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buckyseternaldoll · 3 days ago

Text

on command.

this is the first story from my 707 followers' milestone event 💖

Pairing: Avenger!Bucky x Medic!Reader (female)

Summary: It started with a question you didn’t realize sounded filthy: “Can you come on command?” Bucky thought you were teasing. But you were just too clinical to know better. And now? He’s going to show you exactly what happens when curiosity goes too far.

Disclaimer: 18+ (mdni!), explicit smut content, p in v, oral sex (f receiving & m receiving), fingering, dirty talk, blowjob, face-fucking themes, size kink (mild), orgasm denial, soft dom!bucky, light power play, praise kink, slight dub-con vibes via misunderstanding, medical/clinical kink themes, slow build to climax, cockwarming (implied), cum on thighs, aftercare

Word Count: 7.1k

The med-bay smelled like antiseptic and fresh laundry—too clean for a room that had known so much blood. It was a Sunday evening, quiet and uneventful, the kind of shift where silence hummed against your ears and your thoughts wandered deeper than you intended. The kind of boredom that stretched into your ribs.

Until you heard the heavy thud of combat boots echo down the hallway.

You looked up from your tablet. He walked in with a presence that made the sterile air feel charged.

James Buchanan Barnes

Unit: Thunderbolts

Registry: Alpha-01

Notes: Vibranium prosthesis (left arm). Serum-enhanced physiology. Prior Hydra experimentation flagged in psychological history.

His combat shirt hung from one shoulder, blood soaked into the seams. His torso was bare—bruised, sweating, smeared with dried streaks of red. Deep brown hair fell in damp strands against his temples, jaw tight, body moving like something made to endure.

“Didn’t know we had new faces,” he said, voice gravel-rough as he eased himself down onto the med-bed. “Nice change.”

You nodded once and pulled on gloves. “Yes. I started this week.”

He dropped the shirt beside him, settling in like the cot was his personal recliner. The tone in his voice had suggested ease, maybe even a joke, but you didn’t react. You weren’t always sure when people were being sarcastic.

Especially not him.

You retrieved gauze, saline, antiseptic. You were focused on the wound low across his abdomen—a shallow blade graze, already clotting along the edge. As you cleaned around it, you recalled a conversation from earlier that week. Your first night shift had been filled with stories, warnings, casual gossip from the senior medics. They spoke about the team like they were walking myths. And Bucky Barnes, in particular, had been the centerpiece of several of those stories.

He can do anything if you tell him to, someone had said. Hydra programming, you know? Sit, kneel, come—just say it.

You hadn’t laughed. You’d written it down. Because you didn’t know it was a joke.

Now, he sat bare-chested in front of you, quiet, unmoving, skin warm beneath your gloved hands as you pressed sterile pads to the wound.

The question formed itself before you realized it was inappropriate.

You spoke plainly, genuinely. “I was wondering—can you get hard and ejaculate on command?”

The silence that followed was total. Not a pause. Not surprise.

It was a shift.

You didn’t notice it right away, too focused on folding gauze precisely, until the weight of his gaze pulled you back to the moment.

When you looked up, his entire body had stilled.

His eyes were on you. Unmoving. Brow low, mouth parted just slightly, as if he were still computing the words. The faint line between his brows deepened.

“Come again?” he asked, but his voice wasn’t casual. It wasn’t flirtatious either. It was something closer to caution.

You met his stare. “I asked if you’re able to achieve erection and reach orgasm on command. Based on what the other officers implied regarding your conditioning.”

He blinked once. Very slowly.

Your tone hadn’t faltered. You weren’t embarrassed. You were just curious—curious the same way you’d asked someone last week if the Hulk’s resting heart rate really was thirty-five BPM.

Bucky leaned back slightly, eyes scanning you like he was waiting for the punchline. When it didn’t come, his jaw worked, muscle flexing once under stubble.

Then he stood.

Not abruptly. But with enough weight behind the motion that you instinctively stepped back. The tray clinked behind you.

He stepped closer, enough that you felt the heat coming off his skin. Still watching you. Still trying to process.

“You’re seriously asking me that?” he said, quieter now. “Like, you’re not messing with me.”

“No,” you answered plainly. “I just wanted to understand the scope of the conditioning. Neurological control of physiological functions isn’t unheard of.”

He dragged a hand down his face. Let out a long breath through his nose. You saw the flicker in his expression—somewhere between disbelief and… something else.

“You really don’t realize how that sounded, do you.”

You tilted your head. “Should I?”

He huffed a soft, disbelieving laugh, almost under his breath.

Then he moved forward again—closer. Close enough that your hip bumped the counter edge.

“Are you asking because you want to know,” he said slowly, gaze dragging down your face, “or because you want to see?”

You stared back at him, unflinching. The intensity in his eyes didn’t register as threatening to you—just confusing. Your fingers curled slightly at your sides, still gloved. Still sterile. Still in the mindset of diagnostics and assessments, not flirtation. You weren’t sure what he meant by see, but the phrasing seemed to demand clarity.

So you gave it.

“I want to know,” you said plainly, meeting his eyes. “But if visual confirmation is possible, then yes—seeing would be helpful.”

His face didn’t move at first.

Not a blink. Not a breath.

Then his eyebrows lifted just a fraction—just enough to break the tension—but his mouth stayed parted like he’d lost his words somewhere between inhale and exhale.

You watched him, calm as ever. Not realizing that what you just said, to him, sounded like you were practically asking to watch him jerk off in the middle of med-bay.

His eyes narrowed slightly, still scanning you for a punchline. When there was none, something shifted. Not in you. In him.

Because that’s when it hit him—hard.

You weren’t fucking around.

You weren’t teasing. You weren’t flirting. You weren’t setting him up for some kind of HR trap. You were genuinely trying to understand the technical boundaries of Hydra’s physiological conditioning, like you were running through a checklist for your own notes.

He exhaled once through his nose and ran his palm over his jaw.

“Jesus Christ,” he muttered, half to himself. His gaze flicked to the side, like he needed to look anywhere but directly at you for a moment.

You could see it happening—the calculation behind his eyes. He was deciding whether or not to walk away. Whether to laugh. Whether to report this. But then something else moved through him, too—curiosity. You recognized the signs: pupils shifting slightly, breath shallower. He wasn’t sure either.

“I mean,” he said at last, voice rough, uncertain. “I’ve never… actually tried that. Not like—deliberately.”

You tilted your head slightly. “Would you be open to attempting it?”

His mouth parted again, like he wanted to respond but couldn’t decide which direction to take it. You sensed hesitation and tried to reassure him in the only way you knew how: by defaulting to protocol.

“If you’d prefer this be off-record,” you added, “we can skip the video documentation. I’ll log it manually.”

That did it.

His jaw dropped just a fraction further as he let out a breathless, incredulous noise. It wasn’t quite a laugh—it was something between disbelief and amusement, and it landed heavy in the air between you.

He looked back at you like you were some rare, alien creature. And maybe you were.

You hadn’t moved. You weren’t flustered. You weren’t seducing him. You were just… waiting. Like this was any other medical procedure.

Bucky dragged a hand through his hair, clearly still processing. Then his eyes returned to yours.

“You really wanna see if I can do that,” he said. It wasn’t a question. More like a final check. Like he needed to hear it in your voice one last time before he crossed the line.

“Yes,” you said simply. “For observation purposes.”

There was a long, still beat.

Then his stance shifted.

Something subtle in the way his feet planted, in the slow curl of his fingers at his side, in the way his shoulders rolled back with quiet intent. He wasn’t leaning anymore—he was centered now. Present. Watching you as something darker flickered behind his expression. Something curious. Something charged.

He nodded once. Low. Controlled.

“All right,” he said roughly, voice dipping just a bit lower than before. “Try me.”

—

You gave a short nod, already reaching back toward the tablet on the metal tray behind you, fingertips hovering to wake the screen. The chance to collect a new data point—something none of the other medics had dared ask for—was unexpectedly thrilling.

But the rustle of fabric behind you pulled your focus.

Bucky had stepped away from you again, his heavy boots padding quietly as he moved back toward the med-bed. Except this time, his fingers were already at his waistband.

You froze halfway between the tray and your chair.

He turned slightly toward you, eyes locked onto yours as his thumb worked open the button of his tactical pants. The zipper followed with a quiet rasp, slow and deliberate. He wasn’t speaking. Just watching.

And only then, only then, did your brain finally process the image forming in front of you.

His pants loosened around his hips, hung low now—unzipped and open just enough for you to see the black band of his briefs and the defined lines of his lower abdomen. The cut you’d just cleaned stretched faintly when he moved, muscles flexing subtly under the skin. His cock was still covered, but the shape of it—resting heavy against the fabric, shifting slightly as he adjusted—was impossible to miss. Still soft. Still untouched. But undeniably there. And Bucky wasn’t breaking eye contact.

Something shifted in your chest—an odd tightness you weren’t familiar with. A spike in heart rate. Not fear. Just sudden, confusing awareness. Your lips parted slightly, and your fingers fell away from the tablet screen.

Bucky let out a quiet breath. Not a laugh, not quite. A huff, amused and something darker beneath it.

“You’re realizing how bad everything looks now, huh?” he said, and his tone was different—still low, still calm, but tinged with heat. A crooked smirk played at the corner of his mouth. “Starting to piece it together?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t—not yet.

Because the tension in the air had shifted again. The weight of it wasn’t theoretical anymore. It was physical. Heavy. Warm. Centered on the space between you and the man now standing with his pants undone, cock barely covered, staring at you like this was still part of your little experiment.

You swallowed. Just once.

“I can stop,” he added, arching a brow. “But if you’re gonna ask me to do this… I need you to say it.”

“Say it?” you echoed.

He nodded, the line of his jaw tight, like something about this had challenged him in a way he wasn’t used to. “Yeah. The command. Give it. Let’s see if it works.”

You blinked, heartbeat tapping quick in your throat. Your gloves felt suddenly too tight.

It was for science.

Wasn’t it?

Except… now you were staring at the shape of a man’s cock through his briefs. At the subtle way it shifted behind fabric. At how he just stood there, open like a test subject, waiting for you to initiate the next step.

And suddenly, your carefully ordered brain started… glitching.

This wasn’t how it was supposed to look. It wasn’t supposed to feel like this—warm skin, eye contact, unspoken tension stretching tight across the space between you like a surgical suture about to snap.

You tried to stay focused. Tried to categorize what was happening as neuromuscular stimulus, externally initiated. That’s all. But the words slipped out of your mouth before you could repackage them more… appropriately.

“What kind of command should I say?”

Bucky’s brow arched. He shrugged one shoulder, still loose, still watching you like you were the show now. “Anything,” he said, voice smooth but quiet. “Try whatever comes naturally.”

Your brain immediately clicked into gear, cataloging possibilities, filtering for language precision. He’d said command. Singular. Direct.

“Get hard,” you said.

Bucky blinked once, slowly. “You might need to be more specific,” he murmured, the corner of his mouth twitching. “There’s a lotta things in here that can get hard. Floors. Plastics. Steel.”

You paused. Blinked again. Fair. Logical.

Your eyes dropped to the bulge at his front, the soft outline of his cock resting slightly to the left beneath dark cotton.

So you recalibrated. Clarified.

Your voice was steady when you said it:

“I command the cock of Bucky Barnes to get hard.”

The silence that followed wasn’t quiet. It was crackling. Electric.

And then—it worked.

You watched, frozen, as the shape beneath his briefs shifted. Thickened. From a resting weight to something firmer. Fuller. The fabric tightened around him as the shaft pressed upward and outward, no longer soft, no longer passive. He twitched once—just enough to catch your eye—and then kept swelling.

Your lips parted. You didn’t move.

That wasn’t supposed to happen.

It couldn’t happen.

But it had.

And Bucky… Bucky exhaled something between a scoff and a groan, and tipped his head slightly back like he couldn’t believe it either. When he looked at you again, his pupils had darkened, narrowed, and the curve of his lips had turned into something far less amused and far more interested.

“You’re kidding me,” he murmured, shaking his head. “You actually meant that.”

You nodded once, slowly, as your eyes locked onto the now very-obvious bulge straining his briefs.

He smirked, but there was a heat beneath it now—a flicker of something dangerous. His voice dropped a notch deeper.

“More.”

“What?”

“Give me another command,” he said. “Anything. Let’s test your theory.”

You hesitated. A beat too long. Then your eyes dropped again, tracking the shape beneath the black fabric. Your breath hitched—quiet, but noticeable to both of you. Your gloved hand curled reflexively at your side.

You bit your lip.

And then, softly, clinically—

“Twitch for me.”

And it did.

Just slightly. A small, visible movement under fabric. But enough.

A pulse. A response. An involuntary contraction of arousal-based musculature.

Your throat went dry.

A chill spidered down your spine, despite the warmth flooding your neck. Your mind scrambled to reframe this—to maintain control—but this no longer felt like controlled scientific inquiry. This was crossing into something else. Something biological. Something reproductive.

This wasn’t a training module anymore.

This was a live demonstration.

And you were the sole witness.

—

Bucky’s fingers curled under the waistband of his briefs.

He held your stare for a moment—something unspoken hanging in the air between you—and then he pulled them down.

Not rushed. Not coy. Just practical. Like it was necessary for the demonstration.

“You wanna learn properly, right?” he said. His voice was smooth, but edged. “Gotta see it bare if you want the full data.”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

Because your breath caught the moment it came into view.

You choked—literally—on your own saliva.

Half-hard, and already thick. Heavy. You could see the potential of it, the way the veins curved beneath flushed skin, the slight upward tilt even in its semi state. It looked obscene without even being fully erect yet, and you couldn’t stop your eyes from tracing it, from measuring it mentally like you were still running diagnostics.

But you weren’t anymore. You knew that now.

Bucky saw your stare, the way your eyes had locked there like you forgot how to blink. His voice dropped, barely audible over the thick hum of your pulse.

“Give me another command.”

Something in your body responded before your brain did. Your feet shifted—one step forward. Then another. And another. Four in total. Just enough to bring you closer. Close enough that you didn’t have to squint to see the twitch of him. The weight of it.

Your gaze finally broke from his cock and lifted—slow, dazed—until you met his eyes again. There was something in them now. Not confusion. Not amusement.

Permission.

“Stroke it for me,” you said, voice quieter than before. Not clinical. Not innocent. Just… real.

And that was the moment the game changed.

Bucky’s breath stuttered once in his throat, just the smallest hitch. Because now, you weren’t analyzing—you were participating.

And he liked that. He liked it a lot.

He wrapped his flesh hand around the base, slow and deliberate, his thumb swiping just under the tip as he started to stroke upward in long, lazy pulls. His cock twitched again in his palm, growing harder with every pass. No sounds left his mouth. His jaw clenched. His brows pulled tight. But he didn’t moan.

He was waiting for you to tell him to.

You shifted in place, thighs pressing together with a sudden, instinctive squeeze. Your breathing went uneven, and the pressure building between your legs was no longer something you could rationalize away. Wetness pooled at the center of your panties. Your skin was hot. Your thoughts a blur of static and want.

Your eyes dropped again. His cock had grown—thicker, longer, flushed deep at the head. Veins thickened along the shaft. The slide of his hand was smooth, practiced. Deliberate.

Your mouth opened again.

“Stroke faster.”

He obeyed instantly.

The rhythm changed, tightened, faster now—fingers gliding up the length, thumb brushing the tip each time in a way that made the muscles in his stomach twitch. His breathing picked up, but still no sound. Still waiting.

You stared.

Hard. Thick. Veined. It should’ve been obscene, but you couldn’t look away. The way his cock reacted to your voice felt like an experiment gone wrong—or maybe perfectly right. And you were the one holding the data, holding the power.

Your pulse beat between your legs.

And then—a glint.

Your eyes caught it before you could process it.

A bead of pre-cum had leaked from the tip, catching the light under the bright med-bay fluorescents. It clung there, glistening.

You groaned.

Not intentionally. Not performatively.

It was raw, low, a breathy little sound dragged straight from your chest before you could clamp it down.

And when you realized what you’d done, your hand flew to your mouth.

Bucky’s fist slowed for just a moment.

Then he smirked—eyes dark, blown wide, a faint sheen of sweat forming across his collarbone.

“That wasn’t very professional,” he murmured.

—

Bucky’s fist moved faster now—stroking with a pace that was no longer lazy or exploratory. It was urgent. Determined. Testing both your commands and his own control.

His eyes flicked up to you again, and this time his voice had a rasp to it. Thicker. Needier.

“Come on,” he said lowly, just above a whisper. “What’s next, huh? Moans? Touch? You’re running the experiment, right? Gotta get all your data points.”

The words coiled low in your abdomen like a tightening wire. He was pushing you now—not resisting, not breaking the role—but tempting you to go further. Daring you.

And fuck, you were already too far gone to backpedal.

You watched the way his cock jerked in his hand, the head flushed and leaking. The pace was obscene—wet, rhythmic, fast.

“Stop,” you said, breathless but firm.

His hand froze instantly, mid-stroke.

You stepped closer, chest rising with shallow breaths.

“Now grip it tight. At the base. Like a cock ring.”

His jaw clenched. But he obeyed.

Fingers slid down, wrapped tight at the base. The moment he squeezed, his hips jolted just slightly—a tiny thrust he didn’t mean to give. The muscles in his stomach twitched. His lips parted.

A whimper escaped him. Soft. Strained. Like it had been forced through grit teeth. Not a moan. But close.

Your own breath caught.

Something about that sound—his frustration, his restraint, the way he held himself back on your order—sent a hot wave crashing through your core.

Your nipples peaked, the fabric of your bra suddenly too tight, too abrasive, like even the fibers couldn’t stand not touching you directly. Heat spread low in your belly, soaking between your thighs. You didn’t dare look down at yourself. You didn’t need to.

You already felt how soaked you were.

Your eyes didn’t leave his cock.

It twitched slightly in his grip.

Alive.

Waiting.

You swallowed, and then—

“Moan for me.”

He did.

Not a pornographic moan. Not some overdone, fake gasp. It was real.

It started low in his chest, almost like a growl — rough, full of restraint snapping open. It vibrated in his throat before it left his mouth, his jaw slackening as he let out a slow, masculine moan that sounded like it had been pent up for hours.

“F-fuck—” he gasped, voice catching. “That what you wanted?”

It was full of yearning. Of weight. Like he’d been aching to be heard, and now your voice was the only one he’d obey.

Your thighs squeezed again, tighter this time. You shifted on instinct, trying to ease the pressure building deep inside you. But it was no use.

He saw it.

Saw you squirm, saw your chest rise like you couldn’t catch your breath, saw the tremble in your fingers now clenched around the edge of the tray behind you.

And he smiled.

But this one… wasn’t mocking.

It was sharp. Almost feral.

His hand still gripped the base of his cock, skin tight and flushed. But he didn’t move. He just looked at you, pupils blown wide.

Then—his voice dropped to something darker. More commanding.

“Your turn.”

You blinked.

“What?”

His smirk widened just slightly, voice gravel-smooth, no longer soft or playful.

“Take the gloves off,” he said. “Then touch me. And let’s stop pretending this is still about Hydra.”

—

For a moment, you hesitated.

Just a breath.

Then you peeled off your gloves—one hand, then the other—fingers flexing slightly in the cool med-bay air. The sterile barrier was gone now. There was no pretending this was still clinical. This wasn’t about notes. This wasn’t about data.

This was about him. And you.

Your footsteps were slow, measured, as you stepped the last bit of distance between you and Bucky. He stood in front of the med-bed, body bare from the waist down, cock flushed and leaking, his chest rising just a little faster now.

You reached out.

Your fingers wrapped around him—replacing his own grip at the base. He let go immediately, lifting his hand away to let you take over, the breath in his throat catching as your skin made contact.

He was hot. Heavy. Alive in your palm, twitching slightly as your hand encircled the base. The skin was soft where it needed to be, velvet over steel, and the tip was slick and pulsing.

You looked up at him.

Your gaze met his, and his eyes were dark, narrowed—hungry.

His lips parted just slightly, voice rough and short.

“Stroke me. Then blow me.”

The order made your thighs clench.

You obeyed without speaking.

Your hand began to move, slow at first, adjusting to the shape and heat of him, your grip gentle, exploratory. You watched the way his stomach flexed with each pass, the subtle twitch of muscle when you passed your thumb over the tip, smearing the pre-cum slowly down the shaft.

You leaned in.

Just slightly at first, tilting your head forward, your breath skating warm over the flushed head. Bucky’s eyes dropped to your mouth.

Then your tongue slipped out—just a taste.

One slow lick, right over the tip.

He groaned. Low. Guttural. His head tipped back for a split second, throat flexing.

You licked again, bolder this time, then wrapped your lips around the head of his cock and drew him in—slowly. You hollowed your cheeks slightly, using just enough pressure to feel him respond, the weight of him dragging your mouth open more as you took him deeper.

Your hand didn’t stop moving.

You stroked while you sucked—your fist gliding up and down the base in sync with your lips pulling wetly around the top. The angle made it easy, almost natural, to slide into a steady rhythm. Before long, your knees found the cold tile beneath you, and you dropped fully down.

On your knees for him.

Bucky’s hand reached for you.

His fingers threaded through your hair—not yanking, not controlling, but guiding. His palm cradled the back of your head, gentle but firm, keeping you steady, helping you move with him.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Jesus—you feel…”

He didn’t finish the sentence.

He didn’t need to.

You felt it—every twitch, every surge. You could taste him. Hear the sound of your mouth working over him—slick, lewd, hot. His cock throbbed under your tongue, and your hand was slick with saliva and pre-cum now, sliding faster, keeping pace.

Your thighs were soaked. You didn’t dare check.

This was no longer about commands.

This was about the way he moaned when your lips sank lower.

About how his hips gave a slow, helpless jerk when your tongue curled underneath.

About how your name—or maybe a prayer—slipped from his lips like he was giving in.

—

Bucky’s moans were getting ragged—too close. You could feel it in the way his hand tightened at the back of your head, the subtle twitch in his hips, the tremble riding down the backs of his thighs. He was losing control.

But then—he stopped.

His cock slid from your mouth with a wet pop, strings of saliva still clinging as he stepped back, and his hand released your hair with a gentleness that contrasted the tension still buzzing in the air.

You blinked up at him, breathless. Lips swollen, jaw slack.

Confused.

He leaned down suddenly, close, the blunt edge of his nose brushing your cheek, his mouth ghosting against your ear.

“I gotta stop,” he said, voice thick and wrecked. “If I keep going, I’m gonna come—and that’s not how I want this to end.”

Before you could speak, he inhaled sharply, slow and deliberate—right near your neck, your shoulder.

“I can smell you,” he whispered, so close you could feel his breath. “So sweet… fuck, you smell good. Like heat. Like need. It’s all I can fucking think about.”

Your throat tightened. Your thighs instinctively pressed together, but it was no use. Your panties were soaked through. You could feel it now—sticky against your skin, the telltale ache of need building deep and low.

He pulled back, eyes locking with yours.

“Get on the bed.”

You didn’t think. You just moved.

You climbed onto the med-bed, hands shaking as you laid flat, the sterile paper beneath your back crinkling under you. Your chest rose and fell too fast. Your heart was hammering.

Bucky stepped up beside you, fingers moving straight to the controls along the side panel. You watched him adjust the platform—angling it upward, shifting it higher, higher—until your hips were raised perfectly at the edge, aligned with the height of the rolling med-chair he pulled in behind him.

Then his hands went to your waist.

He hooked his fingers into the waistband of your uniform pants—flicking the button open, tugging down the zipper slowly.

His eyes stayed on yours the whole time.

The fabric slid down your hips, over your thighs, exposing your underwear—already ruined.

His gaze finally dropped, and the sound he made was primal. A low, breathless groan punched straight from his chest.

“Fuck,” he breathed. “Look at that.”

Your panties were dark with arousal, wet from center to seam, clinging to your folds. His thumb grazed the soaked cotton, dragging it along the sticky heat there.

“You’re this wet for me?” he murmured. “Just from watching me stroke my cock?”

You swallowed but didn’t answer. You couldn’t. Your hips tilted slightly into his touch, searching for more.

He hooked his fingers under the waistband and peeled your panties down, slow. As he pulled them off your legs, he paused—his eyes lingering for a heartbeat too long on the soaked gusset—and groaned again under his breath.

If he brought them to his nose, you didn’t see it. You were too busy trying not to tremble as he settled between your thighs.

He grabbed the chair, dragged it forward with one hand, and sat—his eyes level with your cunt now, bare and glistening, exposed completely on the edge of the bed.

“You ever had someone eat you out?” he asked, voice deep and low.

You shook your head. Small. Honest.

A flicker of something passed over his face—dark and pleased. His pupils blew wide, tongue wetting his bottom lip.

“Good,” he said, breath ghosting hot against your inner thighs. “I want to be the first.”

Then he leaned in—and licked you.

The first pass of his tongue was slow, wide, and devastating. A drag from your entrance up to your clit in one long, shivering stroke.

You gasped, back arching. “Oh—!”

He moaned into your cunt, low and deep.

Again.

He licked you slower now, more deliberately, the slurp audible. He nosed into you, spread you with two fingers of his flesh hand and devoured you like it was the only thing he was built to do. His tongue circled, then flattened. Then flicked—messy, wet, perfect.

Your hips twitched. Your hand flew to the bed rail, fingers clenching tight.

“Bucky—” you whimpered, voice trembling.

He grunted into you—sound vibrating straight through your clit.

Then you felt it.

Cold.

His vibranium fingers slid between your folds.

One pressed at your entrance—gentle, firm. A slow stretch as he slipped it in, knuckle by knuckle, filling you in one smooth thrust.

You cried out. Your thighs jerked.

The coldness of metal inside your hot, fluttering walls was overwhelming. You clenched around it instinctively, hips rocking into the sensation.

“Shit—yeah,” Bucky rasped, pulling back enough to speak. “Clenching already? Fuck, you feel good.”

His mouth returned to your clit, tongue circling, then sucking, lips closing around it just right.

At the same time, that finger started to move. A slow, deliberate rhythm. In and out, curling just slightly.

You whimpered. Your eyes squeezed shut. The heat building between your legs was unbearable.

“More—” you gasped. “I want—”

You didn’t finish the sentence.

You didn’t have to.

Because your body had already betrayed you—back arching, hips bucking, slick dripping down to his palm.

His mouth sucked harder, tongue flicking faster, finger fucking you deeper—and you felt yourself start to unravel.

His breath hit your cunt when he spoke again.

“You want more?” His voice was rough, dark. “Say it. Tell me what you need.”

—

Your back arched as the first vibranium finger curled inside you, drawing another soft whimper from your lips. You needed more. The pressure was good—but not enough. Not yet.

Your hips rocked forward instinctively, searching, rolling toward his mouth, his hand, anything he’d give.

“Please,” you breathed, voice trembling. “Another…”

Bucky didn’t hesitate.

Another cool, sleek finger joined the first, easing in slowly with a delicious stretch that made your thighs jerk open wider. He groaned against your cunt as he watched your body react.

“That’s it,” he murmured, lips brushing against your inner thigh. “Take it. Just like that.”

Your hips rolled, desperate for more friction. The pressure was growing deeper, stronger—but it still wasn’t enough. Your moans grew softer, more frequent, broken by panting breaths. You couldn’t form words. Couldn’t ask.

But he knew.

Without needing permission, he slid a third vibranium finger inside you, and that made you cry out.

“F-fuck—” you gasped, legs shaking.

The stretch was intense—your walls clenching tight around the cool metal, fluttering with every slow curl of his fingers. You didn’t know you could feel this full from just fingers. But the pressure was perfect. Overwhelming. Too much and not enough at the same time.

Bucky groaned, his own voice ragged now.

“Fuck, look at you,” he said, voice thick and reverent. “Clenching around me like you’re starving for it.”

He set a faster rhythm, fingers pumping into you with slick, wet sounds that filled the space between your own needy moans. His thumb slid up, circling your clit while his tongue flicked beneath it, and it was too much—your thighs shaking, your breath coming in shallow, desperate bursts.

Your hands gripped the rail above your head. Your body was so close, teetering, right there—

And then he stopped.

Just like that.

You whimpered, a broken sob of air as your hips bucked forward, trying to chase the friction he just took away.

“No—” you gasped.

He didn’t answer. He just sat back slightly, eyes hooded with heat, breath heavy, fingers soaked in your arousal.

He raised his hand to his mouth.

Licked the wet off one finger.

“Fuck,” he muttered. “You taste so sweet. Addictive.”

Then, to your surprise, he brought those same fingers to your lips.

You parted them without thinking.

The taste of yourself hit your tongue—salty, musky, warm. It made you moan softly, eyes fluttering closed.

Bucky’s hand dropped, and he leaned over you, one arm curling around your waist as he pulled you upright from the bed in one swift, effortless move. Your legs wrapped around him loosely, chest pressed to his, your soaked cunt still throbbing.

He kissed you.

And it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t desperate. It was claiming.

Slow. Deep. The kind of kiss that spoke everything his mouth couldn’t say. Tongue sliding against yours, hands anchoring you close, his cock thick and hard between your bodies.

You broke the kiss first, breath catching in your throat. A soft moan escaped you as you leaned into the crook of his neck, lips brushing his jaw, your breath hot against his ear.

“I need your cock,” you whispered, voice shaking. “Inside. Now.”

He jolted. Just slightly—but you felt it. The way his fingers dug into your hips, the way his cock twitched hard against your stomach.

“Are you sure?” he asked, voice rough. “We don’t have to go that far. I can just—keep going. Oral only. Or I can stop.”

But you weren’t having that.

You pulled back just enough to look him in the eye.

Your voice steady now. Low. Commanding.

“It’s a command. Fuck me. Use your cock.”

Something in him broke.

His expression shifted instantly—lips parting, pupils dilating, breath punching out of him like you’d knocked the air from his lungs. And then his hands were on your hips, dragging you down the bed, adjusting your angle.

“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed.

—

Bucky stepped in close, hands firm on your thighs as he aligned his cock at your entrance. You were still clinging to him from the kiss—legs locked around his waist, hips tilted forward—and the tip of him slid through your slick folds, gliding right up to your clit.

You gasped. Your arms tightened around his shoulders.

He let his forehead rest against yours, breath hot between your lips.

“Gonna split you open real slow, doll,” he whispered, voice dark and low. “Wanna make sure you feel me for days. Wanna make you think of my cock when you’re sittin’ at that medic desk, squirming in that chair…”

You whimpered, breath catching hard in your throat.

He shifted his hips slightly, the fat head of his cock nudging right at your entrance. There. Warm. Heavy.

“Still okay?” he asked, eyes scanning your face.

You nodded quickly—too fast.

But Bucky didn’t move yet.

He was patient. His flesh hand slid to your lower back, supporting you. His vibranium arm cradled under your thighs. You were secure. Held. Open.

He pushed in slowly.

The stretch was immediate.

Your breath hitched. Your brows pinched tight.

It wasn’t pain. It wasn’t discomfort.

It was just—a lot.

So thick. So full. Your walls struggled to accommodate the girth of him, every inch pressing into you with that impossible, deliberate pressure.

Your fingers clawed slightly at his back, seeking grounding. Your lips parted around a breathy, trembling moan.

He stilled halfway.

“Talk to me,” he whispered. “Need me to stop?”

You shook your head. “Just—need a second. You’re…”

“I know,” he muttered, placing a soft kiss against your temple. “You’re taking it so well.”

His cock twitched inside you, and the sensation made your core flutter around him again.

You adjusted your hips subtly, trying to find that sweet angle, and he caught your eyes—dark, hungry, but still gentle.

You gave him a tiny nod.

“Okay.”

He eased forward again, the rest of him slowly sheathing inside—inch by thick inch—until his hips met yours and you were completely full.

You both paused.

You gasped softly, still trying to breathe through the stretch. He stayed still, letting you feel everything: his length, his weight, the way he filled every space inside you like he was made for it.

Then—he began to move.

His hips rolled forward, slow and deep. A drag of thick cock against tight, soaked walls. You moaned quietly into his neck, your arms around his shoulders as he rocked into you with careful, steady rhythm.

“Fuck, you feel good,” he groaned. “Tightest fuckin’ thing I’ve ever felt. Gripping me like you don’t wanna let go.”

You didn’t. Couldn’t. Your body wrapped around him like instinct, taking everything he gave, hips jerking slightly with each push forward.

The pace stayed tender, but every thrust got a little deeper.

He lifted you slightly with each one, your thighs trembling around his waist.

But after a while, he slowed again—kissed your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your mouth.

Then his voice dropped.

“Turn around for me.”

You blinked up at him, dazed. “What?”

“Wanna see you bend over that bed,” he said, voice rough. “Wanna fuck you from behind. Real slow. Let you feel every inch while you arch that back for me.”

You moaned.

He slowly pulled out—slick and thick and aching—then gently set you down on the mattress.

The bed hissed slightly as he adjusted the height down, just enough to allow your knees to hit the floor if needed. You leaned forward, hands braced on the mattress, spine arching as he guided you into place.

Your cunt throbbed—open and wet, dripping for him.

“That’s it,” he muttered behind you. “Just like that.”

Then he slid back in.

Your mouth dropped open with a gasp as his cock filled you again from behind—this time deeper, the angle hitting something different, something devastating.

He kept his hands firm on your hips, pulling you back gently as he rocked forward. The rhythm wasn’t hard—but deliberate. Controlled. Every stroke sank to the hilt, then withdrew just enough to let you feel the drag before he shoved back in.

You whimpered, braced against the bed, flushed from the neck down.

And he just kept going.

“Still good, baby?” he murmured, thumb brushing over the curve of your lower back.

You nodded, nearly trembling. “S-so good…”

But the words were starting to fall apart.

So was your mind.

And neither of you had even come yet.

—

Bucky’s thrusts deepened, hips rolling into yours at a steady, dragging pace. Each stroke hit just right, and you were keening for him—barely holding yourself upright, knuckles white as you clutched the edge of the med-bed beneath you.

But then his rhythm slowed.

You gasped when he slipped out, your empty cunt fluttering at the sudden loss. Before you could speak, his hands were already guiding your hips—flipping you over with a gentleness that made your heart twist.

You landed on your back.

He hovered over you for just a beat, gaze sweeping your face.

Then he leaned down and kissed you—slow and tender. Like a thank you. Like a promise.

“Lie back,” he murmured against your lips. “Wanna see your face when you come.”

Your cheeks burned. But you obeyed.

You slid further onto the mattress until you were lying flat, arms at your sides, heart pounding in your ears. He followed—climbed onto the narrow bed, the space barely enough for him, but he made it work.

He settled between your thighs again, and without a word, lined himself up.

Then—he pushed back in.

Your body stretched around him once more, the delicious fullness making you gasp. He groaned softly above you, head dropping to your shoulder.

And then he started to move.

Still gentle—but faster now.

Deeper. The strokes came in a rhythm designed to wreck you, his hips driving into yours, the mattress squeaking faintly beneath the both of you. His mouth hovered over yours, your foreheads touching, breath shared.

You looked up at him—really looked—and something in your chest cracked open.

He was flushed. Focused. Eyes trained on every expression you made. Every gasp. Every tremble.

“You’re so close, huh?” he whispered, voice rough. “Can feel you squeezing me.”

You nodded, breath caught in your throat. Your hands gripped his shoulders now, fingers digging into his back.

“Bucky—” you choked. “I’m— I’m coming—”

His mouth found yours as you shattered beneath him.

Your entire body clenched around his cock, heat surging through you like a wave breaking. Your walls pulsed tight around him, spasming with every beat of your climax. Your legs shook. Your fingers trembled. Your voice caught somewhere between a moan and a sob.

And he kept going—just enough to help you ride it out, hips rocking in slow, shallow thrusts as your body twitched and trembled beneath him.

“That’s it,” he whispered. “Just like that. You did so fucking good…”

When your spasms started to ease—when your cunt stopped fluttering and your hips finally slumped against the mattress—he pulled out, slick and twitching.

His hand wrapped around his cock, stroking hard and fast.

You could barely watch, breathless and dazed, but the sight of him, flushed and towering above you, fucking his fist with your arousal still shining on him—it was filthy in the best way.

A few strokes later, he came.

Hot ropes spilled across your lower belly, streaking your thighs in thick, warm pulses. He grunted low, teeth clenched, brows furrowed as his release overtook him.

You lay there, wrecked. Chest heaving. Skin slick with sweat.

Bucky? He panted for a moment—but that Super Soldier thing had him steadying fast. He leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your stomach, just above the mess he’d made.

Then he reached for the tissue box by the tray.

You flinched when the cool wipe hit your thigh, but he was gentle—careful as he cleaned the sticky remnants off your skin. His touch wasn’t sexual anymore. It was care. Quiet. Wordless.

He helped you sit up, tugging your pants back into place like it was second nature. Buttoned them for you. His fingers lingered at the waistband.

Neither of you spoke right away.

You didn’t need to.

There was no awkwardness. No guilt. Just… this unspoken truth between you.

This would happen again.

You both knew it.

Bucky looked around the room once everything was cleaned—bed straightened, gloves tossed, no trace left.

Then he turned to you, mouth tugging at one corner in a crooked grin.

“Maybe next time,” he said, voice low, “we try sex on command, too?”

You laughed softly, breath still shaky.

You nodded.

“Yeah,” you said. “For documentation purposes.”

💌: @iamthatonefangirl @sonja-blayde

#bucky barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes x you #bucky barnes fic #bucky x reader #bucky x you #bucky barnes smut #bucky barnes one shot #જ⁀➴ by elle #bucky barnes x fem reader #mcu!bucky smut #mcu!bucky fic #mcu!bucky #thunderbolts!bucky

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mustafaozkanbulut · 2 years ago

Video

youtube

WİNDOWS KAYIT DEFTERİ TEMİZLE | BAŞLANGIÇ UYGULAMALARINI SIRA İLE BAŞLAT

#youtube #registry clean #kayıt defteri #windows kayıt defteri temizle

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the-way-astray · 3 months ago

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elves when they want to bite their partners’ necks but the fucking. registry pendant. is in the way:

Ancient Councillor: hey guys, we need to find a way to keep track of our citizens. Should we use tracking bracelets, or implant chips under their skin, or—

Councillor With A Kink: what if we made everyone wear collars

#and they don’t get to take them off ever ever ever ever which is really funny to me. not to sleep not to shower #so there’s probably a layer of grime there. maybe there’s a special way to stay clean even with it on but it’s never mentioned in canon #kotlc #kotlc worldbuilding #registry pendants #kotlc registry pendants

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explicit-tae · 1 month ago

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Fuck it, a look at "Not Until I Say So" with professor jungkook and camgirl reader

“Excuse me.”

Your eyes dart open and the vibrator drops from your hands. Your head snaps to the left and your soul nearly leaves your body. Your vibrator buzzes against the marble floor as your heart leaps from your chest.

“P-Prof-fessor!”

You drop from Professor Jeon’s desk, wrapping your arms in front of your chest - that was now unbuttoned and fully displaying your bare chest.

“W-What are-”

“What are you doing?” Jungkook responds, glancing from you to your phone. “You…do realize you’re being recorded right?”

You swallow, nodding shamefully. “I-I..I cam…from time to time.” you murmur sheepishly, your body trembling underneath his gaze. “I’m so sorry, Professor Jeon-”

Jungkook only chuckles for a moment before shaking his head.

“No, I mean there’s a camera in this room.” Jungkook corrects. He points to the ceiling where one, circular dome sits. “It’s new. I use it to assure no one cheats.”

Your eyes follow his pointing hand. You close your eyes, feeling utterly stupid right now. It was just your luck that you would get caught - and on camera that that wasn’t the camera you intended on being a part of.

“You do realize what you’re doing could get you put on a registry?”

Jungkook begins to stroll closer to you. His steps are cool and relaxed and they do not match that of someone upset at finding one of his students being indecent in his classroom.

“I’ll go!” you plead, shaking your head. “I-I’ll clean up before I do and-”

“No,” Professor Jeon stops a few feet away from you. Shoulders relaxed and dark eyes staring right at you through round lenses. “continue.”

#jungkook x reader #professor jungkook #jungkook smut #teacher x student

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smellysluna · 2 months ago

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Chapter One | Again, And Again, And You

Chapter One: One Last Time

Pairing: Sung Jinwoo x Reader

Word Count: 3,4k

Summary:

You've lived through countless timelines—each one shaped by monsters, magic, and the unbearable weight of knowing too much. Until you wake up in a version of reality where none of that ever happened. No dungeons. No deaths. Just high school… and him. Sung Jinwoo—quiet, intense, and impossibly familiar—is here too, and maybe this time, it'll be you who changes his world.

Notes:

Omg I can't believe how quickly the pilot chapter got attention! TT_TT I originally planned to start this story in a world with no hunters but then I started writing the timeline where you and Jinwoo meet for the first time and… I couldn’t stop. So just humor me one last time before the normalcy kicks in :p

Read the pilot chapter

Masterlist | Next

Your first record of Sung Jinwoo had been two timelines ago—just a name buried deep in raid reports. A hunter barely scraping by, so low-ranked he’d been declared a public hazard. You remembered thinking it was a miracle he kept going. That same timeline, his mother—still healthy then—would deliver food to the Association’s waiting room, handing out rice balls to tired, bloody hunters.

She smiled at you once. “You look like you carry the world, dear.”

You hadn’t known then how much weight your shoulders could still bear.

And now, Sung Jinwoo’s name keeps popping up in impossible places. Came out of a double dungeon. Returned from a C-rank dungeon. A Red Gate survivor. Then, all at once, disappeared from official listings—only to reappear as someone different. Stronger. Faster.

You didn’t know him personally then. Not really. But in this timeline, he was being the shift in logic.

You watched through mirrored glass the day he got reassessed as a hunter—watched the shock on Choi Jong-in and Baek Yoon-ho’s faces the moment Sung Jinwoo invoked some of his shadows.

Now he was walking the long hallway toward the press, Korea’s 10th S-Rank hunter about to step into the world’s spotlight.

“Wait,” you said.

He slowed, then turned halfway, gaze quiet and unreadable.

You stepped forward and held out a matte black card. No branding. No guild.

“It’s not another recruitment pitch, is it?” he asked, voice low but wry.

“No,” you said. “Just a fail-safe,” you continued. “Independent funding. Private clean-up teams. You won’t find them in the Association’s registry..”

He glanced at the card, then at you. “That sounds expensive.”

“It is,” you said plainly.

He didn’t reach for it. Not immediately.

Instead, he just stood there, eyes on yours, the card between you like something alive. Then, slowly, his gaze lowered again. You could practically hear the quiet debate ticking behind his calm.

From his side, it made sense—too many unknowns ahead, too many moving parts. He didn’t trust easily, but even he knew better than to ignore a tool handed freely. Especially from someone who’d clearly been watching.

Eventually, he took it. Slipped it into the inside of his hoodie without a word.

You nodded once, already stepping back. “Good luck out there,” you said.

He didn’t reply. Just gave you one last look—not suspicious, not cold. Just… watching. Like he was still deciding what to make of you.

And then he was gone, stepping out into the light, into the questions, into the role fate had finally carved out for him.

Later that evening, you sat alone in your guild office, lights dimmed, the city humming in the distance. The buzz around him hadn’t died down—it had only grown louder. But your attention was elsewhere.

Patterns. Disturbances. Gates that didn’t open when they should’ve. Energy readings that didn’t match up.

You didn’t have a system. Or strength. What you had were memories—fractured timelines stitched together with stubbornness and obsession.

And for once, just once, that quiet weight on your shoulders felt… lighter.

Because maybe—maybe—this time, things could go differently.

He didn’t exist last time.

But he did now.

And that had to mean something.

You didn’t interfere much after that. Not directly.

You watched him rise in the way you hoped—faster, stronger, more decisive with every step. The headlines blurred together: Solo clear. Dungeon break intercepted. Shadow army. King of the battlefield.

But it wasn’t enough to soothe the ticking in your chest.

Not when the Jeju Island raid was coming.

You’d read the preliminary reports like someone staring down the barrel of a gun.

Go Gunhee’s message. The call for volunteers.

And the date.

That date.

You couldn’t breathe.

You couldn’t move.

Not again.

You remembered the last timeline too clearly. The way the fifth raid had started with so much forced hope.

And ended in screaming.

You remembered the ant queen’s cries.

The way the Ant King burst from the hive, scenting blood, asking for our King.

The way you ran—too slow, too far from the evac zone.

You remembered teeth. And heat. And the crunch of your own ribs.

It hadn’t even been quick.

You remembered the sound you made when it dragged you away from the others.

Like a wounded thing.

You remembered how long it took to die.

You still woke up choking on phantom blood some nights.

You weren’t sure if any reset could ever make that feeling go away.

So this time, you didn’t hesitate.

Didn’t pretend to be neutral.

Didn’t wait for someone else to ask.

You tracked Jinwoo down yourself.

The corridor outside the main conference room had emptied out, the long stretch of fluorescent lights humming softly above. You leaned against the cool wall, arms folded across your chest, gaze fixed on the far end of the hallway—where Sung Jinwoo still stood.

He hadn’t left with the others. Neither had you.

He noticed your eyes on him, and turned just enough to meet your stare.

“You’ve been quiet in there,” he said first, voice low, casual—but not cold. “Didn’t seem like your usual... persuasive self.”

You tilted your head, pushing off the wall and taking slow steps toward him. “I’m saving my energy.”

That made him smile, barely. He glanced at you sidelong, picking up on the weight behind your words.

For a moment, neither of you said anything. You in your pressed suit and practiced calm; him in a plain black jacket, posture relaxed, looking more like a student caught after hours than a hunter on the edge of a national crisis.

“I assume Director Go sent you?” he asked. “Trying to tip the scales before the raid?”

“He asked if I’d talk to you,” you replied, measured but honest. “But I’m not doing this for him.”

That got his attention. He shifted, now fully facing you, expression unreadable but eyes narrowed—focused.

“Then why?”

You hesitated. Not because you didn’t know what to say—but because none of the true answers were ones you could give. Not yet. Maybe not ever.

So you smiled, slow and faint, like it was nothing more than a passing feeling.

“Just a hunch,” you said. “Call it intuition. You’ve got good instincts—I do too.”

Jinwoo studied your face for a beat longer. “A hunch that I’m the deciding factor in this raid?”

“There’s a lot of firepower going in,” you said, shrugging. “Japan’s elite. Korea’s S-Ranks. On paper, it looks solid.”

He nodded once, almost agreeing. “Exactly. So why push?”

You met his gaze evenly. “Because on paper, everything always looks solid. Until it’s not.”

He didn’t reply immediately. But his eyes lingered, darker now, a flicker of something uncertain behind them. He knew better than most what a raid falling apart looked like.

And so did you.

“I think you’re putting a lot of faith in me,” he said, finally.

“I think you’re someone we can’t afford to leave out,” you said.

His gaze sharpened again, searching your face for something—motive, maybe. Weakness. A tell. But all he found was patience, and restraint.

“…You talk like you know more than you’re letting on,” he murmured.

You smiled faintly. “I read a lot of reports.”

He gave a short exhale, running a hand through his hair in thought. “Or you just think too much.”

“Maybe,” you allowed. “Maybe I do.”

He looked away, toward the far window where the last edge of twilight was fading behind the glass.

“I think you’re underestimating how much manpower’s already on board,” he said, more to himself than to you.

You didn’t argue. Just looked at him, steady and calm. “Just think about it, Mr. Sung.”

He wasn’t going to answer any time soon. But you saw the tension in his shoulders when he turned to leave—the way something you said had hooked onto him, lingering.

You didn’t ask again. Not out loud.

But as he walked away down the corridor, your eyes stayed on his back, the weight of that unspoken plea trailing behind him like one of his own shadows.

He didn’t look back as he walked away.

But something about your words wouldn’t leave him.

Later that night, Jinwoo sat alone in his apartment, elbows on the table, fingers loosely laced. The overhead light cast a warm, dull glow on the open envelope in front of him—the official request from the Hunter’s Association.

He hadn’t signed it yet.

Across from him, the other chair sat empty, like it always did. The small kitchen behind him was clean, too clean, as though he were still afraid to settle into the idea of home. His mother was asleep in the next room—safe, breathing steadily. He could hear the faint hum of her medical monitor, now nothing more than a precaution.

And still, his chest was tight.

He leaned back and exhaled slowly, staring at the ceiling like it might offer some kind of answer.

You were different. He hadn’t known you long—barely spoken more than a handful of times—but today something in the way you looked at him had gotten under his skin.

Not in an irritating way. Not really. More like… unsettling.

You didn’t try to flatter him. You didn’t bargain or threaten. You’d just looked him in the eye, calm and steady, and said “Just a hunch.”

No dramatics. No desperation. And somehow, that had made it worse.

He wasn’t used to people asking things of him without giving away what they wanted in return.

You had held back—deliberately.

And yet, you hadn’t seemed like someone who withheld for manipulation’s sake. You were simply... protecting something. Maybe even yourself.

He sighed again, raking a hand through his hair and reaching for the form. His pen hovered above the line.

“Just a hunch,” he muttered under his breath, almost scoffing.

But that wasn’t the part that echoed loudest in his mind.

“I think you’re someone we can’t afford to leave out.”

His fingers tapped the edge of the table. He closed his eyes, leaned back again. There were plenty of reasons not to go. He’d already done more than enough. He didn’t owe the Association anything. Hell, he’d barely processed what the System had made of him.

But something about tonight had shaken his certainty.

He opened his eyes again. Then, as if by muscle memory, he reached for his phone and opened your name in his contacts—not saved as anything fancy. Just your last name, and an Association number. You’d only messaged him once before, and it had been all business.

Now he stared at the blinking cursor in the chat box.

He typed:

Still thinking.

Then erased it.

Typed again:

You’re hard to ignore.

Deleted it.

Typed one last time:

You free tomorrow?

In the end, he didn’t send anything.

Instead, he locked the screen and set the phone face-down on the table. Then he leaned forward again, elbows on the wood, and let his head fall into his hands.

Something about you made him uneasy—not in a dangerous way, but in a way that made it hard to keep things in the neat, distant lines he preferred.

And that, more than anything, was why he didn’t want to press further.

But later, as the minutes ticked by and the raid drew closer, he caught himself wondering.

What expression would you wear when things went wrong? Would you flinch, look away, shut down? Or would you just sit there—like you always did—too calm, too composed, like you’d already seen it all before?

He hated that he wanted to know.

You weren’t able to sleep days prior to the Jeju Raid.

You sat in the operations room, arms folded tightly, a cold bottle of water sweating on the table beside you. The room was a constant hum of chatter, techs relaying live reports, Go Gunhee barking orders, analysts running projections.

And yet all you could hear was the pulse in your ears.

He hadn’t gone.

Sung Jinwoo had walked out of the hallway without looking back. You didn’t chase him. You didn’t try again. You’d told yourself that one conversation had to be enough.

But now, watching the screens, seeing Korea’s top hunters fall one by one under the swarm—blood, screaming, static—you felt that dread you’d kept buried flare like fire.

This was it. Again.

You were about to watch the world collapse. Again.

…

Then everything changed.

He appeared.

No warning. No fanfare.

Just a shadow unfurling midair, devouring the Ant King in a single, ruthless blur. You rose from your seat before you even knew why, breath catching in your throat.

And then there he was.

On screen.

Alive. Fighting. Surviving.

Saving.

The room erupted in disbelief, cheers, tears—you didn’t speak. Couldn’t. You just stared at the screen with shaking hands.

For the first time in a long time, the world didn’t end too soon.

You never spoke to him about Jeju.

Not then. Not after.

He didn’t seek you out, and you gave him the space he deserved. You stopped trying to influence him, to nudge him toward choices you'd once thought necessary. And he, in turn, never asked why you’d looked so devastated in that hallway.

But something had changed.

When he passed you at Association meetings, he’d nod slightly. Sometimes he’d hold your gaze a little longer than necessary. You didn’t speak, but you were no longer strangers circling one another.

You were orbiting the same gravity.

Time passed. Battles were fought in silence.

You saw what he became.

You read every report. Followed every step, even when the world stopped understanding him.

And before the skies tore open and the Rulers arrived—when the final confrontation edged near—he found you.

He didn’t tell you where he was taking you.

Just showed up, hands tucked in his coat pockets, gaze a little uncertain like he wasn’t sure if he had the right to ask.

But he did.

He always did.

“Do you want to go somewhere?” he asked, quietly, as if louder words might shatter the moment.

You nodded before thinking too hard about it.

You didn’t ask where. You trusted him.

The city faded behind you as the car wove through narrow, twisting roads, climbing gently uphill. Somewhere in the distance, the sea must’ve been waiting—you could smell it in the air, feel the shift in the wind. He didn’t speak, and neither did you.

Eventually, he pulled off the road onto a path that curved around the cliffs. You stepped out into a wide, open scenery: rough grass underfoot, ocean stretching endless below, the wind soft and cool as it tugged at your coat. The sky was pale gold, almost transparent at the edges.

There was no one else.

You walked side by side, not quite brushing shoulders, the sound of the sea below rising and falling in rhythm with your steps.

It wasn’t until the sun began to sink lower that Jinwoo finally spoke.

“You’ve been quiet lately.”

You looked over, a little caught off guard. “…What do you mean?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just kept walking, hands still in his pockets.

“You used to… say more. Ask things. Push.” A pause. “Not in a bad way.”

You exhaled, eyes on the sea.

“You didn’t need me,” you said.

The wind tugged at his hair. He didn’t reply right away, and you didn’t press. You didn’t expect him to say anything at all, really.

But then—“That’s not true.”

The words were quiet. Honest. A little raw.

You glanced at him, but he wasn’t looking at you. He was watching the water like it might answer something he couldn’t say aloud.

“I didn’t always show it,” he said. “But… it was nice having someone trust me. When everyone else didn’t.”

You didn’t know what to say to that. So you said nothing.

The silence between you shifted. Not awkward. Not heavy. Just full—with the things you hadn’t said and didn’t need to.

After a while, he asked, “Why did you trust me, anyways?”

That question again. But this time, it didn’t feel like a test.

You smiled faintly, a bit of wind catching in your hair. “Just a hunch.”

He huffed—barely a laugh, more breath than sound. “You and your hunches.”

“They haven’t failed me yet.”

He looked at you then. Not sharply. Not searching. Just… looking. Like you were something familiar and distant all at once. You wondered if he was trying to memorize this version of you, the quiet one who’d learned when to speak and when to simply walk beside him.

For a moment, it felt like he might say more.

His lips parted. His gaze flicked to your mouth, your hands, then back to the sea.

The words hovered—right there.

But he let them go.

Instead, he shifted a little closer, not enough to touch, just enough to feel the warmth of him.

The sun dipped further behind the horizon, casting everything in a golden glow. The wind was colder now, but neither of you moved to leave.

You didn’t need a confession.

He didn’t need to promise anything.

This moment was enough.

As the last sliver of light disappeared into the ocean, you thought—if this was the last moment you shared before the world changed again, you were grateful it was like this.

Just the two of you.

Somewhere no one could find you.

With silence that said everything.

The ocean breeze lingered in your hair long after the shore vanished. Even as the sky tore open. Even as the world was swallowed by light.

You don’t remember the battle itself—only the silence after.

The kind of silence that comes when a throne crumbles.

When a monarch dies.

Jinwoo had stood over Antares’ fading shadow with blood on his hands and nothing left in his eyes.

And somewhere behind him, the Governor watched without speaking, holding the weight of the decision to come.

No cheers. No final words. Just a quiet understanding.

A choice was made. Rewind.

Not for victory. Not even for peace. But for something else.

The chamber was silent.

Far beneath the layers of the crumbling world, deep in the heart of the Rulers’ domain, the Cup of Reincarnation shimmered—pulsing faintly with an otherworldly glow. Like it was breathing. Like it was waiting.

Sung Jinwoo stood alone.

His armor had receded. The cape, the shadows, the weight of a thousand battles—gone for now. He looked like any man. Young. Tired. Human.

But there was nothing ordinary about this moment.

The Cup radiated stillness and power, endless and ancient. Around him, the Governors watched from a respectful distance, their divine forms solemn and unreadable. They would not interfere. They would not guide.

The choice was his.

Jinwoo stared at the artifact for a long time. In his mind, memories stirred—quiet, like echoes.

His mother’s laughter, soft and bright, as she welcomed Jinah home from school.

His father’s last words.

The weight of Igris' silent loyalty. Bellion’s bowed head. Beru’s mournful gaze before every battle.

And then—

You.

Not your voice or your face. But something harder to describe.

A feeling.

The memory of you on that cliff, hair caught in the wind, eyes steady and knowing. The way you had looked at him—not with fear, not with worship—but as someone who saw the boy beneath the king.

He hadn’t seen you since. You hadn’t tried to contact him. Maybe you knew he wouldn’t be able to answer. Maybe you trusted him enough to know he’d make the right choice.

Maybe you hoped.

He exhaled slowly, the sound barely audible.

So many had fallen. So many would continue to fall.

He could fix it.

Just once more.

A reset. A second chance—not just for him. For everyone.

He looked to the Cup, steps slow but certain as he approached. The energy from it licked at his skin, a strange warmth in the cold.

His fingers hovered over the surface.

He thought of his family.

He thought of you.

And he thought of a world that didn’t have to end in flames.

A soft breath escaped him.

“Just one last time,” he murmured.

Then his hand touched the Cup of Reincarnation.

And the light consumed him.

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Taglist: #open

@snowy-violet @minh907 @o-qi-shisme @shineinouzen15 @awwwia

#solo leveling #solo leveling spoilers #sung jinwoo x you #solo leveling x reader #solo leveling jinwoo #sung jin woo #sung jinwoo #jinwoo sung x reader #sung jinwoo x y/n #only i level up #solo leveling fanfiction #jinwoo x you #jinwoo x reader

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dollyzdaydreamz · 27 days ago

Text

Supernatural Imagine:

Tech savvy Little sister! Reader

Description: After failing to find Dad, you and Dean decide to break into Sam’s apartment and drag him along the search with the two of you.

fluff. just a cute little fic idk.

Warnings: Daddy issues (John, when i catch you, John.), Sibling codependency ( T_T), might have spelling errors

Dean’s hands tapped the steering wheel in rhythm to the static-laced classic rock humming through the Impala’s speakers. He occasionally threw you a sideways glance, maybe to check up on you, before bringing a balled up hand to your mouth to prompt you to sing portions of the song to which you met with a roll of your eyes and a tired mumble of the lyrics,

“You suck,” he mumbled, turning away and roaring the lyrics way too loud for someone whose been driving for three hours.

The leather seat beneath you stuck to your skin from a long day of tracking down dead ends, digging through motel registries, and trying not to lose hope.

You leaned your head against the window, the chilled glass grounding you against the quiet tension hanging between you. The music faded away as Dean sighed,

“I don’t know, Dad wouldn’t just vanish like this.” Dean muttered finally, more to himself than you.

You shifted, curling your fingers into the hem of your coat. “Yeah,” you murmured, looking at him albeit knowingly, “He would.”

Dean glanced at you from the corner of his eye, but didn’t argue. He knew you were right. He just didn’t want to admit it out loud. Sometimes you wondered why he tried so hard to hide you from your dad’s flaws.

John’s absence wasn’t unfamiliar to you. Afterall, it was Dean who witnessed your first steps. Hell, it was some loose variation of his name that tumbled out of your mouth when you uttered your first words.

It was Dean who had to buy you pads and pain killers the first time you woke up with blood pooling into the motel mattress, who boiled a sewing needle clean to pierce your ears with it upon your insistence as Sam reluctantly held the flashlight to your ear with wide eyes.

You huffed at the memory, but still felt a small twinge in your chest at the thought that maybe your first word should’ve been “Dada.” Your first period should’ve been explained to you by the sweet voice of a mother and not two clueless teenage boys, and maybe your ears should’ve been pierced at…Claires or something after Mom told you no.

But life wasn’t that simple, the monsters you saw on the daily had proven that.

“So…” he said after a long pause. “You think Sam still lives in that shoebox apartment?”

Sam. You were devastated when he moved away, but with things being the way they were, you couldn’t blame him. It was tough love for all of you, but somehow you and Sam were always on the receiving end of John’s ridicule.

While you stuffed your frustration down, Sam opted to step in on your behalf to but heads with him while Dean would break them apart and comfort you from the disappointment stirring up inside you later.

“Y/n?”

“What? Yeah, already got his new address.”

Dean shook his head, “Of course you did.”

“Got the floor plan too. Jessica Moore’s name is on the lease. She moved in a year ago.”

“What, you stalkin’ him or something?” Dean glanced at you with a raised brow, “Now don’t tell me you miss our dear old Sammy,” He cooed mockingly.

“As if you don’t,” you scoffed, shrugging away the accusation. Admittedly, you missed Sam. Sure, he did have that perpetual stick up his ass, but you missed having someone lend an ear during your rambles about the latest book you’ve read or gadget you found at some tech store.

“I don’t miss that dork any more than you do. Besides, it took me ten minutes. You asked like four hours too late,” You said.

“Alright, alright. I believe you.” Dean chuckled.

“Wonder how he’s doing,” You sighed, gaze fixated on the trees whirring past.

“Probably has his head stuffed in a book right now. Warding off all the college babes,” Dean gruffed.

In a way, you envied Sam. The way he had the courage to just up and leave like that.

You remember the MIT decision letter you had snuck into your coat a few months back.

After weeks of overthinking and suspicious looks from Dean, you decided to stuff it in your bag and call it a day. You just couldn’t look at it.

What if you didn’t get in?

What if you did?

You were no Sam. You could never stomach facing up to your Dad and leaving your brother

Dean shifted in his seat after a while, sensing your unease,

“You know…it’s alright if you do miss him. Sam. I mean…he is our brother.” he mumbled, checking his mirrors more than he really needed to.

“I know,” You shrugged.

A beat of silence.

“You still got me…the cooler, better-looking older brother,” He added with a smirk.

“You forgot to add graciously humble,” You shook your head, suppressing a yawn.

Dean chuckled, before turning the radio off completely.

“Get some sleep, I'll wake you when we get there.”

You nodded, leaning back and lifting the hood of your fur coat up and over your eyes to get some shut eye.

You and Dean stood just outside the door, crouched in the shadows. The hallway light flickered above like some low-budget horror set.

You huffed as you watched Dean pull out a bent credit card from his pocket with a little smirk.

You crossed your arms, shifting slightly at the idea of breaking into a house so close to a college campus.

He glanced over his shoulder. “You gonna stand there and judge, or are you helping?”

“Stand here and judge.”

The door popped open.

Inside was clean, too clean. Plants in pots. Coasters on the coffee table. You’d bet anything that wasn’t even Jessica’s doing.

Sam was usually the one picking up after you lot, picking up Dean’s clothes, scolding you for leaving half finished mechanical parts on the floor.

You moved silently behind Dean, boots muffled against the hardwood, ears tuned for the sound of movement.

But before you could even get a good look around, a figure launched from the hallway and latched onto Dean.

You jumped, hand already on your gun, but paused when Dean just grunted and twisted out from under him.

“Dean?!” Sam’s voice rang out right before the two of them crashed into the floor.

“Easy, tiger,” Dean chuckled, flipping them over and pinning Sam’s shoulder. “Relax, Sammy. It’s just me.”

Sam shoved him off and stumbled up, panting. “You scared the crap out of me!”

Dean stood, brushing off his jacket. “That’s kinda the point. You’re gettin’ rusty.”

Sam looked between the two of you, eyes narrowing, “You broke into my place?”

Dean shrugged, totally unbothered. “I knocked. Nobody answered.”

“What? With a crowbar?”

Dean held up a bent credit card. “Credit. Give me some credit.”

You snorted, earning a glare from Sam.

Dean looked between the two of you. “I came to get you. Dad he’s missing—”

“We’re not doing this, you’re unbelievable,” Sam said firmly, already folding his arms and turning to you, “And you too.”

“can’t believe you turned down MIT to go ghost hunting,” Sam said suddenly, voice sharp.

You faltered, the comment struck harder than it should’ve. You had called Sam when you finally decided to open the letter a few weeks back. He knew you wouldn’t leave, but tried his best to convince you over the phone nonetheless.

“MIT?” Dean turned to you slowly, brows furrowed.

Sam exhaled, “Sorry. I didn’t mean—”

“Yeah, you did,” you muttered, stepping away and avoiding Dean’s gaze. “But whatever.”

Before the tension could get worse, Jessica padded into the room, rubbing her eyes.

“Sam? What’s going on?”

Dean turned on the charm instantly. “Hey, sorry. We were just talking to Sammy here. Family emergency.”

Jessica blinked at the two of you, confused. “Who…?”

“I’m Y/N,” you said softly, offering a polite smile. “Sam’s sister.”

“Yeah and uh–” Dean stepped in, meeting her gaze with a toothy smile, “I’m Dean, Sam’s older brother.”

“...Oh yeah, y/n and Dean!” Jessica’s brows unfurrowed as she smiled, “Sam always talks about you guys.”

“Yeah, that’s great–you know, I gotta say, you are way out of my brothers league,” Dean chimes in, yet again.

Sam clears his throat, before padding over to Jessica, “Well, we’ll just get back to sleep since the both of you were just about to leave.”

“Actually, we need your help with something.” Dean said.

“With dad,” You look at Sam pointedly as he rolls his eyes at his mention.

“Dad’s on a hunting trip... and he hasn’t been home in a few days.” Dean drawled.

The air shifted. The reluctance drained from Sam’s face, and for the first time in months, you felt that low ache in your chest flare back to life.

The three of you were stuffed into the Impala like some weird dysfunctional family road trip. Instead of visiting the Grand Canyon, you were headed toward a crash site you read about in the newspaper online, Dean supposed it could be a hunt.

You sat in the backseat with Sam, wanting to catch up after all that time apart.

“So,” you said, turning toward Sam. “Jessica seems nice.”

Sam smiled a little. “She is. She’s also doing pre-law.”

You raised a brow. “Wow, I’m almost proud. I mean, how’d you meet someone smart and attractive?”

Dean huffed. “What, you askin’ for dating advice now?”

You shot him a look. “I was talking to Sam.”

Sam grinned, “What?…you still haven’t met anyone?”

You snorted shaking your head,

Sam chuckles, “Come on, you're gonna end up marrying your laptop.”

You jab him on the shoulder, “Would be less work than a guy.”

You leaned forward, resting your chin on Dean’s seat, “Speaking of laptops, mine was stuck on BustyAsianBeauties.com for two days last week. Thanks for that.”

Sam’s eyes widened, ducking his head as he clearly suppressed a chuckle.

Dean scoffed.

“That wasn’t me.”

“Sure it wasn’t,” you mumble.

“You don’t need to be talkin’ to guys…” Dean gruffed changing the subject, glancing at you pointedly through the rear view mirror.

“What? Why?” Sam chuckled, “I mean, she has good judgment. You were always telling me to have fun.”

“Well that’s different,” Dean tutted.

“And why’s that?” You ask.

“Cause,” he shrugged, “You’re my little sister, it’s my job to protect you from sleaze bags, you know, men like—“

“Like you?” Sam rolled his eyes.

“Shut up.”

You chuckled as Dean bristled stubbornly.

You figured that overprotectiveness came from the fact that he always had to protect you and Sam from motel creeps growing up, yet another thing Dad wasn’t there for.

But the idea of your Dad was slowly replaced with the thought of how nice it was to have as the three of you together again, just like old times.

The night had cooled, but not enough to be comfortable. The crash smelled like scorched rubber and ozone. Burn marks traced jagged black lines across the pavement, and a twisted car sat gutted beside the road as sheriffs circled the site.

Dean crouched in his seat, rifling through the glove box like it was his personal filing cabinet.

Sam lingered, arms crossed and scowl fully locked in place.

You stood off to the side, fiddling with the EMF.

“Is this even legal?” Sam muttered under his breath, glancing over at the Sheriff’s y’all were about to fool.

You didn’t bother looking up, “Define legal.”

Dean gave a triumphant, “Ha!” and stood, fanning out a neat stack of fake IDs, laminated, precise, complete with official-looking stamps, and your suspiciously youthful looking faces.

Dean handed you one with a smile and nod, “Special Agent Smartass.”

“Screw you,” you mumbled.

Sam frowned as Dean handed him one too. “Where’d these come from?”

Dean notched his head toward you.

You shrugged, sliding yours into your jacket pocket. “Figured Dean would drag you back eventually. Made some extras just in case.”

Sam blinked at the card in his hand, then at you. “You forged FBI credentials for me before I even said yes?”

Dean grinned. “Always prepared.”

“She’s paranoid,” Sam mumbled.

“A thank you would’ve been nice,” you shot back, smacking a hand over the back of his head.

“Ow! You—“

“Ah, I missed this.” Dean mumbled with a dopey smile as the three you of you approached the officers.

“I didn’t.” You and Sam replied in perfect unison, before exchanging a half hearted look.

aaah I hope this was okay.

leave a note, lmk what you think ╰(*´︶`*)╯♡

feel free to send in requests!

#sam winchester fluff #sam winchester #sam winchester x reader #dean winchester fluff #dean winchester x reader #dean winchester #supernatural imagine #supernatural headcanon #supernatural fanfiction #dean winchester fanfiction #sam winchester fanfiction #dean winchester headcanon #sam winchester headcanon #supernatural fluff

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unnatural-happenings · 1 month ago

Text

Of Capes & Billionaires

Took a break from staring at my Persona drafts again to write this instead lol. Would be the first part to this if I decide that finishing the future drafts is worth the time spent away from the Persona fic (ie if I enjoy it)

Fandoms: Batfam x Reader x Avengers

Characters: Damian and Loki. Some of the Batfam and Avengers are here too, but the focus is mostly on them

Notes: Reader is They/Them, Loki is here because I want him to be, Reader is a kid of Bruce Wayne, While this isn't a neglectful!Batfam fic the relationship is still tense atm, for Marvel I try to stick to MCU personalities but a little bit of comic or cartoon quirks might make it in

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

Living with Bruce Wayne has always been frustrating. The rules, the expectations, the press, galas, and vigilante nonsense makes for an extremely stressful environment. Adding family drama on top of all that is a surefire way to make you slip away at the nearest convenience.

Your second home with the Avengers is more carefree—less brooding, way less pretending, and always welcomes you back with open arms… and maybe a drink or two. They're your safe haven, and you'd love nothing more to keep it that way.

Unfortunately, your family has never been good at letting secrets stay secrets.

┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈✁━━━━━━━━━━━

Damian could not believe this farce you're playing is still ongoing. You continue to vex him even in your absence and make his evening worse.

It had been a long day. School was as dull as usual, the teachers not teaching anything new and his classmates completely vapid, he'd taken care of every one of his pets, already got Grayson to spar with him, the rest of his brothers have vanished, and patrols wouldn't start for another hour.

He was as free as can be and it left him annoyed beyond measure. His go to option for filling up dead time wasn't available—to his complete ire—so he spent time in his room trying to draw while Alfred the cat curled up next to him. Though he could barely focus on what he was actually putting to paper, as his mind kept drifting to the one person responsible for his current lack of activity.

Stewing within his head and staring at a sheet of paper filled with mindless doodles is when his phone buzzes next to him. It's in a familiar rhythm that has him instantly pick it up to check the notification.

Fury is the only acceptable word for what Damian's currently feeling.

His sketchbook is haphazardly thrown onto the bed as he gets up—annoying Alfred—and makes a beeline for the door. He storms through the manor, every step fueled by a deep, aimless frustration as he throws open one of the many entrances to the Batcave.

Everyone's already arrived before him—or it's better to say they were all already there, and all strewn about the place. Though he cares little for their positions when Drake is the only one that can provide any answers.

Damian's eyes dart to the Batcomputer to see what you just posted to your social on one of the bigger screens, and Drake typing away on another. It was a picture of you standing on the snowy peak of mountain—drinking hot chocolate, along with some blonde guy that definitely didn't deserve to stand in your presence.

"Drake."

"I know, I know, I'm already on it."

He stands there and watches as Drake goes through file after file, checking as much surveillance footage as possible and putting the unknown's face through every registry he could think of. By the end, everything comes back negative and he slides downwards in his seat with a groan.

Todd puts down the gun he was cleaning, obviously barely paying attention to what was happening on the screen having resigned himself to lack any expectations.

"Let me guess, nothing again."

Drake runs a hand over his eyes and Damian scoffs when he notices his leg start bouncing, "He still shows no results and they're no longer in that location anymore. This was posted long after they already left… Again."

He can't believe what he's hearing. To have gone this long without finding a single clue leaves Damian doubting Drake's skill altogether.

"I thought you were supposed to be the computer genius of the family. How come you still haven't found a clue as to where our sibling is located?"

Drake lets out a sharp exhale, "We've been through this ten over times now and every search has ended the same. They post the pictures when they're already out of the area, they have location tags and their GPS turned off, despite clearly being all over the world their profile always signs in from Sydney Australia, their email isn't real, they're using a highly encrypted device even Oracle is struggling to deal with, every purchase they make is either in cash or using another persons card, and somehow, not once have they been caught on camera by any surveillance."

He goes on to mutter under his breath, too low for Damian to make out any words, but it further irritates him anyway.

"Are you positive you're even trying? It's not like they're not some elusive figure."

Drake spins in the chair to directly face Damian, his extreme irritation made know at his prodding, "I wouldn't even slack during an investigation for Kite Man, to think I'd do so for any member of our family is insulting. I want to find them as much as you do. It's also necessary to learn how they've been able to avoid detection for so long—"

"Well it sounds like you're only searching because they hurt your ego."

"Are you hearing yourself—"

"Enough."

Their father calls out from the side. He doesn't do anything else other than stand their and stare, but it's enough to instantly silence both of them and keep them from continuing. He gestures with his head towards the screen, and Drake rolls his eyes before spinning back around.

From behind the bat, Jason speaks out while cleaning one of his firearms, "So what? Either he continuously wipes every database in the world, or he doesn't exist?"

Grayson also finally decides to join in with a comment of his own, "Could he be photoshopped at all?"

He walks closer to the screen to get a better look at the man you're posing with in the picture. Cain follows behind him, carefully studying the photo as well, but not adding anything to the conversation as of yet.

Drake sits up in his seat, his anger fading into exhaustion with another sigh, "No." He starts another scan of the blonde's face through a meta/mutant database, "Both options are seemingly impossible, considering they go everywhere together with no evidence of photo tampering. One moment they're on the beaches of Denmark and the next they're skiing in Canada!" He mutters under his breath, "Not to mention they didn't even take enough money to go on all these flights. I have no idea where they're getting the funds for this."

He slumps over again when the results turn up negative, just like every other.

Todd strolls over like he has no care for the outcome, but it only takes looking at his face to see how this is affecting him. His jaw tense as he glares directly at the light-haired man, no doubt trying to burn his appearance into his memory. Damian has also done this himself. but truly, he doesn't think Todd's earned the right to be as mad as he is at your disappearing act, and it makes his own blood boil even more.

"Tch. We wouldn't be going through such troubles in the first place if they took their phone with them. We should not be learning about their location through second hand sources."

That was merely meant to be a statement regarding the inconvenience of their search despite being family, but Todd felt the need to add to it and make it more personal.

"We wouldn't be trying to find them at all if they didn't run off without saying anything, then start hangin' out with a guy we can't track."

"They wouldn't have even left if you all didn't—"

"Are we really doing this now?"

This time, their father doesn't interfere as Damian starts another argument, merely grunt in disapproval. Cain takes one last look at the picture and leaves Grayson's side—who in particular is wondering if he should step in to stop the increasingly violent fight—to walk up to Bruce.

He acknowledges her with a nod and she gets right to he inquiry, "… What about Superman?"

Cain's interjection causes Damian to put a pause on reaching for the nearest batarang to fling past Grayson at Todd. He needs to hear if the Super family has any word on your whereabouts. They should, but if for some reason they know nothing or refuse to help, it shouldn't be to hard to get information out of Jon.

"He refuses to tell me anything, and has made a conscious effort to not report any potential leads to their location in Justice League systems."

Drake turns towards everyone again in the chair, "Conner hasn't said anything either."

Grayson's in the middle of picking up batarangs lying about the cave and putting them in his inner jacket pockets, "They don't want to be found that bad huh…" When he's collected all that he can see he steps in front of Todd—ignoring the hard look he's getting from him, "At least they seem to be doing okay for now."

Todd rolls his eyes and makes his way over to his bike, "Why are we even trying this hard to find them in the first place?"

Damian turns his attention back to Todd with a glare, baffled by the idiocy and his seemingly short-term memory loss. Before he could remind him again that this whole situation is partly his fault, Drake replies

"You were on B's side weren't you? You know why."

Todd looks back towards the group, and for a moment Damian could see how tired he actually was. His shoulders slouched and the bags under his eyes became more prominent, though the frustration at the world—or maybe just towards their father, is still clearly evident.

"I really don't anymore." And just like that he was back to acting indifferent about everything. He hops on his motorcycle and starts the engine, then digs through his bag for his helmet, "Goin' on patrol. Anyone joinin'?"

Already in her suit, Cain is quick to jump on the back of his bike. She accepts the spare helmet Todd hands her without question and swiftly locks it in place as he revs the engine.

Father steps forward, his tone stern as he watches them prepare to leave, "It's not—"

"It's already dark out. Don't start this again, we're still dealing with the consequences of the last one." Jason snaps back. With that, they take off out of the cave without another word.

Grayson leans over Drake to scroll through the rest of your pictures. Multiple of the recent pictures include the very same man that none of them are able to put an identity to. Drake and Damian also scanning each photo they go through, hoping for anything to make sense about the mystery man. In every picture you're happy and don't seem worried about him at all. None of your expressions seem fake either, if only a little exaggerated in some. You act like you've known this guy for years, so why hasn't anyone heard of him before?

Drake runs a hand over his face a d huffs out his next words, "This guy bothers me."

Grayson leans his arm on Drake's shoulder, ignoring his attempts to swat him off, "I know right? He's blonde, that just spells trouble."

"… That's not what I meant at all."

Damian tunes out the chatter from the peanut gallery and turns to his father to inform him on his plans, "I will ask Jon if Kent has informed him of anything, or if they know where they are already."

Drake snorts and lets out a quick 'good luck with that'. Damian has to fight the urge to turn around and insult him for even daring to laugh at his attempts. At least he was still doing something, unlike some of the others.

Then he thinks back on the argument that got you to leave unannounced in the first place and he changes his mind. Half of this family isn't good enough to go searching for you anyway. He's sure if you spotted them, you'd make sure you're never found again. All this over something so idiotic.

Whatever. Once he finds you he'll make sure something so asinine won't happen again, so you won't have to feel like you need to escape again. He'll beat it into everyone's head over and over to never look down on you again if it meant you'd tell him what's going on.

Maybe he should deal with that unknown with you as well. Whoever he is, he's way beneath you, and you shouldn't be giving your time to him at all. What would make you stoop so low as to hangout with random civilians over your own family?

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"I swear to God if you throw that blue shell—"

"Too late."

You can do nothing but curse as your position is threatened. All you have is a green shell with a single coin in your back pocket, with no item boxes nearby to try for a boombox. Within seconds you're screaming as the blue shell reaches you and blows you into oblivion. You watch the entire race pass you while waiting for your kart to stop spinning out, ignoring the cheering from the God of Thunder and the victory lap the archer is currently doing around the room. By the time you can drive forward you have no hope of catching up to the front of the pack with no items and no coins, and come in 7th place. You fall off the couch to kneel on the floor, muttering about how you've disgraced your entire linage.

Natasha nudges your back foot from her position on the couch. She doesn't look up from the book she's reading, but obviously is addressing you with her next words.

"You still won the grand prix. Clint isn't even close, and Thor wasn't really competition to begin with."

You shake your head and lean back onto your knees, "You don't understand Nat. Every loss is a severe scar on my record. A stain. Something to be held over my head for years to come. I need to make up for this failure by setting the new world record on the track I've let best me in a moment of weakness."

That's when she looks up from the book she's reading, her brow quirked, not even trying to hide her amusement at your misfortune, "Aren't you already the world record holder?"

"It's obviously not good enough."

"You only lost because of a blue shell."

Suddenly you're being lifted off the floor. Extremely muscular arms wrap around your middle and pull you into a toned chest. Along with the deep laughter coming from the man behind you, and noticing the missing God of Thunder on the couch, you're easily able to identify Thor's the one to pick you up.

"You did splendid! You're mastery has indeed improved since we last versed one another, as have mine! Though Barton…"

Both of you bring your attention back to the archer to see he's still doing victory laps around the room.

"'Twas but a cheap trick. I assure you his proficiency is far below yours."

"A cheap trick means nothing. I still lost, and to him."

Thor only responds with more laughter.

Clint finally stops his self congratulatory dance to… correct your very wrong opinion of him, "Hey, that was not cheap! I worked hard to drive that Blue Shell to the front of the race!"

You wiggle until Thor puts you down, not wanting to argue held in his arms, "You're bagging tactics are cheap and lame!"

"Bagging requires skill—Wait you were bagging our last race! Why are you getting mad at me!?"

Suddenly a book slams closed, cutting off your oncoming rebuttal and drawing everyone's attention to the corner of the room. Another god sits in the corner, his displeasure made evident through the scowl resting on his face and the closed book on his lap. He stands with a level of grace only a spoon fed, self righteous royal could attain, causing you to grumble under your breath—assuming he's only acting this extra because he either wants something, or is planning something.

He shoots you a glare before addressing everyone in the room, his voice underlined with irritation, "You lot are trying my patience with your incessant howling. Attempting to put up with this noise any longer may cause severe damage to my own sanity."

You're heart sinks a little as he makes his way to leave, but on his way past he grabs the back of your clothes and drags you with him without a second thought.

"H-HEY! LOKI WAIT! THE GAME!"

The others do nothing to help you, all used to you acting as the mischief maker's shadow, whether willing or not. You make sure to flip them off before you turn the corner, seeing Natasha shrug and go back to her own book and Thor wave with one of the largest smiles you've seen on him. Clint only laughs at your predicament, so you mentally note to make him your target the next time you play a party game.

Once you're far enough away and Loki has slid his hand from the back of your clothes to your wrist do you speak up.

"You could just ask me to walk with you y'know?"

"So you wouldn't have thrown yourself to further rot away by the hands of that game to accomplish some arbitrary award that grants you nothing but bragging rights?"

"… No?"

"Don't lie to me."

You don't respond, and it's silent as you let Loki take you to wherever he's going. Soon enough you find yourself in front of your bedroom, Loki letting go of you and easily phasing through the door. With a roll of your eyes and complaints under your breath you follow after him.

He's already taken a seat on the egg chair you have next to the bookshelf and opened his book. You huff before looking around for things to do. There isn't much in the room, you never stayed long enough to bother personalizing it, but you do spot the Gamecube Tony bought for you as a joke. He was getting tired of you not doing anything, so he got that and a shelf full of games—said he was buying you a personality.

"Do not tell me you're still going to play that aggravating racing game?"

You continue to set up the console as you reply to him, "It's only aggravating when I'm playing with Clint, and is the one thing I have over Tim, so I gotta make sure I stay better then him." You look over to him and see he's still got his head in his book, "And you're reading! what else do you want me to do!"

Loki ignores most of what you said, only focusing on one thing, "If you are that keen on thinking about your family through every action then why are you still here? I thought you hated them."

"I just need time away." You sigh as you're thoughts drift a little more to the rest of your family, "That house is suffocating, but that doesn't mean I love them less. They're just being annoying."

A laugh escapes you when you think about how annoyed some of them must be right now due to your recent stunt, "That, and it's really funny being petty."

Loki let's it go as he chuckles himself, "Speaking of being petty, where's our next photoshoot? I'm sure they enjoyed seeing our last in the mountains."

You laugh more freely now as you bring your attention back to the game, pushing aside the more troublesome thoughts, "I heard Tony owns a private beach house. I'm sure he wouldn't mind us dropping by for a couple pictures."

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