#and just looking forward to seeing him in general

[em1i2a3]

Sundowner

Pairing: Brat Tamer!Sentry/Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Void x Bratty!Fem!Reader

Summary: You’re cooking one afternoon in Sentry’s shirt and your teasing goes a little too far for his liking.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Smut, Fluff, Reader is in an established relationship with Sentry (and Bob/The Void), The dynamic between Sentry and Reader isn’t constantly in this mode but when the Reader goes too far he’ll fall into the role of a dominant, Reader and Sentry live together!

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it up), Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Edging/Orgasm Denial, Teasing, Begging, Finger Sucking, Nipple/Breast Play, Gagging, Dirty Talking. ‘Good Girl’ is used,

Author’s Note: This was a request, and I loved writing this so much, especially with Sentry. Not what I’m used to writing in general but! It was super fun and I hope I did it right! Hopefully y’all enjoy <3

Word Count: 6,787

The kitchen was warm in that drowsy, honeyed way that only late afternoon could conjure. The low hum of summer heat pressed against the windows, and golden light filtered in through the half-closed blinds, catching on floating dust motes that swirled lazily through the sunbeams–turning them into glittering flecks suspended midair. Outside, the world was quiet. Inside, the only sounds were the gentle bubble of simmering tomatoes in the saucepan and the occasional soft clink of your wooden spoon against the rim.

You stood barefoot on the cool tile, one hip leaned slightly into the counter as you stirred the sauce. The floor was chilly beneath your soles, a sharp contrast to the warmth radiating from the stove and the sunlight that painted the counters in amber. The cotton of the shirt you wore hung heavy and loose over your figure–an old one of Sentry’s, pale blue and worn thin with age. It was oversized to the point of indulgence, the sleeves haphazardly rolled up to your elbows, and the hem barely skimming the tops of your thighs. The neckline had stretched slightly, revealing a peek of your collarbone and the curve of your shoulder as you leaned forward.

The shirt wasn’t freshly laundered anymore–not after an afternoon spent moving around the kitchen–but his scent lingered deep in the fabric. A clean, electric warmth: ozone, salty air, eucalyptus, and the faintest trace of heated skin. It was comforting to you, and it bordered on addicting. The front of the shirt now bore a faint orange smear of dried tomato from where you had absentmindedly brushed your hand after tasting the sauce. Thankfully he didn’t wear the shirt anyways, and you liked the idea of leaving your mark on something that was his.

Behind you, the soft pad of footsteps approached across the tile, slow and deliberate, like it was trying to go unnoticed.

Then–

Sentry’s strong, warm arms snaked around your waist, hands spreading low across your belly, and his nose nudged gently into the crook of your neck. You didn’t startle at the contact. You just smiled, your body immediately relaxing into him. His chest was solid against your back, warm through the worn cotton, and you could feel the subtle rise and fall of his breathing as he let out a quiet, satisfied hum.

“Smells delicious,” He whispered, his voice low and a little hoarse. You smiled at the comment, continuing to stir lazily.

”Dinner or me?” He pressed his lips into your neck as he laughed softly.

”Both,” He replied, his chest vibrating against your spine. You glanced over at him from behind your shoulder so you could see him. He was in a pair of grey sweatpants, slung low on his hips, and a fitted black t-shirt that clung to every inch of him–unforgiving and utterly unfair. It didn’t leave anything to the imagination, the lines of his abs, the definition of his chest, his biceps that looked like they were going to grow out of the fabric…It was a sight to behold. His light brown hair was tousled and messy from lounging on the couch, a little flattened on one side, still carrying the shape of the pillow–but his eyes…They were sharp and bright, burning with a familiar gold that flickered like a wildfire behind glass. Always watching. Always hungry in that quiet, patient way of his.

You felt his fingers tug at the collar of the shirt, two fingertips slipping beneath the stretched cotton and dragging it gently down your shoulder, exposing more of your bare, heated skin. The neckline slipped further, revealing the curve of your upper chest and the delicate line where your shoulder met your throat. He leaned in, his mouth finding the newly exposed skin instantly, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses along the invisible trail he carved out for himself. Slow. Intentional. His tongue slipped out to taste the saltiness, dragging upward along the swell of muscle before he kissed right against your collarbone.

“God…” He murmured, voice molten and thick as he spoke against your skin. “You know what seeing you like this does to me?”

He didn’t wait for your answer. He suckled gently at the base of your neck, then nipped–just enough to make your breath hitch. You clenched the wooden spoon a little tighter and brought your free hand down to grasp the thick forearm still wrapped snug around your waist. Your fingers slid over the tendons there, warm and solid beneath your touch, until your palm settled just above his wrist, grounding yourself.

“I’m just wearing your shirt and cooking dinner, Sentry,” You replied, breathless with feigned innocence. Your voice was sweet, syrupy, and you knew exactly what you were doing. He growled quietly against your skin and bit down again–harder this time. Not enough to hurt, but just enough to make your thighs press together instinctively.

“Quit acting like you don’t know what I’m talking about…” He accused, voice rough now, scraped down to its core. His hand splayed low across your stomach, palm sliding lower until his thumb teased just beneath the hem of the shirt. “I know you’re not wearing any panties under my shirt.” Your smirk grew, but you still played dumb, tilting your head just slightly, letting your hair fall away from your neck like a curtain being drawn back.

“Are you sure about that?” You teased, your fingers still tracing lazy circles on his arm. “Maybe I’m just wearing the smallest pair I own…” He chuckled against your skin, the sound vibrating in your bones like the rumbling of thunder.

”No, you’re definitely not wearing anything,” He said, shaking his head slowly as he pressed a kiss to the side of your throat, teeth grazing just below your pulse point, “It’s very, very obvious.” His arm tightened even more around your waist, pinning your back against the hardness of his chest.

“I can smell your heat,” He murmured, low and reverent, like it wasn’t just desire but worship. “You forget who you’re dealing with, sweetheart. You know how many times I’ve been between your thighs?” His tongue traced up your neck, hot and languid. “It’s like your scent is engraved into my entire being. I carry it with me. I breathe it in when I’m alone. I crave it.”

You shivered at his words but you wouldn’t give in just yet. Not without a little fight. Not without giving him a reason to ruin you for it. You tilted your head with a coy smile, dragging your fingers up his forearm again like you were petting a beast you didn’t fully intend to contain.

“If you’re that addicted, I’m surprised you managed to stay on the couch this long,” You teased, tilting your hips forward just slightly to grind against him before rolling them back into his cock. It twitched through the thin barrier of his sweatpants, straining now–eager, impatient. You knew you were pushing it, and you knew exactly what you were doing.

He didn’t bite this time. He didn’t kiss. He just froze behind you. Still as stone. His palm pressed harder into your stomach–firm, grounding, possessive–until you could feel the tension coiling through his entire body like the low hum of a god holding himself back by the thinnest thread. His voice, when it came, was barely a whisper, but every word sank into your spine like heat seeping through bone.

“You’re playing a dangerous game, Y/N…” He said slowly, each syllable deliberate, drawn out like a warning before the storm. “A very, very dangerous game.” His lips brushed the shell of your ear, but he didn’t kiss. He breathed, like he was trying to keep himself tethered. Like he was trying not to lose it entirely. “You think cooking dinner is gonna excuse the fact that you’ve been teasing me all afternoon?” You smirked, rolling your hops again, grinding back against his ever growing length which was now hot and pressing against the cotton of his sweatpants.

“I’m just making dinner, Sentry,” You claimed, all false sweetness, your voice practically dripping with it, “You’re the one getting all worked up.” Before you could get another word out, Sentry’s hand closed around your wrist, snatching the wooden utensil from your grip in a single, swift motion. He tossed it into the sink with a sharp clatter–louder than it should’ve been, loud enough to punctuate the sudden stillness in the kitchen. Then, without breaking his hold on you, he reached around with his other hand and clicked the stove off. The burner faded instantly, the gentle bubble of the sauce going quiet.

The next thing you knew, the saucepan had been slid off the heat with precision and set aside, and you were being turned–fast but not rough–until your back hit the edge of the counter and your front collided with him. The movement knocked the breath out of your lungs, but it wasn’t fear that took your voice. It was the look in his eyes.

He towered over you now, the heat from his body pouring off him in waves. That thin black t-shirt clung to his chest like it had been painted on, outlining every muscle, every breath, every rise and fall like it was straining to contain him. His jaw was tight, lips parted just slightly, and his golden eyes had shifted–no longer glowing like wildfire, but instead a deep, burnt caramel, flecked with molten orange. He was holding back, barely, and the effort showed in every inch of him.

“You think I won’t fuck you right here on the counter?” He growled, voice low, gravelly, dangerous–the kind of danger that made your heart leap into your throat and your core clench around nothing. “You think I won’t make you look me in the eyes while you’re begging me to let you cum?” Your lips parted, but nothing came out.

Nothing smart. Nothing bratty.

Your heart thundered in your chest, so loud you swore he could hear it. He stepped in closer, chest brushing yours, one of his hands finding its way to your hip while the other braced against the counter beside your waist. You were boxed in–utterly, completely, gloriously trapped–and your entire body burned with anticipation.

His gaze dropped to your lips, then back to your eyes.

And he smiled. Slow. Dangerous. Knowing.

“Not so talkative now that you’re facing me, huh?”

You swallowed hard.

His nose brushed against yours, his breath hot and heady as he spoke again, quieter this time. “Go on. Say something smart now. Tell me you’re just cooking dinner again. Tell me I’m the one getting worked up.” You glanced away–just for a moment. A quick flick of your gaze toward the window, a tiny act of retreat, like your body knew your mouth had gone too far before your brain could catch up.

But Sentry noticed.

His hand snapped up with speed only he could move with–long fingers gripping your chin, not rough, but firm, guiding your face back toward him with the ease of a man used to obedience and never surprised by resistance. He made you look at him. Made sure you couldn’t escape his eyes, not even for a second. You blinked up at him, lips parted, your pulse thudding at the base of your throat.

Then–you smiled.

He narrowed his eyes.

You leaned in just the tiniest bit, like you were sharing a secret only he deserved. Your voice was quiet, syrupy, edged with that familiar danger only you knew how to wield.

“I don’t think you’ll do anything, because evidently you were enjoying the show.” For half a second you saw his jaw twitch, like he was trying to suppress it, to hold onto whatever threadbare restraint he had left.

But it was gone the moment he exhaled.

His voice dropped to a low snarl. “Okay.”

He stepped closer.

“That’s it.”

You had enough time for one startled laugh–more gasp than giggle–before his hands were on you again, one sweeping behind your knees, the other bracing your lower back as he lifted you in a single, fluid motion.

“Sentry!” You squealed, kicking your feet as you struggled against him, wiggling in his arms like a caught kitten. But you were already giggling, already breathless with anticipation and delight. “Put me down, I need to make dinner!”

“You need,” He growled, tightening his grip just slightly, hand squeezing the soft underside of your thigh, “To be reminded who’s in charge before you do anything else.”

“Sentry!”

“You had your fun,” He said as he carried you out of the kitchen, his arms locked under your legs and back. “Wiggling around in my shirt, bratting all afternoon, thinking you could start something and get away with it…”

“I wasn’t starting anything!” You giggled, squirming as your hands pushed lightly against his body.

”Liar,” He muttered, then, without warning he threw you onto the couch. You landed with a soft bounce, arms splaying out, your shirt riding up your thighs in the process. You propped yourself up on your elbows, eyes wide, heart racing–and face absolutely lit up with anticipation.

He didn’t move.

He just stood there, a looming figure carved from heat and patience–glowing eyes raking over every inch of your bare thighs, the shirt bunched high on your hips, the flush crawling up your chest. His jaw was tight, twitching with restraint, but his fists weren’t clenched out of anger.

They were clenched out of need.

And he was calculating. Like a lion deciding whether to toy with its prey or devour it whole.

Your bottom lip slipped between your teeth, your thighs instinctively inching together–not out of modesty, but tension. Teasing. He hadn’t even touched you yet, and still you were burning.

You tilted your head just slightly and let out the smallest, most infuriating sound.

A hum.

Soft. Mocking.

“You’ve been staring for a long time, hun,” You teased, voice light, dragging the heel of your foot up the cushion like a stretch. “Was that the plan? Toss me around a little, puff up, and then just…Look?” His eyes snapped to yours, and you grinned.

He stepped forward, slow and silent, like a god descending–not to punish, but to own.

“Keep talking,” He taunted, his voice rough, “Please…Dig yourself deeper.” You leaned back on your elbows, tongue poking out to wet your lips.

“I’m just saying,” You purred, “If you’re trying to break me, you’re gonna have to do more than throw me onto our couch and brood.” His jaw clenched slightly, he just looked at you, and then he reached up, dragging one hand through his light brown hair, tousling it back from his forehead in a single frustrated sweep before exhaling through his nose.

”Alright,” He started, his voice rough and final, like thunder cracking against stone. “You asked for it.”

And before you could breathe, before you could blink, he was on you.

His hands seized your thighs and flipped you in one swift motion, pressing you chest-down into the cushions. You yelped–gasped–your hands scrambling for balance as your cheek pressed into the couch and the hem of his shirt rode up your back, baring you completely to him.

“Sentry!” You squeaked, breath catching in your throat.

But he didn’t respond with words. He pressed one palm between your shoulder blades–firm and commanding, keeping you in place–while his other hand slid along the backs of your thighs, coaxing one leg off the side of the couch until it hit the floor. The effect was instant. Your hips tilted, your knees spread, and you were left completely open for him–bare, dripping, aching.

“Oh my god…” He whispered, almost to himself, like he couldn’t believe the sight in front of him. You felt him lean over you, close enough for his breath to hit your inner thighs. Then–

“Mmm,” He breathed. “My god, you’re dripping wet just from teasing me, huh?” His fingers trailed lightly up the crease of your thigh, teasing, featherlight. “I haven’t even touched you yet. Haven’t even kissed you down here…” His hand cupped you suddenly–broad, and warm–pressing into your heat without penetrating, just enough to feel the slickness against his palm. You moaned involuntarily, hips twitching toward the pressure. He pulled his hand away.

A slick sound accompanied the loss of contact, a soft, wet parting that made your entire body twitch, your hips jerking instinctively toward where he’d been. But there was nothing–just air and the ache of absence. You whimpered, trying to grind back into him, only to feel his hands return–not to please, but to control.

He gripped your hips and lifted you slightly, readjusting your position with deliberate force until you were on your knees, spine arched in a way that made your core glisten in the warm light of the room even more, open and throbbing and wanting.

“See…” His voice was rough silk, low and dangerous, so close to a growl it made your stomach flip. “You can’t even handle the fact I haven’t slipped my fingers into you yet.” You tried to look back over your shoulder, your cheeks flushed and lips parted–but then he leaned forward. His chest brushed your ass, the heat of him branding you even through the thin fabric of your shared shirt. His breath ghosted across your soaked core, and your whole body shuddered. His hands tightened at your hips, holding you in place as he leaned in lower, his nose nearly brushing your folds.

He didn’t lick.

Not properly.

Just the tip of his tongue–one lazy, infuriating flick up your slit. A tease. A cruel taste. You gasped, pushing back toward him, but his hands tightened in warning, keeping you exactly where he wanted you: still, open, desperate.

Then–worse–he blew on you.

A cool stream of air hit your drenched heat and you whined, thighs trembling, your fingers scrabbling against the couch cushions for something to hold onto. He did it again, slower this time, letting his breath trail over your swollen clit until it throbbed.

“Sentry,” You whimpered, trying to grind back again–but he held you firm. You tried to reach for one of his hands but his fingers dug into your hips a bit.

”No.” His voice was firmer now, edged with command. “Put your hands on the armrest. No touching me. No squirming. You stay exactly where I put you.”

You hesitated.

“Sentry…”

“Now.” He growled.

You obeyed.

Your hands slid forward, palms bracing against the armrest, your body trembling from restraint. You could feel his eyes on you, watching the way you complied even through the defiance that still pulsed through your blood. But when he finally moved again you felt his mouth press a soft, deceptively gentle kiss to your inner thigh.

You sighed, expecting more.

But all he did was drag the tip of his tongue slowly through your folds again. Just the tip.

A flick against your clit.

A kiss to your entrance.

Nothing more.

No real contact. No rhythm. Just teasing.

You whimpered and started to shift, one hand instinctively reaching behind you for his wrist–but his fingers snapped up and caught your wrist just before you could touch him. His golden eyes glowed hotter.

“I said–no touching.”

You bit your lip, hips trembling as he guided your hand back to the armrest and pressed it there. Then both his palms returned to your hips, firm and unyielding as he leaned in again.

This time his tongue flattened against your folds. Not all the way, not deep, but enough to drag. You cried out, knees wobbling beneath you, a full-body jolt rippling through you as he licked you again…Then stopped.

“Sentry,” You gasped. “Please…Please, more–”

“I don’t think you’re in a position to beg just yet,” He murmured against your dripping heat. Your breath hitched as Sentry leaned in again, but this time it wasn’t a tease. Not at first.

His mouth finally met your dripping core in earnest–a hot, wet slide of his tongue right through your folds, followed by the delicious, devastating pressure of his lips wrapping around your clit and sucking gently, deliberately. Your body jolted, a cry spilling from your throat as your knees gave the slightest wobble.

And then–just when your hips rocked back and your breath stuttered out in anticipation of more–he added his hand.

One large, warm palm still clutched your hip, grounding you, but the other slid lower, parting your folds with two fingers, and pressing just below your swollen clit. He didn’t rush. He didn’t need to. The pads of his fingers moved in slow, aching circles, wet and unhurried, swirling through your slick with a rhythm designed to drive you insane. Every movement was confident and precise, and paired with the slow, methodical way his tongue worked over your entrance, you were unraveling in seconds.

“Sentry–fuck, oh my god…” You gasped, your fingers gripping the armrest so tightly your knuckles turned white. “Please, don’t stop…Please, please, please–”

Your voice dissolved into a high, breathless moan as the pleasure mounted too quickly–far too fast to be sustained. You could feel the tremble starting in your thighs, the flutter of heat low in your belly, the telltale signs that your body was on the cusp, seconds away from exploding–and just when it started to crest, just when your hips began to twitch and your breath caught–

He pulled away.

Completely.

His mouth. His fingers. Everything.

Gone.

“Fuck!” You sobbed, your entire body shaking with the denial, your hips rocking desperately into open air, trying to chase the friction that had just been there, trying to force the climax your body had already started to fall into. Your moan turned into a choked whimper as you tried to rub your thighs together for any pressure–anything at all. But then he blew on you again.

A slow, teasing stream of air that hit your soaked, twitching folds and made your whole body spasm.

“Feel that?” He rasped, voice tight and low behind you. “That’s how close you were. And you think I’m just gonna give that to you after how you’ve acted?”

You could barely breathe. Your arms shook where they braced against the couch, and your core clenched around nothing, pulsing in rhythm with your heartbeat. You were dripping, swollen, overstimulated from everything and yet somehow still untouched where it mattered most.

He pressed two fingers into your folds again–slow, shallow–and began rubbing tight, cruel circles over your clit once more. A fresh wave of pleasure surged through you. Your hips twitched uncontrollably, breath hitching into a sob as you moaned, your walls fluttering with tension.

You were right there again.

You could feel it.

You could taste it.

And then–

He slowed.

His fingers didn’t stop completely–but they softened, gentled, just enough to back you down from the edge. Just enough to hold you in that maddening limbo between climax and collapse.

“You want to cum?” He murmured, voice a low purr against your thigh. “Say you’re sorry.” Your mouth dropped open. You blinked down at the couch cushions, stunned, dazed, your chest heaving with every breath.

“W-What?” You gasped. And then he blew on you again–another torturous breeze across your oversensitive heat.

“I said,” He growled, “Say you’re sorry for teasing me, Y/N.” You whimpered. Your hips rocked back instinctively, hoping, praying, aching for his mouth–but it never came. Just that cold air. Just the ghost of him.

“I can’t…” You whispered. “I won’t.” He chuckled darkly behind you–one of those deep, dangerous sounds that vibrated through your ribs.

“Wrong answer,” He said, voice almost pitying.

And his fingers slowed even more.

Your body screamed in frustration–clenching, twitching, begging without words as your hands trembled on the armrest. You tried to grind against his palm, but he pulled it away entirely, lips brushing your entrance just enough to make you sob.

“Fuck, Sentry–holy fuck–please let me cum,” You choked, your voice cracking, the tension spilling over into desperation now.

But he only exhaled, slow and cruel against your slick folds. His lips brushed your skin, damp and gleaming from where he’d been, and you felt the tremble in his breath as he shook his head.

“I haven’t heard an apology from that pretty mouth of yours.”

You moaned again, helpless and breathless, rocking your hips in place, but he didn’t move. Just stared. Just breathed. You turned your head, your cheek pressing against the cushion as you looked back over your shoulder. He was crouched behind you, eyes blazing gold, lips wet with your arousal, chest rising and falling like he was barely holding himself together.

“Say it,” He ordered, his voice raw, his control unraveling in threads. “Say you’re sorry for teasing me.” You opened your mouth, gasping.

“…I–” You faltered, blinking away frustrated tears. “I’m sorry.”

His eyes burned brighter.

“For what baby? And say it like you mean it.” You moaned, nearly sobbing from the tension in your body.

“I’m sorry,” You whimpered, breath catching. “I’m so sorry for teasing you, Sentry…Please, please, I can’t take it anymore.” His mouth was on you before the words had fully left your lips.

And this time, he didn’t hold back.

He devoured you.

His mouth latched onto your clit, sucking with a hunger that rattled your bones, his tongue flicking, pressing, circling in tight, devastating patterns. His fingers thrust into you suddenly–two thick, wet digits filling you perfectly, curling just so inside your walls as he moved them in time with the rhythm of his mouth. You began to shake, your entire body trembling with the force of it–wrung tight, knotted, desperate–and when he pushed his fingers deeper, curling them just so against that devastating spot inside you while his tongue flicked mercilessly against your clit, it was over.

You came with a broken sob, your knees buckling, your thighs quaking around his head. Your whole body bowed, arching into the air as if the pleasure had torn through you like lightning. You pulsed around his fingers again and again, fluttering so hard you nearly pushed him out–but Sentry held you in place, groaning against you as he pressed in harder, refusing to let up even as your cries turned to gasps, your gasps to desperate whimpers.

And god, did he lap it up.

Your arousal gushed over his tongue, soaking his face, slicking his chin and nose, dripping into the heat between you like he’d finally broken the floodgates. He moaned into you, deep and ragged, licking every last drop as you shook beneath him, your hands clawing at the armrest, tears spilling freely down your cheeks from the sheer, obliterating relief of it.

“There’s my good girl…” He whispered, his voice rough, his wet breath hot against your swollen folds. “God, look at you… fuck.” He licked you slowly now, gentler, his mouth savoring you like you were the answer to every ache in his body. Finally, he pulled back, panting, face glistening with your release. His fingers slipped from your core with a filthy squelch, leaving you trembling and bare, your walls fluttering around the sudden absence.

Then his hands were on you again.

He flipped you onto your back in one smooth, decisive movement. You landed with a gasp, dazed and still reeling, the hem of his shirt clinging damply to your skin, your thighs slick and parted. Your chest heaved, your lips swollen, your face flushed and wet from crying. You barely had time to register the feral glint in his eye before he brought his soaked fingers to your mouth.

“Clean my fingers off,” He said, voice low and commanding.

You didn’t hesitate.

You grabbed his wrist with both hands and took his fingers into your mouth, lips sealing around them greedily. Your tongue swirled over the mess he’d pulled from your body, tasting your sweetness, sucking him in deeper with every breathless moan. He didn’t stop you when you gagged slightly–just smirked, eyes half-lidded with dark delight. You choked softly, then sucked harder, saliva dripping down your chin, stringing between your lips and his fingers. When he pulled his fingers free with a wet pop, they were glistening again–this time with spit, shining in the low kitchen light.

“Take that shirt off,” he ordered, his voice thick with arousal.

You obeyed instantly. The old cotton peeled from your skin, still damp with sweat and heat and pleasure, and you threw it to the side. Your bare chest rose and fell with each ragged breath, nipples flushed and stiff from both the air and anticipation.

Sentry leaned in, dragging those saliva-soaked fingers slowly over your breasts–first teasing the underside, then circling each nipple with obscene care, smearing the wetness around until your skin gleamed.

Then he blew on them.

A soft exhale–cool, deliberate–watching the peaks tighten further, your whole body twitching under his gaze. He was enjoying it too much. Taking his time. Worshipping. Torturing.

“Sentry…” You whispered, breathless and wrecked. “Please… Now that you’ve got me worked up… I need you to fuck me. Please.”

The word cracked in your throat.

It wasn’t a tease anymore. It wasn’t a bratty game.

You were begging.

He sighed like a man finally relenting–not because he was tired, but because he couldn’t help himself anymore. He leaned over you, bracing one hand beside your head, the other curling gently around your jaw as his eyes raked over your trembling, flushed body.

“Okay…” He murmured, bending to kiss the corner of your mouth, lips ghosting over yours like a promise. “Since you apologized… I’ll give you a little reward.”

You let out a long, shaky breath–half relief, half anticipation–and murmured softly, “Thank you, Sentry… Thank you.”

His golden eyes flickered with something deeper at that, something primal and possessive and reverent all at once. His thumb brushed gently along your jaw before he pulled back, slowly rising to full height above you. You watched, breathless, as he reached for the hem of his shirt, fingers curling into the sweat-damp fabric.

In one smooth motion, he peeled it over his head and let it drop to the floor beside the couch.

Your breath caught.

God, he was beautiful.

The late afternoon light slanted through the blinds in golden strips, cutting across his chest and casting his body in sharp contrast–half shadow, half sun. He looked like a sculpture carved from firelight and stormclouds, every inch of him defined and flushed from the effort of what he’d just done to you. His chest was rising and falling with slow, heavy breaths, dusted in a fine sheen of sweat that caught the light and made his skin glow. His pecs were firm, his shoulders broad, and his abdomen…Carved. Muscles rippled subtly under every movement, his obliques trailing down into those perfect lines that disappeared beneath the waistband of his sweats.

Your eyes followed the motion as he hooked his thumbs under the band and pushed his sweatpants down.

He wasn’t wearing boxers.

Of course he wasn’t.

And the moment he freed himself, your breath hitched audibly.

He was already hard. Thick, flushed, glistening slightly at the tip. His cock sprang free and stood proud, heavy against the air, bobbing once with the release. It looked painfully ready–like he’d been holding back for far too long–and the sight alone sent another rush of heat through your core.

He caught your gaze as you stared, and his lips curved in a slow, knowing smile.

“Speechless again?” He murmured, voice rough, chest still heaving.

You nodded wordlessly, eyes wide, pulse thundering in your throat.

Sentry’s eyes trailed slowly down your naked form, lingering on the way your chest rose and fell, your thighs still trembling, your folds glistening with your slick and stretched from his fingers. And then he shifted forward, fist curled around his cock, dragging his palm slowly along the length as he towered over you.

“Be a good girl,” He said, low and warm, “And open your legs for me.” Your legs parted slowly, trembling slightly at the inner thighs from the exertion and the aftermath of your climax. The couch cushions sank beneath your hips, and the late afternoon sun painted streaks of gold across your bare skin as you spread yourself open for him. Vulnerable. Wanting. Obedient.

Sentry’s golden eyes darkened as he looked down at you–completely bared and still glistening, your folds flushed and soaked from everything he’d done. And everything he was about to do.

He moved between your legs, settling into the cradle of your hips with a slow, reverent ease. One hand pressed to the side of your thigh, keeping you open, while the other still curled around the base of his cock. You watched, breath caught in your throat, as he dragged the swollen head through your folds–just once. Slow. Deliberate.

You gasped.

Your arousal mixed instantly with the glistening bead of precum smeared across the tip, slick sounds filling the space as he slid it up your slit again. And again. He didn’t try to push in. He just rubbed himself through the heat of you–circling your entrance, teasing the slick lips, letting the head of his cock catch against your clit until your hips twitched.

Every time he moved, it smeared more of him against you. You were soaked. And he was cruel.

“Oh my god…” You whimpered, rolling your hips up to try and meet him. “Please…”

But he only gave you a warning hum. And then—he dipped in.

Just the tip.

Just enough to stretch you for a heartbeat before he pulled out again, dragging the head of his cock right back over your clit with a lazy, heated roll.

You cried out.

It was maddening. You were aching. Empty. Needing him deeper than anything you’d ever known. But still he just moved his head against you, back and forth, smearing the mess between you until your entire core felt slick and desperate.

“I want you to promise,” He started softly, a cruel sort of warmth in his voice, “that you won’t tease me anymore this week before I fuck this wet little pussy of yours.”

You let out a frustrated moan, your voice pitched with tension. “That’s not fair, Sentry…”

He sighed, almost sympathetically.

Then pushed in again–just the tip.

The stretch made your eyes roll back. Your walls fluttered instantly around the intrusion, but just when your legs tightened in anticipation, he pulled out again.

“Fuck!” You whimpered, trying to chase him with your hips. “Please…”

“Promise,” He said again, dragging his cock along your clit in slow, sticky circles. “Say it.” Your hips bucked toward him on instinct, thighs twitching from the contact.

“Okay…Okay,” You gasped, voice high and strained. “I won’t tease you anymore this week…Just please…” He didn’t move yet. Just kept that heated pressure right against your clit, the head of his cock slick and throbbing as he pressed it harder against you. It made your back arch, your body bowing toward him like it had a mind of its own.

“Say you promise,” He murmured, watching you closely.

You moaned–a wrecked, breathless sound–and whimpered, “I promise.”

He grinned. Smug. Satisfied.

“There you go,” He cooed, voice rough with need. “Now was that so hard?” Before you could even answer, he pushed forward. You gasped, spine arching off the couch as the thick head of his cock breached you fully, stretching you wide in one slow, devastating thrust. Your walls fluttered, desperate to accommodate him, the pressure exquisite as he filled you to the hilt. The stretch was perfect. Deep. Complete. And he didn’t stop until his hips were flush against yours, his cock buried inside you so far it felt like he was touching something sacred.

“Oh my god–” You whimpered, eyes fluttering shut, one hand flying to his stomach.

You clutched at him, your nails dragging across his abdomen–fingertips sinking into those carved muscles, desperate for something to anchor you as he began to move. His abs flexed beneath your touch, every ripple of his body pressed flush to yours as he drew back, then thrust forward again–deep and deliberate, every inch of him claiming you with perfect precision.

“Fuck,” He groaned, voice thick, his breath catching in his throat. “You feel like fucking heaven…So tight still…Jesus, baby…”

He leaned over you, one hand braced beside your head, the other slipping between your bodies, and you felt the glide of his thumb against your clit. Not rushed. Not cruel. Just right. A rhythm he knew by heart, drawing soft, wet circles that made your back bow and your thighs shake.

Your lips parted around a moan. “Sentry… oh my god, you’re so deep…”

“Yeah?” He panted, his voice rough and reverent, thrusting deeper with each word. “You missed this cock, didn’t you? Missed the way I stretch you out…Fuck you full–rub you right here–” He angled his hips and hit it, that spot inside you that made you cry out and clutch harder at his stomach, your nails digging in like you could brand him the way he was branding you.

“Sentry…Yes, fuck, right there–”

His mouth crashed down on yours.

It wasn’t gentle.

It was hot and open and desperate. Tongue pressing past your lips, licking into you with the same rhythm his cock was thrusting into your soaked core. You whimpered into his mouth, sucking on his tongue as he groaned low in his throat–his hand never slowing on your clit, his hips grinding deeper, harder, every stroke sending shockwaves through your trembling body.

“You’re gonna cum for me again,” He growled against your lips, breath hot and ragged. “I can feel it…You’re already squeezing me so fucking tight–”

You nodded, barely able to speak. “Don’t stop…Please…Oh my god, please!”

“Say my name,” He demanded, his cock pounding into you now, fast and wet and unforgiving. “Say who’s making you feel this good.”

“Sentry,” You sobbed, voice high and cracking. “It’s you–fuck, it’s only ever you, Sen.”

“Good girl,” He groaned, voice breaking with pleasure. “That’s it–cum on my cock, Y/N. Let me feel it.” Your whole body tensed, your hands flying to his back, nails raking down his spine as you came hard around him. Your thighs shook, your core pulsed, soaking him as the orgasm crashed over you like a wave, hot and blinding and overwhelming.

Sentry groaned deep in his chest, burying himself to the hilt inside you, your orgasm milking his cock.

“Fuck, Fuck…I’m gonna cum–” He gasped, hand gripping your waist as he pounded into you with a few final, brutal thrusts. “You’re so fucking perfect–so tight…Fuck, take it…Take all of it–”

And then he was spilling into you.

You felt it.

Hot and thick and endless–pulse after pulse as he filled you to the brim, his cock twitching inside you, pressing against your cervix, moaning into your mouth loudly. Your hands clutched at him as his body trembled above you, his hips rolling in slow, shallow thrusts–his cum spilling out around the base of his cock, slicking your thighs and dripping down onto the cushions as he fucked it deeper, not ready to let go.

You were both panting, chests heaving, clinging to each other like you’d survived something feral.

He leaned down again, kissing you softer this time–messy and lingering, lips brushing yours as your breath mingled. His golden eyes were half-lidded, dazed with pleasure, his hand still stroking your thigh.

When he pulled back, his voice was wrecked.

“Have you learned your lesson?”

You smiled weakly, eyes glassy but bright with mischief.

“I think I may need you to show me it one more time.” You whispered, still breathless. And despite the wreckage of your bodies, despite the heat still pulsing between you, you both burst into laughter against each other.

[blackpantherismyish]

Foreplay 💰

Modern!au Elias “Stack” Moore x Black!oc Maya Coleman🌻 (with a wee bit of Smoke and Annie)

Word Count: 6.6k

Authors Note: Heeeey Yall. You wanted more Maya and Stack, I gave it to ya 🙂‍↕️ there is some Annie & Smoke sprinkled in because I can’t forgot about my favorite couple. I feel like i had more to say here?? Anyways, enjoy. You’ll be entering the horny zone past the line of fire. 😂🤭

The bass is thumping so hard it rattles the soles of Maya’s heels as she steps into the club behind Annie, eyes already cutting through the crowd like a blade. The whole place smells like sin, cologne, and two-for-one cocktails, and Maya’s smile pulls crooked.

“Oh yeah,” Annie says with a laugh, looping her arm through Maya’s. “We about to ruin somebody’s night.”

“Ruin it,” Maya repeats, lips glossed and eyes dangerous. “Or make it.”

They snake through the floor, hips swaying like they know they’re being watched, because they are. Annie in a short blue dress that makes Smoke act feral. Maya in something red and clingy, chest lifted, thighs out, smile sweet but lethal.

“Stack ain’t letting you out again if he sees how that dress move when the lights hit it,” Annie teases as they reach the bar.

Maya doesn’t miss a beat. “He’ll survive. Barely.”

Back at the house, Stack sinks deeper into the cushioned patio chair on Smoke’s back porch, his gold chain shifting against his chest. A blunt hangs loose between his fingers, its slow ember glow matching the low golden light from the overhead sconces. Smoke sits across from him, one ankle rested over his knee, sleeves rolled, a drink sweating in his palm.

“Your girl left the house like she was bout to get a record deal,” Smoke says dryly, watching Stack’s silence with amusement.

Stack blows out a trail of smoke. “Man, she walked past me while she was getting dressed and my blood pressure did a backflip. That dress don’t even breathe right.”

Smoke chuckles low in his chest. “You sound tight.”

“I am tight,” Stack says, gesturing with the blunt. “Nigga, we was five minutes from leaving the crib to come to y’all place earlier, and I swear to God, my body just knew.”

Smoke frowns, squinting. “Knew what?”

“That she was ovulating.”

Smoke stares at him for a second, then laughs so loud it echoes off the side of the house. “What?!”

“I’m serious!” Stack sits forward, elbows on knees, eyes wide. “It hit me in the chest. Like my sperm sat up and started gettin’ organized.”

Smoke nearly drops his drink. “You out your mind.”

“I ain’t,” Stack insists, pointing like he’s dropping divine revelation. “It was spiritual. Like, generational. Felt my ancestors behind me go, ‘Boy. Get ready.’”

Smoke can’t breathe for a second. “You actin’ like Maya got a bat signal.”

“She do!” Stack says, grinning now. “Womb on Wi-Fi, I’m tellin’ you. Nigga, I’m connected. Synced.”

Smoke shakes his head, still laughing as he passes the blunt back. “Yo ass need help.”

“Nah,” Stack says, taking a hit and leaning back with a smirk. “You only sayin’ that ’cause yo lady got caught doin’ that little slow spin on camera last week. You ain’t say nothin’ at the time ‘cause you was tryin’ to act unbothered.”

Smoke tries to keep his face straight, but his lips twitch.

“Annie was feelin’ herself,” he says finally.

“She was feelin’ herself on your camera,” Stack counters. “I almost filed a complaint. That spin was unholy.”

Smoke sips his drink, then shrugs. “You see me complainin’?”

“Nope,” Stack says. “You sittin’ here talkin’ ‘bout I need help when I know both our girls walked out the house tonight lookin’ like trouble in perfume.”

Inside the club, Maya’s fingers tap her glass to the beat, her other hand draped casually over the back of Annie’s chair. They’ve snagged a small booth with a clean view of the dancefloor and the bar, and already a few men have tried to ease close with offers and smirks.

Annie had sent one of them packing with a single look.

“I love when they try it,” Maya says, eyes following a tall one in locs who’s been orbiting near the DJ booth. “Like they don’t know we only came out to talk shit, take shots, and maybe slow dance with each other if the music hit right.”

“Exactly,” Annie says, sipping on something green and expensive-looking. “Stack and Smoke gon’ be pacing when we get back.”

“Oh, Stack already on edge,” Maya says. “He felt the shift when I stepped into my dress.”

Annie chokes on her drink. “Maya!”

“I’m just sayin’,” Maya says with a smirk. “Man looked me in the eye when I was getting ready like he knew he was on borrowed time.”

“You ain’t right.”

“And you love it.”

They both laugh as the DJ switches tracks to something with more bass, more body. The dancefloor pulses.

“C’mon,” Annie says, grabbing Maya’s hand. “Let’s go set the night on fire.”

Smoke glances at his phone, then puts it face-down on the table. “You know they probably got men buyin’ ’em drinks right now.”

Stack blows smoke up toward the night sky. “Let ‘em try. You know how our girls are.”

Smoke raises a brow.

“You know what Maya told me before they left?” Stack says. “She looked me dead in my eye and said, ‘You better be ready when I get back.’”

Smoke laughs again, then clinks his glass against Stack’s.

“Man. We’re doomed.”

Stack nods, satisfied. “And blessed.”

The music’s heavier now. Syrupy and slow, all hips and bass. Bodies grind in sync across the floor, a wave of sweat and flirtation that makes the club feel like a warm-blooded thing.

Maya’s second drink has her smiling wider, her laughter looser, and she’s sitting close enough to Annie now that their thighs are touching. The dim light throws shadows across their cheekbones, catching the gleam of highlighter and intent in their eyes.

Annie leans in, tucking a curl behind Maya’s ear. “That tequila talkin’ or you just naturally dangerous tonight?”

Maya smirks. “Both, probably.”

Annie sucks her teeth and grins. “Figures.”

Maya’s eyes drift toward the bar again, but she’s no longer looking at the crowd. Her gaze turns mischievous, thoughtful even. She lifts her phone from the table, thumbs idling on the screen like a storm’s brewing in her mind.

“You know what would be real fun?” she says slowly.

Annie turns toward her, already interested. “What?”

“We get these niggas bothered.”

Annie’s smile curls. “Go on…”

“I mean like… mess with their heads a little. Show ‘em what they missing. Get ’em squirming while we out just looking this good.”

Annie licks her bottom lip, her interest sharpening like a blade. “What you thinkin’?”

Maya leans in close. “Start light. A little tease. Then we turn it up. Nothin’ too crazy… but just enough to have Stack and Smoke sittin’ on edge. Mad they not here. Hard in the pants and prayin’ we come home early.”

Annie laughs, tossing her head back, but there’s a gleam in her eye now. “Oh, you messy.”

“You love it.”

“I do.”

They clink their glasses together, and Annie reaches for her phone with the same kind of intention Maya’s got; Playful, filthy, and sweetly cruel.

Back at Smoke’s place, the night’s still quiet but the air is shifting. The weed’s mellowing out their bodies, and the sky’s taken on that deep navy hue that means it’s too late to be innocent.

Smoke’s phone buzzes first. He lifts it, thumb dragging across the screen.

Annie 🥀

You miss me yet, old man?

Smoke raises a brow, leans forward in his seat.

“What she say?” Stack asks, side-eyeing him while holding the blunt mid-pull.

Smoke shows the screen. Stack lets out a short laugh.

“Uh oh,” he mutters. “They gettin’ antsy.”

“No,” Smoke says slowly, watching his screen light up again. “They gettin’ playful.”

Another message rolls in.

Annie 🥀

Imagine me sittin’ in your lap in this dress. No panties. Just vibes.

Smoke makes a low sound in his throat—half grunt, half groan. He shifts in his seat like suddenly his sweatpants ain’t built for what’s happening.

“See?” Stack grins. “Told you this night was cursed.”

“Your girl text you yet?”

As if on cue, Stack’s phone buzzes on the table.

He grabs it with the urgency of a man unprepared for war.

Maya 🌻

I just leaned forward and let a man walk by real slow. Didn’t touch me, but he looked like he wanted to. You’d hate it. Thought you should know.

Stack stares at the message, jaw tight.

He mumbles, “She tryna start a fight.”

Smoke leans back, amused as hell. “Text her back then. Or don’t. Let her cook.”

Another text pops in before Stack can move.

Maya 🌻

But don’t worry. I’m saving the real show for you. Maybe I’ll send you a preview…

Smoke watches Stack closely, the way his lips part just slightly. Then his boy leans back, phone gripped tight, eyes narrowing like he’s ready to pray or sin, or both.

“She gon’ be the death of me.”

Smoke chuckles, dragging his fingers through his beard. “Could be worse.”

“How?”

“Annie just sent me a video.”

Stack lifts his head like what?

Smoke turns the phone toward him for a second. Just enough for Stack to see the soft flash of thigh and Annie’s hand slowly lifting her hem, but not enough to see the whole thing before Smoke pulls it back with a smirk.

“Yeah,” Smoke says low. “We ain’t safe.”

Back in the booth, Maya’s leaning over the small table, phone tilted just right as she lifts her leg slightly. Enough for a snapshot that shows smooth brown thigh, the curve of her hip, and the soft suggestion that maybe she really isn’t wearing anything underneath.

Annie’s watching her like a proud accomplice. “He’s gonna nut.”

“That’s the point,” Maya says, biting her lip before hitting send.

Annie pulls out her own phone again and angles it up for a selfie. Lips parted, eyes heavy-lidded, hair wild like she’s been touched. She sends it with a caption:

Still think I should’ve stayed home, Papa?

They both dissolve into laughter like high school girls passing notes in class, drinks in hand and chaos on their breath.

And somewhere across the city, two grown men stare at their phones like they’re holding live wires, slowly burning from the inside out.

The club’s rhythm slows, oozing into something seductive. Low, winding, all heat and tension. The crowd around them shifts, bodies pressing closer, drinks lifting higher. But Annie and Maya don’t move. They’ve built their own little world in this corner booth, half-lit by neon and filled with chaos only they understand.

Annie scrolls back through Smoke’s reactions. Three unread messages, the last one just a photo of his hand on his lap and the words: Keep playin’.

She bites her bottom lip and hums in delight. “He’s seething. I love it.”

Maya raises her glass in a quiet toast, eyes glittering with trouble. “To pressure.”

Annie clinks it back. “And panic.”

They drink.

Maya shifts closer, the hem of her dress rising just a little higher as she leans against Annie’s shoulder, her voice a sultry whisper by her ear.

“You know what would really fuck ‘em up?”

Annie turns, curious and already a little breathless from the way Maya’s tone melts into her skin. “Hmm?”

“A video.” Maya draws it out slow, her tongue just peeking past her teeth. “Of us.”

Annie blinks. “Of us what?”

Maya grins, devilish. “Kissing.”

Annie’s face breaks into a wide smile, eyes glowing like flame. “You menace.”

“Just enough to get them squirming,” Maya murmurs. “One little kiss. Maybe two. Think Smoke could handle it?”

Annie’s gaze flicks down to Maya’s lips before she speaks again. “Smoke gonna lose it. Probably leave Stack behind and come to find me mid-set.”

Maya licks her lips, tilts her head coyly. “Good. Let’s ruin his night.”

Annie doesn’t hesitate. She pulls her phone off the table and switches to the front-facing camera. Maya adjusts beside her, bodies pressed close now, thighs brushing. The two of them fill the screen glowing in the pulsing light, flushed cheeks, shiny lips, eyes too full of intent for this to be anything casual.

“You ready?” Annie asks.

Maya nods once, slow and sure. “Let’s make ‘em squirm.”

Annie hits record.

It starts with soft laughter, lips parted like the beginnings of a secret. Maya turns her face toward Annie, fingers brushing a curl from her cheek. Then, without another word, she leans in and presses her lips to hers.

It’s not chaste. Not for the camera. It’s languid, teasing. The kind of kiss that lingers just past what’s polite. Maya tilts her head, deepening it, and Annie’s hand finds her thigh under the table, squeezing gently.

When they pull apart, lips slick and breath caught, they’re smiling. Not sweetly. Wickedly.

Annie ends the video.

“Oh, that’s evil,” Maya murmurs, already warm all over.

Annie’s breathing harder than she means to, her thighs pressing together beneath the table.

“Sending it,” she says, hitting share without hesitation. Her caption?

For your eyes only. Don’t say we never gave you nothin’.

She tosses her phone down and covers her mouth with her hand like she just did something terribly good.

“Oh my God, I’m wet,” she admits, whispering into Maya’s neck.

Maya chuckles, fingers grazing Annie’s bare knee under the booth. “Told you we’d have fun.”

Smoke doesn’t even hear Stack call his name.

He’s staring at his phone like it just slapped him. The video plays twice before he remembers to breathe. The soft sounds of their laughter. The curve of their lips. The way Annie’s hand creeps under the table while Maya leans in…

“Damn.”

Stack finally looks up. “What happened?”

Smoke looks at him slowly, expression unreadable. “You ever been disrespected in 720p?”

Stack barks a laugh, reaching for his own phone out of instinct. “Maya sent it to me too?”

Smoke’s already shaking his head. “Nah, I got the exclusive.”

Stack groans. “Shiiit.”

Smoke turns the phone around for a second, just enough to make Stack flinch. “Nah. No way. They kissed?!”

Smoke doesn’t answer. He’s too busy adjusting his seat, the pressure in his lap getting real inconvenient.

“She said ‘for your eyes only,’” Smoke mutters, watching the screen like it might bite him.

“She’s not wrong,” Stack says, swiping through Maya’s earlier messages like he’s searching for salvation. “Maya had said she was thinkin’ about being real bad tonight. I didn’t know that meant full-blown softcore cinema in the club.”

They sit in silence for a second, both of them suffering and completely turned on.

Stack exhales hard. “If they send another one, I’ma have to stop myself from hoppin’ in the car.”

Smoke nods slowly. “Same.”

They both stare at their phones like soldiers awaiting orders. And somewhere, in a dark booth under colored lights and sticky bass, two women sip their drinks and grin like witches at a bonfire.

Annie’s still glowing, pupils a little blown and lips swollen from their earlier stunt, but Maya isn’t done. Not even close.

She leans in again, voice slick like honey and trouble. “Aww, Stack didn’t get a video.”

Annie tilts her head, feigning innocence. “Poor baby.”

“We should fix that,” Maya says, already reaching for her phone again.

Annie raises a brow, biting her straw like it’s deliberate. “What you got in mind?”

Maya’s smirk is wicked. “Something soft. Just enough skin. Something that’ll make him wanna crawl through the screen.”

Annie’s eyes glitter, wicked and ready. “Say less.”

Maya props the phone on a cocktail napkin against her clutch and angles it just right. The camera catches Maya from the waist down. Legs crossed, skin warm and golden under the strobe lighting.

Then Annie slides her hand over.

Slow.

Lethal.

Her fingertips graze Maya’s knee, drawing a lazy circle before sliding upward brushing the inside of her thigh. Maya shifts slightly, lips parting just enough to show she’s not immune to the touch, her body instinctively leaning into the warmth.

Annie traces along the smooth expanse of Maya’s inner thigh, not rushed, not greedy. Just slow enough to drive anyone watching insane. Her nails whisper just beneath the hem of Maya’s dress, teasing the line between intention and sin.

Maya glances down at her, then back at the camera. Her voice, soft and sultry, floats over the shot like perfume. Annie voice dripping with silk.

“That’s for you Stack… Ya girl feels pretty warm tonight”

They both giggle, low and dangerous, and Maya ends the recording.

“Send it,” Annie murmurs, her hand still resting high on Maya’s thigh, her own breath catching. “He’s gonna fuckin’ combust.”

Maya nods, her voice thick with heat. “Let him.”

To: Stack 💰

Her hands are pretty soft daddy. 🤭

Stack’s phone lights up, and his body reacts before he can think. He swipes it open, thumb trembling slightly. The video loads.

Annie’s hand.

Maya’s thigh.

That damn slow caress.

Stack’s eyes darken as he watches the loop again. And again.

He presses his tongue against the inside of his cheek, jaw tight, exhale sharp.

“She wanna play games,” he mutters. “Bet.”

Smoke glances up from his own screen. “Another one?”

Stack just nods, his thumb already flying across the screen.

To: Maya 🌻

I ain’t playin’ witchu. Bring your ass here. Now. I want that dress off and them legs trembling on my face.

He sends it.

Then another.

If you not at this house in thirty minutes, I’m pullin’ up in my drawers.

Smoke snorts, leaning back as he checks his own phone. “They got you tapped.”

“They got me horny,” Stack mutters. “She out here lettin’ Annie strum her thigh like a harp, and recordin’ it like I’m not supposed to react.”

Smoke’s already typing when his own screen lights up.

Annie 🥀

Should we come home, daddy? Or do you want one more?

Smoke’s thumb pauses. Then he starts typing like a man possessed.

To: Annie 🥀

You come home right now. No more teasin’. I want that mouth around me the second you walk in the door. Dress still on.

He doesn’t stop there. He switches to voice note.

His voice is deeper now, controlled, but just barely. That low, gravel-rich tone he saves for when he’s two seconds from snapping.

“I don’t care if y’all in the Uber, in the street, in the club bathroom. Get in something moving this direction. I’m hard, and growing impatient and you ‘bout to answer for everything you just sent me.”

Back at the booth, the air’s electric.

Maya’s reading Stack’s message with parted lips, thighs clenching tight under the table.

“Oh my God,” she whispers, eyes wide, a grin spreading slow and sinful. “He said if we not home in thirty minutes, he pullin’ up in his drawers.”

Annie damn near chokes on her drink. “His drawers?!”

“Type shit,” Maya laughs, practically purring. “He hot. He turned on. I just might die.”

Annie opens Smoke’s voice note next, presses play, and nearly loses composure halfway through. The depth of his voice, the promise in his tone. It hits her low, hard, wet.

She slides the phone across the table to Maya with a dazed look. “Girl. Listen to this man. He sounds like he could kill me and make me say thank you.”

Maya listens. Her eyes widen. “Yup. That’s the voice of a man who’s ready to ruin his life for a taste.”

“You still wanna play?” Annie asks, already pressing her thighs together.

Maya downs the last of her drink and grabs her purse. “I wanna get the hell outta here.”

Annie throws down some cash and links arms with her, grinning wild. “Let’s go break some hearts.”

The car ride from the club is a quiet storm.

Annie’s hands are steady on the wheel, but the tension in her jaw and the heat pooling between her legs says everything. The last message Smoke sent. A voice note growling his demand that she “get in something moving”—has been playing on a loop in her head.

Beside her, Maya’s dress has risen dangerously high on her thighs. She’s biting her thumbnail, trying to focus on the street signs instead of the pulsing ache between her legs. Stack’s messages haven’t stopped since the video.

DING I’m outside. Don’t keep me waiting.

DING That mouth better stay smart when I get you alone.

She’s not sure whether she wants to run or fall into him the second she sees him.

When Annie turns onto her street, Maya exhales sharply, because there he is.

Stack, leaning against his car, hood up, chain glinting in the porch light of Smoke and Annie’s house. Sweats hanging low on his hips like temptation. The second he sees the headlights, he stands upright.

Maya’s heart starts racing.

Annie parks with a slow exhale. “Tell my boy We’ll call him tomorrow. That’s if I wake up at a decent hour.”

Maya laughs weakly, grabbing her purse. “Pray for me.”

The moment she steps out of the car, Stack’s already walking toward her. There’s a fire in his eyes. Hungry, unblinking. His jaw is tight like he’s been clenching it since sundown.

“Hey, baby—”

He doesn’t let her finish. One strong arm wraps around her waist, the other gripping her jaw as he kisses her like he’s trying to erase every second they’ve been apart. Her knees damn near buckle.

“You think I’ma let you walk around touchin’ onmy brother’s woman like that and sending it to my phone?” he growls, lips brushing her ear.

“It was just fun—”

He grabs her chin, tilting her face back. “No. That was foreplay. And I don’t finish that shit in someone else’s house.”

He pulls open the car door and nods toward it.

“Get in.”

Maya climbs in without protest. Her thighs clench the second she’s seated. Stack rounds to the driver’s side, slides in, and shuts the door without looking back.

Inside, Annie’s barely shut the front door when she feels Smoke behind her.

She turns around slowly, only to be met with the heat of his stare.

“You drove?” he asks quietly.

She nods.

“Didn’t speed, did you?”

“No.”

“Good,” he says, stepping closer. “Because I need you alert for what’s about to happen.”

Her mouth opens, but his fingers press to her lips.

“No talking.”

She nods again.

Smoke’s shirt is gone before they even reach the stairs. He guides her up with a hand at her lower back and a promise in his grip.

Across town, Stack’s driving with one hand on the wheel, the other on Maya’s bare thigh. The air inside the car is thick with tension and gasoline.

Maya leans closer, fingers grazing the bulge in his lap through his sweats.

“You mad?” she teases, voice soft and sultry.

He doesn’t answer.

Just exhales through his nose and presses her thigh harder. Shaking his head no.

“Stack,” she whispers, pressing her palm to him fully now. “You gon’ punish me?”

He turns his head slowly, eyes locked on the road. “I’m not gonna punish you, Maya.”

She falters. “You not?”

He looks at her with a dark, intense, half a smirk on his face.

“I’m gonna ruin you.”

As they arrive to their place, Stack doesn’t even let her walk. The second the door shuts, he lifts her by the waist, kissing her hard as he walks them down the hall to their bedroom.

“You wanna put on a show?” he grits, kicking the door open. “You got it.”

He drops her on the bed and stands over her.

“Take that dress off. Now.”

Maya pulls it up and over her head in one motion, bare underneath. No bra, no panties, just skin and sin and that cocky smile she always wears when she knows she’s close to breaking him.

Stack’s sweatpants drop next.

“You ready to be reminded?” he asks, crawling up the bed.

She nods, lips parted.

“Use your words, Ma.”

“Yes.”

“Yes what?”

“Yes, daddy.”

He smiles. Dark. Dangerous.

“Good. Now stay right there while I put this mouth on you.”

Stack’s palms spread across Maya’s thighs, holding her open like he’s admiring his favorite painting. She’s laid back against the pillows, dress long gone, her legs parted for him. Bare and glistening under the soft lamp light.

“You knew what you was doin’,” he says, his voice deep and smooth as bourbon. “Sittin’ pretty in that booth, lettin’ her touch you like that. Dress ridin’ up. Eyes all dreamy like you wasn’t thinkin’ about me.”

“I was,” Maya breathes, already squirming under his gaze.

“Yeah?” He leans in, lips brushing her inner thigh, but not yet kissing. “Thinkin’ about how fast I’d flip you over when I got you alone? Or how loud you’d be when I put my mouth right…” His fingers drag through her slick heat, slow and teasing. “…here?”

Maya’s back arches.

“I’m gonna stretch you out nice and slow,” he murmurs. “Make you cum on my fingers first. Then my tongue. Then my dick. One by one, like you got levels to unlock.”

She lets out a shaky exhale. “You talk so much shit—”

“And you love every word of it.”

He grins as he slides one thick finger between her folds, watching her eyes flutter shut.

“You already drippin’, baby. You embarrassin’ yourself,” he teases. “Ain’t even done nothin’ yet.”

Maya lets out a soft moan as he circles her entrance. His touch is light, taunting. But she’s soaked, clenching already.

“Yeah, that’s what I like,” he whispers, slipping the finger in with delicious pressure. “Tight little grip like she don’t know me yet.”

Her hips twitch, legs tensing.

“Nah, don’t run,” Stack growls, pushing in deeper, curling his finger just right. “You wanted to tease me? Let Annie touch all up on you? Now you gon’ take everything I give you.”

Maya’s breath stutters, one hand reaching out to grab the sheets.

He smirks. “You gon’ grab somethin’, grab me.” He takes her hand and presses it to his wrist, right where his veins flex as he works his fingers in and out of her. “Hold on if it’s too much.”

She whimpers, nails grazing his skin.

“That’s it,” he coos, adding a second finger. “You feel that? That stretch right there?”

“Y-yeah,” she breathes, hips rocking toward him.

“That’s that ‘you been missin’ me’ stretch,” he says with a grin, fingers moving a little faster now. “That ‘ain’t nobody else touchin’ this’ stretch.”

Maya’s thighs tremble.

He curls both fingers again, pressing just right, watching her melt.

“Look at you,” he whispers, kissing her knee. “Already fightin’ it.”

“I’m so close,” she pants.

Stack doesn’t let up. His thumb finds her clit, slow and tight circles that match the rhythm of his fingers deep inside her.

“Good,” he growls. “Now cum for me. Right now. Just like that.”

Maya’s whole body tenses.

“Let it go, baby,” he whispers, leaning close, mouth near her ear. “Make a mess. Show me you mine.”

Her moan breaks open on the word mine. High and soft, thighs squeezing his wrist, hips arching off the bed as her orgasm crashes through her. Her breath catches in her throat, hands flying to his forearm to hold him there, right where she needs him.

“Damn,” Stack says under his breath, watching her fall apart. “So fuckin’ pretty when you cum for me.”

She’s still shaking when he pulls his fingers from her slowly, slick and glistening. He holds them up and watches the string of her arousal stretch between them.

“Whew,” he says with a low laugh. “You really was out here actin’ up with all this wetness in you?”

Maya rolls her head toward him, dazed. “You’re an asshole.”

“You say that every time,” he grins. “Right before you beg for more.”

He sucks his fingers clean, eyes never leaving hers.

“You got one down,” he says, climbing up her body, dragging his mouth across her collarbone. “And two more to go.”

Her legs are still twitching when he straddles her hips, his hard length pressed against her belly.

“I ain’t even started yet, baby,” he whispers, kissing the corner of her mouth. “You wanted me riled up. You got him.”

He kisses her again but it’s deeper now, slower. Then he breaks away with a devilish smirk.

“Next one’s with my mouth. You ready?”

Maya breathes out a soft, desperate laugh. “I hate you.”

“You love me.”

He slides back down her body, mouth tracing the curve of her stomach. “And I’m about to make you say it while you cum on my tongue.”

Stack’s already got her hips in his hands before she can even catch her breath from the last orgasm. His grip is firm, possessive—but not rough. He spreads her thighs wider, slow and methodical, settling between them like he belongs there.

Because he does.

Maya’s still sensitive, still pulsing from the first wave he pulled out of her with his fingers, and now her body is caught in that edge between overwhelmed and aching for more.

“Daddy,” she whispers, fingers twitching against the sheets.

He lifts his head just enough to look at her.

“Nah, don’t start beggin’ yet,” he says, voice low and full of warning. “You ain’t even felt the part that breaks you.”

She opens her mouth to protest but then his tongue flicks against her clit, sharp and precise, and all her breath vanishes.

Her hips jerk and Stack tightens his grip.

“Stay still,” he murmurs into her, mouth already moving again. “Let me eat.��

And eat he does.

Slow at first. Just the flat of his tongue, teasing lazy strokes that graze her clit like he’s tracing it from memory. Then a kiss. Then a suck. Then a roll of his tongue that makes her thighs tremble. Maya gasps, one hand flying to his hair. She grips it tightly, anchoring herself.

But Stack doesn’t ease up.

He dives into her.

Mouth wide, tongue dancing in tight, wet circles before slipping down and dragging back up. He moans into her, that low, husky sound vibrating straight through her core, and Maya’s head falls back.

“Oh my God—Stack—”

Her voice breaks when he wraps his lips around her clit and sucks with purpose. Not hard. Just right—that kind of suction that sends her eyes rolling back in her head.

He lets go with a soft pop and licks her again, slower now, tongue moving in deep, steady strokes as he speaks against her skin.

“You taste so good,” he growls, tongue flicking faster again. “You don’t even know.”

Maya whimpers.

“Oh you like that?” he teases, breath warm against her. “You like bein’ fed on like this?”

She nods, desperate. “Yes.. God yes, baby—”

“Mmhm. That’s what I thought,” he murmurs.

And then he gets mean with it.

He presses his mouth to her again. His tongue swirling, lips sealing around her clit as he sucks harder. His hands hold her down as her body starts to squirm, trying to escape and chase the feeling all at once.

Maya’s toes curl. Her back arches.

Her moans turn into helpless, breathy whines.

“Stack, please. it’s too—”

“You ain’t even there yet,” he growls.

He flattens his tongue and drags it up the full length of her slit, then circles her clit in fast, ruthless loops. Maya grabs his wrist, thighs clamping around his head, but Stack just grins and groans into her, turning his head slightly as he keeps going.

His beard is slick with her now, and he loves it.

“You gon’ cry for me this time?” he murmurs. “Let me see it.”

“I can’t—I—”

“Yes you can.”

He sucks again, merciless now.

And that’s it.

Maya lets out a broken moan, one that’s high and wrecked—as her second orgasm slams through her. Her thighs quiver. Her hands tighten in his hair. Her back arches so hard her shoulders lift off the bed.

“Oh my God, Elias—”

“Say my name,” he commands, not letting up even as she trembles through it.

She chokes on a sob, eyes squeezed shut. “Elias!”

He hums low, tongue still working her, dragging every last wave out of her until she’s twitching, panting, tears welling in her lashes.

Only then does he slow down, easing the pressure, licking her soft and slow, like he’s soothing her after the storm he became.

He finally lifts his head, lips swollen and glistening with her slick, beard damp, eyes wild.

Maya’s chest rises and falls in sharp bursts.

Stack grins.

“That’s two,” he says, licking his lips as he gazes down at her.

She covers her face with both hands, legs still trembling, a laugh breaking through her moans.

“You tryna kill me—”

“I’m bringin’ you back to life,” he murmurs, crawling back up over her. “Every time I make you cum, I’m just reminding you who you belong to.”

He kisses her. This time deep and messy, letting her taste herself on his tongue. Maya melts under him, lips moving with his, arms wrapping around his neck like she needs to hold on or float away.

Stack pulls back just enough to rest his forehead against hers.

“One more,” he whispers, voice dark and sweet like midnight. “You got one more in you right, mama?”

She nods, dazed.

“Yeah?”

“I got it.”

He smiles slow.

“Good. ‘Cause I need to feel you fall apart next time.”

He kisses her again, hips rolling against hers, thick and hard and ready.

“You cum on this dick,” he says, gripping her thigh. “And you don’t cum without permission.”

Stack’s got her right where he wants her.

Laid out under him, skin dewy, body still shaking from the last orgasm he pulled from her with nothing but his tongue and patience. Her chest rises and falls like she just ran miles, but her legs are already wrapping around his waist again. Needy, open, ready for him in all his charming glory.

He grips the back of her thigh and pushes it higher, spreading her wider, letting her feel the weight of him pressed against her center. Still slick. Still soaked.

Still his.

“You feelin’ greedy?” he mutters, lips brushing her ear as he grinds against her. “Two wasn’t enough?”

“I want you,” she whispers, breath catching.

“You got me,” he says, rubbing the thick head of his dick through her folds, slow and heavy. “You knew what this was when you sent that video.”

He presses in just an inch and watches her mouth drop open.

“There she go,” he breathes. “Always opens right up for me.”

He eases in slowly, stretching her around him inch by inch, watching her back arch with each push.

“You tight as hell,” he groans, gripping her hips. “Grippin’ me like you tryna trap me in.”

Maya moans, one hand sliding up his back, nails lightly digging into his shoulder blade.

Stack doesn’t move at first. Just stays there, heavy, full.

He leans over her, resting his weight on one arm, his mouth right at her ear.

“Here’s how this go,” he murmurs. “You don’t cum unless I tell you to.”

Her body tenses beneath him.

“You hear me?”

She nods, gasping, “Yes, daddy.”

“You feel it buildin’, you better hold it.”

He pulls out halfway then drives back in with a roll of his hips that has Maya choking on a sound too soft to be a scream, too loud to be a moan.

“Ffffuck,” she whimpers.

“Oh, you feelin’ it now, huh?” he taunts, thrusting again. “Look at ya. All that mouth at the club. But na’ you quiet. That pretty pussy doin’ all the talkin’ for ya.”

He rolls his hips again, this time grinding deeper, angling perfectly. Maya’s thighs start to tremble again, her body locking up as she tries to keep control.

“I said don’t cum,” he warns, grabbing her chin and turning her face to his. “Don’t you dare.”

“I’m—tryin’,” she breathes, but her voice is already breaking.

“You betta try harder,” Stack grits out, picking up the pace. “Hold it like a good girl.”

His strokes are ruthless now—deep, slow at first, then faster, more punishing, like he’s determined to carve his name into her walls.

He reaches between them and rubs his thumb over her clit in a tight, perfect circle.

Maya screams.

“Don’t. Cum.”

Her eyes roll back, mouth open, breath ragged.

“I can’t—”

“Yes you can,” Stack growls, holding her down with one hand and continuing the rhythm that has her right on the edge. “You gon’ do this for me. You gon’ let me pull it outta you when I want. Not before.”

Her whole body is shaking now, her legs locked around him like she’s hanging on for dear life. He’s everywhere; his voice in her ear, his hand on her throat, his body inside her like he was made to fit there.

He slows it down just enough to make her ache.

Then leans in, kissing her lips. Soft, slow, then rougher as she claws at him, her restraint slipping.

“Please—please,” she begs, eyes wild now. “Let me come. I need it. ‘Lias, please—daddy.”

He groans into her mouth.

“You need it that bad?”

“Yes, yes, yes—”

“You ready to be ruined for real?”

“Yes.”

He drives into her hard, once, twice. Grinding against her until her toes curl and her thighs shake violently.

“Now,” he whispers darkly. “Let it go. Cum for me. Right now.”

The permission rips through her like a match to dry kindling.

Maya shatters.

Her whole body arches off the bed, a sob punching from her chest as her orgasm hits. Wild, uncontrollable, tearing through her like a wave that doesn’t end. Her hands scramble against his skin, clinging, clawing, dragging him deeper as she trembles under him.

“That’s it,” Stack breathes, watching her lose it. “That’s what I fuckin’ missed. That messy-ass, loud-ass, real-ass nut.”

He’s right behind her. Groaning into her neck as he finally lets go, thrusting deep, letting the heat and tightness of her pulsing around him drag his own orgasm out like a war cry.

He spills inside her with a low, possessive growl, still holding her close as their bodies shake together.

Minutes pass.

The only sound is heavy breathing. Sweat cooling. Skin pressed to skin.

Stack strokes her hip, lips against her temple.

“You alive?”

Maya laughs weakly. “Barely.”

He chuckles. “You did good.”

“I almost didn’t make it.”

“You always make it. Just need the right coach.”

She smacks his chest gently. “You so full of yourself.”

“I’m full of you right now,” he smirks, kissing her shoulder. “That count?”

She turns into him, smiling against his chest.

“…It counts.”

-

Stack has finally caught his breath when he feels her start to melt into him. Her leg draped over his, her cheek pressed to his chest, lips parted.

Her fingers twitch softly against his ribs, like she’s trying to hold onto him in her dreams already.

She mumbles something low. Barely audible.

“…told you I was gon’ ride you stupid…”

Stack chuckles, chest rumbling beneath her. “You did. You definitely tried.”

She hums sleepily. “Mmm… you smell like outside. And good decisions.”

He grins, tilting his head to look at her.

“You drunk?”

“No,” she mutters. “Just in love.”

Stack goes still. Something in his chest flips.

Maya snuggles in closer, her lips brushing his skin. “You make me feel safe, Elias…”

Her voice trails off as her breathing evens out, slow and soft.

He watches her for a long moment. Her eyes fluttering closed, mouth slack, skin glowing in the soft lamplight. Completely undone and folded into him like she belongs there.

His hand finds the curve of her back. Just rests there.

Stack blinks slow, heart full, lips curled into a faint smile.

“Yeah,” he whispers. “I feel safe with you too.”

——

Taglist: @gtf-o-m-d @spookysanta @michelley-rome @bigjh @anniensmoke3 @hdfen2474 @uzumaki-rebellion @nahimjustfeelingit-writes @killmongerdispussy @theogbadbitch @ccwpidsblog @princesskillmonger @blowmymbackout @theethighpriestess @blktinkerbell @steampunkprincess147 @diamondsinterlude @partylikemajima @theegoldenchild @mhhhhmmmmmmm @lilchubbs @thebumblebeesworld @mastertia221b @brownskincheyenne @belleofthefloor @c0tt0ncandi @irefusetobeacasualty @cocoxciv-blog @melodyofmbaku @lb-xci @christinabae @babygirl-4986 @honeytoffee

[lukyan-chan-blog]

DP x DC Prompt Your children will die young.

Bruce thinks he's cursed, actually he's not, although he might as well be. Biological half-brothers Danny, Damian and surprise, there are three more!

it's my first post, I never learned how to use this but the ideas don't come out of my head and there's no one to talk to about this so I'm sorry for spouting my delusions and English is not my native language (I don't follow the cannon, I don't know, I don't know what it is, I'm going to ignore it, it scares me but I did see DP although I don't think it counts for much, honestly)

Batman is spiraling after a powerful trio of siblings join the Justice League. They attract attention with their bright, exotic and painfully young (terribly powerful) appearance.

Since he has discovered that he is most likely the biological father. He doesn't know how to tell them this, or that maybe all three of them died from a curse he deliberately ignored for years. He wants to obtain DNA samples but since they are now ghosts it is not likely that they will leave DNA that he can take for paternity tests.

Do all three have the same biological mother? They are identical! (Maybe they could be clones?) Should I search and desecrate their graves? Will they notice? Were they even buried? Did anyone cry for them? Did they have a funeral? Were they cremated? Did an illness, an accident or a murder kill them? (How can I not ask all that? I need answers!)

Every time he and his family look at them, they can only cry inside and become distraught.

Your children are dead! He has to break this curse, apologize and bring them home! They are children, so young!

(When Flash asked how Phantom was the oldest of the three if Wraith appears fully grown with his height and large muscles, it ended in some tears from the speedster, causing much of the nearby team to become depressed)

Meanwhile the trio of ghosts:

Phantom (heavy fighter like Superman and Captain Marvel), Wraith (diplomat who spends time with the GL in space), and Shade (infiltration and caos) try to avoid Batman by pretending they don't know anything.

Then Bruce has his moment of crazy nights before leaving university, an "ex-girlfriend" - a woman he dated only twice becomes obsessed with him - Bruce obviously becomes gets rid of her easily

(we just went out for coffee and lunch, I didn't even know it was supposed to be a date.)

When Bruce rejects her, she swears that she comes from a line of witches and will curse him, if he doesn't marry her all his children will die. Bruce still checks it, but what he finds is just a story of three generations of eccentric women, so he ignores it and moves on with his life.

During another one night stand, his anonymous date gets pregnant and since she doesn't really remember much, she doesn't go looking for him either. This woman doesn't want to keep the baby and the doctor treating her actually needed a baby to pass as hers. Sheila takes this baby that she wants to tie Willis up with, but Willis already married Catherine. She leaves this baby "Jason Todd" with Willis as revenge.

Fast forward a few years later, Bruce has another crazy night with a couple.The Fentons have no problem having this baby and forget to call Bruce.

Years later Damian Wayne introduces himself as his only blood son, he becomes Robin.

Damián, now 17 years old, gets along well with a new heroine who is the youngest of a new trio that has joined the Justice League. The trio of siblings leave a bittersweet and painful feeling to the league because they are dead children.

Danny “Phantom”- 14 years old

Dante “Wraith” - 13 years old

Ellie “Shade”- 12 years old

One day they want to go to eat at this new restaurant in Gotham but although Robin can buy food with the suit they would attract a lot of attention with Shade giving off her supernatural glow, Ellie tells him that he can take a normal living human form and thus go out to eat. Once everything is agreed, on a nearby roof, Ellie returns to her human appearance and Damian realizes that they are terribly similar, very similar! He asks her if that's really what she looks like in life and she says yes

(Ellie doesn't really notice)

During the disturbing dinner on the roof, Damian asks him about his other two brothers.

"oh them? Wraith is actually my completely biological brother, our mother was really crazy and we ended up like this, you know? Phantom is our older half-brother, ever since he found out about our existence he has been tormenting our mother even more for what she did to us"

Damian is secretly going crazy but keeps asking.

"Phantom has been dead for longer, he doesn't usually change his living appearance much although sometimes he does, Wraith looks older just because he really felt very bad being so young and I don't have problems with how I look, although in reality I'm a little older than you"

(Ellie is actually lying a little for Danny's peace of mind, she sticks to her false story) Ellie even shows him a photo of her brothers looking alive. Damian is looking at a photo of three people who look a lot like his father, him, and for some reason Todd.

Damian returns to the mansion looking for old photos of Todd (because they look so similar too?!) and spiraling because the three new members could be his dead half-Siblings.

The batfamily finds out about Damian's conspiracy theory and panics. After some analysis they discover that Jason is in fact Bruce's biological son

(Jason feels cheated because Sheila was not his mother either and died in his attempt to meet/save her and because he has Bruce as his father)

Tim "actually they all died young, Shade at 12, Wraith 13, Phantom 14, Jason 15 and Damian died for a while at 16, that means that Bruce's next child has to die at 11 or 17"

Bruce…..

Tim "although if you think about it, most of us here also died at some point, only for a very short time unlike Jason and Damian"

Bruce, in a mental breakdown over his possible children and his dead children.

Phantom, who was floating invisible was about to ask Jason if he wanted to hang out, hears the conspiracy and runs to ask Jazz. (Jazz says yes, his parents had a threesome with some young millionaire they forgot to call and then lost his number)

Danny, who has been escaping for years from being adopted by Vlad, refuses to be adopted by another millionaire guy who also seems like a different kind of vampire.

(it's funny because Batman could pass for a vampire and Vlad also looks like a vampire, they both wear capes, they have a secret basement and they both want to adopt some boy with black hair and blue eyes)

From here on it's nonsense and a lot of misunderstandings because:

Danny and company don't want to be adopted or reveal themselves or explain the issue of clones or because Dan has a 13-year-old human body but is from another timeline.

The Batfamily wants to hunt down these kids to bring them home, find out if the apparent crazy mother is in prison for killing her two children, where is Phantom's mother? Was he also murdered? Because his casual comments about his parents seem to understand that this is the case.

Tim again notices the pattern that all the children have died for their "parents" or relatives.

Bruce has another nervous breakdown.

Dick cries for his poor dead brothers.

Jason blames all of this on Bruce and is still confused.

Damian doesn't know how to feel about not being the only blood child or that apparently he and Todd were lucky enough to get back.

Steph wonders if her dying minutes count her as Bruce's daughter.

Cass is sad ):

Duke doesn't know if he wants to stay in this family.

Alfred has had enough for this week

[syrecjh]

Hi! I'm not sure if you have requests open, but if you do, I had a slightly angst idea. Basically, the reader had a training session or a fight with a villain where they end up getting hurt and are left with a scar or a mark in a place that's not too noticeable. Later on, when they're alone, Bakugou notices the mark/wound and gets really upset - like the classic "Who did this to you?" And you can really see his anger start to build, like a murderous fury. But she's the only one who can calm him down, and in the end, it turns into something fluffy. That's the general idea, but feel free to use it however you'd like :D Thank you so much!

──★ ˙❤️‍🩹 ̟ !! WHO DID THIS TO YOU??!

⋆. 𐙚 ˚ || katsuki bakugo x reader, pure fluff

The scar isn’t large. It curves just below your ribs—an ugly crescent tucked away beneath your shirt, stitched clean but still angry in color. You hadn’t meant to hide it. You just didn’t want to explain it. Not to anyone. Especially not to him.

The mission had been sudden. Quick but messy. The villain had been cornered, desperate, and you’d been fast—but not fast enough. You took the hit, landed the blow, and smiled through the sting. You didn’t tell Katsuki. Just said it was "nothing serious," the way heroes always do when they bleed behind closed doors.

But now, back in the still of your shared apartment, when the adrenaline’s long worn off and the sky outside is bruising with dusk, he notices.

You’re in the bedroom, changing shirts thinking he’s in the kitchen. You don’t hear him until he’s behind you, his voice sharp with something that isn’t quite anger and isn’t quite fear.

“…The fuck is that?”

You freeze. His voice is low, taut like a pulled wire.

You turn, the hem of your shirt caught in your hands. “It’s just a scratch, Kats—”

“Bullshit.” His eyes are locked on the mark—red, raw, puckered slightly at the edges. His jaw tightens so hard it ticks. “Who did this to you?”

You watch him unravel. Slowly. Quietly. His palms clench at his sides, knuckles white like he’s trying not to ignite. Like the fire’s already at his throat and he’s holding it back for your sake. His anger isn't loud—it simmers. Dangerous. Controlled only by the thin line of your breath.

You step forward, gently catching his wrist. “It’s okay. I’m okay.”

He doesn’t meet your eyes.

“They touched you.” His voice is gravel, broken open. “They fucking hurt you.”

“And they’re gone now. The wound is healing. You know how this works.”

“I should’ve been there.”

“Katsuki—”

He finally looks at you, and God, it’s all there: the guilt, the rage, the quiet desperation of someone who wants to burn the whole world for even thinking of scarring you.

“You think I care about your scars?” he snaps, but it isn’t cruel. It’s cracked. “I care that someone got close enough to put one there. That they laid a hand on you and I wasn’t there to rip their damn spine out for it.”

You step into his space, pressing a hand to his chest, grounding him. “You don’t need to be everywhere, Katsuki. You don’t need to carry all my bruises too.”

But he’s already cupping your side with trembling fingers, careful and reverent like he’s touching the last petal of a burning flower. His thumb brushes the scar. He curses softly under his breath. And then he does something rare—he presses his forehead to yours, exhales like you’re the only air that matters.

“I don’t care what anyone says. I’ll protect you. Always. Even if you don’t need it, I’m gonna do it anyway.”

You smile, brushing your nose against his. “I know.”

And in the quiet that follows, he doesn’t say I love you. He never says it like that.

Instead, he bandages it himself the next day. Buys that fancy scar cream even though you laugh at the price. Kisses the spot every night like he’s apologizing to it. Tells you he’d set the world on fire for one scratch on your skin.

And you believe him—because when it comes to you, Bakugou doesn’t bluff.

He burns. Only for you.

[internetladyfables]

[Headcanons] Alhaitham, Neuvillette, Wriothesley: He Asks You to Be His Girlfriend

cw: self-indulgent, possible OOC, fluff, female reader.

Requested by anon.

Spends more time than he’ll ever admit analyzing his feelings. He spends weeks observing your behaviour around himself. He rationalizes everything: your eye contact, your smiles, your laugh at his jokes (that many don’t find funny), the fact you don’t mind his bluntness. The logical part of his brain fights the emotional one, but in the end, he knows what he wants — it’s you.

Debates whether confessions should be direct or romantic. Logical or emotional. In the end, he drafts several versions in his head and throws them all out the window last minute. Prefers to confess in a quiet place with no audience that can bother the both of you. Maybe during a walk in Sumeru’s serene nature.

Being blunt is in Alhaitham’s nature, so he doesn’t beat around the bush when says: “I’ve considered the implications of taking our relationship to the next stage. Would you be interested in entering a romantic partnership with me?” Even though he tries to to sound casual, his voice is a bit lower than usual; he speaks also a bit slower, carefully selecting the right words; his fingers may twitch.

Watches your reaction like a scholar observing a rare phenomenon. A shock can be seen on your face, so he tries to explain himself better: “I find your presence… pleasant. Even necessary. I’d like us to be more than friends.”

Will respect your decision completely and stay composed regardless of your answer. But if you happily accept his confession, he will let out the smallest sigh of relief and his cheeks will turn pinkish.

Bonus: during his boy evenings with Kaveh, Cyno and Tignari, he may throw casually “My girlfriend...”, and cue a visible shock on the trio’s faces, “Your who?” Alhaitham never bothered to tell anyone that he dates you, not because he’s embarrassed, he prefers to keep his private life, well, private, and when he nonchalantly mentions his girlfriend out blue, the trio just can’t believe him.

Is unfamiliar with romantic attachment — he’s always been distant, composed, observing humans from a distance. It takes a long time for him to understand the feeling blooming in his heart. Love is foreign and curious to him. With you, he starts to feel these things. Warm, an ache, a desire to be near you. That’s when he starts to understand: he misses you. Not just as a companion, but in a way that makes his chest tighten.

Turns to the literature that may help him, watches human interactions, even asks Furina (regretfully, she’s not a big help in this area and becomes flustered as if it’s her love life being discussed) and Melusines (are better advisors than Furina in this topic (mainly because they live with humans closer and like their literature), though their approach may be a little forward for someone like Neuvillette, but generally, they’re super supportive and he takes mental notes of their pieces of advice).

Writes down what he wants to say. Revises it. Memorizes it. Rehearses it in from of the mirror. Then throws it all out when he sees you, because you smile at him and he forgets every word.

Invites you to Opera Epiclese for a private conversation. Looking at him, at how stern he looks and how formal he speaks, you wonder if he’s going to arrange a private court hearing and judge you for a crime you don’t know you committed. But actually, he’s really nervous, and that’s how he just tries to keep himself together.

His words are formal, noble. But if you look at his eyes, you’ll see nervousness, vulnerability, and tenderness — what he doesn’t show in court: “There is much I don’t understand about the human heart… but I know mine finds peace when you are near. If you would allow me, I would like to court you and to explore the possibility of something deeper.”

Whatever your answer, he remains respectful and understanding. If you need time to think, he waits patiently without pressure, proving that he values your feelings above all else.

Bonus: melusines knew everything even before Neuvillette did. They noticed his emotions and attitude around you. They are thrilled when they find out about your relationship and may gently tease him, “Finally, our dear Iudex lets someone have his heart!” They don’t stop giving him advice; they even write a book and slips it to him “How to Be a Good Boyfriend: Melusine Edition.”

Enjoys your company, finds your voice soothing, and notices how he relaxes when you’re around. But he brushes it off. Until Clorinde or Sigewinne teases him about the way he smiles when you’re around, and he freezes. “Wait. Do I…? No. Huh...”

Overthinks the matters for days. Despite his confident appearance, Wriothesley is inexperienced at romantic stuff. He’s used to dealing with criminals, not matters of the heart. He even asks Sigewinne for advice — though, she’s noticed his condition beforehand he himself realises it — only for her to tease him endlessly. In any case, surprisingly, he gives good pieces of advice — she’s lived long enough to learn something about humans and their romantic matters.

Tries to come up with a plan.“Do I just… say it? Am I supposed to give her something?” He overthinks it so much that Sigewinne eventually tells him, with a knowing smile: “You’ll be less intimidating if you stop glaring like this while thinking about her, you know.”

When he finally works up the courage, he may ask you during a quiet moments on one of your walks together when you visit him at the Fortress, or he invites you for tea in his office, pretending it’s for a small matter.

Pours the tea, sits across from you, folds his hands on his lap, and it takes him ten seconds to finally speak: “...I like you. A lot more than I probably should, considering how long I’ve kept quiet about it. So… Would it be alright if I courted you?”

Doesn’t fidget, but his body goes very still, like a rock. Even his heartbeat is louder than usual. And when you say yes, he lets out a breath and chuckles, soft and slightly disbelieving to the point he gets a bit red. But if you mention it, he clears his throat and looks away, “Must be the tea. It’s warm.”

Bonus: Sigewinne has been shipping you two even before you two realised your feelings for each other. When you two officially together, she becomes your cheerleader. She brings you sweets, checks in with you often, has girl talks with you, “Tell me everything! Was he romantic? Did he look all serious and broody? I need the details!”

[littlejoels]

synopsis: while helping older!dean washes his impala, things get a little wet!

word count: 805 words

warnings: +18, dad's best friend!dean, age gap, nipple sucking, curse words!

“bout time you showed up,” he drawls, eyes catching yours like a net. “hope you’re ready to work, pretty girl.”

you groan, dragging your gaze away from the flex of his arms as he squeezes the sponge, water spilling down his wrist. “ugh, this is so dumb,” you mutter, grabbing a towel and tossing it over your shoulder. “who even washes a car by hand anymore?”

“someone who loves her like i do.” he smirks, patting the impala’s fender like it’s a woman. hell, maybe she is to him.

you roll your eyes and start at the back, bending low to scrub at the bumper. the kansas heat radiates off the metal, licking all the way up your thighs, making your jean shorts stick.

“complaining already?” he teases, lightly. “come on, thought your generation was supposed to be tough.”

you flash him a glare. “i am tough .. i just think this is bullshit.”

he dips the sponge in the bucket again, lifts it, and flings a spray of cold water right across your chest, making you shriek. “dean!”

but it’s too late. the water hits you full-on, soaking through your white tee in an instant. clinging to your breasts like a wet kiss, cotton going sheer, nipples stiffening and outlined beneath the drenched fabric. you weren't wearing a bra, of course. it’s too hot for that.

his gaze snags on your chest, mouth slightly opening, lustfully. hunger seemingly blooming in his stomach. “jesus christ, pretty ..”

you cross your arms too late, the shirt sticking to your skin, cool from the water but burning hot under his intense stare. “you did that on purpose,” you exhale softly.

“you think i planned that?” he murmurs, stopping in front of you after walking around the car. “that i knew you’d come out here, tryin' to make those pretty nipples hard?”

his hand reaches out and curls under the hem of your tee. he doesn’t lift it, instead he gently brushes the wet fabric up, exposing the curve of your underboob. using one hand, his thumb grazes your nipple through the soaked cotton.

you gasp, not answering his question.

“uh-uh, sweetheart .. it was just a damn good accident.”

he does it again—this time using his thumb and forefinger, pinching gently, rolling your nipple slowly, causing your thighs to shift together. “dean…”

“look at you ..” his voice is tense as he continues to pull at your nipple. “all worked up just from a little water. what’s your daddy gonna say if he sees you like this?”

you flush sweetly, biting your lip. he steps closer, chest almost brushing yours, the scent of soap, sweat, and old leather drowning you. his hand slides under the edge of your shirt, fingers curling around your bare tit.

“he’d kill me,” dean murmurs, dragging his thumb across your nipple again, slower this time. “but right now? i don’t give a fuck.”

you shouldn’t want this. you know that. but the heat in his eyes makes your knees so weak. he drags his tongue over your nipple, wet cotton dragging across your skin with every single suck.“fuck,” he growls against you. “you taste like sweet .. sweet .. sweet sweat.”

you arch yourself into him, your hand begins fisting in his shirt. the damp cloth clings to you both now, and his other hand slips down your side, thumb hooking in your shorts, dragging them just a little hinting that he wants more.

when his hips rock forward, you feel his hard shaft trapped behind his jeans. he groans lowly, grinding against your thigh. “you’re gonna make me cum in my pants like some horny teenager.”

his breath was hot against your chest as his lips found your nipple again—this time pulling it into his mouth, suckling hard, kneading the other breast. every suck sends a jolt straight to your cunt.

you moan—head falling back, hips tilting toward him, seeking more .. more of him, of the feeling.

both palms squeezing your tits .. his tongue consistently lapping around your stiff peaks again and again.“tell me to stop,” he pants. “fuck, just say it, and i will.”

you don’t .. can’t. your nails dig into his shoulders, pussy clenching around nothing.

“fuck it,” he growls, sounding exactly like beastly creature. “you drive me fucking insane.”

his hips buck up once, then twice .. jeans rough against your thigh. you feel the tremor go through him, feeling the tension snap in half.

a strangled moan breaks from him as he presses hard against you, grinding through the orgasm. his forehead hits your shoulder, tangling hands in your shirt, “ aw fuuck, i came in my jeans.”

you giggle at him, “like a teenager?” you tease in a wicked tone.

he lifts his head, with a nasty smirk, “you better believe i’m not done, sweetheart.”

#tags below

@soldiersgirl @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing @legalmente-loca @bluemerakis @whisperingdaze @bruisedfig @sunsbaby @ambiguous-avery @bocadelinfierno @sunnyteume @bejeweledinterludes @zepskies @k-slla @lunaleah @pieandflannel @liiiilsss @that-stanford-girlie @lanasgirlfr @angelicjackles @mostlymarvelgirl @nymphet-quenn @thesevnthseal

[rainscenes]

i think i'm sending this one to everyone, but .6 for the intimacy prompts 🙂‍↕️ and/or 20!

tysm kasia ❣️ 6. teasingly kissing the tip of the nose

—

Buck looks absolutely miserable, really, turning his head back when Eddie walks in through the front door. Sunken into the couch cushions, a pitiful knit to his eyebrows, shoulders hunched and lips— they’d be pouting if Buck could do anything with his mouth at all right now. Eddie, hit with a blinding wave of affection, can’t help snickering before he can even say hello. 

“Laughing at my suffering now, I see,” Buck says. It comes out strained, because he’s stubborn and would rather pull at the blistering skin of his jaw than not talk.

Eddie throws his keys into the bowl by the door, toes his shoes off. “I’ve laughed at your suffering before.”

“I know.” A scowl that only really works to make the little animal inside Eddie’s chest swell. “This is serious.”

The blinds are drawn, but it’s mid-morning and the sun fights its way through gaps in the fabric like it’s trying to reach Buck, throwing shadows across his downturned face. It’s not really all that often that Eddie comes home to Buck waiting for him, with their shifts aligned and their hips joined, but it’s times like these where Eddie gets to savor the way the aches in his limbs fade when he sees Buck, the way he still gets a little surprised every time, like, oh, right, this is all he’s ever wanted.

“It’s what you get,” Eddie says, lifting up Buck’s legs and slipping to sit underneath them, “for always taking off your mask too early.” Buck’s thighs settle on his lap.

“The fire was out.”

“And yet.” With one palm resting on Buck’s hipbone, Eddie twists a little to the side to let his other hand slide up to the back of Buck’s head, until they’re touching everywhere; Eddie can feel the rise and fall of Buck’s chest against his, slow and steady. No place he’d rather be, really. He could fall asleep right now, easy, exhausted down to the bone, but— Buck’s awake, and he missed him at work so much he wants to keep this until he can’t fight off sleep any longer.

A little pressure at Buck’s neck, and he’s tilting his head up so Eddie can look at the damage around Buck’s chin and down the one side of his jaw, where the flare of residual heat had hit him. The singed skin is already healing but still irritated and red; his lips are chapped and blistering, glistening wet from the cooling gel Buck’s supposed to lather on every couple of hours. He’s letting the examination happen, a little resigned. Eddie squeezes his hip when he’s done. Buck looks like he’s about to tip forward for a kiss before huffing out a breath, slumping back into his pillow.

“This sucks,” Buck groans, “I’ve been eating soup through a straw for days and I can’t even kiss you.”

“You complaining about Mrs. Sarafyan’s soup?” Eddie leans back a smidge, mock-offended on behalf of their neighbor.

“No.” A huff. “It’s delicious.”

“I’ll let her know,” Eddie says, and they’re still so, so close. He’s considering moving his legs up, settling in up against Buck’s side on this couch that’s probably too small and maybe taking a nap after all; nothing but the scent of Buck’s shampoo in his nose and the steady beat of his heart against his chest; and he’s leaning in already, about to bury his nose in Buck’s curls, when—

“You know, if you really loved me, you’d kiss me even with—” and Buck waves his hands in the general direction of his mouth, “—all this.”

And because Eddie really is disgustingly in love with him, he actually, for about a second, considers it. Just a faint brush of their lips, or the corner of Buck’s mouth, maybe; Eddie hasn’t been letting on too much just how on edge he is, but this is the longest they’ve gone without a kiss in— forever, probably. Ever since the first one. He shakes the thought away. But he’s already angling down, eyes set on Buck’s; except when he’s about half an inch away he diverts, dropping a quick kiss to the tip of Buck’s nose instead.

“Eddie,” Buck says, except it comes out as kind of an undignified whine, and Eddie grins at him just to see that frustrated little line appear between Buck’s eyebrows. “You’re killing me,” he goes on, and Eddie can’t hold in the laugh that bursts out of him. He muffles half of it in Buck’s shoulder, avoiding where his skin is tender, breathes him in. He smells like laundry detergent and aloe vera and something Eddie wants to keep forever.

Eddie almost stays right there, where he can nuzzle into him so perfectly, when Buck’s hand comes up to Eddie’s head and he sinks his fingers into his hair. The scratch of his nails against his scalp has Eddie more awake than he’s been in hours, and suddenly he wants. He pushes up, just a bit; Buck’s hand stays, settles strong and heavy at the nape of his neck, and when Eddie looks him in the eyes he sees them blown wide and dark. He squeezes Buck’s hip again, revels in the way the muscle there gives in to his touch.

“I can kiss you in other places,” Eddie murmurs, because apparently he enjoys torturing Buck. Himself, too— with his eyes fluttering closed Eddie nearly forgets, drawn to the familiar shape of Buck’s lips, the lingering memory of the taste of him, the weight of his tongue inside his mouth. He feels Buck shiver from the way his breath must whisper across his cheek; he feels it, too, that familiar itch under his skin that’s making heat begin to creep up his spine. The one inch of space between his lips and Buck’s feels too vast and barely-there all at once.

“Like,” Eddie goes on, letting his nose brush along Buck’s cheekbone, “here,” lips ghosting just a scant bit away from the unblemished side of Buck’s jaw before pressing down into the stubble there, almost chaste. Buck gasps anyway. His fingertips dig near-painfully into Eddie’s nape, and it makes a groan come out from somewhere deep in his lungs, so Eddie opens his mouth and pushes his tongue against the spot where his lips just were, lapping wet and slick at Buck’s pulsepoint. He feels it, his pulse speeding up against his tongue, the way his breath catches on a swallowed moan.

“Or,” Eddie says, wrenching himself away from Buck with all his might, because he was trying something; lets the tip of his tongue trail up Buck’s jaw to his ear. “Here,” he says, catching Buck’s earlobe between his teeth and closing his lips around it.

“Fuck,” Buck grits through his teeth, shifting in Eddie’s grip like he doesn’t know which way to go. A soothing kiss against that little spot below Buck’s ear; a tremble that works its way through them both where they’re joined, like a jolt of power, and that has Eddie giving up trying to speak. Instead he just presses kiss after kiss in a line down Buck’s unmarred neck, in a haste to get to the muscle at Buck’s neck, the joint of his shoulder, the jut of his collarbone, littering the soft skin there with nibbles and bites and sucks and soothing them with the flat of his tongue. All the while Buck’s push-pulling him closer by his hair, like he’s trying to attach Eddie’s lips to himself forever, panting against his cheek.

It’s at that point that Eddie notices that he’s so worked up that not even the smell of antiseptic cream can turn him off. There’s only the bulk of Buck nestled against his chest and the marks of Eddie��s teeth blooming pink and bright under the neckline of Buck’s shirt, clear in the sunlight breaking in; he looks a little mauled, red all over, burnt on one side and kissed to pieces on the other.

It’s kind of insane, in a way that has Eddie nearly keeling over with it every single time, how fast this happens. How all Buck really has to do is just lie there and it’s enough; just the love of Eddie’s life panting his name and looking up at him like he trusts him and suddenly Eddie feels like he has blinders on, like Buck is all there is, Buck writhing and begging for it on this couch.

“You’re killing me,” Eddie says. It comes out rough, and Buck’s squirming a bit more now, hips rolling in tight little circles like he’s trying to be good and failing, so Eddie lets his hand drag away from Buck’s hip, down his thigh, squeezing; thumb brushing along the inseam of his sweatpants, inching up, up, until Buck’s mouth opens around a gasp, and just as Eddie finds him— yeah, hard and aching, he thinks about how, once Buck’s all the way healed, he wants to ruin him all over again, sink his teeth into his bottom lip and tug, mark him up all flushed and pink with the burn of his stubble instead. Make up for all the lost time.

He sucks in a breath, a deep inhale to calm his nerves. Except all it really does is make him breathe in Buck, both of them panting into each other’s mouth. Eddie wants to kiss him so badly he’s about to crawl out of his skin. Instead he swallows around the spit that’s already pooling in his mouth, lets one corner of his lips pull into a grin, and finds his way back to himself. “Or,” he picks his game and the words back up again, and his fingers are creeping up to the waistband of Buck’s pants, now, pulling it down as slowly as he can make himself, “here,” and then Buck’s saying, sobbing, “God, Eddie,” and, settling between Buck’s legs, Eddie ends up forgetting about words completely.

[sweetromanova]

High Risk, Higher Maintenance: Part Eleven🖤

Natasha Romanoff x Female Reader

Summary: Natasha’s orders: protect the brat politician’s lonely wife. The twist? She might actually like her. (Don’t tell Fury)

Warnings: manipulation/gaslighting, intent to hurt, minor character death, mentions of trauma, general emotional distress, injuries and gun violence

A/N: finale tomorrow?👀

Chapter Eleven

The guest room is too quiet, one of Stark’s minimalist suites high in the Tower.

You’ve been lying on top of the covers in Natasha’s clothes for hours, eyes glassy, still tasting formaldehyde and chapel incense at the back of your throat.

A soft knock, then Natasha’s voice.

“Hey. You should eat something.”

You don’t answer. Not at first. The thought of food makes your stomach hitch but the thought of one more second alone with the silence is worse. So, finally, you sit up. Every bruise protests. Natasha offers an arm, doesn’t insist but you take it anyway, letting her guide you down the corridor like you’re learning to walk again.

The elevator doors part and conversation dies when you reach the kitchen, hobbling into the space with all of your weight leant on Natasha.

Tony, Wanda, Steve, Bucky, each frozen mid‑motion. And at the centre island, head bowed over a mug, is Clint.

Your pulse spikes. The room tilts.

He looks up, swallows, sets the mug down. “I- Listen, I’m so sorry for what happened. I didn’t-“

Your vision tunnels.

“Shut. Up.” You almost snarl, voice flat, shredding the hush. “You knew.”

Clint flinches. “I didn’t know it was you. I never saw a name properly-“

“You knew enough to install them, keep the cameras rolling.” You snap, stepping forward.

“But-“

“You didn’t need a name.” You cut in, stepping forward, your crutch squealing across tile like it’s announcing every ounce of rage you’re dragging with you. “Did you watch me cry on my twenty second birthday when Evelyn cancelled dinner for the third year in a row? Did you watch me drink too much wine that night, slip in the bathroom, hit my head on the fucking tub? Did you call someone? Did you even stick around to see if I moved again?”

Clint pales.

You don’t stop.

“Did you watch while Evelyn slowly forgot how to love me? Did you log the way she used sex as an apology until even that wasn’t worth her time anymore? Did you make a fucking note when I stopped getting out of bed? When I stopped speaking to anyone? Or did you just mute it when I got too boring to be useful?”

His lips part like he might defend himself. He doesn’t. Because he can’t.

“I never watched the feeds.” He insists, voice cracking. “It was a passive protocol-“

“Passive?” You laugh, raw, ugly. “Six years of my life fed into your ‘passive’ little project.”

Natasha moves, tries to settle a palm on your shoulder.

You shrug her off.

“Tell me, what would you do right now, right now, if you found out someone was watching your wife?” You don’t wait for an answer. “Your pregnant wife, walking around her kitchen, getting undressed, vulnerable in her own home?”

His jaw twitches, like he hadn't expected you to know.

“What if they were watching your little girl sleeping in her bed at night? Filming her brushing her teeth, hugging her stuffed animals, whispering to herself about how her daddy saves the world?”

You step closer, eyes locked on his.

“What if they were watching your son, pretending to be the man of the house while you’re away? Watching him cry because he misses you, because you’re out being a hero while strangers monitor his home like a fucking science experiment?”

“Hey.” Natasha cuts in. “That’s enough.”

She’s not unkind but she’s firm. Of course she is, of course she would choose them over you.

“Of course you’re defending him.” You spit, rounding on her now. “Why wouldn’t you? You’re all SHIELD at the end of the day, just monsters in better costumes.”

Nat’s eyes flash with hurt. “I’m not defending anything-“

“You were holding me at night while I was still a subject in your files.”

Her mouth opens, no words. That silence scalds worse than any lie.

Steve steps forward. “Look, maybe we should-“

But you barrel on.

“Spare me the noble soldier routine. All of you know something, whether it’s about me or not. You all know of some mission, deep down that it’s wrong but you let it happen. And every single one of you stay quiet until there’s a body on a slab.”

Clint looks wrecked. Wanda’s crying. Tony stares at his hands like they might explain the universe.

You pivot towards the door.

“Don’t follow me. Don’t call me. Don’t come near me. I’m done.”

Natasha’s voice cracks behind you. “Please, just talk to me-“

“I’m done talking.” You jab the elevator button, never looking back.

“Please, we don’t know it’s safe-“ Wanda this time tries, her voice full of devastation. Because none of them could argue with you, tell you that you were wrong when you so obviously weren't

“Maybe ask your friend about the cameras. He might even give you the password then you’ll know if i'm safe.”

The elevator doors open, even aside you don’t turn your back to look at them, you can’t see them right now. 

And more importantly, you wouldn’t let them see you break.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The cab ride home was silent. You didn’t speak and the driver didn’t try to make small talk. You couldn’t tell if he recognised you or if he was just so unbothered, that he didn’t care. Every streetlight that passed cast a pale glow across your bandaged hands, your hollow expression reflected in the glass. By the time the car pulled up in front of your house, your limbs felt heavier than when you'd left.

You climbed out slowly, crutches tucked under your arms, your body aching with every step. But it wasn’t the bruises that made you pause, it was the familiar sedan parked crookedly against the curb.

June's car.

Your stomach knotted.

You made your way to the door, already hearing the soft hum of her voice just inside. When you pushed it open, she turned from where she stood near the hallway, holding a folded jumper in her hands like it had some deeper meaning.

She blinked at you, startled.

“I was just- I came to pick something up.” She said quickly, wiping under her eyes. “Didn’t think you’d be back yet.”

You nodded, unsure if she meant emotionally or literally.

June looked… older. Or maybe just exhausted. Her lips were pressed tight in an effort to stay composed, but the redness in her eyes betrayed her. You knew she’d been crying. You glanced down at the jumper in her hands: Evelyn's. One she used to wear on rainy mornings when she worked from home. You remembered how much June had always fussed over her. They'd worked together for a long time.

“I’m sorry.” You whispered. “I know how long you worked with her.”

June swallowed hard but her expression didn’t turn bitter. Instead, her face crumpled in something softer, sadder.

“I’m not crying for her.” She said quietly, stepping forward. “I’m crying for you.”

That broke something in your chest.

You opened your mouth, maybe to argue, maybe to ask her not to but nothing came out, just a tight gasp of breath before you sagged forward, dropping into her arms like a puppet whose strings had finally given out.

June caught you with a practiced steadiness, one hand firm between your shoulder blades. She didn’t say anything else, just held you as the sobs started, shallow, broken then violent. 

You didn’t care that your bandages were dampening with tears or that your shoulder hurt from shaking.

You cried for everything. For Evelyn. For the betrayal. For the silence in your apartment that felt like it might never leave.

“I’m sorry.” You managed between breaths. “I’m sorry, I just…”

“Shhh honey, it’s ok.” June whispered, brushing a hand through your hair. “You don’t have to be sorry.”

After a long moment, she finally asked. “Where’s Natasha?”

You shook your head slowly, still pressed into her chest. That was all you gave.

And it was enough.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Natasha had called sixteen times. Then once more, just in case.

No answer.

She’d messaged June. Nothing.

Her fingers tapped anxiously against the side of her comm tablet as she paced the edge of the breakfast bar. Everyone else had long since cleared out, the tension from earlier still heavy in the corners of the tower. 

The fallout lingered but this was different. You hadn’t checked in. You hadn’t said goodbye.

Finally, with a clenched jaw, she reached out to the agent she’d quietly tasked with tailing you home. 

Natasha didn’t want to invade, she really didn’t. But she couldn’t stop thinking about how fragile you looked, how your voice shook in the med bay, how tightly you’d held Evelyn’s ring before slipping it into your coat pocket.

“She got in a cab an hour ago.” The agent confirmed over the line. “Dropped her just outside her place. I think she went inside. No movement since.”

Natasha hesitated for a second, before picking up the phone to make a call she never thought she would.

She didn’t speak, didn’t explain, just quietly said: “Get me the link.”

It didn’t feel right. But it felt necessary.

She entered the credentials with reluctant fingers. The camera feed buffered once before revealing your living room, dimly lit by the flickering light of a small television screen. The feed had no sound currently, just soft, muted light and the shadows of two women sitting on the couch.

You and June were curled side by side, wrapped in a throw blanket, a pair of mismatched mugs resting on the coffee table. You were barefoot, knees pulled up, hair damp from a shower. You looked small but not crumbling. Tired but safe. An old movie, black and white, danced faintly across your faces.

Natasha watched the way June handed you a box of tissues gently, like she’d done it a hundred times before. She watched the way your head dropped against her shoulder. A deep, human ache bloomed low in her chest.

She whispered to no one. “At least you’re not alone.”

Still, it stung, watching through a lens instead of being the one sitting beside you, being the one you leaned on.

She closed the laptop softly and let her forehead rest against her folded hands.

You were okay. For now.

And maybe that had to be enough tonight.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

June’s voice had been patient for three days now, since you came back home. Too patient.

"She’s fine, Natasha."

"I’m here, she’s safe."

"No, she doesn’t want to talk."

But today, the restraint in her voice had slipped into something cooler. Not rude, not angry but tired. A soft wall going up.

You were already halfway down the hallway when you heard June on the phone again, her voice a little more clipped than usual.

"Yes, she’s still here… no. I haven’t left her alone. No, I’m not giving you a play by play-“

Your blood boiled before you even reached the room.

You snatched the phone right from June’s hand.

“You really can’t help yourself, can you?” You snapped, pacing the living room like a storm cloud with teeth. 

“You need to know where I am, what I’m doing, if I’m breathing?! What is this, new surveillance with a softer font?”

The line was silent.

“You don’t get to check in like I’m a fucking experiment, Natasha. You, SHIELD and the rest of the righteous bunch need to leave me alone.”

You didn’t wait for her to answer. You hung up.

Something in you snapped then.

You stood in the middle of the quiet, elegant living room, the one Evelyn always insisted stay tidy even when no one visited and you scanned the corners. The edges. The seams.

It was like your eyes just knew.

You crossed to the antique bookshelf, yanked a first edition from the shelf and found a glinting pinhole buried behind the spines. Without thinking, you grabbed the fire poker from beside the hearth and smashed the whole shelf down. A vase shattered. A sculpture toppled.

The rage felt holy.

You ripped a painting from the wall, behind the frame, another glint of black plastic and wire. Crash.

You stalked into the hallway, pulled down the ornate sconce Evelyn insisted was imported from Paris. Another camera. You brought the poker down again and again until glass and metal screamed.

The camera in the chandelier came down with the crash of crystal.

You were laughing now, wild, breathless laughter laced with tears. You passed the mirror near the foyer and your reflection startled you. Red-faced. Shaking. Alive.

But god, did it hurt.

June stood in the archway, a hand clutched to her chest, unsure whether to step in.

You held the poker in both hands, like a weapon and a lifeline.

“She said she didn’t know.” You murmured, voice trembling. “She said she didn’t know.”

The room was still, cameras gone.

But you’d never felt more watched.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The funeral was a labyrinth of cold protocol and hollow rituals, each moment choreographed to honour a senator, not a woman you once knew. You moved through it like a ghost, your steps measured, your face a mask carved from grief and obligation. June’s steady presence was the only anchor in a sea of strangers and silent watchers.

The ornate hall brimmed with polished floors and towering pillars draped in black velvet, the scent of lilies sharp in the air. The murmurs of the crowd faded into a dull roar in your ears as the ceremony began, the flag-draped casket gleaming under the harsh lights, military officers standing like statues beside it. Every note from the somber band cut deeper than the last, a soundtrack to a loss that no words could truly hold.

There was no family here. No mother weeping openly, no brother stoic but trembling. No sister clutching a handkerchief. There was no one. It had always just been you and Evelyn against the world. Until it wasn’t. And now more than ever it was just you and the sea of faces that barely registered your presence beyond the expected widow’s role.

Work colleagues you barely recognised offered empty condolences, their eyes darting away quickly, as if afraid to look too long at the woman who had been married to Evelyn Prescott. Politicians in tailored suits whispered behind gloved hands, their concern mingled with calculation. This was not about mourning, it was a carefully curated spectacle.

You caught yourself wondering, not for the first time, if Evelyn had ever cared for you as deeply as the world believed. Or if you had been just another piece in the game, a role to play, a mask to wear. Has she spoken about you fondly at work? Had she proudly announced you as her wife when asked?

Your gaze drifted across the room and landed on the red head you knew would be here, Natasha. She stood near the back, hands folded tightly, eyes sharp and assessing with the rest of them. Your chest tightened. You hated her for showing up, for making this moment less yours. But even in your fury, a pang of relief flickered, maybe not all of them had abandoned you.

You thought about how Evelyn would have wanted this day to look, perfect, controlled, dignified. And so you swallowed the scream rising in your throat, settled the raw edges of your heartbreak beneath the polished veneer and became the widow everyone expected.

June squeezed your hand gently, her touch a small comfort in a room filled with cold strangers. You gave her a faint, grateful smile, but your mind was elsewhere, replaying every memory, every slight, every moment you stayed when you should have run.

The press cameras clicked relentlessly, capturing the mournful widow for the endless news cycle. You felt their eyes as sharp as daggers, judging, dissecting but you did not falter. This was your last performance, the final act in a story that had cost you everything.

You step forward, the murmurs quieting as all eyes turn to you. Your voice is steady, but each word carries the weight of every stolen moment, every broken promise.

“Evelyn Prescott was a force, a woman who carried the world on her shoulders, who fought battles most of us could never see. She was brilliant, fierce, and yes, complicated. She was a public figure but also a person, flawed, human  and sometimes... unreachable.”

A pause. You breathe through the sting of tears threatening to fall.

“Those of us who loved her, or thought we did, know that the life she led was not an easy one. It demanded sacrifices and sometimes, those sacrifices were born alone. Sometimes the brightest lights cast the darkest shadows.”

Your gaze sweeps the room, briefly catching the faces of colleagues who nod solemnly and the quiet understanding in a few eyes tells you they see beyond the headlines.

“I won’t pretend that everything was perfect. I won’t pretend that I was always enough or that she was always there. But I will say this, love, in all its forms, is complicated. And it’s worth every bit of the pain. She was worth every bit of the pain.”

You step back, the room silent but charged, a raw truth laid bare amid the expected platitudes. Had they expected you to go up there and scream and cry for a wife that they knew was never there for you? That one the same day it happened, she pushed you away while you were bloody and bruised? That half of them hadn’t seen the looks she gave journalists or eager interns, ready to please?

As the ceremony ended and people began to file past, you saw Natasha’s eyes meet yours briefly. No words were spoken but the unspoken weight hung heavy between you. A promise? An apology? Or just a reminder of everything left unsaid?

You turned away, the weight of the moment pressing down and forced yourself to move forward, alone.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

The house feels unbearably quiet once June leaves, the soft click of the front door echoing like a final punctuation mark to the day’s performance. You had made the older woman go home, take some rest, take as much time as she needed but you knew she’d be back the next day.

You stand there for a moment, the weight of the funeral pressing on your chest before sinking down onto the couch. The silence presses in on you, thick and suffocating.

Then there’s a sharp knock at the door.

Your heart jolts. Who else would be here? You didn’t expect anyone. You weren’t ready for anyone. But deep down, you knew there would only be one person who’d come to your front door.

You open the door to obviously find Natasha, standing there, her expression carefully unreadable but her eyes softening when they meet yours.

“I thought you might need someone.” She says, quietly.

You hesitate, the urge to slam the door warring with the desperate need for something, anything, other than solitude.

After a long breath, you step aside.

She steps in, and for the first time in days, the silence between you isn’t so heavy.

The soft click of the door closing behind her like a final punctuation. You don’t bother to look up. Instead, your hands find the bottle of wine on the counter. You crack it open, tilt it back and drink straight from the neck, the harsh liquid burning your throat but somehow grounding you.

After a long swallow, you finally break the silence, your voice low, shaky but deliberate. “Do you feel it too? That… invasion? That violation?”

You push the bottle of wine towards her.  “Like they’re crawling into my skin, watching me when I was… broken. Helpless. Agents were basically standing over my bed, watching me... watching you... watching us... ruin me in my own sheets.”

Your eyes flick to Natasha, challenging, desperate for some kind of response.

She steps closer, the air between you thickening. Her eyes are sharp, fierce with something like quiet anger and concern. “You’re letting this consume you.” She says, voice firm but not unkind. “It’s twisting you up inside. You can’t drown yourself in this.”

You laugh, a bitter, hollow sound that echoes in the quiet room. 

“I’m serious.” She’s almost telling you off and for a second, in your clouded mind, it hits.

“You need to tell me or June, what you need. You need help and we want to help you.”

“You want to help?”

“You know I do.”

“Fine. Then help me forget, Tasha.” You move closer, sudden desperate hands tugging her blazer into your hands. “Just for a little while. Take my mind off this mess. Take me out of my skin. Like you used too.”

She frowns, scanning your face, seeing the jagged edges beneath the bruises, the raw ache behind your glare. “Not like this.” She says, voice dropping to something gentler but still resolute. “I’m here for you but-“

You finally meet her gaze and something cracks inside you, a flicker of vulnerability shining through the armour of rage and pain. Your voice softens, almost pleading. “Please. Just for tonight. I need you to- I need you to make it stop. Just shut it all off. Make me forget who I am, where I’ve been. What I lost.”

“I-“

“Not Evelyn, I lost her a long time ago…” You breathe, body pressed up against her own now. “You. In all of this, I lost you.”

Natasha hesitates for a moment then reaches out, resting her hand lightly on your arm. The touch is grounding, steady. “Okay.” She whispers. “I’ve got you.”

You let out a shaky breath and for the first time since everything fell apart, you lean into her, the only person who had been there, the only one you trust to hold the shards of you together.

⋆⋆⋆⋆

Her hand lingers on your arm, thumb brushing over the skin in small, anchoring circles. You lean into it without realising, exhausted from pretending you could carry the weight alone. Your eyes flutter closed, just for a second, just to feel something steady.

When you open them, she's closer. Her other hand comes up, knuckles ghosting along your jaw.

“You sure?” she asks, quiet, deliberate.

You nod. “Please.”

She leans in slowly, giving you every chance to pull away but you don’t. You meet her halfway, a breath, a pause, then your lips touch, and it's soft at first. Hesitant. Searching.

Then something shifts.

It deepens. Not just the kiss, but everything beneath it, grief, longing, shame, want. The way her hands find your waist, the way yours twist into the collar of her jacket like you might fall apart if you let go.

Clothes fall away in pieces, not rushed, but necessary. She moves with care, her touch never demanding, never assuming, just there, grounding you in this one small moment where you aren’t a headline or a ghost or collateral.

You're just wanted.

The sheets catch your knees as she lays you back. Her mouth finds your throat, your collarbone, a quiet whisper against your skin. “I’ve got you.”

And for the first time in what feels like forever in this circus, you believe it.

[eudaimonia83]

I didn’t have anything planned for @elucienweekofficial this year bc…idk. Overcommitments, lack of energy, real life being lifey and awful. But after all the lovely pieces being posted today I am inspired to put up a little fic fragment.

Afterglow

Lucien barely knew where he was or what was happening.

There was only the acute physical sensation of her.

Close and warm, her breathing soft and gentle…how he could control that, make it change, turn it sharp or ragged, just with a touch. With kisses to the back of her knees, a gentle drag of his tongue against her wrist, a little series of nips to the point of her ear; mixing soft and sharp until he thought he might come out of his own skin, just from the way hers was writhing against him. They had finally grown too exhausted to fuck any longer, but sleep eluded them both, and they floated in a drowsy haze, unwilling to stop touching, feeling, looking. As though they might lose it if sleep were to creep up on them. The soft flush of the candles lit her skin in a golden glow, draping over her, shadows pooling like silk in the crevices of her arms, hips, waist, neck. He could look and look, and it would never be enough; count the cluster of tiny freckles on her shoulder, trace the downy hair on her stomach with his nose, stroke her leg all the way to her toes, press the inner arch of her foot with his thumb and relish the tiny squeak she let out. She was ticklish. Because of course she was. He noted it for next time, aching to see where else would melt her into clay in his hands — her jawbone? Her sternum? The crease just beneath the swell of her breast? The firm little extension of bone right at her knee?

But best of all were her eyes.

The deep, living brown of them, gleaming with tiny flecks of gold, dotted with her thick dark lashes. They were full of questions. Of tenderness. Of trepidation, and trust. He never wanted to look at anything else.

They hadn’t said anything in a while. Her fingers gently explored him, too…her gaze snagged on the muscle at his hip, and her fingertip followed the arc of the hip bone back toward his ass. The scar along the front of his abdomen, the way his skin had awkwardly grown over the wound. That was where she decided to kiss, finally, lips slow and soft against the ridge of it.

“Is this all right?” she murmured.

He tangled his hand in her hair and pulled her to him, kissing her hard enough to bruise, so she’d never doubt that she was more than all right. She was magnificent, delectable, sweet. His brain skipped, stumbling over all the things she was. He sucked his name out of her mouth, lips caressing her tongue, teeth tugging at her lower lip, as she kissed him back and moaned. Tasting himself on her was like nothing he had ever felt before. Instead of a thread, now the bond felt as large as a coal in his chest, warm and throbbing; like a heart, but growing its own blood vessels like tethers, attaching itself more firmly with every breath. She broke away from his lips to begin decorating him with kisses that felt more like cords, winding around his chest, wrapping his ribs in her softness like the sweetest, most comfortable ribbons. She was imprisoning him; and he knew he would never wish to escape.

“Just right,” he whispered, pulling her forward until her forehead touched his. They lay there quietly, she calming her breathing, and he trying to control the urge fighting in his brain to sit up, seize her, take her, taste her, make her spasm and scream again and again. She brought her fingers up to his face and traced his scar from brow to chin, lingering over where Amarantha’s nails had dug in hard against his eye socket. The pressure had forced his eyelids open before her thumb slid beneath the eyeball itself…he shuddered in disgust and with the echo of pain banding around his skull. So many ghosts. Would they never leave him in peace? Even in this moment of tenderness, here with his beautiful, generous, kind mate as the only witness?

“What is this from?” she asked, trailing lightly down over where the scar split his cheek.

“Feyre didn’t tell you?” He was genuinely surprised. Her gaze darkened, brows drawing together.

“It was Feyre?” He heard pain creep into her voice, trembling, and the hardening anger just behind it, cold and unyielding. That Archeron iron. “I thought you must have fought in a war, or been injured as a child, or fought with a monster on a hunt at some point.”

“No,” he said, for as much as the bond warmed selfishly to feel her ready to defend him, to fight even her kith and kin on his behalf, it wasn’t the truth. “It was years before you were born. Decades, probably. It was Amarantha.”

“The queen Feyre fought…and Rhys served?”

“Yes.” He closed his eyes and concentrated hard on her fingertips lingering against his cheek. “I…I was sent to her court to negotiate on behalf of Tamlin.” He grimaced, remembering her dark eyes glinting with rage and satisfaction, as she had pinned him with arms spread against the chest of the attor, who stood utterly still behind him, its breath rank in his ear. She had stared at him appraisingly, then reached forward to cup his cheek in her hand, which he remembered as surprisingly soft.

Bile rose in his throat, but he forced his eyes open to make himself see that he was here, with Elain, in his room with the soft lamplight and the cool sheets; this was what was real, they had moved their lovemaking from dreams to the waking world, and what came with that joy and pleasure was pain. Pain, and intrusion. Embrace it, he thought, wrapping his arms around his blossom. This, and everything that comes with it.

He told her.

He told her how anger had burned as hot as his Autumn fire inside him when the dark queen had laughed and demanded Tamlin surrender. When his mouth had opened and the words had broken out: go back, you black-blooded whore. Go back to the shithole you crawled out of, wherever it may be. His skin crawled, prickling with the ghosts of the rage and fear and pain that had ridden him so hard for so long. All that darkness and regret he had fallen into.

“…and she did this to you?”

He nodded. “She threatened to cut out my tongue too, but then decided she liked hearing me scream too much. And so the attor dumped me senseless back at Tam’s doorstep. I don’t remember much of those days. Just…just him taking me to Dawn, when I was strong enough. To ask my friend Nuan to make me a new eye.”

“It looks a mess,” he continued. “It has, ever since. No one can heal or soften the scar. It will always be there. Always a reminder of how I failed.”

“What do you mean, how you failed?” Her hand smoothed the skin on his chest. Gods, her touch felt good. Like velvet, like cool water on a burn, like poppy nectar on a wound.

“I was meant to smooth things over…”

“You were meant to stop her from taking your friend as her plaything. Which you did. At great cost.” Her eyes widened, disbelief and horror and warmth pulsating in the bond, which wound around his chest in knots, suturing together the ragged edges that had never sealed with the kind of tenderness he had never truly believed he would receive.

“What would you have said, Blossom?” He squeezed her hand. “You would’ve handled it far better than I.”

“I would’ve told her that…” she leaned forward and kissed the ridge of the scar at his jaw, then dotted tiny kisses up to his cheekbone. “…that real beauty cannot be taken away, if the heart is kind and the purpose is true. You spent all this time thinking she marred you.”

“She did,” he whispered, tears gathering at the corners of his eyes. He fought against the heat of them, until a different heat bloomed on his face — her hand, firm, gentle, turning his face to hers. Her eyes were serious and dark.

“No,” she whispered. “She marked you. As the bravest. And the handsomest man I’ve ever seen.”

————————

[ftmsimonriley]

i really like the hc of everyone being convince captav and ghost have some kind of hatred? rivalry? going. they seem to be at each other's throats more often than not, and no one can fathom why the captain hasn't booted ghost from the force yet. enough so that its become an ongoing joke that the moment they start arguing, someone will mutter "mom and dad are fighting again..." (and one time soap was in a good-ish enough mood to yell at them to go to their rooms which, out of fear, no one but ghost thought it was funny.)

but really, soap has never felt more concerned about a single human being other than ghost in his life. and yes, a lot of his frustrations are about his disobedience, his aloofness, his hatred for authority, his backtalk, and so on. but it's merely due to the fact that it all could lead to the lieutenant getting injured, and that the man seems to have no sense of self preservation (and that general shepherd seems to take advantage of this.)

so, no, he doesn't hate ghost in any sense of the word. he cares more than he should, and he can't handle expressing it in a normal way.

and bonus thought:

mactavish accidentally causes ghost to flinch during one of their fights by raising his voice, stepping forward, squaring his shoulders. and just the sight of that unbidden vulnerability that he knows he wasn't meant to see has him feeling so guilty he's just like "ok you can do whatever you want forever just please god never look at me like that again. and give me a list of the people who hurt you." and everyone for a whole week thinks ghost finally broke him.

[spencereidluver]

M is for Motive

January 29, 2010

summary: The unsub’s profile hits a little too close to home for Spencer, and you challenge that, and it causes a rift between you.

word count: 1.1k

warnings: Canon-typical case violence (non-graphic), mentions of bullying and social rejection, team tension, general angst

There were always clues in the way a family died.

This one had died quietly. Two bodies: man and woman, early 30s, found seated in the living room. The TV was still playing. Wine glasses on the coffee table. Both of them executed.

“Third couple in three weeks,” JJ said as she stepped inside, zipping her coat tighter. “No signs of forced entry. No evidence of a sexual component. Same signature, clean knife wound to the man’s carotid, multiple stab wounds to the woman’s chest and abdomen.”

You crouched next to the husband, eyes scanning the unnatural stillness of his body.

“He’s ritualizing,” you said softly. “Same setup as last time. No struggle, no panic. He waits. He makes sure they see what’s coming.”

Spencer stood at the threshold of the room, arms folded, eyes scanning the walls like they held hidden meanings. “The woman always dies second. And she always has more wounds.”

You looked up at him. “Rage?”

He shook his head slowly. “Not exactly. It’s not random. Each wound is intentional. Almost… clinical.”

You frowned. “You think he’s experimenting?”

Spencer didn’t answer right away.

Hotch and Rossi stepped inside from the back hallway.

“Guys,” Hotch said. “Walk us through it.”

Spencer cleared his throat, stepping closer to the body.

“This isn’t about passion. Or money. Or revenge. He’s making a point. Every element of the scene is deliberate. From the disarmed alarm system to the silent kills. He’s watching the life leave them, and he’s doing it on his terms.”

“Meaning what?” Rossi asked.

Spencer’s brow furrowed. “He’s recreating something. A moment. A betrayal. Something that stripped him of power. And now, he’s building it back. Kill by kill.”

You stepped in, arms crossed. “That still sounds like control to me. He’s choosing couples who represent something to him. He isolates them, stages them, then inflicts maximum trauma. That’s about power.”

Spencer’s voice was quiet, almost hesitant. “Maybe. But… I don’t think this is just about control. I think it’s about shame.”

You glanced at him.

“He’s not picking any couples,” Spencer said. “All three were attractive. High-achieving. Outgoing. They fit a social archetype, the kind of people who ignore outliers. The kind who exclude.”

You realized what he was implying. “You think he was bullied.”

“I think he was dismissed,” Spencer said. “Belittled. Probably gifted. Misunderstood. He’s not trying to feel powerful. He’s trying to prove that he’s not pathetic.”

Rossi raised an eyebrow. “So this is retribution?”

Spencer nodded once. “Yes. But not just for rejection. For humiliation.”

You hesitated. “That’s a bold assumption.”

Spencer turned sharply. “It’s not an assumption.”

Your eyes narrowed. “Spence–”

“I know what this is.”

Hotch stepped forward. “What do you mean?”

Spencer paused. His jaw clenched.

“He’s not trying to scare them. He’s trying to teach them. He wants them to see what they missed. What they laughed at. And now they’ll never forget him.”

The silence that followed was heavy.

You spoke carefully. “That’s still about dominance.”

Spencer shook his head. “It’s not about power. It’s about being seen.”

You pushed more firmly this time. “He’s torturing people, Spence. He’s not seeking validation. He’s seeking vengeance. That makes him dangerous, not sympathetic.”

His voice rose, sharp and sudden. “You think I don’t know that?”

Everyone turned.

You blinked. “What?”

“You think I don’t know the difference?” he snapped, eyes suddenly shining with something too close to pain. “He’s not me.”

You stared at him.

“No one said he was.”

Morgan stepped in. “Hey, let’s take a sec—”

Spencer turned to Hotch. “I’m going back to the precinct. I need… I need a minute.”

And just like that, he was gone.

The silence stretched long after he left. You stood frozen in place.

Morgan looked between you and the empty door. “What the hell just happened?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Because you knew exactly what happened. He did see himself in the unsub. And it terrified him.

The drive back to the precinct was worse than the crime scene. You rode back with Morgan, as you’d rode here with Spencer, who was long gone.

Morgan was silent for the first ten minutes. You stared out the window, jaw tight, heart racing, trying to make sense of how quickly things had cracked.

When he finally spoke, it wasn’t gentle.

“You knew, didn’t you?”

You turned to him, frowning. “What?”

“You knew he was identifying with the unsub.”

You swallowed. “He didn’t say it outright–”

“But you saw it. And you kept pushing.”

Your voice cracked. “Because I had to. We can’t ignore the profile just because he’s uncomfortable.”

“He wasn’t ignoring it.”

“He was getting emotional.”

“And you weren’t?”

“I was just– He shouldn’t see himself in this unsub, Morgan.”

“Yeah, I agree with you on that, but you know better than anbody else why he does.”

You both sat in silence the rest of the way.

You found Spencer in the break room. He was standing at the counter with his back to you, his hands wrapped around a paper cup of coffee he hadn’t touched.

“Hey,” you said softly through the doorway. He didn’t turn around. You stepped inside. “Can we talk?”

Still nothing. So you moved to stand beside him. He looked wrecked. Tired. Small.

“I wasn’t trying to make you feel like the unsub,” you said.

“I know,” he said flatly.

“I was doing my job.”

“I know.”

“But I could’ve said it differently.”

He looked down. “You were right.”

“No,” you said quietly. “Not completely.”

He finally met your eyes.

“I didn’t mean to humiliate you,” you said.

“I didn’t mean to snap.”

You reached for his hand. He let you take it.

“You’re not like him,” you said. “But I understand why it felt like you were.”

He swallowed hard.

“I just hated how familiar it was,” he admitted. “That feeling. Of being the one no one listens to. The weird one. The outsider. The one everyone… laughs at behind his back.”

“You’re not that kid anymore.”

“I know. But sometimes…” His voice cracked. “It still feels like I am.”

You squeezed his hand. “And you thought I saw that too.”

He nodded.

“I don’t,” you said.

He blinked.

“I see you now. All of you. The man you’ve become. The partner. The profiler. The person who can stand in front of a team and break a case wide open because no one else could’ve seen what you did.”

His eyes filled with tears.

“I love that man,” you whispered. “Not just the brilliant parts. All of it. Even when it’s hard.”

He pulled you into his arms, holding you tight, face buried in your shoulder.

“I’m sorry,” he murmured.

“So am I.”

_____

next chapter: *link*

other parts: Spencer Reid A-Z Masterlist

view the masterlist in a calendar version! 

_____

BUY ME A COFFEE

_____

Have Recommendations? visit my recommendations page to submit your suggestion, no matter how big or small!

_____

taglist:

@justlivinginadaydream @dij-ology @navs-bhat @sammy-4103 @ada--44 @moongirl27 @hopelesssheaven @cultish-corner @shycreationdreamland @violetvsworld @ivyflowers13 @taygrls @hookergutss @random-3455 @nmw-am @bookworm124 @hizzielover @jem08 @leopardprintbb @theofficialfunk @skylions-den @spencereidapologist @maybe-not-this @random000000 @simpcentralnumberone @wannabewolf @silver138 @sarcasm-and-stiles @cynbx

[kellykadesperate]

45: prompt- “Your kid seems to think you like me.”

Robert is absolutely a lost cause. He knew that from the second he clapped eyes on Aaron nearly a whole year ago. His mind hasn’t been focused on anything properly since he had to shake his hand, pass Seb over to him at football training and then just get on with his day.

Seb’s not the best player. In fact, Robert should be mad about the absolute lack of progress Seb’s made under Aaron’s expert coaching. None of that matters though, not when Robert picks Seb after and sees Aaron do this little handshake with him. It ends with Seb doing some weird little star jump and kicking his foot out like he’s scoring a goal. 

“Can you stop looking so miserable?” Robert turns and sees Nicola scowling at him like she understands what he’s going through right now. 

They’re sitting on the benches. It’s the hottest day of the year so far and he has to stare out and look at Aaron in shorts, blowing a whistle, grey vest on and his arms on show for the world to see.

Nicola follows where Robert is looking and then she laughs. “God you’re insufferable.” 

Robert rolls his eyes. “It’s the last game of the season.” He says and then stares at Seb who’s running up and down the pitch waving his arms about.

“So what?” Nicola tilts her head and then puts her sunglasses on. “I’m looking forward to actually sleeping past eight on a Sunday.” She says and Robert understands that but there’s also Aaron. He’s not going to see Aaron until next season, which means September, which means two whole months.

“I can’t help it.” Robert says and then he sighs like a child. “I should have said something ages ago.” He says, and then he thinks of the conversations he has had with Aaron so far.

The first one was a disaster. He just said the word ‘goal’ to him until Aaron was able to force the words out of him and string a sentence together. Then the second one started with the word ‘oranges’, Robert offered to bring snacks like he cared about the kids getting their vitamin D. There’s been nothing substantial since. Robert feels like he’s going absolutely crazy.

“You don’t even know if he’s single.” Nicola is unhelpful as she points it out. 

Robert arches an eyebrow. “But I know he’s gay. So that’s something.”

Nicola laughs. “Yeah because you got your kid to be a spy.”

Robert rolls his eyes. He got Seb to ask if it’s OK for boys to like boys and Aaron told him of course it was, said he likes boys just to hammer the point home. It made a few mum’s devastated, it made Robert over the absolute moon. 

“Listen, just go and say something after the game.” Nicola waves a hand out.

Robert thinks Nicola is absolutely insane. Years ago, he would have cornered Aaron in the changing rooms, shoved his tongue down Aaron’s throat and waited for Aaron to make the next move. He’s changed though. He’s a dad, he’s rusty. Aaron’s the fittest person he’s ever clapped eyes on in his life.

Aaron blows his whistle. “Right, the last match of the season is starting in ten minutes.” He says, now the warm up is over and Aaron’s stopped flexing his muscles and running about with the kids. 

Robert keeps staring at Aaron and then he sees Aaron wave in his direction. 

Nicola punches Robert’s arm. “He’s waving at you. Like calling for you.” She says.

Robert stands suddenly and then he’s climbing over the benches and jogging towards Aaron. He steadies himself a little before smiling right at Aaron’s beautiful face. 

“Sorry I just wanted to have a word. Seb’s going to be in goal like he usually is but he was a bit nervous. I just wanted to let you know.” Aaron’s hair is all curled, he’s sweaty and perfect. 

“You’re so kind.” Robert blurts out. Aaron was already red from all the general moving about he’s been doing but now he’s blushing. “I mean – thank you. I’m –” He gulps hard. “Thanks for letting me know. You’ve been a big help, with Seb and his confidence and everything. You’re brilliant at –”

Robert doesn’t really remember what happens next.

There’s a ball flying in the air and then Robert feels it make contact with his head. Hard. 

Robert must black out because as soon as his eyes flicker open again, Aaron’s face is in front of his and he’s cupping his face. 

“Is this real life?” Robert mumbles the words out.

Aaron smiles, lets out this little laugh. “Milo hit you with the ball, he’s always had shit aim.” He laughs again and maybe Robert has hit his head harder than he thought but Aaron looks fond of him. Properly fond. It makes Robert feel woozy.

“Dad?” Seb rushes over, crouches right down on his knees. “Are you OK?” He’s got his football gloves on, he looks adorable.

Aaron smiles at Seb. “He’s fine mate.” He whispers and then he looks back at Robert. “You were out for a bit.” He says, and then Robert feels a hand in his hair. It’s Aaron’s. If he wasn’t lying down right now, his knees would collapse underneath him.

“We should check you out.”

“You want to check me out?” Robert laughs. Then he realises what he’s just said. Aaron’s face is bright red once again and Robert has to believe he’s imagining it all. 

Robert eventually gets to his feet, watches the game next to Nicola who laughs and pokes Robert about the way he apparently fell like a sack of potatoes. It’s hell on earth until Seb manages to save a goal and his team win by 2-0. 

Robert should celebrate, he should put his son’s beaming smile first and not think about the way he’s embarrassed himself so badly in front of Aaron of all people. He tries. He really does. 

Seb wants pizza for a treat and Robert promises him just that as he watches him go and say goodbye to Aaron for the summer. He should say goodbye too, it would be the polite thing to do. Robert can’t be polite. 

“Robert?” 

Robert hears Aaron call his name. Seb’s run ahead with this weird grin on his face. 

“Yeah?” Robert can’t face Aaron asking if he’s OK, he’d rather forget the whole thing completely. 

Aaron walks towards Robert, his steps seem all purposeful and it makes Robert's heart thud hard in his chest out of nowhere. “Um. Your head looks …” Aaron winces like he’s the one who’s hurt. Robert takes a step back. “I just wanted to ask if you’re – well actually I wanted to –”

Robert frowns, completely frozen for a second before he realises he should speak. “I’m fine, honest. I just – you don’t need to ask if I’m OK.”

“I’m not doing that.” Aaron waves a hand out. 

Robert thinks it’s hot, the little temper Aaron’s clearly trying to keep at bay.

“Oh, so what –”

“Your kid seems to think you like me.” Aaron blurts the words out like he’s asking what the time is. 

Robert thinks the world stops spinning or something. He used to be smooth, he used to be able to open his mouth and have words come out. 

Aaron doesn’t look horrified. Robert watches Aaron take a tiny step towards him like he wants the distance to be shorter. 

“We’re not meant to get involved with parents.” Aaron waves a hand out.

Robert mirrors him. “You don’t have to explain or …”

“Until after the season finishes.” Aaron adds. He has this small smile on his face and he nods, like he’s explaining everything. Robert’s shoulders collapse a little. “Seb said you’re going for pizza.”

Robert nods. “Yeah.”

“Room for one –”

“Of course.” Robert says, and then he has to look away for a second. “Sorry, I’m really not – well it’s been a while since –” Aaron kisses him on the cheek. Robert thinks he’s going to collapse again. 

“You’re alright.” Aaron says, and Robert is pretty sure that’s Aaron’s way of giving Robert a compliment, the best one he can come up with. 

Robert breathes in. “You’re brilliant.”

“You already said, before the whole ball to the face thing.” Aaron bites his lip and he’s smiling again. He looks a little nervous. Robert can’t quite believe this is reality. 

“I meant it.” Robert says seriously.

Aaron’s eyes flicker. “Good.” He says, and then he starts walking to Robert’s car. Robert follows him still in a daze. Aaron slows down a little so they can walk together. Then there’s a hand on Robert’s back. Aaron’s hand. “Stop overthinking. You’re fit and I’ve been interested for ages.”

Robert has to laugh. Aaron looks offended.

“What did Seb say then?”

Aaron smiles. “That you stare at me more than him when he’s playing.”

Robert laughs, feels more happy and relaxed than he has done in years. It’s scary. He thinks of the summer stretched out in front of him. He gets to imagine Aaron alongside him.

[enbyscript]

18+ MINORS DNI SFW jack abbot x transmasc emt!reader

kinda short, a lil shitty. first time writing for abbot, took a while to figure out where i wanted this to go. enemies to ?? somethin’.

you work as an EMT; generally get along with everyone you meet at the hospitals your ambulance makes visits to, mostly Ptmc In particular; everyone except doctor abbot. he refuses to soften his words when giving suggestions, doesn’t give you the respect you deserve when bringing him patients, alive, to be tended to. something in your stomach that finds him incredibly irritating. his stares make your hair stand on end and your palms sweat; his eyes scrutinizing every little thing you do. once he called your life saving heroics a ‘fucking hack job’ and griped every time he saw you for the next week that he wasn’t paid to clean up your shit. he pissed you off.

jack abbot, for as good of a doctor as he is, sure loves to get under your skin. seeing you try to hold back sarcastic retorts or biting comments whenever you’re in proximity to one another gives him a rush. sometimes he’ll push, asking you questions to test your knowledge even though he has a perfectly intelligent med student following him around like a puppy dog. but that med student doesnt roll their eyes at him like you do, or meet his stares the same way that makes his skin prickle under your attention. he doesn’t challenge his med student the same way he challenged you, knowing you’re an incredibly gifted EMT; everytime he does, though, he sees your work getting better, you getting faster.

nobody understands why abbot is such a dick only to you. robby has seen in at turn over and was shocked at the way jack talked to probably one of the best EMT’s in the business, and he offered no explanation at robby’s prodding.

it was a busy night when you came rushing in, your partner pushing the gurney while you straddled your patient doing compressions. your forehead had your hair sticking to it, your arms burning at the exertion, but you refused to stop. you couldn’t, not until this person was back. you kept up the compressions as shen and the nurses moved around you. finally the heart rate came back, sinus rhythm began to steady, and the really tall nurse you remembered as jesse helped you down.

you tried to catch your breath, closing your eyes and leaning forward on your knees while your partner handled the paperwork with the charge nurse. everything was so busy around you when you heard it; a deep, booming voice shouting. just below it a voice that raised your hackles anytime it was in your vicinity: abbot. you looked up in time to see some red faced asshole pull back a mean swing going straight for the night shift attending.

time slowed, almost to a snails pace. you couldn’t tell if this guy was a patient, a family member, all you could see was that he was angry and looking to cause problems. specifically by punching jack abbot. you fantasized about that, sometimes. not that you’d ever do it, but it was cathartic to think about shutting his mouth up after a scathing comment directed your way. unfortunately, all the precious air you worked so hard to get into your lungs held there and burned. you felt your stomach turn at the thought of somebody actually hurting doctor abbot, whether he deserved it or not.

with your breath held in anticipation your legs moved on autopilot as you slipped in between the two men, shoulder bumping abbot out of the wag before the other man’s fist landed squarely on the side of your head. your head snapped to the side, pain blooming in your skull at the quick impact, the emergency department going silent for a half second. you couldn’t hear over the blood pounding in your ears. you righted yourself in a flash before yanking your head back and clamming your forehead into the assailant’s nose, blood splattering across both your faces before he went down.

everything in the emergency department stopped at the spectacle you’d finished. could almost hear a pin drop if you listened really hard. your chest was heaving with exertion, head throbbing and your ears ringing as you tried to compose yourself. suddenly, everything sprang back into life. people were shouting, pointing, even gawking at you. a few security guards ran in to grab the man, still a bleeding mess on the floor, and hauling his ass out. you felt hands on your face before you could recognize what was going on, dry skin from overuse of sanitizer but warm against your flesh. a voice trying to break through, a face coming in to view beneath gray curls.

“jesus fucking christ kid, you’re fucking bleeding,” it was abbot, standing much too close to assess your injuries. were his eyes always hazel?

“not—,” you breathed. “not mine.”

abbot prodded his thumb against your eyebrow and you flinched at a sudden burning you failed to notice before.

“no, some of it is,” he mumbled in the space between you. “c’mon rocky, gotta look ‘atcha.”

your could see your partner start in your direction before you raised your hand to hold back. too tired to argue or fight back, abbot gripped your uniformed shoulder and dragged you into the closest free room while everyone else got back to work now that the show was over.

you slumped into the nearest chair, not wanting to have to sully an exam table that was better used for someone who really needed help. you watched abbot make his way around the room, spine rigid, lips downturned as he ran on autopilot to collect his necessary supplies.

“gonna need a ct scan after, make sure nothin’ else is going on up there,” he sat himself on a rolling stool and pushed his way to crowd your space once again, cleaning up the blood on your face to see what was yours and what wasnt.

“is that a dig? callin’ me stupid?”

you don’t think you’ve ever heard abbot laugh before. low, deep in his chest, barely there with his lips quirked up slightly to show his amusement. your chest tightened, probably from all the excitement.

yeah, the excitement.

“i’d never say that, ‘specially not to my hero of the night,” now it was your turn to chuckle, cheeks warming at the comment. you winced as he dabbed at your eyebrow with gauze. must have been the burning from before.

“sorry.”

abbot continued with your treatment, numbing the area before prepping a needle for sutures.

“didn’t need to do that, y’know. i can take a punch.” his voice sounded off, not the usual tone when giving you shit. it was softer, dare you say almost guilty?

“if anyone’s gonna sock you it’s gonna be me, not some asshole off the street,” you tried to sound aloof, like you weren’t replaying the scene over and over again in your head. as if your fists weren’t clenching in your lap as you let yourself feel the anger pulsing through your blood at the alternative if you hadn’t gotten in the way. you couldn’t see anyone swinging at the guy that kept you on your toes most nights. that you almost looked forward to clashing with when stepping foot inside the ED.

abbot did’t respond, focusing on stringing your flesh back together. the room grew quiet, your breathing seemingly the only sign of life. you let your eyes trace over the doctor before you, taking in the details and contours of his face. you never noticed the freeckles across his nose and cheeks, only visible at this short distance. they matched the ones on his forearms in your periphery. steady as he worked. his cheeks were stubbled with gray, probably a day or two old if you had to guess.

“think you broke is nose.”

“what,” you slipped back into yourself, not quite catching what had been said.

“that guy, you’ve got a fuckin’ hard head. had to have broken his nose with all that blood,” abbot clarified.

“he’s lucky that’s all he walked away with,” your words were clipped, that anger still simmering just below the surface. abbot almost looked taken aback, his hands stopped moving before resuming their work. he was acutely aware of the fact that you said nothing about the first half of what he said. a light blush dusting his cheeks at the recognition.

your partner came knocking on the door once doctor abbot had finished your sutures and was cleaning up, letting you know that they called dispatch and your supervisor was sending a replacement, for you to go home after your scan and get some rest. your head was too sensitive still, so you opted for a thumbs up as opposed to nodding.

“right, lets get you up there for that scan. then i can give you a lift home,” abbot slipped off his soiled gloves in the trash, as if what he said was the most casual thing in the world instead of the least normal thing he’s ever spoken to you.

“y-you don’t have to do that, i can get home myself,” it almost felt like you were on the defensive, anxious that he could hear the uptick in your heartbeat at the idea.

“no way cowboy, you come to my rescue i get to pay it back anyway i want,” the lightness of his tone made your insides feel funny. and when he looked at you with a real smile you know that take another punch, as many as needed, to keep him looking at you like that.

[sillylilguy900]

wrote a lil somethin' for bottom stan week! Today's day six which means BODY WORSHIP aka my absolute jam. I decided to get a bit abstract with it for funsies.

(-> 4k of post-canon, established-relationship sea grunks 🩷 featuring insecure stan, deus-ex-mechanical failures and thighhhhfucking~)

Lights Out

Stan and Ford are halfway through a seemingly never-ending game of Crazy Eights when the subtle thrum from their generator hiccups, thumps, hisses and goes quiet.

“That doesn’t sound good.” Stan says as he lays down the fifth eight of the deck within the last couple turns.

Ford would have called him out for cheating, but when the lights flicker out, plunging them in an all-encompassing darkness, he has bigger complaints to air out.

“Damn it Stanley, I told you to fill up the generator with gas the last time we were at port!”

Ford hears Stan give a long-suffering sigh. “Yeah, well if I’m remembering correctly, you were the one interrupting me with some technical mumbo-jumbo when I was trying to do it!”

Ford massages his temples in a half-hearted attempt at self-soothing. “Alright, alright. Bickering won’t get the lights back on. Come on, we’ll sort this out in the morning when we have natural light to work by.”

Ford can’t see how Stan reacts, but he can hear his all-too-familiar grunt of approval.

Odds are that the generator was on fumes, the real question is why the backup generator failed as well, and in the case that both died they may need to invest in some new power blocks…

Ford stands, but without the visibility provided by the ship’s overhead lamp maneuvering out of his chair has him bumping his hip and whacking his elbow into the table with all the grace of a newborn deer.

Stan hears his unfortunate scuffle and gives a deep chuckle. “Having trouble there, Poindexter?”

Ford rolls his eyes, a gesture that conveys nothing when Stan can’t see him do it. “I’m perfectly-”

Ford trips over something, knees coming down hard against the wooden floorboards. He catches himself with his hands before his head can hit the floor too.

Stan laughs harder, and can he really blame him? He seems to have an unfortunate knack for comedic timing.

Ford feels the tips of his ears burning. “Yes, very funny. Please do laugh at my misfortune like an unruly schoolboy.” Perhaps the dark isn’t so bad if his brother can’t see the embarrassment on his face.

Stan snorts, and a few wayward bubbles of laughter follow. “Sorry Sixer- let me help ya.”

Ford sits up, reaching for the vague direction Stan’s voice is coming from.

Their hands immediately find each other, as if pulled together by forces neither of them could hope to understand- they’re twins, and something even closer than that- so Ford doesn’t question the way his six fingers know their way to Stan’s and knit together with his five, it’s simply a fact of life.

The touch is comforting, almost enough to dull the sting of shame from floundering around in the dark.

Stan pulls him to his feet and steadies him with a hand at his waist. He’s gotten used to the roiling of the boat atop the waves, so why do his legs suddenly feel like jelly?

“Thank you, Stanley.” He mumbles under his breath.

“Anytime, doll.” The husky rumble of Stan’s voice is much closer now, right against his ear. With his sight impaired Ford’s hearing must be heightened, because just those two words send shivers down his spine.

Stan tugs Ford forward, and he follows after him blindly, trusting he won’t be pushed over or run into any more table corners. “We might as well hit the sack- not gonna get anything else done anyway.”

Ford should probably focus on keeping his footing, but his attention is drawn instead to the point of contact between them.

His thumb skates across the arch of Stan’s hand, running along his knuckles. He can feel a barely raised scar running horizontally across the top that he’s never noticed before. Maybe it’s too faded to see- maybe he never bothered to look. “Whatever you say.”

In the dark the callouses of Stan’s hands are more prominent, the planes of his palm more defined. His hands are those of an artist, a craftsman, a mechanic. They tell the story of someone who has worked hard and made their fair share of sacrifices- more specifically, they tell the story of Stanley’s sacrifice for him, his brother.

But if Ford follows that trail of thought he’ll surely find himself falling again, this time in the same guilt trap of regret that’s had him in its grip for the past year and a half.

Tonight is not the time to work himself into another fit of apologies- he promised Stan he wouldn’t do that anymore anyways…

So for now he’ll just be thankful that Stan used those calloused, rough hands of his to pull him back from a life of tireless dimension hopping, or in this case, to their shared quarters.

The Stan-O’-War’s hallway is loaded with knickknacks and trinkets from their various expeditions, and as the two make their way to the bedroom something is knocked off the wall. It clatters around before Stan accidentally steps on it, causing it to snap.

“Whoops.” Stan says with a chuckle. “Don’t worry, I’m sure whatever it is just needs a bit ‘a superglue- that stuff hasn’t failed me yet.”

Ford chuckles too, thinking about the impressive assortment of taxidermy that Stan managed to fill the Shack with while he was gone. For all they know that glue was the only thing keeping the business afloat, keeping their dream alive. Ford is thankful to Stan, and to superglue.

He smiles wide despite the damage, almost giddy that Stan can’t see the sappy reminiscing on his face. He wouldn’t call himself a closed off person, but showing his emotions wasn’t exactly encouraged when the two of them were coming up, so he usually finds himself suppressing his more sensitive reactions. Things are really changing nowadays, and always for the better.

They stumble as a unit, knocking down a few more knickknacks off the wall.

The dark is nostalgic in a way, reminding him of a much simpler time- when their Ma would turn out the light and he and his twin would put together their own sleepover. Ford would sneak his flashlight underneath the heavy plush comforters of Fort Stan and read comics while Stan kept him entertained with hasty scribbles to accompany his spurious spooky stories- it was the perfect escape, definitely worth the risk they took of falling asleep during class the next day.

Ford’s fingers smooth their way up Stan’s arm, tracing the bulging veins in his forearms made prominent from manual labor. It’s easy to get lost in that touch, fingertips skating across every uneven bump and wisp of hair. His brother is a fascinating creature, certainly worth more careful research.

Stan reaches the door to their cabin-Ford can tell because he lets go to push it open.  They only part for a moment, but when Stan reaches back for him it makes Ford cling even tighter.

His brother shoves aside the clutter on the ground as they walk. He most likely kicked their belongings going by the sound of the clothes and pencils that go skating across the carpet. “Moses, I’d like to know which knucklehead left all this crap on the floor. Damn tripping hazard even without the lights out.”

Ford smirks, unable to let go even if he didn’t need Stan’s help finding his way around. “That would be you, darling.”

“Well, that explains it.” Stan says with a cheeky lilt to his voice that says he knew all along.

It was strange at first sharing a room with his brother after being apart for so long, but they stepped back into it so naturally that Ford almost couldn’t believe they’d ever stopped. Stan still left his clothes on the floor and Ford still covered every surface in books and notes and journals, they were habits neither of them were soon to break, and surprisingly Ford has missed his other half’s quirks- even if his half-finished craft projects got in the way sometimes.

Stan moves past the mess and leads Ford to the side of the bed before sitting down with a grunt.

“Last stop, cuz I ain’t feelin’ my way to the bathroom, you can figure that out on your own.”

But Ford still stands, somewhat awkwardly clasping to his brother.

“You can let go now.” Stan says but makes no move to disentangle them.

Ford is grateful for the unintended privacy awarded by their current circumstances, because he must look like a fool trying to formulate a response that doesn’t make him sound like a lovesick puppy. “What if I don’t want to?”

Stan doesn’t immediately say anything. Without being able to read his facial expressions Ford can’t tell if that’s a bad thing.

“Then c’mere.”

With a wave of relief Stan pulls him closer, practically on top of him as he leans back in the berth of the boat.

Ford cozies up next to him, pressing against his side and holding their closed fists to his heart.

In the black night the world seems quieter. The usual noise from their environment fades away, and Ford feels his focus entirely, completely, fully on his brother.

With their bodies so close together he can easily tune in to Stan’s steady breathing, the even beating of his heart, the rise and fall of his chest against Ford’s cheek.

He wants to savor and analyze every bit of it, but he wants more than that too…

Ford spreads his fingers, and Stan mirrors the motion. They bring them together the same too, and Ford is reminded once again that the parallels between them will always be stronger than their differences.

But then he takes the initiative, hooking his fingers around Stan’s wrist and holding him tight before running them down his arm. The soft cotton of Stan’s pajama shirt sleeve catches him before he can get further than his elbow, so he digs his fingers underneath and appreciates the warmth lying below.

His other hand wraps around Stan’s hip, and his thumb slips just barely under the waistband of his boxers.

“Heh, getting’ handsy there, aren’t ya?” Stan mocks with no bite. “Like a teenager trying to cop a feel in the back of a movie theater.”

Ford flushes.

Is that what he’s doing? Is this moment so charged because of the allure of ‘getting away with it’ so to speak?

He lets his hand continue to roam in sensory exploration, until he can cup the soft yet sturdy flesh of his brother’s bicep.

No, it’s not that. This is something more… reverent. Stan is his best friend, his everything, and he ought to know just how thoroughly Ford adores him- every part of him.

He squeezes Stan’s arm and revels the way he can feel him flex under his touch. “I’m simply… loving you.”

Stan lets out a huff of air. “Heh, I get it.” He shifts again, putting space between them that Ford chases to fill. “Must be nice not to have to see this ugly mug once in a while… I guess I could get used to sex in the dark.”

Ford’s heart twinges.

There it is. That painful self-conscious doubt that clings to Stan like a dark shadow, haunting him despite the reality of the situation.

“No.”

Ford’s refusal is probably not as strong without the grimace that goes with it, but Stan still jolts slightly from the force of his conviction.

His fingers curl tighter around Stan’s shoulder and hip, pressing him close. “How many times must I tell you you’re beautiful before you believe it?”

Stan’s breathing is uneven now, his heartbeat arhythmic. “Just cuz you say it doesn’t make it true.”

Ford pinches him.

Really, his brother is being so difficult.

“It is true- it’s always been true!”

“Yeah, yeah…”

He doesn’t know how many more ways to say it, doesn’t know the magic words that will shake Stan of his misplaced body shame. Stan is the one who’s good at talking to people and getting a point across, but if all he has are his words then Ford will continue to try…

“I’m not attempting to engage in intercourse because the lights are off, Stanley- it’s because I’m so irrevocably attracted to you that I simply can’t keep my hands from your person! I love the way you look, and I love the way you feel- and the way you make me feel…”

There’s a pause before Stan speaks.

“…So you are trying to have sex with me?”

Ford groans, dropping his head to Stan’s chest.

“I can tell you’re being purposefully obstinate- but I can’t understand why.” He raises his face only to drop it against his brother’s sternum with more force. “You’re so incredible, Stanley. I only wish you could see yourself the way I see you.”

Stan coughs awkwardly. “Well technically I can’t see anything right now.”

That’s the last straw.

“You stubborn, gorgeous idiot.” Ford grates out. “You brought this upon yourself.”

Stan makes a questioning little grunt before Ford straddles him, successfully pushing out a louder sound of surprise.

“What’re you-”

Ford feels out the hem of Stan’s shirt and lifts it all the way to his collarbone. “Appreciating your body, because you refuse to do it yourself.”

Stan doesn’t have a snappy retort for that one.

So Ford lays both hands on Stan’s stomach, feeling the beautiful, soft expanse of skin for the marvel it is.

Stanley is hefty and strong, he’s always had bigger arms and a bigger chest- it’s one of the first ways their bodies began to really differentiate. Ford can recall a few too many days spent ogling his brother’s changing body, wanting to feel those differences, and fighting off much-too-strong emotions that threatened to surface and overtake him like a literal wave of lust.

He had repressed those desires back then, but not anymore.

He squeezes Stan’s love handles and makes a satisfied noise, rocking just slightly on Stan’s lap. Like this he can focus on every little sensation, and against the pads of his fingers he feels stretch marks- smooth, subtle grooves of slightly raised skin that wrap around Stan’s sides. He traces each one he can find and whispers soft words of praise.

“You’re so gorgeous, Lee. So sexy.”

Stan whines like he always does when Ford attempts to shower him with affection. But Ford knows his brother too well, for as much as Stan protests, he needs the reassurance.

He travels higher up Stan’s body, along the middle of his stomach until he can palm through his coarse chest hair and cup his full pecs.

Ford doesn’t have a favorite physical feature per say…. But Stan’s tits might just take the figurative cake for the most addicting thing to play with.

Stan’s supple breasts are like putty in his hands, and he kneads and massages them to his utter satisfaction. When Stan’s breaths come faster he pinches his nipples, just to hear the way his brother comes apart.

“Shit, Sixer-” Stan’s voice is strained, and comes out even raspier than usual. “You trying to rile me up?”

Ford smirks. “Is it working?”

“Damn straight.” Stan mutters. “Can I get a kiss before you make me cum or is that too forward?” His nonchalant attitude would probably work if Ford couldn’t hear the earnest want in his voice.

He shifts on Stan’s lap, hiking his legs further up the bed so he can easily lean down to kiss him, but his aim is slightly off and he instead presses a kiss to the bridge of Stan’s nose. They both chuckle before trying again, and this time their lips lock together in a kiss that’s light but laced with desperation. The stubble along Stan’s jaw feels sharper, adding to the heightened sensation.

As they continue to kiss, Ford's hands come up to comb through Stanley’s gray curls, carding through the soft locks from his temples down to his shoulders. He’s been growing it out for more than a year now, and his hair has never looked so beautiful and long and windswept and perfect.

After a few more increasingly deep kisses he pulls away to press his lips to Stan’s throat, sucking and nipping at the tender skin there. At the same time he gives a slight tug to Stan’s hair making him gasp.

“Stanford.”

He can feel the way Stan’s adam’s apple bobs against his mouth when he swallows.

“Yes, love?”

Stan shifts underneath him. Then there are hands at his hips, firm holds that ground him even further into the moment, they feel like hot irons against his skin.

“Don’t stop.”

Ford wouldn’t dare.

He continues to leave kisses along Stan’s neck, down to his collar bone and then his chest, he goes further- to his belly and even lower- his lips follow the trail of coarse body hair until he reaches the wiry fuzz just above the waistband of Stan’s boxers.

He hasn’t touched him there yet, but he’s happily surprised to find Stan hard and tenting in his boxers.

He pulls the waistband down and lifts himself up and off his brother so Stan can yank them the rest of the way down his legs. He tries to sit back down but Stan stops him with a hand to his chest.

“Nuh-uh, buddy. I’m gonna need you to even the playing field here a little first.”

So Ford obliges, shuffling out of his sleep shirt and throwing it somewhere to the side, possibly on the floor. He goes for his pajama pants next, shimmying them down before they’re caught around his knees.

It feels different stripping when Stan can’t see him- part of the enjoyment usually comes from Stan’s reactions and the way his eyes rake over him, but like this he can focus more on himself, and less on any potential reaction. It’s… actually nice. Ford isn’t overly self-conscious, but it’s hard not to focus on the scars and embarrassing tattoos that cover his body, even if his brother has mentioned he doesn’t mind them…

Oh…

He's been a bit of a hypocrite then, hasn’t he?

 “Are you naked yet or what?”

Ford rolls his eyes, once again not very helpful in communicating anything at all. “Eager now, aren’t we?” He sits between Stan’s legs, but otherwise keeps his hands to himself.

Stan humphs. “Hey, I wasn’t the one pawing at you like a horned up t-ohhh fuck!”

Ford’s lips wrap around his brother’s cock- it’s even better when Stan can’t see it coming, getting to draw out a surprised moan like that.

He gives a few licks to the head before taking him deeper. He focuses more on the taste than usual, salty- and a bit addicting to be honest. Ford doesn’t give head that often, but when he does it’s always such a pleasing experience, drawing those noises out of Stan and watching as he falls apart.

And plus, he wants to appreciate this part of Stan especially, wants to feel the thick weight of him all the way down his throat. It’s a sensory smorgasbord.

He rubs his thumbs into the divots of Stan’s hips as he bobs his head. Stan makes a litany of pleasing sounds, babbling into the night air like he’s rehearsing a prayer.

“Shit, fuck, Ford-“ He bucks his hips and Ford just barely pulls off enough to prevent himself from gagging. “God- Ford. A-are you gonna fuck me? Cuz I ain’t gonna last like this.”

Ford pulls off entirely, licking his lips. “There’s a novel idea.”

“Nerd.” Stan pulls him up by his hair, getting a teeny bit of payback for before. “I ain’t asking you twice.”

“Needy.” Ford says, but he stretches his way toward the edge of the bed to grab the lube just the same.

His hand swats at where the nightstand should be, and at one point his fingers make contact with something hard but it topples over and onto the floor with a bang. (Most likely a book left on the edge- that could be either of their faults…)

He continues feeling around for the drawer, but to extend his reach he has to drop to his elbows, and their fronts brush together.

All that skin-to-skin contact feels divine- so he soaks it in, draping himself across his brother and holding him tighter.

He would continue his search, but when Ford accidentally rocks their hips together and it leaves them both gasping as their cocks make contact, he gets distracted.

“Fuck, just-” Stan moans when Ford leans forward again and their cocks grind together. “Nngh- do that- do that more.”

Ford gets a better idea. He grabs Stan behind the knees and carefully hoists his legs up in the air, pinning his thighs together.

“How about this? Can I fuck your thighs?”

Stan groans his approval. “Fuck- yes- please.”

Ford uses one hand to hold Stan and one hand to stroke himself, he spits in his hand to get just a bit more lubricant before happily sliding himself between the soft skin of Stan’s thighs. He moans at the heavenly feeling as he grinds forwards and back, letting his jaw drop open as he lets out repeated grunts of pleasure.

And then he gets the angle just right, massaging himself between Stan’s thighs and successfully grinding against his brother’s cock when he pushes all the way forward.

“Fuuuck, Six- feels amazin’.”

The sensation sends a shiver of pleasure down Ford’s spine. All that friction in just the right places… a bit of precum leaks from his tip, leaving a wet streak against his brother’s skin.

Stan squeezes his thighs together tighter and the pressure increases to a level that has Ford seeing little stars light up in the dark.

It’s not easy to keep his composure like this, not with the dirty sounds and the way Stan has him locked in place, milking him for all he’s worth. Each sensation feels strengthened by the deprivation of his environment- and with just a few more clumsy thrusts he feels himself already teetering on the edge of an orgasm.

But his brother beats him to it, shaking and moaning and twitching against him as he comes. Usually there’s some visual cue- some warning, but now they’re reduced to the physical- the minute tremors in his thighs, the shaky exhales that signal he’s reached his climax.

He feels Stan’s release rub against their cocks, slickening his thrusts and smearing across the sensitive skin of his dick. If he wasn’t close before this surely would’ve been enough to drag him over the edge.

As it stands, he’s desperately trying not to cum- just to experience a few more seconds of this heaven on earth- his cum-slick cock rubbing between Stan’s thighs and giving him an overdose of serotonin that feels downright overindulgent.

But he can’t hold off the tidal wave of his satisfaction, and soon his hips are stuttering as he loses his composure. The blood rushing in his ears seems louder, the pressure at his groin stronger, and his peak is imminent. He lets his mouth fall open, rambling. “I’m close- oh Stanley! I love you, I love your body- your thighs- I love-fuck-”

Stan only squeezes him tighter, caging his cock between his supple thigh meat. “Do it, cum all over me. Show me how much you love me, Sixer.”

Ford loses all restraint at that, grunting forward with one last uncoordinated thrust before he spills over onto his brother.

His legs can barely keep him up, and he quivers as he comes down from his powerful orgasm.

It’s amazing, and more intense than he thought possible.

And he wants to say something sappy, the kind of thing that Stan will complain about and call him a sentimental knucklehead for but that they both know needs saying anyway. Something like 'I don't need to see when I already have the light of my life-'

But then the lights come back on.

It’s nearly blinding at first- being in the dark for that long had his eyes adjusting to the low light, so being suddenly assaulted by the overhead lamp has his pupils shrinking to pinpricks and leaves him blinking through a series of colorful afterimages and black spots. The jump from a post-coitus bliss to an all-out assault on his senses makes him groan in discomfort.

But after suffering through the pain of his overtaxed photoreceptors Ford is finally able to see clearly.

And the sight is breathtaking.

Stan is still splayed out against the pillows, cheeks ruddy and flushed as he rubs at his eyes. His gray curls are mussed and sticking up at odd ends, messy and loved thoroughly by Ford’s fingers. His chest is tinged pink and sheens with sweat as he takes deep breaths, his shirt is still rucked up and only kept in place by his gorgeous swollen chest. Ford looks down at his brother’s stomach to find it splattered with white-a mix of his and Ford’s release, and Stan’s cock is still flushed and draped against the curve of his gut.

When Stan lowers his hand Ford gasps.

His face, his expression- it’s almost too much.

Stan looks so cheeky and satisfied, and the line of drool running down his chin is more than enough evidence of his submission to debauchery. Not being able to see his descent makes the redness of his lips and the hickies blooming at his throat even more noticeable.

He’s perfect.

“Heh. Watch’ya starin’ for Six? You look like this is the first time you’re seein’ me like this.” Stan’s voice is hoarse from overuse. It’s incredibly hot.

“It may as well be.” Ford says, unable to keep the reverence from his words. “You’re so enchanting I feel as though this is the only sight that matters.”

When Stan genuinely smiles and blushes at the praise, Ford takes that as a well-deserved win.

He’s not going to solve all of Stan’s body issues today, and chipping away at that shame piece by piece will take a lot of time and effort.

But luckily, that’s exactly the thing he wants to dedicate himself to- he always did love a challenge, after all.

And worshipping each and every beautiful part of his brother’s body has never felt like more of a privilege.

[crazykinkiwi]

⛓️You and your cursed tongue‼️[Heian era]

The sun was high above the hills of Yamato, its golden light pouring through the carved lattice of the palace windows, casting intricate shadows across the polished wooden floors. The wind carried the faint scent of incense and cherry blossoms, but the air inside the inner chamber was far from serene.

It was heavy. Tense.

You stood barefoot on the tatami mat, arms crossed over your silken kimono—deep crimson trimmed in black, the colors of your unwanted royal marriage—staring down a man no one else dared to challenge.

Ryomen Sukuna. The Demon King. The slaughterer of a thousand, the crowned terror of the era.

Your husband.

He lounged lazily atop the raised dais, robes draped over one shoulder, four muscular arms resting with the ease of a beast who knew no fear. His upper right hand held a goblet of dark wine, and his lower left flicked lazily through a scroll. He hadn’t looked at you once.

Not even when you threatened to burn down the palace.

“I’m serious,” you said, voice sharp like a blade, laced with a bratty defiance you’d sharpened over the past year. “If you don’t open the gate, I’ll torch the west wing. I’ve already soaked the tapestries in oil.”

A soft hum vibrated through his chest.

"You’re not lying." He didn't ask. He stated.

His voice—gods, that voice—was dark velvet dipped in danger. Smooth, amused, but with an edge that made grown men piss themselves.

Your chin lifted. “No. I’m not.”

Finally, finally, he looked up.

The flicker of his twin crimson eyes met yours, and the room fell completely silent. You’d seen heads roll for less. A woman once bowed too slowly and her tongue was cut out. A general disagreed with him once—and was split open from crotch to collar.

But you? You’d threatened arson. Again.

And you still breathed.

“Let me see if I understand this correctly,” he drawled, placing the scroll down as his other two hands joined the first in holding the goblet. “You, my bride—who’s yet to warm my bed or give me a single damn heir—have now decided your freedom is worth the entire west wing?”

He leaned forward just slightly, enough to let the candlelight catch the razor curve of his teeth. “All… for a festival?”

“Yes,” you said without flinching. “I want dango. Real dango. From a stand. Not the over-gilded crap your servants bring me on golden trays.”

One of his brows twitched. The servants at the edge of the chamber stiffened, eyes wide. Ten guards stood at full attention near the double doors, trained to intercept you at a moment’s notice.

Sukuna watched you a beat longer, wine forgotten. Then—

He laughed.

Not the kind of laugh people told in stories. Not the cruel, villainous cackle of a demon king. But low, rich, and genuine. A slow build from the back of his throat like he couldn’t believe you were real.

“I should kill you,” he said through his laughter, shaking his head.

“You won’t,” you replied, lips curling. “You like me too much.”

He stopped laughing.

The amusement in his eyes dimmed just a little, replaced by something far darker. Something ancient. His power crackled through the room like the tension before a thunderstorm. He stood in one smooth motion, all four arms flexing in perfect sync, robes cascading around his powerful frame.

In a blink, he was in front of you.

You didn’t flinch. You never did. That’s what made this dance so addicting for him.

His lower hand reached out, cupping your chin, tilting your face up to meet his. He studied you as if memorizing the lines of a cursed scripture. Something unreadable flickered in his eyes.

“No one else dares raise their voice to me,” he murmured. “And yet you… you demand my soldiers. You threaten my palace. You deny me your body for a year, and still you breathe.”

His thumb brushed your lower lip.

"Tell me, little minx… do you think your stubbornness is what keeps you alive?"

You swallowed, barely.

“No,” you whispered.

“Then what?”

Your eyes locked with his. “The fact that I amuse you.”

He exhaled a low chuckle again, though this time quieter. More dangerous. He leaned in, lips barely brushing your ear.

“You amuse me, yes. But you forget something.”

You shivered.

“I’m not patient,” he said. “And even less so when you parade around the idea of touching mortals. Filthy. Weak. And unworthy of breathing the same air as you, my wife.”

You felt his breath down your neck, his proximity suffocating in its intensity. He wasn’t angry—not enough to hurt you. Not yet. But he was annoyed. And that was its own kind of danger.

He pulled back, crimson eyes sweeping you once more.

Then, with a scoff, he waved a dismissive hand.

“Fine. Go.”

Your mouth fell open in stunned surprise.

“With conditions,” he added coolly, turning back toward his seat.

Of course.

“Two servants. Ten guards. And no one touches you. No one. I find even one wandering gaze on you and I’ll gut them in the middle of the street.”

You blinked.

“And if I run?” you teased.

He turned his head just slightly, and your blood turned to ice.

“I’ll burn the entire village down. With you in it.”

And that, you believed.

Still, you grinned. “I’ll be back before sundown.”

“Good,” he muttered, picking up his wine again. “Because next time you throw a tantrum… I might just join you in bed to shut you up.”

Your steps faltered—but you didn’t reply. Not when your heart stuttered in your chest. Not when heat bloomed uninvited beneath your skin.

Sukuna smirked as you turned and walked away with your personal battalion behind you.

Because he knew.

You may have won this round, but he would always be the one who lit the match.

Masterlist

[multifandom-03]

His Mission - Part I

Word Count: 2269| Pair: Bucky Barnes x OC | Genre: Angst, fluff

Warning: Injury, pregnancy, threats, HYDRA

Summary: He was a ghost, a weapon, a name long forgotten. Until her. Until their daughter. Now, with HYDRA hunting and the world against him, the man once called the Winter Soldier will fight not for a mission… but for his family.

A/N: This is another one-shot that came from my Wattpad times; I've been recently going down the rabbit hole of James Buchanan Barnes again sdkjgbsddg

January, 2008

"Good job, Soldier," Alexander Pierce said to the Winter Soldier as the man returned from completing his mission. "I have a new assignment for you. And this one... is the most important of them all."

The Soldier didn’t reply. He simply stared straight ahead while the doctors worked on repairing his metal arm. Pierce walked toward him and handed him a file. Using his flesh hand, the Winter Soldier flipped it open and began scanning through its contents.

What confused him was that the file was about a woman. An innocent, beautiful woman. Her green eyes gleamed with joy, her blonde hair perfectly framing her heart-shaped face. Her smile caught his attention—it was radiant, straight, and full of life.

"Who is this?" he rasped, a flicker of the old Bucky Barnes momentarily surfacing.

"Ah, now that’s where things get interesting," Pierce said with a chuckle, taking a seat across from him. "You see, you're not going to kill her. You’re going to be with her."

The Soldier furrowed his brows in confusion.

"You, Winter Soldier," Pierce said, standing and nodding to a guard who immediately left the room, "are going to create a child with her."

The room went still.

"What?" he growled, his voice low and dangerous. Everyone instinctively tensed, their eyes on the assassin.

"Well, when a man and a woman love each other—" Pierce was abruptly cut off as the Winter Soldier lunged from his seat and slammed him against the wall. Alarms flared. Guns were raised. The crackle of tasers filled the air. But Pierce remained calm, staring directly into his eyes.

"You’re going to do this," he said coldly, "or that innocent woman dies."

That threat snapped something inside him. The ghost of Bucky Barnes broke through. His grip loosened. He released Pierce and returned to his seat, silent. He couldn’t let an innocent woman die—not because of him.

Pierce straightened his collar just as the door opened again. The guard who had left returned—bringing someone with him.

It was her.

But she looked nothing like the photo in the file. Her hair was messy, her skin bruised and scratched. Dirt clung to her clothes. Bucky’s eyes widened in disbelief and anger at the sight of her.

The guard shoved her forward roughly, but Bucky moved quickly, catching her before she could fall.

"I'm being generous," Pierce said, his tone light but cruel, "giving the two of you some time to bond before the baby-making begins."

He turned to leave, pausing at the door with a smirk.

"But this needs to happen soon… or force will be used." He glanced back one last time, eyes gleaming with menace. "Don’t have too much fun."

***

One Month Later...

"Are you sure about this?" he asked, his voice low, uncertain. "Do you really want to do this—?"

"Why else would I still be alive?" she replied quietly, not looking at him. "HYDRA wants this child. Soon."

His stomach twisted. A child. Their child. Created in captivity. Under surveillance. For HYDRA.

"Why?" he asked, although he already feared the answer.

"Because they want to create another Winter Soldier… except this time, from the beginning," she revealed, blinking away tears.

The Winter Soldier froze. Another weapon. Another life destroyed before it even begins.

"What?" he breathed, horror dawning in his eyes. "They're going to use our child?"

She nodded, biting her lip, her eyes full of fear she was trying hard to bury.

His hands clenched into fists. "No. I won’t allow it."

"You won’t have a choice," she said quietly. "They’ll just kill me and find someone else. Or… they’ll force me."

No. No, no, no. The room felt smaller suddenly. Tighter. He couldn't breathe.

"How did they even drag you into this?" he asked, trying to keep his voice steady, though his insides were screaming.

"I have signs of mutation in my genes," she said, hesitant. "If the child is born, there’s a chance it’ll have a gift. HYDRA saw that and took me."

Genetics. Experiments. Programs. He’d lived through it. He was the result of it. Now they wanted to pass it on—to his child.

She glanced toward the calendar on the wall. "And… they want the child born this year."

A deadline. A countdown. Like she was just… a vessel.

"But—" he started, unsure of what he was even trying to say. That they could escape? That there was another way? That maybe—just maybe—fate would be merciful?

"Trust me," she interrupted gently, turning to him with a weak smile. "It’s for the best. Besides… we love each other. And I know you. You’ll protect what’s yours. You’ll find a loophole in all of this."

Love. It felt so foreign in this place. But not with her.

She was the only warmth he had left in this cold, silent hell. And HYDRA wanted to use that. Like they used everything else.

"I love you," he said, the words painful and precious at once. A vow. A promise. A warning.

She smiled, stepped closer, and kissed him gently.

"I love you too," she whispered.

And as she turned away, his mind was already racing.

There had to be a way out. He didn’t know how yet. But he would find it. Because if HYDRA thought he was just going to sit back and let them turn his child into a weapon— they didn’t know him at all.

***

Nine Months Later...

"Congratulations, Soldier," Pierce drawled as he entered the cell.

The Soldier stood immediately, posture stiff, muscles tensed. His eyes locked onto Pierce, sharp and dangerous.

"You have a daughter," Pierce continued, his voice dripping with disdain. "Which is useless—"

"Don’t touch her!" the Soldier hissed, venom lacing his words. The deadly calm of the Winter Soldier began to rise again. "Don’t touch them."

"Relax," Pierce said, holding up both hands in mock surrender—just as the guards surrounding them flicked the safeties off their weapons.

"If it weren’t for the fact that she has powers, she’d be dead by now."

The Soldier’s glare could have burned through steel.

"You want to see them?" Pierce asked, now humorless. "Then lose the attitude, or your mind gets wiped and you’re back in cryo."

That made him go still.

"Come on," Pierce said with a smug smirk. "You have a family to meet."

Without waiting for a response, he turned and led the way.

They arrived at another cell.

Inside, on a narrow bed in the center of the room, were two figures—mother and child. The woman sat upright, clutching the newborn tightly against her chest, shielding the infant with every ounce of strength she had left.

His breath caught.

There they were.

His girls.

"Ten minutes," Pierce said flatly, then exited, the door clanging shut behind him.

The Soldier rushed forward, dropping to his knees beside the bed. He pressed a kiss to each of their foreheads—tentative, reverent, trembling.

"Thank God you're okay," he whispered into her hair, his voice cracking. "He said he was going to kill her if she didn’t—"

"Over my dead body," she rasped, voice dry and hoarse but unshaken.

A faint smile ghosted across his lips. Her fire hadn’t dimmed—not even now.

He kissed her gently.

"What’s her name going to be?" she asked, barely above a whisper, exhaustion closing in on her.

He looked down at the infant, so small, so quiet in her mother’s arms.

"I like the name... Grace," he murmured. "Our amazing Grace."

"Grace…" she repeated, her eyes fluttering shut as a tear slid down her cheek. "I like it. Grace..." Grace, with no last name.

They didn’t know the Soldier’s real name. He didn’t either. Just orders. Tasks. Silence.

But this moment—this feeling—was real.

"We’ll get through this," he whispered, brushing a strand of hair away from her face. "I promise you that."

***

Years passed.

By some twisted miracle, HYDRA went easy on little Grace. They treated her like royalty—feeding her lies with honey-coated words. To them, she wasn’t just a child. She was an asset. A prodigy.

A princess.

And so, the people of HYDRA began calling her just that: the Princess of HYDRA.

At age six, she was already mastering her telekinesis—lifting objects with fluid control, bending metal like it was paper. They saw in her the future. A weapon to help them take the world.

Because of her rapid development, HYDRA allowed Emilia to live and raise Grace after each training session. That mercy came with conditions, of course—walls, guards, and constant surveillance. But it was something.

Bucky’s visits were rare. Too rare. But every time he came, Grace’s face lit up like the sun.

“Papa!” she would cry, running into his arms.

Each visit, Bucky promised them both: “We’re going to get out. I swear it.”

And each time, they believed him—because they had to. Even if, deep down, a sliver of doubt always remained.

That was… until Captain America came back into Bucky’s life. And their dream—the one they barely dared to believe in— finally had a chance to come true.

***

2014

A distant noise echoed through the corridor, drawing their attention.

Emilia instinctively moved her daughter behind her, backing up until they were pressed against the farthest wall of the small cell. The sound grew louder—closer—metal clanging and boots pounding until it stopped right outside their door.

Emilia tightened her grip on Grace’s hand, her face calm but her heart racing. She forced on a brave façade.

The door was kicked open with a deafening crash. Grace whimpered and buried herself further behind her mother.

A figure stepped through the smoke and dust. The only light came from the weak lamp in the far corner of the cell, casting long shadows over his face. But it was enough.

"Papa!" Grace cried, darting forward before Emilia could stop her.

He caught her with ease, lifting her into his left arm. His right—his flesh arm—hung limply at his side, clearly dislocated or injured.

"Papa, you're here!" she said, clinging to him.

Emilia stared in disbelief.

Not just because it seemed like he was finally breaking them out… But because he remembered them. He remembered.

She had heard it—just days ago—how they wiped him. Again. Erased everything.

So how...?

"Come on, girls," he said softly, smiling through exhaustion. "Let’s leave this place."

"Winter—" she started, the old name slipping out.

"Bucky," he corrected, glancing at her with a flicker of hesitation, a flicker of hope. "I remember... my name is Bucky."

A smile broke across her face.

She stepped toward the two most important people in her world, voice gentle. "You know," she said quietly, "I heard plums help with memory..."

He let out a breath that almost sounded like a laugh. "Then let’s go somewhere that sells plums," he said, his voice filled with something new—something free. He smiled wide, holding Grace close, as Emilia took his good hand.

They were free. Free from HYDRA... for now.

***

2016, Bucharest

Letting Grace help pick the ripest plums, the man gently asked the vendor how much they cost. Grace’s tiny hand tugged on his coat as she proudly held one up for his inspection. He smiled softly, nodding in approval.

A short distance away, Emilia watched them with a small, fond smile. Seeing her husband and daughter share a quiet moment of normalcy warmed her heart—something so simple, yet so rare. Unfortunately, it didn't last long.

Her smile faded.

Something had caught her eye.

A headline.

Making her way toward the nearby newspaper stand, her heart sank as her gaze locked onto the front page.

“Bombing in Vienna.”

And right below the title... was him.

Her blood ran cold.

“Bucky…” she murmured, lips barely moving.

The moment stretched until the vendor, noticing her reaction—and perhaps recognising the face on the paper, who started approaching the vendor—abruptly abandoned his stall and took off down the street.

A tall presence loomed behind her. Emilia turned and looked up to see him—her husband, her love—reading over her shoulder, Grace still nestled securely in his arm.

His smile vanished.

“Papa?” Grace called, noticing the sudden tension in his face. “What’s wrong?”

“Nothing, darling,” he replied gently, forcing a small smile. But the sadness in his eyes betrayed him. He looked at Emilia with silent apology.

"I need you and your mother to do something for me, okay?"

Grace nodded quickly. “Okay! What?”

“You remember that backpack we hid near our place?”

“Yeah?”

“I need you to go get it. Then you and Mama need to take the train. Somewhere far.”

“But—Bucky…” Emilia said softly, her voice catching.

“I’ll catch up,” he promised, eyes fixed on hers. “Just do it. Please.”

There was a long pause.

Then Grace and Emilia nodded, though reluctantly.

“Okay…” Grace said quietly, her excitement gone.

He pulled them close one more time, pressing a kiss to both their foreheads.

“I love you two,” he said, barely above a whisper.

“We love you too,” they echoed.

He handed Grace over to Emilia carefully. Then, cupping Emilia’s face, he kissed her—slowly, tenderly—brushing away the tear that escaped her eye.

“I’ll see you soon,” he said, voice thick but steady. “Now go. Before someone sees us.”

She gave him one last look, the kind only a woman torn in two could give, and turned away—hurrying off with Grace in her arms.

When they disappeared around the corner, his expression shifted.

The pain melted away.

His jaw tightened. His spine straightened.

The soldier was back.

He had a mission now—one final mission. Clear their names. Burn the rot out of the system that hunted him. And return to his family.

No matter the cost.