you believing i do not concern myself over you."

you suddenly feel foolish, having forced yourself to suffer in your isolation and simultaneously made sukuna, of all people, worry over you.

"hm. feeling foolish, are you?" he says, reading your mind.

"shut up,," you whine, only to clutch your stomach suddenly with a groan. sukuna sighs as he gently eases your head back onto the pillow.

"i told you not to exert yourself. you give me a headache."

"kuna," you mumble.

"what?"

"can you... take me home?"

sukuna raises a brow. "home?"

"to your place," you clarify. "i don't wanna be here. i just want to be with you. want you to hold me."

"you're such a needy thing," he exhales, toying with a strand of your hair as he leans over and gazes gently at you. "you have medications you need to take."

"then bring them with."

"and if you get sick again? you've only been here ten hours."

"ten?!" you exclaim.

"you were very ill, (y/n)."

you groan. "ten is long enough. i hate hospitals. take me home. i feel better anyway, and if i get worse, i’ll just go to uraume."

sukuna sighs, standing slowly. "after i get these tubes out of you without further damaging you, i will take you home," he says, looking over the IVs that you're hooked up to.

you close your eyes tiredly and nod in acceptance. "okay," you murmur.

he grunts. "let me find some damn instructions.”

"kuna," your hand weakly reaches out to catch his wrist and he stops, turning to look down at you.

"what is it?"

you open your eyes to look up at him fondly, exhaustion welling in your gaze. "thank you."

the king of curses clenches his jaw. he smoothes ahead over your now warm forehead and leans over you. "don't do some shit like this again."

14K notes · View notes

em1i2a3 · 25 days ago

Text

Test Drive

Pairing: The Void/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry x Thunderbolts!Fem!Reader

Summary: You have a late night encounter with The Void

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts as there is Bob in this and there is The Void in this as well. This fic is kinda dark, this is The Void we are dealing with here, there are dark themes/elements explored in this story (but I will emphasize that everything is consensual in this), The Void talks kinda badly about Bob, Bob and Reader have an established friendship and both of them have feelings for one another that have been left unspoken, there is smut and angst in this as well, and a lot of Emotional Tension, The Void is kind of Obsessed with you too…

Smut Warnings: To be a bit on the safe side I would say this is Dub Con (it could kind of be looked at like that, I didn’t write it with those intentions but just in case I wanted to put it there), Unprotected P in V Sex (please…If you’re going to have sex with entities like this wrap it up lol), The Void is Dominant as shit in this, There is Biting, Scratching, Markings left on the Reader, Dacryphilia (The Void likes tears…), Hair Pulling, Fingering, A little bit of humiliation? A bit of fem! Oral sex too.

Author’s Note: Howdy y’all…Well…This is my first Void Smut lol and jeez lord I really had to sink into it a bit and dig. This is my interpretation of how The Void would do or handle things, I didn’t want to go too extreme, but I liked the request (made by @miss-whiddlesmort ) and hope that it meets expectations! Enjoy :)

Word Count: 7,759

The night you met The Void officially, you thought you were hallucinating or living out a real-life nightmare.

You had woken in your bed at the compound, drenched in sweat and tangled in your dampened sheets. The clock on the wall blinked 3:17 a.m. in red, hazy numbers.

That alone wasn’t new.

You’d had nights like this before–restless, disturbed, aching for something unnamed but constant. But this night was different.

There was a pressure in the room. A wrongness that seeped in through your pores and clamped around your lungs.

The air was too still, too silent. And the temperature–God, the cold–it wasn’t natural. It sank into your bones like frostbite, numbing your limbs before you’d even sat up. You clutched your chest with a trembling hand, your heart fluttering against your ribs like a bird trapped in glass.

Your nightshirt clung to your damp skin, and as you wiped the sweat from your brow, you realized it wasn’t just perspiration. It was fear. Primal. Instinctive. As if your body recognized something your mind hadn’t caught up to yet.

The shadows in your room were darker than usual. Not thicker. Not blacker. Just…Deeper. Like they had weight. Like they were watching.

You blinked, trying to let your eyes adjust to the darkness.

And then the corner moved.

Not a trick of light. Not sleep haze. The shadows moved–separating from the darkness like smoke drawn backward through a vent. Tall. Silent. Fluid.

Something seeped forward.

And when it stepped into the faint light slicing through your blinds, your breath caught.

Bob.

No. Not Bob.

The shape was his. The height, the shoulders, the outline of his jaw. The way his mouth curved slightly at the corners like he was seconds away from smiling. You’d seen that shape slouched on the couch during late-night movie marathons. You’d seen it standing barefoot in the kitchen making tea. You’d memorized it without meaning to.

But this…This wasn’t him.

His form was made of shadow, but it held. It wasn’t formless. It wasn’t drifting. It was shaped with purpose–an echo of the man you knew, but built from smoke and malice. His skin, if you could call it that, moved like a storm behind thin glass. Unstable. Eternal. His hair bled into the void around him, lost to darkness.

And his eyes–those weren’t Bob’s eyes. No blue, no softness. Just two white voids of light. Blank and endless. Not glowing with heat, but glowing like distant stars–cold, ancient, unreachable.

His mouth, though–from what you could see– was pale and sharp and curled ever so slightly, like he knew something you didn’t.

Your body was frozen, but not from fear alone. There was something else. Something creeping beneath your skin, worming into the base of your spine.

Then he spoke.

“So this is who he dreams about,” He murmured, voice low and silken–too smooth. The kind of voice that didn’t need to raise itself to command. A voice that made your blood slow.

It curled around your ears like smoke. Like a whisper just for you.

“I wanted to see for myself.” He took a step forward, and the air folded inward, like the room itself recoiled around his form. He didn’t walk–he glided, impossibly smooth, like the world didn’t apply to him in the same way it did to everything else. He made the shadows stretch with him, bend for him.

You couldn’t breathe, but you could feel yourself cowering slightly, afraid of what his next move might be. Being in a room alone with him was like a ticking time bomb, you had witnessed him only once, and that was with Bob present to defend everyone from him…Now was not the case.

“You think he doesn’t know?” The Void asked, tilting his head just slightly, like he was marveling at a secret. “The way you look at him?”

His voice was nearly a whisper now, soft and deliberate. “The way your breath catches when he smiles at someone else. How you light up when he says your name. How your thighs tense when he accidentally brushes your arm in the hallway.”

He was closer now–too close–and every inch of his presence filled your skin with that same biting chill. It sank into your bones, into your lungs, until your shiver wasn’t just fear, but anticipation you didn’t want to name. The scent of ozone, and burnt concrete itched your nose, and there was something earthy beneath it all, like he had been pulled out of the ground.

“I could smell it on you when I woke,” He murmured, lifting one hand. His fingers hovered just beside your cheek, not quite touching, but you could feel it–like static in the air, cold and prickling. “The heat. The ache. You wanted him to come to your door tonight, didn’t you?”

You swallowed hard. “He’s not–he wouldn’t–”

The Void laughed.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t manic. It was soft, and deep–it vibrated into your chest. And that was worse.

“Of course not. He’s Bob,” The Void said with a sneer beneath the velvet of his voice. “Sweet. Gentle. Terrified of his own hunger. He’s dying to touch you–but he won’t. Because he’s weak.”

His hand touched your jaw. Cold. Unrelenting.

“You would’ve given yourself to him,” He whispered, thumb brushing across your bottom lip. “If he asked. You would’ve spread your thighs like a prayer and begged him to take you. And he’d be too afraid to move.” You whimpered, more from the sting of that truth than from his touch. The Void leaned closer, and you could feel his mouth–just hovering above yours, the barest breath of sensation. Not warmth. Nothing about him was warm. Just the presence of absence itself. He wasn’t breathing–at least not the way humans do–but somehow, you could feel it: cold tendrils of air that weren’t air at all, seeping from his lips to yours like he was pouring frost into your lungs.

His hand slid beneath your chin, fingers long, cold and elegant, as if carved from obsidian smoke. They curved under your jaw with inhuman precision–lifting your face toward him with a gentleness that betrayed none of the power coiled in his touch.

“Look at me,” He said, voice low and silken. It didn’t echo in your ears–it vibrated through you. Beneath your ribs. In your spine. Like something whispered through a cathedral built only for nightmares.

And when you did–when your eyes met those twin, glowing voids of light–you felt your thoughts stutter.

He didn’t just look at you. He reached into you with that stare. Unraveling the parts you kept hidden even from yourself.

“I know everything you want,” He cooed, his lips brushing your cheek now, the chill of him raising goosebumps across your entire body. “Every suppressed breath. Every trembling thought. Every filthy little ache that keeps you awake.”

Your throat tightened. Your lips parted–but not to speak. You couldn’t have spoken if you tried.

He hovered there like a vampire from a storybook dream, all sin and shadows, all impossible temptation wrapped in the shape of the man you secretly loved. But colder. Sharper. And infinitely crueler. Your lips trembled. You tried to speak–tried to summon words, a command, a plea, anything–but all that came out was a faint breath:

“B–Bob…”

The Void stilled. Just for a moment.

And then he smiled.

Not sweetly. Not kindly.

The corners of his mouth curled upward with slow, surgical delight. Like he’d been waiting to hear that name spill out of your mouth and now that it had, he could savor it like blood on his tongue.

“No,” He said, his voice even lower now–darker, closer. His thumb pressed more firmly against your chin. “Don’t say his name like that. Not here. Not while I’m the one who has you.”

You tried to look away, to break eye contact, but his hand shifted, guiding your gaze back to him like a puppeteer tugging on strings.

“He wouldn’t know what to do with you,” The Void continued, his breathless voice curling around your spine, holding onto it. “He’d be so afraid to hurt you, he’d never touch you the way you need.”

His other hand moved–ghosting down your shoulder, across your arm–cold, trailing goosebumps in its wake. You shivered beneath the touch, not just from the chill but from the fact that you didn’t pull away.

You should have.

You should be demanding he leave. But you weren’t.

Because your body, traitorous and trembling, was reacting to his every move and hanging on anticipation.

His fingers slid downward with slow, excruciating purpose, skimming over the curve of your chest–your nightshirt thin and damp against your skin. And when the pad of his index finger ghosted across your nipple–already perked beneath the fabric from the cold, you gasped.

You didn’t mean to. But you did.

You felt it–felt how your back arched the tiniest bit, how your hips shifted, how your thighs pressed closer together beneath the sheets. It was instinctual. Automatic.

Mortifying.

Arousal curled through your stomach like steam, hot and confusing.

His voice dropped into something darker. Amused.

“Oh,” The Void breathed, fingertips circling once, lazily, over your breast. “You feel it too.”

“I–” You choked, the sound sticking in your throat.

“You shouldn’t,” He interrupted, drawing his hand downward, trailing over the soft dip of your belly now. “You know that…But you feel it regardless.”

His palm found your thigh–bare where your nightshirt had ridden up–and he let it rest there, cold and heavy. Possessive. The contrast of his icy skin on your overheated flesh made your whole body twitch.

Your heart was slamming in your chest now. Erratic. Desperate. You could hear it in your ears, feel it in your fingertips, in your pulsing core.

His thumb stroked slow, cold circles against the flesh of your thigh–each one burning in reverse. Your skin prickled with goosebumps even as heat started to pool low in your belly. The contact was barely pressure, but it might as well have been chains. You couldn’t move. Couldn’t breathe without taking more of him in.

His mouth hovered above yours, still not kissing. Still denying. Just close enough to own the air between you, to breathe you and all your sensations in.

Every breath you took was through him. And every breath he gave you, he took something with it.

“You’re wet,” He whispered, voice dark and delighted. “You’re shaking and aching–but you’re wet.”

His lips skimmed your cheek again. His nose nuzzled softly beneath your ear, like a lover might, if a lover was made of cold smoke and unspeakable things.

“That’s what scares you most, isn’t it?” He purred, a smile in his voice. “Not me. You. The part of you that wants this.”

Your breath hitched. You squeezed your eyes shut again. And of course–of course–that was when he said it:

“You’re pretending it’s him right now.”

Your whole body went still.

“You’re closing your eyes and painting his face over mine. Giving his heat to my hands. Imagining him finally breaking. Finally taking what he wants.”

His hand trailed upward, fingers brushing the crease where your thigh met your aching core.

You moaned–quiet and shameful.

“And that’s fine,” He whispered. “That’s exactly why I’m here.”

He exhaled again–his breath sliding straight into your mouth, down your throat, curling around your insides like frost. You trembled beneath it.

“I’m here because you want him so badly,” He teased, “You’ll let anyone who looks like him fuck you.”

His words struck hard, and heat flooded your face–burning your ears, your cheeks. You felt exposed. Humiliated. But your hips still shifted beneath his palm.

“You think it’s wrong,” He continued, as his fingers began drawing slow circles through the thin damp cotton of your underwear. “To be turned on by me.”

His voice dropped to a dangerous purr. “But it’s not...”

You gasped, trying to speak. But his hand lifted again–just enough to make your body whimper in protest at the loss.

His lips turned up against your jaw.

“Now,” He said, his voice velvet and bone. “Let’s make a deal.”

Your eyes fluttered open–blurry, dizzy, dazed.

His glowing ones were waiting for you.

“I’ll let you pretend that I’m him,” He whispered, voice like the crackle of burning ice, as his hand slipped up towards the waistband of your underwear, trailing his thumb along the elastic before disappearing beneath it–your thighs separating slightly, feeling his fingers find your clit instantly with cold perscision.

And you moaned–a soft, broken sound that escaped before you could stop it, muffled against his mouth as your lips hovered just shy of his. You weren’t even kissing yet, but it felt like you were inside it–like you were already swallowed whole by the gravity between you.

His breath hitched.

His thumb circled slowly, then again–each pass was more deliberate, more devastating. The heat building inside you was unbearable now, your thighs trembling, your core pulsing, your breath nothing but fractured gasps drawn from his air.

“You feel that?” He breathed, his voice like crushed silk, smooth and vicious. “That ache you’ve been living with for months–how easily it folds under my hand.”

You didn’t answer.

You couldn’t.

His fingers moved with cruel grace–unrelenting, skilled in a way that made your knees curl up slightly and your hips roll without thought. Like your body was begging him to stay there. To keep going.

“You don’t even need me to finish the offer, do you?” He whispered against your lips. “You already know what I’m giving you. And you want it.”

You trembled. “S-Say it anyway,” The words came out broken from your throat, distracted by the feeling of his fingers, and the thoughts of Bob plaguing your mind already.

His smile was carved ice.

“I’ll let you pretend I’m him. All night. I’ll make you sob for it. Shake. Come until you forget your name,” He purred, fingers still working slow, filthy circles that had your legs twitching. “And when morning comes, he won’t remember a thing. But you will. Every inch. Every sound. Every thrust.”

He leaned in, lips brushing yours, his breath catching on your next inhale. “You get to pretend he was brave enough to take what you gave him.”

The pad of his middle finger pressed down harder, applying the perfect hint pressure, and your head dropped back with a quiet, whimpering cry.

Then–his voice, low and demanding:

“So say…It’s a deal…”

Your answer wasn’t a whisper. It wasn’t broken.

It was plain. Certain. Cut from your throat like a spell:

“Yes.”

The Void groaned–dark and low, like he felt that word slide into him like lightning.

Then he kissed you.

It pulled you apart at the seams, stealing every breath and sound and shred of hesitation you had left. His lips were cold, brutal, claiming your mouth like it was already his. His tongue swept into you with a force that left no room for thinking, only reacting–tasting every gasp, every soft whimper, like he wanted to learn you from the inside out.

And all the while, his fingers never stopped.

Circling. Stroking. Pressing into that aching bundle of nerves with precision that felt unholy.

It wasn’t fair–how good it felt. Your thighs were trembling, your hands fisting in the sheets as your hips rolled helplessly beneath the weight of his palm. You weren’t guiding any of it anymore. Your body was answering him like a prayer–instinctive, desperate, worshipful.

The heat inside you was like a storm cracking through your core. Your belly tightened, breath stuttering, back arching as he kept his rhythm–slow enough to tease, hard enough to devastate. Your moans were muffled by his kiss, swallowed like secrets. But he heard them. He fed on them.

When he pulled back, a strand of spit still connected your lips to his, glistening between you in the dark.

“Look at you,” He murmured, voice low and reverent. “Already falling apart. And I’ve barely touched you.”

Your chest heaved, your skin burning with fevered need, your hands gripping the fabric beneath you like it was the only thing keeping you from floating away.

His fingers withdrew from your underwear–not to stop, but to hook into the waistband and pull them down your legs in a single smooth motion. You flinched, breath catching as the cool air hit your slick heat, now fully exposed.

The Void knelt on the edge of the bed, eyes drinking you in. His glowing stare raked over every inch of you–spread out, trembling, glistening with sweat and arousal, your thighs parted for him like an offering.

“Mine,” He said simply, cold fingers curling around your knees to drag you closer to the edge. “Even if he never dares to take you…You’re already mine.”

You gasped as he leaned in–and licked you.

One, slow stroke of his tongue from your core to your clit. Cold and so precise, you thought you might scream.

You let out soft sob–a broken, high sound that ripped from your throat without your permission.

His tongue pressed harder, licking again, again–unrelenting. Each movement of his mouth was calculated to destroy. To burn. He sucked your clit between his lips, not gently, but with purpose. Claiming. Consuming. You cried out, hands flying to his hair–or where his hair should’ve been. It wasn’t soft. It was smoke. Cold, silk-like shadow that rippled through your fingers, impossibly smooth.

And that was when he looked up.

Eyes like galaxies–white, blinding, ancient–locked onto yours, but all you could picture was Bob’s baby blues instead. You realized your face was wet. You were crying.

From the pleasure. From the ache that was finally being dealt with. From the heat and the way your own body was betraying every moral line you’d ever drawn.

He saw it.

And he moaned.

Low. Dark. A sound of pure, vicious delight.

“Oh…” He whispered, voice cracking like ice underfoot. His shadowed lips glistened with your slick as he rose up again, fingers returning to your clit again to keep the friction, stroking with even more purpose. “That’s what I wanted.”

His free hand cupped your cheek, tilting your face so he could see the tears streaming down your skin. His thumb smudged one under your eye, then dragged it to your mouth, pressing it between your parted lips.

“Open,” He commanded, voice honeyed with sin.

You listened to him, and felt the wet pad of his thumb press onto your tongue. You tasted the salt.

He smiled.

“Beautiful,” He breathed. “Fucking beautiful.”

And then he pushed two fingers inside you–slowly, and deliberately so he could watch every reaction come up on your face. His fingers curled just right, and your whole body arched–an electric jolt of pleasure snatching the breath from your lungs. You were spread wide for him now, every nerve ending lit, pulsing, raw. The tears on your cheeks hadn’t even dried, and he was already dragging another cry from your throat.

“You’re picturing him now, aren’t you?” The Void murmured, voice velvet over a blade. His forehead pressed against yours, his body so close you could feel the cold hum of his power licking against your skin. “Every time I move inside you… You pretend it’s him.”

You whimpered–because you were. You couldn’t help it.

You weren’t just picturing Bob’s face–you were reaching for his warmth, his shy hands, the softness in his voice, the revenant way he might have touched you if he weren’t so afraid. But The Void moved like he already knew everything Bob wouldn’t do.

And somehow, that hurt.

“You want it to be him,” The Void whispered, curling his fingers again, harder this time, making your eyes roll back. “Sweet, trembling Bob. Who’d kiss your thighs before he ever put his fingers in you. Who’d ask you twice if it’s okay. Who’d thank you when you came.”

He laughed softly, but not unkindly. The sound was dark–yes–but laced with something deeper. Possession. Hunger.

“Poor thing,” He crooned. “You’ve been dreaming of him for so long, you don’t even care who makes it real, do you? You just need it. You need to feel.”

His fingers began to thrust now–slow, deep, deliberate. Every motion wrung a moan from your mouth. Your hips moved helplessly with his rhythm, chasing friction, chasing something that felt dangerously close to breaking again.

“But I can do it for him,” The Void purred, his lips grazing your jaw, your ear, your temple. “I can fuck you like he never will. Let you feel what it’s like to be wanted without the fear of ruining your little friendship. Touched without hesitation.”

Your breath hitched. Your legs trembled. His thumb returned to your clit and circled–one cruel, precise motion that made your whole body lock up in place.

“You want to hear him say it?” The Void asked. “You want to hear what he’d never dare whisper in your ear?”

You couldn’t even answer. Your mouth opened–but the sound that came out was just a needy little gasp, half-sob, half-beg.

He smiled–so close you could taste it. Then–

“You feel so fucking perfect,” He whispered, but it was Bob’s voice now.

Or at least, it was close. A mimic. A shadow with just enough truth to break you.

“I think about this every night. Your skin under my hands. The sounds you’d make. The way your thighs would tremble when I finally touched you like this–” His fingers thrust harder–deep and brutal and exact “–God, sweetheart. I’d ruin you.”

You moaned–loud and raw, your whole body jolting at the sound of those words in his voice. You weren’t just picturing him now–you were with him. In some twisted way, he was here, folded into the darkness.

“I’d kiss you everywhere,” The Void murmured, still using Bob’s warmth, that breathless awe, as if he knew exactly how Bob would sound if he let go. “Worship you. Fuck you slow until you cried.”

His fingers drove deeper. Your orgasm clawed at your spine–hot, frantic, building fast.

“You’d let me, wouldn’t you?” He whispered, back in his own voice now. “You’d let him fall apart inside you.”

You nodded–desperate, whimpering, eyes wet again.

“Then do it,” He hissed. “Come for him, and then let me take you...”

That was it.

The wave crashed.

You shattered.

Your mouth dropped open, a silent cry tearing from your chest as you pulsed hard around his fingers–clenching, sobbing, breaking on the pleasure that stole your name and your breath in one brutal, beautiful stroke.

And as you came, The Void held you–his body pressed against yours like a shroud, his cheek to yours, his fingers still pumping slowly and deep to drag every last aftershock from your spent, and shuddering body.

“There you go,” He cooed, voice a low, tender growl. “Cry for me, pretty thing.”

He kissed your temple softly, before trailing his lips along the set of tears that slipped down your cheeks.

Your chest rose and fell in stuttered waves, limbs limp and trembling beneath him. Every inch of you throbbed, overstimulated, but not satiated. Not completely. Because his fingers were still inside you—slow now, gentler, curling with reverence as he coaxed the last pulses of your orgasm from deep within.

Your cheek pressed against his shoulder, slick with sweat and tears. And when your lips parted, your voice came out cracked–rasped from the inside out:

“Fuck…” You breathed, “That was–God, that was good…”

The Void stilled for just a moment.

Then his smile returned–sharp and cold and devastatingly pleased. He leaned back to look at you, eyes glowing with that eerie celestial light, drinking in your wrecked form.

“You liked that,” He said softly. Not a question.

Your hips shifted involuntarily, and your breath hitched. His fingers were still inside you, still nestled where you were slick and twitching around him. He pulled them back slightly–just enough to make you whimper.

“I knew you would,” He murmured. “But that?” His eyes darkened. “That was only the beginning.”

Your eyes fluttered open, still glassy, still wet.

He leaned in, pressing a slow kiss to the side of your throat–then another, lower, near your collarbone.

“I think I can make you come a few more times,” He whispered against your skin. “Or make you beg louder. Or shake so bad you forget what planet you’re on.”

You whimpered, the sound caught halfway between arousal and disbelief. He was still moving–slow, hypnotic thrusts of his fingers, shallow and wet, punctuated by the brush of his palm against your clit.

“I could do it again,” He offered, voice molten silk. “Right now. Just like this.”

You moaned, legs twitching under him, your nails digging into his back–into smoke and shadow that somehow felt like flesh.

“Or,” He continued, pulling back just enough to let you see the tilt of his grin–wolfish, dark, almost giddy with the hunt. “We could go deeper.”

His free hand slipped between your bodies, trailing down.

You followed his gaze down to where his other hand was reaching–toward the shadow that made up his lower half, that strange blend of form and nothingness, unreal and solid all at once. His fingers curled into it like mist–like he was parting smoke–and then, impossibly, flesh formed. Real. Heavy. Hard.

You gasped, eyes widening, your thighs tightening reflexively.

Because he wasn’t just teasing anymore.

He was becoming, and your breath caught. You felt his fingers slipping out of you.

“I told you,” He purred, watching your face intently, hand now slowly stroking himself to full form. “I’ll let you pretend.”

His hips pressed closer–just enough that you could feel the heat of him, the weight of him, thick and cold against the sensitive inside of your thigh.

“But this part?” He whispered, mouth brushing yours. “This is ours…”

He rutted slowly once against you, just to make you feel it–slick from your own release, heavy where it nestled against your folds. Not inside. Not yet.

“I can make you see stars,” He said, and this time there was something almost reverent in his voice. “But only if you want it.”

You looked at him–at those impossible eyes, that cruel mouth now softened by the barest trace of awe. You swallowed hard, still trembling from the last orgasm that hadn’t quite left your body–and yet, your breath was already quickening again.

Your lips brushed his as you whispered, “Let’s try.”

The moment the words left your mouth, the world seemed to shift.

The Void moved faster than thought–one moment he was kneeling over you like a storm, the next he was lifting you effortlessly into the air, your body limp and pliant in his cold hands. He cradled you with ease, his strength vast but controlled, like gravity bent to his will. And then he sat.

Pulling you into his lap.

You landed straddling him, thighs trembling as you folded around him, knees bent on either side of his hips, his chest flush against yours. It was an impossible contrast–intimate, meditative, sacred–and yet soaked in power, in shadow, in lust. Your legs wrapped around him, feet tucked behind his back, body completely enveloped in his. His arms cradled your waist, his hands spanning your lower back and hips like they were made to hold you this way. The cool weight of his cock pulsed against your core–thick and solid now, slick from your arousal and his own precum, perfectly aligned with your entrance. But before he moved–he looked at you.

Really looked.

Glowing eyes drank in your flushed cheeks, your sweat-slicked skin, your trembling lips. Then, one hand reached up–slowly, reverently–and gripped the hem of your nightshirt.

“Off,” He murmured.

You raised your arms, and he pulled it over your head with one smooth motion dropping it off the side of the bed.

His breath–if it could be called that–hitched. Visibly. Audibly.

He stared like he hadn’t just undressed you–but like he’d uncovered something holy. His palms rose reverently to your chest, cool thumbs brushing softly over your nipples before flattening his hands to feel the curve and weight of you. You gasped, arching slightly, the contrast of his chill against your overheated skin enough to make your breath falter.

Then–he leaned in.

And sank his teeth into the soft underside of your breast.

Not hard. But deliberate. A nip that sent shockwaves down your spine, followed by the cold, wet drag of his tongue as he licked over the mark he left behind. And then he sucked. Deep. Long. Obsessive. His mouth sealed over your skin with a hunger that made your thighs clench tighter around his hips.

Another kiss. Another bite. Another bruise left behind like a brand.

His voice, muffled against your chest, purred, “You’re mine for tonight…But I want you wearing me for days…”

His hands gripped your hips, adjusting the angle of your body until the head of his cock slid against your folds–slow, teasing friction that sent a tremble rolling through you both.

He rutted upward once–just enough to make your breath catch and your slick spread over him in a glossy smear. He groaned softly, dragging the thick head of himself over your clit and down again, never breaching–just letting the sensation throb between you.

“Feel that?” He asked, his lips brushing your nipple before he kissed it again–wet and possessive. “You’re making me this hard… Just by looking like this. Crying like that. And you still haven’t taken me inside.”

You whimpered, shivering against him, your forehead pressed to his shoulder.

He pulled back–his hands trailing along your sides until one gripped your ass, fingers spreading the flesh like he owned it, while the other slid up your spine and settled flat against your back. Cold. Claiming.

Then, his mouth curved into something wicked at your ear.

“I’m gonna fuck you now, sweetheart,” He whispered, voice dark silk, low and promising. “Nice and slow. Let you feel every inch sink in while I hold you like this–while I make you forget who you were before I touched you.”Your body responded before your words could. Your hips rolled forward–seeking. Inviting.

He smiled.

And helped you lower yourself.

You gasped–both of you did–as the head of him breached your entrance. You felt him twitch against your fluttering walls as he pushed in, inch by inch, thick and ice-slick and infinite. The stretch was sharp, hot despite his coldness, and your fingernails bit into his shoulders as you buried your face in the crook of his neck.

“Fuck—” he choked, his voice breaking for the first time. His hand on your back raked downward–fingertips dragging along your spine like he was trying to anchor himself to your heat. “You’re so—tight. So wet. It’s like—fuck, it’s like drowning in fire…”

He sank in deeper, inch by inch, until your thighs trembled and your moan broke open against his skin.

His mouth pressed to your temple, to your jaw, to your shoulder–his lips and teeth grazing every part of you he could reach as he bottomed out, his cock fully sheathed inside you.

One hand held you at the base of your spine, the other gripping your ass tight, grounding you as you both breathed through it.

“I’ve waited eons to feel this,” He whispered, kissing the tear-tracks on your cheeks as your bodies finally stilled–locked together, shaking, throbbing, full. He just held you there–trembling, locked around him like your body had been sculpted for this exact moment. You could feel every inch of him inside you, feel how he throbbed cold and thick against the fluttering pulse of your inner walls. Your forehead was pressed against his shoulder, your breath stuttering in and out of your lungs as your body adjusted to the invasion, to the way he filled every aching space inside you.

Then his hand slid higher–up your spine, over your shoulder, until it gripped the back of your neck.

“Lift your head,” He commanded, voice dark silk wrapped around barbed wire.

You obeyed without thinking, tilting your chin up to meet his eyes.

“More,” He growled. “I want that pretty throat bared for me.”

You arched your neck–slow, trembling, exposing the vulnerable column of your throat to him. The movement made your body shift around him, made your inner muscles clench, and he groaned like it took effort not to slam into you.

“God, look at you,” he whispered, reverent now–hungry. “So obedient. So fucking beautiful like this…”

Then he leaned in–and dragged his teeth down your exposed neck, going to the little space right where your jugular notch is, the soft dip where the mark would be hidden beneath a shirt.

His bite sent lightning down your spine–sharp, claiming, undeniable. You cried out, arching into it, your hips shifting involuntarily around the thick stretch of him still buried inside you. And then his mouth lifted from your skin, and his voice rasped against your throat—ragged now, edged with something more dangerous than control.

“I’m going to leave a mark there,” he growled. “Where only I will know. Where he will never dare to look.”

And then his hand–still braced at the back of your neck–scraped down your spine.

His nails weren’t blunt. Not human. They dragged like talons, cold and precise, raking over your skin in slow, deliberate lines. You gasped–half in pain, half in stunned, coiling pleasure–as red-hot welts bloomed in their wake. Your back arched, offering more, shivering for more, even as your throat formed a soundless whimper.

“You feel that?” The Void purred, voice low and taunting. “That’s not his touch. Bob could never do this to you.”

Your fingers clawed at his shoulders, nails digging into the slick cold of his not-skin.

And then, you said it.

“Bob…”

You felt the growl before you heard it. A deep, guttural noise vibrated from his chest and into yours. His hands snapped to your hips, fingers digging hard into your flesh as he slammed up into you–one hard, vicious thrust that ripped a sob from your lips.

“Say it again,” He hissed. “Say it while I fuck you like he never will.”

“Bob—” You moaned, desperate, wrecked.

He thrust again. Harder. Sharper. The sound of your bodies colliding echoed off the walls.

“Say it like you mean it,” He snarled, thrusting so deep your breath left your lungs.

“Fuck—Bob, yes—”

His rhythm turned brutal–deliberate and punishing, like he wanted to carve himself into your memory one thrust at a time. His grip on your hips tightened until it bordered on bruising, dragging you down to meet every savage snap of his hips.

But you weren’t passive.

You moved with him.

Clawing at his back. Grinding down. Letting your lips ghost over his neck, whispering, “You’d never touch me like this if you were really him.”

He froze. Just for a second.

And you took it.

You rolled your hips, grinding down, deep and slow—until he moaned.

His grip faltered. Just a touch.

And you smiled—broken, breathless, wild.

“You hate it, don’t you?” You gasped into his ear. “That I’m still thinking of him. That even while you’re inside me, I want his hands.”

The Void snapped.

He flipped you again, this time with no gentleness, slamming you down onto your back and dragging your legs wide around his waist. His hands pinned your wrists above your head, and he drove into you with a snarl.

“Say his name again, and I’ll make sure you never stop shaking,” He growled, hips rutting into yours with devastating force.

“Bob—” You cried out, defiant and desperate.

And he fucked you harder.

Flesh and smoke. Fire and ice. The rhythm of him was relentless now–like he wanted to break you open and live inside the pieces.

His hand released your wrists only to grab your throat, tilting your face toward his as he hovered above you, his glowing eyes wild and endless.

“I could make you forget who he even is,” He rasped. “I could fuck you so deep you only remember me.”

You moaned beneath him, arching up, mouth open and shaking.

But your whisper cut sharper than any scream.

“Then why do you still wear his face?”

He froze.

The Void’s eyes flared–bright and blinding, rage and lust and something else fracturing through them.

Then he slammed into you.

And again.

No words. Just motion. Just force.

You cried out–louder now–legs wrapped around his waist, arms clawing at his back as he fucked you like he wanted to erase you.

And all you could do was sob his name–

“Bob—Bob—Bob—”

Until the only thing left between you was ruin. You couldn’t tell where the line was anymore–between pain and pleasure, between him and Bob, between your own cries and the desperate slap of skin against skin as he drove himself into you, unrelenting, and grinding. The bed rocked beneath you, headboard thudding rhythmically against the wall, and your fingers gripped the sheets like they were your last tether to this world.

His body–cold and massive and utterly inhuman–pinned you to the mattress, his cock grinding against your cervix with merciless precision. You were gasping. Choking. Drowning in the force of him, and still, you begged.

“More—please, more—”

His hand released your throat only to slide up, gripping your jaw and forcing you to meet his eyes. You couldn’t look away–not from those twin galaxies of void-light, those pale endless pits that saw everything.

And still, you moaned, “Bob—”

Something inside him snapped.

His mouth crashed into yours–devouring. Teeth and tongue and cold, silken fury. He kissed you like he wanted to brand you from the inside. Like he wanted to replace every soft memory of the man you loved with something brutal and monstrous.

And you let him.

You felt his hand slide between your bodies, slick with sweat and your own release, and then his thumb was on your clit again–pressing, circling, wrecking. It was too much. Too much.

“Come again,” He growled, breath ragged now. “Come while I’m inside you. Come while you scream his name.”

You tried to fight it. Tried to last.

But your body betrayed you.

Your back arched, a broken sound clawing out of your throat as your walls seized around him–tight, wet, desperate. The world fractured. Your vision went white. Your soul splintered.

And you screamed.

“BOB—!”

The Void shuddered–his whole body jerking above you like he felt that cry inside him. He snarled against your mouth, hips snapping once, twice—and then he came with a sound like a god falling.

He didn’t moan.

He groaned, deep and guttural, his cock twitching violently as he spilled inside you–cold and endless, filling you with something that didn’t feel like seed, but like starlight and sorrow and shadow. You felt it in your bones, like he was pouring the universe into you, and you were too full to hold it all.

You lay there–limp, splayed, twitching beneath him. Your thighs trembling, your chest heaving, your voice cracked to nothing. His body slumped over yours–heavy despite the fact that he wasn’t entirely real. His mouth pressed against your temple, breathless and cold.

For a moment, there was no sound.

Only the echo of your own heartbeat pounding in your ears.

Then–

He kissed you.

Soft this time. A brush of lips over sweat-damp skin. Reverent. Almost… mournful.

“I felt it,” He whispered, voice raw, his hand smoothing up your ribs, cradling your side. “When you said his name.”

You swallowed–barely able to lift your head.

“I know you wanted it to be him,” He murmured. “But I made you come like that.”

Your chest rose and fell beneath him, still trying to catch your breath. He shifted–still inside you–grinding just once more, like he wanted to remind you of who had taken you.

“I made you cry. I filled you up. And when you’re lying awake tomorrow, remembering how your body shook around me, how your thighs wouldn’t stop trembling–I want you to remember that it was me. Not him.”

Your eyes fluttered–dazed. But you didn’t fight him.

You didn’t correct him.

His body finally softened, pulling back slightly. His hands cupped your face again–his fingers gentle now, brushing hair from your damp forehead. His glow was dimmer. Quieter. Like a storm that had passed.

“You’ll wake up in a few hours,” He said softly. “And this will feel like a dream.”

You blinked.

He leaned in–kissed the corner of your mouth.

“But your body will remember.”

Then he was gone.

Just like that.

Vanished into the shadow he’d emerged from, the cold lifting from the room like a ghost fleeing dawn.

And you lay there alone–aching, shaking, legs still parted, chest still rising in broken little gasps.

Your bed was wet with sweat. Your throat burned.

Your lips still tingled.

And between your thighs–you could feel him. The stretch. The soreness. The echo of every thrust, every word, every impossible truth.

And worse–

The only name in your mouth…

Was Bob.

——————————

The room stayed cold even after he was gone. The shadows thinned, but they didn’t leave—not entirely. Not the way you needed them to. Not the way your body needed to pretend they hadn’t coiled around you and taken.

You stayed in the bed for a while–numb, ruined, staring at the ceiling while your breath evened out in small, ragged hiccups. The sheets were tangled around your thighs, soaked with sweat and something colder. Your legs ached. Your throat was raw. Your lips still felt the press of his.

Eventually, you sat up. Slow. Careful. Your body protested with every movement. Your thighs trembled when they parted. The ache between your legs was still sharp. Deep. Your skin pulled tight across your spine where the claw marks lay–raised and hot, stinging in the silence.

You didn’t bother covering yourself. There was no one in the room. No one to hide from. No one but yourself.

So you stood.

Naked.

Shaking.

And walked toward the bathroom.

The ensuite light was harsh when it flickered on. Your eyes burned as they adjusted. You blinked a few times, reached out with a trembling hand, and braced yourself against the edge of the sink.

Then you looked up.

The mirror didn’t lie.

Your neck was littered with marks–some small, like whispers of bruises blooming beneath your skin. Others were deeper. More deliberate. A bite just above your collarbone, swollen and red, already darkening. Scratches raked across your shoulder blades. Finger-shaped bruises on your hips.

And lower…

You pressed your thighs together. A slow throb pulsed between them. Not just soreness. Memory.

You stared at yourself for a long time. Chest rising and falling. Eyes wide and hollow. A stranger’s reflection wrapped in the echo of your own desire.

And then you turned the water on.

You didn’t wash like someone scrubbing sin away. You didn’t cry beneath the stream. There were no cinematic gasps or moments of clarity.

You just showered.

Quietly.

Efficiently.

Water warm. Hands gentle. You cleaned yourself like someone who knew there was no washing him out. Not really. His fingerprints were inside you now. Beneath the surface. Carved into your bones like frost.

You stepped out twenty minutes later. Toweled off. Dressed in the softest pair of sweatpants you owned and an oversized sweater that used to belong to Bucky–you wore it on days where you were feeling down. You weren’t sure if today qualified.

Your hair was damp. Your neck stung. Your thighs still trembled when you walked.

But you opened the door anyway.

You stepped out into the hallway.

The early morning compound light was a pale gold, spilling through the windows like it always did. You could hear coffee brewing in the common kitchen. The low murmur of Ava and Walker arguing over cereal. The sound of normal.

You walked forward, bare feet silent against the cool floor, your breath caught in your throat–

And then you saw him.

Bob.

Standing a few feet away. Slouched against the hallway wall in flannel pajama pants and a black hoodie, a mug in one hand, the other rubbing at his tired eyes. His hair was messy, cowlicked from sleep. His expression soft and bleary, like he’d just woken up.

He looked up at you.

And smiled.

Gentle.

Warm.

Untouched.

“Morning,” he said softly, nodding at you.

Like nothing had happened.

Like he hadn’t been inside you just hours ago. Like he hadn’t made you scream his name until your voice gave out. Like he didn’t still live inside the stretch of your aching body.

Your mouth opened.

But you didn’t say anything.

You just nodded back.

“Morning.”

He walked past you with another sleepy smile, mumbling something about getting more coffee, and disappeared around the corner.

And you stood there, alone in the hallway, wrapped in a sweater two sizes too big, your thighs still sticky from the night before–

Wondering how long it would be before you stopped pretending it had been a dream.

Or if you even wanted to.

3K notes · View notes

stylesispunk · 2 months ago

Text

"I don't want to look at anything else but you"

post outbreak! Joel miller x f!reader

summary: You and Joel had found peace in the quiet life you had built together in Jackson. Despite him hurting from the growing distance between him and Ellie, he knows he has you and you have his back.

wc: 6,4k >

warnings: a bit of angst for joel but is mostly fluff. Age gap but not specified. Remember English is not my first language and i'm lazy when it comes to checking.

a/n: okay. I didn't write a lot of blind faith during this week and I'm giving you this other joel fic as a sorry and because i'm already grieving Joel. I hope you like it 💌

dividers by @/saradika-graphics

Ever since you and Joel had settled into a normal life in Jackson. The dynamic between the two of you changed. The cold mornings spent outdoors turned into mornings wrapped in sheets. The two of you, your head on his chest and his arms around your waist. The closest thing to normalcy Joel had experienced since the world had ended that September, years ago.

It wasn’t the easiest path, not for him, not for you. Years ago, when everything was ash and violence, the QZ had been nothing more than a temporary shelter with concrete walls and a rot at its core. But somehow, even in that godforsaken place, you had found Joel. Or maybe he had found you. Either way, you clung to each other like driftwood in a storm.

He was older, weathered by loss, hard edges and thick walls that didn’t crumble easily. And you—well, you were younger, yes, but you’d seen enough to understand him without needing him to say a word. That’s what got him first. The way you looked at him—not with pity, not like someone trying to fix him—but like you saw straight through him and chose to stay anyway.

You were a constant when the world refused to be. He never told you just how much that meant, how many nights he laid awake beside you in the QZ, eyes tracing the ceiling, wondering what he had done to deserve someone like you. Maybe he didn’t deserve it. But you stayed. Even when the Fireflies whispered about change. Even when the world outside called to you both with the promise of something more.

And then came Ellie. The girl who turned everything upside down. The moment Joel took her in, you followed without hesitation. You were the only one who never questioned him—not when he made the choice that changed everything. You held his secret like your own, wore the burden of it in silence. And when the truth finally tore open the fragile thread between Joel and Ellie, you were the one caught in the middle. Not because you chose to be—but because you loved them both.

Ellie had barely spoken to Joel in months now, but you still caught her glancing toward your porch sometimes, like she missed him but couldn’t quite forgive. You didn’t push. You gave her space, the same way you gave Joel comfort. Even when he didn’t say it, you could feel the guilt radiating off him in waves—quiet, heavy, and relentless.

But he still came home to you. Always. His hands shaking slightly when he poured whiskey into a glass at night, the ghosts of the past flickering behind his tired eyes. And you would press your fingers to the side of his face and whisper that he was not the man he used to be. That maybe, finally, after all this time, he deserved peace.

He didn’t say much in response. Joel wasn’t one for poetry or declarations. But his love was in the way he kissed your forehead in the mornings before you even opened your eyes. It was in the way he made sure the firewood was stacked high so you’d never get cold. It was in every silent glance across a crowded dining hall, in every soft murmur against your temple when the nightmares woke him.

Joel had built a warm home for you. A place where the both of you would end up dying after cherishing all the loved you shared for each other. After a fulfilled life, a happy life.

He became a fundamental part of Jackson, a community that grew every year thanks to his efforts and help. A community where he had become loved, and not just by you. While Joel reviewed maps and extensions that could continue to be built, you were part of the group patrolling the outskirts of Jackson.

And when you rode out past the gates on patrol, he stood on that damn porch, arms crossed, waiting for your silhouette to disappear into the trees. He never said “be careful,” never asked you to stay. Because he knew you wouldn’t. But he always waited.

Because no matter how many years passed, no matter what came between him and the world, he knew one thing:

You were the one thing he had never wanted to live without. He would rather die before seeing life leaving your body in a lifeless frame.

Joel had built a warm home for you. A place where the both of you would end up dying after cherishing all the loved you shared for each other. After a fulfilled life, a happy life.

Today was one of those freezing days of winter when snow covered all paths. You'd been riding with Rick for nearly two hours in silence, save for the sound of snow crunching under your horses’ hooves and the occasional radio crackle from the patrol team. The morning was cold, but sunlight still broke through the trees in patches, casting gold across the frostbitten forest. You were glad for the silence. Patrols were always easier when you didn’t have to think too hard.

But Rick was fidgeting.

You noticed it as you dismounted to check the broken fence line on the north perimeter. He stayed unusually close behind you, clearing his throat every few seconds like he was about to say something and then thinking better of it.

You finally turned to him with a raised brow, snowflakes sticking to your lashes.

“Spit it out, Rick. You’re twitchier than a Clicker.”

He looked at you, flushed already from the cold but turning visibly redder. “Okay, so—I wasn’t gonna say anything. Like… ever. But if I don’t, I think I’m gonna explode or something.”

You leaned on the post you were fixing and blinked. “That sounds dramatic.”

“It is. I’m being dramatic,” he admitted, letting out a nervous laugh. “Look, I know you’re with Joel. Everybody knows you’re with Joel. Joel definitely knows you’re with Joel. And he could probably kill me with, like, a stare. But… I kinda like you. I have for a while.”

You stared at him, hammer halfway raised, not sure if you’d misheard him or if he’d actually just said that. “Rick.”

“I know! I know. It’s not cool. It’s kind of stupid. But I figured maybe if I just said it out loud once, I could move on and stop acting like a dumbass every time you’re around.” He ran a hand over his face, half laughing, half mortified. “Jesus, you’re gonna tell Joel and he’s gonna bury me under the tomato garden, huh?”

You couldn’t help it—you laughed. Hard. Rick blinked at you like he wasn’t sure whether he’d just been spared or sentenced.

“I’m not gonna tell Joel,”You said, still chuckling as you shook your head. “Unless I need leverage to make him do the dishes.”

Rick exhaled loudly, shoulders slumping in relief. “God, please don’t do that.”

“Hey, I might. That’s premium blackmail material,” you teased, giving him a playful nudge with your elbow before getting back to work on the fence. “Look, I appreciate the honesty. I really do. It’s weird—but kinda sweet, in a ‘high school crush’ kind of way.”

He gave you a sheepish smile. “I’ll take it.”

“But Rick,” you added, glancing at him from the corner of your eye, your voice gentler now, “Joel’s it for me. I love him. He is my husband, law or not law. You know that, right?”

“I do,” he said quietly. “Hell, everyone does. Just needed to clear my chest.”

“Well, chest cleared,” you said, patting him once on the shoulder. “Now let’s go back to our work or something. You’re not gonna make me do all the work just because you embarrassed yourself, are you?”

He laughed, finally relaxing. “Nah, I’ll take point. You just hang back and bask in the awkwardness.”

“Perfect,” you muttered, smirking as you mounted your horse.

As the two of you rode off, the moment settled behind you like footprints in snow. Something a little strange, a little uncomfortable—but harmless. You knew Rick wouldn’t cross any lines. He wasn’t that kind of guy. And besides, by the time the sun dipped low and Jackson came into view again, your thoughts were already back home.

To the porch where Joel would be waiting, arms crossed.

To the way his jaw would twitch the moment he saw you, trying and failing to hide the relief in his eyes. To the warmth of his hand on the small of your back when he pulled you close and muttered, “Took you long enough.”

Because no matter what happened outside those walls, you always came back to him. You always would.

The sun had dipped behind the trees by the time you and Rick made it back to Jackson. The patrol had been uneventful after the confession—thank God—and Rick had thankfully returned to his usual self, cracking a dumb joke or two to break the tension. You left him at the stables with a casual wave, brushing the snow off your coat as you handed off the reins.

As you stepped out into the chilly late afternoon, your breath puffed white in the air. The lanterns strung along Jackson's paths were starting to flicker on, casting a golden hue over the snow-covered streets. You shoved your gloved hands into your pockets and turned toward home.

And then you saw Joel walking your way, just down the path near the greenhouse, shoulders relaxed in that slow way of his, with the glasses still perched low on his nose that made you pause and smile like a fool. He rarely kept them on outside. Said they made him look “too damn old.” But there they were, catching the glow of the lanterns as he walked, reviewing something in a worn notebook like the world wasn’t even there.

He looked up as if sensing you before he even saw you.

The second his eyes found yours, his entire face shifted—like watching ice melt under a flame. His mouth tugged into a lopsided smile, soft and real and just for you. And God, it still got you. After all this time. After all the hell, the healing, the hurt—he still looked at you like that.

“You’re late,” he said, voice low and warm as he closed the notebook and tucked it under his arm.

“You’re wearing your glasses,” you replied, unable to keep the grin off your face.

He huffed. “Didn’t mean to. Just got caught up in the numbers. Didn’t wanna strain my damn eyes again.”

You stepped closer, heart easing in your chest the way it always did when he was near. “You look good.”

Joel gave you a look, tilting his head. “You makin’ fun of me?”

“No,” you said, wrapping your arms around his middle. “I mean it. There’s something kind of... sexy librarian about you.”

He let out a dry laugh, hand coming up to tug the glasses off and hook them into the collar of his shirt. “You’re ridiculous.”

“I know, but you love it, though”

“I do,” he said without hesitation, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Then his gaze shifted a little more serious, a little softer. “Everything go alright out there?”

You nodded, leaning your shoulder into his chest. “Yeah. Nothing we couldn’t handle. Rick confessed his love for me, though.”

Joel stopped mid-step. “He what?”

You burst out laughing at his expression. “It was harmless. Kind of awkward. I think he mostly just needed to say it to get it off his chest.”

Joel raised an eyebrow, but there wasn’t an ounce of jealousy in his face, just amused disbelief. “Poor boy.”

“Right?” you said, still grinning. “He looked like he was about to faint. Said you’d probably bury him under the tomato garden.”

Joel gave a thoughtful nod. “Not a bad idea.”

You swatted his arm as he slipped an arm around your shoulder, pulling you close against him. His body was warm, solid, familiar.

“You know I only love one grumpy man in this town,” you murmured, tucking your hand into the space between his coat and flannel.

He looked down at you, something tender and unspoken in his eyes. “I know.”

Your steps slowed, gravel crunching gently beneath your boots as the space between the two of you closed even more. You turned to face him, chin tilted up, your hands sliding into the open edges of his coat to rest against his chest.

Joel's brows lifted just a bit, eyes flickering between yours and your mouth. He didn’t say anything, didn’t need to. You leaned up and kissed him softly—just enough to make him pause and breathe you in. His hand cupped your jaw, thumb brushing over your cheek in that way that always made you feel like you were something rare. Something precious.

The kiss lingered, unhurried and warm in the freezing air.

When you pulled back, your forehead rested against his. “Tell me about your day,” you whispered.

Joel hummed low in his chest, his nose brushing against yours. “Not as excitin’ as yours, apparently,” he muttered, and you could hear the faint smirk in his voice.

You grinned. “Still wanna hear about it.”

He sighed, but it was soft. Content. “Well, I argued with Tommy about expanding the southeast fence. Again. He’s still convinced we need to pull it in tighter. I told him he’s just scared of dealing with the extra patrols.”

You chuckled. “He is scared of extra patrols.”

“Damn right,” Joel muttered, clearly pleased you agreed. “Helped Maria sort through some of the winter inventory. Got roped into fixing a leaky pipe in the clinic because somebody thought I was the only one with ‘good hands.’”

You looked up at him with a grin. “Well… they’re not wrong.”

That made him laugh again, the sound low and rough and good. “Are you flirting with me, darlin’?”

“Maybe.”

“After all these years?”

“Especially after all these years.”

He leaned down and pressed a kiss to your temple, his lips lingering for a beat. “You keep that up and I’m gonna have to warm you up properly once we get inside.”

You raised a brow. “Promise?”

Joel groaned and gave a playful shake of his head. “You’re trouble.”

“You love it,” you said again, smiling as you slipped your hand into his and started walking toward home, where the hearth was probably still warm and the bed even warmer.

And God, you really did love this life. This normal, beautiful, quiet life with him.

As you reached your home, Joel’s hand squeezed yours gently before slipping away. He paused on the porch, his eyes drawn toward the garage across the yard. A faint flicker of light glowed from the crack beneath the door, soft, irregular, probably from that old lamp Ellie refused to replace. You followed his gaze, the air suddenly still around the two of you.

“She’s in there,” Joel murmured, his voice lower now. Not tense, exactly—but something sad, almost wary. You knew that tone. He’d been using it a lot when it came to her lately.

You nodded, shrugging off your coat. “Yeah, she seems to spend a lot of time in there.”

Joel lingered, eyes fixed on the garage like he could see right through the wall and into her thoughts. “Do you know if she’s going to the New Year’s thing tonight?”

You turned to look at him, reaching out to take his gloves from him as he pulled them off. “She didn’t say a lot to me this morning.”

Joel nodded; lips pressed into a thin line. He looked older when he worried—shoulders heavier, jaw tighter. “I wouldn’t blame her if she doesn´t.”

“Things are different now,” you said softly, brushing a bit of snow off his shoulder. “She’s still figuring out how to be... okay with everything. With you, okay. With both of us.”

“I don’t blame her,” he said after a moment. “I just… I hate not knowing how to make it better.”

You stepped closer, resting a hand against his chest. “Maybe it’s not the right time. You’re still here, waiting, still being there for her.”

Joel didn’t answer right away. He looked at the garage one more time, eyes soft with a regret and longing, something like hope, but worn thin.

Then he turned back to you, lips brushing your forehead as he let out a long breath. “C’mon,” he said quietly. “Let’s get inside before you freeze that smart mouth off.”

You smiled and nudged the door open. “Too bad. I had plans to use it tonight.”

Joel laughed under his breath as he followed you inside, letting the door close gently behind you.

The world felt warm and still when you opened your eyes.

That fuzzy kind of stillness where the light was soft and golden through the curtains, and your limbs were heavy in the best way—boneless and relaxed under the weight of a thick quilt. You blinked slowly, adjusting to the calm, to the scent of pine still lingering from the firewood and Joel’s flannel shirt close by.

Your head was resting on his lap.

Joel sat slouched back against the couch cushions, legs stretched out, a book open in one hand, his glasses pushed up the bridge of his nose. He hadn’t noticed you waking yet. Or maybe he had, and just didn’t say anything.

The fingers of his free hand combed lazily through your hair, tracing slow, thoughtful paths over your scalp and down to the nape of your neck. Over and over again, like it was as natural to him now as breathing. That kind of tenderness that wasn’t loud or showy, just there—anchoring and steady.

You smiled, sleep still in your voice. “You’re gonna put me right back to sleep doing that.”

Joel’s eyes flicked down from the page to meet yours, and a slow smile spread across his face. “That a bad thing?”

“No,” you murmured, shifting just slightly to curl closer into his thigh. “It’s a really, really good thing.”

He hummed, the sound vibrating through his chest, low and warm. His thumb brushed along your temple in a soft arc. “Didn’t mean to wake you. You were out cold.”

“Blame your lap. It’s cozy.”

He chuckled, eyes returning briefly to his book. “Didn’t think you’d fall asleep halfway through tellin’ me about how Rick nearly dropped his gun while trying to impress you.”

“He did!” you laughed, eyes closing again. “It slipped right outta the holster when he tried to be all cool and stretch like nothing hurt. I nearly fell off the damn horse.”

Joel shook his head, the quiet amusement clear in his face. “Man’s a disaster.”

“Mmm, but at least a harmless one,” you yawned.

Another beat passed, quiet except for the sound of pages turning and the fireplace crackling low in the background. His fingers never stopped moving in your hair.

“Do you ever miss it?” you asked softly, not even sure where the question had come from. “Before here. All the chaos we used to live in. The constant movement. The adrenaline.”

Joel’s hand slowed, just slightly. You felt the pause. Then the steady rhythm picked up again, gentler.

“Sometimes,” he admitted after a moment. “Not the danger, but the feeling of having to keep going. No room to think too hard. Now Ellie doesn’t talk to me.

You nodded; eyes still closed. “That would be temporary, you know.”

“Yeah.” His voice lowered, more thoughtful. “But I’d trade a hundred years of running for one of these. You and me like this.

That made you laugh again, and his hand cradled the back of your head as you shifted to look up at him.

“You’re getting soft in your old age, Miller.”

He looked down at you over the rim of his glasses, brow raised. “Say that again and see if I let you keep using my lap as a pillow.”

You smirked. “You’d miss me.”

“I would,” he said quietly, and just like that, the teasing faded into something real.

You smiled at him, “I should start getting ready for the party tonight.”

“You look perfect just like this.”

“How romantic, Joel Miller, but I probably smell bad.”

Joel snorted softly, eyes crinkling at the corners as he closed the book and set it aside. “Darlin’, we’ve both smelled worse. Remember when we reached Bill’s house?”

You groaned dramatically, burying your face into his thigh. “Don’t remind me. That was not my best moment.”

“I didn’t mind it then either,” he said, his fingers grazing down your jaw, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You could be covered in mud and I’d still think you’re the prettiest girl in the room.”

You looked up at him, caught off guard by how easily he could say something like that now. It hadn’t always been like this. It used to come out in actions, his silence, his worry, the way he stood between you and anything that even looked like a threat. But now… he let himself say it. He let himself mean it.

And you never took that lightly.

“I’ll take the compliment,” you murmured, sitting up slowly and stretching under the blanket. Joel helped you out of it without a word, and you lingered just a second longer to brush your lips over his before standing.

He watched you, content and quiet, as you moved toward the bedroom. “Do you want me to wear that sweater you like?” you asked over your shoulder.

Joel raised an eyebrow. “The one with the buttons?”

You nodded, already pulling your hair back into a messy bun.

“Hell yeah,” he said, voice a little rougher now. “That one drives me crazy.”

You laughed as you disappeared around the corner, the sound making Joel lean his head back against the couch with a quiet, content sigh. His hand drifted absentmindedly to the spot where your head had been resting only moments ago, like some part of him still needed to hold on.

From the window he noticed the light in the garage had gone dark. Maybe Ellie was getting ready too. Maybe tonight would be a little bit closer to feel like a whole again.

You stepped out of the bedroom a few minutes later, brushing the last bit of lint off the front of your sweater—the one with the buttons Joel never shut up about. It was a little snug at the waist, hugged you just enough to make your point. Paired with the jeans he said made your legs look “dangerously good,” you were banking on at least a solid double-take.

Joel looked up from the couch, still lazily sprawled across the cushions, glasses sliding down his nose.

And damn if you didn’t get more than a double-take.

His hand went straight to his chest like he’d been physically struck. His mouth opened, then closed again like he forgot how to breathe.

“Jesus,” he muttered, sitting up straighter, eyes trailing slowly from your boots to your eyes. “You trying to kill me?”

You grinned, one hand resting on your hip as you posed, just a little. “What, this old thing?”

He let out a breathy laugh, shaking his head in disbelief. “You look…” He trailed off, searching for the word. “I don’t even get a word for it. Beautiful doesn’t make it justice.”

“You’re such a liar,” you teased gently, though your cheeks were already warm.

“I’m not,” he said, still staring. “You walk into that party lookin’ like that, I’m gonna have to fight half the town.”

You walked over and stood between his knees, his hands naturally coming to rest at your waist, thumbs sliding along the hem of your sweater.

“Don’t worry,” you said, brushing a hand through his hair with deliberate slowness. “I’m only going with one man tonight.”

His eyes met yours, serious under all the teasing now. “You’re mine,” he said lowly, not like a warning, but like a vow.

“I always have been,” you whispered back.

And for a second, it didn’t matter where you were going or who’d be at the party. There was only this, his hands steady on you, your breath soft against his, and the quiet thrum of a life you’d built together piece by piece.

“C’mon, Miller,” you said, pulling back with a smile. “Get dressed. Can’t show up to a New Year’s party looking like you just came in from the stables.”

He narrowed his eyes playfully. “I was gonna wear the flannel you like, but now I’m reconsidering.”

You leaned down and kissed him slowly, “Wear the flannel. Then lose the flannel later.”

Joel groaned into your mouth. “You’re evil.”

You smirked. “You love it.”

He planted a kiss on your lips before standing up from the couch.

The lights in the main hall of Jackson’s community center glowed warm and low, casting golden halos over strings of mismatched decorations—handmade banners, old Christmas lights, paper stars that crinkled every time the door opened and let in the wind. Music played softly from an old radio in the corner, laughter and voices mingling with the hum of people pouring in, already loosening up with drinks and stories.

You stood near the back wall, a glass of something vaguely sweet in your free hand, the other laced tightly with Joel’s. His thumb brushed slow circles over your knuckles as you chatted with Maria, who was animatedly retelling something Tommy had done earlier that day involving a runaway chicken and a very confused patrol dog.

You were half-listening, smiling and nodding along, but you felt it more than saw it—that Joel wasn’t really paying attention. His body was here, steady beside you, but his focus had shifted.

You followed the subtle line of his gaze, and there she was.

Ellie.

She was standing on the edge of a table, watching Dina, dancing in the middle of the place. Her hair surprisingly neat. She wore one of the jackets Joel had patched for her last winter, and she looked... better. Not completely at ease, but not avoiding people either. Laughing at how Dina enjoyed herself, her face lit up in that rare, open way that used to be more common. That Joel hadn’t seen in too long.

Your fingers squeezed around his, gently tugging his attention back to you. He blinked, then looked down, sheepish.

“She showed up,” you said quietly, so only he could hear.

Joel nodded, but didn’t speak at first. His jaw worked slightly, like there was something caught there that he couldn’t quite get out. “Didn’t think she would,” he murmured eventually.

You leaned your head into his shoulder, your hand still holding his like it anchored you both. “She’s trying,” you said softly. “Just like you are.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just watched Ellie for another long moment. His face unreadable, but you could feel the storm behind it—the guilt and the love and the endless what ifs he carried like extra weight on his back.

“She still wears that jacket,” he said finally, voice a little rough.

“She still loves you,” you said, just as sure. “Even when it’s complicated.”

Joel looked down at you then, the depth in his eyes something that stole your breath a little. “You think it’ll ever go back to how it was?”

You turned slightly to face him, brushing your thumb along the inside of his wrist. “No,” you said honestly. “But maybe it’ll become something new eventually.”

He nodded slowly, like he was trying to believe it. Maybe tonight helped.

The minutes had stretched into hours, in a few ones. A new year would come into your lives and you were enjoying the hope that brought to all people in the community. Yes, you were enjoying the party, until something completely shifted the ambiance.

When Ellie’s voice came.

Loud. Angry. Hurt.

“I don’t need your fucking help, Joel!”

You froze.

The room quieted, just a little. Just enough.

Joel didn’t say anything at first. You watched his face—how it closed off, his expression almost neutral except for the way his jaw clenched. There was something like shame in his eyes. Like he’d overstepped. Like he knew this was coming.

He turned. Not fast. Not dramatic. Just quietly stepped back, like every inch he put between himself and Ellie was one he’d deserved. He didn’t look at you. Just walked toward the door of the hall, shoulders tight, hands in his pockets, and disappeared outside.

You turned slowly, your gaze falling on Ellie.

She was still standing there. Chest rising and falling like she'd just finished running. Dina beside her, wide-eyed, unsure whether to step in or stay back. The room had started to move again around them, but you stayed where you were, heart sinking.

Ellie looked at you.

And you didn’t say anything. Didn’t frown or shake your head. Just… looked.

There was disappointment in your eyes—yes. A flicker of sadness too, not just for Joel, but for her. For the pain stitched between them. For the ways she still didn’t understand that Joel didn’t defend her to take control, or because he thought she was weak—but because he loved her.

Because she was still his.

And whether she was ready to admit it or not, he would always be hers.

Ellie looked away first. Back to her shoes. Her jaw tensed like she was biting back words. But she didn’t say anything else.

You waited another beat, then gently set your glass down, excused yourself from the people at your table with a small nod, and went after Joel.

The cold had settled deep by the time you made it back home.

The porch light cast a soft glow across the wooden steps, and there he was—sitting in the chair like he had nowhere else to be, guitar in his lap, hands quiet on the strings. He wasn’t playing. Just holding it, his fingers curled around the neck like they used to when he didn’t know what else to do with his hands.

His glasses were off, resting on the side table next to him. The soft creak of the porch boards under your steps made his head lift, and his eyes met yours.

You smiled gently. “Hey, cowboy.”

Joel didn’t say anything right away, just gave you the ghost of a smile before looking down at the guitar again.

You crossed the porch and crouched in front of him, resting your hand on his knee. “She didn’t mean it.”

He let out a breath, slow and tight. “Yeah, she did. Maybe not in the way she thinks. But she did.”

You didn’t argue. Instead, you just leaned your head against his leg, wrapping your arms around his knee. “Come inside,” you murmured. “It’s freezing.”

“I like the cold,” he said quietly.

“You’re getting old,” you teased, tilting your face up toward him with a smile. “Your bones can’t handle it anymore.”

That pulled the faintest smirk from him. “You keep talking like that and you’re getting a snowball to the face next time it drops.”

“Promises, promises.”

You stood up and reached out a hand to him. He hesitated for a moment before placing the guitar gently against the wall. His hand slid into yours, warm and rough and steady, and you led him inside.

The house welcomed you with its familiar warmth, soft light spilling from the kitchen lamp. You tugged him into the living room and stopped, turning to face him, fingers still wrapped around his.

“You remember how to dance, Joel?”

He raised a brow. “Now?”

You nodded. “Now. Just us.”

There was no music, just the sound of the wind outside and the hum of life still buzzing faintly in town. But you stepped closer, placing your other hand on his chest as his found your waist, and you started to sway slowly, like there was a song only the two of you could hear.

You looked up at him, voice soft. “You know there’s no life for me after you, right?”

His eyes flicked to yours, searching. Quiet.

You swallowed. “Not just no one else… No life. I’m not made for this world without you in it.”

His jaw tensed, his hand tightening slightly on your hip.

“I love you more than I’ve ever loved anyone. More than I even thought I could.”

Joel's voice was rough when he finally spoke. “You shouldn’t say that.”

“But it’s true.”

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes, and you saw the fight in him—the weight of it all, the doubt, the guilt. But you also saw the way his heart ached for you. How much he wanted to believe he deserved it.

“You’re all I’ve got,” he said finally. “You… and her. And I keep messin’ it up.”

You shook your head and pulled him closer, pressing your forehead to his. “You didn’t mess anything up tonight. You stood up for her. That’s what love looks like, even if she doesn’t know how to take it right now.”

Joel let out a shaky breath. You leaned up and kissed the corner of his mouth.

“I’ve got you,” you whispered. “Always.”

And with his arms wrapped around you in the middle of that quiet living room, Joel let himself hold on.

You kept swaying with him, barely moving, your arms snug around his broad frame like you were afraid he might drift away if you let go.

The firelight from the hearth flickered softly across his face, casting shadows that danced along the lines etched into his skin. You lifted your gaze, taking him in—really taking him in.

His hair was more silver than brown now, especially at the temples, and his beard had followed suit, peppered with white that hadn’t been there when you first met him back in the QZ. The creases around his eyes were deeper, more permanent, carved by years of worry, loss, and that rare, secretive laughter you’d always tried to pull from him like a prize. His hands, still strong, still steady, were rougher too—scarred by more than just time. And his eyes… God, those eyes. Still the same deep brown, still full of everything he never said out loud, but they were heavier now, more tired.

But even in all of it, in every reminder that time had passed, that the world had taken its toll on him—he had never looked more beautiful to you.

This was the man who had survived when others hadn’t. The man who had chosen you when he could’ve kept his walls up forever. The man who still held you like you were the most fragile, precious thing in the world.

Your fingers slid up his chest, fingertips brushing over the soft fabric of his flannel before curling lightly at the collar. You rose up on your toes and pressed a kiss to his cheek, slow and lingering. Then another, along the edge of his jaw. One at his temple. His brow.

Joel's hand tightened on your hip, the other cradling the back of your head now, and his breath caught when your lips found the corner of his mouth.

You pulled back just an inch and whispered, “I love all of it. All of you. Then. Now. Always.”

He looked at you like he was trying to memorize your face.

And then you kissed him—soft, deep, like he was the only thing tethering you to the earth. His lips moved against yours with that familiar tenderness, that unspoken hunger that had never gone away, no matter how many years passed. It wasn’t rushed, wasn’t desperate. It was slow and sure, like he wanted the moment to last forever.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours, breath warm on your lips.

“I don’t deserve you,” he murmured.

You shook your head gently. “That’s not your decision to make.”

Joel let out a quiet, broken laugh and kissed you again—softer this time, like a thank you.

You leaned in again, drawn to him like the tide to the moon. Your lips brushed over his once more—slower this time, tender and unrushed. A kiss that said everything without needing words. His hand slid up your back, fingers splayed gently between your shoulder blades, holding you to him like he never wanted to let go.

When you finally pulled away, your noses still touching, you smiled against his mouth. “Happy New Year, Joel.”

He exhaled softly, his breath warm as his eyes opened to meet yours. “Yeah?”

You nodded, heart full. “This is to us,” you whispered, “to spending more years like this. Together.”

Something flickered in his gaze—quiet, reverent, a little disbelieving like the weight of your love still knocked the air out of him every time. His thumb stroked along your jaw, rough and careful all at once.

“Until the end, darling,” he said hoarsely, his voice thick with emotion.

You wrapped your arms tighter around him, resting your head against his chest, right over the steady thrum of his heart. And there, in the soft quiet of your living room, with the muffled echo of fireworks somewhere in the distance and his arms holding you like a vow, you knew there was no one else you’d ever need.

Joel held you there for a long, quiet beat—his hand resting at the small of your back, the other curled at your nape, cradling you gently like the world might crumble if he let go.

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes finding yours again under the soft glow of the fire. There was something raw in them now—unguarded, soft in that way only you ever got to see.

“Happy new year, baby,” he said, voice low, gravelly, full of something deep and real. “To more years. However, many we’re lucky enough to get.”

You felt your throat tighten, the words catching in your chest. But then he said it, firm, steady, like it had lived in him for years.

“I love you.”

Not rushed. Not whispered. Just said. Like a truth that didn’t need any decoration.

Your hand slid to his cheek, thumb brushing over the slight stubble there. His eyes closed at your touch, leaning into the warmth.

This was your beginning. Again, and again. Every year. Every moment. Joel was your home.

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