#but i NEED to know the state of his curls

[neellscapsule]

My Heart — Part Two

summary | your family realizes how much they have missed. the problem is that you are a grown up by now, and terrible hurt by their neglect.

pairing | platonic yandere batfam x batsis!neglected!reader. future conner kent x reader.

warnings / tags | angst, hurt/little comfort, y/n is mentioned as a female, trauma, family issues, mostly trust and daddy issues. they all love each other (PLATONICALLY) they just don't know how to feel it and express it correctly. it gets darker. you are a bit of a yandere later as well.

word count | 4.4k

authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :) i plan on making this a series. please vote <3 dick is 28. jason is 23. reader will be 22 in a few months. cass is 21. tim is 20. duke is 18. damian is 13.

taglist | @cebrospudipudi @jjoppees @corvoqueen @nirvanaxx1942

previous. next.

The paint stains your fingers in shades of umber and charcoal, seeping into the skin beneath your nails, filling the creases along your knuckles. You’ve stopped noticing how it feels���the slight stickiness of oils, the bite of turpentine on raw fingertips. It’s part of the process. Part of the mess you’ve accepted as your life.

The studio smells like linseed oil, rain-dampened brick, and faint candle smoke from the altar of used coffee cups near the window.

You haven’t eaten. You never do when you’re in this state.

The canvas towers in front of you — a human torso, cut open and reassembled with impossible precision, gothic window tracery bleeding from the muscle, spine bent beneath the weight of cathedral motifs. A ribcage crowned with delicate arches. Veins following the curve of stained glass.

It’s grotesque. It’s sacred.

It’s yours.

You push the brush across the canvas, smoothing the crimson edge of one carved shoulder, teeth digging into your lower lip. It’s not done. It never feels done. You don’t know what compels you to keep building cathedrals inside people. You just can’t seem to stop.

You don’t notice the knocking at first.

The sound seeps through the fog of your focus, faint and rhythmic, knuckles tapping wood. You groan under your breath, setting the brush down beside the palette, fingers sticky with paint. 

It’s probably Pam again. She’s sweet, too sweet sometimes — hovering, asking if you’ve eaten, if you’ve slept, if you’ve seen the sun in the past forty-eight hours. It’s not her fault, but you’ve been very clear today.

“Pam, for the love of God,” you call, not turning away from your work. “I told you, I’m not hungry. You don’t need to hover like a worried mother—”

You turn then, irritation curling your mouth as you wipe your hand absently on the hem of your oversized paint shirt, ready to face the soft-eyed persistence of your assistant.

But it’s not Pam.

It’s Jason.

He stands near the door, arms crossed, helmet clipped to his hip. His eyes are fixed on you, unreadable, sharp like they always are when he’s too quiet, watching you like you’re still the kid he used to mess with, still the little sister too easy to fluster.

Behind him, Damian is already wandering through your studio, his hands clasped behind his back in that overly formal way he’s always had, posture unnaturally straight for a thirteen-year-old, his eyes tracing every painting, every sculpture, every unfinished sketch with the kind of reverence that makes your skin itch.

“What the hell are you two doing here?” The question comes out sharper than you intend.

Jason shrugs. “Nice to see you too, princess.”

You roll your eyes, but your pulse stumbles. Childhood memory pulls behind your ribs, unwelcome.

“You didn’t answer the door,” Damian remarks, calmly, as though this is the most natural place for him to be. His tone doesn’t match his age. He’s a teen but speaks like a soldier twice his years. “We assumed you would not appreciate us arriving with excessive fanfare.”

You stare at him, stunned. “You broke into my building?”

Jason lifts a brow. “Didn’t know we needed an engraved invitation to check on our sister.”

You grip the rag on your desk a little too tightly. “You can’t just show up here. This is my space.”

Your older brother strolls further in, his steps deliberately slow. “Yeah? You didn’t really leave us much choice, you know. You’re hard to get a hold of.”

“That’s the point.”

“You invited us.”

“I meant the gallery, Jason,” you snap. “Not my apartment.”

Jason clicks his tongue, mockingly. “Bit touchy, aren’t we?”

“Studio,” Damian corrects quietly, still inspecting the room. “This is not merely an apartment. It’s an artist’s space.”

Your gaze flicks to him. His tone is formal, precise, the way your father speaks in boardrooms, the way assassins speak before they strike.

You know that cadence. You used to wear it too. Before you remembered how tired you were of being sharp-edged.

His focus drifts from canvas to canvas, lingering on the darker ones, his expression carefully neutral. He walks as though he’s in a museum — slow, controlled, absorbing everything. For a second, you think he would enjoy the gallery much more, and you quickly get rid of the thought.

Damian finally turns to face you, his green eyes unsettlingly direct. “We came to see you.”

You cross your arms, suddenly conscious of the paint-streaked shirt, the disheveled hair, the exhaustion under your skin. Your space feels invaded. Claustrophobic. Like they cracked the sanctuary you built around yourself and stepped right in without asking.

“How did you even know where I live?”

Jason’s grin is infuriating. “Come on. Did you really think you could keep that from us?”

“I moved across the country.”

“Yeah. You’re not as stealthy as you think.”

“I used aliases.”

“Cute.”

Damian’s voice cuts through, quiet but deliberate. “Tim found you.”

You blink.

Jason’s smile falters slightly. “Yeah, that helped.”

You glance between them, irritation flaring in your ribs. “Tim hacked into my stuff?”

“Only the necessary. We didn't see any of your dirty stuff,” Jason makes a grimace, completely disgusted. "God, I hope you don't have that stuff 'cause that just made me sick."

“Choke in your vomit while you are at it,” you reply back, eyes narrowed.

Jason pushes off the doorframe, wandering deeper now, hands in his pockets, gaze sliding over your unfinished works.

“You’ve been busy,” he notes casually, though there’s a flicker in his expression you don’t miss. Something thoughtful. Guarded.

“I didn’t ask for company,” you say evenly.

“No, but you sure as hell needed it,” Jason mutters under his breath. “Did you eat? And don't lie. Cause I can and I will talk to Pammy over there. Surely blondie could answer that as well as you.”

You roll your eyes. Damian interrupts, stepping toward a sculpture perched on a pedestal near the back of the studio. His voice is smooth, formal. “This one is exquisite.”

You stiffen immediately.

Jason follows Damian’s line of sight, curiosity dimming into something else when he focuses on the piece. His posture locks, his smirk gone.

The sculpture isn’t large, but you’ve kept it protected, guarded in the corner like it was something precious.

Because it is.

Two figures, with faces that merely touch by an ear to a cheek, no bodies, just faces and necks and only a bit of chest. Her arm protects him, crossing to his shoulder. There is no paint. Just faces. Blank faces that are too sad.

You and Jason.

Younger. Before death. Before he was gone.

Jason steps closer, his lips parting like he might say something, but nothing comes out. He’s staring at the chipped edge where your fingertips almost touch his neck.

The moment feels too exposed, too raw, too much.

You rush forward, grabbing the draped cloth from a nearby chair and hastily covering the sculpture, heat creeping to your cheeks.

Jason’s eyes stay on you. Quiet now. The teasing’s gone. What’s left is… complicated. Damian, meanwhile, has stepped closer, watching the whole exchange with unnerving focus. His eyes are greener up close. Sharper. Too observant for a thirteen-year-old.

“Why is that hidden?” he asks simply, as if the question isn’t a blade twisting in your ribs.

“Because it’s not for display,” you answer curtly, adjusting the cloth, the warmth in your cheeks refusing to fade.

Damian steps beside you, quiet but watching. Always watching.

“You should come home,” he says, direct as ever, eyes locked on yours. “To the Manor.”

The words slam into your chest like a steel door.

You bark out a hollow laugh, shaking your head as you retreat back toward your canvas, grabbing your brush with shaky fingers.

“I’m not going back there.”

“You should,” Damian insists, his voice low but firm, carrying the same command your father always wielded — only softer, more desperate under the surface. “You belong with us.”

“No,” you reply, knuckles whitening around the brush. “I belong here.”

Jason leans against the wall, kicking a stray paintbrush with the toe of his boot. “Look, you don't have to move back into the Manor. No one’s trying to suffocate you. But you don’t have to be alone all the time.”

“I’m not alone.”

“Yeah?” His mouth twitches, not quite a smile. “You’re talking to a brick wall, painting holes in people, and eating nothing but coffee and stubbornness. Sure doesn’t look like you’ve got a full house in here.”

You scowl. “That’s rich coming from you.”

He shrugs. “Fair.”

The studio falls into a thick, tense silence, the quiet hum of city traffic beyond the window the only sound.

Damian breaks it, voice colder, but not unkind.

“We miss you.”

You stare at him, at the strange, complicated little brother you barely know, the only one who shares your blood — half, yes, but more than enough for him to treat you like you’re his.

Your heart wavers. Because you were always like that with your siblings. Always too soft, too easy to catch. It was not your fault; how could they look at you like that and expect you not to fall?

But you still retreat behind your work, turning your attention back to the cathedral-ribcage and the arches blooming from muscle and bone.

Jason exhales slowly, fingers tapping the edge of a nearby shelf.

“Alfred asks about you, you know.”

Your spine straightens. You don’t look at him.

“Yeah,” he continues, softer now. “Old man’s been stuck with nothing but bats and brats. Pretty lonely in that big house.”

The words knife into your chest.

Alfred.

You swallow hard, brush faltering mid-stroke.

“He misses you,” Jason adds, voice rough with something that sounds too much like guilt. “The others— they’re stubborn. But him? He just wants you home.”

Your eyes sting, but you don’t let the tears rise. You breathe through your teeth, steadying yourself as the memories press against your ribs — Alfred’s gentle hands bandaging your bruised knuckles, his voice soft in the dark after failed missions, the way he saw you when no one else did.

“He’s… fine?” Your voice is fragile.

Jason nods. “Tired. Old. Still making those goddamn scones no one likes but you.”

You huff a quiet, broken laugh despite yourself.

Damian steps closer, the stiffness in his shoulders easing as his eyes soften — still sharp, still possessive, but open now. Waiting.

“We’ll leave,” he says carefully. “But you should consider it.”

“I’m not going back,” you repeat, but it cracks more than you intend.

Jason sighs, shrugging on his jacket again.

“Yeah,” he mutters, eyes lingering on you, old regret buried under forced nonchalance. “Didn’t think you would.”

But they don’t push.

They leave the studio quietly, the door clicking shut behind them, the echo of their presence curling in the corners like smoke you can’t scrub away.

You stare at the unfinished painting, the gothic ribs and spires reaching out like a cathedral begging for worship.

And for the first time in hours, your hands shake too much to keep painting.

2021

You are Gotham’s darling.

You glide through the gala like a practiced storm, a smile stretched soft and convincing across your painted lips, pearls heavy against your collarbones, a custom dress clinging to your figure in all the right ways.

You know what they see.

They see elegance. Charm. The precious Wayne daughter — the pianist, the prodigy, the golden girl.

But they don’t see the cracks. No one ever does.

You know exactly how to play this game.

You lift a flute of champagne from a silver tray — you won’t drink it, of course. You just need to hold it. It’s part of the image.

Your eyes flick across the room, cataloguing politicians, socialites, investors, foreign dignitaries, all humming in the same stale rhythm.

It’s always the same.

And it’s so easy.

A charming laugh here. A delicate touch on the arm there. The perfect tilt of your head, the perfect compliment, the perfect distance. You flash a smile, soft and warm, as another politician’s wife tells you how radiant you look tonight. You accept the compliment like it’s your birthright. You have learned to wear praise like perfume — light, intoxicating, gone in a moment.

They eat it up.

You are exceptional at being what they want you to be.

Across the room, you can see them.

Your family.

Your father. Bruce Wayne, always the shadow, always the gravity around which you all spin. Talking to someone from the Mayor’s office, brow furrowed, jaw tight, not looking at you.

Dick — always moving, always orbiting. Laughing with some acquaintances, tipping his glass toward them, that golden boy glow turned up to full wattage. He hasn’t looked your way in over twenty minutes.

Jason — unfamiliar to these parties, still stiff in his tailored suit, leaning against a pillar with his arms crossed, eyes darting toward the door like he’s already plotting his escape. You catch him staring at you briefly, but he looks away too quickly, feigning disinterest.

Tim — glued to his phone, tucked in a corner, nodding absently at the older men who mistake his silence for reverence. He won’t make it through the night without ducking out to work on whatever case is currently eating him alive.

None of them are looking at you.

And yet, you are here.

You are always here.

The daughter.

The musician.

The delicate thing to be paraded in pearls.

You love them. You hate them. You love them. You hate them.

It’s always both.

They forget you. They adore you. They neglect you. They would burn the world for you.

But not tonight.

Tonight, they’ve already forgotten.

You remember the first time you played for the public — twelve years old, barely tall enough for your feet to brush the pedals. You’d glanced toward the side of the stage, hoping, aching to see your father there.

He wasn’t.

But Alfred was. He always was.

You play like you’re starving.

You play like it’s the only way you know how to be loved.

Your fingers fly across the keys, weaving through the rises and falls of the piece you’ve practiced to perfection. Every note is a plea. Every shift in tempo is a crack in the armor.

See me.

See me.

Please, see me.

The crowd is enraptured.

Gotham adores you. You know how to keep them in your palm.

When you finish, the applause swells, thunderous, pressing against your ribs.

You find Alfred near the kitchens of the Manor. His face softens the moment he sees you.

“My dear.”

You step into his arms without thinking, without needing to guard yourself. He holds you tightly, his hand gently cradling the back of your head like he did when you were a child.

You were always a child in his arms.

“You played beautifully,” he murmurs.

“Did you listen?”

“Of course I did.”

“You stayed the whole time?”

“Always.”

You swallow thickly, pressing your face into his shoulder.

Alfred has always stayed.

“You should be the one they parade around,” you whisper.

He chuckles softly. “I’m far too old for that now.”

“You’re the best of all of us.”

“You are part of that ‘us,’ you know.”

You pull back, but his hand lingers on your cheek, thumb brushing away the hint of tears.

“I see you,” he says, voice warm and steady. “Even when the others don’t. I see you, my girl.”

You nod, the lump in your throat too heavy to speak.

Alfred gives you a knowing look. “Your father is not always as clever as he pretends to be.”

“I’m not looking for clever.”

“Perhaps not. But I suspect you are still looking.”

You don’t answer.

You’ve already learned that some searches never end.

But you smile for him anyway.

Because you can’t bear to let him see how much it hurts.

PRESENT

The world feels better upside down.

You’ve decided that much after the third drop, when your body spirals through the air, silk ribbons biting into your thighs, your wrists, your waist, the floor disappearing somewhere below.

There’s freedom here, wrapped tight in fabric and gravity’s quiet threat. Up here, it doesn’t matter what your last name is. It doesn’t matter whose eyes you inherited, whose legacy you abandoned. It doesn’t matter how many invitations you wrote that no one showed up for.

It’s just you.

Your body.

Your strength.

Your silence.

The silk coils like a lover around your legs, keeping you suspended a solid twenty feet off the ground. You hang there, breathing slow, the city bleeding in through the open studio window — car horns, distant chatter, the faint wail of sirens that sound far too much like home.

You hate how your chest tightens at that sound.

The pressure wraps across your ribs as you climb, muscles burning, silk cool under your palms. The deep blue fabric coils like water as you flip, twisting your legs, pulling your body upside down, your hair trailing toward the floor twenty feet below.

For the first time all day, your head spins in a way that makes sense.

Up here, it’s just you.

Not the invitations you stupidly wrote.

Not the unanswered questions from Damian.

Not the quiet ache Jason left behind.

Not Alfred’s face, worn and tired, haunting the back of your mind.

You’ve spent hours here, in the studio that isn’t your art studio—the other one, the hidden space in the upper floor you converted into your training room.

“Okay,” comes a voice from below, too familiar, too soft with that unbearable warmth. “Now that’s impressive.”

Your eyes snap open.

Dick Grayson stands beneath you, hands shoved into his jacket pockets, blue eyes glinting with quiet awe — and a pride you’ve never seen aimed at you before. Not like that.

“Birdie,” he says, grinning up at you, that old nickname curling off his tongue like honey over a blade.

Your stomach flips, the nickname scraping through your ribs with bitter nostalgia.

You were never a Robin. Never wore the cape, the tights, the too-big legacy that was supposed to mold you into their perfect image.

But you were a bird too.

His bird.

Once.

“You’re supposed to announce yourself,” you say flatly, ignoring the way your pulse skips at the sound of his voice.

“I did,” he teases. “You just didn’t hear me over all your death-defying tricks.”

You exhale through your nose, keeping your face blank as you shift in the silks, body still upside down, legs tangled securely.

“What are you doing here?” Your voice is even, practiced, but your heart stumbles anyway.

Dick rocks back on his heels, gaze still glued to you, amusement tugging at the corner of his mouth.

“Is that any way to greet your favorite brother?”

You arch a brow. “Favorite? Bold assumption.”

“Ouch.” He presses a hand to his chest, mock wounded. “Right through the heart.”

You twist in the silks again, limbs coiling expertly, giving him your back for a moment as you let the tension in your core guide your position. You love the feeling — controlled, steady, detached from the floor, from all of it.

When you finally pivot back toward him, his eyes haven’t left you.

There’s a gleam there — pride, yes, but something heavier buried beneath. Guilt. Sadness. That quiet, unbearable Grayson softness that makes you want to run in the opposite direction.

Or scream at him.

Or both.

“You shouldn’t sneak into people’s studios,” you tell him flatly. “Some artists are territorial.”

Dick chuckles. “Yeah, well, I figured it was safer than knocking and getting the door slammed in my face.”

“Tempting.”

“You gonna come down?” he asks, tilting his head. “Or are we having this whole conversation with you playing Cirque du Soleil?”

You smirk faintly, fingers loosening your grip on the silks.

“Suit yourself.”

Before he can argue, you drop — fast, controlled, the silks unraveling in a fluid blur, your body spinning toward the floor at breakneck speed.

You hear him curse under his breath.

The moment before your feet hit the mat, you hook your legs, slowing the descent, landing clean and balanced with barely a whisper of sound.

Dick’s eyes are wide, hand halfway extended like he thought you might splatter across the floor.

“Jesus,” he mutters, hand scrubbing down his face. “You’re trying to kill me.”

You shrug, peeling the silk from your wrists. “Just keeping you on your toes. You’ve seen me do worse, anyway.”

His eyes roam your frame — not with scrutiny, but with that quiet, admiring calculation you remember from years ago, back when you were smaller, younger, chasing after them in the halls of the Manor with too-big eyes and a heart desperate to be seen.

“I didn’t know you got this good,” he observes, tone dipping softer now. “The aerial stuff.”

“I’ve had time.”

His gaze sharpens, and you know he hears the bite beneath your words.

Of course he does. Dick’s always been good at hearing what people don’t say.

“That’s not what I meant,” he says, softer now, the teasing edged away, replaced by something closer to… awe? Pride? Guilt? You can’t tell. It’s always layered with him. His eyes stray to the scattered equipment, the crash mats, the window cracked just enough to let in the faint summer breeze.

“It suits you,” he admits, tapping his thumb against his palm. “The silks. The… flying.”

You fold your arms, stepping back toward the silk rig, giving him space — and putting distance between yourself and whatever sentiment he’s about to throw at you.

“Let me guess,” you exhale, sticky hair clinging to your neck. “You’re here to talk about the Manor. About coming home. Just like Jason. Just like Damian.”

Dick’s jaw flexes.

You straighten, rolling your shoulders, tugging the silks aside as you wipe your palms on your leggings.

“If that’s the case,” you add, sharp and controlled, “save your breath.”

“Birdie—”

“I’m not going back.”

His face flickers, the usual effortless charm faltering under the weight of your words.

He watches you for a long, measured moment.

You cross your arms, leaning against the nearest support beam, heartbeat still settling from the adrenaline of the silks, though the real tension in the room comes from him.

“Did they put you up to this?” you ask quietly. “Bruce? The others?”

“No,” he says firmly, shaking his head, stepping closer. “They don’t know I’m here.”

Your brow lifts. “So what, you just… showed up?”

His lips curl faintly, crooked and boyish. “You’re hard to track down when you don’t want to be found. But I’ve had practice.”

A bitter smile tugs at your mouth. “Yeah. Surveillance and interrogation. Real family values.”

“Okay, that—” Dick laughs, rubbing the back of his neck. “I deserved that one.”

You sigh, dropping your head for a moment before meeting his eyes again.

The weight of his gaze settles heavily between you. Pride. Longing. Regret.

It’s all there, barely hidden beneath the years of distance.

“I’m not coming back,” you repeat, quieter now, but no less certain.

Dick’s expression softens, his shoulders lowering as he closes the last few feet between you, stopping just far enough that you still feel you have room to breathe.

“Look,” he starts gently, voice dipping into the same soothing cadence he used when you were little—before everything cracked. “I’m not here to drag you back. I’m not even here to lecture you.”

You snort. “That’s new.”

He gives you a dry look, but his smile returns, faint and a little sad.

“I just wanted to see you,” Dick admits, glancing around the studio. “See how you’re doing. How… this life is treating you.”

Your chest tightens, unexpected warmth blooming under the guard you’ve spent years building.

You want to believe him. Part of you does.

But the other part—the part that remembers every missed recital, every unopened letter, every time you stood on the edges of family dinners while they laughed without you—knows better.

“I’m fine,” you lie easily.

He frowns, eyes drifting over you, reading you the way only he can.

“You don’t look fine.”

You roll your eyes, turning back toward the silks, fingers tracing the cool fabric as a distraction.

“Don’t start playing big brother now, Dick. It’s been years.”

“I never stopped being your brother.”

Your throat tightens, but you mask it with a shrug, grabbing the silk, twisting it idly around your wrist to keep your hands busy.

“This isn’t the Manor,” you whisper. “You don’t get to show up and play big brother.”

His expression fractures — just a little, the mask slipping.

“I’m building something here,” you say, gesturing vaguely to the studio, the silks, the life outside Gotham’s shadows. “It’s mine. No capes. No patrols. No… disappointments.”

His face twists with something complicated—guilt, frustration, maybe even admiration.

“I get it,” Dick says softly. “I do.”

You arch a brow. “Do you?”

He hesitates, then nods. “Yeah. I ran from it too, remember? Blüdhaven. The circus. It’s not so different.”

“It is,” you counter, stepping forward, close enough now that your voices stay low, private. “You had the option to visit. To come back whenever you wanted. Me? I didn’t know if I even belonged there in the first place.”

Dick’s jaw clenches, his hands curling into fists at his sides.

“You always belonged,” he says, fierce and broken, eyes burning into yours. “We were just too damn distracted to show you.”

The admission punches the air from your lungs.

You look away, throat tight.

“Jason mentioned Alfred,” you murmur after a beat, the memory of the old butler’s face ghosting over your thoughts. “How… is he?”

“Still the only one holding the Manor together,” Dick answers, his voice soft with fondness. “Tired. He misses you... Everyone does. I do.”

You shake your head, pulling the silks through your fingers, grounding yourself in the familiar texture.

“It’s not that easy.”

“I know.”

“It’s not like I can just walk back in and pretend nothing happened.”

“Trust me, birdie, I’m not pretending.” He pauses. “We screwed up. I screwed up.”

You glance at him, wary.

His eyes meet yours, steady, open.

“I should’ve been there. More. Better. I thought— I thought you’d always be there. That there’d always be time.”

You swallow around the ache in your throat.

“Don’t pull the ‘we were kids’ card.”

“I wasn’t going to,” he says quietly. “I was going to say I wasn’t paying attention. That I thought being your brother meant just… showing up for the big stuff. The galas. The battles. I didn’t realize it was the little things that mattered.”

You look away.

“I used to send you letters,” you murmur, voice tight. “Invitations. Notes.”

“I know.”

“I used to save you seats.”

“I know.”

His voice is thick now.

“I didn’t think you wanted me there,” you whisper, fingers tightening on the silks. “I thought you had better things. More important people.”

He steps closer, not touching, but near enough to feel the warmth of him.

“You were always important,” he says. “I just… didn’t act like it.”

You blink rapidly, trying to hold back the stupid, stinging heat behind your eyes.

“I’m still not coming back.”

He smiles softly. “Okay.”

You glance at him, surprised. “Okay?”

“I’m not here to drag you home,” he says. “I’m here to see you. To remind you that you still have a home. That you still have a brother who’s proud of you.”

Your throat tightens.

“Don’t say that,” you whisper.

“It’s true.” His smile grows. “You were always a bird, you know. Not like me, not like the Robins. You were something wilder. Something I always wanted to fly like. My little birdie.”

He gets close, and for the first time you let him, chest aching for the love he once gave you. Dick kisses your temple, looking down at you for a moment.

“There's going to be a gala in four days. Because of the anniversary of the enterprises. Just . .  . think about it. You have my number. And take care of yourself, please.”

[rafeslvbug]

Lovebug!reader, a pregnant woman who had to give birth in an inconvenient place with the help of military!rafe,I feel like Rafe would love to help with the birth of his baby and even if it is an unplanned place, he feels honored to be able to help his girl

internally? very panicked. on the outside? the picture of calm.

he wouldn’t let you know for a second that he was not okay - you’re giving birth here, in your living room, when the baby wasn’t due for another two weeks.

and he would’ve driven you to the hospital, if the contractions hadn’t already started and you weren’t (from his guesses) quite dilated.

so he called emergency services, refrained from throwing around his military status, and did whatever they said. but naturally, heavy traffic meant they wouldn’t be here… for a while.

every instinct he’s ever had kicks in. he’s not professionally trained to deliver a baby, but when your twins were born he analysed the doctor’s every move, and is fairly certain he could replicate it.

speaking of the twins, they’d be quite concerned to hear their momma nearly screaming downstairs, so rafe would scoop them up, haphazardly tucking them in, in a fashion so unlike himself but called for. he turns the tv volume up loud, shuts the door, but makes sure they can still get out if need be.

there’s tears from you, flushed face while he adjusts your back against the couch, towels around you.

he’d try calm you down, brushing back the hair sticking to your head, cradling your head in his arm while you curse him out.

– “i hate you and your a hundred pound babies,” you’d whimper, curling into his arm.

– “bug, it’s a good thing you’re in this state, so i’m gonna let that slide, but you’ve already pushed out two of my a hundred pound babies before, so i believe in you, ‘kay?”

god knows how you get through it. occasionally pressing kisses to your knee, encouraging you through your contractions and pushes.

your baby girl would be born with ease, surprisingly enough, he’d wrap her up in a towel, sit down beside you on the ground, let you hold her while he strokes your hair with one hand, other hand gently holding her small body.

it’s twenty minutes before the doctors even come. finding you sitting with him, quietly discussing baby names and enjoying the calm together.

rafe suggests having home births in the future as a joke later on, and the look you shoot him is sharper than any of the one’s he’s given his soldiers at the base.

[cherrygirlfriend]

─── KISS IT BETTER ♡

♡ pairing: husband!spencer x lovely wife!reader

♡ summary: taking care of your husband while he's sick.

♡ warnings / tags: fluff, showering together wc: 1k

♡ author's note: spencer pls let me take care of you <3

LOVELY WIFE MASTERLIST ♡ 5K MASTERLIST

you'd think that if someone was to have a good immune system, it would be the man who avoided germs like a simple handshake was the equivalent of someone sneezing in his face. however, only a cruel man would be able to resist taking care of his lovely wife while she was sick.

however, only a few days after you had gotten better, spencer had woken up with a sore throat, his face as hot as coals; already worse off than you had been when you got sick, but the second day was even worse than the first day had been.

"you don't have to take care of me…" spencer mumbled, letting out a weak cough as you placed a towel-covered ice pack on your husband's forehead. "for a genius, you can be really dumb sometimes, you know." you mumbled, yet your tone showed nothing but fondness as you pushed his dark curls away from his face, "in sickness and in health, spencer."

there was a faint, weak smile on his face, "i'm gonna run by the pharmacy and pick up some stuff for you. try to get some sleep, 'kay?" spencer nodded; you didn't have to tell him twice; his eyes were already closing on the account of the chamomille tea you'd brewed for him.

when you got back home, your clothes and hair soaked from the grueling rainstorm outside, the apartment was quiet except for the loud breathing coming from the bedroom. you furrowed your brows and walked into the bedroom where you'd left him, sitting down at the edge of the bed, sweat covering spencer's skin. when you lifted the covers, his pajamas were soaked in sweat.

"spencer. spencer, wake up." you gently shook your husband, the man mumbling incoherently as his eyes slowly fluttered open. you took the towel you'd placed on his face and placed your hand on his forehead, "you're burning up, sweetheart. i think we should go to the hospital..."

"no, no..." the man coughed, his voice even weaker than before. "it'll... it'll start to get better soon. it should. it usually does." "i'm worried about you, spencer." "if... if it's not any better by morning then we can go. i just need you here with me..."

"alright." you sighed, taking the bottle of fever medicine you'd gotten for him, "i know you don't like taking medication when you can avoid it, but i hope this is okay. it's liquid, and it's meant for kids." you pointed to the little bear on the label of the glass bottle, a small, playful smile on your lips, "i named him 'honey'."

spencer's pale lips quirked up into a weak smile and his head nodded slightly. you measured some of the medication into the cap of the bottle, bringing it to spencer's lips, tilting it, your husband's adam apple bobbing as he swallowed it.

"good boy." you chuckled softly as you put the bottle aside, starting to unbutton his pajama shirt, "are you trying to take advantage of me in my weak state?" spencer said in a hoarse, his lips still quirked up in a smile. you rolled your eyes, a smile still on your lips "totally. i think you with a snotty, red nose is the sexiest you've ever looked. makes me wanna jump you."

you took the container of vicks vaporub out of the pharmacy bag, unscrewing the cap off and swiping some of it onto your fingers, before bringing your hand to spencer's chest, starting to rub it onto your husband's chest, the man letting out a soft hum.

once you'd placed a new cold rag on spencer's forehead, you turned the lights off and circled to the other side of the bed, getting into bed next to spencer, pressing yourself into his side, your fingers drawing patterns on his stomach as you closed your eyes, listening to the sound of rain pattering against the roof.

"good morning." you heard a hoarse voice say and your eyes softly fluttered open to look up at spencer with a small smile, the man looking at you fondly, some color having returned to his lips, his skin slightly less pale than the night before.

"were you watching me sleep?" you asked, narrowing your eyes. "yes. it makes me feel better."

you brought your hand to spencer's forehead, pursing your lips in thought, "looks like it worked. your fever's gone down a bit. god, i wish i would've known earlier that all you needed was a dose of your loving wife. there's only one problem."

spencer's brows furrowed in question, and you simply grinned, smelling his armpit, "you've been sweating for three days without showering. you reek like a swamp." your quip earned a hoarse laugh from your husband as he squeezed you closer to his chest.

it wasn't long until your bodies were pressed together under the chilly stream of water. your hands reached up to massage cherry-scented shampoo into spencer's hair, smiling as the shampoo turned into foam in his dark curls, scratching his scalp in a way that earned you a pleased hum from your husband.

his wet lips pressing small kisses on your shoulders as he washed your back for you, making you lean into spencer's touch. "i love you..." he hummed softly into your shoulder, your lips quirking up into a fond smile. "i love you too."

after showering and drying spencer's hair for him, the man sitting down on the bed as he looked up at you with reverence, you leaned down and pressed a soft kiss on his forehead, "do you think you can get something down? i think you should eat." "i think so." he said with a small, weak smile. "i'll be right back."

spencer wasn't sure how long you were gone, but once you returned, it was with a tray with a bowl of soup and a cup of tea, sitting down next to him on the bed and handing the tray to him. "you're too good for me…" spencer mumbled, making you roll your eyes, booping his nose. "eat your soup and we can watch fourth gen doctor who."

taglist: @purpleplumpudding @cinnamoncunt @nonietosay @bawstruly @scatorcciobabe @cynbx @ariieeesworld @dramioneforevertilltheend @esotericcangel @jjmaybankmylovee @lillied31 @finnickodairslut @lexasaurs634 @lacelottie

click here to join the taglist! 💌

[rhettrosunsets]

Nights Like This - Bob Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Bob Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff!

Summary: On day's where your clothes suddenly don't fit right, everything's a bit too loud, the light's are too bright, and it feels like too much, Bob's there steady and comforting ready to ground you and remind you that he'll always be there for you.

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.1k

Warnings: Reader is overstimulated and overwhelmed, reader feels like they're broken. Use of pet names for reader. Reader lays on Bob. No description of what reader looks like. No use of Y/N.

Notes: I wrote this off some of my own experiences, other's may vary, but this is what it is like with my OCD and ADHD on somedays and I just wanted to write some cute hurt/comfort.

Some days, the world is just too much for you to handle.

You woke up already exhausted just knowing that today was going to be one of those days. The hum of electricity sharp in your ears, the ringing seems persistent. The way that your clothes suddenly seem unbearable every seam on your jeans making you angry as they brush against your skin. The way your turtle neck makes you feel like your suffocating. Everything feels like it’s pressing in at once as you just try to make it through the day. 

The lights are too bright and are a blinding white, not a gentle warm tone that you'd prefer. The sound of people talking over one another while music plays loudly in the background is enough to make you want to curl into a ball right then and there. Everything feels so heavy like a weight has been placed on your chest and you can’t get it off. The air feels thick and humid, making your breaths harder to catch as you try to calm down, just wanting to make it through the day. But then your phone buzzes, and the group-chat you have with the team is going off every few seconds.

As soon as you get back to the tower, you run up to your’s and Bob’s shared bedroom, immediately pulling off your suffocating jeans and throwing on one of Bob’s soft cotton sweaters before curling up on the edge of the bed, your knees tucked to your chest as you lay on your side, while your heart pounds for no reason that you can explain besides everything's just too much.

Bob finds you just like that around fifteen minutes later. He opens the door, and pauses for a second when he sees you laying on your side, your knees curled to your chest, wearing his softest sweater, and then crosses the room trying to be as quiet as he can so as to not disturb the silence you so desperately needed. His movements are always gentle, especially when you’re having one of those days where everything’s just a bit too much. “Hey, sweetheart” he mumbles softly as he sits on the side of the bed, trying to let you come to him and not force you to talk if you don’t want to. “Too much today?”

You nod, staying curled on your side not trusting your voice enough to actually respond to your boyfriend. You hate feeling like this more than anything in the world. You hate feeling overstimulated and overwhelmed, like everything’s on level 10 at all times. The lights in the room make your head pound as your shoulders shake, and even Bob’s voice makes you curl a bit inwards due to your current state.

But Bob doesn’t try to fix it or ask questions like some might, he just does what he knows will help you. He gets up and walks over to the light switch, flicking off the overhead light that’d you'd been too exhausted to turn off yourself, leaving only the soft amber glow of your salt lamp. He walks back over to where you’re curled on the bed, and then he kneels in front of you, his large hands resting on your side like a question mark, offering his touch if you want it but not forcing it. “Can I?” he asks, extra soft, being mindful of how you curled inwards earlier when he spoke.

You nod again, your face brushing against the soft pillow. He rises and climbs back onto the bed, before gently pulling you into his arms, careful not to jostle you too much. The moment your cheek hits his chest, it feels like you can breathe for the first time since you woke up that morning. His heartbeat is steady and slow beneath your ear, a familiar melody you know all too well, grounding you instantly. 

“I’ve got you, baby” he murmurs, brushing his lips against your head. You melt into him, your body slowly starting to relax. Relief starts to come to you, breaking through the walls of panic your body had trapped. He rocks you softly while his fingers trace gentle lines on your back, grounding you without overwhelming you with sensations.

“M’gonna turn on the sound machine, okay Sweetheart?” he whispers after a long while. You nod softly still not feeling like speaking yet. He reaches over with one hand, turning on the tiny speaker on your nightstand, and It helps smooth out the sharp edges in your head.

“That helping any?” he asks, voice still a whisper.

“Better” you manage to get out, your voice a shell of what it normally is, but you’ve managed to say something, which is a big improvement. He smiles softly, peering down at you and nuzzles his nose against your temple. “There’s my brave girl.”

You want to cry at how gentle he is with you, the way he never pushes you when you're like this. The way he has never once made you feel like you were broken or a burden. He just made you feel safe and loved.

Bob shifts the two of you so you’re lying down, grabbing the weighted blanket off the edge of your bed and laying it over your bodies and keeping you close to his chest. He whispers little things against your temple like, “I love you, you’re always so brave baby.” and “You’re doing so good, couldn’t ask you to be doing any better f’me.” and “I’m so proud of you.” You feel his lips littering small kisses against your temple, his presence grounding you more with each passing minute.

“I hate when this happens,” you murmur, your voice heavy with exhaustion “I feel like m’broken, like somethings wrong with me.”

Bob pulls back just enough to look at you, his thumb stroking your cheek

“You’re not broken, sweetheart” he says firmly but keeping his volume hushed. “You’re human. Getting overwhelmed happens, and needing to take a minute doesn’t mean you’re weak or broken.”

He stays with you like that for hours while you drift in and out of sleep, adjusting only to pull you closer when you shift, and every time you stir, he’s right there murmuring to you “I’m here, baby. M’not going anywhere sweetheart.”

Eventually, the panic fades, and you drift off to sleep, while Bob’s hand stays firm on your back reminding you that even on your bad days, he’ll never leave, and you'll never be alone.

[teriri-sayes]

Reactions to The Light's Chapter 464

Brief summary: The seeds have germinated. Everyone is worried about Cale. Molan talk gets delayed. Cale meets Mol.

==========

Everyone was worried about Cale's condition, but he reassured them that this would get better in time. Of course, everyone was still worried about him, including the kids and CH.

Raon: Human, can't you eat? Cale: ...*turns away from the apple pie? Raon: 😟 Ron: Young master, shall I prepare some lemon tea? Cale: Yes. Tea will be better. The average 10-year olds: *plotting how to get stronger so that they could beat up Cale's enemies who did that to him*

Cale turned down the apple pie a second time, shocking Raon. And when the kids gathered in a corner of the room, Cale was like, 'At least they're not crying'... No, Cale. They were too worried to even cry, okay? 😭

Cale: We're going to the city. CH: What?! Cale: This condition is not due to contamination. It will get better with time. Um, how do I explain this? It's a side effect of using too much power. CH: That can't be, that's impossible. How can you be fine when you've been contaminated by chaos. Cale: (Why are his eyes like that? It reminds me of when he vowed revenge when he first came to the Henituse territory after the Harris villagers died. Why is this gentle guy suddenly going back to that time?) Cale: Are you okay? CH: *frowns* Cale: (Why is he acting like that?) Cale: The contaminated area is not fine. It hurts. So I have to purify it. But most of the symptoms you're seeing now aren't related to contamination. It'll go away with time. CH: …

Cale... Can't you tell that CH is really worried about you? Why are you dense in situations like this?

Choi Han stared at Ron silently. Ron running with Cale on his back. Cale probably couldn't see Ron's face. But Choi Han was close by, so he could see clearly in the darkness. A face was filled with desperation and urgency.

CH recalling how worried Ron was when they were running away. 😭😭😭

“Young master, please rest for now.” Ron laid Cale back down on the bed with a kind smile on his face. “Hmm.” Ron smiled at Cale, who was snoring. “You've always been a troublemaker, both when you were young and now.” He laughed softly. “Of course, the current young master causes even more trouble, making this old servant worry.” “!” Cale's eyes widened. 'The current young master.' As soon as Ron said those words, Cale was speechless and felt frustrated. He was also surprised. 'As expected-' He knows? No, how much does this vicious old man know? “Hoho.” Ron smiled kindly, or rather, like an assassin. Cale unconsciously curled up inside the blanket. Ron couldn't help but smile as he looked at Cale's trembling pupils. “Get better first.” Since Beacrox hadn't returned yet, he went to get lemon tea himself and said, “Our young master really is a handful.” Cale cowered unnecessarily and watched Ron's expression. After all, he wasn't in a normal state to say anything right now.

Ron knows!!! The Molan talk... got delayed for the nth time because Cale needed to rest! 🥲

Last chapter, we found out that some demons had a seed in them that could germinate and spread chaos. Well, one appeared already in a city, so DK invited Cale over to that city and meet him at the same time.

So when Cale appeared to meet Mol first, he was in a wheelchair and roughly breathing. Anyone could tell that he wasn't in a good condition, so...

Cale: *suffering from indigestion* Mol: Are you... dying? Cale: What are you talking about?

Ending Remarks I never expected to see Cale in a wheelchair. Next chapter would be Cale's meeting with DK. But would Cale be alright given his condition?

[ghoulishhx]

i yeaaarnnn to be ‘used’ by frank whenever he wants to. he’d suddenly bend me over and just fuck me roughly while being degrading obvy😩

this. yes. absolutely yes. omg

also I'm so sorry for disappearing on you all, I'm gonna keep it real I completely crashed and burned with my mental health. a lot has happened in my personal life these past few weeks that have exhausted me to fuck so I needed some time to focus on myself. I'm gonna try get back to my regular posting. thank you for your patience ♡

in happier news though, tomorrow is my birthdayyyyyy :3 so enjoy this tiny lil drabble as a lil present

- MDNI below the cut :3 -

I believe frank is like a feral dog when it comes to his girl. watching you do anything domestic makes his monkey brain go crazy and he just needs you right there and then. the feeling is mutual of course, and you're more than happy to oblige.

maybe he watches you in the kitchen, hair up out of your face wearing nothing but a thin short summer dress because of the scorching heat (absolutely taking inspiration for that from the state of the UK rn in this godforsaken heatwave), you're just minding your business washing dishes and you feel frank coming up behind you, trailing his coarse hands along your front, grabbing and squeezing at your soft breasts deliciously peaking through the top of your dress as he trails his lips down your neck, nibbling the skin.

"frankie- what are you doing? aren't you too warm-"

"don't care, need ya now."

he flips you around and bends you over your kitchen table, hiking your dress up above your hips and exposing your dripping cunt to him. he hums appreciatively as he toys your throbbing clit with his calloused thumb between your legs, collecting your slick and coating his cock in your juice. you can't help but jolt into his touch, your body subconsciously opening yourself up to him.

your eyes roll to the back of your head as he pushes himself fully inside and begins a punishing pace. your eyes well with tears by the force of his hips, the sound of skin slapping on skin filling the room along with your strangled moans. the sting of him stretching you out only floods his cock more.

"feel so fuckin' good doll, always so perfect and tight f'me" he mutters to himself as he slaps your ass, the sting hurting so good as the tip of his cock touches your cervix. it's not long until you're creaming around his member, covering him with a ring of your arousal at the base before he fills you up with his own seed....

or maybe you're in the shower, humming the melody to your favourite song as you look up and notice him standing and staring at you from the doorway, his hand confidently resting on his large bulge in his jeans as he watches you intently. Frank can't help but practically lick his lips at the sight of your hard nipples, the way the water cascades down your figure, the soap coating your body with delicious bubbles. it's not long before hes stripping himself off and taking you up against the cool tile wall of your shower, wrapping your legs around his hips as he thrusts himself up into you.

"couldn't help m'self sweetheart, ya just looked too damn good..." he mumbles into your neck as he sucks purple bruises all over you, marking you. "you dunno what ya do t'me"

or finally, you're out together at a bar and he watches the bar tender look at you for too long, notices the way his eyes leer over your body as he hands you your vodka cranberry. the way his lips curl into a smile as your fingers graze his as he hands over your drink. Frank can't take it anymore, he slams a 50 dollar bill on the table and grabs your wrist, whisking you away to the nearest bathroom and fucks your brains out in earshot of the bartender, making sure he knows you belong to him and only him.

"that's it baby, let it all out. let everyone know who's making ya feel this good. let everyone know who ya belong to"

a/n: idk if this is any good, just something I cooked up while not being able to sleep. I'm sorry if it's mid </3

[bcksbarnes]

time's never been on our side - chapter five

pairing: bucky barnes x reader

summary: you and bucky happen to meet by chance one night, and it feels like there is a spark between the two of you - but he has to leave. was this destiny? or cruel fate?

word count: 3K

read the: previous chapter

How do you miss someone you've barely spent any time with? Someone that up until a few days ago was basically a total stranger.

It was wrong. Forbidden, even.

You didn't think it'd hurt so much when Bucky left, you tried your best to mentally prepare yourself for the fact that it had to end. He had made it very obvious — this was short term.

Although neither of you were prepared for how abrupt the end would be.

When the door closed behind him on the way out of your apartment, all you could do was stare at the white paint in a state of disbelief. You missed him already, and that was truly unfair.

Instead of trying to distract yourself, or even talk yourself out of these feelings, you opt to lay on your bed and nuzzle your face into your pillow, mustering all your strength to not scream, or cry, or both. Your mind is plaguing you with thoughts about how cruel and unusual it was to be ripped apart so soon. It didn't make it hurt less, but a good spiral was what you really needed.

He texted you as soon as he was on the plane:

This is bullshit.

All you could manage to respond with was:

:(

And it's not like Bucky was handling it much better either. He ignored both Steve and Sam's attempts to speak with him when he boarded, opting to read the briefing sheet rather than listen in on Steve's mission overview. Though it didn't help much because he kept reading the words over and over again — they wouldn't stick in his brain, all he could think about was you and what he was leaving behind.

Bucky loved what he did and more importantly he loved the people he did it with. Being able to save the world, to feel like he's accomplished something other than mass destruction was a win in his eyes, but he kept having this recurring feeling that maybe his time in this field had run its course.

He had spent all of his life fighting, running, hiding. The world always needed to be saved, maybe he didn't have to be the one saving it anymore. You reminded him that life didn't need to be loading guns and counting dead bodies, it could be more. 

So much more.

"Steve's about to pop a vein," Sam says, snapping Bucky out of his thoughts as he takes a seat across from him, his elbows resting on his knees as he settles in. "You two need to talk."

"There's nothing to talk about," Bucky mutters.

"I said this weeks ago when we were in Budapest. You can't continue being miserable because Steve wants to keep going."

"I don't want to talk about it, Sam."

There's a tiredness in his voice that lets the other man know he's serious, that right now he truly doesn't want to be bothered. He wants to stare out of the window of the plane, look at the clouds below him, and be angry at the world.

Was that too much to ask for?

"I know you don't, but you know I'm right," Sam says, receiving a look from Bucky that was less than kind. "Listen, maybe you don't want to talk about it now, and maybe Steve is refusing to come to terms with the fact that you're ready to start a new life, but just know that if you don’t talk — it won't end well. For either of you. You need to ask yourself if whoever you just left behind tonight is your path forward."

Bucky keeps his gaze towards the window, his jaw set as he could feel his pulse quicken, his metal hand curling into a fist as it rests on his knee. He watches in his peripheral vision as his friend stands and walks to the other side of the jet, leaving Bucky alone with his dark, depressing thoughts.

When the jet had finally lands in Lagos it was go-time. Bucky put on a brave face, as he normally did, and found Sam and Steve – ready to jump into action.

The mission was not as easy as everyone hoped it would be. It was a repetitive mess that led the team down too many twists and turns, and each day they inched further and further away from when it would end.

Three weeks turned into six, which was now looking more like eight.

What a fucking nightmare.

The only thing keeping either of you sane was the nights when Bucky finally got back to his hotel room, closing and locking the door for his privacy, and took his phone out to dial your number.

Tonight was especially hard on Bucky, they had somehow missed the signs of an ambush. Everyone on the team was badly hurt, he even took a few extra blows than what he was used to.

Not their greatest moment.

"Hello?" you rasp into the phone, immediately pulling Bucky out of his thoughts. He's startled by how tired you sound, and when he checks the time he understands why.

"Shit, sorry. I didn't realize it was so late."

"It's fine. Did you just get back?" you ask, a yawn leaving your lips slightly muffling your words.

"Yeah, it was a long day."

Bucky didn’t even bother to turn on the lights as he made his way towards his bed, his back hitting the mattress with a thud as he stared up at the ceiling. He tries to clear his mind of the sounds of gunshots and screams. As he’s grown older and further away from his days as the Winter Soldier it was easier to compartmentalize, but that didn't mean it didn't haunt him. So, he closes his eyes as he tries to picture your face instead, maybe then the bad thoughts will go away.

"You should go back to sleep," he insists, although deep down he doesn't mean it. Selfishly he wants you all to himself, despite how late it was. His stomach sinks at even the idea of hanging up.

"I'm fine," you reiterate, trying to hold back another yawn as you rub your eye with the palm of your hand. "I've been waiting all day to talk to you, what's missing a few hours of sleep anyway?"

"You're so stubborn."

"Oh, I can hang up if you really want me to."

"No," he responds, maybe a little too quickly. His hand moves under his shirt as he scratches his stomach gently. "Not yet."

Truthfully he wants to tell you he misses you, but the word is so profound and he's not even sure he's ever said it before. That scares him. What Bucky is unaware of is how the word is also on the tip of your tongue, just threatening to roll off at any moment.

An ocean apart, only connected by this nightly phone call, and neither of you could really say what you truly wanted.

"That's what I thought, Barnes."

You smile to yourself as you flip over onto your side, bringing your blanket up to your chin as you get cozy in the bed. Maybe one day Bucky could join you. 

Maybe.

"What did you do today?" he asks. It's sincere in the way that he truly wants to know what you did, but part of him wants his mind to stop, your voice seems to be the only thing to bring him back down to Earth.

"I brought Alpine to the vet, then did some grocery shopping. Nothing really too exciting."

"Is she okay?"

"Yeah, routine check up. She hates when they do the exam so most of the time I was trying to wrangle her while she hissed at all the nurses."

Bucky lets out a scoff at the thought, his eyes finally opening once more. The once dark room was starting to let light in, the sun starting to peek through the horizon of the early mornings.

"She's feisty. I wonder where she learned that from."

"I'm not sure what you're implying," you say, innocently.

"Mm, I'm sure you don't."

"Watch it, Buck."

"There it is," he teases, switching his phone to press against his other ear. "I knew I wasn't making it up."

"Shut up." You bite down on your bottom lip, your heart beating rapidly in your chest at his teasing. You feel like you were a teenager with a stupid crush that wouldn't go away.

A long silence passes between the two of you, and your eyelids grow a bit heavy from the darkness of the night — you knew sleep would be in your future soon, but you weren’t ready to let this moment go just yet.

Bucky definitely wasn't.

"I wish you were here," he whispers into the phone, clutching on it so hard that he's sure it might break. "Or that I was there, either way."

"Me too," you nod, even if he can't see it. "When you get back we should go back to that restaurant we liked."

"Which one?"

"You know with that spaghetti dish we liked? The one you spilled your drink on yourself?"

Bucky chuckles at the memory. He remembers missing his mouth when he went to take a sip because he was mesmerized by the way you looked. There wasn't even a way for him to recover from it, he mumbled some curse words under his breath as he tried to clean up the giant stain that was on his shirt and not focus on your hands reaching over to help him.

"Yeah, that place," he responds. "Sounds good to me."

"When will you be back?"

"I'm not sure."

"Soon?"

"Soon," he promises.

Your heart leaps even as the exhaustion overcomes you, clutching your phone a bit tighter — unaware that Bucky had done the same on his end. Some more soft whispers are exchanged between the two of you before you end up falling asleep on the line. Bucky hears the sound of your soft, even breathing through the speaker and it fills him with warmth. He hesitates and wages an internal war before he finally ends the call and readies himself for bed, despite the sun rising in the distance.

The next morning, well afternoon, is rough for Bucky who is now lacking sleep and is desperately itching to get back home. He checks his phone immediately, a bad habit he's now picked up, and instead of finding a text from you sees a few missed calls from Steve.

Will be there in 20, just getting up.

He texts his friend before rolling out of bed to start another (he’s assuming) long day.

One shower, one disgustingly bitter cup of coffee and twenty minutes later Bucky finds Steve in a hotel room now make-shift control room a few floors above his own.

"Hey," Steve nods his chin in Bucky’s direction. He was the only person in the room, sitting down on a desk chair that seemed way too small for a man so large, it was jarring.

"Hey," Bucky nods back, closing the door to the room behind him. "What's up?"

"We'll be here for another two weeks," Steve responds without any hesitation, straightening up his back as he sits in the chair. "Sam got a lead on another base about 50 miles outside the city. The teams working on a way to get in, apparently our system hasn't been picking it up since they're using some advanced technology to try and hide it in plain sight."

Bucky stands a few feet in front of Steve, his arms crossed over his chest, his brows furrowing.

"Two more weeks? We've been here for a while, Steve, there's no way this should be taking this long."

"Unless you want a lot of innocent people to get hurt, Buck, we're not rushing this. Red Wing did a diagnostic scan of the facility and there's a lot of hostages, just like the one a few days ago. It's a pattern."

There's no response from Bucky as he averts his gaze for a moment, feeling the irritation rise in his chest. He knows this is the moment that Sam wanted for the two of them; Bucky to finally admit his feelings and tell Steve that he's at the end of his days. 

All he can think of is the people inside the facility who are waiting for someone to save them — he could save them.

All he knows is guilt.

"Will that be a problem?" Steve challenges, standing up so the two are eye level. Tension filling the air that took Bucky by surprise, straightening his own posture.

"Listen, Steve…"

"What, Buck? You want to quit?"

"What? I didn't say that," he defends himself. "Can you let me speak?"

"Go ahead."

"Thanks," he eyes Steve before taking a step back to create some distance between each other. There's so much going through Bucky's head at the moment he doesn't even know where to begin. "This has been a lot lately. We've been non-stop and it's been tiring. Taking some time off has made me … realize that maybe I'm not looking to do this forever."

Steve watches carefully, his jaw tightening as he listens, Bucky speaks again.

"I want a normal life."

"A normal life?" Steve scoffs in response. "Don't you think we all want that? We gave that up a long time ago, buddy."

"I know," Bucky snaps back through gritted teeth. "I'm fully aware of that."

"So you do want to quit, like I said."

"You make it sound like I have a choice."

"You do have a choice," Steve takes a step forward and minimizes the space that Bucky created. "You're either in, or you're out, Buck. There's no in between, there's no happy endings."

"What if I don't want to be ‘in’ anymore? I'm not quitting, I've done my time. I've done time that I should never even been sentenced to, a life that I didn't get to pick."

"Not all of us have a choice."

"You did," Bucky snaps back. "You wanted this. You knew when you took that serum it meant you were going from a scrawny kid from Brooklyn to a hero. I wanted to punch a few Nazi's and come home. Start a family. Meet someone. I didn't get to pick my life, someone else did for me."

"And what? You've found someone and suddenly you want to pick up the only life you know and throw it away? People are counting on you, they're counting on us."

"Don't pull that shit with me, Steve," Bucky raises his voice.

"Pull what? Your head out of your ass? Do you think I don't know that something's going on?" Steve raises his own back. "Who is it?"

Bucky feels like he should come clean, but a voice in the back of his mind is telling him that it'd be a bad idea. What were you and Bucky besides two friends who have only really spent a few weeks together? Would it even be worth mentioning to Steve? What if this blew up in his face? He couldn't tie this need to move on in his life back to you.

Not now, anyway.

"No one," Bucky says, keeping his expression neutral. "There's no one. I'm just tired."

"We're all tired, we all want to be done, but there's always something else. Something we can't run away from." Steve lifts his hand to clap Bucky's shoulder, giving it a tight squeeze and shaking the man slightly. "We can't stop even if we want to."

And just like that it all came tumbling down.

Bucky would never be free from this life.

"I can give you some more time off after this mission, but we need you back here. I need you back here." Steve gives his shoulder another reassuring squeeze, though it does nothing to calm the unease in his stomach.

Bucky averts his gaze, trying his best to not let his emotions settle to the surface. 

Not here, not now. 

He gives Steve some vague mumbled response that he doesn't remember and the two pretend like the conversation never happened. Even if there's a giant knot in his stomach and his brain is a little hazed as Steve jumps right back into the tactical part of the mission, it never happened.

Sam and the rest of the crew join them a few minutes later, and before he knows it they are off on another night of looking for hostages and fights he didn’t want to be in. If his heart wasn't in it before, it definitely wasn't in it now. Two more weeks and he had a break again, that's what Steve had told him — he hoped he’d follow through on his promise.

"He means well," Sam says hours later as the two of them enter the elevator of the hotel. Sam takes the liberty of pressing the buttons of both of their floors. They are covered in blood — Bucky had failed to stop a grenade that had been fired at too close of a range, they were both lucky they were still alive. His mind was elsewhere tonight.

Bucky gulps and keeps his eyes averted, biting down on his tongue as he holds back what little dignity he has in that moment. He was only a few feet away from his room, and, more importantly, only a few seconds from calling you.

The elevator chimed and Bucky stepped out, tossing his head over his shoulder as he gave Sam one final look.

"He doesn't," he says, watching as the elevator doors shut, leaving him alone once again.

Bucky's feet carry him to his room, and soon he flops down on his bed as a part of his nightly routine, but this time when he reaches for his phone in his pocket his hands shake. He had never felt so vulnerable in his life.

It rings only once before you pick up.

"Hey," you say, it’s late but with the time difference and how long Bucky’s days were, it always was when he called.

"Hey," he whispers back, his head turning to the side as he stares at the wall, studying the patterns on the wallpaper.

"What's wrong?"

Bucky bites down on his bottom lip, holding back emotions he tried never to reckon with: sadness, loneliness, wanting.

"I just needed to hear your voice."

[queenofhalloween94]

Master List: OotP Ch. List

Summary: The guys and Y/n are starting to feel the pull of a new bond trying to start but its starting while being miles away. Will that make or break this new bond?

Warnings: bit of angst, talk of heat symptoms, new bond irritations

Ch. 4 Distance Doesn't Dull Instinct

The drive home is quiet, too quiet. You left the little rented house before dawn, suitcase in the trunk, Luna in her carrier curled up and silent. The roads out of Dallas were mostly empty, the sky just starting to lighten with that soft pink haze that always feels like the start of something.

Only this time, it feels like the end.

You turn the music off halfway through the drive because every song reminds you of them. The warmth. The stares. The tension. That brief moment in the dark when Chan held you and everything stilled inside you for the first time in years.

Now, back in your own apartment, nothing fits. The air feels flat. Your clothes itch against your skin. You try working—just two simple medical billing reports—but the words blur on the screen.

Your body knows. Your omega knows and even from states away… you miss them. 

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Meanwhile the boys on their way to Atlanta via plane, Chan sits with his hoodie pulled low over his face, earbuds in, arms crossed tight. He hasn’t spoken in forty minutes.

Felix is curled in the window seat next to him, his scent unusually flat for someone who usually smells like sunlight and fresh laundry. Even Jeongin is subdued, nibbling a protein bar like it’s cardboard.

Han turns to Hyunjin. “Do you feel itchy?”

Hyunjin nods slowly. “Like there’s something I need to do, but I can’t remember what it is.”

“It’s her, we’re too far.” Changbin mutters while sliding his hello kitty sleep mask over his eyes.

Minho’s head is tipped back against the seat rest, but he’s wide awake. His scent—vanilla and tobacco—is heavier than usual. He hasn’t said a word since boarding.

Seungmin finally breaks the silence. “Do you think management would even allow it?”

That gets their attention. Chan pulls one earbud out. “What?”

Seungmin shrugs. “If we said it out loud. Told them we found… her. They know it could happen at any time.”

Jeongin’s voice is soft. “Would they stop us?”

“I don’t think they can,” Felix says. “Not if it’s real. The bond doesn’t care about contracts.”

“But it does care about distance,” Han mutters, rubbing at his jaw. “I feel like I’ve been unplugged from something.”

Chan looks down at his phone, the last message from you still open.

I want more of you💜

That’s all he needs. “We’re talking to them,” he says quietly. “Not now. But soon. Once we’re sure.”

Minho finally lifts his head, his face looking like an annoyed cat. “We’re already sure.”

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Your POV

By the second day, your scent is thicker in the air than usual. You have to reapply your low-dose scent blockers twice, and even then, they’re not quite working. The itch under the skin similar to pre heat is annoying.

You feel half crazy thinking you catch whiffs of their individual scents until you look over and Luna has been making biscuits on the shirt you wore to meet them. Smiling to yourself you pet her and think about their scents feeling the ache in your chest lessen just a little.

Each one of them lingers in your memory in flashes:

Chan: bonfire and bergamot, a protective heat you still feel in your chest

Minho: that smoky vanilla edge, low and steady and grounding

Han: bright chai spice, like he’s always laughing somewhere close

Hyunjin: Peony and Earl Grey, elegant and lingering

Changbin: Clean rose soap, strong and comforting, reminding you of the roses from your late moms garden attempts.

Felix: sunlight warmth and crisp laundry, pure ease

Seungmin: sugar and violets, subtle but firm

Jeongin: sweet gingerbread, curious and cozy

You hum one of their songs as you get ready for bed, putting on the shirt once Luna has abandoned it for your pillow. As you half your pillow with her you realize the ache is just going to get worse. 

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Atlanta – Tour Prep Day

The venue is buzzing with crew, but the pack isn’t feeling it. Not really. They’re snapping at each other more. Chan calls a water break and notices Felix pacing behind the speakers.

“Can’t sit still,” Felix mutters. “Feels wrong.”

“I keep checking my phone,” Jeongin adds. “Like she might message again.”

“She doesn’t have to,” Hyunjin says, but his scent spikes with tension anyway.

Minho adjusts the mic stand too harshly. “She should.”

Chan exhales. He gets it. It’s not just hormones. It’s not just instinct. It’s something quieter and heavier—this ache that reaches into their ribs and digs in.

And worse—there’s no plan. Until now.

That night after prep and blocking were over. They get back to the hotel, door locked and phones off. Chan waits until they’ve all sat down. 

“Now?” Seungmin frowns. “If we wait too long, her heat could hit without us. Or worse, she might think we left her for good.”

“She already misses us,” Jeongin says quietly.

“She doesn’t even have a claim mark yet,” Changbin mutters. “Her scent’s still free.”

“But it’s already ours,” Felix replies, eyes fierce.

“Are we really ready for this?” Han asks. “The logistics, the press, the—”

“We’re not talking about a scandal,” Minho says, eyes sharp. “We’re talking about our Y/n.”

The silence that follows is absolute. Then Chan speaks. “We don’t tell them everything. Not yet. But we tell them this—if we find an omega we’re compatible with, we have the right to form that bond. Period.”

“And if they say no?” Hyunjin asks.

“We don’t ask again,” Chan replies. “We tell.”

💜💜💜💜💜💜💜💜

Your POV 

It's the third night away from them, you get home from grabbing groceries and find a small package on your doorstep. No label. No return address. You open it inside, cautiously.

It’s a hoodie. Hyunjin’s hoodie.

You know it instantly—not because of the name embroidered on the inside, but because of the scent. The peony scent is soft and light mixing with the earl grey notes. Him. It hits you so hard you almost cry.

There’s a note tucked into the pocket.

I can’t put into words how much we miss you. Hope this piece of me helps - Your Jinnie

You bury yourself in the hoodie for bed that night and for the first time in three days, you sleep soundly.

**Thank you for reading!!**

[demothers-empty-blog]

Du bist Perfekt

I recently got this ask stating they’ve been feeling quite insecure about their body as of late. That’s okay. We all have off days, we are our harshest judges. The best thing we can do when the going gets tough is reach out and try to see things from a different perspective. Hopefully, this way, you might see yourself in a better light.

I love you, and you are loved.

The dress you’ve been eyeing doesn’t fit again. God, what would it take for you to gain a little bit of weight? Not much, just enough for the fabric to stop hanging off your shoulders, maybe give it something to cling on.

You hate this sticky feeling in your chest. Staring in the mirror provided in the stall, you try to make it work. Maybe if you pin this here… no, no, that won’t do. Maybe like this? Or like that?

You pinch the ends of the dress, making it tighter around your waist and chest area, but you’re left unsatisfied with the outcome.

A sigh leaves your lips, frustration is such an ugly feeling. You don’t want to cry but it’s coming, those burning tears. It doesn’t stem from sadness, doesn’t feel as relieving. It’s blunt, you feel stuck, like nothing’s changing.

You yearn for natural curves, something to add to your figure, maybe you wouldn’t feel as invisible.

Envy is an evil little worm, the thought that pops in your head is an unwelcome guest.

“Intrusive thoughts are not you,” you affirm, quickly wiping away the few tears that managed to slip halfway down your cheeks.

You’re tired of baggy hoodies and jeans that need belts or else you’ll be flashing every passing soul on the street with your pants around your ankles.

“Schatz?” You hear a voice calling from beyond the stall.

You must’ve taken too long. König’s sense of timing is, well, jarring sometimes.

You swing the dress over the door, “It doesn’t fit…” you mutter, voice almost undetectable. König doesn’t miss the disappointment in your lowered tone.

Your pain is his, he’s disappointed with you and it chips away at his heart. König wants you to shine like he knows you can.

Today was an unsuccessful trip for clothes but your boyfriend did not allow the day to end with a frown on your face. He guides you out of the store and to your surprise, he actually managed to find his way past the many stores scattered throughout the mall.

And found the ice cream place.

A little treat wouldn’t hurt. He presses a kiss to your cheek and your lips automatically curl up into a smile. “There’s my girl,” he says with a pleasant rumble in his chest.

Once home, König lets you settle yourself on his lap while he lets some show drone on in the background. Neither of you are really listening.

“I really liked that dress…” you finally say, not realizing you’d voiced your thoughts out loud until König responded.

“Couldn’t get it?” He asks, cautious. You give a shake of your head.

“…didn’t fit.”

König laughs and you shoot him a mean glare. His eyes widen exactly like he does when there’s been a misunderstanding.

“Nein—Nein, my love. I am not making fun,” he’s quick to say, hastily pressing a kiss to your cheek. “I am simply… erm, was ist das Wort? Relating.”

You feel him shift awkwardly on the couch and you fall further into his lap. König rests his head over yours, wrapping his arms around you tight. It’s lovely, this warm feeling. He engulfs you in this hug and you’ve never felt safer.

He just wishes he can protect you from your mind too, because who better to relate than the anxious king himself?

“Don’t overthink,” you hear him say from above. “We can struggle to find clothes together.”

There is a brief pause in the conversation, both of you needing time to gather your thoughts.

“…do you like you?” He asks.

“I like me.” You answer, “I just… wish I was a bit different is all.”

It was his turn to let out a sigh. It’s another beat of silence before he speaks again. “I suppose, it depends on how you feel, mein Schatz. Do you want to bulk, we can start a meal plan?”

The thought of eating more than you should makes you a smidge nauseous. You want to enjoy your meals, not eat as a chore.

“Burgh… no thank you.”

The conversation fizzles out and you two end up watching a bit of the show. It was okay, it’d be better if you didn’t hear commentary from yours truly every five minutes.

It’s a damn lie that König doesn’t like to yap or keep things short, that man is passionate about his rambling.

When he opens his mouth again, you cringe internally and brace yourself for another rant but instead, König was still thinking about your earlier conversation.

“You know that I love you?” He starts, making sure you’re listening carefully by tilting your head up to meet his face full of concern and a deep love words fail to describe.

“Ich liebe dich. Doesn’t matter when, or what size you come in. Won’t change the fact that I love you. I don’t want you being uncomfortable with yourself. I want you to thrive. The way I see it… you have to lean into your strengths. You are nimble, elusive… graceful. I can never be able to disappear into a crowd or squeeze myself in and out of tight spots.”

He almost seemed like he longed to be like you, be invisible for once. For him, it was a good thing. No attention, no eyes on him, no judgment.

But comparison is the thief of joy.

König is glad you are different. The world would be quite dull if we were all the same.

“Be you, Schatz. It’s who I fell for.”

[buckevantommy]

"Exhaustion" for type it Tuesday?

this is what happens before the hurt/comfort bath scene fic.. 👀🛁

It's been a week since Bobby's funeral. Eddie's gone back to Texas, at least for now, and Tommy came over for dinner. Because that's something they do now.

As friends.

As whatever Evan needs.

He gave Evan some space to make some calls while he took time cleaning the kitchen—

When a commotion down the hall has him rushing to Evan's bedroom to find him in a state of distraught, teary-eyed and on the brink of hyperventilating.

"Evan–"

"Everyone.. leaves me.."

Tommy's battered heart snapped in two the morning he walked out. The pieces cut into him as he watched Evan break down on that monitor and they're pressing into lungs, trying to carve out of ribcage to be closer to Evan.

"My parents.. Maddie.. Eddie.. Bobby.." Evan's breathing is harsh and too fast, his gaze unfocused as he shifts on the carpet, phone clenched in his hand.

Logically, Tommy knows the losses he speaks of aren't all on the same wavelength: Maddie is in his life now, his parents are making a concerted effort last he knew, Eddie chose to put his kid first, and Bobby..

“..You..” Evan gasps out, and it takes a second for Tommy to orient and realise what he's saying.

He snaps out of it and rushes to Evan's side where he's crumpled between the dresser and the closet, looking smaller than Tommy's ever seen him.

“Evan..” He can't help his hands going to steady Evan's shoulder and gently guide his jaw up. “I'm here– I'm right here. I'm not going anywhere.” It's true. There's simply no way he could walk out of Evan's life again, no matter what they are to each other.

No matter how closed off Evan's been since the funeral, how he didn't seem to trust Tommy with the vulnerable parts of himself anymore - which is fair enough.

It's almost a relief to see behind the facade Evan's been holding up for everyone, not just for him, even as he lists forward and collapses against Tommy, lets himself fall apart in Tommy's arms.

He wants to be this for Evan, be here for him like this. It's a heartbreaking honor, and it's been so surreal: watching Evan seal off his emotions, this man who Tommy has known to always wear them on his sleeve.

Evan fights briefly between pulling away and pushing closer into Tommy's space, smashing his face into Tommy's chest as ugly sobs tear through him.

Tommy holds him tight as he garbles out something that sounds like, "Please don't leave."

The remnant shards of Tommy's heart turn inwards and scrape him up for good measure.

He drops a kiss into Evan's curls. “I'm not going anywhere, sweetheart.. I'm right here.. I got you.. I got you..”

It's a promise. Tommy holds him, gently rocking him through the heaving sobs until eventually they quiet into hiccups and sniffles, breaths slowing and evening out. Tommy rubs a soothing hand up and down his back.

"Bed?" Tommy asks, exhaustion likely setting in.

But he surprises Tommy, shaking his head and muttering, “Bath?” into damp fabric, breath warm over his clavicle, voice wrung out from grief.

“Of course. C’mon.”

Tommy helps Evan to his feet and together they stumble towards the bathroom. Tommy gets him seated, slumped on the closed lid of the toilet while he sets about filling the tub.

He helps Evan out of his shirt as his grip falters and muscles struggle to cooperate, and it earns him a greatful look, eyes red-rimmed and wide with sadness.

Evan plants a hand on Tommy's chest, fists the fabric a little to steady himself as he lowers himself into the tub, Tommy's hand ready to catch him if he needs it.

There's no more he can do so he turns to leave as Evan sinks into the water–

"Stay," comes Evan's voice, scraped raw and quiet but sounding so determined. It's not a question, it's a demand.

Tommy looks back to see Evan staring at him, need laid bare.

So, Tommy pulls up the little stool and takes Evan's hand where he's reached over the edge of the tub. "Okay."

[fishfooddude]

More Than a Client

Carmen "Carmy" Berzatto x Reader

An unexpected neighbor leads to something more?

Part 2

The Bear Masterlist

My Directory

Carmy was obsessed with you, and the longer you ignored him, the more he wanted you. His messages had gone ignored for weeks, and you weren’t posting on OnlyFans. 

Carmy felt like an over-boiling pot; he needed to see you.

After a particularly hellish prep, he opened his phone, pleading for a link to your booking calendar in his inbox. His office door swung open as he waited for his phone to load. “What the hell, Carm?” Fak demanded, his brow furrowed in frustration. Carmy shot him a confused look as he placed his phone face down on his desk. “What?” Carmy asked, genuinely confused about why Fak was standing in the doorframe, ready to yell at him.

“Lucy!” Fak exclaimed throwing his hands in the air. Carm was even more confused, “You hooked up with her and never called her back?” Fak stated accusatorily. “I did...” Carmy cautiously said as Fak adjusted his hat before passively-aggressively sighing. “She’s pissed!” Fak plainly stated, Carmy exhaled, waiting for Fak to get to his point. “Seriously?!” Fak huffed, “She’s pissed at you for not calling her so now Madison isn’t talkin’ to me.” 

“Wait- you got Madison Thomas to agree to go out with you?” Carmy chuckled as he leaned back in his chair, not believing Fak had actually gotten her to hang out with him.

“Yeah! I’m a catch, Carm.” Fak rebutted confidently. Carmy fought to hold back his laughter. Fak glared at him as he noticed the smirk on Carmy’s face. “I am! Call Lucy dipshit!” Fak huffed as he walked out of the office, muttering to himself. Carmy sighed and retrieved his phone from the desk to see an automatic email response from your email, “bookings are on pause.” 

Carmy groaned as he reread the words. He wasn’t sure how much longer he would last without you.

~

“He’ll call her back, I promise, sweetie.” Fak sweetly spoke into his phone as Madison hugged from the other end. She’d been laying into him since the night Lucy ‘drove Carmy home’; Fake frowned as he patiently listened to her yell at him. “How about I bring him tonight? Invite Lucy. Carms, a good guy- the restaurant has been busy, but he’s a good guy. I know he won’t do this again.” Fak pleaded over the phone. Madison sighed and took Fak up on his offer before hanging up on him.

“Fak! Get your ass back in here!” Richie yelled from the back alley doorway. There was tension in the kitchen, and it was getting on Richie’s last nerve, so when Fak ‘took a quick break’ that turned into an almost 30-minute conversation, was almost his breaking point. 

“What crawled up Carmy’s ass and died?” Richie huffed as he moved to stand beside Syd at the expo station. She hummed in acknowledgment as she silently organized tickets. “He needs to get laid or something…” Richie mumbled as he scanned the tickets Syd had checked off. She shrugged, “I don’t disagree, but I don’t want to engage in this conversation with you,” she stated as she looked up at Richie. He shot her an annoyed glare before exiting the kitchen to check on the bustling dining area.

At the end of service, Carmy pushed his sweaty curls out of his face before going to the sink to wash his hands. “Hey, Carm, need a ride home?” Fak innocently offered, knowing Carmy’s car was in the shop. Being none the wiser, Carmy took Fak up on the offer, not wanting to take the train that night. Fak grinned and quickly texted Madison that he and Carmy were on the way to their impromptu double date night.

Fak tried to be discreet about where he was driving, but Carmy picked up on it when he noticed the unfamiliar surroundings. Carmy noticed the crossroads and looked at Fak. “Where are we going?” he questioned, leaning back in his seat.

“Shoulda just called Lucy…” Fak mumbled halfheartedly. He knew tricking Carmy wasn’t how this should’ve happened, but he couldn’t stand Madison being mad at him much longer. “You know, it's not easy for guys like me to date. I’m not some hotshot with a good job- I get paid minimum wage to fix toilets. Madison likes me, and I want her to be happy, setting her friend up with-”

“You didn’t set me up with Lucy- that just happened. I didn’t mean for it-” Carmy huffed, interrupting Fak’s explanation. “Carmen! You’re my best friend! Best friends help each other like this! Be my wingman! I want to ask Madison to be my girlfriend, she’s not gonna say yes if my best friend had sex with her best friend and never called her!” Fak’s gusto as he spoke surprised Carmy. 

He nodded, “Okay… I’m sorry. I just- I got stuff goin’ on…” Carmy’s vagueness pissed Fak off.

“Like what?!” Fak yelled, looking between Carmy and the road.

“It’s nothin’ just stuff…” Carmy grumbled, wanting to avoid explaining his animalistic obsession to one of his oldest friends. He and Fak had been through a lot together, but explaining he was in love with an OnlyFans creator turned escort wasn’t something he wanted to do.

“Fine. Don’t tell me. Just apologize to Lucy.” Fak rolled his eyes as he parked outside some dive bar.

As soon as the pair walked in, they saw Madison and Lucy by the bar, drinks in hand. Lucy made eye contact with Carmy, and he noticed how she blushed and looked away, whispering something to Madison. Carmy shot Fake a knowing look before joining the women at the bar.

“So. Why didn’t you call me?” Lucy challenged once she and Carmy separated from Fak and Madison. Carmy awkwardly laughed, “Lost track of time?” he offered as a weak excuse. Lucy rolled her eyes. “Try again.” She laughed, seeing through Carmy's lie. He chuckled, “Can't get anything past you, huh?” 

Lucy shook her head, “If you'd called me like you said you would, you'd know I'm a public defender. I see through lies for a living.”

“I apologize. I should've called you. Can I make it up to you by cookin' you dinner sometime?” Carmy sincerely offered. Lucy grabbed her purse from the counter. " Okay, I'll take you up on that offer now.” She explained as she downed the remaining bit of her drink. “Oh, okay…” Carmy trailed off, surprised by Lucy's enthusiasm. 

“Maddie is probably going home with Fak anyway.” Lucy brought up as she laced her fingers into Carmy's free hand. Carmy nervously chuckled and followed as she tugged him through the bar to her car. 

~

“Do you not have a screwdriver?” Your friend Danny laughed as he reviewed the instructions on putting your cat tree back together. You side-eyed him as you arranged your bookshelf. “I'll take that as a no…” he laughed, trailing off by the end of his statement, “I'll go see if I have one in my truck.”

You nodded and went back to what you'd been doing. Moving was a pain and a reminder of how unprepared you were for the whole process. Every time you had to put together furniture, it served as a reminder to buy a tool set from the hardware store, and every time you tried to get one, it was promptly forgotten when you saw the sign pointing to the sale section of the garden center. 

“You got some HOT neighbors in your building,” Danny announced as he returned to your apartment toolbox in hand. 

“Oh, do I?” you inquired, only half-listening as you stared at your bookcase, trying to decide how to curate it more aesthetically. 

“Yeah. I think he's across the hall- blonde curly hair, tattoos, and a girl all over him. He was practically neon from how much he blushed trying to push her off. He'd also probably be down to make content with you.” Danny explained as he settled on the floor to assemble the cat tree. “Mochi better start liking me after this fuckin headache of a cat tree.” He grumbled as he looked over the instructions. 

You hummed, “she's a diva, she only fucks with one man and you know it… You think hot neighbor would be down to make content with me?” You questioned as you finally computed what Danny had said before rolling into his Mochi the cat rant. 

Danny shrugged, “you're hot. He seems a little kinky… It's just the vibe I got.”

You rolled your eyes, “Dan, unless he's also a sex worker, I doubt he'd be down to make content with me.”

Danny shrugged again, making you shake your head in disbelief. “I'm gonna get more boxes from the car.” You laughed, excusing yourself from the apartment. 

~

“Shit- I don't have eggs… I'll be right back.” Carmy quickly excuses himself, leaving Lucy on his countertop while a pot of pasta boiled on the stove. She'd had no intention of actually eating when she accepted Carmy's dinner offer, but now she found herself watching him make carbonara at almost midnight. Lucy said something Carmy didn't quite catch as he rushed out the door.

As he closed his door, he froze. You were walking toward him carrying a large cardboard box, “Y/N,” he stated in disbelief. 

“Hey…” you passively greeted as Carmy reached out to help with the box you'd been struggling to carry. You allowed him to take it before opening your apartment door.

 “So… this is why you haven't answered my messages?” Carmy asked as you pushed your door open. 

“Do you live in this building?” you asked, hoping he'd been visiting a friend. Carmy shook his head. “I live across the hall, " he stated as he nudged his head to the plain brown door across from yours. 

“This is a sign.” Carmy slyly smirked, casually looking you up and down. You sighed and took the box back from him. “Carmy, I don't date clients.” You reminded him before entering your apartment. Carmy chuckled as he watched you kick your door closed. 

This was a sign. 

[rhettrosunsets]

Constellations - Robert Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Pairing: Bob Reynolds X Fem!Reader

Category: Hurt/Comfort, Fluff.

Summary: On the nights when things are too much you used to turn to the constellations. But when you disappear out of bed one night, Bob's quick to come remind you that even the strongest of people are allowed to rely on others too.

Masterlist

Word Count: 1.2K

Warnings: Illusions to Bob and Readers awful childhoods, inaccurate constellation lore, mention of ready having a bad day. No description of reader, no use of Y/N.

Notes: The constellations in this may be extremely inaccurate because I have forgotten everything I have ever learned about them and google only helps so much.

The rooftop is absolutely freezing. 

That’s the first thing you notice when you open the door to enter the towers rooftop, but you don’t move to go back inside. You've already come this far you figure, as your brain swirls with overwhelming thoughts that you came out here to try to escape for just a few moments.

You left your comfortable bedroom where Bob had been asleep, you two curled up to one another, but for some reason your brain just couldn't seem to shut up for the night.

A thin blanket that Bob gifted you a few months ago because you had liked the design is wrapped around your shoulders, more a mental shield rather than something giving you warmth in your current state. Your fingers move to grip the edges with a heavy force, as your gaze locks on the stars above as you move to lay down against the cold concrete of the rooftop, sitting down with a rough grunt.

You try to spot the constellations you remember from your childhood once you lay down and look up to the sky, the stars making you feel small.

You had once borrowed a library book talking about all the different constellations in Elementary School. And for the week you had that book, every night you’d sneak out of your room and lay in the yard as you tried to name each constellation and match what you could with your book. You attempted to burn them into your tiny memory so that when you eventually had to give the book back, you could still find a way to remember the story of each constellation. 

Your chest aches in a quiet way at that memory, as more and more memories from your childhood flood back to you. You’ve just felt off today, not in a way where everything’s too much, but rather that weird point in between. You just felt dulled, like you weren't enough to those around you. Like you didn't deserve to feel happy, because you hadn't earned it yet.

You don’t hear the door to the rooftop open, but you feel him when he steps out onto the rooftop. His presence one you'll always recognize.

Bob's voice is soft and gentle when he finally speaks. “Was wondering where you slipped off too, Darling.” You don’t look at him as your gaze stays tracing the stars above, your brain beginning to twinge as you try to remember any constellation and seemingly fail.

“Sorry, Love. Didn't mean to wake you up.” you mutter out in a hoarse whisper.

“Nope, we aren't doing that tonight.” he replies softly as he eases down beside you “Don’t want you to be sorry, Baby.” He says as he finally flops down next to you, his frame solid and warm. His presence comforting, bringing a gentle warmth to you that you didn’t know you needed in that moment.

Bob didn’t speak, knowing you’d talk to him when you were ready. So for about fifteen minutes, neither of you spoke as you both just stared up at the night sky laying side by side. 

You finally brush your hand against Bob’s, his wrapping around yours as he gives it a firm squeeze before bringing it up to his lips and gently kissing your knuckles.

“I used to do this all the time when I was a kid.” you say, your voice barely breaking a whisper. Bob turns his head slightly to watch you, his gaze kind and patient as he doesn't interrupt, doesn't comment, he just listens.

You continue, your voice shaky “I’d sneak out at night and just lay in the yard. No one ever noticed, or maybe they just never cared, now that I think about it.” You say swallowing hard as your throat hitches, as you stare back up at the sky, blinking your eyes quickly.

“I think the stars were the only thing that ever made me feel small in a way that didn’t hurt? They were the only constant I had when everything else was always a question mark in my life. My family, my house, my friends, my location. Even when all of those changed, I still had the stars and the constellations. But now I can’t really remember many of them. I've tried looking up and recalling the one’s from my childhood, but, I-I just can’t” you say, your voice cracking and deflated.

Bob gently wraps his arm around your shoulders, pulling you closer to him while he keeps a steady hold of your hand, giving it gentle squeezes every few seconds to let you know he's there. “I know what that’s like. You end up feeling like you had to earn the peace and quiet, like you didn't quite deserve it otherwise.”

The cold night stings your eyes as you squeeze Bob’s hand tighter, signaling that you hear him and understand him. Bob lifts his other hand, slowly pointing upward towards the sky “That one’s Orion, I used to trace it with my finger when I was a kid. Used to peer out of the attic window when things got bad and would try to focus on the stars instead of what was happening downstairs.” Your breath catches, as he name’s the constellation for you, your eyes immediately welling with tears at the sweet gesture.

He goes on, his voice a low gentle hum that he only ever uses for you “And there’s Gemini, the twins. I always liked that one when I was younger. It was always like a reminder that we weren’t alone, that there’s always someone even if we don’t see it. I forgot about it when I got older, but when I was really young I always used to look for that one." A faint smile tugs at the corner of your mouth as he keeps describing the stars above you, as a few stray tears finally fall down your cold cheeks. Bob glances at you and sees your soft smile and the tears streaming down your cheeks.

He quickly takes his hand that was pointing at the constellations moments ago and wipes the tears away from your eyes with a touch so gentle, it makes a few more stray tears fall in the process.

“You don’t have to be alone when things get heavy, and you don’t have to carry all that by yourself anymore. You have me, and you have a whole team in there who adore you. Sure’ they may not exactly know how to show it sometimes, but everyone in this tower cherishes you in some way, Baby. You're just as much apart of this team as the rest of us.”

You sniffle softly as you look back up at the stars, suddenly feeling a lot less alone than when you first came out here. “Please, come back inside with me, Baby?” he asks. “The bed gets cold without you, and I think some sleep would help you out, Darling.”

You let out a deep breath letting your shoulders relax and release the tension you've been holding in all day and nod silently. You look into Bob’s loving eyes, watching him give you a gentle smile before he helps you up. He wraps your thin blanket tighter around your shoulders before tucking you into his side, the warmth from him immediately warming your chilled body as he guides you toward the rooftop door and back to your bedroom.

Once you’re both tucked into bed, your bodies tangled under the thick comforter. Bob wraps his arms around you from behind and pulls you in close to his chest. He’s so warm and comforting, and his heartbeat is slow and steady, something that makes you feel instantly at home, his breath fanning over the top of your head.

You nuzzle into him with a sleepy sigh. “Hey, Bob?” you ask quietly, tracing small patterns on his chest, not quite ready to sleep yet.

“Hmm?” he hums, already half asleep as he peers down at you, blinking his eyes open. You shift to tilt your head back just enough to meet his eyes. “Do you think, maybe you could teach me some constellations sometime? I barely remember any of them and it makes me really sad that I don’t remember much. It was such a big constant in my life and not being able to remember them is a feeling I don't like.”

Bob's lips quirk into a soft smile as he leans in to kiss your forehead, then your cheeks, and then your lips before muttering a soft. “Of course I can. Tomorrow night I’ll take you back up there, but this time we’ll have a ton of blankets and snacks, and we can cuddle while I’ll show you the constellations I remember. Maybe we can even try to find some new ones for both of us, Hmm?” He say's with a gentle hum.

Your heart beats quickly in your chest as you press your face to his chest mumbling a soft “I love you, Bob Reynolds.” as his arms tighten around you, while he mutters back a soft “Love you more, baby" in reply.

And as you look one last time at the stars through your bedroom window, you don’t feel quite so small anymore. Because this time, you’re not under them alone.

[ikeromantic]

Parting

A Chevalier Michel fanfiction. Approx. 2000 words. This scene takes place in Chapter 23-24 of the romantic route and is told from Chevalier’s POV. Part 21 of a series.

Chapter List

Dawn crept slowly into the room, a slow and gradual shift from deep shadows to a lifeless gray, and finally the rose-gold of morning sun. Chevalier watched the light grace Emma's sleeping face. She was so beautiful. He kissed the edge of her jaw and saw her lips curl into a slight smile. 

He wanted to make love to her again. To hold her and let himself fall asleep here, together. But that was a fantasy for fools. Chevalier carefully extricated himself from bed and dressed. He moved quietly, not waking the exhausted Belle. She only stirred when the door closed behind him. 

His room waited for him. The space felt more empty, somehow, though it held the usual assortment of his things. Chevalier laid down, still in his clothes from the day before, and tried to sleep. He was still tossing and turning when Clavis turned up at noon with his breakfast. 

"You can't mope in bed all day," his brother said cheerfully, jerking the sheets off Chev and tossing them to the floor. "You've got work to do. Or would you like to abdicate now and make this easier on everyone?"

"Abdicate?" Chevalier's tired mind took only a heartbeat to catch up. Emma had chosen him as King that morning then, and must have signed the proclamation with Sariel for his brother to know about it. He sat up, frowning. Her choice was expected, but the rapidity was a surprise. He's assumed his precious simpleton would take another few days to state her choice and say her goodbyes. "Where is she?"

"She?" Clavis blinked at him as if confused. "Sariel is waiting for you. He's sent three servants to wake you but no one was brave enough to get you out of bed. No one but me." He grinned, his look more feral than amused.

"Four-Eyes can keep waiting. Where is the Belle?" He stood and grabbed his tea from the tray.

Clavis' smile turned sly. "The Belle can have no contact with the King once she's appointed her choice. You know that."

The icy look Chevalier turned his way would have sent most men into a panic. Not Clavis. He was used to murderous glares. 

"Anyway, Sariel got her moved out within an hour of her signing. So you won't have to put up with her foolish face again. That's what you wanted, right?" Clavis continued to needle him, looking for a reaction. 

Chevalier refused to give him the satisfaction. He sat down at the table and ate his breakfast, book in one hand. Clavis paced the room the whole time, unable to sit still. The nervous energy was palpable. Chev ignored him, his thoughts turned inward. 

There would be so much to do. Announcements of the King's death, the succession, coronation planning. Diplomats would need to be sent to their allies and neutral trade partners. Four-Eyes would handle most of it, but nothing could proceed without Chevalier's agreement. The Belle was gone. Chev ignored the errant thought. He was no fool to be distracted by love. He would put it aside, as he must. 

Clavis accompanied him to meet with Four-Eyes. Sariel had a mountain of documents to review with him, which took up the rest of the day. Chevalier shut down his emotions and focused on what needed to be done. The only remaining distractions were his brothers, popping in one after another to congratulate and comment. 

Nokto gave a bright grin when he stopped in. "Never thought you'd adopt my tactic. But all's fair in love and war, hm? And succession too. Seduce the judge, win the contest."

Clavis laughed and even Sariel smirked, but Chev was not amused. "Are you insinuating that the Belle's selection did not come from her pure heart?" His voice was cold enough to freeze the blood. 

Nokto stepped back, surprised. "N-no! Of course not. Just that we didn't . . . I didn't think . . ."

"Fools rarely do." Chevalier turned his attention back to the paperwork and reports, and Nokto slunk away.

Sariel exchanged a look with Clavis that Chev didn't like, but he let it be. Calling out the behavior would only increase their ridiculous opinions and give more fodder to the circulating rumors. 

When he left Sariel's office, he meant to go to the library. He needed a book to distract him. A story of doomed love that he could mock. But his steps took him back to her room. Maids were busy there already, stripping the sheets and preparing the furniture for storage. Every last sign of Emma would be gone. 

"Stop." The order passed his lips before he'd finished his thought.

The maids turned, surprised to see him there. They fell into deep curtsies, heads bowed. "M-majesty? We were ordered to clean this room," one squeaked.

This was the logical course of action. Guest rooms were only prepared when a guest was expected. But to Chevalier, this wasn't a guest room. It was Emma's room. Her ghost haunted every corner of it. He could almost see her sitting in her favorite spot near the window, book open on her lap. "Keep it exactly as it is. Do not defy me."

"Y-yes, your Majesty." The maids dipped even lower, though he didn't miss the confused looks they exchanged. 

Next, Chevalier went to the library. He pulled down the book Emma had loved so, and skimmed the pages. The scenes were as vibrant in his memories as if he'd read it only yesterday. The trembling commoner, confessing her love. The soft-hearted prince doing all in his power to keep her by his side until he finally realized neither of them could be happy if they were together. 

He set the book beside him at the small writing desk and glared at it as if the book was to blame for his confused heart. It ached in his chest, a throbbing bruise as bad as any he ever took in sword practice or battle. The story was a good reminder of what should happen, not that he needed to read it. Perhaps the former Belle would though.

Chevalier decided to send it to her as a parting gift. He pulled out a clean page of paper and some ink to write the last message he would ever send to his beloved.

This is a parting gift. You said you cried over this book many times, so I thought you may want to have it. In the story, the prince and his common lover say goodbye and wish each other happiness. Even if they aren't together, they just wish for the happiness of the person they love. If you want to call that sentiment love. I wish for your happiness. I may never see you again, but the truth is that I do love you. Even if just for a moment.

After you return home, marry someone else. Have a family. A life. I want someone to be there for you. Someone who can make you smile, and wipe the tears from your eyes when you cry over silly stories. I'll never be able to do that for you. Find a man who is gentle, and be happy. After all, nothing is more foolish than pining for someone beyond your reach. 

And in case it's not clear, this is an order from the King. It's absolute.

He signed his name, and tucked the letter into the book. 

"What are you doing? You look as if you've bitten into a lemon." Clavis' teasing voice came from the doorway. 

Chev hadn't heard him approach, but since he was here, he could be useful. "Make sure the former Belle receives this." He held the book out to his brother.

Clavis didn't take the book. "Why should I? You give it to her."

"That's an order. Failure to comply will be met with a death sentence." 

His brother laughed. "That's the Chev I know. For a while there, I thought you might stop threatening to kill people completely. She really changed you."

Chevalier frowned. "I haven't changed." 

"No? I must be mistaken then." Clavis took the book and turned to leave. "Oh!" He paused. "There's a delegation of miners that want to speak with you about working conditions."

Chevalier's frown deepened. "Why are you telling me this? Have Four-Eyes add them to the schedule."

Clavis only laughed and left, leaving Chevalier alone again with his thoughts. 

For the next several days, Chevalier's days were full. Briefings, fittings, all of the requirements for the ceremony. It was a pointless custom, but Chev knew the value of ritual. If he discarded coronation, there would be doubt and unrest among the commoners. His mind flashed to the Belle. Emma, smiling that vapid, sweet smile of hers. The one that shouted joy and contentment. He missed her. Had she returned to the bookshop?

"Majesty, what bookshop?" His tailor looked up from where he was pinning the coat Chevalier would wear for the coronation, confused. 

Chevalier felt a spike of irritation at himself. He hadn't meant to speak aloud. "Focus on your work, fool." While the chastened tailor continued the fitting, Chev worked out a plan to keep an eye on the Belle without rousing suspicion as to the subject of his concern. It would need to be undertaken with care, of course. If his interest in her well-being was too obvious, she would be a target, and a liability. 

That evening, he penned a letter and sent it out by courier. He had only to wait a few hours before the recipient arrived at the palace gardens to speak with him. Chevalier would have preferred to meet in town, but it was difficult for him to be inconspicuous there. The Dog, on the other hand, had no problem slipping into the palace unnoticed. 

"Your Majesty." Rio gave an exacting bow, just deep enough to be appropriate. "You said Emma was in danger?"

Chevalier gave a curt nod. "Don't play stupid, Dog. You know as well as I do that some people will make the connection between the woman they saw at my side and the girl in her bookshop. Simply leaving the palace does not ensure she is out of danger."

"Bossman said -"

"I didn't summon you to waste my time with reassurance from Four-Eyes." Chevalier felt a spike of annoyance.

"Then what do you want?" Rio wasn't cowed in Chevalier's presence. He seemed at ease, something even Chev's brothers struggled with at times. 

Chevalier allowed a thin smile to rise on his lips. "You are resourceful. I want you to keep an eye on her. Ensure she comes to no harm. And -"

"You want me to spy on her." Rio's brows rose, his expression challenging.

Chev shook his head. "No. I don't want to know about her daily activities. Only tell me how she is. Or if something serious occurs." 

Rio crossed his arms. "Did you send Prince Clavis to check on her too?"

"Clavis?" Chevalier felt a flicker of surprise, a rare occurrence. "No." He didn't know what his brother's specific goal was, but to be sure it was something disruptive. "That would be something I want you to report. Do you understand?"

Silence stretched between the two men for longer than courtesy allowed. Finally, Rio nodded. "I'll write to you if anything happens. But only because I love Emma and I want her to be safe."

"Don't tell me what I already know, Dog." Chevalier snorted. 

Rio gave him a look as imperious as any prince. "In time, she will forget you and find her happiness with someone else."

Chevalier nodded. "You continue to state the obvious." He kept his expression still, but Rio's words stung the raw wound of his heart. "Now go, and do not allow yourself to be seen. I don't think I need to tell you what will happen if you reveal this arrangement to anyone."

"You don't need to threaten me. I'm doing this for Emma." Rio didn't bow before he left, only slipped away into the shadows. 

The King stayed there in the garden for awhile longer, breathing the rose-scented night air. Memories stirred within him, recalled in painfully perfect detail. 

[onlykiwi]

guys I miss him

[skyrigel]

Simon sees no reason why there is a vibrator hiding in one of the cabinets - he has fucked you deep and raw, all through the night and arched through the begining of dawn where you weren't even awake.

Sometimes your knees around your head, sometimes his hands digging in your flesh, sometimes his lips swallowing you completely while his cock fills your inside with hot dripping cum, sometimes when he holds you in his chokehold and breeds your bareback, sometimes tenderly in his arms, in all ways.

Why would you even need this?

He eats you out like his life depends on it, on his knees face buried deep in your cunt, sucking on your clit and lapsing in your hot juices.

What irks him more is the hiding state in which he finds your pink vibrator.

Doesn't he makes you feel so good?

It unnerves him, which is why Simon doesn't cater to your ushered moans, begging him to fuck you. "plea...si-" you wiggle back your naked ass, while pressed flat on the desk. "fuck me, nyea-" arching at his touch.

His sadist finger trailing down your naked spine, cum marked by your orgasm of earlier. His fingertips wetting against your dripping pussy oh fuck, you're so hot - and he sucks in one sharp breath, you are so intoxicating, his doll.

"feelin' good, aye?" Simon rubs two fingers along your sore, puffy lips. He has been it for a long time, hours, he guesses, already has made you cum with four fingers piston fucking you relentlessly until your toes curled which were hanging above the floor.

Your knees are weak and you don't know about the vibrator he has with him. “please...mmm, simon.” you whine.

Simon's palm fall flat on your ass with a loud yelp, before resting back on the small of your back keeping you flat against his office desk, the only thing supporting you.

Your own fingers curled at the edge holding for dear life. "Si...baby..ah, ah" again his one deft digit slips inside your warm folds.

You pout, overwhelmed, "I N-need yo..your dick."

Simon smirks and pulls out his sticky wet finger, marveling at it, ofcourse lovie, but he has plans for now, and with a smug look in his eyes he hisses, painfully hard and oh, how easy it would be to fuck you like this, dripping, hot, and begging for him.

But Simon's not an easy man, is he?

He pressures you further against the desk before you start wiggling, "Just there lovie." he smiles, and goes on to put blunt round head of the vibrator against your clit.

Before you could know, because ofcourse your walls know what Simon's cock like, how he feels inside and over you, "Thats no-"

Simon starts the vibrator on its highest setting, buzzing against your sore pussy.

"-Si...nyeah..oh god, oh fuck, fuck," your mouth is incoherent, back at the powerful sensation pulsing inside you.

He doesn't even have to see what setting his thumb is on, your ass doing erratic movements tells well enough. "mmm, what ya' want lovie?" he massages along your clit, the pink ball glossing with your coating.

"mmph...oh fuck, oh fuck m-me baby." you mumble, fucked out of your head.

Anything for his love.

Masterlist

[em1i2a3]

The Greatest Light Is The Greatest Shade

Pairing: Bob/Robert Reynolds/The Sentry/The Void x Thunderbolt!Fem!Reader

Summary: You return back to the compound a week early from an initial two week-long mission, only to find Bob asleep in your bed.

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI! Semi-Spoilers for Thunderbolts because Bob and everyone else are in this story. Fluff and Smut, that’s it, that’s the tweet lol Oh and also Reader and Bob have an established friends with benefits relationship.

Smut Warnings: Unprotected P in V Sex (wrap it before you tap it…or don’t I mean…All up to y’all lol), Biting/Marking, Praise/Worship Kinks (because sometimes we all need that), Bob gets a little dominant in this fic, Dirty Talk, Fingering, Oral Sex (fem! Receiving), Scratching, Choking (if you squint, it’s not extreme though, like just holding), Breast Worship.

Author's Note: This is like a combination of two requests because it made a lot of sense to just combine them in a nice little wrap. Both were from anon users so if these were your requests, thank you! (Requests were: Bob getting a confidence boost in bed, and Bob liking the act of marking the reader/biting the reader)

Word Count: 9,119

You and Yelena weren’t supposed to be back at the compound for another week.

But missions had a way of unraveling differently when the two of you were left to your own devices–strategic, relentless, and just a little bit impatient. You didn’t linger. You didn’t overcomplicate. You didn’t sleep much, either, which probably explained the record time.

You’d cleared the final objective in less than forty-eight hours, ghosted the cleanup crew, and caught the first unmarked flight back to the States before anyone could slap a new assignment on your desk.

Efficiency had its perks, and so did chronic sleep issues.

Because the truth was–if you’d stayed another night in that motel with its scratchy sheets and the whine of traffic bleeding through the windows, you might’ve clawed your skin off. You hadn’t slept more than two hours in a row the entire time you were gone. The bed was too stiff and the air was too stale. You’d tried your usual tricks–white noise, stretching, sleeping pills stolen from the med kit–but nothing worked.

Your body just didn’t settle when you weren’t home.

And it wasn’t even just about your own bed–though you missed the way the pillow fluffed perfectly around your head, the subtle citrus-and-cotton scent of your detergent lingering in the sheets, the familiar groove in the mattress where your weight naturally settled.

It was about his bed, too.

Bob’s.

Because the only real, uninterrupted sleep you’d gotten in the last few months had been tangled up in him–skin warm, limbs heavy, his breath soft against your neck as he pulled you closer and laced your fingers with his beneath the covers. You remembered the way he kissed the dip beneath your ear just before he fell asleep, how he always muttered something quiet against your bare shoulder, like he didn’t want you to know he needed this as much as you did.

But you did know. Because you needed it too.

That was the problem with the whole friends-with-benefits arrangement–it had rules, boundaries, expectations. But somewhere along the way, you stopped following the fine print. Somewhere along the way, you started looking forward to him more than the orgasm. You started memorizing the shape of his hands, the way he curled into you when he thought you were asleep, the sound he made when you ran your fingers through his hair just right. The pillow talk that both of you would have post sex, tangled up within one another–joking about another round before giving in.

You missed him.

Not just the sex, not just the heat of his mouth or the way he whispered your name when he came–you missed all of him. His nervous smiles. His soft voice. His quiet steadiness. You missed the way he looked at you like he couldn’t believe you wanted him back. The way he understood that the only reason you weren’t in a relationship with him was because you hated the pressure that it came with, and how you just wanted to be–because labels just complicated things.

And you hadn’t told anyone–at least not willingly. But Yelena knew. She always knew. The girl could sniff out repressed feelings like a bloodhound, and her raised eyebrow and pointed remarks whenever Bob entered a room had gotten more pointed with time. And Bucky…Bucky didn’t say anything, but he watched. You could feel it in the weight of his gaze when you sat next to Bob at the kitchen counter, or when you reappeared from ‘relaxing in your bedroom’ wearing a hoodie that definitely wasn’t yours.

Still. None of them had said a word. Not directly at least, and the both of you were immensely grateful for that.

The elevator doors hissed open at 2:04 a.m., depositing you and yelena into the compound’s dim, and mostly-silent common room.

The air inside was nice and cool against your burning hot skin, it was crisp with the faint scent of fresh laundry. Everything felt still, as if the whole building itself had decided to turn in for the night completely.

Except for Bucky Barnes, apparently.

He was sunk deep into the corner of the oversized grey sectional, one arm slung over the back, the other nursing a steaming mug of coffee–you could tell because of the lingering odor of the roasted beans that stuck to the air. He didn’t even flinch at the sound of your boots–just glanced up, eyes cutting over the rim of his mug as the glow of the television flickered across his face. The screen was playing something low-budget, or at least it looked like it–judging by the terrible stick on mustaches and the VHS tracking lines.

”You’re back early,” Bucky said, sipping from his mug.

“No, you’re just up late,” Yelena shot back, dropping her bag on the ground before veering toward the kitchen without missing a beat. Your suit–a cross between tactical armor and a flight suit– creaked with each step you took, the joints still tight from hours of wear. You felt grimy and stiff, a little windburned, and very much like a human shaped knot of fatigue.

”What’d they do, drop you into a war zone or the sun?” Bucky muttered, looking you over. You gave him a half-smile.

”Maybe a little bit of both, it was terrible over there.” You replied, turning your attention to the television.

Yelena yanked the fridge open, her movements sharp with leftover adrenaline. She pulled something out, and tossed one blindly at you without even checking if you were paying attention.

You caught it without turning, fingers wrapping around the chilled plastic in mid-air.

”Still got it,” Bucky said with a low chuckle, grabbing the bowl of popcorn beside him as Yelena walked around you and dropped herself onto the open space he had made for her.

”I never lost it Barnes.” You replied, cracking open the cherry flavoured electrolyte drink, hearing it fizzle. Yelena chugged half of it in one go, before reaching for the remote that was on the armrest.

”What is this?” She asked, pressing a few buttons absentmindedly, flipping through the menu with obvious disdain, “This is what you stay up late watching? Are you eighty-five?”

”No, I’m a hundred and ten thank you.” Bucky shot back, yanking the remote from her hands, “It’s also a classic.” He mumbled.

”It had bad editing and worse acting,” She retorted, lunging across him to snatch the remote again.

You smirked, shaking your head as they dissolved into bickering over how insufferable Yelena is when she hasn’t gotten enough sleep. The whole room felt hazy, soft-edged in that post-mission, too-tired-to-function way, but it also was safe and familiar, and you were grateful to be home.

You adjusted your bag over your shoulder, taking a sip from your bottle, before turning toward the hall.

”Where you headed?” Bucky called after you, half-distracted by Yelena’s attempt to reach his outstretched hand that had the remote in it.

”Shower, and sleep. Maybe pretend to be dead for a few hours.”

“Don’t let the bedbugs bite,” Yelena chirped, before throwing herself over Bucky who let out a yelp, as you left him to his own demise.

Your mind was already elsewhere. You were thinking about Bob.

Mulling over the fact that this was the longest you’d been apart–almost a full week without seeing him, touching him, or hearing him. Without the little comforts you weren’t supposed to be attached to. His voice low in the dark, his fingers tracing letters into your stomach and asking what he was spelling. The stupid way he whispered your name before nuzzling himself into your neck and peppering kisses along your skin.

You had planned on surprising him in the morning. Maybe knock once on his door, and slip inside without saying anything. Maybe you’d crawl into his bed beside him and wake him up with your mouth on his neck just to see if he’d pull you in close and wrap those long muscular arms around you like he always did.

Because a week was just too long, and you’d missed him more than you were ready to admit.

You padded softly down the hall, the compound’s hush closing in behind you like a slow exhale. Even the low chatter of Yelena and Bucky was swallowed by the distance, replaced by the click of your boots and the faint buzz of the overhead fluorescents.

Your hand grazed the cool metal of your doorknob.

You were still smiling to yourself, still replaying the plan in your head—how you’d toss your gear on the floor, shower off the grime of the last two days, slip into something barely-there, and sneak into Bob’s room just after sunrise. You’d press your lips to the warm edge of his jaw and whisper something teasing just to feel the way he twitched beneath you, sleepy and flustered and already halfway gone before he could even open his eyes.

You turned the knob and pushed the door open, and froze dead in your tracks.

The first thing that hit you was the heat. Your room always ran a few degrees warmer than the rest of the compound–partly because of the old HVAC in this wing, and partly because you liked it that way. It was cozy.

The second thing that got you was the sight of Bob.

He was asleep on his stomach, sprawled across the middle of your bed like he had slowly melted into it. His broad shoulders stretched across the mattress one arm tucked under your pillow, the other draped loosely across it like he had purposely fallen asleep like this–with his face smushed into the corner of it. The sheets had twisted around his hips–barely clinging to the edge of the dark grey boxer briefs he was wearing, the elastic just visible beneath the soft crease of his lower back. His hair was a mess of light brown, mussed-up locks, pointing out every which way like he had run his fingers through them a few times.

The soft glow of your bedside lamp–the kind that automatically flicked on to its lowest setting when you entered–cast him in warm amber. His skin looked almost sun-kissed in it, flushed faintly at the back of his neck and the slope of his spine. He was breathing slow and deep, so still and peaceful it almost felt wrong to look at him too long.

Your hand was still curled around the doorknob, but your heart had already stepped into the room.

Bob was here. Asleep in your bed, like it was the most natural thing in the world. And something about that–about the ease of it–unraveled you more than anything else had all week.

You slowly eased the door shut behind you, careful not to let the latch click too loudly, and took one silent step inside. The scent hit you next. Not just the familiar blend of your detergent and body wash–but something softer, earthier.

Sage.

You turned your head slightly, and there it was–your little ceramic humidifier, the one shaped like a curled-up fox, softly misting by the dresser. The blue glow around its base was steady and calm, casting soft shadows across the wall behind it. You hadn’t used it in weeks. But now it was on. Filled. Set to the exact setting you always used when you had a headache or couldn’t sleep.

Your brows knit gently together.

Your gaze drifted lower–to the corner of the room where you normally threw your clean laundry in a pile you meant to fold but never did. But the pile looked…Different. Smaller. Neater. Not folded, exactly, but gathered. Arranged in the exact order you usually pulled from. Undergarments on top. Tanks and sleep shorts just beneath. Even your favorite oversized tee–the threadbare Stark Expo 2019 one–was sitting on top, freshly laundered and smelling faintly of lavender-softener.

”Well…I’ll be damned.” You whispered to yourself, because you didn’t remember doing all of that before you left. You slowly shrugged your bag from your shoulder and set it down near the desk, careful not to make a sound. Your eyes lingered on the little details around the room–how the cord for your phone charger had been looped up neatly instead of left in a nest on the floor, how your glass of water had been refilled with ice and placed beside your nightstand book, how even the trash can had been emptied.

He hadn’t just been waiting for you.

He’d been looking after you.

You toed off your boots and unzipped your suit with aching, quiet fingers, each movement deliberate. You peeled it off your body, layer by layer, until you were left in just a sports bra and a thin pair of cotton briefs. You crossed the room slowly, the floor cool under your bare feet, and slipped into the en suite with a practiced ease, fingers grazing the wall as you flicked on the light.

You immediately noticed the warmth–thick and faintly humid, clinging to the corners of the tile like the room had been wrapped in a blanket not long ago. It smelled like steam and soap and something else. Something sweeter.

You stepped towards the shower and breathed it in more fully.

Raspberry and basil.

Your shampoo. It was a weird scent combo, one you’d picked half on a whim and half because it somehow stuck in your head every time you used it–bright and green, but soft, with just enough fruit to make someone lean in and ask what it was. You hadn’t brought any with you on the mission.

But now… it was definitely lower than you remembered leaving it.

Your fingers brushed the bottle on the corner shelf. Same with the conditioner. Same with the body wash. All just slightly more empty than they should’ve been. The labels slick with residual condensation, freshly handled.

Your gaze flicked to the sink.

There were tiny flecks of stubble around the drain–barely noticeable unless you were looking for them. Not quite enough to be careless. Just enough to suggest he’d shaved in a rush and hadn’t cleaned up every last piece. Bob always got a little flustered around mirrors. Too many thoughts. Too many selves. You didn’t blame him for not scrubbing them all away.

You leaned on the counter, steadying yourself, and your eyes landed on something else.

His toothbrush, tucked neatly beside yours, with the bristles still wet. You stood there in the bathroom for a long moment, staring at the two toothbrushes resting side by side like they’d always been meant to share that ceramic cup.

Bob hadn’t just been sleeping in your room.

He’d been living in it.

Showering here. Shaving here. Moving around your space with the kind of familiarity you only afforded yourself. Like he hadn’t just been borrowing your room–he’d been waiting in it. Curling himself into the folds you left behind. Slipping quietly into the corners of your routine without disturbing the rhythm, like he’d always known how to match your pace.

And maybe that was what made your chest ache the most.

The realization that he must’ve missed you just as much as you missed him.

Maybe more.

You reached for the shower handle before the weight of it could settle too deep in your bones. The pipes didn’t groan like they normally did, the water just rushed out hot and steady from the spout, steam blooming instantly against the mirror. You peeled off your sports bra and underwear, letting the warmth wrap around your tired limbs as you stepped under the stream.

You tilted your head back, letting the water run down your scalp and over your face, washing away the grime of the last forty-eight hours in one long exhale. Your fingers found the raspberry and basil shampoo, and you worked it into your hair, the scent unfurling in the steam like something sacred. You scrubbed until your scalp tingled, until your shoulders started to loosen under the weight of water and familiarity.

Then came the conditioner, and the bodywash. Each ritual was a little slower than usual, like you were moving through molasses. Your body still felt heavy, but your mind was beginning to quiet. The mission was over. You were home. And Bob was here.

You turned off the water and stepped onto the warm tile, steam curling off your skin in soft ribbons. The mirror was almost completely fogged now, but you wiped a space clear with your palm, squinting slightly at your reflection.

Right at your hip you could see the faint marks of where Bob had bit before you had left, he had said it was something for you to look at when you wanted to think of him. He had this weird thing nowadays where he liked seeing and making little marks on you so you thought about him more than you already did.

A few fresh cuts traced the edge of your shoulder and collarbone–scrapes from the last scuffle, nothing major. A deeper bruise bloomed under your ribs, the kind you’d probably feel more tomorrow. You touched it lightly, then imagined what Bob’s face would look like when he saw it.

He wouldn’t say much. He’d just look. Quiet, brows drawn. Probably reach for you and press his hand there with too much care, like he thought touching it too firmly might break something else.

You grabbed a towel and wrapped it around your body, using a smaller one to pat your hair dry until it stopped dripping. Then you fluffed it with your fingers–messy and soft, but clean–and stepped out into the bedroom.

He was still sleeping, curled around your pillow, the sheet tugged a little lower now, just enough to reveal the defined line of his waist and the way his spine curved like a comma. You let your eyes linger for a breath longer, then padded quietly to the corner of the room where he’d left your clothes.

The sleep shorts were exactly where he knew you liked them. The old blue t-shirt–the one that had started out as his and somehow ended up permanently yours–was still warm from the dryer.

You slipped the cotton over your head and let it fall just past your hips, then tugged the shorts on. The waistband sat soft against your skin, familiar and easy.

You stood there for a second, just breathing, before folding up your towels and stacking them neatly on the edge of your desk.

Without another sound, you padded across the room and eased onto the bed beside him, careful not to jostle the mattress too much. The familiar dip of it welcomed your weight, and you tucked yourself close to his side, your knees brushing the outside of his thigh.

For a long moment, you just watched him.

His lashes cast faint shadows against his cheeks, and there was a tiny crease between his brows like even in sleep he was thinking too hard. The slope of his nose was soft from this angle, and the corner of his mouth was slack, open just enough to let out the faintest exhale.

You leaned forward slowly, and bit his shoulder, gently.

Right on that spot you knew was sensitive–where the muscle met bone, where he always twitched a little whenever your lips lingered there too long.

“Mmph–Ow?” He groaned, more confused than hurt, shifting with a sluggish twist beneath your mouth.

You grinned and pressed a soft kiss to the spot. “Hey, Robert.”

Bob flinched at the sound of his full name, then jolted upright halfway before fully processing–head lifting, eyes wide and blinking blearily through the low amber light. His arm buckled slightly beneath him as he tried to catch himself, sheet slipping further down his waist.

“Wh–What the hell–Y-You’re—you’re back?” His voice cracked halfway through the sentence.

You laughed, hushed and breathy, and cupped his shoulder to steady him. “Careful, you’re about to fall off the bed.”

He blinked again, jaw slack, still halfway tangled in the blankets and now completely upright. “You–you weren’t supposed to b-be back ‘til Friday.”

“I wasn’t,” You murmured, leaning in closer, brushing your nose along the line of his neck. “But I couldn’t sleep.”

His breath hitched as your lips ghosted over his pulse point.

“Jesus,” He whispered, his hand finally rising–tentatively–to cup your waist like he needed to ground himself in the fact that you were real and he wasn’t hallucinating that you were here. You kissed his shoulder again, then nudged your nose against his ear

“Missed me?” Bob let out a short, almost disbelieving laugh–still breathless, still flustered.

“I–I’ve been sleeping in your room like some sad l-lost dog for four nights.” You smiled against his skin.

“I noticed.”

“I wasn’t trying to–like–move in or anything, I just–your pillow still smelled like you and I–” He cut himself off with a quiet groan and buried his face in your neck. “God, this is embarrassing.” You smoothed your hand along his spine, fingertips dragging lightly through the dip of his lower back.

“It’s not embarrassing. It’s sweet.” He went still at that, and then returned his eyes to you, his blue irises shimmering in the dim lighting.

”Yeah?” You smirked, nodding.

”Very sweet.” Bob’s cheeks flushed with that familiar, helpless shade of pink, as he ducked his head slightly, eyes dropping, but you reached for him before he could retreat into himself again. Your fingers curled gently under his smooth chin, coaxing his gaze back to yours, and then, with the softest pressure, you turned his face fully toward you.

His eyes searched yours for the briefest second–barely a breath–before you leaned in and kissed him.

It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t rushed or careless or clumsy. It was deliberate. Slow at first. Lips brushing lips, once–then again. The kind of kiss that says I remember how to do this. I missed this. I missed you. You angled your mouth against his, deepening it with a quiet sigh that tasted like relief and heat and the week you’d spent without him.

And Bob–God, Bob melted.

Like every bone in his body gave up the fight.

He kissed you back with this kind of overwhelmed gentleness, like he didn’t know how he’d gone a week without this and now he never wanted to let go. His hands found your hips–tentative at first, then a little more sure. He took the pillow and threw it off the side of the bed, before tugging you closer across the bed until you were flush against him, your thigh slotted between his legs.

His lips parted, and yours followed.

Tongues brushing, slow and wet and warm, the kiss deepening with each pass. You felt his breath stutter against your cheek when you nipped at his lower lip, felt the quiet rumble of a groan that built low in his chest and echoed into your mouth.

You threaded your fingers into his hair, tugging gently–just enough for him to gasp into you.

And then he pulled back, barely. His forehead resting against yours, his mouth still parted, pupils blown wide.

“D-Don’t you wanna get some sleep?” He asked, voice rough and frayed at the edges. “You’ve gotta be–exhausted.” You gave a slow smile, your lips still ghosting his.

”I’ll sleep once I’ve got your hands all over me again.” Bob barely registered the words before instinct overtook him.

Your breath had just finished ghosting over his lips when his hands suddenly clutched your hips tighter, and he moved–rolling fully over you with a low, needy groan, pressing you flat against the mattress in one fluid, desperate motion. The way his body stretched over yours, warm and solid and half-draped in nothing but those threadbare grey boxer briefs, made your breath catch with something between a gasp and a laugh.

He was already panting softly, like he hadn’t realized how much he needed this until the second it was offered. His mouth crushed against yours, wetter now, hungrier–kisses landing messily on your lips, your cheek, your jaw, like he couldn’t decide where to start. His hands roamed beneath your shirt without hesitation, dragging up from your hips to your waist, thumbs skating along your ribs like he knew exactly where you wanted to be touched–because he did.

“Y-You’re too dressed,” He mumbled against your mouth, voice ragged and impatient. “How’re y-you still dressed?”

You giggled, tilting your chin back as his lips moved down your neck. “You’re not exactly making it easy to take anything off.”

“’Cause I missed you,” He whined, shameless now, fingers curling around the hem of your shirt and tugging it up in soft, slow inches. “God, I-I missed you and y-you smell like–” You ran your hands down his back, nails grazing his spine.

“Like my shampoo that you’ve been using?” You teased breathlessly, interrupting him. Bob froze for half a heartbeat, then nuzzled deeper into your neck with a groan that was far too pleased.

“Told you I missed you,” He whispered. “You were everywhere in this room but not in it and I just–crap, I needed something.”

His hands slid fully under the shirt now, palms spreading wide over your stomach, smoothing over old scars, faint bruises, soft skin. And then, as gentle as ever, he pulled the shirt up and over your head with one smooth motion and tossed it aside onto the floor.

Lit only by the bedside lamp, his eyes roamed your bare skin like he hadn’t seen it in years. His hands followed his gaze, mapping every familiar slope like he was making sure nothing had changed while you were gone. He cupped your chest with a low, smooth sigh, brushing his thumbs gently over your nipples until you arched into him.

“Still like that?” He murmured, teasing and a little breathless.

“Always,” You whispered. Bob leaned in slow–eyes still dark and wide, lips slightly wet and parted–and pressed a kiss right between the swell of your breasts, leaving a little saliva mark. Then he put another just a little lower, and another.

Your breath hitched as his mouth found the delicate skin at the top curve of your breast, and he sucked gently–just enough for you to feel the sting start to bloom beneath his tongue. His hands cradled you, thumbs brushing under your ribs as he worked his way over the flesh, kissing, mouthing, biting just lightly until you were arching beneath him.

Then he took your nipple into his mouth.

A low, broken moan spilled from him the second his tongue flicked over it–like he couldn’t believe how good it felt to be this close again. He sucked slowly, then a little harder, teeth grazing just enough to make you gasp, to make your back bow and your fingers tangle in his hair. His hips rutted forward–slow and clumsy at first, then more deliberate. You felt the hot, heavy pressure of his cock through his briefs as it ground against your core, the friction heady and frustrating in the best way.

“God…” He gasped against your skin, mouthing down the side of your breast now. “I-It’s like y-you’ve been gone for y-years.”

His breath was ragged now, teeth sinking into the underside of your breast to leave another mark–deeper this time, and you could feel it purpling as he pulled off. You whimpered, nails digging into his shoulders.

He finally pulled back, lips swollen, pupils blown, chest rising and falling like he’d just run a mile. His gaze roamed down your body again–hungry, frantic, and impossibly tender all at once–until it landed on your hip. His thumb skated over the spot.

”I-It’s gone,” He murmured, almost to himself. Your brows furrowed faintly, pushing his hair out of his face.

”What is?”

“The mark I left.” He glanced up at you, a little shy, a little sheepish. “The one I bit into you before you left. I thought maybe it’d still be there…”

You let out a soft laugh, cupping his hot and flushed cheek. “Well, yeah, it healed. It’s not like you can’t give me another one.”

That made his breath hitch.

His eyes darkened just slightly as they dropped back down to your body. “Yeah?” He murmured.

You nodded slowly. “I liked looking at it when I missed you.”

That shy smirk tugged at his lips, the kind that said he was blushing way harder on the inside than he was letting show. Then, without another word, he slid down your body, pressing a few scattered kisses along your stomach until he reached the dip of your hip. He nudged your sleep shorts just enough to expose the skin he wanted, the cotton bunched under his thumbs as he settled between your thighs, his breath fanning warm over your bare skin.

“I’ll make you another one,” He whispered, lips hovering. “Same spot. So you remember.”

The words were almost respectful–but the way he said “remember” made your stomach clench. Like he wanted to brand the memory into you.

Then his mouth sealed over your hip with purpose.

You felt the wet press of his tongue first, lapping softly at the curve of your hip. Then his lips closed over the spot, sucking gently at first–just enough to make your breath catch–before his teeth scraped down with delicate precision. A faint sting bloomed beneath his mouth as he bit just a little harder, pulling the skin between his lips and sucking until heat flared beneath the surface. His hands held you steady by your hips, thumbs pressing into the sensitive dips beside the bones as his mouth worked the mark deeper.

It wasn’t just about the pain–it was the way his tongue soothed the sting after, the way he breathed against you like he was trying to worship this piece of you. Your fingers slid into his hair, jaw slack, body arching into his hold as a slow whimper slipped from your throat. Just like him you enjoyed the process, it was something Bob found out he took pride in doing, it was something only the two of you knew about and that was just scripture at this point.

Then, finally, he pulled back.

Your breath stuttered. His eyes were glassy with heat, lips slick and swollen, pupils wide.

“L-Look,” He whispered hoarsely, leaning aside just enough for you to lift your head and follow the trace of his finger. The mark was already starting to darken–a perfect bloom of bruised skin, flushed deep and raw at the center, fading at the edges like a watercolor stain. Right over your hipbone, exactly where the last one had been.

Your mouth curved into a smug, breathless smile.

And Bob looked absolutely wrecked by it.

You could feel him throbbing against your thigh–hard, heavy, leaking precum in his boxer briefs–and you swore his pupils dilated even more when he saw you smile. His hands trembled just slightly on your hips, the press of his fingers tightening like he wanted to sink into you then and there.

Then, his voice–raspy, shy, so damn sweet it made your chest ache:

“C-Can I take these off?” His fingers tugged lightly at the waistband of your sleep shorts. “W-Wanna…Wanna u-use my mouth. I mean–on you. Go down on you. I–God, I just wanna taste you, I missed you so bad I–” You nodded before he could combust, your hand cupping his cheek again as your thumb brushed across his flushed skin.

“Yes,” You murmured. “Please, Bob.” He exhaled like he’d been punched in the gut. His hands slid lower, slow and reverent, thumbs catching beneath the waistband as he eased your shorts down your legs.

The cotton left your skin with the softest whisper of friction, and then he hooked them around your ankles, slow and careful like he was undressing something sacred.

He didn’t throw them right away. He held them for a second—bunched in his hand—before finally letting them slip from his fingers and fall somewhere behind him with a soft thud. His gaze flicked up.

You’d opened your legs for him.

And that alone nearly broke him.

His breath hitched audibly, chest rising sharp as his hands found your thighs and pushed them open further—just enough for him to settle between them. His pupils were blown wide, lashes fluttering as he took you in, lips slightly parted like he wanted to say something and couldn’t quite remember how to form the words.

But then he did speak.

Barely louder than a whisper.

“F-Fuck… you’re already wet…”

His eyes were locked on the slick sheen between your thighs, his voice shaking with awe and arousal. “I-I didn’t even touch you yet.”

You smiled, breathless, threading your fingers into his hair. “You don’t have to, Bob. I’ve been thinking about this since I left.”

A groan caught in the back of his throat. He dipped his head low, kissing your inner thigh with reverence, lips soft and warm as he moved closer. Another kiss, higher now. Then another. A gentle scrape of teeth. He sucked lightly at the skin just above your knee, then further up–just below the edge of your heat–where he bit down softly and hummed against you.

“G-Gonna mark you here,” He murmured, voice raspy. “Only I’ll know it’s there.”

You felt the nip, the suction, and the soothing stroke of his tongue right after. A shiver ran through your whole body.

He moved higher, lips brushing the crease where your thigh met your pelvis, then gently slid your legs up–guiding them over his shoulders with hands that couldn’t stop shaking. He adjusted slightly, nestling his chest between your thighs, the warmth of him blanketing everything.

And then he looked up at you, utterly flushed, breath unsteady, eyes glassy with lust.

”I-I’m gonna take my t-time…I w-wanna s-savor you.” You nodded, unable to speak, and then he lowered his mouth.

The first lick was slow. Flat and deliberate, his tongue dragging up your folds with aching precision. His groan vibrated into you, low and desperate, like your taste knocked the air from his lungs.

He did it again, slower this time–parting you with careful fingers, exposing your clit, and flicking his tongue over it with gentle laps that made your hips twitch. His hands slid up under your thighs, holding you down, anchoring you as his mouth worked with focused hunger.

He kissed your folds like he loved them–soft and wet, teasing swirls of his tongue punctuated by firmer, sloppier sucks to your clit that had you gasping and writhing. He moaned into you every time your hips jerked against his mouth, like your pleasure was feeding him.

And then–his fingers joined the fray.

He eased one inside you slowly, watching your face the whole time, the stretch just right as you clenched around him.

”Mmm…P-Perfect…” He whispered, barely audible over your breathless moan. He added a second, curling them expertly. You felt the exact spot he was searching for as he pressed deeper, stroking in tandem with the suck of his mouth on your clit. The pace built gradually, maddeningly patient. He knew your body too well. Knew the rhythm that made your thighs start to tremble, knew when to ease off just a little to keep you right on the edge.

He licked you like he was starving, but careful. Worshipful. Like every stroke of his tongue was another way of telling you he missed you, needed you, belonged to you.

One of your hands gripped the pillow behind your head, and the other continued to tangle in his hair, fingers twisting in his soft curls as you gasped out his name.

“B-Bob–”

He groaned again, rutting slightly into the mattress, his own arousal completely unchecked.

“T-That’s it,” He rasped between licks, voice wrecked. “S-Say it again. Lemme h-hear it while I’ve got you falling apart on my mouth.”

And you did.

Because he earned it.

And you were already so close, the coil in your stomach burning with every wet, deliberate flick of his tongue, every curl of his fingers pressing into that perfect spot again and again–

Until everything snapped.

Your back arched. Your thighs shook around his head. His name spilled from your lips again and again like a prayer as your climax crashed over you–hot, electric, and overwhelming.

But Bob didn’t stop.

He moaned into you deeply, slowing only enough to ride out every pulse, every shudder, licking you through it with open-mouthed reverence until you were trembling under him, breathless and overstimulated.

Bob stayed nestled between your legs for a long moment, his cheek resting against your thigh like he couldn’t bear to be apart from you just yet. His chest heaved softly, trying to catch up with the rhythm your body had demanded from him.

And then—still dazed, still breathless—he lifted his head.

His fingers slipped from you slowly, soaked and trembling. He held them up for a second, watching the wet glisten in the low light like he still couldn’t believe how much of you he had, how deeply you let him in.

Then–slowly, modestly–he brought those fingers to his mouth and licked them clean.

One at a time.

He sucked the taste of you from his knuckles with a low, helpless groan, like he was starving, like your pleasure was some kind of sustenance he hadn’t been able to live without all week. His eyes fluttered shut, lashes fanning his cheeks as his lips sealed over the pads of his fingers and pulled back with a soft, slick pop.

Then he looked up at you again–totally flushed, lips wet, curls wild and clinging to his forehead. And he smiled. Just a little. Like he couldn’t help it.

“God, you taste so good,” He rasped, voice nearly broken from the effort of holding back. “Y-You always do. I c-could stay down here forever…”

Your heart gave an answering throb–not just at the words, but the way he said them. Like he meant it. Like it wasn’t just about lust or pleasure or instinct. It was something needful, something devotional.

He pressed one more kiss to your thigh. Then another. His mouth moved slowly, lips soft against your overstimulated skin, kissing up toward the inside of your knee. He nuzzled into the crease where your thigh met your hip, resting there again like he was grounding himself.

“You’re…You’re s-so beautiful,” He whispered, almost shy. “I-I missed every inch of you. E-Every sound, every taste, every time you grab my hair like that–I missed all of it.”

Your fingers stayed tangled in his curls as his eyes met yours–blue and wide and still a little dazed, pupils rimmed with something darker, deeper. You stroked his scalp gently, thumb brushing just behind his ear.

“You’re perfect, you know that?” You said softly. Bob blinked like he didn’t understand the language.

“You’re so fucking good to me, Bob. That mouth of yours should be illegal.” You tugged his hair lightly for emphasis. “You take your time. You listen. You always make me feel like I’m the only thing you’ve ever needed.”

He whimpered at the comment, his cheeks going a deeper shade of red..

Then, quietly, with that fragile edge still in his voice: “C-Can I…Can I be inside you now?”

You didn’t hesitate. “Yes. God, yes. I want you.” He didn’t say anything after your “yes”—he didn’t have to. The air shifted the second the words left your lips. Almost in a trance, he pushed himself up on trembling arms, body sliding from between your legs just enough for his hands to tug down the waistband of his boxer briefs. He hooked his thumbs beneath the elastic, dragged them over the swell of his hips, and pushed them past his thighs. They caught for a moment on the curve of his ass, then fell to the floor with a soft thud. You could feel your mouth water at the sight of how hard he was–thick and flushed and leaking at the tip, his cock curved toward his belly with a kind of desperate heaviness.

He didn’t pause. Didn’t ask if you were sure again. Didn’t stutter.

He just moved.

Climbed up over you with deliberate grace, his skin flushed and hot, his mouth parted as he kissed a slow trail up your body. Over your thighs, your stomach, your ribs. Each kiss was lingering, lips wet and reverent, like he was soaking you in. He kissed the underside of your breast, then the curve of your collarbone. Then your jaw. Then–

Your mouth.

It wasn’t frantic. It wasn’t rushed. It was hot. Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss you don’t come back from.

His lips opened against yours, his tongue brushing yours, breath catching like he couldn’t get close enough. One of his hands cradled your cheek, thumb stroking just beneath your eye, and the other curled beneath your knee, hitching your leg up around his waist until your hips aligned.

Your hand slid down his back, dragging your nails softly along the ridge of his spine. “You’re so beautiful like this,” you whispered between kisses. “So hard for me already. God, I missed feeling you like this.”

He moaned–full-throated, broken–and rutted into you once, the tip of his cock slipping along your slick folds, just barely brushing your clit.

“I’ve got you,” You whispered, cupping his face. “You’ve always been mine.”

That did something to him. You saw it in his eyes–the shift.

The way the stutter disappeared. The way his jaw set. The way his gaze sharpened like lightning behind glass, the little shimmer of gold behind the ring of blue.

It wasn’t just Bob now, it was also the Sentry.

When he looked at you now, it wasn’t uncertainty. It was awe. Command. Like he could tear through the world but would rather be on his knees between your legs, or buried inside you, trembling with the effort of holding himself back just enough not to worship you into pieces.

“Please,” You breathed. “Need you inside me.”

His voice was lower now. Clear. Quiet. Controlled.

“Spread your legs a little more.”

You did, instantly. The commanding tone–still soft, still reverent, but sure–went straight to your core.

He guided himself forward with one hand, the other still cradling your thigh. And then–slow, deliberate–he pressed in.

The stretch was perfect. Your mouth dropped open in a gasp, and his eyes fluttered shut, forehead dipping down to press against yours. He groaned, low and long and helpless as your walls clenched around him, welcoming him home.

“Mmm… So tight… So wet… I forgot how good this felt,” He whispered, his voice wrecked but steady. “You feel like you were made for me.”

”I am…” You responded, your hands threading through his hair, “No one fucks me like you do. No one fills me like you do, Bob. You’re so deep already and you’re not even close to bottoming out…You’re just so fucking perfect.” Bob’s eyes fluttered closed at your words, the muscles in his jaw tightening as he pushed a deeper inside you, until he was fully seated–hips flush against yours, breath shuddering like he was trying not to lose it.

His voice came out strained, barely above a whisper.

“You know that’s gonna get to his head, right?”

Your breath caught, and a slow, knowing smile curled on your lips. You didn’t pretend to misunderstand. You just tilted your head slightly, brushed your nose against his, and played it innocent.

“Hmm?” You asked softly, letting your hips roll up ever so slightly against him, just enough for both of you to feel the perfect stretch again. “What will?”

Bob groaned–deep, desperate–and dropped his forehead against your shoulder for a second like he was trying to physically hide from the pull inside him.

“The way you talk,” He rasped. “The way you say I’m perfect. T-That I fill you just right. You know what that does to him…”

You kissed the curve of his jaw, slowly. “Do I?”

He pulled back to look at you, his eyes now shimmering with something gold at the edges, flickering like lightning underwater. That flicker. That edge. The Sentry wasn’t in control–not yet–but he was listening. And Bob knew it. Felt it.

“I-I don’t think you realize how close he is sometimes,” He murmured, one of his hands sliding up your side, over your ribs, until it cupped your throat. He didn’t squeeze. Just held you there–warm and firm, like a tether. “It’s like…Like you say the right thing and it just flips a switch.”

You blinked up at him, breath catching as his thumb brushed under your jaw.

“Maybe I like flipping it,” You whispered. “Maybe I want both of you.”

That broke something.

Bob’s pupils blew even wider, mouth dropping open slightly as he stared at you like you were the most dangerous thing he’d ever seen.

And then he moved.

In one swift motion, he slid your legs over his shoulders, folding you tighter beneath him. The new angle had his cock hitting deeper–hot and full and unbearable in the best way. You gasped, your hands flying to his shoulders for purchase as he drove forward with a slow, powerful thrust that made your back arch off the mattress.

He groaned, long and low, hips beginning to snap into you with more force now, still controlled–but rougher. Needier. His grip on your neck stayed steady, anchoring you, his other hand gripping the edge of the mattress like he needed it to keep from breaking apart entirely.

The kiss that followed was messy–hungry and open-mouthed, more teeth than lips. His tongue was everywhere, licking into your mouth with urgency, nipping your lower lip between groans that sounded more like growls now. His hair was falling into his face, damp with sweat, and your nails dug into his shoulders, raking down his back when he hit just the right spot again.

“Oh my–fuck, Bob–” You cried out, legs trembling where they were braced on his shoulders. He was fucking you deeper now, each thrust dragging moans from your throat that echoed in the warm, hazy dimness of the room.

“You wanted this,” He gritted out against your lips. “Y-You wanted him. This is what happens—fuck—w-when you tease him.”

You moaned at the words, high and desperate, your nails leaving crescents in his skin.

“God, yes, that’s what I wanted–want both of you–don’t hold back—”

That lit something behind his eyes.

His hand squeezed your throat gently and he kissed you again, rougher this time, teeth catching your lip before dragging it between his.

“Then you’re gonna take everything,” He growled against your mouth, “Everything…You hear me?” You nodded, gasping, legs clenching around his shoulders.

“Yes–yes, Bob–please—”

And he gave it to you.

All of it.

The Sentry’s strength and language. Bob’s tenderness. That perfect, devastating mix that only you seemed able to call forward.

His thrusts slowed for just a second—just enough for him to look down at you again, to see the way your mouth hung open, the way your eyes fluttered, the way your throat bobbed as you swallowed a breath. His hand was still resting there, warm and firm around your neck, and now he adjusted—his fingers splaying wider across your pulse point, thumb brushing up to trace your jaw, not to control you, but to feel you. To feel the way you beat under his touch. To know you were alive beneath him, trembling and taking everything he gave.

“Feel that,” he whispered, voice hoarse, lips inches from yours. “Your pulse…fuck… it’s so fast.” His thumb pressed just slightly beneath your ear, right where your heartbeat thrummed the loudest. “You do that to me too. Every time.”

Then he kissed you.

Not sweet. Not soft.

Dirty. Starved.

His tongue slid over yours, wet and insistent, lips parted wide as he devoured the sounds you made. He kissed you like he was drowning and your mouth was the only place he could breathe. It wasn’t clean—there was nothing neat about it. It was spit-slick, breathless, interrupted by moans and the shiver of his hips driving into yours. His body pressed you deep into the mattress, your legs still curled up over his shoulders as he leaned forward to pin you there—completely under him, beneath him, owned by him.

His hand never left your neck. It wasn’t rough. It wasn’t tight. But it was grounding. Possessive. Like he needed that connection as much as he needed to be inside you.

“Y-You feel so fuckin’ good,” He panted into your mouth, hips jerking deeper, the head of his cock nudging places inside you that made your vision blur. “Clenching so tight around me—so fucking warm—I c-can’t…”

His voice cracked.

And then his hand slid down your body.

Still shaking, still careful. He found your clit with two fingers, thumb slipping low, and began to rub tight, perfect circles–just like he knew you needed.

“Come for me,” He whispered. “Please. Please come for me—I-I need to feel it.”

You whimpered, your body jerking beneath his, the stimulation dizzying—too much and just right at the same time. The stretch of him. The wet heat of his mouth still ghosting your lips. The slow, brutal way his fingers worked your clit with focused desperation.

And then it hit you.

The orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike–sudden and overwhelming. You cried out, voice cracked and strangled, legs tightening around his shoulders as you pulsed around him. Your entire body arched, back bowed off the mattress, hips lifting to meet every thrust with frantic desperation as pleasure shattered through your core.

“Oh…Oh my–” Bob choked, the way your walls spasmed around him making his rhythm falter. “God–you’re s-so perfect–I can’t–”

He buried himself to the hilt one final time and came with a deep, broken groan, his whole body shuddering.

His forehead collapsed to your shoulder, hand still clutching your throat, not tight–just present. Just there. His hips jerked twice, thrice–instinct driving him as he moaned into your neck, hot and helpless. His cock throbbed inside you, spilling deep with every ragged, breathless cry he let out, each one softer than the last.

He didn’t move for a long moment–just stayed there, trembling, his full weight settling over you. His lips pressed into your throat. Then your cheek. Then the corner of your mouth.

Still inside you.

Still hard.

Still shaking.

And then–you felt it.

Another slow thrust.

Not desperate. Not sharp.

Just a gentle roll of his hips, pressing his cum deeper inside you, pushing it further with quiet reverence.

“J-Just wanna…Make sure you keep it in you for a bit,” He whispered hoarsely, breath hitching as your body clenched again around the overstimulated head of his cock. “You feel so good when you come…” You moaned softly, your fingers stroking through his hair as he pulled back just slightly–just enough to look at you. His eyes were glassy. Blue and clear, with no gold in sight. Just Bob. Just yours. You grinned, breath still coming in short, shallow waves as he looked down at you–his hair tousled, skin flushed, lips kiss-bitten and wet. You reached up, cupped his jaw gently, and traced your thumb across the corner of his mouth.

“Don’t suppose that means you’re trying to knock me up, huh?” Bob’s eyes widened instantly, that unmistakable Bob expression washing over his features—equal parts scandalized, panicked, and completely enamored.

“Wh–I–I didn’t–I mean–was that–oh my God.” You burst into a soft laugh, biting your lip as he stammered, his face flushing deeper with every attempt at forming a coherent sentence.

“I’m kidding, Bob, you know I’m on birth control,” You whispered, giggling, dragging your fingers slowly through the sweat-damp curls at the nape of his neck. “Jesus, you’re cute when you malfunction.”

He gave a low, breathless groan and shook his head like he was trying to will his brain back into function, but then he leaned down and kissed you again–this time slow, warm, melting into the shape of you with that unmistakable Bob tenderness.

It was his kind of kiss.

Not the Sentry’s. Not some thunderous, desperate thing.

But soft. Full. Devoted.

Like you were something he’d missed every second of the week you’d been gone and needed to relearn with his mouth–your taste, your sighs, the way your bottom lip always trembled just slightly when he kissed you slow enough.

You sighed into it, and his hand slid from your throat to cradle your cheek again, thumb brushing just beneath your eye as his forehead touched yours.

“I–I could’ve said something better than ‘don’t you wanna sleep,’” He mumbled, sheepish, his lips still ghosting yours. “That was the dumbest thing I’ve ever said.”

You chuckled again and nudged his nose with yours. “You say a lot of dumb things when you’re half asleep and hard.”

Bob gave a mortified little noise in his throat and hid his face in your neck, but not before you caught the faint smile tugging at his lips.

You felt his hand drift down your arm, then settle on your waist as he drew small, grounding circles against your skin. His voice was quieter now, steadier–like the heat had cooled just enough for the weight of it all to settle in.

“Do you need anything?” He asked gently. “Water? A warm towel? Another orgasm?” He said it half-teasing, half-hopeful, with a lopsided grin you could feel against your skin.

You smiled, eyes fluttering closed, your fingers lazily dancing across his spine.

“Just this….This is perfect” You whispered.

And Bob–sweet, sincere, utterly yours–wrapped his arms tighter around you and whispered back, “Okay.”