#its been harder to really enjoy things that i ACTUALLY enjoy doing

[londoncallingalondongirl]

sugar-plum

liam gallagher x fem(baker)!reader

(part 2!!)

summary : where liam refuses to make a move, till its too late

warnings : insanely stupid amount of fluff - kind of angsty, dick boyfriend mentioned - booze and weed, usual oasis warnings.

word count : 1.2k

a/n : guys imma be so fr i tried with the angst - idk what i was doing im a pure hopeless romantic at heart, ill try harder for the other angst fics go full into it, but this was just me easing into the utter heartbreak - hope you all enjoy!!

The bell above the bakery door chimed, its tired little ring echoing through the warm haze of cinnamon, yeast, and half-sung Motown bleeding out of the back radio. You didn’t need to look up. You knew that sound - knew the weight of his footsteps, the low whistle that always followed, sharp and lazy like he had all the time in the world.

Liam, back in your bakery. Like clockwork. Like he never left.

“Alright, sugarplum?” he smirked, propping his elbows on the counter like this was the pub and not the place you’d been working six days a week since college. His fringe was damp from the drizzle outside, lashes too long, shirt collar popped like he was in some band.

“Don’t call me that,” you said, eyes glued to the till, counting coins and dealing spare change like cards. 

“Didn’t say it was a bad thing,” he quipped. “Just that you look like one.”

You sighed. “You here to flirt or actually buy something?”

“Both. Obviously.”

He bought a black coffee and a pain au chocolat. Always did. Said it made him look ‘cultured’ even though he still called it a “pan of choc.”

You passed it over in a brown paper bag, your fingers brushing his. The touch made your breath hitch, you couldn’t tell if he caught it. His eyes didn’t move from yours. Not for a second.

He’d always looked at you like that, hadn’t he? Since you were both snot-nosed kids running down Burnage high street. Since he’d first told you some boy in year nine wasn’t good enough for you. Since he’d climbed in through your bedroom window at seventeen because your dad had been screaming again and Liam just knew. Booze and weed in hand like you could smoke it all away - like the cloud you felt like you were on in the crossfade would take you far away from this town, together.

But still. He’d never said it. Not properly. Not once.

It’d been like that for years. You loved him in the quiet way. In the waiting way. In the “maybe one day” kind of way.

You were best friends. You had your names carved into a bus stop bench, your first vinyl bought together, each other’s birthdays memorised down to the hour. He punched a lad once for calling you easy. You told his mum when he broke his ankle jumping off a wall because “he’d never have gone hospital otherwise, the daft twat.” Skipping school and giggling, running away into the winter light, just you and him. 

But the years passed. And nothing ever changed. So, one day, you decided it had to.

You’d made a rule for yourself, a quiet little promise. If someone asked you out - really asked - you’d say yes. Not out of love. But as a sign. A nudge from the universe. A way to let Liam go before it wrecked you from the inside out.

And one day, someone did.

He wasn’t special. He wasn’t kind. But he was charming enough, said the right things, and for a while, it felt like maybe he could be a detour. You didn’t see the red flags at first. Or maybe you did, but you ignored them. Because anything was better than hoping.

“Don’t like him.” Liam said it like he was talking about the weather. Like it was a fact.

You were leaning against the back wall of the bakery after closing, apron tied loose, hands flour-streaked and sore, a bit of frosting snagged near your lips he was just itching to wipe off.

“You don’t have to, I do.”

He didn’t look at you. Just lit a cigarette, the tip glowing bright in the low evening light, smoke pooling low, lingering just enough to lead your eyes to his hands, 

“He makes you sad. Don’t like that either.”

You turned away. “You don’t get to say that.” 

“Like fuck I don’t.” His voice cracked then. Quiet but sharp. “I’ve known you since you were five. Since you cried over your first scraped knee and made me kiss it better. Don’t act like I don’t know the difference between your ‘I’m fine’ voice and your I’m-fuckin’-drowning one.”

Your throat felt thick. He looked at you. Really looked.

“But you won’t leave him, will you?”

You didn’t answer. Couldn’t.

“Thought so,” he muttered. “Maybe I waited too long.”

And then came the night. The one where you showed up to the pub with your boyfriend’s hand on your waist and Liam’s pint shattered on the floor not five minutes later.

He’d gone quiet. Too quiet.

Didn’t say a word until the bloke went to the loo.

“Is that it then?” he asked. “That your sign from the fuckin’ universe?”

You blinked at him, stunned. “What?”

“You always said that, didn’t you? That when someone asked, you’d move on. Give up on… on whatever this is.” He gestured between you, voice rising. “Well. Congrats, love. Message received.”

“I didn’t know - ”

He laughed, dry. Harsh. “Didn’t know what? That I’d never look at anyone the way I look at you? That I’ve been writing songs about your bloody smile since we were nineteen? Dreamin’ about your laugh - gettin higher than that shite weed we smoke every time you do?  That every time he touches you I want to set something on fire?”

You stepped back. His voice broke then.

“You’re it for me. Have been. Always. And if I fucked it by waiting too long, that’s on me. But don’t pretend I didn’t choose you, every fucking time, even when I was too much of a coward to say it.”

You didn’t move. You couldn’t. He stared. And then turned. But before he could leave, you caught his sleeve. Tugged him back like you always did, like you had since you were kids playing catch in the rain.

And then you kissed him.

Slow. Shaky. But real.

And he melted. Like every word he’d bitten back over the years was spilling out in the way he held you. The way he kissed like it was home. Like it was relief. Like it was you. He tasted like smoke, worn leather and backstage chaos, you tasted like cider, warm and sweet on his tongue. It sat heavy in his chest, he kept going, wanting, needing to feel more of you. You pulled back, breath mingling between you - tension easing with every touch. He opened his arms and you fell in, the gentle lull of his heartbeat, the rise and fall of your breath against his - making you both feel loose, this felt like belonging, like it was always meant to be.

Later, lying in his bed, your head against his chest, half asleep, he whispered,

“You’re mine, y’know.”

You smiled against his skin. ‘I know.”

“Not lettin’ you go this time.”

You looked up, eyes glassy and bright, voice dripped in honey and haze. 

“Then don’t.”

[elegyofthemoon]

tbh i think i just need to get into a media thatll shake me to my core the way me revisiting p//andora hearts at a crucial time shook me

[asgardian--angels]

things I wish I could relive for the first time again:

that magical window where you finish a new piece of media, having watched/read it all by yourself with no fandom contact whatsoever, and you are just so happy about it, and full of interesting theories and takeaways, and just in love with it as a gorgeous piece of art.

because I swear to god as soon as you join the fandom for anything, you're bombarded with how you're supposed to view characters and their arcs, how you're supposed to morally and ethically judge the plot and the ways it apparently failed to present the right message, and if you don't you'll either be shunned for not sharing the popular headcanons or you'll be harassed for not criticizing the source material enough.

like how is it that the fans of a piece of media are also the ones being the most negative about it? If I like a show or a movie or a book, well, I liked it. That's kind of the point. I'm actually not here to tear it apart and talk about how it didn't live up to standards other people had! I enjoyed it for what it was, and forcing myself to find negative things to say about it doesn't actually bring me more enjoyment of it or reap any benefit to me. Fandom's a double-edged sword; you want to join a community to share your love for a piece of art, and the price you pay for a modicum of joy is a mountain of negativity. that's one main reason that I never engage with fandom until I'm completely done with a show, because if I was plugged into all of that commentary and discourse during the process, I'd be completely colored by how I'm expected to interpret everything this piece of art is presenting to me without being able to even form my own opinions.

[lady-caden]

Tbh i think I'm aro/ace and maybe that's why relationships are so whatever for me and that's why I have a hard time telling between platonic vs romantic. Or at least I'm somewhere on the aro/ace spectrum

[innorality]

Can you write a smut of Clark just breeding you in doggy style, and he's so messy to the point where he's pressing your face into the bed, his HUGE sha-boing boing rapidly fucking you?

I need this man to do nasty things to me so bad its actually dangerous

first clark req, how did I do guys 😽

you couldn't blame anybody but yourself.

you asked for this. you asked for clark to go harder on you, to fuck instead of make love. and clark kent being clark kent, he was happy to oblige!

and that's how you ended up with your right cheek sticking onto the bed sheets thanks to the saliva that had been endlessly drooling out of your mouth. you couldn't even bring yourself to think about dragging your jaw back up because of the way his thick cock pounding into you resonated throughout your entire body.

the speed at which he was battering your insides made you go limp, body succumbing to the pleasure that was brought to you thanks to his pace. the friction made your lips heat up which had you bucking away from time to time—unsuccessfully so, because of clark's big hands gripping your hips like he couldn't bear the idea of you getting away.

"baby, you're so good– you- gosh, you're perfect... so, so perfect f'me..." as for clark, he wasn't much better—if not worse. at first, he was hesitant about this, but when he shot his first load inside you, something primal in him blocked out any thoughts of stopping.

when you looked back at him, you saw it—his eyes were focused on a single spot on your ass, and you knew he wasn't looking at you. he was looking inside.

he was looking at his dick pushing his cum out of your cunt to make space for it, he was looking at your walls pressing up against him in a desperate attempt to slow him down, he was looking at the droplets of cum that snuck into your womb—he was seeing it all.

"y-you see that? see?" no, i cant, is what you want to answer, but what comes out is an incomprehensible mix of words he doesnt even bother trying to understand. "t's all me baby– me, it's me in there... fuh- hm– d'ya feel me, baby?" and how could you not? clark was everywhere. you felt him rearranging your insides, you smelled his sweat and semen mixed together, you heard his moans and whimpers everytime you clenched... how could you not feel him?

"c'mon, sweetie, feel me..." and with that, he grabbed your hand that was previously gripping your pillow for dear life and forced it down, pressing it against the overwhelming large bulge on your stomach, which elicited a loud "holy shit–" from you and a long, breathy whimper from him.

he went back to normal vision to enjoy the sight of you disheveled and utterly ruined for him, and god help him—because he almost came right then and there.

his abs clenched when he witnessed the sight of your ass rippling and sticking to his pelvis with each deep thrust of his, the sight of your back arched to an almost impossible degree, and fuck, the way your eye muscles lost tension and allowed your eyes to roll back deep into your skull? that almost got him.

his grip tightened around the hand he was pressing against your bulge and he pulled it to your back, using it for leverage as he fucked even deeper into you (you didn't even know that could be possible), his own head throwing itself back as he started to lose himself completely in the action.

what really made him let go? your praises.

oh, your praises.

"holy fuck– clark, you're perfect, sooo, fuckin' perrfect and- shit! feels so good... so big and so good and so– ah! m'close, baby!" and he knew you were probably just rambling. he knew your brain was melted to the point where it would allow you to just let everything you were thinking spill out of your mouth. but you were thinking of him. speaking of him. to him.

him.

the fact that you gave him so much importance, so much value...

how did he not notice he was already cumming?

your eyes widened when you felt it—ropes and ropes of cum spilling endlessly into you, filling you up to a borderline dangerous extent. it was so warm, so overwhelming, so satisfying... you had to let go too.

"fffuck! please, baby, please! cum for me, I'm begging- please! wanna feel you, wanna feel- hmmm– shit," you're not sure if it's the fact that he swore, the fact that he begged, or the warmth of his seed inside you, but you do know that it was intense.

your entire body shook, muscles clenching and body curling up on itself as if attempting to flee from that feeling. your loud moans and whines echoed off the walls at the intensity of your orgasm, your cunt basically chocking his dick to the point where he had stopped moving all together.

"oh, yes, yesyesyes- please, yes!" clark cried out, pulling on your arm hard enough to drag you up before he wrapped his arm around your waist, kissing your neck while you rode out your high.

when you finally came down from the euphoria of it all, you were panting, chest heaving while you were granted your vision back. "oh my... jesus..." you sighed out as he set you back down on the bed gently, your skin sticking to his slightly.

you twitched when he pulled out, his big hands massaging the globes of your ass softly. "you okay, honey?" he questioned and you weakly nodded, swallowing your spit and smirking before speaking up. "never been better..."

he stayed quiet for a moment before you turned around, lying down on your back.

he looked at you with big puppy doe eyes and you already knew what he wanted.

"can we go again...?"

"clark, you just wore me out!"

"okay... can I atleast eat you out..?"

"clark!"

[quietbluetune]

The Unexpected Bend — B.R.

bob reynolds x fem val’s assistant!reader

synopsis: pretending you weren’t falling for your boss’s newly recruited superhero is harder than you expected it to be— especially when you can’t seem to set aside your guilt surrounding him and he can’t help but want you anyway.

or, two times you lied to bob reynolds, and the one time you didn’t.

warnings: 18+, suggestive content but not full smut, heavy making out, grinding, very sensual, slow burn-ish, angst, mutual pining, reader is insecure, valentina is way more evil, the team doesn’t really know how to handle bob’s mental health yet, slight mentions of alcohol (i don’t actually think bob would drink tbh but)

word count: 28.9k (sorry, i got carried away) ao3, my other work

author’s note: i wrote this two months ago, but this is my first finished and published work— so i think i’ve been scared to actually share it. i’ve been procrastinating and over-editing to avoid it, but it’s something i had fun doing— so if even one person reads it and enjoys, that’s a success in my book! i’d also like to point out that i know there’s discourse on how some tend to infantilize bob and i don’t want that to come across in my writing at all, as i strongly agree that his mental struggles are often misrepresented. a part of this work gently (!!) explores that subject… you’ll see. oh, also yes, i know i use em dashes oddly. idk i’m rambling— please enjoy!

Crestfallen, you walk, a jump at the click of your heels each time they meet the sullen pavement.

It echoes low, muffled sounds trapped between dense, concrete buildings and sticky, summer heat that burns off in the wake of night. This part of the city wasn’t home; it wasn’t much of anything yet— Just another block that looked like all the others, reminding you through the wind that whipped past windows and wove with intention that you still did not yet belong. 

None of it felt right: not the crosswalks you passed through, not the clothes you wore to look the part—tight, restrictive, unforgiving—not even when you finally reached the Watchtower, unrecognizable, a shell of itself and its memories. 

You used to be able to see it from your old job, just a blink away— An unmistakable beacon shining through the city. It was your favorite building to look at from your office late at night, the light dimming from your eyes as you got lost in your work, yet still found in the faint glow of an A that somehow continued to push you along.

Now, you didn’t dwell on what you felt twisting deep in your core when you saw it, absent-mindedly heading up after scanning your security clearance badges and sharing a routine nod with the doorman.

It was best not to think about it.

Soon, you’d be home and could try to forget who you were for a few hours before it pulled you back in again— Same loop, same lethargy.

Soon, you could just pretend to be someone else again.

You never got off easy, though— Still navigating the endless tasks through the city despite the promise of an 8 pm release. At least no one would be around, so you could make quick work of this one last thing.

And you wished that was still the case when the elevator finally opened to the top floor, reaching the end of your night that somehow only turned into the beginning.

The scent of familiarity—of warmth and peace—that allowed you to exhale a strained breath was the same thing that took it away again, making you freeze abruptly. Your heels scraped against the newly renovated marble, your stiff body hovering uncomfortably in the wake of the warm glow of a very occupied kitchen.

Everything about it caught you off guard, considering you not only were expecting the residential floor to be empty, but the kitchen was almost never used— At least when you were around. 

Bucky was used to frozen… maybe that was a bad choice of words, but it was true. Yelena’s grocery list usually consisted of ramen and box mac and cheeses, Alexei made a meal of team-sponsored junk foods, John and Ava relied heavily on DoorDash, and Bob— Well, you never saw Bob with anything in his hand other than a book or his other hand, wringing in nervous, futile energy. 

Until now. 

You didn’t know much about Bob, admittedly avoiding him a bit— Which he made good on, considering he wasn’t exactly a socialite himself. Part of it was because of the guilt that hung heavy in your chest when you’d catch his eye, the other something else entirely you couldn’t quite place. What you did know of Bob was that he never seemed entirely sure of himself. It radiated through his movements, his smile, his pace, and his laugh. It was doubt that covered him completely, coursing through his veins and mingling with an ice of a power too intense for him to even begin to understand. 

And that was evident as you caught him stuck in his own world— A bit removed from the situation you had just walked into, loosely wading through the kitchen, all like he was looking for something that didn’t want to be found.

His steady grip was wound around a wooden spoon— One you didn’t even know the building owned, considering it was never used, bleeding into the background with other untouched reminders of normalcy and an ordinary life. 

Fingers danced over each other around the handle, then found their way to the nape of his neck, rubbing and searching for a thought as he hung his head over a tablet on the counter, eyes looming down through loose, wavy strands. 

His hair was still that unsettling shade of blonde you hated to see— The shade you tried not to think of, yet could never really forget.

You clear your throat, unsure how to handle the silence the two of you occupied— Him unknowingly, and you, not so much. The sound cuts through the low drone of an old stereo haphazardly plugged in at the corner of the open-concept space, playing an even older song. 

His attention shoots up to you, his spine abruptly straightening as his eyes fall on you. The spoon he clung to rattles against the granite as his fingers twitched it free. 

“Oh, h-hi, uh, sorry,” he rambles, pale complexion flushing a soft and supple pink. “I didn’t hear you come in.”

“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you state, inhaling a breath and finding your feet carrying you to the island where he stood.

“What?” His eyebrows meet each other, knit in confusion at your statement. 

“I Can’t Begin to Tell You,” you repeat, setting down your stack of papers and bag on the corner of the expansive surface, gesturing over to the stereo. “Henry James.” 

His eyes follow your finger and relax when he realizes what you meant. “Oh,” he laughs gently, a hesitant yet sweet sound you wished he would share more often. “Right. It’s, uh, not mine.”

Part of you already knew that, noticing the building was still haunted with old stacks of belongings that had lived a million lives before— Stories and memories whispering behind the layer of dust that dulled them until they were forgotten. Forgotten by time, by people, by what—and who—they were once loved by. 

“I think it was Captain Rogers’,” he continues, eyes darting away from the quick glances they stole of yours and back to his work on the stove behind him. “It just gets… quiet.”

“Too quiet,” you add, understanding the loneliness this city could drown you in.

His back stiffens at that before he glances over his shoulder at you. 

“Yeah.” He says it so quietly you almost wondered if he had even said it at all or if you were just subconsciously filling in the blanks of what intent his eyes held.

“I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here.” You change the subject, not wanting his mind to linger on the heaviness you could sense echoing in his voice, on the weight that held in the air, pushing his tone flat. “I’ll get out of your way, I just had to drop some stuff off on my way home.” 

The simmering pan on the stove began to pop, on the edge of a boil. Steam quickly filled the large room, causing Bob to fiddle with the burner until it turned to smoke. 

He mumbled under his breath as he made quick work of pulling it off the burner, fanning his hand in pain after some of the hot liquid splashed on his skin— Yet he still made sure to take notice of your words.

“No, no— It’s no bother, really,” he rushes, wiping the evidence of his bubbling dish off the stove and counter. “Everyone’s out for the night so it’s just me… so I wasn’t expecting anyone to be here either.” 

A crooked smile pulls briefly at the corner of his lips, sincerity flashing in his eyes when he turns to meet you. It melted you a bit, how much he longed for the company, but you didn’t want it to— You didn’t want to stay, not with him. Not when you still felt the way you did around him.

Not like this. 

“What’s in the folder?” He tilts his chin at the stack of documents you brought over, cluttering the otherwise clean counter— That is, aside from the mess of Bob’s cooking: the spices—virtually all of them—the utensils, dishes, and ingredients all sprawled across his work space. It looked like he was deep into crafting something way too complicated for you to understand. 

“Boring stuff.”

That wasn’t entirely true; the folder actually contained some pretty important legal documents sent over by Sam Wilson. A few brand deals that needed some signatures, some mission reports you sorted through and needed to be filed, a cease and desist… You didn’t want to worry him with any of that. 

“What’s in the dish?” you ask back, changing the subject again so he wouldn’t ask any more questions he wouldn’t necessarily want the answers to. “I didn’t know you cooked.” 

He fiddles with the hem of his sweater— Big and baggy and olive green, just like he always wore.  

“Oh, I-I don’t. Need to find ways to be part of the team, right?”

You shift your weight, trying to meet his eyes, but he keeps them busy elsewhere— Tidying the kitchen and finding aimless work. 

There was a tinge in your heart from his words, dripping with a layer of self-deprecation he tried so hard to hide— His tone chipper, all like he wasn’t finding new ways to put himself down at every turn. 

“You are part of the team. You do plenty, Bob.” His head snaps up at that, finding your eyes, a shyness behind them, waiting for you to continue, for you to say it’s a lie, for you to take it back. You didn’t. “You’re the strongest person on this team. Truly.”

He was quiet for a moment, not sure what to say, his mind racing incessantly as he waded in your words, drowning in what to do with everything you’d said. You didn’t mean to overwhelm him, but you hated when he dismissed himself, when he diminished his impact. 

“That’s the other guy,” he offers gently, a sense of melancholy lacing his tone. He says it with a half-smile—reassuring—all like it wasn’t breaking him to say. “That’s the Sentry.”

“Bob…” Your voice trails off unintentionally— A losing battle on what to say back, on how to tell him that it’s not true.

That he’s more than his other facets he despised. 

“Can you, uh, do you— I mean, do you want to, uh, to try?” He gestures to the meal, fidgeting with his hands, nervously tumbling over his words. “Since everyone’s still not back, you know? I could use the feedback.” 

In another world, you’d want to, your heart skipping a beat at his timid offering, so sweet and gentle, so honest. But you couldn’t shake your hesitation that still pulled you back, reminding you against your will of what you’ve done to him. 

You couldn’t open that door.

“I wouldn’t want to impose…” 

“No, really, you’re not.” He hurries back to his dish, assembling everything on a clean plate before you could say another word— A pair of them, one for each of you. 

“Ava, Yelena, and Alexei are training.”

They were on recon… for something Bob didn’t know about.

“Bucky’s doing congress stuff.”

Bucky was with Sam.

“And Walker… I’m not sure where he is, actually.”  

Similarly, neither did you.

“So no one will be back for a bit.” 

It would be longer than a bit, you already knew that. But he didn’t. 

“I thought you weren’t supposed to be left alone,” you point out, tone balancing on the edge of teasing and seriousness. You hated how it made you sound like a lecturing-parent—wandering mind trying to pinpoint how it made him feel too—but you know how the team was with him since everything happened so recently. You know they worried about him, even if they wore it close to the vest— Know they avoided all being gone at the same time because they don’t like for him to dwell in silence for too long alone.

You didn’t like it either, which is why it was even harder for you to fight yourself into leaving. 

Then he says, 

“Just another reason you should stay.” 

Well, you walked right into that one. 

He was quick with his answer, completing the plates and setting them down, looking at you delicately, like he said too much. “Uh, u-unless you don’t want to. Sorry, I don’t wanna be annoying, I, uh—”

“No, it’s okay.” You give in, your heart breaking at his sudden embarrassment— Like he pushed you too far when in reality, all he was doing was being kind, just like always. “I’d love to. I haven’t eaten yet, anyways… so, thank you.” 

You allow yourself to relax a bit, still nervous at being in his presence with all you held onto, letting yourself find one of the barstools and wait patiently for his masterpiece that he placed in front of you, accompanied by a glass of red wine, which you would never turn down. 

“So, what’s for dinner, Chef?”

It warmed you to watch him smile for a split second, that same pink flush you recognized from earlier creep across his cheeks, scratching the back of his head as he sheepishly averts his eyes and takes a seat adjacent to you, waiting intently now. 

“Penne,” he says nonchalantly, and you tried to fight the up turn that begged to come through at the corner of your mouth. “With tomato sauce.”

“Did you make the sauce from scratch or something…?” you ask gently, scanning around the room at the kitchen, covered in evidence of what seemed like hours of hard work and love— The same delicious smell that knocked you back when you walked in still wafting through the air, dancing with the faint glow of warm kitchen lights and delicate beginnings. 

“No, it’s just a canned one,” he answers sheepishly, somehow wrapped in even more shy, timid manners, his baggy sleeve coming up to his lips that started to curl, hiding the pink that warmed to a red. “I put other stuff in it, though… to make it better.” 

It was cute, the way he folded in on himself at your gaze, smiling and teasing towards his simple nature. You loved it. You wished you didn’t. 

With a stab or two at the pasta, you hold out your fork to him, a quirked brow and a smile to match. “Cheers.”

He brushed a lock of his hair out of his eyes and awkwardly clinked his fork with yours, the two of you taking your first bites and marinating in the flavors in silence.

Your chewing slowed as you thought, face slowly turning to meet his. You didn’t want to be the one to speak first, wanted anything other than to tell him what you really thought of his hard work.

“Do you think it’s kinda…” your voice trails, hoping that he’d take the bait and finish your sentence. 

“Spicy— But not good spicy, like-”

“Pumpkin… spice-y.” 

“And burned. Exactly,” he agrees before letting a light groan escape with the crane of his neck, throwing his head to the ceiling in defeat that made you giggle against your own will.

You rummage your hand through the spices that still littered the counter, sifting through the mess for the culprit— Some sort of explanation to solve the mystery of the utterly odd taste that graced your taste buds. 

“Maybe next time make sure this one stays in the cabinet,” you tease, flipping the label of a bottle of pumpkin spice mix towards Bob for him to see. 

“I should’ve just stuck to doing dishes and laundry,” he grovels in defeat, swiftly taking the evidence with him to clear, tossing the plates into the sink. 

“Hey, at least you made a good salad,” you point out, examining a small bowl on the counter with some fresh vegetables. “It’s a little small, but, y’know.”

“Oh, that’s for the guinea pig. Yelena’s.”

“Well, you’re good at taking care of small animals, then.” You give him a sincere smile, hoping he could sense it in your voice as he focused on plating something else, setting a new set of dishes down for the two of you.

“Here,” he says, a glimmer of pride in his voice, just for a second. “The official Bob Special.” In front of you now was a fresh plate of plain penne pasta dressed in light butter; Simple, universally-loved, a classic. “Oh, and if you want to get really fancy,” he jokes quietly, showing off a bottle of pre-packaged parmesan cheese. 

You didn’t try to hide the smile you wore this time around, happily inviting him to exchange eye contact with you, a little sweet, a little shy, all something you didn’t want with him. 

Something you know he wouldn’t want with you if he knew.

Silence swept through the room, the only sound a swelling swoon of an old orchestra thanks to what was left behind. A tinge of intimacy dances through the air—peace in common ground—something you tried to think else of for your own good. It was hard, he didn’t make it easy— Sitting slouched over his dinner, eyes drifting over to you when you weren’t looking, looking anywhere else when you returned the favor. You can’t even recall the last time you’ve had the privilege of dining with someone, the luxurious feeling of normalcy echoing in each accidental scrape of your fork against the dishware. 

You’re sure he senses that, too, all things considered. 

“It’s been a while,” he cuts through the silence first, earning your attention, like he was reading your mind. “Since, uh, since you’ve been here.”

Because of you. How do you sit here and tell him, it’s because of him?

“Yeah… you know how Valentina is.” It’s all you could think of saying, immediately regretting the mention of her as soon as the words ghosted over your lips, hitting him hard, his body twitching slightly at the name. You hated yourself for reminding him.

His face fell a bit sullen, eyes darkening and darting away from yours, sucking in a low breath, internally trying to walk himself through the mention of someone who has had such a heavy hand in his life so far. 

“Yeah,” he whispers, a quick glance at you then immediately back down at his plate, pushing a few leftover noodles aimlessly. 

Think of literally anything else, you scold yourself internally, words tripping over each other as you racked your brain for a way to subtly ease your guilty conscience through him— To let him know what you really thought of your boss, to let him know what side you were really on. 

“She, um… she,” you sputter, his eyes taking you in now, watching you take your turn at rambling through the fragments of a sentence. You lost the words, what little of them you had, trailing off. You had to be careful what you told him— Knowing her, this place was most definitely bugged and listening to your every word. 

“She hates yellow,” you sigh eventually, gingerly holding your hand up for him to see, nails all uniformly refined and polished a pale, muted lemon. Of all the things, you think. Of all the things you could’ve said. “So… I get them done yellow.”

His eyes dart between yours, trying to decipher what you were saying. You wanted to fold in on yourself—disappear—embarrassed at how pitiful and utterly ridiculous you sounded. Tense bottom lip found its way between your teeth, tenderly biting in purgatory while you prepared yourself for his response— To call you out for your indiscretion, all like he should.

Slowly, the corner of his mouth twitches into just barely a smile. 

“We match,” he carefully says, holding a lock of his golden hair, his grin growing a bit. “Two things Valentina hates.” Only you knew he wasn’t talking about his hair. Or about you.

The mention of his new look made your stomach twist, the one very subject you feared. The one thing you were doing everything in your power to avoid.

You took a sip of your wine, now being the one to look away, taking in the twinkling cityscape just past the large windows that adorned every facet of the room. “I’m surprised you still have it— The blonde, I mean.”

Through the reflection you watch him shrug, fingers scrubbing away at something on the counter that didn’t even seem to be there. 

“Everyone says they like it,” he points out, but you weren’t convinced. “Do you… What do, uh, what—what do you think?” He asks so gently, like his word was sacred, something lingering he’s too afraid to act on, your opinion, too weighted.

“It just doesn’t seem like you.” 

Silence. 

You feared his reaction again, but realized if you owed him anything, after all was said and done, the least you could do was give him your honest opinion. 

“I think that’s the whole point,” he says quietly, you still too afraid to look up at him again. “The Sentry needs to look powerful, important.” It broke your heart how he spoke of himself, the slight waver as he said it, like every syllable was a losing battle within himself, waging war with every word.

“I liked it brown,” you mumble, scared of your own honesty. “It was just… you. Just Bob. That’s important, too.” You hoped he could hear how you meant it, how you truly admired him untouched.

He gets up in silence and clears your second round of plates, stirring in thought. Your stomach lurched, fearing you might’ve scared him off, had thrown too much at him, offended him, even. 

Then,

“I did too.” 

He turns around from the sink and gives you a sad smile, a whisper of regret on his lips. You bit at yours again, reeling in his words.

Before you could think of what to say, he kept going. “You’re the only person who’s answered me without worrying I’ll fall apart at the truth or something… so thank you.” It’s shy, it’s raw. He picks at his fingers, lost in the mangle of them now. “Thanks for being honest with me.”

His words hit you like a ton of bricks, the life and wind sucked out of your soul, plummeting to the pit of your stomach, grasping desperately for air. You couldn’t do this, couldn’t let him look at you like you were some sort of savior to his sanity— Like you hadn’t already played your part in maiming the shell of who he used to be. 

So you stood, finding your feet leading you to him at the sink, soaking in the warm glow from the hood of the stove, finding each curve of your face and painting you in it— A new light, in more ways than one.

Without thinking, you grab his hand and look at him. 

“Look at him. He’s painfully pale and has a head like a bag full of cats, but he’ll have to do.”

Valentina exhaled sharply, exiting the room she had just occupied with Bob, acting as if another person’s autonomy was somehow a personal vendetta against her. You watched as she maneuvered past a version of you— One you were trying to forget. 

The old you dodged like your existence was in her way when, really, she was just bulldozing her way through yours. 

“What did he say?” old you asked, watching her slowly, almost afraid to know the answer. You remembered that you were.

“Not important. What is important, however,” she said over a sip of water, “is that we get a team working on him immediately. It’s gonna take a while to fix… that.”

You watched as your old self closed her eyes tightly, remembering how you’d tried to calm yourself at her words before painfully obliging. 

“What do you need?”

“I want him tanner— The pale is sad to look at. He won’t look good overexposed from camera lights. The clothes need to go; he looks like a Boy Scout, not a superhero. Maybe gold for the suit,” she said, thinking out loud and bustling around the room, weaving through workers promptly trying to get the building usable again. “Americans like gold. It’s classic. Looks expensive even if it’s not. Get those old mock-ups for it.”

“They were burned,” you pointed out bluntly.

“Then make them again.”

Your brows knit with worry before you said, carefully, “This seems like a lot, Val. Do you really think a makeover is necessary?”

“I signed up for the hero of superheroes,” she deadpanned, unamused by your interruption. “Not a damn charity case.” 

Once she turns around, you roll your eyes fiercely, fighting the urge to yank that silver strip of hair clean out of her head. 

She keeps going, hitting a million other nonexistent flaws he apparently has—you hurriedly writing them all down as if your life depended on it—until she finally says,

“Enhancements would be nice. They’ll delay the launch, but it’s worth it. I mean— Look at him.”

You stopped her there, your heels skidding against the concrete. “Enhancements?”

“Yes,” she said your name with a condescending bite and groaned like it was the most obvious thing ever. “Enhancements. Trim down his nose, put him on steroids so he isn’t so lanky— Oh, that new, trendy thing that makes your cheekbones look sharp,” she said, sucking her lips in to show off the shadow in her face. “Buccal fat!” She snapped her fingers at the remembrance of it. “Look it up and book a surgeon— Someone who can get this done fast so I have something presentable to show the press.”

You remembered you couldn’t believe what you were hearing— The way she spoke about him like he was nothing, like he wasn’t even a person. 

You looked back at him, sitting in a sheen of sweat, doubled over on himself at the edge of the bed Valentina once waded in with him, clearly unstable and vulnerable.

The sight of him left alone in there made you sick.

Letting her sink unforgiving claws into him and mutilate him, stuff him like he’s the puppet she wants him to be, would destroy him. You couldn’t let her, not in his state, not when he was so clearly aching to have meaning that he would say yes to just about anything she suggested. 

And she knew that.

“Or,” you began, flinching at yourself for attempting to correct her in the first place. “We could start smaller. It’ll move things along faster, y’know, pacify the investigation.”

She looked visibly irritated but stopped her busy work, granting you most of her attention now. 

“They’re really getting restless, Val,” you added, fibbing a tad to help convince her. “They’re pushing back. Hard.”

“And what do you propose then?”

“All I’m saying is you can always… tweak things later,” you offered, breath catching on the word ‘tweak.’ You wanted to sink into yourself and disappear at even acknowledging her sick and twisted ideas to form him into her mold.“You could bleach his hair, maybe. Hair can change the whole appearance, make him look more refined. Maybe a nice blonde, straight and slicked back… Really complete the whole look and compliment the gold.”

You hated your own suggestion, but prayed she took the bait, giving some time to wait on permanently altering him and his body, inflicting irreparable damage he had no control over when he was as fragile as he was. 

She huffed, waving her hand at you— Something you got a lot. “I don’t care, just fix him. I can’t be bothered, okay?” And she walked away, leaving you reeling in worry over how to please your unpleasable boss and keep your hands clean of him, all at the same time. 

You snapped back to reality abruptly, sharing in the panic in his eyes, his hands still woven in between yours. Your breath hitched as you realized what you had just done, almost forgetting just how abrasive that memory was. In your desperate attempt to atone for your sins—show him why you avoid him so incessantly and feel so complacent in a version of himself you know he hates—you hung him out to dry. You let him relive the woman who has already caused him so much harm.

You let her cause more.

“I’m sorry,” you whisper, a pathetic presence of self-pity laced through the letters you strung together, tears clinging to the corners of your eyes despite your best attempts to stop them. Skin untangled from his, wiggling your hand free of his grasp, running through your hair, searching for how to explain what just happened to him— Why you did what you did. “I haven’t been honest… not like you think. I needed you to know that.”

He took you in carefully, his eyebrows and forehead wrinkles woven with worry and pain, a similar sheen of sweat dancing across his skin— One you knew all too well. Golden hair came to light again, the messy brown you once loved lost in the darkness left behind once your hand left his, now only an aching memory.

“You were just doing your job,” his voice cracks, raw from the silence it had been swallowed in just moments before, and you wanted to laugh— How could he seriously be standing here right now making excuses for you, comforting you, justifying you?

“You want to know why I avoid you, Bob?” Your voice raises a bit in volume, more courage coursing through your veins as you listen to him excuse your actions. “I avoid you—this place—because every time I look at you, I’m reminded of how I stripped your sense of identity… of how I helped erase you. And it kills me.”

You were so caught up in your own rambling confession, your voice wavering slightly, a sting clawing at the back of your throat, that you didn’t realize he had stepped closer, his large frame towering over you now, casting a shadow over the dips and curves of your skin. 

“You helped save me from much worse,” he whispers, a little unsure of himself— Maybe of the moment, maybe of the breached space… Maybe of you. Was it you? Breath dances with his as you blink up at him now, eyes impatiently searching for the answer like it lay there, honest and open and true when he adds, “Besides, it’s just hair.”

Still unsure, you say back, “I erased a part of you, Bob.”

He shrugs and looks away, taking the smallest step back, a sudden rush of cool flooding you from the loss of body heat he radiated onto you. How could you miss something you barely had? 

“Not much there to erase.”

The way he says it cuts through you like a knife, a feeling of dread worse than you could’ve imagined. How could someone so great, so pure and full of potential, see so little in himself? 

It’s like he was searching for new ways to keep you up at night— The guilt you bear, the senseless burn in the deepest corners of your soul that demanded something more with him, were not yet enough. Your Achilles’ heel. The way he consumed you.

“I’m going to do this thing where I’m only honest with you now,” you start, voice cracking a little over the words, eyes begging to connect with his— To help him see, to understand; you meant it. “That’s not true, Bob. Not at all. Not even a bit.”

A heat burns through the high points of his cheeks, undeniable proof of the way he’s fighting the urge to let himself believe what you so desperately wanted him to see. You knew Bob well enough to know he’d take a lot more convincing than that. His voice crawls with a doubtful chuckle as he says, so quietly you could barely hear, “I don’t know about that.”

His hands find a home at the base of his neck, wobbly fingers pawing at flushed skin, eyes unable to meet yours. It didn’t matter, you still watched him— Eying him intently, learning what he was trying to say through his body instead. Silence was something you were used to when you were around him, the leading party admittedly coming from both ends, but this was a new kind of silence. 

You hated it.

There were a lot of things you wanted to do— Shake him free of the prison in his mind, tell him that he’s something extraordinary, remarkable, tell him you’re scared of what twists inside you for him. You wanted to tell him that your guilt has made it a lot easier to cover up the feeling that scares you most in the likes of him— An unknown ache, yearning to be set free. You wanted to pull his hand out of his hair and to your chest, let him learn by feeling how hard your heart was beating for him, a spark you’d buried, fighting to burn again. You wanted to grab his face in your hands and stop his ragged breathing, suffocate his fears and worries with the certainty of your lips, skin on skin, hearts on sleeves, trust in devotion. 

But you couldn’t do any of that, so you did something you’ve wanted to do for a long time.

“Come on.” He twitches as you latch your hand onto his forearm and pull him toward the door, scared the contact might not take you where you intended, yet you stay grounded in this universe—this moment—his mind racing at your forwardness as he stumbles along behind you. 

“Where are we— W-what are we—”

You stopped abruptly at the side door near a little shoe rack, turning to look at him now— Stability found in the pools of his eyes that made their way to yours again, eyes you’d somehow missed already, shy and tentative. 

“Do you trust me enough to follow me?”

He swallowed hard, wringing his fidgeting hands together, eyes darting around the secluded area of the residential floor you’d taken him to— Like he was surprised you knew it existed, this quiet part of his home. His hesitation made your burst of courage start to fizzle, choked away in the silence, until—

“I… I think I’d follow you anywhere.” 

Your heart leapt like your soul had been ripped through your chest and crashed back into your body when those words left his lips. 

“Good,” you manage to get out, gently instructing him to put on his shoes— Which he obliged, tripping and falling over himself to slip his sneakers on as fast as he could, you watching endearingly, unable to look anywhere else. 

You grab his arm when he recoils from the floor, standing tall over you again, familiar frame and body heat filling the air, and headed for the door. 

“We’re getting your hair back.”

For the first time in your life when you walk toward the building, you feel renewed hope. It was giddy— The energy and lightness that hung in the air around the two of you, walking lazily back to the Watchtower, no longer a fear or worry in the world. Who would’ve ever thought the reason you dreaded that building would be the same one that saved you? 

Everything was starting to feel right— The crosswalks you scurried through, grabbing ahold of his arm like he were a lifeline, no longer uneasy now that he was next to you. You could relax against him, the shield of his body a buffer between you and the busy streets, giggling your way through the flashing traffic lights and honking horns of impatient drivers. 

You used to envy them, their pointed purpose around you, but now you only pitied the restless nature of their souls— The way none of them had a reason to enjoy the moment they were in. 

Unlike you.

It was funny how quickly you realized what you’d so deeply repressed in regards to him. He brought peace to your world, relishing in the time you got to spend with him now— Unburdened, hopeful, reborn. 

It was like your soul had known his forever— A familiar flame, kindling, against all odds, with his.

It was like he was learning to breathe again when he wandered through the hazy city streets with you, his eyes sparkling with wistful wonder as he absorbed the movement around him. He waded in the flickering life of the city all like he wasn’t living in it, day in and day out, like he'd never seen anything like it before. 

You knew that wasn’t true— He made himself busy outside the Watchtower, growing bolder in exploring every day, discovering what the world had to offer just like everyone else. Looking—a whisper of loss behind his eyes—for the thing in this city that could make him tick. Searching for a home in a city of nomads, in a city that was lost like him. Like you.

He hasn’t found it yet. 

A smile pulled at your lips bitten by the cool evening air, absentmindedly, as you watched him take it all in, his hesitancy washing away with every step now. 

Your cheeks warmed again at it— Just like they did when you left, the memory of him stumbling over himself in every sense of the word flooding back like it’s lived in your mind forever now. 

“Are you sure we should be doing this so late?” He had mumbled to you, tone unsure yet hopeful— Hopeful you’d ease his doubt and insist he’s exactly where he needs to be. 

You did.

“Yes, Bob, it’s fine,” you’d said back. “You’re with me.”

“A-and the store— They’ll be open still?”

“It’s only 9 pm, Bob. We’re in New York City.”

“Oh, right.”

You knew it wasn’t about being out late or about a store’s hours— Of course not. He’s lived a life far more complicated than a 7-11 run in the middle of the night, to say the least. 

It was that he was still finding his footing, trying desperately to ground himself in something that would do it back. That would assure he was allowed ownership over himself again. No abuse, no drugs, no demons. 

Just something real. 

He was overly cautious of himself, like he was hyper-aware of the fact that his brain convinced him he was out of place somehow. You knew the feeling.

The rest of the trip went that way— Him clinging to you and your every word, watching with calculated thought churning in his brain while you did your thing: picking out the best shade of brown to match his roots that poked through just enough, weaving through the store with ease— Just two lost souls finding themselves together in the artificial glow of a late-night corner pharmacy.

You refrained from touching him again, fighting off the intimacy you felt creeping up on you. If your fingers wrapped around him you’d only be reminded of the swoop in your stomach when things crossed into a realm you teased— Cautiously, carefully. 

When you grabbed his arm to drag him out the door or keep him with you as you ran through the streets, it felt familiar—felt okay—allowable, even. But there were other ways of touching him that you knew would stop your breathing, swirl your head, shred your better judgment— Hungry claw at your heart. A heart that screamed for him, for more.

You couldn’t touch his hand again. You couldn’t snake your hand across his lower back as you shuffled in front of him in the aisle. You couldn’t thread your fingers through his hair to find the perfect shade—You just couldn’t.  

So you gingerly held the box up and took your best guess, his questions still coming all the same. 

“Is it going to sting?”

“No, Bob. It’s a demi-permanent dye, not bleach. Your hair’s already bleached.”

“This is a bad idea, what if everyone hates it? Valentina is gonna get so pissed—”

“So let her,” you dismissed softly. “She’ll have to go through me first.”

A pink settled on his skin— That same pink from when you startled him in the tower, the color from when he served you dinner, shy and hopeful. The one that blistered his skin when you teased him— One that festered from the way you talked him down, not letting him consume himself in doubt, all like it was already a natural place for you to be. It appeared again when you worked your way around the night shift cashier who didn’t want to honor a coupon Bob mentioned in passing he tried to use last week on snack foods for Yelena. It was still crinkled in his pocket, a reminder of his failure on his grocery run, in his small but monumental tasks— You simply couldn’t have that. 

And now, you walk back, a plastic bag of his newfound authority swaying alongside you as he held the jelly-red candies he munched on up to the streetlights, watching them glow from within— His prize in more ways than one. 

“Do you ever think about why they’re called Swedish Fish?” he muses, voice cutting through the sugar on his teeth. “Like, what makes the fish… Swedish?”

You couldn’t do anything but smile— A smile that stretched so far it pulled his attention with it, rambling questions coming to a pause and looking at you. Cool, flickering lights under the Watchtower’s entrance cradle your skin, making you shine— A physical embodiment of the way he made you glow inside, just like his candies in the streetlights.

“What?” he asks tentatively, thin lips pursed together, stopping mid-chew with wide eyes darting gently back and forth, like he’d done something wrong. 

Eyes connected like constellations decorating the clear, crisp air above you, the soft lull of city life blurring into the background— Somehow completely insignificant in this moment.

You wanted to say, 

It’s just that I like spending time with you. You look so perfect right now I can barely breathe.

Or,

I missed having you in my life. Even if it was small, I still missed you. It meant something to me.

You fought the urge to confess,

I feel something I shouldn’t— Something hungry and restless from the way I let it starve.

I feel something for you. 

You dared to whisper,

I think I’m falling in love with you.

But instead— 

“Nothing,” you breathe back softly, a cautious reluctance haunting your phrase despite your desperate attempt to hide it. The words taste wrong as soon as they leave your lips, a new sin brought to fruition, betraying what you promised him before— Doing the one thing you vowed never to do to him again.

You lied.

You don’t say any of what you want to, just reiterate with a breathless smile, “It’s nothing.”

He pushed further, gently— An offering so delicate, a chance for you to take it all back and give him what burned inside your throat to say. He asks it carefully, like he was dancing on a line he was afraid to cross. 

“Are you sure?”

The key card buzzes you back in, breaking the moment that threatened to swallow you whole. 

“I’m just glad you got your candy, is all.”

When you step inside, you move through the tower silently, a state of mourning, like you both knew what was about to come— A next step, only yours to take. 

You didn’t want to go. You wanted to live in this night forever. It was a night you could only dream of having— So raw, so utterly real that it threatened to shatter what you thought you knew of reality. It felt like if you let it end now, you might never get this feeling back again. 

You wondered if he felt the same.

When you reach the residential floor, you enter, this time, as someone completely new— Or yet, maybe someone you’ve always been, a person who just got lost. You were getting to be the different, better you. The one you fantasized about being when you were alone at your apartment, only now with the only person in the world you’d want it to ever be with. 

Everything was just how you left it: messy kitchen, littered with evidence of a lived-in night, half-had glasses of wine, deep red liquid staining the bottom of the vessel like a scar. Warm light, a pulse radiating throughout the dark floor all from that one space— The space where everything changed for both of you. 

The only thing new was the silence from a finished record, drawing the night to a close. Your cue to go.

Bob was the first to speak, confirming current residents with the comm system, only to reaffirm your impatient suspicion.

You were still alone.

“Wow, everyone’s still gone,” he reiterates after the mechanical voice goes mute, a nervous and low, breathy laugh engulfing the sincerity seeping through his tone— One that threatened to betray his facade and bare the truth of what lies behind intent. 

“Guess so,” is all you say back. 

Beat. 

Say something else, you scold internally. It’s getting too quiet. 

Eventually, you cave and bite first—begrudgingly—but not wanting to crowd him any longer. “Thanks for tonight. It was nice.”

You give him a half smile and move past him, his lanky frame awkwardly shuffling aside with a mumbled ‘sorry’ so you could grab for your bag— But you don’t take it yet. You just encroach on his space, hovering gently, waiting for his next words, fingers practicing wrapping and releasing around the handle haphazardly in wait. 

Holding out the plastic bag from your impromptu errand, you look at him— His timid eyes already watching you, absorbing your every move, thinking intently. You hold out the offer of it—a weighted symbol—waiting in the silence, a moment too delicate to speak. He takes it gently, but neither of you move— Both your hands still clutched onto the bag, not wanting to let go. In more ways than one. 

“I, uh, I don’t really, um,” he stutters. “I mean, what I mean is, I— uh, sorry— It’s just that…” He pauses, taking you in, mind reeling behind his eyes on what to say to you next, suspended in the time you let pass.

Wrap, release.

“Maybe you can come back, y’know,” he says—so shy, so quiet—gesturing down to the bag, your fingers finally slipping free of it once the position is acknowledged, relinquishing sole custody to him. “I don’t really know what I’m doing with all this… so if you don’t mind, or uh, have the time in your schedule…” He laughs timidly, restless fingers around the plastic gripping on for dear life— And oh, there’s that flush again. “Sorry— I know you’re busy, this is stupid,” he rambles but you stop him, touching your free hand to his around the bag. His mind and mouth and meddling fingers come to a screaming stop at the contact, eyes flickering down like you might have unleashed the unwanted.

It didn’t come.

“Of course I’ll help, Bob.” His features immediately relax, a bit of reassurance washing over him as you smile softly, your fingers still stuck to his. 

“Okay,” he croaks. “Sorry.”

“Don’t be.” Your heart thudded hard— So hard you wondered if he could hear it ringing in his ears like it was in yours. 

Wrap, release.

He runs his tongue over his teeth, mulling in thought, weighing the voices, then says,

“Do you think it’ll take long?” he whispers, almost scared. “The dye?”

“No.” Your tone slips lower, matching his, trembling almost. “It’s pretty easy…”

Eventually, he says, “I won’t keep you.” He looks down hesitantly at your hand— One on your handbag, tethering you to an exit you didn’t want to take, the other still meeting his— His eyes not wanting to remind you they were still overlapping, the contact becoming more charged as each second passed. “You’re probably busy, y’know… with work ‘n stuff.”

Did you dare? 

“It’s quarter to 10 on a Friday, Bob.”

You did. 

So you continued. “I have nowhere to be. It’s the weekend, so…”

Wrap, release.

“Do superheroes even get days off?” he asks, but not seriously. He says it like it’s a strained joke, a short laugh covering up the root of something much more complex— Something much more timid and intimate that he wanted to know. 

Your hand twitched free from his, cold rushing to the pads of your fingers from the loss of heat. 

“Lucky for you,” you tease, “I’m not a superhero. That’s your job.” 

When he looks down at his hands, likely mulling over the loss of contact just like you, he follows your lead. “Care to work some overtime, then?” He looks back up, eyes dancing along yours, searching to connect like a puzzle begging to be finished. They echo with hope, glistening from the reflection of the light captured in the dim and dark center of his doubts— The part of him that said, she wants nothing to do with you. Stop bothering her, you’re wasting her time.

But you’d like nothing more. “I think I can swing that.”

Release.

The releasing won— You retreating your grip from your handbag, stranding it on the counter along with your other things, leaving behind the people you were before tonight, leaving behind an old fate, stepping into something new and unfamiliar. A new beginning, together. No longer alone. 

So you let him lead you upstairs into the uncertain.

His hands were buried deep in his pockets, hair shifting against the cool blue hue of the roaring city in restless waves as he walked. Each step echoed into the empty, taking you somewhere you never thought you’d have the privilege of going.

The corridor stretches on— Long, dim, empty of the usual chaos. A steady haze clung to the walls, the flickering heartbeat of twinkling city lights bleeding through tall windows, washing the world in a soft, electric kind of quiet. He stops once he reaches the end.

The hallway wound further, but he didn’t.

He opens the door, dipping his head and shuffling aside, the smallest, sweetest smile breaking across his lips for a split second. It was the kind of smile that made your chest ache and your heart soar. 

He lets you enter first, a wave of goosebumps pecking your skin as his forearm brushes the air behind you, reaching out for the touchpad. The lights come on, his private world unfolding before you, one shadow shattered at a time— Like a secret you weren’t sure you deserved to be told yet. 

His room was more well-kept than you were expecting, considering his battle with inner demons and his tendency to be a bit scattered. Part of you wondered if it was just because he didn’t have many belongings anymore.

Some similarly muted and oversized garments tenaciously cluttered a lounge chair, a few scattered across the floor, the rest held in a closet bigger than your apartment— Though it was mostly empty, lining lights illuminating barren drawers and shelves. 

The outer wall across from his bed was covered in large windows overlooking the city, beneath it a slightly raised landing that stretched along the back edge of the room. Atop it sat a sofa that looked completely untouched and a dark wooden desk, adorned with small remnants of him— A notepad with some scribbles and doodles too faint for you to make out, a pile of crumpled, discarded fragments of papers cluttered around it. A computer and phone, plugged in and seemingly forgotten about, a small succulent on top of some better-known self-help books alongside an empty cup with a thick straw— Seemingly for a milkshake or smoothie. 

His soul touched every corner, a faint whisper of himself embedded in the fabric of his own reality.

Lining one wall adjacent to the windows were several bookshelves, mostly empty yet, but still more crowded and lived-in than the other things in his room. Some shelves held picture frames still encasing the stock photos inside— Naturescapes and famous landmarks, things of that sort. You had to fight the smile that crept to your lips at the invasive thought that maybe, one day, you could be the one to change that. 

And there he stood, raking his hands through his hair and wringing them together as he watched you silently take in the space. 

You take the first steps, freeing yourself from the tight suit jacket you’d been bound to all day, the fabric whispering against your skin— A physical and emotional release. He watched your frame closely—carefully—like he was witnessing something he wasn’t supposed to.

Why did it feel dramatic? Why did it feel weighted? 

Maybe because it was.

Because around him, everything felt heavier— Closer, like stepping too near the edge of something you couldn’t quite name.

You drape it gently on the curve of his bed, leaving with it the urge to hold back, trying your best to stay grounded when stepping into something new. 

Something with him.

“Those look uncomfortable,” he murmurs softly, like he was tapping the ice instead of breaking it. Like he was talking more to the room than to you. 

You study him, trying to connect what he was saying with his eyes to what he was saying with his words. 

“The shoes,” he adds shyly, an almost boyish innocence in his glance at your sharp heels— His form of an invitation for you to settle in, reminding you it’s okay to relax in his space. 

“Oh,” you laugh gently, taking his delicate offer to slip them off, warm pads of your feet finally unwinding against the cool of his floor— An exhale. “They are.” 

He repays you with a mannerism close to a smile, the outer edge of his mouth flashing into a curve for a second, making your stomach swoop with a flutter you can’t contain.

“You might want to, uh,” you continue, gesturing to the sweater hanging loosely over his lean frame, soft and worn. It was the kind of thing you knew he probably slept in. Something that probably still smelled like old memories and half-healed wounds.

“You don’t want to get dye on that,” you add. “It probably won’t come out…” 

Beat.

He glances down, all like he just remembered it’s still on his body.

The favor was returned. Saying it without saying it.

For a moment, he hesitates, then you feel it— That shift, that ache when it happens. It’s not out of debate of your offer, but because his stare is lingering longer than he’s ever let it before, watching you closely—intimately—reveling in the delicacy of your words. 

His eyes trace the curves of your skin, arms now exposed, standing in your blouse. It’s a business-casual tank top. Appropriate for work, but still fun enough to leave a button or two undone.

He quickly tears his gaze away, soft blue irises gently washed in awkward panic— The silent kind that only shows as they dart around the room, his limbs gesturing in small movements toward his expansive closet.

“I—I have things,” he rushes, hand tearing into the nape of his neck, rummaging through his restless hair. “Like, uh, like a t-shirt or something, I mean… if you don’t want to ruin your clothes too.” 

You smile and accept the offer, following him into his closet. 

The enchanting scent of cedarwood drawers mingled with the warm, earthy smell he always wore— So subtle, so effective, just enough to make you forget anything else mattered in the moments when it hung in the air around you, dizzying and distracting.

He rummages through a drawer—half-open, garments half-folded—and pulls out a slightly wrinkled steel-blue t-shirt and a pair of lounge shorts, fabric clutched in his fists, fidgeting nervously. 

“They’re clean, I promise. I just… I hate folding.”

Slipping into the bathroom, connected to both his room and the closet, he hovers, his hand ghosting over the handle. “I’ll, uh, I’ll give you—” he stumbles. “I’ll let you… yeah…” he trails off, a nervous laugh swallowing the rest of the words he failed to find. A blush crept to your cheeks at his timid nature— It was sweet, sincere. It ruins you. 

The door creaks as he pulls it shut for you to change, unknowingly leaving you alone with a heart that pounded for him, a heart that could no longer lie dormant in his empty space. The undeniably intimate feeling of wrapping yourself in his clothes—an extension of him—creates a flustered pull at your lips. A burning. The silent buzz of his closet carrying it all.

When you slip the soft, threadbare fabric over your head, you linger for a second, a persistent thought of proximity curling around you like smoke. The thought clings to you like the fabric, just like how it’s clung to him before. For a fleeting second, you almost drown in the thought that maybe this will be the closest you’ll ever get to be to him— Only some fabric shared.

Once.

It’s large, draped over your body like a blanket, and even then, it still hangs just right— Enveloping you in comfort, all like it was made to be worn by you too. Like it’s been waiting all this time.

The shorts, on the other hand, make a habit of slipping past your waist, hanging there for no longer than a second before falling, the garment gathering down at your feet. You try rolling the waistband a few times, but it’s a useless feat, leaving you to hope your company was okay with a makeshift dress instead. You, in his shirt, bare legs disappearing into the too-long hem. 

Its length stretches just past your fingertips. Sure, you’ve worn shorter dresses to work, around the team, around him… but this felt like something you had to rationalize a lot more.

Just as you swallow your pride and replace it with something more earnest and raw for him—your heart on your sleeve, vulnerable in more ways than one—you freeze. 

In the reflection of the mirror, looming large at the opposite end of the closet, you catch a glimpse of him through the sliver of the bathroom door that’s slipped ajar. 

He pulls the olive sweater up over his head, back facing you, ruffling the locks of golden, wavy hair he tries to pat down to no avail— Something you could still love in the scattered fragments of him, because it was, after all, still him. The movement tugs the white t-shirt he wears underneath up, a patch of smooth, sculpted skin resting at the waistband sneaking through, your breath catching at the mere sight of it— Of him, like this. 

From the freedom of his baggy sweater you could see him better— A fresh glimpse at the way his chest rises and falls with deep and heavy breaths, struggling to tether himself to something that was never really there. His muscle was indescribable, molded into the stretched cotton, something unlike anything you’ve ever seen before. The closest you’d come was seeing it on TV. One of the Avengers— One who didn’t come from this world. 

Yet, there he is. Innately human. 

Those were the most captivating parts of him. Through taught muscle lay a subtle softness at the curves and dips of his skin, his hands like they were large enough to hold the whole world yet were still found fiddling with the simple box dye, restless energy shuffling around the expansive tile until he slipped out of view, taking your pitiful daydream along with him. 

You wish he knew just how alluring he really was. 

Unsure fingers gather the fallen shorts and clothes still warm from your body off the floor, folding them loosely over your arm, draped in front of your body as if that somehow makes the moment any less vulnerable, less revealing. 

When you step into the bathroom, he’s sat on the edge of his tub, cool porcelain cradling his long and lanky frame, fingers still buried in the box— Toying with the cap, absentmindedly picking at the corner of the paper, brows furrowed as he raked through the expansive instructions on the back, all too caught up in anchoring himself to something—anything—to notice you were there standing in front of him. 

A hush and milky white bathes the tile, a low lunar light lingering over every surface like silk. An echo of penance trapped between four walls and two bodies.

The sweater’s gone; he’s in that cotton white t-shirt you already caught a glimpse of— Simple, classic, saying so much without saying anything at all, much like everything about him. It’s somehow the same size as the one you wore, just fitting much more right— Tightly stretched over his broad chest and shoulders like a second skin, fabric smoothing perfectly over the rest of him. His hair is still messy, riddled with movement and life. His feet bare, legs long and in light grey sweatpants, arms exposed and glowing in the dim pooling light of his bathroom.

Was it too much to ask to live in this moment forever?

“The shorts were too big,” you confess, reluctant to disturb him— To steal back the time where observing him feels like the most important thing you’ll ever do, like a gift too good to keep. You look down at what you were left in, the sensual nature of just his t-shirt somehow showing off every curve of your body despite its size like it’s taunting you. “I hope you don’t mind…”

When he looks up at you, the world narrows to a pinhole. Just for a second. It’s like you were in a vacuum, the rest of the world slipping away until it’s just you. Just him.

The box falls free from his hands and clatters to the floor, fingers freezing and pressing against his legs now, a gentle back and forth like he was trying to soothe himself. Thin lips part slightly, so subtle you wouldn’t even notice if you weren’t so drawn into his every move like it was a lifeline— Your resuscitation, suspended in aching time. 

He sucks in a slow and steady breath, the only thing present. Just you. Just him.

You lived a lifetime in the flicker of an unspoken spark, a jolt you weren’t supposed to feel, but did. In truth, it was only mere seconds you stood there—a silent offering—before he spoke.

“You, uh…” he starts, a breath catching in his throat, words clinging there, stickier and sweeter than his candy. He gestures vaguely at the shirt. “Looks better on you.”

It’s shy, reserved, like he just said the most obscene thing his mind could conjure— Like it was unholy to say anything at all in this state, in this moment. His voice is low, heavy as gravel, the undeniable weight of his words landing like a stone on your chest.

Nervous eyes glance around the new space, taking in your surroundings to distract from the aching pull on your heartstrings, wound tightly like coiled wire, tension thrumming beneath your skin with no release from his earnest compliment. 

You hated how he did this to you— How he was so unaware and devastatingly oblivious to the way the small things he did made you fight off something ravenous within your soul. 

Every time he looked at you like you mattered, you had to fight the urge to grab his restless hand in yours to calm it. Every time he blushed, you had to remind yourself you couldn’t just walk over and kiss it off his face. Every single damn time he said a sheepish compliment like it was sacred, you had to wrestle your mind into remembering he isn’t yours. He’s not yours.

Every. Single. Time. 

This time wasn’t any different, somehow willing yourself into swallowing the lump in your throat, pushing down the words that were threatening to boil over in a confession and instead do something stupid— Change the subject rather than telling him something absurd, like how you want to wear his clothes forever. You wanted to live within a piece of him, always.

“Do you have a hairbrush?” 

He blinks a few times— Blank, rapid, staccato movements trying to process what you said, like he was surprised by your response. 

“Oh, uh, yeah— Yeah, I have one.” 

His fingers drum against his thigh, then stop. His jaw tightens, like he’s trying to catch a thought before it slips away, and crosses over to open a drawer in the vanity like he wasn’t buried deep in his mind. A small plastic comb turns aimlessly in his fingers before he hands it to you and immediately looks down, avoiding your eyes, murmuring, “I-I think your hair already looks nice, though.”

God, he was killing you. Did he know he was killing you?

“It’s for you,” you breathe, quiet and sure. “If you don’t brush your hair before coloring, it’ll get spots, is all.”

“Oh,” he whispers, a gentle smile in relief breaking across his lips for a fleeting second, like he was happy you weren’t displeased with his appearance. “That—that makes sense.”

“May I?”

You hold the comb up and ask— In a way asking yourself if you were really ready to touch him in that way. Asking the room like the echoes would answer back and reveal what you weren’t quite ready to face.

It was nothing—sure, maybe on the surface—but you’d been avoiding touching him for so long, the restraint was suddenly the thing making it harder for you to hold back. Your heart, light-years ahead of your mind, knew if you touched him in a way that mattered again, you’d only be reminded of how much you didn’t want to let go. Of him. Of yourself.

But he nods, a shy and timid pink flushing his features ever so slightly— All like it wasn’t as weighted as your dragging thoughts were making it feel. You reach up for him on your tiptoes, stepping a little closer, trying your hardest to reach his head that towered above yours until he took the lead and sat on the edge of the tub again. His fingers hovered loosely over the curve of your waist to guide you, accompanied by a soft, “There.”

Sitting down, his head rests just in front of your chest, hanging slightly in silence— A semblance of reckoning as he gives himself to you. 

Shallow and steady breath was hot against your sternum, sending shivers down your spine. He exhaled all like it was something he was trying to control—to contain—a pledge to bury how he was feeling inside. The truth remained exiled in the flutter of his breath like a secret— Or maybe, really, it’s just the vivid inner workings of your imagination meshed with hopeless desire.

When you’re done brushing, he hands you the tube of color with a soft smile, cap already loose from his mindless twisting, the rest of the box still abandoned on the floor. It was like it was the most insignificant thing in the world since you stepped through his door, all despite it being the reason you were still with him in the first place.

Or at least, that’s what you both kept telling yourselves.

You both duck down to pick it up at the same time, his wild waves tangling with yours like a whisper on new skin, the air around him seeping into yours, molding into one the way you so desperately wanted to believe it belonged.

Wobbling lips wear a tentative laugh and exchange breathless ‘sorrys’ when you both retract. You keep your glance down and buried into the box so maybe—just maybe—he couldn’t catch a glimpse of how fearlessly you were blushing— A shamefully senseless smile sneaking across your lips like an utter fool.

You place the mixing bowl—now full of the color—on his lap, whispering a steady, “Hold this,” and work on getting the gloves on, the black plastic melting into your skin, tight and precise. Then he reaches for the developer.

“No, wait,” you instruct lightly, and he freezes like he’s created a catastrophic problem. 

You go to the vanity and grab a different bottle of developer left behind in the plastic bag. When you pour it into the bowl, he clings to it with extra care, all like it was going to shatter under the weight of his grasp. 

“Never use the developer they give in the box, especially if you’re only depositing color like we are,” you explain, eyes flickering from the bowl to his gaze, trying to ease his mind through the aching adoration you couldn’t help but wear for him. “It’s usually a 20 volume,” you continue, “which we definitely don’t want.”

He looked at you like you were speaking a different language, tongue graced by a wisdom and knowledge too foreign for him to know. Eyes darted back and forth between yours cautiously, like you’d given him the answer to quantum entanglement instead of basic hair care, lost in the wavelength of your words. 

“That… that sounds complicated,” he stumbles, a little at a loss for words, trying to find where to even start. Did he know how adorable he was? Stupidly precious confusion weaving through his features, eyes fluttering as he faltered, a twitch in his lip quirking just so, nervous bubbles of laughter dancing intimately over every syllable said. Did he know all that made your knees want to give out?

Did he know at all?

“It’s simple, really,” you soothe, a sickeningly sweet tone flooding your mouth— Something you couldn’t stop even if you tried. You mix the contents in the bowl with the back of the comb and explain, distracting from the way your chest swoops like a threatening storm. “Developer is something that can lift your hair. So the higher the volume, the more lift you’ll get.”

Before you could continue, Bob snatches the bowl away mid-mix and holds it over his head, a teasing grin coming to life.

He maneuvers the bowl further out of your grasp as you reach for it, grinning at how much fun he was having teasing you— Like it was the most natural thing in the world. “Lift? You mean like this?”

His eyes didn’t leave yours once— Pure wonder glistening from getting you flustered and watching you fight it. “No and you know it,” you playfully scold, eventually grabbing it back and continuing your work all like you weren’t smiling fervently. 

“I don’t know, that seems like lift to me,” he levels with a joking tone, hanging on your reaction like it was holy.

When he stared at you with that undeniable grin you wanted to say something disgustingly stupid— Something forward and blunt and rash like how he should lift you instead; Carry you anywhere he wanted to go as long as it was within his arms. God. It made you sick just how badly you wanted him, the ache you tried to suffocate not going down easy, not staying silent, begging to be set free.

You have to choke all that down to say, 

“Lift as in opening the hair follicle so it can lighten and absorb the color.”

He bites the edge of his lip, watching you like it was the only thing that mattered, jaw twitching once as he tried to suppress his smile from growing into something bigger.

“That’s basically the same thing.”

“Mmm,” you hum, wiping the edge of the comb into the bowl and setting it down. “Basically.”

After a moment you hold it up—hesitant for some reason—before you eventually ask, “Ready?”

He nods, quiet and firm, like it was the easiest decision he’s ever made. “Yeah. Yeah,” he says, the repeated agreement said more to himself than to you. “My blonde days are over.” 

“What?” you tease, feeling a little bold now too. “You don’t wanna be a blonde bombshell forever?”

Fiery red scorches his cheeks at that, a blush that reaches the tips of his ears against the pale of his hair. His eyes flash wide before he ducks his head nervously and chuckles under his breath, like he couldn’t bear to hear a compliment, even if you were joking. Even if it were half true.

“Nope,” he mumbles sheepishly before looking up at you again, a gaze suddenly raw and honest— Something stoic humming beneath it all. “I’m good with just Bob now.”

You smile, mind bringing you back to earlier, how you reassured him he was worthy but he couldn’t fathom believing it himself. It was driving you crazy—that subtle confidence he was wearing now—self-assured in what you told him, holding your gaze like he was trying to spell it out for you; Make you realize he wanted to be himself for you.

Was it all in your head? 

“Good,” you whisper back, your intention settling more in your movements than your words. You stepped towards him now, handing back the bowl for him to hang onto, dye covering your gloves. 

His legs shift open—the slightest movement, timid reassurance—welcoming you in like you’ve always belonged somewhere slotted in between him. Arm in arm, fingers in fingers, legs between legs…

Knees brushed together as you hover over him, a breath catching at the back of your throat from the feeling. 

It was new, how close you were— The way his inner thigh tickles your smooth skin even through the plush of his sweatpants and makes you burn like you were scorched by a searing sun. 

You unnecessarily mix the dye around more, numb movements distracting from charged thoughts, averting his eyes like if he saw you for even a second he’d be able to hear the senseless desires bouncing around in your head— The ones saying all you wanted was to touch more of what you haven’t before. The ones saying hands weren’t enough, standing over him wasn’t enough, none of it was enough. You needed more, a carnal instinct you didn’t dare deny. 

How much did you have to drink?

No, it wasn’t that, it couldn’t be that— Not when you’ve only had half a glass. Not when you were already drunk over the illicit game you played, quietly pushing the boundaries of what was, what remained. What could be, maybe one day, maybe never.

You wanted him. He wanted you— Did he want you? How could he after everything… Could you get fired for this?

No, you haven’t done anything. Not like you want to…

Did he know? How long have you been quiet for? What was he thinking about—

“This might be a little cold,” you murmur, your quiet warning heavy with fog like you’d completely forgotten how to speak in the seconds you stirred around in thought— The time that felt like an eternity. 

You seriously needed to turn your thoughts off.

So you did, focusing on the way your hands laced around his golden hair, light from your previous misfortunes dulling upon contact. Dark seeps through every strand like desperate poison, like the life he missed having was being restored one tender touch at a time.

His chest rose and fell—soft and steady—deep pull of air every time you made contact. His eyes flutter shut a tad as you pull the dye through each strand, root to tip, covering him completely, your touch taking over in more ways than one. 

“That feels good,” he mumbles through an exhale, like he’s been holding in praise for devout touch his whole life. Like it was finally meaningful now, the feeling of being cared for.

For caring back. 

Your attention snaps back to reality when he says it, mind forced to finally be grounded again, reminding you where you really were, not just trapped inside the screaming fantasy in your head. The one that only grew the second you found him tonight, the second he let you in, the moment he asked you to stay— Carrying your baggage and all. 

“Good,” you breathe, trying to mask the waver in your voice. “It looks good.”

He smiles at that, faint and pure and utterly devastating, just the smallest of movements wrecking you completely. Lids are still drawn shut—light and relaxed—a gentle push into each movement of your hands, so small you wondered if you were making it up in your head.

Was it all in your head?

When he opens his eyes and takes himself in through the vanity mirror over your shoulder, he bites at his lip and hesitates, soft blue eyes glimmering with a trace of worry and nose crinkled a tad. 

“It’s, uh, does it—does it look kinda orange…?” He says it gently, like he shouldn’t be questioning a thing, like the wrong set of words strung together will make him lose you, make you run. 

“Don’t worry it’ll tone down,” you reassure, working your way to the back, leaning over him to make sure you cover it completely. “I purposely picked a shade with a warm undertone so we don’t run the risk of your hair going green.”

His jaw falls slack and he snaps his eyes off his profile and up to you, chin tilting to fully take you in, your lips being all but a breath away.

“Green? What—What do you mean— Th-that can happen?” 

Despite your best efforts to suppress it, an airy laugh escapes your lips and fans across his face, you ducking your head down into the crook of his neck at his panic only to be met with the intoxicating scent of chemicals and fresh laundry and him flooding your senses. 

“Don’t worry,” you manage to say, laughing a bit harder now as his fingers find your forearm for no longer than a second, cutting you off with a worried huff and trace of a smile spreading across his lips at your giggles— The ones that were almost too close to his skin. 

“I’m serious,” he levels with a clipped laugh, saying your name and trying to sound convincing but it was flushing out of his voice with each sound of yours. A medicine only you could prescribe. “I-I can’t go green, everyone will definitely hate that.”

You compose yourself and pull back to look at him now— Worry worn on his face, yet something reminiscent of ease flickering through when he sees your grounding stare. It was hard to not take his concern seriously— Not when he looked so effortlessly adorable, melting into a pool of a helpless mess at your fingertips. Who could blame you?  

I’d like you no matter how you’d look, you think, pausing cautiously to enjoy one last moment of the crooked smile on his lips. One that said all he needed to. 

Instead, you say, “It won't, I promise.”

“Pinky?” He raises an eyebrow and holds his pinky out to yours, a silent offering, only yours to take. 

“Pinky,” you affirm, holding yours out to his without a second thought.

Then,

“Bob, no, wait—”

Before you could snatch your hand away he meets his skin to yours— Hot, firm grip wrapping around your finger, sure and steady against the cold, dye-covered black plastic of yours.  

“This stuff stains,” you mumble, searching his expression for a reason as to why he did it. 

He doesn’t answer at first, just pulls at the hem of your shirt—his shirt—billowing loosely at your side, suddenly bashful as he wipes the color clean off his skin to bleed into the fabric covering you. 

“There,” he hums, the corner of his lip pulling into a proud smile at his good work for a fleeting second, then wiping it off like it said too much. “All better.”  

You shake your head with a laugh under your breath at his dreamy stare, like he was screaming out something you just couldn’t quite hear yet. 

“You ruined a perfectly good shirt for no reason.”

“I’d, uh… I’d say it was a pretty good reason.”

He says it like he just said something absurd— Like it was incomprehensible, the thread that stitched each word together and delivered them to you like an oath disguised as a letter. Like it was something ordinary, and yet, not at all. 

If you didn’t take a second to walk yourself back in your mind, you might’ve done something stupid— Something like beg him to say what he really means. Something like just answering him by kissing him. Something like telling him you can’t hold back any longer, this feeling you were drowning in, unbearable. 

But you keep it together, biting at the inside of your mouth and playfully rolling your eyes like it could mask the tension of that unsaid, responding with something reminiscent of a laugh as you pull his hair back into your hands where it belonged. 

“C’mere, Reynolds,” you say with a smile, tenderly tracing alongside the edge of his hairline at his temple— A quiet promise in your touch. “We’re almost done.”

He mulls in the silence for a while, letting you feel him in your fingers like it was telling him more.

You rub your hands through him and he asks,

“How d’you know so much about all this?”

You smooth your hands from front to back.

“I don’t know. The printed instructions and a YouTube video or two… A lot of practice.”

You curl your fingertips at the nape of his neck.

“Practice?”

You run them through again.

“How do you think Valentina keeps that stupid stripe so perfectly silver?”

And again…

“Really? Wow.”

And again…

“Yup. Sometimes I don’t even think she could tie her shoes if I didn’t hold the laces for her.”

And again…

“I know it was you, by the way.”

You freeze. 

Fingers release from his hair and you step back slightly, shifting under his gaze and studying him carefully— Trying to read between the lines woven on his face and focus on anything other than the spike in your heart rate or the tightness in your chest.

He said it calmly—smoothly, just like how you touched him—without a trace of malice or blame, only quiet intention. 

You go to turn back to the sink but he stops you in your tracks, solid and warm hand grasped around you. It was insane how he held you so gently yet with so much power, so much purpose. Your eyes glance down, noting his fingers were wrapped around your wrist and not your hand, all like he avoided it— Like he was still so afraid to touch you, to go beyond with you again, but he needed contact.

He needed you to stay. 

So you stopped, running your tongue over your teeth in thought before asking, 

“What do you mean?”

It was said evenly, like all your confidence didn’t just crumble under the weight of your curious words. Like it didn’t just throw you for a loop and leave you a sputtering mess in your head.

But he read right through it. His gaze steadies you—grounds you—somehow walking you back from an invisible edge just by looking at you, all without saying a word yet. 

“Who called— I… I know it was you who called Bucky.”

It was said with such certainty, a phrase harbouring something more honest than truth, a love letter delivered through pure intentions. 

He let go of your wrist, a timid hint of fingertips against the racing of your pulse before he let it drop to your side. Wandering eyes try to meet your gaze, a whisper of a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. You immediately retreat, suddenly razor-focused on peeling the gloves off and discarding them into the sink, setting a timer on your phone and mulling in thought. Eventually, you turn to him, your back flush against his vanity, his stare still fixed to you and chilling your skin more than the cool granite.

Patience is what he granted you, biting gently at his lips that were drawn into a tight line now. Eyebrows wobbled ever so slightly into soft crescents as he watched you stir, like he was worried about the weight of the world on your shoulders. Like it was hurting him to see you taken aback.

And yet, still, patience.

“Bob, I…” You trail off, struggling to form a coherent sentence, a huff breaking through instead of more words lost in the shake of your voice. “That-that’s—”

“I know, it’s okay.” He cuts you off and before you could blink he was already moving across the tile and standing in front of you, wading in the wake of your shadow. Your body, an eclipse. His hands find refuge in his pockets, tucked away like that somehow makes him take up less space. Like it somehow makes his earnest confrontation less invasive, less emotionally charged. 

It doesn’t.

“You were in there,” you whisper, voice cracking at the end as you try to blink back tears stinging the corners of your eyes, looking anywhere but at him, fingers picking at hangnails you created. “You were in that vault and I—and I—”

“And you called,” he reassures, steady voice countering your wavering one. Something new. With a touch as gentle as his breath fanning across your face, he tilts your chin up to him, finger lingering a whisper too long. “It doesn’t matter when it was. You called and I got out.”

His features were soft, taking you in like you were the only thing that mattered, like if he didn't study the shapes and swirls in your irises he no longer knew the purpose of living. 

“Bob, you died.” 

The hard truth hits the floor with a thud, yet the words were spoken so faintly you thought for a second maybe he didn’t hear them, maybe you spared him from acknowledging that gut-wrenching truth.

You were anticipating the worst— Ready for him to hate you, to yell at you, to force you to leave and to never want to speak to you again. 

What you didn’t anticipate, however, was for him to break eye contact.

His stare flickers down to his hand instead, slowly reaching out to yours at your side until your palms are pressed together— A fragile anchor between people who don’t know how to say what they need to.

It was cautious, desperate yet restrained— No fingers intertwined, no firm grip, just the raw press of skin to skin, something certain for you to hold onto, just like the words he spoke. 

And it felt like maybe you were the one who died and came back to life when his thumb brushed over yours—a tender, hesitant sweep—so gentle, so honest, his fingers a rope pulling you back from the depths you’ve fallen to. 

It was like time stopped when he looked up again, shy and raw, a sneaking suspicion of unbearable intimacy daring to drag you under, rip you from your guilt-wracked reality and trap you in a dream beneath his grasp. 

It was the kind of look that would leave you only to wander in your dreams after seeing it— One that would leave you wondering how to crave the unimaginable after getting a taste of his eyes.

“And now I’m alive,” he whispers, lips twitching upwards at the word ‘alive.’ “Now I have a reason to be.”

Your fingers flinch in his grasp, small and unsteady against him— Suddenly aware after the initial shock that he was holding your hand in a moment still tethered to this reality. You feel it for a split second, the flex in his fingers, like he’s weighing running again— Like he wasn’t yet believing he deserved to be holding onto someone. Like it wasn’t the feeling of you beneath him that made it dizzying, but the fact that you were letting him.

That you don’t pull away.

Glassy eyes dart back and forth between his, trying to decipher if you really just heard him flip your world upside down with a few simple words— If you really were holding him in a way you never thought possible, like maybe—for a split second—he needed it too.

Were you dreaming?

For a fleeting moment, his gaze slips down to uncharted waters, tracing the curve of your lips with a hesitant hunger. You barely dared to believe it’s real—convinced it was your imagination caving to your desires—before he abruptly clears his throat, the spell now broken.

“I-I have this new family,” he clarifies, but he doesn't stop looking at you like you weren’t completely insane for reading beyond what he was saying, for thinking that maybe—just maybe—he meant something else entirely. “I have this job… I have purpose— Or will eventually, at least. If you didn’t call when you did I maybe never would’ve gotten that chance. Maybe I never would’ve gotten out of… there.”

His voice cuts off, a short and sharp breath pulled into his lungs at the mention of it. You knew what he was alluding to, that sinister darkness that swallowed him whole and trapped him with no sign of release— A vault maybe worse than the physical one he escaped before. 

You squeeze your eyes tightly at the reminder of what he went through. 

“Why are you doing this?” you manage to ask, finding him studying you when you come back to your senses, your fingers stiffening against his for a beat before granting a subtle squeeze at his loose fingers, reminding him you were still tethered to him— Reminding him he’s still human and is allowed to crave the warmth of another. 

A tinge of melancholy stains his wobbly smile, and he says, “Because I know what it’s like to only judge yourself on your worst mistakes.”

He hesitates for a second, soaking in your eyes that softened at his words, biting gingerly at his bottom lip, hanging on the moment like he wanted to say more— Like he had another reason he was trying to will himself to set free. 

But he doesn’t.

Instead, his thumb brushes over yours again—slow, methodical—like he was learning every crease and every line.

It was intoxicating.

You never wanted him to stop.

“I just thought that maybe if I kept this job I could try to change her,” you admit, feeling exposed at your honesty— But you wanted him to know. You wanted to unravel yourself and lay every fractured piece at his feet. You wanted to give yourself away, like you were never really yours to begin with, only his.

“I thought maybe I could help become a real part of this team if I—”

He stops you, gaze heavy and dripping with something you couldn’t quite place. “You are a part of the team.”

You stared back at him, reveling in the electric energy coursing through your veins, flowing from his hand to yours, presence finding a missing piece in each other, like you both were a source of oxygen through the tender weight in the air. An addictive and alluring heaviness you couldn’t quite shake.

“I thought maybe I could work from the inside,” you continue, narrowing your eyes, teasing now— Desperate to escape the weight of your own soul. “Y’know, like black-ops or something…” 

Only he didn’t laugh.

He didn’t even crack a smile or let a pulse of air drift from his lips. He just stared at you like he couldn’t turn away from something sacred, like he couldn’t let you do it either— Like you were wrapped in something more meaningful than life itself.

He waded in the pools of your eyes and flush of your skin like you were the only thing tethering him to linear time, like not even God himself could rip him from your grasp—from this moment—from the high he chased by clutching onto your skin— Something more addicting than any drug he’d ever been on. 

It made your heart pound harder against your rib cage, a pull stirring deep at the pit of your stomach— A yearning awakening from restless sleep. 

The only thing that mattered was your breathing— In time, parallel, humming in seductive silence together. 

It’s a fever, bulletproof, impossible to break. 

And then it happens again— That hesitant glance down at your lips like he was doing something unfathomable, like the way he chased the rosey flush of your pout was obscene. 

For a second, you started to believe that maybe he could want this. Maybe he wanted this just as much as you. Maybe, somehow, he wanted it more…

Thin lips part open, but nothing comes out. So he tries again, voice thick and low with rasp. “I—”

Suddenly, the phone’s timer blares, sharply shattering the fragile silence with no remorse. The unwanted sound echoed off the tile, vibrating through every inch of skin and ripping you clean out of the moment— A feat you once thought impossible, now accomplished with ease. 

His hand jerks back as if he was caught in the act of something forbidden, retreating with a sudden, awkward haste. You let out a sharp exhale, remembering how to breathe without him again and make quick work of silencing the deafening noise, wanting to scream at what it had ruined. 

You had him.

For a second it felt like you honestly and truly had him. 

And now he was gone. 

“Guess you’re all done,” you say, not even recognizing your own voice anymore. Not when he was taking over your body, your mind. Your soul.

“Yeah,” he mumbles back, looking down at the tile— Far away now, in more ways than one.

The distance between you stretches, leaving you to freeze in the loss of his body heat hovering over yours— And yet still, the chill of his retreat is warmer than the company of anyone else in this world. 

Something you never wanted to live without now.

You suddenly lost all your confidence—what little of it you had—struggling to do what comes next.

“Do you, uh, do you want to,” you stumble, gently gesturing to his shower, “or do you want me to—”

“No, I trust you,” he interrupts, silencing your words and worries with a shy smile, still looking down at the floor until he flicks his gaze up for a second— Something shy and innocent. “I-I want you to do it.”

And for a moment, it feels like even though he let you go, he was still holding onto you.

You feel it when you lead him back to the tub, having him sit down against the cool tile and lean his head back, waiting until the water runs warm out of the faucet in the tub.

You feel it when you take a second to watch him— The way his long neck stretches over the tub, the bump in his throat catching the dim glow of moody bathroom lights. His jaw is relaxed now—soft—a way you rarely see it, lips parted in a hazy, unguarded half-smile like it’s a reflex when you’re this close to him. Deeply dark, glossy hair hangs off the edge, a few thin strands clinging to his forehead. The same strands that slipped free when he waded over you against the sink— A piece of that moment, still pulsing. They hang on like they belong there, like they couldn’t resist their natural state.

You feel it when your fingers hover over his hair—a blink away—a breath until you meet him again. This certainly wasn’t your first time touching him… So why did this feel so different now?

And like he knew you were hesitant, knew you were wrestling yourself deep in the corner of your mind, fighting back against yourself— He touches you first.

It was slow, careful. Like he understood breaking that gap between you and him would break something else too. Something unspoken, something unaccounted for. Like every delicate touch was a vow exchanged, a promise to never stop, to allow yourselves the grace to give in. 

You wanted to surrender.

Did he?

You don’t say a word, just let him gently guide your wrist down the rest of the way so your fingers could wade in his hair, the calloused heat and strength of his presence lingering for a second like he was fighting his brain's command to retreat. Like his fingers wanted to belong on top of your skin evermore. 

When you reached over to test the heat of the water with your other hand, you could swear his face tilted up a fraction toward yours— Like gravity, a new and sudden pull always drawing him to center around you. 

He watches you move. 

Silent. Still. 

Heavy-lidded eyes follow your body as you pull away, gaze thick with a look that reads as tangible desperation. Like he isn’t sure whether to be relaxed or wrecked by the moment. You can feel it humming under his skin, the pulse of something neither of you have had the courage to name. Something unmissable in the air, tension strung heavy like the room was holding its breath for you. 

He exhales when you finally pull your fingers through him again, a jolt pulsing through the air— So quiet, so unsure, yet aching.

Haunted ocean eyes lull shut under the delicacy of your touch, your fingers beckoning him one motion at a time. Deep brown runs from his head like ink spilling over a perfect white page, all sense of direction lost in the bleeding of his former self.

You wash him back to life, tenderly, with deliberate pace, keeping yourself present by focusing on everything utterly and innately him. Long, intoxicating eyelashes flutter under your touch, trembling with a fragile, exchanged energy he didn’t dare to let falter. Soft pink lips drift open, imperceptibly— The gentle gap between them like nothing more than a faint and distant shadow. Stained beads of water cling to the edge of his forehead, down his brow bone, around his jaw, down his neck…

The water collects in your hands and flushes over strands of his hair, cascading over him like a veil. Fingers work through the thick, damp strands, massaging through his scalp with a tenderness that feels more like an admission than an action.

His head pushes into your touch again—honest and true—no longer testing the integrity of your mind that wondered if he craved you as much as you craved him. This time it was done undoubtedly. 

The smell of cheap dye rises between you like a confession neither of you will say out loud. Not yet. 

Like gravity draws you there, your fingers trace along his temple, rubbing free a messy drop of tinged water off his features, like you were wiping away the empty version of him you no longer knew. 

He lets out a breath at the contact, soft and shaky, barely there. The corners of his mouth twitch like he was trying to conceal something that yearned to be set free. 

His careful exhale hung off the edge of his lips and you were jealous of it— Jealous of the way something gets to live so impossibly close to the vulnerable and intimate parts of him. The gentle in and out, all like the complications you wrestled down deep inside.

The ones that questioned if you were worthy of indulging in him. 

“This okay?” you murmur, voice small and cautious, a gentle hum craving to be reassured. 

Cool and grounding blue of his eyes flutter to life at your voice, finding your gaze through the misted air, charged and heavy with sincerity. 

“Yeah,” he says, his voice low and hoarse in a way that turns your stomach over— A reminder that he was real under your touch. “It’s… it’s better than okay,” he whispers, warming the air that’s run cold between you.

He says it delicately, a formidable prose, all like he was revealing something that was meant to be hidden, to be buried behind a calm tone rather than the intoxicating cadence of something worshipful. 

You don’t say a word, taking your time to learn each strand like a lost language, sacred scripture, senseless desire. 

Slowly, he’s painted back to himself.

Back to you. 

Tainted conscience comes clean by your hands buried in him, molding him to your touch, inch by inch, second by second, until the stained trail circling the drain lightens to something clear and pure.

Renewed light whispers through the air, a steady rhythm of the running water, beading drips from loose tendrils— The sound, a severance of a soul from purgatory. 

You lather his shampoo through the strands, something earnestly clean and simple filling the air, blending with the smell of chemicals and weighted intentions still chasing the drain.

You don’t mean to drag your fingertips a little slower, trying desperately to memorize the feeling of him tangled through you.

You don’t mean to press your palm against the curve of his neck when you chase away the suds left at the edge of his curls, his pulse a steady drum rattling through your hand.

You don’t mean to let your stare linger, the wet mess of himself suddenly the furthest thing from your mind now that you realized he was looking at you too.

But you do.

And neither of you dare to look away.

Electric tension evaporates any trace of air in your lungs. Neither of you breathe— A moment so delicate, you fear even a gentle exhale would break it.

He’s left to look up at you through familiar brown trusses framing his flushed face.

For a moment, divine intervention takes over— Your lips moving like flesh possessed by something ethereal, something by the grace of God, too earnest to name. 

“You’re back,” you whisper, honey-sweet tone drenching your words.

Beat.

“You came back to me.”

You say it like a vow, like a prayer— And perhaps, this is how religions are made. The cheap dye that ran through your fingers and mingled with the water, the soap that rinsed it free, the whispered words and a devout touch— A confessional, an act of reconciliation. Atonement for your sins done onto him.

His voice cuts through like rolling thunder, like rain on your skin— Clinging and desperate and impossible to ignore. The words come out broken and exhausted, all like they had to crawl their way up his throat to fall from his lips.

“Maybe I never really left you.”

The faucet runs dry after you turn it off, silence stretching unfathomably far. The air between you thickens, heavy and muffled with the weight of almosts.

Impossibly, the city that never sleeps seems to have fallen into slumber the second your world caved to just him. 

You should say something. Say anything. You should pull back, laugh it off, grab a towel and pretend this doesn’t mean what you both know it does. You should stop before you can’t turn back.

But you don’t.

Instead, you lean a little closer, your fingers trailing down the side of his neck, your thumb brushing over his pulse point as your hand cups his jaw, rubbing water into his skin like you can dry it beneath the heat of your touch— Through the heat of your skin, fused to his like it belongs. 

His chest is fluttering faster, pulse a steady beat under the pad of your finger, reminding you this was real. You were really here with him— This is happening. Then his eyes fall down to your lips, and you start to feel dizzy again.

He pulls you back to reality when his lips rasp your name—something sure, something even—a pleading cadence trying to attach itself to you. 

His hand comes up and catches the bend of your wrist gently, heavy fingers finding yours pressed against his neck, and you wonder, for a split second, if he was going to pull you away— If the call of your name was a warning and not a plea. Yet he holds you there, keeps you tethered to him, wiping away any doubts and insecurities you have with something more sure than words.

“I’m not going to stop you,” he murmurs, voice unhurried, lingering in the swelling silence, dancing with the steady beams of light flowing through the veins of the city beneath you.

It’s a promise, it’s a challenge… Maybe it’s both— A reverent ache granting you permission, begging you to take him up on an offer too holy to extend through anything other than an honest whisper. 

The words get stuck between your teeth, careless fibers woven between the cavities and creating pressure against your tongue. 

Warm water snakes from his neck down your wrist, staining your forearm, his wet form clinging to you, reminding you of what was just within your grasp. If you dared.

Instead, you mumble, 

“I’ll get you a towel.”

It’s like you blacked out the second you say those words— The second you leave his body, hot and weighted and impatient against cool tile. It’s like your mind moves to autopilot, rummaging through a cabinet for a towel when he’s already right behind you, always a half a step ahead, grabbing what you seek from a towel rack right in front of you.

And it’s like you're brought back to life the second he holds the plush fabric out to you, heavy breath warming the back of your neck, a steady drip of water beading off the ends of his hanging hair and onto your shoulder, rejuvenating what was lost within you.

So you soak the towel in his hair, slowly, gently, all until it’s merely damp in your hands. 

He watches you, silent worship, eyes roaming you like it was something sacred, completely unaware that you could sense the storm brewing beneath his gaze— The intention that boomed through his thoughts, carefully.

Quietly. 

Fingers linger at the nape of his neck, the towel clutched between your grasp like it’s a lifeline— Something you could hold him through, but still a thin barrier between what you want and what you have. 

It’s only then that you realize how long you’ve just been holding him.

Legs clung so closely they were basically between each other. Chests, heaving heavy with the weight of all that was quietly exchanged and pulsing between you. His eyes— Melted and wrecked and never leaving yours, so completely and utterly new.

Like if he blinked, he’d miss it. 

You tear your lingering gaze from the nape of his neck—his messy, tangled curls—and notice instead the way his hands ghost over the curve of your waist, caving and bending in the wake of your skin. Close, but not close enough. Like if he touched you, you’d vanish.

He notices too, eyes dipping down to his own cautious limbs, breath catching just enough that you could hear it and all it held. 

“Bob…” you whisper, an aching plea—something between a question and a statement—almost too dazed and lost to know if you were really speaking or just beckoning him only in your mind. 

He swallows, thick and heavy, throat bobbing just at your eyeline, body wrestling with his mind— His familiar state. 

Slowly, he retracts his fingers from your space, gone in a heartbeat, cruelly, like they were never even there.

They drum at his side, restless movement like he’s trying to break free of an invisible weight. 

“I keep…” he exhales sharply, like the words hurt to admit, and rubs trembling fingers hard across his face. “I keep thinking if I touch you now, I’m gonna screw it up…”

His confession comes weakly, weighted words faltering— Too afraid to hold all of their worth. An admittance, in some way, of what you both wanted, but have spent so long avoiding.

A religious routine you didn’t dare disturb.

The end of his words trail off and get lost in the space around you, eyes that were so suddenly sure of holding yours, lost again and looking anywhere else. 

He said it so cautiously, like they were damned letters too broken to string together, too haunted to bring to fruition. 

Little did he know, you felt the same exact way— But he doesn’t need that from you.

Neither of you do.

So instead, you let your hand reach out, achingly slow, like there was lead in your fingertips instead of flesh and blood that were all beating for him. Chills shoot through your body as you graze them along his forearm, a gentle up and down, barely moving yet purposeful— A steady movement mimicking his breath that quickened at the contact.

Up.

You trace the curve of his body with your eyes, free hand carefully tilting his chin off of the floor and up to look at you.

Down.

You linger there a second too long, shifting your gaze down at his lips and away in the blink of an eye. 

You stop.

Your voice cuts through, a gravel thick with honesty as you say just above a whisper, “I don’t think that’s possible.”

And there it was, suspended in electric air between you, hanging in the open. Waiting. Watching. 

A devout invitation to stop pretending you didn’t feel what you did.

And that was all it took. 

The hesitation that was rooted in rotten, wild insecurity burns off like fog in pure sunlight. The world narrows down to this, to him. To the way you’re both still terrified, but no longer running.

You don’t know who moved first. 

Maybe it’s been happening for hours, days, months— All in fractions of time since the moment you met him, a subtle shift, your orbit changing direction, slowly, yet all at once. 

Hesitant fingers brush the fabric of the shirt clinging to your upper thigh, pausing for a split second before finding their home against your skin, a sacred pull of his hands up your body. He pauses at the dip of your shoulder then caresses your collarbone that pokes through the slope of the fabric. 

It wasn’t fast, it wasn’t rushed. It wasn’t hard or demanding, but an aching yearn bleeding through every cell of his body. A desperation that grew the longer that he lived in a world where his flesh wasn't connected to yours. 

Your eyes flutter shut for a breath and you can’t help but wonder if he’s actually set your body on fire with his patient touch, a miracle granted from a god himself— Somehow, worshiping you. 

A simple touch of a body that burned for him.

His other hand found its way to your lips, controlled strength of his thumb tracing the top of your lip and down your cupid's bow like he was saying a prayer to something otherworldly. To something devout. 

You’re so caught up in it you don’t even realize how close he is now, finally leaning into the confidence you offered him. 

The crisp blue of his eyes melt to a deep and desperate cerulean when he looks at you— Every ache and desire flickering behind his gaze. They find the flush of your lips and settle there, unmistakably this time, wading in the wake of their shadow as his thumb stills against you.

Slowly, he slips his other hand up to cup your cheek, featherlight touch cradling the curve of your jaw and skin that’s gone remarkably red. He holds you in the same way his words do— Like you were the only thing tethering him to this reality. Like if he gripped you too hard you’d vanish beneath his grasp and he’d lose himself with you. 

Like you were suddenly the only thing keeping him alive. 

And like he’s already wasted all the time in the world, he closes the gap, breath whispering across your lips as he takes them into his— Delicate, questioning. Like his only mission in the world was to make you melt into him and question the matter you were made of. 

The kiss was gentle, tentative— An exhale of all you held onto as his lips meet yours, a pleading cry to let yourselves get lost in each other, at last, once and for all. Finally achieving salvation through the trembling of your skin introduced to the newfound certainty of his. 

He was soft, careful, but totally and undoubtedly yours.

Your lips stay pressed together for a fraction of a second that felt like a lifetime, pure and aching touch— A thirst you never quite realized would ever be quenched until he starts to move his mouth around yours, cautiously exploring the plush skin of your lips sealed to his. 

Your hand clutches the cuff of his t-shirt sleeve, like gripping onto him would somehow make this moment more real— Your mind in overdrive as you begin to kiss him back. 

It was racing almost feverishly, pounding with a million conflicting thoughts and screaming sensations. He made it all go quiet—just for a minute—but it was starting to flood back again: doubts and insecurities and a nagging, incessant voice that still taunted, 

This is just a moment. 

This is just because you’re here. 

Even the taste of you doesn’t wash away what you’re trying to rid yourself of.

You try to wrestle it down, focusing on the way he gently parted your mouth open and slipped your bottom lip between his, a reverent and sensual pull at your flesh— Pulling you back to him, back from what tried to dull the dizzy stars in your eyes from the way he kissed you like you were the oxygen that filled his lungs and kept his heart beating.

His hands that cupped your face roamed shamelessly, one still anchored and tracing your jaw, the other sliding across your cheekbone before brushing hair out of your face and down to cradle the back of your head. 

Now it was him who made a living in your hair— Rough knuckles tangled in the nape of your neck, raking through the strands and discovering more of what he’s never felt before.

His hands against your skin weren’t greedy, weren’t possessive— They were catharsis incarnate. A living, breathing exorcism of somber restraint, as if the whole city might collapse if he didn’t hold you.

It was a quiet surrender to the hollow kind of ache neither of you could bear to carry alone anymore.

When you let both your hands slide up his arms, fingers wrapping around the curves of his muscle until they settle on his shoulders, he’s drawn to the small of your back like a magnet. Like you touching him back even in the smallest of ways was monumental. Like it was dusting off what he knew of intimate actions. Like it was permission for him to allow himself to have this— To have you.

He brings you in closer, the press of his palm flush against the small of your back like a weight. Your bodies fused together, chests thumping in time, a screaming heartbeat in your ear so loud you were deprived of the sweet sounds he made.

Like the frantic prose of his breath against you.

Like the shudder he let slip when both your hands wandered further up to explore his neck and jawline, fingers tracing every inch.

Or the just barely audible whine that curled in the air around you before he finally speaks again— Noses brushing, bodies heaving and fingers lost in discovering one another. The gift of something new. 

“You’re thinking,” he whispers, lips pulling apart from yours with hesitancy, body reeling you in somehow closer to make up from the sliver of space that lives between you now, all like he was afraid you’ll disappear there. His voice was heavy, deep— The sound of a shameless crave wrapping around each letter he let slip. 

It was making you dizzy— The way he somehow managed to read between what your body is doing and your mind is raking through underneath the surface.

The subtle disconnect you’d never want him to feel, yet he did. 

“So are you,” you murmur, not strong enough to resist flipping his question back on him instead of answering it yourself. “What’re you thinking about?”

For once, he answers with no hesitancy—for a fleeting moment—no longer fearing the insecurity of his own mind and its integrity. 

“Just how much I want this,” he breathes, honest and true, weighted words dancing across your skin and making it shiver with chills. He lets the hand in your hair fall so he can clutch the bottom hem of your t-shirt, his t-shirt, hugging your body. “About how much I want you.”

He takes you in— A deep, desperate gaze, all like he needed you to believe it in order to survive. And when he does, something shifts. It doesn’t break open inside you, it doesn’t crash, or crack, or splinter. 

It’s an unexpected bend, your soul finding his and staying.

Your self-sabotage is suffocated— The one that whispers this is being done out of haste, out of palpable lust and loaded feelings you projected onto him. No, you scold yourself. This is the realest thing you’ve ever had.

So you connect again with urgency, letting yourself fall into him and return your lips to his— The place you wanted to belong forever after getting a taste. Your hands run up his neck with a tender pressure until they reach his hair, instinctively closing around the damp curls at the nape of his neck, helping press him into you again. 

A sharp exhale gets caught in the back of your throat at the feeling, his lips rapidly picking up the pace against yours— Kissing you back. It still wasn’t rushed, or messy or careless, but the kind of frantic burn that scorns through sensual and desperate touch. 

Like you’d never get enough of each other.

His thumb grazes at the hem of your shirt before snaking its way up at the side of your rib cage, helping pull you into him the same way his lips are. The other is still splayed on the small of your back, rubbing tentatively— A gentle vow, each movement making your head spin and your knees uneasy as they begin to tangle with his from the breached space.

His movements become more sure, the power behind his touch no longer grounding but pleading— Soft sounds and labored breathing daring to drag you into a reality where only this mattered.

The weight of him pressed to you felt right, like a prophecy you let haunt you was finally being fulfilled.

You, merely an extension of him, and him of you.  

Damp curls thread through your fingers like an anchor as he holds you tighter, intensity building behind his body— Crashing and hungry and worshipful all at once. It was hardly your first time raking your fingers through his hair but now they moved like they believed they belonged there, no longer like they were asking. 

He pushes it further— His mouth angling to take you in more, noses carrying frantic and heavy breaths as they bump together, your tongue eventually finding its way to his like it's something you’ve done a million times. 

His breath shuddered against you— Vibration sending shockwaves through your body.

Legs tangled, bodies twisted, trying to invent new ways to be closer together right where you belonged.

Then you’re moving— Grabbing harder on his neck to pull him with you, messily stumbling back toward the doorway until your back rests flush and heaving against the cool paneling of the wall. 

You leaned into it, pressure of his hands finding that sweet spot right above your waist, gentle and honest pull until your hips were flush against his, thumb circling slow and steady at the dip of your skin and bone. 

You feel it for a fleeting second— His fingers twitching against you before one hand slips further down, cupping the crest of your waist, your hip, your thigh…

His body betrays him, the questioning flicker of doubt pulsing through the flex of his fingers as they finally rest around the curve of your ass. It was like he was journaling every reaction you had, every careful movement that was flushed out with delicate intentions to know more of you. 

His lips pull apart just barely, forehead resting against yours, and asks,

“This okay?” It comes out with a pant, his ehale warming the inside of your mouth that hangs slightly open trying to catch your breath, lips still clinging against yours as he speaks. The question broke apart as it’s asked— Frayed at the edges, all like he was scared to think he might’ve pushed a non-existent line too far and too fast. 

You nod, peppering the gentlest of kisses at the corner of his mouth and around his jaw, selfishly hungry and not wanting to stop like you were now addicted. 

He’s wrecking you— You shamelessly basking in the broken gasp that breaks across your skin when you push into his hold with something more weighted than that of your body. 

“More than okay,” you mumble into his skin, smiling on his mouth as you get to return the words he assured you with in the tub. 

Then something stoic washes over him, glowing like his skin in the haze of steam and city ambience that cuts through the deep of the night. He bites at the edge of his lip, his mouth twitching like he was cursing himself— Like he was afraid, like he was about to be vulnerable for the first time with you. Like his hand wasn’t currently pressed deep into the curve of your ass and cradling you through sensual, electric tension.

“Is this real?”

The vulnerable cadence of his words gets swallowed into the silence, only the twin beat of your hearts and ravenous breath hanging in the air with the question. It’s asked with disbelief and careful wonder and something reminiscent of awe basking in your presence. 

And you knew what he meant immediately, like you’ve lived inside his head forever. Like he was the better side of a coin you shared. 

You know he asks it because he knows the feeling of living in something of an illusion all too well. The feeling of questioning the integrity of every breath he took— Of everything he touched, or more so, didn’t.

So you do something that shatters the hesitancy in him, shaky breath, an exhale— Your promise to him. 

You pull one of his anchoring hands off your waist and into yours, softly, delicately—no trembling, no hesitation this time—the most honest thing you’ve ever done. 

His brows knit and he pulls back just enough to watch you do it like it was grounding him from losing control. Like you were creating gravity for him. 

His breath hitches in disbelief as your fingers thread together—in the easy, certain way you give him what he was too terrified to ask for—hollow hands whole again once wound in each other.

And for the first time, there’s no flinch. No retreat.

The city’s heartbeat beneath you softens, booms lower, quieter— A romantic rhythm in tandem with yours, like it was alive for you. 

Alive with you.

Fingers squeeze around his— Tight, knowing, sure. You don’t want him to be mistaken as you touch him there, in a place you both avoided, knowing it holds a weight heavier than the breaking of all unsaid.

Eventually, his grip matches yours; slow, reverent. His thumb brushes over yours, unwavering this time. There’s no flex like he’s weighing running, no hesitation like he can’t believe he’s allowed— Only certainty. 

You let him be present in this universe with you. Nowhere else. No other time or memory or false feeling.

Just here. 

Your confessions to him lay naked and bare in the wake of his grasp, no presence feeding off the stained parts of your soul and dragging him away into a place where time lost all meaning. But instead, it loses all meaning here.

Because for once when his hand touches another, time doesn’t shrink or fall still or cower— It expands.

It evolves. 

It grows and moves forward. It feels right— An exchanged commitment to one another in the shape of skin that caves to each other.

A vow that bends linear time. 

You didn’t have to answer his question with words, just your reverent touch he clung onto like you were the answer to all he lost in the fabric of this reality— Like if he let you go his soul will lose its center of gravity.

He lets out a huff in utter disbelief, pure wonder, the mesmerising and magical cadence of something real.

And he moves like fire when you whisper against the shell of his ear, 

“Keep showing me how real it really is.”

Your delicate command gets lost in the sounds of him moving back to how he held you before—pushing you into the wall harder—his mouth crashing into yours with passion and desperation. It swallows the sweet gasp you make as he leaves whatever soft and tentative actions he wore on the forefront behind him, abandoned on the floor of that bathroom that glowed from the fever of your aching touch.

Fingers fly free of your hand and rope through your hair, guiding your face to kiss him deeper. And you do.

His other hand squeezes into the curve of your ass he grips onto, mimicking the way his lips shape around yours— Gentle pull dancing with dizzying pressure with every press at your skin. Then you hook your leg around his thigh, helping him push into you more. 

Even then, his fingers danced like your flesh was burning him, roaming with feverish intent, never lingering too long in one spot. They’re everywhere and anywhere he could reach.

They press flush to your waist, trail up your tummy and follow the gentle curve of your ribs. They live in the marrow of bones that carved your shoulders and neck in sacred city lights, tracing your jaw until he replaces his touch with his mouth, fingers tracing your hair out of his way like it was an act of penance.

You hold his middle, a breathless run of your fingertips on his chest— The same kind of breathless like the sigh that leaves your lips when he bites gently on your neck, like he’s electrocuting every nerve ending in your body with reverent praise. 

Every contraction and flex of otherworldly muscle pulses under your touch, your hands skimming the surface until you slip them under and melt your curious touch into the vast expanse of his body— Skin on skin.

He groans at the sensation of you touching him now without a thin cotton barrier— Soft and pleading and thanking you with the religious pull of his lips on your neck. The mark is dusted with an honest kiss before he finds your mouth again, the sweet taste of cherry candies and deep red wine and something unmistakably him flooding all your senses utill you couldn’t bear to imagine anything else. 

For a split second, your legs wobble from the sensation—like you were becoming drunk off the taste of his mouth on you—but he steadies you, gripping the hand that held you up more firmly against your skin, forearm anchoring the underside of your upper leg that wrapped around him. 

“I got you,” he murmurs, so faint in between deep and lustful kisses you couldn’t tell if it was real or not. 

He holds you like you were nothing more than the air he breathes— Like it was the easiest and most natural state for him to dwell in. It’s done delicately, fingers careful against your skin like you would break from one wrong touch. He holds you with devotion, something sure and unmistakable in the pressure of his body against yours. 

Once he feels you stable yourself, the fingers holding your thigh travel up along your spine and under your shirt. They find the center of your back and rest along your bra, careful, alert, meticulous. They snake around the strap, a gentle pull and play around the stretch of the elastic. It wasn’t rushed or possessive, but grounding— Honest and pure intention breaking free to only leave his questioning fingers tracing another part of you locked away from him.

Your mind is screaming for him to take the leap, so loud and hungry you almost wondered if he could hear what's trapped inside your skull when his fingers find the clasp and fiddle with the latch— Something of a questioning hum or mumble of  “can I” lost in the careful mangle of his fingers.

He focuses harder, his lips stilling against yours slightly until you reach a hand off his chest and over his frustrated fingers behind you, guiding him with ease to pop the clasp open and give more of yourself to him. 

He steers the garment free and it falls to the floor, tangling with your feet.

They move around it, suddenly walking backwards like second nature as he guides you off the door frame and into his room.

His mouth and tongue still meet yours without skipping a beat. His hands, large and wild and lazy, leading you into something new with him. 

The hand tangled in your hair clings to the base of your neck—gently—listening to the cadence of your pulse and ghosting over the sensitive mark he left blooming against the plush of your skin. 

The fingers that splayed around your jaw rub and trace along the shadow of your cheekbone in the moody glow of his abandoned room coming back to life once you were in it. 

The other guides you back, slipping out from under your shirt and finally exploring the side of your ribcage now free of everything other than the clothes of his you wore.

You moan into the haze of his personal space as you press into his mouth deeper, hands trailing up and pushing gently on his neck and head to help him give you what you needed. 

It’s a successful endeavor until you imperceptibly tug on his hair, causing him to lean his head back for a breath and match the sounds you made— Something shameless and broken and desperate cracking between each messy motion toward his bed together.

He’s all over you— Like watercolors on stale paper, like fog clinging to shadows. Like doubt disguised as deliverance. 

His confidence grows steadily with every leading step— His teeth clinging gently at the bottom of your lip making you sigh into every touch, all while simultaneously and haphazardly kicking random things out of your path— Like the damp towel that got tangled at his feet and dragged a few steps or your discarded shoes you stumble over.

You let out a tiny sound of pain as you stepped on the sharp, pointed heel, and though you didn’t really notice or care—considering you were currently under a spell from his mouth—Bob did.

He lets out a taut puff of air through his nose against your upper lip as he continues to kiss you and waves his hand casually, a sudden bang of the hazard in question crashing with undeniable force into his desk and knocking over the chair, your ragged movements coming to a screeching stop at the realization. 

He looked over his shoulder, chest rising and falling quickly, your gaze settling right past him and at the shoes— Now scuffed and torn apart. One of the stiletto heels is broken in half from the impact, making your mouth fall slack in shock at his casual power. 

A red flush sweeps over his skin—even more so now—and paints the soft porcelain of his skin from ears down past his neck and under his t-shirt. He blinks steadily, looking back and forth between you and the mess behind him, mouth desperately trying to spit out words. 

“I-I, shit, I’m so sorry,” he says, voice still raspy and heavy from the taste of you on his tongue. “I didn’t mean to do that, I’ll— I’ll buy you new ones, I—”

You cut him off with another kiss, helplessly giggling at the way you could feel his brain short-circuiting underneath you, instantly moving to hold you again and kiss you back— But with hesitancy as his mind tried to catch up with the instinct now settled in his bones.

“I don’t care. It’ll go on my work card,” you mumbled in between kisses and continuing to pull him backwards again— Into you and back on track to your destination. “Comes with the job,” you continue, caressing his tangled hair out of his face and behind his ears. “Common business expense.” 

He snorts at that— Real, genuine laugh under his breath that vibrates through every cell in your body as it breaks through his starving movements against your skin. 

“Field work,” he adds, smiling against your lips until he finds your ear and kisses gently below it— Nose nudging your hair, breath tickling your skin, all of it making you melt. “Some crazy enhanced got too handsy with you.”

“The only thing crazy about it is saying he’s too handsy,” you tease coyly, head tilting back, breath quickening. He’s kissing your ear, your jaw, your neck… 

You sigh earnestly at his touch, halting once the back of your knees finally meet the side of his bed.

When he pulls away, your eyes flutter open to take him in and he’s breathtaking.

Soft, supple waves blur at the edges, lined lightly in soft, golden light from the bathroom still pulsing behind him. The harsh contrast of the nightswept city flickers with life like the heartbeat you could see in his eyes when he looked at you— Wide and blissful and utterly dazed in your presence. They soaked in the cool blue hue of skyscraper haze and melted into something sacred. His thin lips are fuller now, softly parted and swollen, slicked over with evidence of you all over them— Bright pink flush matching the familiar warmth settling over his skin, his cheeks only reddening as you study him religiously. 

Out of all the ways you watched him blush tonight, this was your favorite. Easily.

You could hear it thrumming in every corner of the room now— His soul, his heartbeat, all an extension of him you now waded in. 

It was pressed between the pages of the books that littered his shelves. It was bouncing off the walls in his room that darkness clung to. It was living, breathing in the floorboards that cushioned your feet and held you afloat— The pure and perfect vulnerability of him, his molten honesty, echoing through everything he touched.

Echoing through you.

Your next moves are slow— More careful and intentional now than the frenzy you let yourself get lost in before has eased. Fingers slip down to the hem of his shirt, electric and alive like sparks when you gently hold it and feel his skin underneath. Like you weren’t just all over him before. 

They toy with the hem gently in waiting question— The smooth cotton flowing against your touch, your eyes on his, burning with something stronger. Hungrier. 

Lips part slightly to do it—to ask—but he beats you to it. His hand finds yours, a gentle rub at your thumb, before he helps you guide his shirt off. It's a slow, aching travel up his body, neckline catching and somehow further messing his tangled waves once it pulls over his head and falls to the floor.

You try not to stare— You really try not to, but god, you can’t help it. How could you?

He was somehow more defined than you ever could’ve imagined, muscle carved through every fiber of his being like he could break you in half with a pinch. He was so gentle, so cautious— So over-calculated and constantly over-thinking, like he was always one step away from curling in on himself and inventing a new way to manipulate matter into sucking his body into a black hole. 

You could feel it brimming behind him still, that unshakable urge to try and hide himself somehow, like his body—this remarkable temple for his soul—was somehow unworthy of existing. Like he didn’t deserve to be observed or watched. Like he was meant to be lost and forgotten about with other unloved things that stilled under the haunted dust of this building. 

But when he stood in front of you like this—like he had a reason for simply being—it was the complete opposite. 

It was evident in the way he looked at you now— Stable, sure, an aching crave of you smothering any small flicker behind his eyes that tried to catch into a flame of doubt.

You wouldn’t let it.

He swallows hard, like he’s pushing down the urge to run again, then moves. 

Slowly, rough and secure hands guide your fingers back to his skin, curves of his muscle heavy under you like stone, expanse of his chest and arms and abs dusted with freckles and marks— Millions of them, all waiting to be brought to life by your hands. 

You drift them along, taking him in, all until your palm rests over his heart, the frantic rhythm of something reverent under your fingertips. 

Something you know beats for you.

Eventually, you break the silence, voice low and honest as you say, “You’re incredible.” You say it like you were in disbelief— And that’s because you were.

He smiles—crooked, wobbly joy etched into his lips—and shifts under your gaze, like he wasn’t used to the praise. Especially when you meant it, truly. Wholeheartedly. 

He comes closer, heaving chest rising and falling against yours now and ghosts the edge of his face against yours. 

A hand brushes wisps of your hair from your eyes, forehead resting gently along yours until your noses are touching. Until you could feel his eyelashes fluttering against your brow bone and the swell of his lips— Holy, like they were swollen from the mere thought of you until they touch yours again.

He slots his lips into yours with a gentle and breathless sigh, free hand cradling the bend of your elbow in his palm.

“So are you,” he murmurs into your mouth, the low and sultry tone vibrating every nerve ending like a tuning fork striking through your body, your cells and soul all singing the ethereal tune of his praise for you. “So perfect.”

Carefully, he guides you back— Slowly, sensually sitting you on the bed beneath him, his body caging you in and hovering just a heartbeat away. His lips whisper against yours as he leans down, melting right back into a deep and methodical kiss like he never left, the weight of his body helping ease you back onto the mattress.

He’s slotted between you like a lost key now returned. One arm presses into the bed parallel to your shoulder, propping himself up to ghost the slope of your body. The other loosely trails up the rest of your arm until he’s cupping your cheek, rubbing aimless circles into the flush of your skin and holding you like he was holding the world. 

The undeniable weight of his built frame clings just above you, enough contact to wrinkle your shirt and send a set of shivers up your spine as you imagine having him fully against you. 

So you do just that, grabbing the back of his shoulders and easing him onto you— Back where he belongs. 

He was reluctant, still holding back like he was afraid of crushing you beneath him, but he relaxes as soon as you work your hands up his shoulder blades and into his hair, pulling him into you with a low and sultry moan— Reminding him how desperately you craved to be kissed as deeply as he could bear.

Lips part your mouth open for him, his tongue gently tickling the tip of yours before he pushes it further, sliding it flush against yours and making a living in the heat of your mouth. The groan he makes when you let him gets caught low in the back of his throat that is already bitten radiant red from your kisses.

You smooth your hands over every inch of his neck, his shoulders— Anywhere you could reach, really. Restless fingers tentatively wrap around the sculpt and flex of his arms, applying more pressure to match the weight he was kissing your mouth with. The way you were kissing him back.

His lips are soft—thin like the boundaries between you now—plush and aching and reverent search against yours like he’d find his will to live there.

He was rewriting everything broken in you— Every trace of guilt replaced with the honorable trace of his fingers along your skin, every mumble no longer shy or cautious but words overwhelmed with hunger or a vibration against your body. 

Every memory of him in a sheen of sweat in a bed that once haunted you, rewritten in real time as it adorns his skin from being pressed against you— Moving, exploring, changing what it means to remember him on a mattress once he’s with you.

No one else.

Like it’s second nature, he rubs at a spot on the side of your upper neck that makes your toes curl and your core coil with striking heat. It’s a sensitive curve just on the underside of your jaw littered in shadows, aching to give itself to him. He kisses at it with an urgency that makes you gasp louder beneath him— A proud smile flickering on his lips and across your skin for a split second, clearly amused at how he was already learning your body so incredibly well. 

Your hand flies up to his hair, pulling him in with a gentle tug to apply more pressure, both of you reveling in a weighted and shaky moan from the way you wanted each other more.

Rough and sturdy palm on his hand finds refuge in the dip of your side, free to roam now that his mouth did that for him on your jaw. It snakes down until it hits your hip bone under your shirt, a careful yet intentful press of his fingers just below your ribs. 

When you hum in approval—too busy turning your neck from the pressure of his mouth and meeting your impatient lips to pepper kisses along the pulse point on his wrist that steadied him above you— he slips his hand up the fabric.

His fingers trail achingly slowly against your skin, rewarded by the anticipating squirm and roll of your body into his touch until they find the beginning swell of your breast. The sensation makes you dizzy, your eyes fluttering to life at the contact and you could swear the room was being lit up with fireworks from the flickering lights that danced above you. 

You should probably be acknowledging the abnormal sight of it, but, selfishly, you couldn’t find it in yourself to care. 

Not when each suction of his lips was rewriting your brain chemistry or when he was absentmindedly pressing his wrist firmer against your kiss. Not when was working your breast with more confidence now that made you shudder like you were saying a prayer. Not when the undeniable pull of his presence was making your body shamelessly lift from the mattress for a fleeting second to push deeper into his. 

Definitely not when he did it too. 

Impatient flush of your lips craves his, so both your hands find his face, still buried and busy in your neck, and pull him up to you— Both your thumbs rubbing gently just under the restless flutter of his closed lashes as you guide his mouth back to yours—back where it belongs—and he kisses you like he’s never going to let you go.

The movement, the pressure— The combination of his mouth deepening against yours, his tongue warm and tangling around yours. The scrape of calloused and heavy hands against the sensitive skin of your breasts, the smooth of his hair tracing along your forehead and your cheeks make you melt into something for him to piece back together and bring back to life. 

Every heavier touch was balanced with something softer—more delicate—like a light pepper of a kiss pressed to the place his face would hover when one of you needed to catch your breath. Or the whisper of his fingertips tracing the slope of your breast after you’d feel sensitive peaks forming under his feverish touch. 

Each moment was like a love letter, a language— Checking in with you, asking you, talking to you without words. It was thanking you and reminding you through it all, the type of man you were really here with under the heavy tension of a Watchtower bedroom.

A suspended moment trapped in a city that never sleeps that has fallen into slumber when compared to the energy of your body meeting his.

You do it back, slipping a hand free from the slight stubble poking through his face and back to dance along his fist that propped him up above you. It’s needy now, the way your fingers whisper against his skin, pleading to let you in again. 

They do— Finding yours immediately and threading together like they were once forged to be one. 

His other hand works like honey over your chest, fingers rubbing and palming deeper against your sensitive skin until you’re moaning just a hair louder under his reverent mouth— Growing restless as you drown in all the ways you want more of him.

He reads you, one of his legs slipping free from between yours, and he braces the outside of your thigh until you feel every inch of him— Every pulsing, screaming piece of him flush against you.

The pounding of your hearts are loud, heavy— Completely in sync all like the rest of you, labored breath shallowing at how hard you were both working to find new ways to be closer like this was the only chance you’d ever get. 

A sharp, sudden puff of air fanned against your mouth—his exhale cutting—when your hips gently rock up against him. 

Just once. 

It’s quick, it’s fast—it’s barely even a movement at all—but the way he reacts is like you’ve electrocuted all his nerve endings until they were scorched— On fire, burning like the desire washing over his body and flooding your veins.   

He uses the leg that’s still between you to slip up until the weight of his thigh is resting against the fabric of your underwear, covering the part where you needed him most. A breathless and raspy ‘god’ floods his mouth when he does and falls across your skin.

Every sound, every touch, every increase in palpable pressure all fans the flames you swore you’d never feed. A spreading burn you didn’t dare deny any longer.

Now it’s you who’s gasping— Biting down gently on his lip for a moment at the shift in pressure. The hand that wasn't tangled between yours flies from your chest down to the curve of your thigh, pressing with a new buzz of force and desperately anchoring you to him with a steady and sure palm— A signal for you to continue.

It’s a bit harder this time, your move against him. A sleek and steady leg hooks around the back of his, pulling him in as you do it, your body shamelessly arching off the dip of his mattress beneath you.

His hand that grips onto yours flexes tighter at the movement, pressure leaving every line of his fingertips pressed into you— Like all his molecules and matter were being fed into this one moment. 

Like it was inevitable—incontestable—the way your body was carved to be connected to his.

Lips break apart from yours imperceptibly, his gaze holding yours— Something desperate drenched in desire and worship, something unfathomable. Something more intimate than any caress of your body, a fever flickering in a faint trace of pale gold lining the edge of his iris, staining the holy blue.

Then he moves too, undeniably craving you and rolling down into your leg he’s braced over, both of you gasping like the air has thinned from the tension pulsing through the room— The tension of your bodies and their desire for more friction, lips moving around yours again like they knew nothing else. 

And when it happens again, you both do it at the same time. 

Then your name falls from his lips through a breathless and aching plea— A reverent and holy prayer that makes you both freeze, suddenly bringing you back to Earth and realizing just how far you were about to take this. 

Just how far you were both willing—wanting—to go. 

His fingers twitch against yours from the reluctance to pull apart, so you squeeze them and carefully drag your lips across his in an achingly slow comedown. You rest against his lips until he frees them— Heavy breath cooling the flesh he made hot for him. 

Your mind is whirling, reluctantly coming back to life and processing all that’s happening— Trying desperately to will yourself into opening your eyes and saying what you have to. 

When you do, he’s not looking at you anymore, just clinging like a shadow. His head hangs heavy in the wake of your neck, heat washing over you from his presence that was still slotted against you like it was made for only that purpose. 

You move first, free hand coaxing through his curls and tucking stray away locks that cascaded down his forehead so you could see more of him. His hair is still damp, only no longer from the water you bathed him in, but rather in the evidence of your intimacy collecting on him like dew on a morning field. 

His breathing against your chest slows to a more natural pace, but the cadence of his exhale is still frantic— A sharp and staccato dance across your collarbone, calling out to you. 

You’re about to say it— Break the silence and face the reality of what you both waded in. But he does it again, remarkably, reading you in places you didn’t even know you were speaking from. 

You’d start to believe mind reading was a part of his powers, but if that were true, this wouldn’t be the first time his body claimed yours. 

You wouldn’t be stopping.

When he speaks it’s broken, breathless— Barely above a whisper, voice wrecked with the ruin of what he was letting slip through his fingers. 

“We shouldn’t.” 

You know he’s right—you were thinking the same thing—but hurt still flashes through your chest like a pinched nerve— Something heavy, the pressure of what you wanted and what you couldn’t have swelling to life under the reality of his words. 

The sentence pricks across your ears like glass on sensitive skin, but you still say, “I know.” And you say it honestly.

You mean it.

It’s like he doesn’t hear you, slowly lifting his gaze to look at you. When he does, something breaks. 

It’s raw and vulnerable— It’s a look that carries an undeniable weight like lead in the depths of his eyes, wide and calling out to yours. They’re glossed over, all like the rest of him, shimmering in the afterglow of something too holy to name— To shake free of, even if you tried. 

All the confidence he once wore breaks free of him in an instant as he tries to let you down easy, all like you didn’t just agree with him. Like you weren’t on the same page already. 

“It’s not that I don’t want to,” he croaks, the pressure of his hand against your thigh easing slightly. “I do, I really do just… not like this.” 

You’re about to agree but he keeps going, shifting under your gaze and about to recoil his body off of yours like it was unwanted now— Like you weren’t still intertwined in his fingers, like you didn’t still have your leg wrapped around him, tethering him to you without a doubt. 

“N-not that there’s anything wrong with this, I-I loved this,” he stutters, face flashing somehow even hotter and making you smile softly. “I just mean, uh, I—”

“Bob,” you soothe, running your fingers through his hair still. “I know.”

He starts to pull off of you when you grab his arm. It isn’t possessive, it isn’t forceful— Just a simple, grounding touch to extend the offer for him to stay. 

If he wanted. 

And he does, relaxing slightly when he realizes the pin in your intimate dance hasn’t shattered what he held so dearly. 

That it hadn’t shattered you.

“I just don’t want my feelings to get confused.” His fingers lift from your thigh and find your face, hesitant for all of a millisecond before sweeping gently at the height of your cheekbone like his touch could explain better than his words. “I just mean that I don’t want you to think I only want you like this,” he continues, the edge of his voice cracking and showing something more vulnerable he tried to hide. “I don’t want to ruin anything by moving too fast.”

You smile, moving the grip from his arm to meet his hand on your cheek— Running your thumb over his lazily and holding him there firmly, reminding him it was where he belonged. 

“I thought I already told you that wasn’t possible?”

It’s only then that he smiles too—something soft and pure—a wobble in his brows, all tension melting to show what he wore underneath for you. The most honest parts of him that flickered with life because of you. 

And this time when he finally lifts from you, it’s not like he’s running.

It’s like he’s rising— Rising to the occasion of something more meaningful. Like he’s changing with you, holding on and never letting go, even with the fraction of space that lives between you now. 

His leg slowly slides down and out from your center— You trying to hide a hiss that slips between your teeth from a cold rush hitting you from the loss of contact.

It was just then that you realized you were only in your underwear and a thin t-shirt beneath him. All rational thought and awareness slipped from your mind the second his lips touched yours. 

But now you lay pressed into his mattress—still recovering from new parts of you just being pressed into him in more ways than one—and it makes you shiver. 

He breaks through it, slowly freeing his hand from yours to splay it against your shoulder. He helps you rise with him until your intimate positions have unraveled and you’re sitting on the edge of his bed, sitting on the edge of something more earnest— Something new, yet again.

Your ankles are still dangling around each other, thighs pressed gently like the thoughts brimming in your brain.

It’s then that he turns your chin to look at him, this time, holding you there and not retreating.

“I… I don’t regret it.” He says it like a confession, sweet and honest and something more rare than life itself. “Any of it.”

You find your way to him again, no longer scared to allow yourself to have him, your lips pressing gently across his. It’s a closed kiss, yet more open than ever before. 

When you break apart you run your fingers against his temple, damp curls dancing with your touch.

“Me too,” you say. “This was perfect.” And you mean it.

You know he means you too.

You continue, voice finally coming back to life after being suffocated into sensual silence for so long. “Do you know how hard it was to stop though?” 

He laughs in disbelief, like you just said the most absurd thing— Like you just said the unfathomable. 

“Yeah,” he huffs more to the universe than to you, “I do.” The soft laugh lacing his voice falters, his fingers still clinging to you. “Do you have any idea what it’s like to touch your body?”

You pause, a teasing smile crawling across your lips and his face flushes a feverish red once he realizes what he’s implied— Suddenly stuttering and awkward all like he wasn’t just driving you insane with the savory of his intimacy two seconds ago. 

“I-I— Fuck,” he mumbles. “I didn’t mean it like that, I mean, I, uh—I just meant—”

“You’re cute,” is all you say, voice light and sure, all worry lifting free and left abandoned to wither. 

He pauses for a moment, marinating in the compliment, eyes flickering back to life as they settle in the light glistening from yours. He ponders, sweet smile growing as he recalls delicately, 

“Just another reason you should stay.” 

You remember immediately— How could you ever forget when he said that to you? When he broke something open inside you, the starting crack that chipped down the guilt you wore like a shield. 

How could you ever forget the moment you started to realize you might really allow yourself to want him? Realize that maybe—just maybe—he could want you too?

All in that kitchen, still a heartbeat— A pulse tethered to the tangle of your souls.

You couldn’t think of anything else— Any invasive thought as to why you shouldn’t. Any nagging and unwanted reminder that you were somewhere you shouldn’t be, because that couldn’t be more wrong. 

You couldn’t think of anything else when he finally lifted from the mattress, leaving a gentle and sweeping kiss on your forehead to go turn off the bathroom light. 

You couldn’t think of anything else when he left the room and came back sheepishly with a pair of sleep shorts to fit you— The smallest gesture that threatened to drown you in its sincerity.

You couldn’t think of anything else when he let you crawl into his bed again, his body settling into place behind you and pressing a whispering kiss to the crook of your neck like a vow to never stop. 

And now, a sense of knowing blooms in the caverns of the unsaid— The quiet reckoning of something stronger than patience and care and honest truth revealing itself in the places it’s been watching all along.

You feel it pressed against his sheets with you— Desire exchanged for devotion.

When you fall asleep that night, you do it for the first time in a long time with a smile— An unmovable force pinned against your lips you didn’t dare disturb. 

You didn’t know it, but he did the same. 

And remarkably, 

The crest of his body curls around yours like a fallen star, a new sense of belonging, splitting matter and mere fragments finding a new orbit once wrapped around you. 

It’s daybreak when John Walker arrives at the tower. 

His limbs are heavy, tired, exhausted and quite honestly too worn to care about how pissed Yelena is at him. The evidence of his indifference is worn on his face— Gruff brows knit together, their natural state, his eyes hard and narrow, lids heavy with something other than the crave of sleep. His mouth, chapped and drawn into a tight line, shoulders straight and stiff, patiently waiting for the elevator to work even a little bit faster so he could get the hell out of this dirty, disgusting suit as soon as possible. 

In all honesty, he wasn’t mad at Bob. How could he be? Sometimes the rest of the team were too delicate with him— Treating him like a child when he was more than capable of spending a full 36 hours alone. Like he wasn’t a grown man. It was ridiculous— Laughable, even. 

He didn’t need the supervision, and John didn’t need to be bothered with it. 

Actually, he’d be lying if he didn’t admit he was the teeniest bit proud of Bob for sticking up for what he wants— Even if John had to swallow his pride over how he worked him like a sucker to get it.

Even if now that meant Yelena had a bug up her ass and it was directed at John who—somehow—always managed to be responsible for everything. 

A taut grumble leaves his mouth as the elevator doors whirled open and he watched his call to Bob get banished to voicemail for a third time. 

Whatever. Not his problem. He couldn’t be bothered to think about it. He couldn’t be bothered to think about anything besides a hot shower and some antiseptic, actually. 

Except, he was forced to when he walked into the residential floor, expecting to see Bob sucked into some new useless book—completely oblivious to all the chaos he was causing in the world that existed outside of him—but rather, was greeted by complete silence. 

John’s steps slowed, taking in the eerie lull of quiet washed over the Watchtower, untouched and dead to the world, bathing in stillness and the steel-colored glow of the city waking up along with it just beyond the windows. 

His eyes narrow and sweep across the floor, falling on the kitchen that looked like it was a victim of a bomb drill gone wrong. 

Dirty dishes were piled up in the sink—which was completely clean and empty before he left—and virtually every single culinary-related thing the team even owned was scattered across the counter. 

Spices, utensils, ingredients, dishes— You name it, it was there.

“Jesus, Bobby,” he mutters to himself, tone flat and unamused at the mess left behind to greet him. “Least you could’ve done was cork the damn wine.”

It’d be a lie to say a bottle of wine paired with Bob left alone didn’t make his blood rush a bit harder to his head, indifference mulling into real and genuine confusion… and begrudgingly, concern. He rolled his eyes loosely as he shoved the cork back in and stuck it in the fridge before Yelena saw it and really gave him something to chew on.

Damn, it’s like Bob was trying to screw him over.

He’s about two steps out of the kitchen—stalking off to find Bob to, one, make sure he’s okay, and two, rip him a new asshole—when he stops hard in his tracks, the grip of his combat boots squeaking against the too-shiny, obnoxiously-polished floor. 

One. Two. 

His eyes count them. Wine glasses. 

Two of them. 

They almost got lost in the mess, camouflaged so well that the stain of just nearly crimson left at the bottom of them nearly went unnoticed— Just a mouthful of evidence ratting him out. 

And right next to them, abandoned at the corner seat at the island, was your stuff. 

John knew that bag anywhere. It always brought some kind of new bullshit for the team to mull over, something to ruin their day— New paperwork, new briefings, new completely ridiculous ways Valentina had found to treat them like a multi-level marketing scam in capes and tactical gear. 

But more importantly, it always brought a stupidly bashful grin to Bob’s face whenever he’d see it. 

Because it came attached to you.

“Son of a bitch,” he mumbles in disbelief, more to the room than to himself. He stands like a fool, realization washing over him as he nosily fiddles with a folder abandoned under your bag. He shakes his head and lets a puff of air pass through his nose, a cheeky laugh bubbling at the back of his throat as he glides over to the intercom— A sly pep in his step. 

He pauses and laughs under his breath, remarkably, at just how good Bob got him. 

Then, with a teasing tone, and the tiniest lace of respect he could muster to thread through, he pushes it and says, 

“Well played, Bobby.”

The crack of John Walker’s voice through the intercom of Bob’s room rips you free and reminds you that this world wasn’t just you and him after all. 

Even if it felt like it. 

Even if it still did when he looked at you like this—like he is right now—holding you closely, eyes lusted over with something unspoken. Clear and shallow blue whispering more than his lips ever could.

You and him, still tangled together, unmoved forces drawn to each other like gravity, knowing nothing else than the peace found in the arms of each other now. 

Even if you tried, you couldn’t deny the way you always found your way to him now— Legs woven, slotted loosely together, your knee resting just above his. Your chest, now facing him as one large hand rests casually along the crest of your waist like he’s done it all his life. His elbow bent gently under the pillow to prop his head up, his hand just in your reach, haphazardly toying at the collar of your shirt and your hair. Yours lies flush against his chest, steady rhythm of his breathing making it rise and fall like the dust that danced in the air under warm morning haze. 

Together, no longer scared of what closeness might cost in the daylight. 

It woke you gently, the crest of morning sun slipping between the endless height of skyscrapers just beyond the foot of the bed, collecting the pale pink of budding morning. 

Light suspends in the air— Clear. Warming. Patient. It has filled the void of words unspoken that now lives in a realm where hope is watered with opportunity. It dances on his honeysuckle skin as he sleeps, no crinkle of worry or bite of stress carved through the lines in his forehead. It’s sweet, it’s soft— The crescendo of June spilling over his body.

He looks different like this, warm and familiar, pressed against you like a memory you haven’t quite made yet. He looks younger, softer, lips slightly parted— Maybe the most himself you’ve ever seen, and yet, all like you’ve never met him before. Like you didn’t know this version of him.

It pings in your chest—a crawl of yearning—and you realize, 

You really want to. 

You would think it was a dream if you weren’t surrounded by the reminders of you living in his space— Your suit jacket tangled with the comforter half kicked off the bed, your body wrapped in his clothes, your broken shoes, blending into the background of his room like they belonged there. 

You would think it was a dream if you didn’t watch him stir under curious fingers that traced the slope of his nose and curve of his jaw with delicate presence, coming back to life with fluttering eyelashes and soft smile lines at the privilege of being awoken by your touch— Wading in a bed with you, a serene scene rewriting one of your worst memories, knowing now when you see him like this, he’s safe. It’s the good kind of vulnerable. No longer alone. 

You would think it was a dream if you didn’t feel a shock of reality take over you when Walker’s voice cuts through the static of the intercom, the lazy lull of Bob’s heavy eyelids when he looked at you now snapping open into wide panic at the sound— Flinching at the tone, thick and sarcastic like he somehow knew more about your new relationship than you did.

Smug. Just like always.

When the room falls silent again it’s you who speaks, reaching out to gently trace an aimless pattern in Bob’s open palm that stiffened against your hair at the interruption.

“What’s he talking about?”

You ask it evenly, calmly— No accusation or annoyance, no rise in your tone or inflection in your voice. Just patient wanting, voice still glazed over with the best sleep you’ve had in months. 

Bob inhales slowly, his eyes blinking as they settle from the shock. His lips begin to tell you but it’s hard to focus on the words when they’re still swollen and flush with the memory of you wiped all over them. 

Then, they pull into a smile. It’s something knowing and bashful and maybe even a little proud, all accompanied with a hush, breathless laugh caught in the back of his throat like it was a secret cracking through the thin parting of his lips. 

“I lied,” he says, extracting a hand from your waist to rub the dawning of sleep from his face before it finds you again like an instinct. 

Your brows knit together subtly at his response, not really expecting to hear that from him at all. Not when that was your role in your dynamic, even if it were now abandoned once and for all when you vowed to give your heart to him in your sacred touch last night. 

He senses your confusion and continues before your mind can finish raking through the pre-mature, half-formed thoughts it wanted to make. 

“To Walker, I mean. To Walker,” he clarifies, eyes dipping down to watch himself brush a stray lock of hair behind your ear like it was a holy act. “I kinda maybe told him Yelena wasn’t on a mission yesterday when he was supposed to be off even though she was that way I could get him out of the tower since he thought she’d be around.” 

A smile crawls to your lips as you watch him explain, voice lazy and low and scratchy from sleep that made your skin tingle, reminding you of the way the dawning of his stubble would scratch just right whenever his face would find yours.

It was going to be really hard to focus around him now— God, you could barely keep a straight face.

“Why’d you do that,” you hum, leaning closer until your nose was almost touching his, like you couldn’t bear to be any further away from him. Like you needed to feel the words dance across your skin in order to hear them fully. 

“I, uh, I-I don’t know,” he sighs, searching for the right words, eyes gazing into yours like he’d find the answer there instead. “It’s hard to explain, it’s just... sometimes I just want a chance to, like, breathe, you know?” You nod gently, nose bumping into his at the motion which makes him grin just a fraction wider, something for only you to see. “I like having people around, sure. I don’t get lost in my own head as easily when they are. I know they mean well… but I also just want time to myself without feeling watched… or bothered.”

“I get it,” you soothe, wrapping an arm around him to pull him closer, wide and wonderful blue of his eyes becoming your only view. He looked at you like he still couldn’t believe you were beside him, like he was dreaming, just like you.

“Yeah?”

“Yeah,” you breathe. You hesitate for a moment before hooking your leg around his with more pressure now to pull him closer, eyes dancing with a flicker of tease, your fingers tracing along his arms and saying, “You still wound up being bothered, though.”

Bashful pink floods the smooth of his skin, eyes widening and wobbly lips pulling into a gentle smile like he couldn’t help it— Like he never wanted to stop.

“No,” he whispers, steady and sure, something reminiscent of a loving-tone wrapped around every letter that curls in the air and makes your skin dance with chills. “It was the best lie I’ve ever told.”

Your heart pounds and your head spins and it feels like the grip of his hand on your waist is the only thing keeping you in this new orbit. The light flickers around his face, gentle, natural, but alive— All like it was envious of how he could burn through your shadows in ways it never could.

When he says things like that, it was like he was the one carving you, the one making you, shaping you, holding you— You, merely a vessel, made whole from every swell of him through the pulsing chambers of your soul. 

He carries the softness—the truth, the intent—of his words in every inch of his body. He holds it in his eyes, he holds it in his hands. He holds it down in his blood and bones, every word threaded together with something holy, something that runs all the way down to his marrow. 

When he says things like that, he makes you believe it’s okay to let go. 

To simply be— For him. 

So you do and confess, “I lied, too.”

His expression never falters, just scans your face like he was looking for clues in every line, every glance, every glisten of your eyes. 

“We need to start having different conversations than this,” he teases, nose just barely nudging yours just so he could hear a breathless laugh rise in the air like your heart was singing for him. 

“No, no, it’s not like that again,” you breathe. “I promise.” 

He waits for you to continue, fingers whispering along your skin like he could trace it out of you that way— Each touch, a turning page, your story, meeting the echo of epilogue. 

So you swallow whatever bubble of fear burns at the back of your throat and say, 

“Before. Last night. Outside the Watchtower.”

His brows crinkle more. Now he’s really confused. 

“When you asked me why I was looking at you...” 

The wave of words wash over him like a pulling tide, lips parting gently at its command. Then comes a breath of air that still manages to whisper, “Oh.”

“It wasn't nothing.” 

Your heart races, maybe from the new sense of honesty and beginnings that pulsed through his room, no longer bathed in soothing shadows that made it comfortable for you to bare your soul, but rather, like the light and the time that stretched forward made everything more weighted. 

More meaningful. 

“I was thinking about how perfect you are,” you confess, a silent murmur suspended in the shared sliver of space fighting for dear life to exist between your bodies. “I was thinking about how much I wanted you.” Beat. “About how easily I could… fall for you. If you’d let me.” 

You don’t say it.

You don’t want to scare him, to push him, to unravel too quickly. But you know he feels it too— A new thing unsaid, fostered by delicate touches and sweeping words, blooming gently between you in the hush of twin heartbeats. 

He doesn’t respond with words, just a delicate brush of his lips against yours, sighing into you like he remembers how to breathe only when you’re taking his breath away. When he pulls back, his eyes are still closed, face still resting on yours like you’re holding him together and he whispers against your cheek,

“I already am.”

And through steady breath, a simple exchange, through the soft riots of acquainted souls— Limerence becomes love. 

Or, perhaps,

Quiet truth revels in what has always been.

edit: thank you for 400+ notes ! it means the world to me that people are reading and liking it enough to leave kind comments telling me so. i poured my soul into this little story, so i hope you enjoyed 🤍

[imagines-all-day-everyday]

the dint

summary: when clark kent stumbles into a 24 hour vet clinic with his unconscious side-kick, the last thing he expects to find is maybe the only person in metropolis who can handle krypto. It’s an extra bonus that she’s beautiful too.

warnings: swearing, fluff

notes: I loved this movie and I loved this version of clark kent. and I totally ran away with this idea. please enjoy <3

*yn* always liked the clinic at night.

The phone barely rang, the waiting room wasn't flooded with neurotic purse dogs yapping at anything that moved, no owners complaining that she couldn't magically click her fingers and make their beloved fur babies well-trained.

It gave her time to focus on what she really cared about. The animals.

Working nights at a 24 hour vet clinic also meant that usually anyone who stepped through the front door, was dealing with an emergency.

She liked it though. The pressure. The adrenaline. Feeling like she's actually made a difference when she manages to bring an animal back from the brink.

Tonight was not one of those nights. It had been quiet. The only person who'd come through the door was a tourist asking for directions to Metropolis City Hall.

She stared at her computer screen. Cupcake's intake form stared back at her.

Chihuahua. 3 years old. Overweight. Biting warning. Aggressive. Reactive. Overdue for almost every vaccination. She scrolled through the checklist, checking off each box in turn. Her pointer finger hit the mouse just a fraction harder everytime she clicked off a box.

"Isn't there medication you can give her or something? To calm her down?" "Ma'am, Cupcake isn't suffering from anxiety. She just needs some training so she learns not to bark at everyone that walks past her." "So what, now I can't control my dog?" "Ma'am-" "You know what, I think I'll take Cupcake to that new vet that's opened up down the block. Take her to someone who actually cares about helping animals."

*yn* leant back in her chair, the interaction from earlier that afternoon playing over in her head on a loop.

"Fucking idiot." She muttered.

She glanced up at the clock on the wall. The paw shaped clock hand ticked slowly.

It was nearly quarter to twelve.

Almost time for her to clock off.

She tried to focus back on the soft blue light of the computer screen in front of her. She couldn't leave for the day until she finished typing up her shift report , but her mind kept wandering.

Her phone buzzed on the desk.

Running late sorry. Had to evacuate the subway again - metahuman flooded the station! :(

A sigh escaped her lips. Lucy was meant to be here at eleven thirty so they could do the shift handover before the next vet tech on shift got here at midnight.

*yn* had already sent Will, the vet tech on her shift, home for the night. It meant that she'd be manning the fort on her own for at least another thirty minutes.

She responded to Lucy letting her know it was fine and not to stress before placing her phone back down.

She rubbed her temples as she felt a headache begin to creep up the back of her skull. The last twelve hours were starting to take its toll.

She pushed out of the chair, stretching her stiff limbs.

Tea. She needed tea.

The sound of her sneakers squeaking on the laminate bounced off the walls. A car honked in the distance.

It was so quiet that she could hear the tiny huffs and snorings emanating from the animals being kept overnight in observation.

Her hand wrapped around the handle of the rusting kettle.

A sharp series of rapid knocks made her jump and jerk her hand back, causing the kettle to topple off the counter. The lid swung open halfway on its journey to the floor, causing water to soak her front.

"Fuck!" She cursed as the kettle crashed loudly on the ground.

If the water had been boiled, she'd have been taking a very urgent trip to the ER.

"I'm coming - shit!" She hissed as she tried to clumsily ring her scrubs out.

The knocking continued as she hurried out into the waiting area.

They always locked the front door after hours. The locals knew there were drugs galore in here. *yn* had very quickly learnt that they weren't particularly fussy about whether they were intended for humans or not.

There was a man standing at the door. It was hard to make out his features in the dark. What she could tell was that he was huge, his imposing frame nearly engulfing the whole glass panel.

As she got closer to the door, she realised he was holding a bundle of white fur. Almost blinding so. Like it had been carved from fresh snow.

She paused for a split second.

She was acutely aware that she was alone in here. And it wouldn't be the first time that someone had tried to use a stray to get inside.

"Please! You have to help us!" The man's voice was muted as it tried to pierce through the thick glass.

*yn* glanced back down at the bundle in his arms. It was unmoving.

That made her decision for her.

She slid the deadbolt out of the latch and stepped aside, allowing the man to tumble in.

The fluorescent light allowed *yn* to finally get a look at him. A mass of black curls on top of his head, a face framed by thick glasses that were sitting lopsided on the bridge of his nose.

That was all she took note of before she focused her attention on the animal in his arms.

A dog.

"Thank you - I just- I came home and I didn't know what to do and I just googled the closest emergency vet and I-"

"Follow me. What happened?" *yn* asked him as she crossed the waiting room to open the door that led to the consultation rooms.

"I-I don't know I just came home and he was unconscious, I tried to rouse him but nothing was working."

"Just put him here." She gestured to the table in the middle of the small room.

"He's breathing, I could hear- I checked his pulse." The man continued as he placed the dog down gently.

"Well, that's a good first step." *yn* ripped two fresh gloves out of the dispenser.

"He couldn't have eaten anything? Chocolate? Medicine left out?"

"No." He shook his head adamantly. The sticky thwack of the gloves encasing her hands rung out through the room.

"Ok. That's good." She nodded as she rounded the table.

Her heart was beating fast, but she was calm. The headache had dissipated. The adrenaline that she was addicted too had taken hold.

"I'm going to have to ask you to step out while I take a look at him sir." She instructed without looking up as she began to press her hands against the dog's ribs.

"What- no I can't-"

"Sir." She cut him off firmly. "I'm not asking."

"But-"

"Sir-"

"It's Clark."

She glanced up at him, noting the expression on his features. She'd seen that look a thousand times before.

Pure fear. Panic. Confusion. The guilt that he might have been the one to cause this.

"Clark." She softened her tone. "I'm *yn*. And I understand how you must feel right now. But in order to give your dog the best medical attention that I can, I need to be a hundred percent focused and I can't do that with you in the room."

He opened his mouth as if to argue, but promptly shut it and nodded.

"Ok." She nodded back. "What's his name?"

"It's uh-" Her brow furrowed, peering up at him through her lashes when he paused. "It's Dog."

She nodded, unphased.

"I've heard a lot worse, trust me."

She remembered to shoot him a small smile, hoping it would somehow ease his worry.

"Dog is in safe hands. I promise."

Clark jiggled his leg up and down. The fluorescent light hummed above him.

It had felt like hours had passed since he'd crammed himself into the small waiting chair.

He could hear the vet, *yn* she'd said her name was, moving around in the room behind him.

His ears picked up her soothing voice.

"You're very handsome, has anyone told you that before?"

He leant his head back against the plaster, squeezing his eyes shut as he tried to calm himself down.

"You're going to be just fine, gorgeous boy. I'm going to take very good care of you."

His heart warmed. Krypto was indeed in very safe hands, he could tell already.

After what felt like an eternity, he could hear the squeaking sound of *yn*'s sneakers getting louder. Clark shot up out of the chair the second the door swung open.

"How is he?"

Now that she wasn't in sink or swim mode, she could finally look at the owner of her patient properly.

The thick frames that she identified earlier were covering kind, blue eyes. The glasses were still crooked, sliding down the bridge of his nose like they were trying to escape. The black mass of curls were perfectly tendrilled, flopping down over his forehead.

His body was wrapped in a jacket. There was a tuft of red material poking out of the left pocket.

His frame seemed even bigger than she remembered. His thighs looked like they could be the size of her torso, his biceps the size of her head.

He was stupidly good looking, she quickly realised.

The tense look on his face made her snap back into reality.

She cleared her throat, "So far, Dog seems completely fine."

Clark let out an audible sigh of relief.

"I did an ultrasound and a physical and couldn't detect anything abnormal, apart from some bruising that's starting to form around his skull." She placed her stethescope around her neck.

"I did a quick scan, there's some slight swelling around the brain but nothing that seems to be of any concern. Looks like he might have taken a bump to the head."

Clark frowned. "I don't understand."

"I've seen it happen before. Dogs get a bit too excited, run into a tree chasing a ball or a coffee table or something and stun themselves."

"Are you- are you saying that he knocked himself out?" Clark queried in disbelief.

*yn* shoved her hands into the pockets of her scrubs. "Until I run a few more tests and get the results of the bloods back, that's my best guess right now. Yeah."

"I guess that explains the dint in the- wall." He pinched the bridge of his nose as he let out a groan. "What the hay, dog." He mumbled to himself.

*yn* raised a brow in amusement. "Did you just say 'what the hay' unironically?"

Clark blinked. Now that he knew Krypto was ok, he looked at her. Really looked at her.

Covered head to toe in pink scrubs adorned with dog bone shapes. Scrubs that were soaked through the front, clinging to her skin. Hair scraped back. Dark rings under eyes that seemed to sparkle. Lips twisted in a bemused smirk.

Beautiful.

"What can I say, you uh- you can take the boy out of Kansas, but can't take Kansas out of the boy?"

That elicited a small chuckle from her. The mood lightened between the two.

"Well if you grew up in Kansas, you must know a thing or two about animals." She answered as she crossed the waiting area to the reception desk.

"You mean I must know a thing or two about cows, right?"

"I wasn't going to say it but..." She shrugged innocently as she opened a fresh intake form on the computer.

"I can't talk though, I've lived in Metropolis my whole life so I guess that makes me an expert in what...rats and squirrels?"

Clark chuckled at that. He pushed his glasses back up the slope of his nose.

"I've given Dog just a little something for the pain and a shot to try and rouse him." *yn* explained, slipping back into vet mode as she typed out Dog's symptoms.

"Thanks. How much is the bill for all this?"

*yn* swotted his question away with her hand. "Don't worry about it."

Clark frowned. "I insist."

"It's fine, honestly. I didn't have to do much. I'm just glad he's ok."

Clark smiled at her. "Thank you, that's very kind of you."

"It's nothing." She dismissed him, feeling herself growing slightly nervous under his gaze. "If it's ok with you though, I'd like to keep him overnight in observation, just to make sure it's nothing more sinister."

"Oh uh-" Clark cut himself off as he tried to think of an excuse. The last thing he needed was Krypto waking up and tearing this place apart.

*yn* glanced up at him over the computer screen.

"I think I'd rather just take him home, he can get a bit antsy. He's not very well trained."

"Trust me, we'll be fine. Our whole lives here are pretty much spent dealing with untrained pets."

"I appreciate that it's just- um- well he's- how do I put this-"

A loud crash echoed down the hallway. Clark didn't need super hearing to know what room it came from.

"What the-" *yn* sprung into action, hurrying down the hallway. Clark was hot on her heels.

She yanked open the door to the consultation room. *yn*'s jaw dropped. Clark nearly collided into her back as she stopped short of breaching the entryway.

Floating a few inches off the table, was Dog.

He was still groggy, but most definitely awake. He was swaying slightly from side to side in the air.

*yn* glanced down at the floor. The surgical light had been knocked over.

"Ok." She swallowed as she inched into the room. "Guess I'll need to add 'flying' to his patient chart."

"I can explain-"

Clark however, did not get a chance to explain.

The second he spoke, Dog's face jerked up. It was like Clark's voice were smelling salts, shocking him into consciousness.

*yn* noticed that one of his ears was permanently flapped up.

A ball of white shot across the room. *yn* yelped, jumping out of the way before he could crash into her. Clark however, wasn't so lucky.

Dog barrelled into him, knocking him clean off his feet. He landed with a loud thud on his back. *yn* twisted around to see Dog jumping up and down on Clark's chest, his tail wagging so fast it was like a windshield wiper on steroids.

"Krypto - stop! Down! Down! Ow!" Clark protested, barely able to get the words out as Dog covered his face with licks.

"Krypto?" *yn* queried as she rose to her full height.

At the sound of his name, Krypto turned to look at her. He tilted his head, his big eyes locked on her. He stepped off Clark's chest and took a few steps towards her.

Luckily, that was enough of a distraction for Clark to lunge forward and scoop him up in his arms.

"Stop it, hey settle dog, please." Clark begged as Krypto struggled against his steel like grip.

*yn* had to do something, if he got loose she didn't want to know what kind of carnage he could wreak in here.

"Hey, it's ok." *yn* spoke calmly, closing the gap between her and Clark. If this didn't work, it was going to have to be a tranquilliser.

"I'm not going to hurt you." She reassured him. Dog stopped struggling as she slowly extended a hand out. He watched it curiously, but didn't squirm away, as it came to rest on his spine.

She began to run soothing strokes down his back. Clark felt Krypto relax in his arms.

"I know, the vet is a scary place huh?" Krypto licked her hand in acknowledgment.

Clark looked up at her in disbelief. It was pretty much impossible to control this dog, and she'd somehow managed to subdue him in less than thirty seconds.

Once she was sure that Dog, or Krypto, was calm, she fixed her attention on Clark.

"So, you wanna explain to me how you managed to get ahold of Superman's dog?"

Clark swallowed. "It's kind of a....foster situation."

*yn*'s brow quirked up, indicating that explanation wasn't going to exactly cut it.

Clark paused, debating whether or not to say anything, before finally relenting. "I know Superman, sort of. I'm a reporter for the Daily Planet."

"Oh." The name rung a bell. "You're Clark Kent?"

He nodded.

"Yeah. I know you, I've read your articles. You interview him a lot."

"Yeah, I guess I'm just lucky." He laughed awkwardly, shoving his glasses back up his nose again. "Anyway Superman is a busy guy y'know? Always out saving the day. I babysit Krypto sometimes when he's out doing all that awesome hero stuff."

Krypto looked up at him at that. He let out a small growl. Clark shot him a warning look, which *yn* luckily didn't notice.

*yn* glanced back down at Krypto. "Well, that's very kind of you." She moved her hand to scratch under his chin.

"Maybe next time you see Superman you can ask him if Krypto's up to date with all his shots. If he's not, tell him to bring him in." She glanced up at Clark through her lashes.

"If dogs from outer space even need them." She tacked on quickly. "They're a bit beyond my expertise I'm afraid. Shockingly, we didn't learn about superdogs in vet school."

Clark let out a chuckle and nodded shyly.

"I'll be sure to ask him."

“Ok, good.” She nodded. A heartbeat of silence passed between them.

"So when you said before 'that explains the dint in the wall', you actually meant the-"

"The ceiling mmhmm. Yep." Clark nodded.

He glanced down at her wet scrubs. *yn* caught his gaze before he could look away.

"Don't ask."

"Wasn't going to." His brows quirked up.

She folded her arms, "let's just say, it can be added to the list of Krypto's casualties alongside the lamp and your ceiling."

Their mouths simultaneously quivered before bursting into laughter.

A fortnight or so had gone by since the whole 'flying dog in the middle of the night' incident.

While her mind every so often wandered to thoughts of the chaotic duo, it was always quickly dragged back to the all consuming reality of her patients, customers and staff.

The longer time ticked on, the more that *yn* was starting to convince herself that the whole experience had been some sort of a hallucination as a result of severe sleep deprivation.

"Hey, you ok if I duck out and grab something to eat?"

*yn* looked up from the bandage she was currently redressing on a grumpy Persian, Tuna, to see Will standing at the door. "Yeah of course, take thirty."

It was only early evening and the start of their night shift, *yn* wasn't expecting it to pick up until a bit later on.

"Awesome, thanks *yn*."

"Oh grab me a redbull while you're out and you can make it forty!" She called out after him.

She heard him shout back an acknowledgment as she focused her attention back on Tuna who was begin to squirm in her arms. "Nearly done buddy." She muttered.

She had just placed Tuna back in his cage when she heard the shrill bell of the front door opening.

"Will, you can beg all you want but you're not getting the company card." She teased as she came out into the front area.

"Not Will, I'm afraid." A deep, amused voice answered.

Clark's gorgeous smile greeted her near the desk. She tried to ignore the way her stomach flipped.

Nope, definitely not Will the gangly freckled vet tech.

"Nice to see you coming in here conscious this time buddy." *yn*'s eyes lit up at the sight of Krypto in his arms. His tail started wagging at the sight of her.

"Not for lack of trying, believe me." Clark answered her as she closed the distance between them to give Krypto a scratch behind the ears.

*yn* seemed more excited to see Krypto than him. Clark kind of loved it.

"I hope you don't mind us dropping in. Krypto has been limping a bit on his front right leg."

Concern flashed across her features.

"I was wondering if you could take a look?"

"Yeah of course, I can take a look now."

Clark followed her through to the same consultation room. He noticed that the lamp had been fixed since they'd last been here.

Clark had only just placed Krypto down onto the table when the front door chime rang out again.

She withheld a sigh. Maybe it was going to be a long night.

"Sorry, I'll just be a moment." She shot him an apologetic look.

"No problem, take your time."

"Try not to take out the lamp again." She teased Krypto before heading back out into the corridor.

Clark's eyes followed her the whole way there.

She tucked a strand of hair behind her ear as she made her way out into the waiting area.

The very familiar yapping of a certain chihuahua filled her ears. Shit. It was indeed going to be a long night.

Sure enough, the lady from a few weeks prior stood in the middle of the room. Cupcake's yapping only increased when she spotted *yn*.

Maybe they needed to implement a 24 hour locked door protocol.

*yn* painted on a fake smile. "Hi ma'am, how can I help you?"

The lady's lips curled up into a snear.

"Exactly the vet I was hoping to see."

"Is everything alright with Cupcake?"

The lady scoffed. "Don't pretend to care about my dog now."

*yn*'s smile dropped. If she got accused of not caring about her human customers, she'd probably shrug her shoulders and agree. Humans could definitely suck.

But she always cared about the animals. Always. Even if they were misbehaved, it was always due to trauma inflicted by humans or lack of training.

"I'm sorry?"

"You heard me. I went to the other vet and when I tried to claim the bill through my insurance they told me I couldn't because I'd already come to see you."

"Ma'am it was your decision to go get a second opinion-"

"I only had to get a second opinion because you refused to help me." The lady's cheeks were going pink with anger. "The other vet was more than happy to help me."

*yn* resisted the urge to roll her eyes. She knew that vet from veterinary school. He'd do just about anything an owner asked of him if it meant it made him money, even if it wasn't in the best interests of the animal.

"And now I'm four thousand dollars out of pocket because of you."

*yn*'s eyes nearly bulged out of her head as she focused back in on the woman's ranting. Four thousand fucking dollars? She bit her tongue to stop herself from asking if he'd prescribed medication dipped in gold.

"While I'm very glad that you've found a solution for Cupcake, I'm not sure what you want from me exactly."

The woman let out a bitter laugh. "What I want is for your clinic to cover the cost. It's your incompetence that caused all of this."

*yn* gritted her teeth. It was becoming harder by the second to stay professional. "I'm afraid that's not possible ma'am."

"Well that's just not good enough. I want to speak to your manager."

*yn* cocked her head and gestured to herself. "You're speaking to her."

The woman's neck was turning a concerning shade of purple.

"Is this some kind of joke? What sort of joint are you running here? Scamming people out of there hard earned money and taking advantage of their love for their animals. It's a disgrace. You shouldn't be allowed to call yourself a vet-"

"Is everything ok out here?"

*yn* turned around at the sound of Clark's voice. He looked different. His back was stiff, his chest puffed. He somehow looked even taller than usual.

He stood beside her. His eyes ran over *yn* briefly. Assessing. He noted the way her face was taught, like she was trying to hide the impact the words were having on her.

He turned to look at the woman. His face was stony. Hard set.

Cupcake stopped barking at the lady's feet.

"Nothing that's any of your business. Although, word of advice - go to a different vet clinic while you can."

"No, I don't think I will." Clark answered, his tone clipped. "I think *yn* is an excellent vet. Probably the best in Metropolis. She cares deeply about animals and loves her job. It's a shame that you can't see that."

*yn* looked up at Clark in shock.

The lady's face soured even further. If that was possible.

"If she loved animals she would have helped Cupcake-"

"I was trying to." *yn* cut her off, the restraints around her tongue finally loosening free. "It's not my fault that you can't be bothered to train her. But hey, go ahead and drug her up with some meds that she doesn't need and might give her heart failure to make your life easier. Cause you're the one who loves her, right?"

"How dare you-"

"I think you should leave." Clark cut her off firmly. His eyes were blazing with unspoken emotions.

*yn* didn't even think it was possible for Clark to get angry. He came across so gentle. Clearly she was wrong.

The lady opened her mouth to respond but seemed to possess enough common sense realise it was a fight that she wasn't going to win.

"I will be leaving a very honest google review of this place." She snapped. "Come on Cupcake, let's go."

"Looking forward to it." *yn* shot her a sarcastic smile, watching as the lady tugged on Cupcake's leash harshly, dragging her out into the cool spring air.

*yn* released a breath that she didn’t know she was holding as the door rattled shut. She turned to Clark.

“I’m sorry about that.”

Clark looked down at her, his brow furrowed. Humans could be so strange sometimes.

“Why are you apologising? She was awful to you.”

“I’ve copped worse.” *yn* let out a somewhat strangled laugh. Her attempt to lighten the mood crashed and burned.

Clark’s frown lines deepened. “Are you ok? That was horrible. You didn't deserve that.” Clark placed a hand just above her elbow.

*yn* tried to ignore the way her skin seemed to ignite under his touch.

"Yeah I'm fine."

“I hope you know that nothing she said was true.”

She nodded. “Thank you.”

“For all the things you said.” She clarified when she saw confusion flash across his features.

“I was just telling the truth. You are an incredible vet. That lady would have been lucky to have you look after her dog.” He said it so matter-of-factly. So confidently. Like he was explaining that the sky was blue.

The compliments made her squirm. She'd never been good at taking them. She folded her arms over her torso.

"Well thank you. Really."

Clark noticed how closed off she became at his words. Did she really not see how brilliant she was?

"Although, I'm kind of glad I didn't have to. Cupcake was a bit of a nightmare."

Clark let out a throaty laugh.

"Yeah I know a thing or two about that." He glanced down the hallway to where he had left Krypto, after practically begging him to stay put.

"Speaking of, let's see if we can figure out what is wrong with that paw of his."

The mood lightened as *yn* slipped back into her comfort zone. She opened up again, both physically and emotionally as Clark followed her back into the consultation room.

Clark watched her as she picked up Krypto's paw and gently felt it with her gloved thumbs.

"Your friend is having a bit of a rough time at the moment, isn't he?" *yn* spoke after a few moments.

"My friend?"

*yn* looked up at him, her brows threaded together. "Superman?"

"Oh right." Clark blinked furiously. "Yes, him."

"I feel for him. The trolling online is fucked. Although, the hashtag supershit is kind of funny... but don't tell him I said that."

Clark's fists balled at his side. "Really? I think that one is particularly stupid."

*yn* glanced up at him at the sound of his tone. She raised a brow at the sight of his clenched jaw. "Ok, no mention of hashtag supershit, got it."

"Anyway, he's just trying to do the right thing. I don't know how anyone can have a problem with him."

Clark's annoyance melted away.

"I mean I saw him save a squirrel once for gods sake. The guy doesn't have a bad bone in his body. He's just trying to make the world a better place."

*yn* continued talking, completely unaware of the way Clark was looking at her.

"Ah, I see what's wrong." *yn* announced before Clark had to think of a response, all thoughts of Superman flying out of her head.

"It's a splinter."

"Really? I swear that was the first thing I checked for."

"It's pretty small and it's buried in the crevice of one of his paw pads. Don't worry I wouldn't have spotted it if I didn't know what I was looking for." *yn* reassured him as she crouched down, tweezers in her hand.

"And all done!" She announced seconds later, standing up to reveal a splinter the size of a small thumb tack pinched in between the arms of the tweezer.

"Try that Krypto."

At her words, Krypto tentatively placed his paw down on the surface. Testing it. His tail started to wag furiously when he realised he could put his full weight on it.

Clark couldn't ignore the disappointment that unfurled in his stomach. Not that he'd ever wish pain on Krypto, but a part of him hoped it would have taken a bit longer for *yn* to fix him.

"Now you can go back to putting dints in things." *yn* shot Clark a grin as Krypto leapt off the table and circled Clark excitedly.

He then hurled towards *yn*. He jumped up on her excitedly, his paws pressing against her torso. Not knowing his own strength, the force of him leaping up onto her made her fall back.

*yn* swore that one second Clark was across the table from her and then she blinked and his firm chest was behind her. His hands wrapped around her arms, stopped her from falling flat on her back.

His cologne invaded her senses. Lemon, violet - a hint of cedarwood. This man was going to be the death of her.

"Krypto." Clark scolded.

Krypto sat at *yn*'s feet, looking up innocently.

"Sorry." He helped her straighten up.

"It's ok." She swallowed.

He studied her. His hands lingered for a moment too long to be considered innocuous.

"At least we know his paw is ok." She laughed breathlessly.

He smiled and nodded. *yn* felt the absence of his chest against her back as he stepped away.

"*yn* I'm back! There's a redbull with your name on it in the fridge." Will's voice from the back made the pair pull away from each other.

"Thanks Will!" *yn* called back. She looked over at Clark, whose eyes were still fixed on her.

"I should get going." Clark spoke. "I won't keep you from your redbull."

"Good idea. I get real mean uncaffinated." She teased.

"Somehow, I doubt that." Clark smiled softly, which she returned. "Oh how much do I owe-

"Ah ah no." *yn* shook her head firmly. "I'm not taking your money."

"But-"

"But nothing. Superman and Krypto do so much for us. It's my way of saying thank you."

He couldn't get rid of the smile on his face, even as he accepted defeat.

If he hadn't been certain that he was in trouble already, he most definitely was now.

*yn* sat on her sofa. A half eaten pad thai was in her lap. A coke zero can was in one hand, the tv remote in the other.

She flicked through the channels. She really needed to just pay her Netflix subscription. Her finger hovered over the change channel button as she flicked onto one of the news channels.

Some sort of giant axolotl looking creature was running rampant downtown. Nothing that out of the ordinary for Metropolis. She watched as the camera zoomed in on Superman barreling towards the creature.

Her heart rate jumped when she spied a streak of white and red beside him.

She sat up, her eyes glued to the screen as she watched the pair take on the creature.

She placed the coke can down before she inevitably spilt it. Her nails dug into the couch as the creature whipped around and smacked Superman with it's tail. He went flying straight into the ground.

Somehow, the camera managed to find where he had landed. He'd created a massive path of broken concrete and bricks, leading straight to where his body lay motionless amongst the rubble.

*yn* bit the inside of her cheek as he raised his head and let out a groan. She watched as Krypto appeared, leaping on top of him. He began to jump up and down on his chest, his tail wagging, kind of like he did with Clark.

"Krypto - stop! Down! Down! Ow!" The camera picked up Superman's muffled voice.

*yn* froze. That voice. It sounded exactly like-

She continued to watch Krypto and realised the way he was jumping up and down wasn't just kind of like how he jumped on Clark. It was how he jumped on Clark.

The puzzle pieces all slotted together in her mind. The weird reaction anytime she brought up Superman, the unexplainable speed, the fact he literally had his dog.

"Holy shit."

*yn* glanced down at her coffee table. Yesterday's edition of the Daily Planet, riddled with coffee stains, was still sitting there. She gripped it tightly and flipped to the fourth page where she knew she'd find the latest article that Clark had written.

She scanned through it again. She read the parts where Superman answered Clark's questions. Superman responded to things exactly how she'd imagine Clark responding. Because he was. He was interviewing himself.

Realisation hit her. "Fuck."

She'd called him supershit to his face.

It had been a month since she'd last seen Clark and Krypto. Since she'd figured out who Clark really was.

There were some terrible things happening in Jarhanpur and Boravia, and Clark - Superman - was copping the brunt of it.

She hadn't expected to see them again for a while, maybe even ever.

That didn't stop her thinking about them. About Clark's kind eyes and soft smile. About Krypto's floppy ear and whirring tail.

So, one evening when the clinic phone rang, she got quite a shock when she heard Clark's voice on the other end.

"Clark?" "Hi." He sounded nervous. "Is everything ok? Is Krypto alright?" "Oh he's ok. I mean- it's just his paw. He's limping again. I was wondering if you had time for me to come in later and have a look?" "Yeah of course. Come in whenever. You don't need to call in advance next time, someone will always be here to help." "I know." There was a pause on the other end of the line. Like he was debating his next words. "I just wanted to make sure we saw you."

Now, here they were. Back in the same room, with *yn* examining the same paw.

Expect this time, she harboured the knowledge that the man standing across from her was the most powerful being on the planet.

She tried to relax as she looked at Kyrpto's paw. Her heart was beating firmly against her ribcage. She needed to try and act normal, but she was worried that if she tried too hard to act normal, it would be suspicious.

Should she tell Clark she knew? Maybe he already knew. Could Superman read minds? She couldn't remember.

"That lady hasn't come back has she?"

Clark's voice broke her out of her spiral. She looked up at him. His face was pinched with concern.

"The one giving you grief about Cupcake the yappy chihuahua." He must have taken her lack of response as a sign she didn't remember who he was talking about.

But of course she remembered. She was just surprised that he did.

"No, thankfully." She swallowed and glanced back down at Krypto.

He'd managed to learn to stay still while she was examining him. Like he knew she was trying to help him. It made her heart warm.

"Well let me know if she does. I can talk to my friends in the force if there's anything they can do."

His voice was laced with worry and care. She suddenly felt very stupid about being so nervous. Yes, he was Superman. But most importantly, he was Clark, the guy who'd come barraging through here in the middle of the night worried sick about his best friend. Who remembered all the little things she told him. Who wanted to make sure she was ok.

She felt herself begin to calm. "I will, thank you."

"I just want to make sure you're safe and can focus on your job."

Her cheeks turned a slight shade of pink. How was it possible for someone to be so thoughtful?

She had the sudden urge then to ask for his number. She quickly supressed it. Clark radiated kindness. Of course he'd offer to do something like that. It didn't mean he was interested in her.

She tried to push thoughts of Clark out of her mind as she looked back down at Krypto's paw.

She didn't understand. There was definitely no splinter. She'd triple checked. But he'd certainly been limping when Clark had brought him in, even worse than last time.

She pressed down on his paw, trying to identify the source of the pain. Krypto's tail thudded on the sterile surface happily.

Her frown deepened.

"Have you figured out what's wrong? Is it another splinter?" Clark asked after a few moments. She looked up at him. He was the perfect picture of concern.

She glanced down at Krypto again, who was looking up at Clark expectantly. Like he was waiting for a pat.

"I think so." She stood up as it dawned on her.

"There's no splinter." She peeled her gloves off and chucked them in the trash can.

"Then what is it?"

She glanced down at Krypto and shook her head, an amused smile on her features.

"There's something wrong with Krypto, but it's not physical."

Clark's lashes brushed the lenses of his glasses as he blinked.

"He's faking it." She explained.

Clark looked down at Krypto. "Are you sure?"

"Positive. I pressed down on his paw and he showed no sign of discomfort. And I bet you if I do this-"

She picked Krypto up and placed him on the floor. She turned around to the cabinet and grabbed a dog treat from one of the cupboards.

"Do you want a treat, Krypto?" She dangled the treat in front of him.

Sure enough, Krypto began to jump up, his jaw snapping as he tried to grab the treat. He bounced happily on all four paws.

"No limp." Clark observed.

"No limp." *yn* confirmed as she finally gave Krypto the treat, who inhaled it in a flash.

"He's figured out that if he fakes an injury he'll get attention."

"Or he knew that I wanted to see you."

*yn*'s eyes shot up to Clark's face at his words. A smirk was twisted up on his lips. Was he flirting with her?

She felt her cheeks heat up. She forced a smirk on her lips to mirror Clark's. She needed to try and act unphased.

"Or he's missing Superman." She countered.

God, she was pathetic. He'd given her the perfect opportunity there and she'd completely fumbled. No wonder she was eternally single.

"He is away a lot." Clark admitted, the smirk sliding off his lips.

Shit. Now she'd made him feel bad.

"I didn't mean to imply Superman was neglecting him." She reassured him hastily.

"He's going through a lot right now. I'm sure he's doing the best he can given the circumstances."

Clark's facade faltered.

"You think so?" His tone had softened.

"I do." She nodded. She moved around from her side of the table to lean her hip against it as she studied him.

"He made the right decision. With the whole Jarhanpur thing. He saved a lot of people." She eyed him intently.

"I hope he knows that."

His eyes were moving over her facial features. Analysing.

She'd thrown a line out, giving him an opportunity to reach out and pull her in if he wanted to. Or he could ignore it, play dumb. The choice was his.

"I don't know if he does." His voice cracked ever so slightly.

The energy had shifted in the room. It was like the whole world around them had gone quiet.

Even Krypto sat silently in between them. Watching. Waiting to see who would break first.

"He should. He's a good man. A great one, actually. The world needs more people like him."

Clark couldn't tear his eyes off her. He knew. She knew. They both knew.

Clark reached forward and grabbed the line. He tugged her in.

"How'd you figure it out?" He finally spoke, his voice was so soft that *yn* was lucky to catch it.

She cleared her throat. "I saw you on the TV the other day. Fighting some metahuman. I watched Krypto jump up and down on your chest. The way he reacted when he saw you." She shook her head.

"I just knew."

Clark nodded in understanding.

"Dog's are a pretty good judge of character." As he spoke, Krypto nuzzled into *yn*'s leg.

"Which explains why he likes you so much."

*yn* blushed, leaning down to pat Krypto affectionally. "Yeah well, feeling's mutual."

"Is it?" She looked up at him to see him studying her intently. She had a feeling that he wasn't talking about Krypto. Her heart hammered against her ribcage.

"Yeah." She nodded lightly. "It is."

The pair smiled at each other.

"I'm reserving the right to tease you later about the fact that you've been interviewing yourself this whole time, by the way."

"What can I say, it's nice not having to remind myself everything I say is on the record."

They both laughed. *yn* studied him for a few moments as they slipped back into silence.

"I hope you know that your secret is very much safe with me."

"I never had any doubts." He responded instantly, making her smile widen.

"And if you ever need a petsitter, I'm always here."

Clark winced. "I don't know if I'm ready to put you through that yet. Even I struggle to keep him contained."

"Well, in that case, I do behavioural training classes on Thursday nights at 7pm. You're welcome to come along."

It was in that moment that Krypto spotted the treat jar behind *yn*, perched up on the top shelf of the cabinet. He leapt up into the air, ready to crash straight into it.

Clark's reflexes kicked in, grabbing him by the collar before he could get more than 5 inches off the ground.

A vision of Krypto flying around in a room full of reactive dogs flashed before her. It made her feel slightly ill.

"On second thought, maybe private lessons would be better."

"I think that would be wise." Clark grimaced as he gently pushed Krypto back onto the floor. Krypto let out a whine in protest.

"Alright." *yn* sighed, turning around to grab him another treat.

"I know you're not going to let me pay for these sessions, but I want you to let me repay you in another way."

"And what way would that be?" *yn* asked as she gave Krypto another treat.

Clark sucked in a breath, working up the courage to do what he'd been wanting to do since the first time they'd met.

"Let me take you to dinner."

The blush that had never really left *yn*'s cheeks, reemerged on her face with a vengeance.

She tried to calm her nerves. If he could be confident, so could she.

"That depends." Her tone was light, teasing.

Clark raised a brow. "On?"

"Would this dinner be a-"

"A date." Clark cut her off. He exhaled a breath as he looked at her. "Definitely a date."

She smiled.

"Good. Because that was the only way I was going to say yes."

Clark couldn't wipe the grin off his face the entire time he flew to Antarctica.

He watched as the shards of ice crystallised out of the snow, shooting up towards the cloudless sky.

He whistled a tune as the S emblem split open.

"Good job boy." Clark ruffled Krypto's head for what must have been the sixth time since they'd left the vet clinic as they made their way inside.

Number four turned around from his work station, his blue robotic eye widening.

"Ah Superman! Welcome home. How did everything go?"

"Perfectly. Thank you for helping me train Krypto, number four. The little hop was an excellent touch."

"You're welcome. I thought it might add to the authenticity of it. If I had the emotional intelligence of a human, I'd have thought it was real."

Clark had always intended to ask *yn* on a date. He just needed an excuse to come and see her. To give him a chance to work up the courage to actually do it. There wasn't really anything wrong with faking Krypto's injury, was there?

Clark glanced down at Krypto. As if on cue, Krypto raised his paw and began to limp. He looked up at Clark and wagged his tail, clearly waiting for the treat that usually followed.

"Maybe we trained him too well." Clark frowned.

"Is it possible for you to untrain a dog, number four?"

"I am not sure. I will have to investigate. Or you could ask your friend that you were telling us about. The veterinarian, *yn*. She would likely know given her studies."

Clark winced. Looks like he might have some explaining to do.

I LOVED SUPERMAN SM SO HAPPY TO BE WRITING FOR BBY CLARK x As always always always, feedback is always appreciated because I thrive off praise. Please give it back here x

Tip me! 🤍

[cybrasigilism]

could u maybe do like mutual virginity loss with player 125? like both of them r so shy and awkward,, i think it would be adorable.,.

So Anxious (Park Min-su/Player 125 X F! Reader SMUT)

warning: smut, no way | not proofread | lowercase intended | sub x sub | virginity loss | riding | this is my interpretation of this character, please be respectful even if my opinions of the character differ from your own

character: park min-su (player 125)

A/N: decided to make this one an out of the games kinda post! i absolutely adore the idea of the reader being just as shy and nervous about the whole ordeal as min-su, thank you for the cute request! hope you enjoy :)

MDNI! 18+ content beneath the cut, reader’s discretion is advised

➤ since you were both serious about having your first be with someone special, you guys definitely tried to talk it out beforehand. but you both ended up becoming too flustered to really continue.

“how are we gonna be able to do it if we can’t even talk about it?”

“i don’t know…i still want to though..”

➤ when you guys eventually decided to get to it, you initiated the kiss but pulled away almost immediately, covering your face sheepishly.

“sorry! am i moving too fast?”

“n-not at all!” (he was definitely blushing himself, conflicted whether or not to hide the tent in his pants considering what you two were trying to do here)

➤ at first, you guys tried making out in the typical position— you being underneath him. but, you could tell min-su wasn’t exactly confident like this, so you guys switched up to where you would be straddling him. this drove him nuts of course

➤ once you guys got into the groove of things, your nerves began to calm. sure you were both shaking, but it had a bit more to do with the sheer anticipation now coursing through your bodies each time your lips met. it wasn’t made any better when min-su eventually snuck his hands up your shirt, caressing your bare back with his cold palms. the noise you made startled him, which you felt bad for

“oh, i’m sorry.. was that too much?”

“no! no, your hands are just c-cold.. that’s all..”

“ah, did you want me to stop or-“

you shake your head “feels nice, don’t stop on my account.”

➤ you’re unsure if you should at first, but you start to grind on him, drawing a unexpected moan from beneath the kiss you were currently sharing. you broke the kiss as you started to subconsciously grind harder, avoiding eye contact out of embarrassment at the expression that must have been painting your face just then. you could tell min-su was repressing his voice just as much as you were your own— you were both positively petrified to make any sound at all, in fact. but, some stifled moans made their way past as he shifted his grasp from your back to your hips.

➤ when you guys actually ended up having sex, it was a swift matter for both parties. i mean, let’s be real here. you were both completely inexperienced virgins, you couldn’t be surprised that you guys both wound up cumming fast. however swift it may have been, you enjoyed it nonetheless. he wasn’t too big, so it didn’t hurt too badly, but it was enough to make you feel better than your fingers ever could.

➤ oh yeah, and you guys could forget about masking those moans of yours any longer. the moment you sank down onto his dick, min-su was a goner. you had never heard him make such a sound in all your life, and you even asked him if he was alright initially. sure, you may not have been so vocal at first contact, but as soon as you started moving that completely turned on its head.

➤ after the fact, you both just kind of laid there next to one another. silent. come on, you had just changed the trajectory of your friendship forever, that was a lot to process. after a moment though, you both found that neither of you could wipe those stupid grins off your faces. you had just changed the entire path of your friendship, forever. and you were both okay with that

AAAA thank you so much for this adorable request! i absolutely loved writing some soft smut, however short it may have been :) thanks for reading again, and i’ll see you on the next one!

as always, any advice/constructive criticism on how to improve my writing is appreciated and requested! have a fantastic day/night lovelies 💋💋

tags: @gongyoosgf @strangelife122 @agorsnotworld @luvlyfandoms @putrescentpoet

[sydnikov]

Donut || M. Knies

Author: Sydney / @sydnikov

Pairing: Matthew Knies / fem!Reader

Word Count: 7.8k

Summary: Figure skating is no longer a sport you compete in, the decision to quit having been made years and years ago, but the magic you feel everytime you step on the ice will never fade. It’s why you coach in Toronto, but you’ve never coached at the Toronto Maple Leafs’ practice arena before—Matthew Knies just so happens to see you on your very first day, and is immediately obsessed. His charm and wittiness win you over easily, even though you’re apprehensive at the start.

Warnings: Cursing, kissing, kinda bad proofreading, and a disgusting amount of fluff

A/N: The hockey player x figure skater trope nobody asked for except it’s written by someone who *actually* figure skates 🤭 This is so silly and way too cute omg but it’s for @lifeofpriya for @wyattjohnston's winter fic exchange!! I hope you and everyone else enjoys!! <3

Cold. So cold.

It’s the first feeling your body registers as the shrill sound of your alarm blares through the quietness of your small apartment on a dark, dreary December day in Toronto.

You quickly pick up your phone from the nightstand it was charging on, eyes shrivelling shut at the brightness before you turn off the alarm. Once it’s off, you take a moment to contemplate why you make yourself do this after so many years but never bring yourself to quit.

Figure skating. Your lifeline and also your death sentence—at least you’re convinced it will be, eventually.

It’s the only thing that makes your five-thirty in the morning wake-up worth it, even as you remove yourself from the warmth of your bed.

You’re convinced you can see your breath once you turn on the light in your bathroom, holding back a shiver as you tie your hair back to brush your teeth and wash your face. It’s better to just start getting ready immediately, a routine you picked up way back in your early skating days, lest you fall back asleep.

Growing into your teens, you found it harder and harder to put yourself through the gruelling early hours that competitive figure skating requires, and there were only so many laps of power pulls you could take in punishment for being late before you had to come up with a solution to keep to your schedule.

Dragging yourself out of bed the moment you become conscious is, unfortunately, the only solution that worked, and still is, unfortunately, what you do now even though your own competition days are over.

You don’t skate for you, really, not anymore; you skate for your students, all five of them that you coach at different times throughout the week. Anna, the sixteen year-old girl who you have at eight o’clock sharp this day, is your only source of motivation as you finish your makeup and hair for the lesson.

Normally you don’t bother with a super kept-up appearance for your coaching lessons, but this day in particular has you coaching at a brand new rink, and you figure that first impressions to whoever you may or may not meet will matter.

The rink you usually coach at - an older place that’s definitely seen finer days and on the outskirts of Toronto but close to you - is finally being put out of its misery, as you like to say.

(It’s just getting a well-deserved renovation.)

An hour later, you’re all bundled up and ready to face the frigid Toronto air that awaits you. You have on three top layers total: a normal long-sleeved shirt, a thick jacket, and then your winter coat on top. You then have leggings to skate in with sweats over top to brave the elements, and those along with your coat come off once you get to the rink.

As you step out into the hallway which immediately opens to the outdoors, you quickly lock up before shoving your gloved hands in your pockets and swiftly make your way to the train that’s supposed to get you to your new rink.

Actually getting on and boarding is the easiest part; it’s so early in the morning that few occupants means little waiting time, one of the only saving graces of waking up at such an ungodly hour.

Once you’re settled, you plug in your earbuds and wait out the forty-five minute ride to your new rink.

“Morning,” The employee attending the front desk greets you after you walk into the rink, a little less than an hour later. “You have a pass?”

Your attempt at a smile is feeble, it still too early for you to bother putting on a social facade. “I’m a coach, I have a lesson here in twenty minutes.” You hold up the pass you printed out days in advance after registering on their website, transferring all the required credentials from your old rink.

The woman, probably about ten years older than you and looking just as exhausted as you feel, scans the barcode on your pass and waves you on. “Women’s locker rooms are down the hall on the right, there’s a door to the training rink in there too.”

“Thank you,” You say before following her directions, briefly admiring all of the Maple Leafs memorabilia covering the walls and ceiling.

Growing up, you never got into hockey—figure skating was your whole life and completely revolved around it, so any hobbies you picked up were separate from the ice entirely.

You did it for your sanity, but also because like most skaters, you grew to be annoyed by hockey players’ obnoxious presence. Not only were they cocky, but they tore up the ice with their complicated drills that zamboni refreshings never quite covered.

Stepping into the women’s locker room, you stopped in awe at how updated and nice it was. Fresh paint, large toilet stalls and showers, even the floors didn’t have you cringing at the thought of walking on them without your guards on.

Now, there’s still very much a hockey theme present; you suppose you weren’t going to escape that here with it being their practice rink, and all. You weren’t exactly happy to learn that tidbit of information, but at least you have early lessons, so the crowds that likely always show up wouldn’t be here at seven-thirty in the morning.

It’s five minutes later that your student for this session, Anna, saunters in, skates already adorned in a cute workout set that as a teen you would have loved, but now in your twenties find it wouldn’t keep you warm enough.

She looks as if she could take on the world, bright-eyed and full of youthful energy you admire her for having so early in the day.

Geez. You sound like you’re fifty.

“Good morning, Anna,” You greet her, sending her a smile as you quickly go through some stretches to get your legs warmed up. “Ready to get choreographing? I have about half of your long done so far.”

A long program, or a free skate, is a four minute routine that all types of skaters have for competitions. It requires a balance of all the technical elements like jumps and spins but also artistry, or how well one performs to the music.

It’s your least favorite type of program because it takes the most amount of time to perfect and is also hell to perform; if you think four minutes doesn’t sound that bad, imagine having to fly across the ice at top speeds all while maintaining elegance, power, and accuracy in every movement you do—all on blades.

“I’m so excited,” Anna replies, clapping her hands together. “I’ve been listening to my music nonstop since, like, you first suggested it to me.”

“That was over a month ago before we even settled on it!” You laugh, finally joining her in putting your skates on.

While you don’t skate professionally anymore, you still have a pair of skates you use when you actually feel like skating for fun—the skates you can safely jump and spin on. The skates you wear for coaching, an extremely worn-down pair that looks off-white now with the leather peeling off on the sides, have most definitely seen better days.

But they’re extremely comfy and perfect for recreational skating, which is all you do while coaching and is why you keep them.

“Alright,” You finally say, standing up and rubbing your hands over your arms which are slightly cold in your jacket now that your coat has come off. “Let’s go. You’ve skated here before, right?”

“Mhm!” She answers, leading the way out of the locker room and into the rink, the fresh ice glistening in the early sunlight coming from the windows up high. “I haven’t skated in this rink though. There’s like four in here and they’re open on different days.”

“You’ll have to show me the ropes one day,” You muse, following your student’s lead as she steps onto the bench, removing her guards before stepping onto the ice.

You don’t really have any intention of coming here unless you have to coach, though.

“Okay, then!” You announce, smoothly stepping onto the ice and gliding towards Anna who is getting ready to warm up. “I want you to warm up your edges, as well as your single jumps, got it?”

Anna salutes, not mockingly but rather endearingly. “Yes ma’am!” As she immediately takes off, you do your own on-ice warm up, though much less intense than hers.

While you won’t be skating her program fully - as in, doing the jumps and spins it requires - you do have to show her the footwork, which requires your body to be properly warm for all the edge work and artistry.

The ice lost its magic for you long ago, when skating became more about winning than having fun. Nonetheless, you still find satisfaction in the deep ripping sound as your blades sink into the ice, a sign of strong edges and good technique drilled into you at a young age.

As you go through your own warm up, you swing your arms up and around your chest loosely, trying to get your whole body as pliant as possible. While you do so your eyes wander, peering through the windows curiously.

The rink still isn’t full yet; you see only a mom and two little girls, an older man with his wife, and a group of maybe four men who had just walked in.

“I’m ready!” Anna suddenly announces, gaining back your attention as she skids to a quick stop in front of you. “Want me to plug in the music?”

“Nah, there’s no need,” You reply. “I can just play it on my phone. It’ll get too chaotic with it playing over the speakers.”

She nods in return, and you gesture with an arm to follow you to the center of the ice. “Alright, I have you starting here in the middle, but it doesn’t need to be exact because I’m having you do toepick steps in a spiral pattern…”

Meanwhile, Matthew Knies is cold. He should be used to it by now, but he was born and raised in Arizona where temperatures rarely drop below fifty degrees Fahrenheit during the day in winter. In Toronto, however, where a good day is above ten degrees?

He’ll just say he’s gotten used to his teammates teasing him when he shows up to practice bundled up in five layers of coats. His Slovakian ancestors would be ashamed.

This day is no different; stepping into the familiar practice arena for his team, the Toronto Maple Leafs, alongside some of his closer friends on said-team: Joe, Auston, and their captain, John. Matthew holds his arms close to his body, ignoring the snickers from Joe.

“Hey, it’s only negative six today! That’s five degrees higher than yesterday!”

Matthew looks at his friend with wide eyes. It only takes him a moment to realize he’s referring to the temperature in Celcius, not Fahrenheit.

“I still don’t know what that means in Fahrenheit,”

Joe laughs again, bumping their shoulders together as John and Auston check in at the front desk for them. “It’s really not that different once you learn, you know,”

“Another day, Joe, another day,” Matthew laments, laughing himself as Joe rolls his eyes. He holds back his chirp when John whistles for the two to follow, already several steps ahead of them.

Conversation forgotten, the four make their way to the assigned practice rink they’ll be using for the day. They’re one of the first groups to arrive, as the place is practically deserted at seven-thirty in the morning.

Matthew pulls his phone out of his pocket for a moment to scroll through his notifications, blindly following his teammates. He’s steadily ignoring them until Joe suddenly groans, the goalie swearing under his breath.

“Man, there’s gonna be holes all over the ice now—”

“The fuck are you talking about?” He laughs, only looking up to follow his friend’s gaze to where only two girls take up the ice. He immediately spots the figure skating blades and fully plans on teasing Joe about being afraid of some toe picks until one of the girls suddenly turns, and he immediately has the breath knocked out of his lungs.

Her face is flushed, likely from a mixture of the cold and skating, and her hair has tiny flyaways that she keeps trying to brush away. She’s also clearly a coach based on her coat that has ‘COACH’ in big, bold letters across the back. She’s doing some complicated, confusing footwork all up on the toe pick until stepping out, all long legs and loose arms.

Matthew’s throat dries up. She looks like an angel.

“Now, the fuck are you talking about—”

“That’s my wife.”

“What?”

“Oh my god, Joe, that’s my wife.”

“Hey Cap, did you know that Matty was married because I sure as hell didn’t?”

“No, shit, I mean,” He can’t find the right words to speak, too enraptured with the sight of the mystery woman (his future wife) gliding across the ice. “Tell the boys I’ll be right there? Thanks!”

He’s vaguely aware of Joe shouting something as he briskly walks away, but he only has eyes for you, the mysterious angel on ice.

Anna is currently running through the first twenty seconds of her program that you’ve taught so far, you standing at the boards right by the sound booth as if you were actually playing her music. She’s on the last part of the sequence, a spiral - a move where a skater raises one leg high in the air, upper body as parallel to the ice as possible - and her posture is stiff, but she seems to know that and corrects it herself before you have to.

Your back is to the glass, leaning against it casually. The door to the rink also happens to be right next to you, but you don’t notice until movement from the corner of your eye catches your attention. You’re used to parents lurking, especially Anna’s, but when you allow yourself to look you quickly realize it’s definitely not a parent.

A man, tall and broad-shouldered, adorned in what looks like three or more coats, stares at you expectantly. There’s a half-smile on his face that immediately puts you on edge because no one should be that happy at eight o’clock in the morning.

Anna just so happens to finish and rushes to the bench for a water break, which is the only reason you allow your focus from her to divert to him. “Can I help you?” You frown, very aware you come across as standoffish.

He doesn’t seem deterred. “Sorry. I, uh, didn’t mean to interrupt,” His voice is warm and slightly sheepish, and his hands are shoved deep into his coat pockets like he’s still not entirely sure why he’s here.

“I’m in the middle of coaching right now,” You state slowly, as Anna begins to make her way back to you. You go to say something else, but she taps you on the shoulder before you get the chance to. “I’m going to the restroom real quick,” She whispers, looking all too happy to leave you alone with him before she skates away without giving you a chance to respond, again.

Anna tends to do that a lot. Knowing her, she’s already planning your wedding.

Resisting the urge to get off the ice yourself, you turn back to the mystery man whose attention is still undeniably on you. “Do you need something, or…?”

“Not really, just… watching,” He says with a shrug. He shifts his weight from one foot to the other, the tips of his shoes barely scraping against the edge of the ice. “You’re good, by the way. Both of you. That—uh, what’s it called? The thing with the leg up? Looks impossible.”

You blink. “A spiral.”

“Right. Spiral. Cool.” He nods like he’s just learned some very important information, and you feel the corner of your mouth twitch against your better judgment.

“Do you… play here?” You ask, gesturing vaguely to the rink. A silly question on your end because you’re pretty sure you already know the answer.

“Hockey,” He says quickly, almost like it’s an apology. “I’m Matthew. I play for the Leafs,” He points a thumb over his shoulder, where a few of who you assume to be his teammates are slowly trickling out of a locker room. Most look tired, some half-watching, half-laughing about something.

Of course he’s a hockey player. You almost forgot you were at an NHL team’s official practice arena.

“Right,” You say curtly, briefly looking for Anna who still has not returned. “Well, my student still hasn’t come back, but we’re almost done, anyways. You’ve got the ice in ten, I think.”

“I wasn’t rushing you or anything,” Matthew says quickly, taking a step closer. “Not that I really can. My coaches tell us when to get on and off. I was just… watching. Figure skating’s kind of cool. A lot like hockey, I mean, but I still don’t know anything about it.”

“I can tell,” You mutter under your breath.

He laughs, and it catches you off guard—low, easy, and a little self-deprecating. “Fair enough. I’ll let you get back to it. Just wanted to say hi, I guess. I haven’t seen you here before.”

It’s extending an olive branch on his part, leaving it up to you to introduce yourself or not. You debate skating away again, but he’s still smiling, eyes hopeful, and you don’t have it in your heart to do anything cruel.

“It’s my first lesson here,” You admit. “I’ll be coming here a lot more, now.” You finally give your name, offering your gloved hand for him to shake with your own sheepish smile. His hand dwarfs yours easily, and despite the fact he’s also wearing gloves you can still feel the heat from his skin seeping into yours.

Matthew looks as if he’s won the lottery. “I’ll see you, yeah?” You nod, unsure what to make of him as he makes his way back to his teammates. You gather your phone and coat from the bench, sparing one last glance his way again who is now standing with his teammates, but he’s not laughing along with them. He’s watching you.

You force yourself to ignore it, swiftly turning back around and stepping off the ice. But there’s something about the way his gaze lingers, like this wasn’t just a one-off conversation to him. Like maybe he’ll be back for more.

You don’t run into Matthew again for a week, and you definitely weren’t looking for a glimpse of him each time you had a lesson. You definitely didn’t take to Google in-between spare moments, searching him up on the Toronto Maple Leafs’ roster.

And you definitely, one-hundred percent did not come to the rink on a random Tuesday morning when you didn’t even have a lesson to skate on your own, just for the opportunity to run into him again.

Really, you don’t even know why. You’ve messed around with hockey players when you were younger, sure, because it was definitely convenient, but you never saw it as serious. You’re not sure why subconsciously, you think this one is different.

The cold air bites at your cheeks as you step onto the ice, smooth and untouched, a blank canvas. You take a deep breath, your warm exhale visible in the chill, and launch into your warm-up. While not nearly as intense as it used to be, you still like to keep up most of your skills—particularly, your spins.

Unlike a lot of skaters, you always hated jumps. You always loved spinning more, any and all types, and used those in your programs while jumps were always included at the bare minimum. You’ve just always hated chucking yourself into the air, never quite trusting your body to land on a singular toepick without fault. It’s one of the reasons you quit competitive skating after so many years.

The rink is nearly empty, though—just you and two others. You only plan on skating for an hour or two, even though freestyle sessions can last much longer.

You’re midway through alternating backwards power pulls - on one foot, skating left to right in half-swizzle shapes - when you notice him.

He’s sitting on top of the bench on the far side of the rink, wearing a backward cap and a hoodie that’s definitely not designed for the cold. His skates dangle off the edge of the bench as if he’s not quite committed to stepping onto the ice yet. His hair sticks out in every direction, the messy, effortless kind that probably takes zero effort but makes him look infuriatingly good.

It’s Matthew, you recognize without a doubt. Your heart jumps out of your chest, and you try to play it cool like he hasn’t probably already noticed he’s been spotted. You try to ignore him, moving onto your spins, but there’s a prickle of awareness every time you pass his side of the rink. He’s not just watching—he’s studying.

Randomly, you decide to mess with him. There’s a spin you love where you have to contort your body in an oddly flexible way, and you’ve noticed more than once how people will always stop in their tracks to watch. It forms the shape of a donut, hence the name ‘donut spin.’

You skate to the middle, the designated area for spins, decision quickly made. You have to hide the smile threatening to spread across your face at the thought of what look would be on his. Attracted, or impressed? Maybe both?

Taking a deep breath, you tighten your arms, engage your core, and take a strong step forward. Dipping slightly, you bend your knees just enough to gather momentum, shifting your weight to your left leg, having your right leg extend behind you in a straight line. Your arms sweep in, crossing over your chest, as you begin to rotate. Your vision blurs at the edges, moving too fast to make out even a shape. You feel the pull of centrifugal force, letting the spin tighten and quicken as with practiced motion, you reach down toward your left ankle, your fingers brushing the fabric of your leggings as your body folds. Your head dips low, and your extended leg arcs upward behind you, a perfect curve in the air. The donut shape then forms easily, your body compressed into a spinning circle. Your thighs burn but you welcome it, knowing it means you’ve locked in the position. Your blade scratches against the ice as you count your rotations, getting about five in before your body really starts to protest.

Quickly beginning to tire, you let the spin slow as you begin to rise. Uncurling like a ribbon unwinding, you let your right leg drop and open your arms, checking out of the spin. Your vision sharpens again, your surroundings coming back into view, and the first thing you do is shoot a quick glance towards where you last saw Matthew.

Just as you expected, his eyes are wide, mouth slightly agape. This time you let the smile come to your face, close-lipped but no less genuine, and watch as his cheeks flush a pretty shade of pink.

Knowing without a doubt that he’ll be the one coming over to you, you skate to a stop near the boards to grab your water bottle. You hear more so than see how he pushes himself up and strides over, his skates clinking against the ice.

“You’re insane,” Matthew says by way of greeting, his words almost breathless.

You grin, knowing exactly what he means. “Excuse me?”

“That spin you just did.” He gestures vaguely towards center ice. “You just completely folded in half. What is that?”

One of your brows lifts, feigning disinterest, though you think he knows you’re amused. “A donut spin. It’s my favorite,”

He leans against the boards, a hint of a smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “A donut spin, huh? So, out of all the moves—jumps, spins, whatever—that’s your go-to?”

You nod, trying to hold back a grin. “Yup. I was never much of a jumper.”

“Can’t say I’ve ever heard that before,” He says with a low chuckle, shaking his head. “I half-expected something dramatic, like a quad jump, or something.”

You can’t help but laugh. “Quad jumps are dramatic—and borderline impossible. I prefer spins that don’t require me to risk my life.”

“Fair enough,” Matthew replies, tilting his head as though he’s reevaluating you. “Obviously, I don’t jump, unless I’m checking somebody. Then I don’t mind coming off my feet a bit.”

You make a show out of looking him up and down, laughing internally as he seems to stand up straighter at your appraising gaze. “Makes sense. You look like you’d be violent out there.”

He takes a step closer, causing you to have to tilt your head back just slightly. He is, unfortunately, much taller than you. “Really?” He asks, voice low. “What gives it away?”

“Um,” You lose your words for a moment, tongue-tied at his sudden proximity. “Everything, honestly. I’ve seen you skate—like you’ve got a grudge against every guy who's not on your team.”

It’s Matthew’s turn to be caught off guard, though it quickly turns to cockiness that has you rolling your eyes. “You’ve seen me skate? How? When?”

“I may or may have not looked you up online.”

“Oh. So not in person?”

“Nope. I don’t watch hockey.”

“You should change that, actually watch one of our games,” He suggests, grinning. You’re starting to suspect he’s someone who always has a smile on his face. “I’ll score a goal for you.”

This time you don’t bother holding back your laugh. “That’s a whole lot of assurance for a sport that’s mostly luck.”

If possible, his grin widens at your doubt. “I’ll make you a deal,” He says, taking another step closer with a casual confidence that’s starting to feel dangerous. “Watch one of our games, and I’ll score a goal just for you. I’ll even call it a donut goal. Maybe the name will pick up.”

You shake your head, astounded by his personality that miraculously is starting to win you over. “A donut goal?”

“Yeah,” He replies, shrugging like it’s the most obvious thing ever. “Because of your spin. It’ll be my inspiration. What do you say?”

There’s a playful glint in his eyes, and you hate how much you’re already considering it. “That sounds ridiculous,” You giggle.

“Just one game! You watch, I score, and if you hate it, you’ll never have to watch hockey again.”

It’s annoyingly tempting, the way he pitches it. And maybe part of you is curious—curious enough to nod before you can talk yourself out of it. “I guess… Just don’t, like, hurt yourself doing something stupid.”

Matthew’s grin turns triumphant, like he’s just won a championship. “Deal. I’ll let you know which game to tune into.” He goes to skate away, but then quickly turns back around before you even get the chance to turn away yourself.

“Uh… Can I get your number?” He blurts. “For the game.”

“Of course,” You smirk, completely aware of his intentions, surprisingly not as frightened as you thought. “For the game.”

You stay on the ice for another hour, though you don’t work on any more spins, and especially not jumps. Instead, you just skate in laps, occasionally switching to a random edge exercise, but mostly gliding. Matthew left the moment he got your number, sending you a stupid donut emoji as his very first message to you.

What you didn’t see is Matthew immediately calling Joe the moment he steps back into the men’s locker room. “Dude, I got her number,”

A scoff can be heard from the other end. “Your skater wife?”

“Yup. I even got her to agree to watch one of our games. I kinda have to put one in the back of the net though?

There’s the sound of something shattering, followed by a curse and then his friend shouting. “You—her—fuck—what?”

He laughs at his friend’s disbelief. “And you thought I couldn’t do it!”

“It was a spiral, actually.” Matthew replies, proud even he remembered the name. He wants to remember every word that comes out of your mouth, made it a goal to do so. He had to wait a week to see you again, constantly searching every corner of the rink whenever he had a moment of alone time, though it’s not like his teammates didn’t know what he was doing.

“Your first conversation with her was asking about a swirly-thingy.” Joe retorts. “Not exactly winning over girls with that one, y’know?”

Joe took the liberty of informing Auston and John, of course, who therefore told the others. He’s still not embarrassed, though.

Not about meeting you.

It does turn out that Matthew is not very good at texting, however. Understandable, because you aren’t either, but his schedule makes it practically impossible. Not that he doesn’t try, but it’s gotten to a point where you’re eagerly awaiting his next message that takes hours to come in, which is strange because it’s not like you’ve even gone on a date with him.

He gets sick of the distance, literally and figuratively, quickly. He first asks to call you at night, when you’re curled up in your bed and he having just gotten back to his apartment from an away game in Ottawa. You reluctantly say yes, not because you don’t want to but because you don’t exactly have a lot to talk to him about when it’s one o’clock in the morning.

Your ringtone is shrill, startling you despite knowing it was coming. You answer immediately, biting your lip when you can hear his breathing audible through the phone.

“Um, Matthew?” You start when he doesn’t say anything. “Are you there?”

“Oh shit, yeah, sorry,” He apologizes, and you can picture the hand running through his hair as he talks. “Would you believe me if I said I was surprised you even picked up?”

You laugh. “No. I don’t answer my phone this late at night for just anyone, you know.”

“Technically it’s early in the morning. Get it? Because it’s—nevermind I’m shutting up now. You picked up just for me?”

“Well, it definitely wasn’t for your jokes,”

“My mom thinks my jokes are hilarious,”

“I think she’s required to say that.”

You and Matthew call pretty often after that, once the ice is broken—pun not intended. Surprisingly, even though you both go to the same rink multiple times a week, neither of you run into each other that often, so calling at night when you’re both free is the solution to that problem. Maybe it’s because your schedules are so different, but you try to fix the new Matthew-shaped hole in your life by following your first ever hockey team on Twitter.

Or X. Or whatever.

You definitely don’t tell him that - his ego is already big enough - but the amount of pictures posted of him keeps you entertained, and very much endears you to the personality you don’t always see, especially around his teammates.

While Matthew isn’t the biggest talker on his team by any means, even he’s surprised by the endless amount of energy he seems to now have. The excitement gets him through the day, his favorite part now being able to go home at night and talk to you.

And finally, after weeks of scheming and talking and definitely falling in love on his end, he has a game in Toronto against a team he’s relatively sure he could probably net one. He texts you the details, and gives you a link to a pirated website you can watch the game on for free.

Hopefully the league doesn’t find out about that one.

He’s so excited, though, and you’re finding it impossible to not match his energy. You’d be lying if you said you weren’t secretly kicking your feet at the thought of him deliberately attempting to score a goal just for you, too. The days before are filled with teasing texts from Matthew, all centered around some mysterious plan involving this so-called ‘donut goal’. Every time you ask him to explain, he evades the question.

“So can you tell me exactly how you’re planning on doing this?” You ask the night before.

“Nope,” He replies smugly. “You’ll just have to watch and find out.”

You snort, leaning back on your couch. “What if you don’t even score?”

“Wow,” He says, feigning offense. “Zero faith in me. That’s harsh, babe.”

“I’m just saying,” You tease, brushing over the ‘babe’ he let slip out. “It’s hockey. You’ve got, like, five guys constantly trying to stop you. Plus the goalie. Odds aren’t exactly in your favor.”

“You’re gonna feel so dumb when I pull it off,” He replies, totally grinning just by the sound of his voice. “Mark my words.”

Despite your best efforts to play it cool, you’re more excited for this game than you’ve ever been for a hockey game in your life, considering you’ve never even watched one before. Your small circle of friends that grew up skating with you don’t even know about your late-night plan; you want to keep Matthew to yourself, almost, keep this new budding relationship small and private, and you think he feels the same.

Before you know it, you’re tuning into the game on a sketchy looking website that Matthew refused to give any extra details on. It works, though, even if it lags every so often, and even shows the commentators on the side as they watch the game, too.

It starts before you know it—tiny players zipping around after an even tinier puck, and trying to locate Matthew on each of his shifts proves to be even more challenging. Every time you manage to spot his number, though, he’s moving with a grace you weren’t expecting, all power and precision as he skates circles around the other team. That isn’t to say he’s indestructible, however, because Matthew takes a shit ton of hits. Every hit leaves you wincing for him, but he gives plenty back in retribution.

He’s captivating to watch, the way he commands attention without even trying. And when he gets the puck, everything seems to shift.

He’s fast—so fast you lose sight of him multiple times as he weaves through defenders. He gets a chance, shoots it, but it goes wide before being collected by the other team, whom you don’t even know the name of. The game goes on like this for the rest of the first and second period, until the third is underway and you still haven’t moved from your spot on the couch, burrowed in a fuzzy blanket, hot chocolate forgotten.

The game is nearly over when it finally happens. A breakaway from the neutral zone, according to the commentators you can barely hear over the blood rushing through your ears, and Matthew again has the puck and breaks away from the defenders, skating with terrifying speed.

The crowd roars as he approaches the goal, and your heart jumps in your chest when you realize this is it. Your eyes are glued to the screen as he circles behind the net in one smooth motion, pulling off a wraparound goal so effortlessly that you don’t even process what’s happened until the puck is in the back of the net.

The volume coming from your laptop fizzles in and out, the arena likely so loud the speakers can barely handle it. You can hear bits and pieces of said-commentators celebrating in shouts, but all you can focus on is Matthew.

Because he’s spinning his hand in a circle—mimicking the shape of a stupid fucking donut—before pointing upwards.

“Oh my god,” You hiss, dropping your face into your hands. “Did he actually just do that?”

You’re mortified, but also—how could you not smile? He skates back to his team on the bench, grinning like he just pulled off the biggest inside joke of his life.

Even though the commentators can’t hear you, their response almost makes you feel they can. “Knies wraps it around, a beaut, and seems to make some circle motion with his hand. A new celly for the forward?”

You’re alone in your apartment, no roommates to worry about hearing you squeal, and the grin on your face impossible to hide. Stunned, mildly embarrassed even if no one else knows that his celebration was for you, and the most surprising thing about it all?

You definitely, without a doubt like Matthew Knies.

Before you can talk yourself out of it, you’re pulling up your text thread with him, your last messages with the player wishing him luck for the game and him saying thanks.

You’re insane, your new text starts with, echoing his words to you after what feels like ages ago. Congrats on the goal though! I’m impressed :) get home safe.

The game is over before you know it, your screen switching from zoomed-in interviews of the players to the commentators instead, going over the stats and noteworthy plays that quickly lose your interest. You keep it on as background noise, though, as you wash and put away your mug used for hot chocolate, wiping down what little mess was left on your counter.

You’re about to close your laptop for the night, too, when the words ‘Knies’ and ‘interview’ appear in the same sentence, immediately capturing your attention.

“It appears that Knies had himself ‘some inspiration’ for tonight’s goal… Check it out here,”

They show his face next, flushed red, drops of sweat trickling down his forehead. He’s in a skin-tight compression shirt that highlights his arms unfairly well, and the grin on his face is unmistakable.

A reporter is seen shoving a microphone into his face, asking about his goal celebration. He leans into it even more, if possible, staring straight into the camera. “I had some inspiration for my celly, yeah,”

“Inspiration from what?” The reporter presses.

“Donuts, actually,” He answers nonchalantly.

“Was that what the circular motion you made was for?”

Matthew chuckles sheepishly, his hand rubbing the back of his neck. He’s about to respond when someone who you assume works for the team taps on his shoulder, cutting the interview short.

“Donuts,” One of the commentators repeats incredulously once the camera is back on them. “Can’t say I’ve heard that one before.”

“Maybe wraparound goals should be called ‘donut goals’, whaddya think?”

You tune out their chatter, picking up your phone to open Twitter. The only accounts you follow are all Leafs’ related, so you don’t know why it comes as a shock to you when you see multiple posts joking about renaming wraparound goals to donut goals, all because Matthew made a little quip about it.

Unbeknownst to all of them that you were his inspiration to begin with—all to prove a point.

Hockey players, you scoff to yourself. Biggest egos you’ll ever find.

It’s not for another two hours later until he finally texts you back. Not that you were mad, or anything, totally understanding that game nights are always busy, but the message from him catches you off guard.

hi, it starts with. im done with all the press and stuff, team meeting’s done too. can i come see you???

Your eyes are heavy, barely able to form a coherent thought, but you don’t hesitate before responding.

Yeah, I’d like that

Another hour goes by, though, and you’re starting to think he forgot or got bribed into going somewhere to celebrate, and you’re about to call it a night and crawl into bed when there’s a sudden knock at your door, startling you.

You’re positive it’s who you think it is as you rush to your door, but you check your peephole anyway. Standing there, shoulders hunched and beanie drawn so far down over his head that it’s practically covering his eyes, is Matthew.

The door almost hits the wall with how fast you open it. You stare at him, now wide-awake, as he smiles at the sight of you, looking you up and down.

“You’re here,” Are the first words you blurt. “You came,”

Matthew’s smile turns soft, taking a small step towards you. “Hi, donut,” He greets. “Sorry I’m late, some fans found me on the way out of the arena…”

Your lips tilt upwards into a smile, amused at his new choice in nickname. “That’s okay,” You say. “You can come in, by the way. Don’t want you freezing.”

He lets out a laugh at that, his breath condensating in the chill. You step to the side and he wastes no time following you in, closing the door politely behind him. Walking back to your couch, you fold up the fuzzy blanket still sprawled across and take a seat, hands bundled in the sleeves of your hoodie. He follows you, but doesn’t take a seat and instead stands awkwardly in front of you, his hands fidgeting slightly as if he’s working up to something.

“Matthew?” You ask, tilting your head at him. “What’s up?”

He bites his lip, looking anywhere but at you until a decision seems to be made, determination settling over his face. He takes a deep breath, crouching down in front of you and placing one of his hands on your knee. Your heart races, breath hitching when his other hand slowly approaches your face, brushing away an errant piece of hair stuck to the side of your cheek.

“I like you. Like, a lot,” Matthew finally blurts. “I know we’ve only known each other for like a month, but when you know, you know. You know? That sounded better in my head, actually. Anyways, I think you’re really cool, and funny, and crazy talented, and not to mention beautiful, and—”

“Matthew—”

“—I think I can make you really happy, if you want, because I really wanna get to know you more—”

“Hey, hey, Matthew, Matty, shut up for just a second, yeah?” You have to grab his face at this point, hands palms cupping his cheeks as you teasingly shake his head. It does the trick, though, and Matthew shuts up with a choked swallow, eyes wide and nervous.

“I didn’t take you for a rambler when I first met you,” You start, one of your thumbs gently brushing his cheek. “You’ve always seemed so confident,”

His face is flushed a brilliant shade of red, and he tries to duck his head despite still being in your hold. However, he’s not complaining. He’d happily let you touch him anywhere you want.

“Only you can bring it out of me, baby,” Matthew’s attempt at flirting is commendable, especially since his voice is all soft, gentle, and vulnerable in the moment. “I think about you all the time. I look forward to calling you every night. And even when I knew you were watching my game, all I could think about is that I wished you were there in person to see it.”

He chuckles then, his free hand coming up to grasp one of yours still holding his face, entangling your fingers together and squeezing before bringing it down to rest in between you. Your foreheads are practically touching, your hand not being held in his moving to cup the back of his neck.

“I’m doing a whole lot of talking here, donut,” He says. “What are you thinking?”

You take a deep breath, shuffling ever so slightly closer. “I’m thinking that I really like you too,” You admit. “You’ve managed to worm your way into my life in only a month and yet I can’t imagine my life without you in it now,”

Matthew is full-on grinning now; you don’t think you’ve ever seen him this happy. “You’re not messing with me? You’re serious?”

“I’ve known for a while now, I think. Just—didn’t know how to say it.” You answer rather bashfully, now your turn for your face to flush red.

For a moment, the two of you are silent. He squeezes your hand every so often, thumb rubbing in gentle circles over the back of yours, and his eyes don’t leave you, not for a single second. You’re so close you can see the tiny wrinkles around his eyes, his slightly chapped lips, his tongue as it comes out to lick them. Your heart races and you can’t come up with any words to cut the tension, but like always, Matthew seems to know just the right thing to say.

“I don’t think I can wait anymore,” He suddenly says, eyes pleading. “Can I kiss you?”

You nod rapidly, sighing out a quick, “Yes,” feeling like you’ll explode if you don’t get the chance to taste him. Expecting something desperate or fast, you’re surprised when he brings his free hand up towards your face, sliding around the back of your neck and tilting your head to the side. He angles you just how he likes, you happy to go along, as he leans in slowly, slowly, slowly…

The first brush of his lips sends a full-body shiver down your spine, a small whimper leaving your lips that Matthew eagerly swallows with a happy sigh of his own. He presses further, his lips pillow-soft and gentle, no desire at all to rush the moment between you.

It’s not fast or frantic. It’s slow, deliberate, and full of everything that’s been building between you two for weeks. You don’t want it to end at all, not after finally having him, but the need to breathe eventually wins over. Matthew follows your lead and rests his forehead against yours, his soft breaths mingling with yours.

It’s intimate, the way your eyes open to look at him, finding the same look mirrored in his own.

“You have no idea how long I’ve been wanting to do that,” He murmurs, not at all ashamed to admit it. You bury your head in his shoulder, hiding the bashfulness on your face as flustered giggles escape from your lips.

Matthew’s arms immediately come to encircle you, holding you so close to his chest you can almost feel his heartbeat. He moves you to sit on the couch, you happily sitting on his lap. “Aw, don’t hide, donut,” He teases, the grin on his face so obvious by the way he’s speaking.

And because, of course, you’re you, without lifting your head up you quickly pinch his arm, laughing at the squeal you get out of him. “They’re calling wraparound goals donut goals, now, did you see?”

Matthew replies with obvious pride. “Duh. Of course I did. It’s a fantastic rename, in my humble opinion,”

“No wonder your ego is so high if your fans are naming goals after you,”

“You love it though, especially after I just gave you the best kiss of your life—”

“Don’t push it, Matthew.”

A/N: I've never written for Matthew before so I hope his personality isn't too unrealistic, I feel like it gives cheesy hallmark rom-com in the best way possible 🫣 please don't forget to reblog & comment :)

────────────────────────────────

Taglist: @grittysbattinggloves @stars-canucks @besthockeyfics @ilyasorokinn @drei-mrssvechii @tanninetanya @insomniren @sidcrosbyspuck @yagetintoit @2manytabsopen @huggy-hischier4394 @estapa94 @dexthtoyounglings @ellswilliams @cixrosie @poufsouffle21 @fratboyharrysgf0201 @jovye @bunting58 @alexxavicry

Add yourself to my 18- (SFW) Taglist here!

Add yourself to my 18+ (NSFW) Taglist here!

[transboyswitchytales]

A Proposition

This is Part 2

Wanda Maximoff Professor X Student Reader

Part 1,3,4

After a night together, reader is suprised to go to class the next day to see a certain one night stand or rather her professor? Will she be just a one-night stand?

Now how will they move on from that?

( Mommy kink, 18+ Will block you if under 18)

My Masterlist

“You haven’t heard what I’m offering yet.” 

“Professor,” you say again, and the name falls flat, and it only amuses Wanda now. But she looks at you with a twinkle in her eyes. You are both walking and you turn to see if you will be overheard.

“Yes, Darling?”  She says, amused at your paranoia. 

“This is inappropriate.” You whisper loudly. 

“No, what’s inappropriate is if I fucked you on my desk really slow with the strap on from the other night. What would be really, really inappropriate is if I made the class watch. Especially that boy who stares at you all class long, Steve Rogers. That would be sweet revenge. Yeah, that, now that would be inappropriate. You and I met and were two consenting adults, and we still are.” She says with a shrug as if it’s nothing. Your eyes are fucking wide as she says such dirty things. You catch up to the last bit in shock.

“Still are?”

“I don’t know about you, though I have an inkling. But that was the best sex I’ve ever had. It’s also the most chemistry I’ve had, maybe ever. It was never gonna be a one-and-done. At least that wasn’t my plan. I knew at the bar I wanted more than one night with you.” She says, and the blush is now definitely all over your body. 

“Professor-“

“Wan-da.” She sounds out and stops to open a door that is her private office. Unlocking it with her keys. She opens the door and waves her hand for you to enter. You hesitate, and she lifts an eyebrow. You roll your eyes and walk in as she flips the light on. It’s a cute office, her blinds are drawn. But there are plants everywhere, a little mini fridge with stickers from national parks all over it, and it's wall-to-wall shelves that are covered in books. You can’t help yourself; you get distracted and walk over to trace your hands over the spines.

Wanda seems to like this as she shuts the door behind her and locks it. You don’t feel even a little worried, like you know you should. You bend down and pick up a copy of The Count of Monte Cristo. Its leather spine draws you in, and you love the story so much. You open it and look for a publication date. 

“It’s about 80 years old,” Wanda says, pulling off her glasses and leaning against the desk. She threw her bag and keys onto it. Then she lets her hands hold her weight behind her. 

“Fuck.” You say, and suddenly feel bad about picking it up. Wanda seems to take that as you have been scolded by people too much before. But she saves that thought away. 

“You can touch it, honey. It’s ok.” She says, seeing your panic. You ignore her and put it back. Standing back up, you see Wanda looking at you like she was enjoying you on the floor. You chastise yourself to stop imagining her naked. 

“I-“

“I’d like to take you out tonight?”

“Tonight?”

“Yes, well, right now actually. No time like the present,” she says, smiling at you for the hundredth time today. She likes how much she smiles because of you, she hasn’t done that in a very long time. 

“Shouldn’t I play harder to get?” You tease at the lack of dating etiquette she’s showing. She shakes her head 

“Why would you do that? I’ve already tasted you and I want more, I don’t want to play games. And before you ask no I’ve never fucked a student before. I never planned on it before you.”

“But-“

“Our age gap isn’t that wide, Darling. Even if I make you call me Mommy. Don’t look so scandalized. We aren’t breaking any district or college rules. I like you a lot. And I’m not the kind of woman who likes things and then takes no for an answer.”

“You do this with all your one-night stands, then?” You say, and it’s meant to be funny, but it sounds desperate, and you hate it.

“You would be the first person I’ve ever taken home from a bar. I wasn’t going to say anything this soon, but I was married …to a man… for too long....”

“Oh.”

“It’s been a few years. I have tried to date but… no one’s caught my attention.”

“Until now?” You say, and you try not to sound hopeful.

“Until now.” She says more confident than you’d expect.

You turn and look at the books, and she watches you. 

“I think we have more in common than you realize.” She says slowly, and you snort at her. Looking over your shoulder, you are sarcastic to a fault.

“You mean besides the fetishes we share.” It’s not supposed to make you blush more, but you do at your own sentence. She thinks it’s cute and smiles. 

“It’s not just about sex.”

“I’m not sure I believe you.” It’s a bit of a lie, because you want it to be more. But you keep your eyes on the books. So she talks to your back, not seeming bothered by sharing your attention with her library.

“You are getting a BA in English with an emphasis on writing, so did I,” She says, and you look at her like ‘that’s obvious.’ 

“You like old books, and so do I. You are extremely smart. And way funnier than I am.” She says as if she’s already in love, and you aren’t sure how to respond. 

“I don’t know if I’m all that.” You say, and she disagrees with you. Her face shows instantly that she doesn’t like your answer. You turn to her now, fully taking her in. She’s so fucking gorgeous. Her professor's look is sharp as hell. You would happily go back to the floor for her right here, right now. She surprises you, though. 

“You have been hurt by people. That much is clear. So have I. I get that you don’t want to trust me. I’m scared too, but not scared enough to let you walk away without taking my chance.” She says, and her voice dips, and it does things to you. 

“You can tell all that, huh?” You sa,y looking down at your shoes. She walks over and lifts your chin so you are eye to eye. 

“I can see that and much more. I don’t want to hurt you. I just want to be with you, will you let me?” 

You nod slowly, and she moves and kisses you. It’s a sweet kiss, it’s slow and tender. Not possessive and demanding like her kisses the other night. She pulls back and grabs her keys. 

“Come with me.” She holds out her hand, and you take it.

————

That’s how it starts. You go to a restaurant thinking it’ll be one and done. And you have an amazing time, and it’s not the last. Not even close. Wanda is on your ass like white on rice. She’s texting you, calling you, FaceTiming you all the time. You are inseparable. And you fucking love it. You won’t let yourself tell her you love her. Afraid of what that will mean. You are at her apartment all the time. She starts buying your coffee creamer and makes the popcorn brand you like for nights when you watch endless hours of sitcoms. It’s so fucking sappy and it’s getting extremely domestic on a Tuesday. 

You are both sitting on a dryer in a laundromat. You got a big gulp of a cherry slushy. You are waiting for your laundry to be done. She asked if she could come, and you laughed at her and told her it would be boring. Wanda said nothing with you could ever be boring. And here you were both laughing so hard your sides hurt. 

“What do you mean you’ve never had a slushie?” You say after you wipe your eyes from tears over laughing. She reaches over and brushes stray tears from your other cheek. 

“I’m from Socovia, baby. We didn’t have slushies.” Wanda reminds you and you hold the cup up like it’s amrosia from the gods and it’s being blessed.

“That simply won’t do.” 

She giggles at your display, and it’s the best sound. You hold it to her, moving the straw so it bends.

“Isn’t it like water and corn syrup?”

“Do not knock the cherry syrup like that.” You say in mock horror. She shakes her head at you. 

“You know, I keep Swedish fish at my place for you now. I read the back of it. That stuff is gonna kill you, devochka.”

You beam at her, knowing she’s calling you baby girl in her language, feels so sweet. So many partners called you baby. This felt so much better. 

“I’ll die happy.” You say not to defend the red food dye.

“Nu uh, no dying, how about that. You stay my girl and be healthy.” She says, and it feels good under your skin. Being her girl. 

“I can do that.” You whisper and kick your legs up against the machine. She seems to like you flushed and embarrassed, and she moves your jaw and kisses you. It’s long and slow, but unlike her offic,e it’s practiced now. Like two lovers who know how to slow dance with each others, understanding one another's body rhythms. You lean your forehead against hers and slowly open your eyes to see her staring at you with love laced in every single inch. 

“Be a good girlfriend and drink my toxic slush.” You whisper, and she laughs now. 

“I’m your girlfriend, huh?” She says, and you panic.

“I mean-“

“No, no, my love, no take backs. You taught me no take backs.” She reminds you, and you curse because you had taught her that. 

“Well…”

“I did want to ask…”

“Yeah?” You say and tuck a hair behind your ear. She watches it and seems in a trance, looking at you. You look at her with a questioning glance. You take a sip of your drink as she finishes. 

“Are we um… what’s the English word? Are we exclusive?” 

You snort the drink and cough, and she looks panicked as she rubs your back. You breathe again after a few seconds. 

“Um.. do you want to be?” You ask, catching your breath. 

“I was hoping we already were.” She says slowly, and you look confused. 

“Why did you think we weren't?”

“My friend Natasha told me it’s a conversation that people have to have?” She says and looks anxious now like she’s fucked up. 

“You told your friends about me?” It’s what you take from the sentence, and she looks slightly miffed that you haven’t answered her question only asked follow up questions. 

“Moya lyubov', you are killing me with the suspense. I’m a little scared now. Are you seeing someone else? Or sleeping with someone else?” Her eyebrows furrow, and you quickly grab her hands 

“Oh god, no, Wanda. I have no interest and no time. When would I have slept with someone else? I’m always either on the phone with you or at your place. You think I sneak off after your apartment and have a gangbang or something?” You say, and it’s meant to be funny, and her eyes bulged. 

“Gangbang? What is that? Do you get hurt with that?”

“Oh yeah, that’s an English word you might not have heard before. I’ll tell you later. The point is, I’m all yours, ok?” You say, and she instantly relaxes.

“Ok,” Wanda says, and she seems deep in thought again. Her nose scrunches, and you know she’s in the depths of it.

“So who’s Natasha?”

“Friend from college. You’ll like her, she mostly does S.H.I.E.L.D. agent retaining now.” She looks over and you and you nod, impressed. 

“So she’s like super hot and buff?”

“Hey, you are now in a committed relationship. Very taken and very off the market. There will be no hot buff girls in your future. Only this Socovian Professor who is totally going to spank you tonight for that.” She says and scoffs in outrage. 

“Yes professor.” You smirk and she mumbles in her native;’ you’re that she can’t believe you, and you are such a brat. ‘

“So will Natasha be coming by soon?” You say, and she turns bright red and looks at you. 

“No, actually, I’m not sure you are ever meeting her.”

“Is she straight?” You say not getting that you are making Wanda more jealous. 

“Why does this matter?” Her accent comes out and that’s when you realize she’s anxious. 

“Oh, baby, I’m not into your friend. I’m very taken as I just was told. I’m just curious who your friends are.” You say, and you look down at the time on the machine. But when you look back at her, she’s thinking again. 

“Well, there’s Natasha, Clint, who I’m not super close with. But he hangs around Natasha, so I put up with him. He’s gonna love you.”

“Wh,y because of my breasts?” You tease and you swear you see smoke come out of her ears. 

“Hey! I’m not gonna tell you any more about my friends. I’m going to fuck you in that bathroom instead.” She points to the grungy bathroom. 

“Not a bad time for me. But I’ll behave. Why would Clint like me? Would Natasha not like me?” 

“No, she’d like you too. She already does. She’s always telling me what I should do with us.”

“Good stuff?” You say feeling weird. 

“I’m not used to dating in the U.S I don’t know the customs of what’s too much too soon.”

You reach over and grab her hand.

“You don’t need advice. You can just talk to me. I’ll tell you.” You say, and Wanda rubs her thumb over your knuckles. She gulps and agrees.

“I know, but you scare easily sometimes, and I don’t want to ruin this or scare you away.” She says it, and it’s so vulnerable and rea,l and you know, just the feeling.

“Wanda Maximoff, you sweet charmer. You got me pretty wrapped up in you. I don’t think you have anything to worry about.” She meets your eyes and grins now. Her mega-watt smile, the one she only gives you. 

“So Clint.” You say, and she goes on.

“While he would love to see you naked, he’s never going to. Because your mine. He’s a jokester, and he will love laughing with you. Because he’s effortlessly funny.” 

“So are you.” You say taking a sip. She furrows her brows.

“I am so not funny.” She says, and you disagree. 

“I think I’ll be the judge of that.”

“My brother was funny. He would have adored you.” She says, and it’s only the third time she’s brought him up. You cup her cheek and she lays her hand on top of yours. You know she’s got a lot of trauma. 

“You think so?”

“I know it.” 

“Ok, so your brother, Natasha and Clit like me. Who else is in your life that you are hiding from your girlfriend?” You say, and she chuckles. Her face hurts from smiling this much. Like it has a lot recently because of you. 

“Well, I used to hang out with this guy Stephen. He’s a doctor, well surgeon now, so he’s pretty busy, but we email a lot. Bruce is getting his PHD, so he’s slammed, but he texts me pretty regularly. He’s upset with his boyfriend a lot.”

“Wow, you have smart friends.” You say, and she arches an eyebrow,

“You won’t think that when you meet them. Beside,s I have a way smarter girlfriend.”

“Then a PHD student, a surgeon, and a S.h.i.e.l.d agent?”

“You are waaaay smarter.” She says, and you don’t believe her, but her face proves she believes it. Wanda doesn’t lie to you. Even when she wishes she could because it would be easier in some moment. 

The dryer dings and you hop down. Wanda looks anxious for a moment, not wanting this date to end. You don’t see her worry and you speak. 

“So I’m thinking we grab dinner and then you read my paper, professor.”

Wanda instantly feels relief that the night isn’t over. She hops down and takes your laundry out of the hamper you are putting it in, and starts folding. 

“What are you doing, Maximoff?” You sa,y and she looks momentarily taken aback at you using her last name.

“Folding?”

“I think we have to be married for you to fold my underwear. You can’t just do that, like we haven’t been dating only three months.”

She looks confused at you. She wants to talk more about marriage, but changes her mind. 

“Who do you think folds your laundry at my apartment?”

“Oh my god, you so do. You throw my clothes in with yours, too. Oh my god, you do my laundry.”

“Yeah, I’m also in a lesbian relationship, so I put your bra on the delicate cycle. Not just throwing it in with jeans like an ape.” She says, and your mouth opens. She looks proud as she folds one of your sweatshirts with more precision than you’ve ever folded. She doesn’t stop at your shocked expression, grabbing a pair of your sweats. 

“That…is really hot.”

Wanda throws her head back and her curls bounce as she laughs at you. 

“My love, you’ve never been taken care of, and it shows.” She say,s and it’s light coming from her, but you realize that it’s really true. 

“Maybe, or maybe you just take care of me really well. Like better than anyone ever has.” You say and shut the door. You turn to load another load into the washer and move the wet clothes to the dryer. You pull out quarters and miss Wanda looking at you. Because she has more love for you than she thought she could have for anyone. After breaking her marriage with Vision and the loss of her family, her brother. She felt so lost and alone. But here you were, like a bolt of lightning into her dead heart. And now she felt like she was living, for maybe the first time ever. 

“I’m thinking Thai. But I know you didn’t like the place on 3rd, even though you say you didn’t mind it. You barley ate your drunken noodles. And I know you were hungry cuz we went on that hike. So don’t even say “that place you like.’ Because I know my girlfriend way better than that.” You say, and it’s so easy, and you don’t even think about it. 

Wanda looks at you still. She felt such warmth in her chest. You were now throwing around her new title with ease. Like she’d always owned it. And she realized she’d wanted your lips to say wife. And then she felt herself growing hot. So she coughed, and you looked at her. 

“What? Did you find gum in my clothes? That’s happened here before, and it ruined an awesome sweater that had a Jane Austen quote. It wrecked me.” You say throwing a laundry pod in the wash and cranking it to start. 

“You take really good care of me…too, just so you know,” Wanda says and she stops folding but looks down at your black jeans with new interest. You walk behind her and snake your arms around her waist. 

“Wanda?”

“Hmm?”

“You think I take good care of you?”

“You make my to-go coffee in the morning better than I do now. You cook for me, and you make sure I take my meds at night. You always check in when you know I’m sad. Or reaching out when you know I’ve gone dark and gloomy, so I haven’t texted. You always lift my spirits and make me laugh…I…no one’s ever cared for me like you.” She says, and you kiss her neck. She leans back into you, and you repeat kisses over her shoulder and up her throat. 

“I don’t want anyone else to.”

“To what?”

“To take care of you. I want to do it.” You say, and she turns and wraps her arms around your neck. 

“No other college girls have applied, so you have job security.” She jokes, and you laugh sarcastically. 

“I thought you didn’t date college girls.”

She pretends to think about it and you pinch her ass and she laughs. 

“Only one college girl.”

“Aye, woman.”

“All women.” She says and leans in and kisses you sucking your bottom lip in. You moan, and she pulls bac,k putting her hand over your mouth.

“Those noises are for me, not the laundromat!” She hisses at you. You lightly bite her hand, and she pulls back.

“Oh, please, the only guy in here is drunk. It’s not like we are being live streamed on pornhub.”

“Ok, slow down, American girl. Livestream? Pornhub? Gangbang?”

“Sometimes the language barrier is really funny and other times it’s hilarious.” 

Wanda glares at you but grabs your ass and squeezes. Making it clear she’s won… again.

“Lifestream is when you are giving a live, real-time feed onto the internet.”

She nods, and you continue. That was probably the most innocent explanation and you figured you’d build into the other ones.  

“Pornhub is a website with pornography videos.”

Her eyes zero in on you. 

“Do you watch porn on Pornhub.”

“I have.” You answer, not about to deny it. 

“Do you still?”

You shrug as if it’s nothing. 

“Why?”

“I don’t want you to.” She answers plainly, but her eyes are squinting at you. Her nose scrunched, and you laughed. 

“Are you being a prude? Because you made me squirt before. Hell you’ve tied me up and fucked my mouth with a dildo. Plus, the names you like in bed or call me in bed. I don’t think you have a leg to stand on here.”

“No, I’m not a prude. And plenty of women like being called Mommy in bed. I have no shame for what we do. I just don’t want my girlfriend masturbating to someone else.” She said the last part at a high decibel in her voice, and you realize you’ve hit a new nerve for her. 

“So you are a prude.” You say, and she glares deeper now.

“I don’t think this is a hard ask. I don’t masturbate to porn.”

“Do you masturbate?” You ask genuinely curious now.

“Besides, when I’m on the phone with you, no.” She admits looking over at the man, clearly passed out in the corner. Before looking back at you. 

“Before me?”

“You know I own a vibrator and some dildos,” Wanda says as if this line of questioning makes no sense. 

“I know I just am curious what you cum to.”

“I used to use my imagination. Now I am having so much sex, I don’t have time or the desire to masturbate. Not when it’s so much better when I’m straddling your face. Why would I want to use my vibrator alone?” Wanda says, unsure of why this doesn’t make sense to you. Her arms stay around your neck. 

“Hmm..”

“What?” She says a little too sharply.

“I think we should go to a kink event.”

“What?” She looks shocked at your answer.

“You might like it. Plus it’s always interesting.”

“Will you be clothed?”

“Yes, baby, I won’t let anyone else touch me. But you are a bit of a dominatrix, I think you’d like to see it. And if you don’t like porn then it’s an intresting way to watch.”

“I’m not much of a voyeur.” She says having learned the word from you. 

“You like watching me. But that’s not the point. If you don’t wanna go, we don’t have to. No pressure whatsoever. But I do think it would be interesting. On the conversation of porn, I won’t watch it if it makes you uncomfortable. I haven’t really masturbated much since we started dating. Maybe twice in the shower on my own, but it was all to thoughts of you.”

This seems to make Wanda feel better. 

“Do you mind that I’m…”

“Possessive? Jealous?” You insert the thoughts. 

“Dominant?” Wanda says even though all of those thoughts crossed her mind as well. 

“I like it all. I like that you put your hand on my ass when someone is staring at me at Starbucks. I like that you make me beg and call you Mommy in bed. I like that you ask me what I’m reading because you like picking out books for me.” You say and Wanda’s hands travel to your ass again.

 She likes to touch you. She, for the first time, is allowed to do PDA. Vision didn’t even like holding hands, so it’s a big shift. Wanda craves being able to touch you. So she wouldn’t be able to stop in public if she tried. The hand on your lower back through a crowd gives her a shot of a power high. She knows you are gorgeous, and you chose her. So she doesn’t keep her hands to herself ever. 

“You said you liked my book recommendations.” 

“I do. I even lie and say I haven’t read it just so I can re-read it and talk to you about it.”

“You lie!” She yells now. 

“Only about books. Only because I like it when we talk about them.” You admit, and she softens her gaze on you. 

“You are getting punished for that later.”

“I’m game. After we get pad Thai, cuz your baby needs food.” You break the contact and throw one of your Lacey thongs like a slingshot, and it hits her face. 

“Nice shot, kid.” The drunk man in the corner says, and you smirk at Wanda’s shock. His eyes were closed.

“Thanks, Ernie.” You say, and Wanda looks at you in horror. 

[pupyuj]

Omg Omg this has been in my mind for so long😮‍💨 Imagine G!p manager yujin x idol reader who's like obsessed with her (like sick in the head obsessed, she would get jealous and all mad when Yujin talks to someone other than her and she would do anything to please her manager) and Yujin who uses that to her advantage to get and do whatever she wants with reader 😵‍💫

lowkey was mad as hell writing this (meaning i got too into it UMMM) so if this sounds intense or like i went overboard that’s whysjfhficnsrhck 😭😭😭😭

[cw: cnc (implied), g!p yujin, good ol’ manipulation, unhealthy power dynamic, dare i say abuse of power, like yujin really sucks lmao.]

at first, yujin really wouldn’t know what to do with all the attention you were giving her and she would actually think you were pretty weird getting all chummy with her for no reason… until she starts to enjoy it all and get weird herself 😵‍💫 she finds it fascinating how jealous you would get over the tiniest things! a few examples would be: her eyes lingering on some other pretty idol for too long, she’s talking to the female staffs for too long, she’s getting along too well with the other managers, or she’s smiling while texting some of her friends that you don’t know about… all of it made you mad, and also made you look insane! but yujin fucking loved it.

all of that made it all too easy to wrap you around her finger 😋 eventually you were just so desperate to be the only girl in yujin’s heart that you quite literally did everything she wanted you to do 🥺 yujin would act friendly to you and make little ‘helpful’ comments about what you should wear during airport appearances or variety shows or content videos until even your personal fashion style has changed based on what you thought was what she wanted to see from you!

to everyone else you were just doing what your manager was suggesting but they would never guess that it was something a lot darker than that since yujin makes your dynamic look so sweet and wholesome to your fans 🫣 you keep sucking up to her, letting her practically dictate how you play your career until you finally get what you want which was… well, getting fucked in the backseat of yujin’s car that conveniently had its windows tinted 🫢

she said it had been a tiring day for her and you wanted to make it better so.. that’s how you ended up spreading your legs open for her while she just rams her big cock inside you 🥺 didn’t matter if it was your first time, or that she was too big, or that you already came so much and made a mess on the seats—it felt good more than it hurt so you allowed yujinnie to rut away at you until she finally came deep inside you and make the pain, the insults she threw at you, and the headache-inducing hair grabbing all worth it…

manager yujin-nim starts using you like you were some kind of sex doll from then on but??? you were really into it??? but of course you were!! bcs this was everything you wanted—to be touched by her, to be loved by her, to be fucked by her… it was perfect! 😍 she drags you away every time there’s a break during practice and everybody thinks she needs to discuss some things with you but nope, yujin’s got you moaning and whining inside a bathroom stall, your legs wrapped tightly around her waist while she’s fucking into you like a dog in heat 🫠🫠 she’d tell you to keep your voice down but why would she make this all less fun??

yujinnie encourages you to scream her name, to beg louder, to cry harder and you actually do it, simply bcs it was what she wanted and she gets a hell of a kick outta that! and she’s so drunk on power that she really does just fuck you whenever she wants! 😋 whether you’re ready for it or not, yujin will just take your arm, drag you to a secluded area, and relieve herself using you 🥰

it’ll cost you your precious career one day and you know that but… you’re way too in love with the sick bastard that is yujin to even care anymore 🫠

[discomfort-honey]

JJBA sex headcanons

all of these are out of order and for different parts- just stuff that popped into my head! im getting to all my asks dont worry! ive been real busy with family stuff haha. but now i have time for all my smutty asks, i cant wait!

warnings: Smut, bush talk, first times, smoking, edging, sub/ dom dynamics, fingering, hand jobs, piv sex, scent kinks, angry sex, gentle sex

can be read with for either sex but gn pronouns are used

bucciarati-

-doesn't care if you shave. they live in Italy, and people dont really shave over there, but ignoring that for a moment. he seems the type to never actually think about it. like, it never crosses his mind. so if you have a bush and it covers your ass/lips, he doesn't pay it any mind. on the other hand, if you do shave it off one day, hed definitely notice! its like a little gift for him. but he doesn't prefer it one way or the other, he just really enjoys the skin to skin contact.

-got really flustered and nervous during your fist time together. one of the only times in your relationship he gets nervous, and you cant get enough of it. if youre bold, tease him about it. he'll suck in a breath, and look away, placing a hand over his face. he'll mutter something about how "i just… you look so gorgeous, Tesoro… ive wanted to do this with you for so long…". if youre also the nervous type, he'll notice, and work to make you comfortable, but it doesn't stop him from burying his blushing face in your neck, holding you close and muttering about how "youre so gorgeous…. i want to hold you like this forever…". after your first time though, he gets significantly more confidant. if you talk about it, he'll say he doesn't know why… he's has sexual partners in the past, but youre his heart, so maybe thats why. what a romantic.

abbachio- -i think he'd prefer if you shaved your ass/ lips, but hes not gonna say anything about it. i think he looooves a bush, but he prefers the feeling of your entrance when its hairless. but its not like he dislikes it otherwise, and it definitely doesn't turn him off in any way. he still eats it like a man starved, so dont worry. if you dont shave at all, he takes his thumbs and spreads your lips/ass so he can fuck without the friction if hair. i think he also shaves, or at least trims. but dont worry, his bush isn't going anywhere <3

-smokes after sex. he doesn't smoke often, but always has one cig after sex. the smell has pavloved you into a horny state, so when you two are out with the gang, and he has his rare stress cig, it gets you going. youre pretty sure he knows, judging by the smirk on his face as his lips wrap around the cig, staining it with purple.

-likes to edge and tease himself. part of it comes from his internalized feelings of never being good enough for you, but even after you two healthily work through that, he still finds it really hot. he likes that you both have control in this situation. as you scratch down his back and he whispers the dirtiest things in your ear, he feels pre leaking out as you beg him to go harder, moaning about how only he can make you feel like this (something you've noticed he loves). after you cum, he leans closer, pressing his body into yours, and moans out a 'please, i need it, l-let me cum, please-' and he'll keep pleading until you say yes or no. basically, after you've cum, he gets pretty submissive.

jotaro-

-i feel like he prefers fingering/ handjobs (giving and receiving) more than oral. simply because he loves pressing his lips to yours as you cum, swallowing each others moans. another plus is you can do it to each other at the same time, and ever the impatient man, he likes that so you can quickly get to the main event. though, if you ask for head, he definitely wont deny you, he loves your taste. he reallllyyyyy likes doing 69, though.

mista-

-siigghhh. okay. i feel like he looovvvesss your smell. all the men do, but. he get off on it. he'll shove his face in your bush, your armpits, your neck, your chest, all to get a real good whiff. his hips rut against your ass while youre trying to do normal housework, you turn to him to tell him off, but the sight of his flushed face as he pouts at you to let him "fuck you, please, i need you so bad right now, baby"…. its pretty convincing.

-cant get enough of you in a skirt. doesn't matter what gender you are, he loves it! long or short, just the idea that youre almost bare, just your underwear between you and a gentle breeze, makes him go insane. if you have trouble feeling comfortable in skirts/ dresses for personal reasons, he'll wear one for you to make you feel more comfortable! he'll even wear it in public and threaten anyone who looks at him weird. but if he wears it for too long in public, he'll end up pulling you aside, embarrassed blush on his face as he leans into your ear and whispers "babe, this is driving me insane… you gotta help me out here!" as he takes your hand and lifts the skirt to reveal his erection. you can ask him why he chose to wear a thong with it, but he'll just brush you off with a blush on his face and continue begging you to 'help him out'.

-likes having fun while fucking. like, he's pretty silly with it. he wont ruin the mood, but while youre riding him, he'll grip your hips, and whistle like he's cat calling you. he likes a partner with a sense of humor, or at the very least someone who appreciates his humor.

-loves when you ride him!!!!! please hop on his lap and start kissing his neck. he'll moan, then laugh lowly and say some shit like "cant get enough, huh?'" hes a switch, so you can either A: pull on his hair and tell him to shut up, and he'll shut his mouth so fast and let you do what you want with him, or B: shyly nod, and mutter out how you need him, and he'll grip your hips and fuck you into next week.

jolyne-

-gets turned on really easily (kinda canon). like, brush the small of her back with your hand, shes folding. if she loves someone, everything about them gets her going.

-verse methinks. i feel like if she's in a lovey-dovey mood, she will absolutely want to be railed by your dick/strap and let you handle her however you need. but if youre feeling more submissive, she has no issue slipping into the dominant role, gripping you by the hair and pulling you towards her dripping pussy and ordering you to 'suck.' in that beautifully harsh tone.

kira-

-he is a creature of habit. he may accidentally fall into a routine with his partner, like… a sex schedule. he may not even realize that he initiates every Monday, Thursday, Friday, and Saturday. if you bring it up to him, he'll say "is there something wrong with a schedule?"…. hes trying. i promise… i mean, he tries so hard not to kill you! he huffs and asks "what do you expect from me?". tell him you want to at least try different things in the bedroom, rather than your usual. hes definitely willing to try for you.

-obviously, handjobs are like. the only thing he ever wants in the bedroom. if he ends up loving someone (murderers like him are incapable of that, but this is fictional, so we're just gonna pretend) he will try his very best to please them. if you beg for his cock, he'll fuck you into the mattress all night long. but when you ask what he wants…. well, the answer's always the same. "please, darling… let me have a taste…" but he's not talking about your pussy…. he'll beg to suck your pretty fingers while you jerk him off. never lasts long doing this.

ghiaccio-

-sighs loudly. i love this dork. rants while railing you. i just… he would grab your hips in a way thats definitely leaving bruises, pounding as fast as he can, sloppy, wet slaps sound through the room as he huffs, glasses foggy and slipping down his nose. all the while hes going on and on about something one of his team members do that pisses him off, or ranting about tourists or some shit. youre not entirely focused, honestly.

(part 2) joseph-

-i feel like he'd be all cocky, but when you met, he had very little experience. prolly not a virgin, but he doesn't really know what hes doing. so if you have a lot of experience, or at least more than him, its real easy to get him into a submissive role. he loves it though, if he had a tail youre sure itd be wagging behind him at 100 mph. but if you also dont have much experience, says smth like "dont worry babe, ill take care of you" and winks at you. hes a fumbling, big dumb mess. but just pat his head and tell him he's doing great and all that confidence is right back. also hes a very, very fast learner, and incredibly smart. you wont have to show him something more than once for him to get it.

polnareff-

-to be expected, but hes such a gentle lover. if its your first time together (whether its your first time ever or not), he will be constantly checking in, asking if everything is okay, if he can touch you here, if he can kiss you there, hes a yapper. its really sweet, and warms your heart, truly. but if you get annoyed with it, just tell him to shut up and he will. literally obeys your every order (how i like my men…) but if youre fine with it he still eventually gets more comfortable with it and stops asking so much.

-along that line, he doesn't stop talking, though. he is constantly telling you what hes thinking, how he feels, gripping your hips, chest, burying his face in your neck as he murmurs "ah, mon amour… please, you feel so good around me-" literal tears in his beautiful baby blues.

avdol-

-much like pol, hes a very gentle lover, however hes also not opposed to being a little more…. rough. if asked nicely. definitely not for your first time, but after that, if you give him that sweet pout he cant say no to and beg him to go harder…. well, who is he to deny his angel?

-hes kinda a tease. overall he gives you what you need, and want, but he always makes you ask for it (in a cheeky way). he's holding you gently in his lap, your arms wrapped around his neck as you tell him youre close… he simply tsks, and says "angel, i know you know how to ask nicely~". he doesn't do it everytime, and he treats you with the utmost respect, so when he does, it sends shivers of arousal through you. (yummy man)

narancia-

-sweet boy. tries to show off, and boasts about how good he is or something, but folds immediately. will be all like "of course i'll please you, cmon babe, who do you think youre talking to?" then as soon as you kiss him he's melting into you, whining and begging while struggling to unbutton your pants.

[spideystevie]

journalistic integrity

summary: putting yourself in the throes of danger for an interview with superman? what’s the worst that could happen!

word count: 2.6k

a/n: a little bit inspired by clois in the movie, sawry i couldn't help it. no actual movie spoilers though. fem!reader, mediocre action writing, a potential smooch at the end because it's what i do best. hope you enjoy <3

Fall might just be your favorite time of year in Metropolis. The leaves have changed, visions of burnt oranges and ruby reds, and the air has a certain smell to it that feels so distinctly like autumn. And on a sunny Saturday like today, the sunshine warms you enough from the crisp breeze that you’re fine wearing your favorite sweater without your coat. 

Though it’s your day off, work persists. You sit at an outdoor patio table at the local coffee shop with your notebook open. The side of your hand has smudges of ink from your favorite black gel pen you use to scribble notes on the outline for your next piece. 

Your thoughts drift from place to place, more often than not landing on daydreams of your boyfriend. Things with Clark are still pretty new. A newly budding blossom on a vine. Months in the making but only about a couple weeks confirmed. 

Clark keeps surprising you. He’s awfully funny, even more when you’re alone. He makes you dinner. He doesn’t think glasses suit him that well. He also hasn’t kissed you yet, despite the opportunity having arisen quite a few times. Always a quick peck on your cheek or temple instead. 

But you think the biggest surprise of all is that he’s Superman. Though thanks to your nosey intuition and gut instinct, you discovered this maybe a week before you made it official.

He wouldn’t help you get that coveted Superman feature interview when you were just friends but now that you know his not-so-little secret—and now that you’re his girlfriend—you think he’ll try harder. Even so, you’ve really made it your mission to get an interview from Clark. Or, well, Superman. 

You still weren’t used to it. 

You also weren’t used to the slight uptick in subtle flirting and lingering touches from him at work. It’s still so tender and new that you both have thought it best to keep it under wraps. Just for now. The two of you try to play coy but from the look Lois gave you as you passed by her desk yesterday, you know she knows.

The ground starts to shake, interrupting your daydreams and making your pen scratch across the page on its own accord. Not the end of the world but frustrating all the same. Your features twist in displeasure, a hmph escaping you louder than you’d like. 

When there’s been enough stillness for you to brush it off as a weird earthquake, the ground shakes again. A rather loud yet distant thud against the ground comes with it. The next one comes not too long after, this one sounding much closer and you’ve lived here long enough to know something’s off. 

Your pen clicks closed and you’re shoving your notebook into your shoulder bag when a dark shadow passes overhead, the sun disappearing and a cool shade taking its place. Without the warmth of the sun, a shiver spreads from your shoulders down to your toes and you’re wishing you brought your coat after all. 

A hum of chatter starts to grow around you, morphing quickly into hurried cries and screams. You look up and your jaw slackens, lips parting in a quiet intake of air. Whatever it is, it's huge. And…metallic? Your best guess is some kind of robotic imp as it looms over the city’s buildings.

You spring up from your chair, on the fraying edges of the panicked crowd. And while everyone’s attention is on the monstrous robot only a short distance away, your eyes are searching for him. You look up and catch a blur in the sky, red against blue, and you think this might just be the day you get that interview.

Call it journalistic instinct, human curiosity, or just a flare of pure insanity, you run towards the giant robot….thing. It’s not like you want to be in the fray but you think if you’re close enough to it, you’ll end up close enough to Superman once the threat is thwarted which means you’ll basically end up with that interview. 

Maybe not your best logic but you’re starting to get a little desperate. And also a little reckless. 

You’ve seen a lot of strange creatures and “dimensional imps” (as Clark once put it in one of his articles) in your time in the city but this might be the first you’ve ever seen up close. And it’s certainly the first time you’ve ever been as close to the line of action as you were today.

You expect to just hover around the edges, watching closely and taking the occasional picture on your phone for the Daily Planet. And that’s what you do, alternating between pictures and voice recording on your phone. The one day you don’t bring your audio recorder. 

Your eyes scan the sky and when they find him they’re stuck like glue. It’s almost mesmerizing watching him in action. You watch Superman shoot laser vision and problem solve in seconds all while keeping the innocent bystanders of Metropolis out of harm's way. 

You hadn’t expected to become one of said innocent bystanders needing to be swept out of harm’s way. Too caught up in snapping an incredible action shot, if you say so yourself, you don’t register how close this huge creation of sheet metal has gotten to you. 

You see the huge metallic hand swinging towards you through the camera lens first and as soon as it registers in your brain, you’re swept off your feet. Literally. You nearly scream, the sound that actually leaves you sounding like a strangled gasp for air. You’re not off your feet for long.

Your heart is racing, pounding against your ribcage so hard it aches. Superman places you down further away from the action and gives you a once over. You press your hand over your heart. His eyes lock on the motion. 

“Deep breaths. You alright?” He asks. You inhale for three and exhale for four. “That was a close call.”

“Yeah. I’m alright.” You nod, hand falling from your chest and resting at your side. He nods once.

He lingers, takes more time with you than he would any other civilian. You hope no one around notices. (They do.) Their hushed whispers at the sight of Superman are louder than they realize. 

You can’t quite place his expression. He’s not cross but he’s also not thrilled with you being so close in the line of danger. He’d rather be sweeping you off your feet in much safer, romantic circumstances. You must look a little sheepish because his face softens and he takes a step towards you and squeezes your shoulder. Gentle, reassuring. 

“Be more careful next time, sweetheart,” he says and then he’s shooting up into the air with a flash of red. The wind from it blows your hair back and makes goosebumps raise on your arms beneath your sleeves. A little bit in awe, a confused sweetheart?! from the crowd makes you snap back into place. 

God you can already imagine Cat’s gossip column bit about this when she finds out.

You traipse back towards the scene, if only to get away from the curious crowd and their curious eyes. Plus, he never told you to stay put. You keep a further distance this time, still.

It’s not long until help arrives and you’re watching Mr. Terrific launch something spherical inside a hole Superman created. There’s a sickeningly loud crunch that reverberates and then a drone as the power shuts down. The robot is a blinding gleam of silver when it falls forward mid-step, powered off for good.

It stumbles into a freefall and there’s a sound of crushing metal as Superman stops it before it can crash to the ground. The crowd surges towards the heroes of the day as they come to the ground, cheers rising up. Doesn’t matter that it’s threat number…you don’t even know, the gratitude is always displayed the same.

You stay further behind, eyes falling on the broken street and bits of rubble scattered about instead. It’ll take a bit to clean up like it always does. You’re too lost in thought to hear him when he lands behind you. In your defense, he’s always been a little quiet. 

A call of your last name in that familiar tone jolts you. You whip around, eyes landing on the large emblem across his chest before they blink up to meet his gaze. 

“I wanted to make sure you were okay again, after…all that,” he says, tone a little formal. You nod, a little speechless. Clar-Superman looks at you with a gentle smile, waiting for your response.

The air feels like it’s been punched out of you a bit. You’re glaringly aware of the amount of eyes on you. The word sweetheart gets thrown around again in hushed whispers. You can only imagine what’s going on inside their heads.

It’s a little hard to believe that the man standing in front of you is also Clark Kent but then your eye catches on the lone curl that hangs over his forehead and you think, there he is. 

“Oh! Superman!” your voice is far too breathy and you clear your throat with a nod, playing it off with a laugh that sounds a little nervous but he finds endearing. “Yeah, yes! All good…”

Your hands find their way into your pockets. The rest of what you want to say hovers in the air. Like he can sense it, his eyebrow quirks just the slightest like an invitation. Go on, it seems to say. 

“Would you be open to an interview for the Daily Planet?” you don’t so much as ask the question but more so, blurt it. The words blur together with how fast you push it out but he understands you all the same. 

“I’d be glad to,” he says with a definitive nod and an easy, confident smile. You beam. 

“Great! Uh..” you trail off, eyes scanning for the best place to conduct such a thing. Your mouth keeps moving like it’s not attached to your brain. “Would need to find somewhere private. For, uh, journalistic integrity of course.”

You’re once again reminded of the crowd of people that lingers around you. You need privacy for the interview, of course, but you’re certain you won’t be able to resist planting one on him the second you’re alone. And heaven knows the prying eyes of the crowd can’t witness that. His smile turns into a grin. 

“Of course.” His eyes scan the crowd this time. Most seem to take a hint and go on their way. As the crowd thins to a few stragglers, he continues. “How about over here?”

You follow the nod of his head to a dead end path between buildings. There’s bits of rubble littering the ground but it's otherwise untouched. You look at him, eyes scanning over his face and stall again on that one lone curl.

“Over here is perfect,” you say but you stay stuck in place. A glimmer of amusement passes over his face. “Oh! Right–uh, right this way.”

He follows behind you with his hands clasped behind his back but he’s close enough that you can feel the heat radiating off of him. You walk almost all the way to the dead end wall and find a hidden nook you didn’t know was there but he seemed to. Probably discovered many suit quick changes ago. 

You side step inside of it then turn on your heel to face him. He’s closer than you expected and you stumble, his hands coming to steady you on your shoulders. You swallow, eyes blinking up at him and that damn curl you’d like to wind around your finger.

You can feel his fingers flex over the cotton of your sweater, grip gentle but overwhelmingly there even though you’ve steadied. His eyes flicker across your face as he seems to consider something. Then, his hands fall back to his sides.

“Are you afraid of heights?” His voice is a low hum and you pinch the inside of your wrist to try and get your bearings. 

Puzzle pieces click together in your mind. You shake your head just a smidge. “No. No, I don’t mind them.”

He glances outside the alcove the two of you tucked behind. Then, so fast you could blink and miss it if you were a passerby, he scoops you up and jets into the air. 

For the second time that day, you’re cradled in his arms and whisked away to a second location. A surprised yelp escapes you, your arms coming to wrap right around his neck and your face tucking itself against the fabric of his suit. 

The wind whips against your face for a handful of seconds. Your stomach feels like it’s gone on one of those surprise drop rides at an amusement park. You squeeze your eyes shut, trying to fight off a strangled gasp and lose. But as fast as you were swept off the ground, the air settles and you realize you’re back on solid ground. 

His chest rumbles with a laugh and your face peeks out slightly to find yourself on a rooftop. He sets you on your feet carefully and you drop your arms from his neck, tucking your hair behind your ears and taking a step back. The view from up this high is incredible, your mouth slightly agape at the sight.

“I thought you said you didn’t mind heights.” 

Your gaze shifts to him, arms crossed across his chest and smile more fond and endearing now that it’s just the two of you. He’s more Clark now than Superman and you can’t fight the smile that rounds your cheeks.

You all but throw yourself at him, arms wrapping back around his neck and your eager mouth pressing against his. He doesn’t stumble at the force of you, just lets out a surprised umph! and steadies you with his arms strong around your waist. 

His lips are pliable against yours and your hands feel greedy as they shift against the sides of his neck, down to his chest where you can feel his heartbeat—you linger there for a moment—and then up to his cheeks. 

You’ve imagined this scenario playing out countless ways, your favorite daydream to think up in the lulls at work. But this is better than anything you could dream up. It’s gentle, and sweet, and sincere, and something else entirely that you’re not sure how to describe.

His nose presses against your cheek when he tilts his head to the other side. It’s an equal push and pull. He gives and you take, head flowing backwards a tad and then pushing forward slightly like a chase whenever he breaks for the briefest of moments.

You can feel his smile start to grow, lips pressed against yours and it's contagious. The corners of your lips twitch into their own giddy grin, hands pressing to his cheeks to keep him close to you. Your thumb finds a home pressed into his dimple. 

“I don’t think this goes along with the whole journalistic integrity thing,” he muses as he pulls back, lips brushing against yours that chased his as he speaks. His smile hasn’t dissipated in the slightest. 

You lean back in his hold only just, an airy laugh pushing out of you as your eyes dance across his features. His cheeks have dusted pink. You love it. 

“Stop talking,” you say, leaning back in. 

He acquiesces with a soft yes ma’am against your waiting mouth. His lips mold with yours in earnest once again and a blossoming heat warms you from your head to your toes. 

It’s better than any warmth you’d get from the sun.

⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂⠁⠁⠂⠄⠄⠂ ⠂⠄⠄⠂☆

tagging ppl who might be interested hehehe: @stevebabey @brettsgoldstein @katsu28 @almightyellie

[maxinesgun]

taste of you ୧⋆ ˚｡⋆

shane mccutcheon x fem!reader

nsfw, fingering (r!receiving), oral (r!receiving), edging, overstim, dirty talk, established relationship, cursing, slightly mean!shane, reader is a corporate girl. wc 1.4k ᡣ𐭩

a/n: this took me wayy too long to finish, but i've been in a bit of a slump so ofc i had to write a short n sweet shane smut!! need her to edge me and mock me abt it tbh ugh

“I’m sorry, did you want something?” Shane asked in mock-innocence, her brows drawn together in a question as she gazed down at you.

You were sprawled against the pillows of the couch beneath her, your hands knotted in the front of her shirt, preventing her from getting off of you. A whiny, frustrated sound left you, and you hated how desperate you sounded, how helpless.

Shane, however, was enjoying it. She loved seeing the flush on your cheeks, the way you dissolved into a needy mess for her beneath her touch. She was settled between your spread thighs, her hand buried beneath the hem of your skirt as she traced slow, teasing circles over your aching clit. It was cruel, was what it was—giving you just enough to stir the heat coiling in your stomach, but holding back what you really needed.

“Don’t be like this,” you half-whined, half-panted, looking up at her with a pout. “You’re driving me crazy.” You tried to give her a pleading look through your lashes, but got distracted by the way her lips pulled up in a slow grin, and now you were staring at her mouth, picturing it doing other things.

“Mm. Should’ve thought about that this morning,” she admonished in a low voice, still with that mocking edge. “When you decided to be such a tease.” Her fingers dipped down into your slick heat, teasing your entrance briefly before moving back up to your clit. You were so wet that it was audible.

“You enjoyed that, didn’t you? Knew I’d be thinking about this pretty cunt all day.” Her fingers pressed into you a bit harder, her movements speeding up. You arched into it, a soft moan falling from your lips involuntarily as you lapped up the increased stimulation. “And then you had to go and wear this fucking skirt,” she groaned, glancing down at the black pencil skirt that was pushed up around your thighs. “Not cool.”

“I told you,” you breathed, pushing your hips into her hand, “I was going to be late. I had an important… mmph… meeting.” It was getting difficult to focus on words with the way she was working you. Already, that coil of heat was growing stronger, making your breaths falter. With the amount of time Shane had been inching you closer to the brink just to bring you down from it again, it didn’t take much.

She hummed low in her throat, nodding. The expression on her face was one of pure sarcasm. “Well, you know, I think I actually have somewhere to be…”

You let out a breathless laugh mixed with a groan as you panted for breath, your grip on her tshirt tightening just in case. “Not funny,” you moaned shakily.

“I’m not laughing,” she said simply, her fingers working you harder, faster. The wall of heat was building quickly now, its intensity so delicious that you were letting out all of the little sounds that Shane loved, your eyes shut in pleasure. You didn’t have enough of a grip on yourself to hold them back—with each expert stroke she drew out another breathy moan from your lips, no longer hushed but rising in volume.

When your eyes fluttered open for a moment, you saw the amusement on her face, a self-satisfied smirk on her lips as she watched you unravel. “Aw, does that feel good, baby?” Her voice was soft, coaxing, the sound of it only driving you higher as you let out a whimper. “Are you gonna come for me?”

Your head was tilting back, your hips beginning to jerk erratically as that wave rose higher, higher… “Yes, yes, fuck, yes—” you gasped. So close. So, so close—

—and suddenly her touch was gone.

“Shane,” you practically cried out in frustration, the high slipping out of your reach yet again. Your hips tried to thrust forward, seeking the friction that had been jerked away from you, but her own thighs were pinning yours in place, keeping them from moving.

She leaned in closer until your faces were inches apart. Her eyes drifted down to your mouth, lingering there for a few moments before lifting back up to your eyes. “Anything you want to say?”

“I’m sorry,” you panted, voice tight with need. You were almost tempted to reach a hand down to finish yourself off, but you knew Shane wouldn’t allow it. “It was bad. Mph… very, very bad.”

A slow grin curled over her lips, and she placed a few small kisses along the corner of your jaw, her teeth nipping at your skin. “There, that wasn’t so hard, was it?” she mumbled by your ear. As her hands hovered around your waist, taking their time bunching your skirt up higher, she drew back slightly, so close but still just out of reach. “What do you want?” she asked, her voice still a low rumble.

“Your mouth—fuck, please,” you breathed, far too desperate and wound up to play at your usual coyness.

She let out a low snicker, pleased by your eagerness as she began tugging your tights down your thighs. “Oh, yeah? You’re lucky I’m feeling generous.”

After what felt like an eternity, Shane had pushed your tights down around your calves, just enough to give her full access to you as she kneeled before your open thighs. She kissed a slow trail along the inside of your thigh, making you shudder with anticipation before her lips finally reached your aching heat, pressing an open-mouthed kiss there.

You gasped, a bolt of pleasure shooting through your core as her tongue brushed against your sensitive clit. Instinctively, your hands went to bury themselves in her hair, using her for purchase as she began lapping at you expertly, her tongue running along your slit. Shane glanced up at you through her lashes with a wicked smirk, watching you with darkened eyes as she worked you with her mouth. You could only imagine what you looked like right now—face flushed, chest heaving, one leg hooked over the back of the couch, splayed open for her—and found that the mental image was just as much of a turn on for you as it was for her.

Well, maybe not quite as much.

You breathed a curse, your mouth dropped open in ecstasy as she licked and sucked at you eagerly, relentlessly, as if making up for all the torturous teasing she’d put you through. She held your thighs open, keeping your hips from thrusting forward into her face as they trembled in her grasp, the heat within you mounting. The pleasure almost became unbearable when her lips moved directly over your clit, wrenching a louder moan out of you.

“Oh my god,” you whined, eyes squeezing shut. “Fuck, like that.” Her lips were closed around your bud, the pressure of her sucking and her tongue stroking it in quick motions almost overstimulating. Your hands moved to grip the couch cushions beneath you as you drew closer.

Shane hummed against you, and the sound vibrated against your core in a way that made your toes curl. Your body was tensing with the rising pleasure tugging at your abdomen, and as if she sensed it, she suddenly slid two fingers inside you, pumping them into you and curling them against your walls rapidly as she continued her relentless ministrations to your clit.

It was all so good, too good, and you weren’t even aware of the words you were crying out moments before you came. The next moment, you were coming undone, your hips jerking and your voice rising to a breathy cry as an almost explosive wave of pleasure crashed over you.

When the height of it had subsided, you slumped back into the pillows, your body going limp with a heavy relaxation. Exhaustion stole over you, and you drew in a deep breath as your breathing began to slow.

Shane was leaning back, watching you as she wiped her glistening mouth with the back of her hand. She looked like the cat who’d got the cream. And you supposed she had… literally.

“Don’t look at me like that,” you said a bit breathlessly, a grin tugging at your lips despite yourself. Your head dropped back against the pillow, your lids feeling heavy. It would be at least an hour before you moved from this spot.

Shane stood, bracing a knee against the couch as she leaned over you again. She tugged your tights back up your legs and pulled your skirt back down around your thighs haphazardly. The smile she shot you was both amused and fond. “Now we’re even.”

[jes3icasriley]

Hey it's fine if its not your thing but if you could do an ellie x reader where the reader does martial arts and ellie thinks its the most attractive thing ever i think I'd die

thanks for the request!! I apologize for the long wait, finals have been HELL :(

Black Belt, Red face

synopsis: Ellie unwillingly joins a summer martial arts class with her two best friends, Dina and Jesse, expecting nothing but embarrassment and getting her ass kicked—until she meets you, a kind and skilled student who completely throws her off her game. Total smitten and seriously awkward. She fumbles through stance and forms under your patient guidance, developing a major crush in the process. With every stumble and awkward sentence, she falls a litter harder, and decides… maybe martial arts isn’t so bad after all?

𐙚 Paring: Loser!Ellie Williams x Fem reader (no use of y/n)

𐙚 A/N: since finals are FINALLYYYY over (YIPEE) im gonna be writing a lot more! Expect loads of cute fluff in the next couple of days :3 hope you guys enjoy!

Ellie didn’t even want to be here.

Joining some random martial arts class for the summer when she could be at home, reading a comic? Yeah, that was not on her to-do list or really anything she was looking forward to. But Jesse and Dina had looked way too excited, and apparently they were doing this “new hobbies challenge” thing together. So no here she was— sweating her butt off, uncomfortable, and wildly underqualified—standing barefoot on a mat in a community rec center that smelled like rubber and sweat.

“Im gonna die,” she whispered.

“Oh you’ll be fine,” Dina whispered back, grinning like this was the funniest thing in the world.

Jesse clapped her on the back. “Yeah, and if you’re lucky, maybe the instructor will go easy on you.”

That’s when you walked in.

Ellie froze.

You weren’t the instructor, but you moved like one—confident, calm, focused one. You bowed to the front of the room, then turned and smiled at the group, you voice friendly and welcoming as you offered help to anyone new.

Meanwhile Ellie? Ellie forgot how to breathe!

“Oh no,” she mumbled under her breath. “Im gonna die in a new way.”

It wasn’t just that you were good. It was the way you carried yourself, how patient you were with others, the way your eyes crinkled when you smiled. And when you approached her—Ellie, the human disaster, she nearly died.

“Hey! You’re new, right? Need any help with the stances?”

Ellie blinked at you, “I—I—uh, yeah, my feet are… doing something?”

Smooth. Real smooth, Ellie.

But you just laughed, kind and easy. “No worries. Here, let me show you.”

You gently adjusted her stance, explaining the form in a way that actually made sense. Ellie couldn’t focus on anything except the fact that you were standing very close and being very nice and smelling like… soap and sunshine? Was that a thing? That was probably a thing.

“Like this,” you said, demonstrating a block. “Then twist your hips, like this—no, not that much, you’re gonna throw yourself off balance.”

Ellie followed your lead with the clumsiness of a baby deer. Her arms flailed, her foot slipped, and she nearly fell on her ass—until your hand gently caught her elbow.

“Whoa, careful there!”

Ellie wanted to die.

“I swear I’m usually more coordinated than this,” she blurted. “I mean—not like, graceful, or anything—but I can, like… walk. And stuff.”

You laughed again, and Ellie swore it was the nicest sound in the universe.

“You’re doing great,” you said, smiling like you meant it. “Everyone starts somewhere.”

Ellie nodded, face burning. “Cool. Yeah. Somewhere. That’s me.”

The rest of the class passed in a blur of half-remembered movements and sneaky glances. Every time you encouraged her, or gave her a thumbs-up from across the room, Ellie felt like she was ascending into another dimension.

After class, when people were rolling up their mats and grabbing water, you approached her again.

“You coming back next week?”

Ellie swallowed, heart in her throat. “Yeah. Yeah, definitely. I, uh… I really like learning. And sweating. And… falling.”

You grinned. “Good. I’ll save you a spot next to me.”

Ellie nodded, trying not to short-circuit.

As you walked away, Jesse and Dina appeared behind her.

Dina smirked. “Well that was painful to watch.”

Jesse laughed. “I think you bowed to her twice, dude.”

Ellie just grinned, hopelessly smitten. “Shut up. I’m joining martial arts forever.”

[truly-a-snitch]

reader who likes to bite people. I bite people. I wanna bite Dazai. I wanna bite Ranpo.

real nonnie. sorry this is a million years late i was depressed. enjoy your boys

---

Dazai and Ranpo w/ an S/O that bites

Dazai

i think dazai isnt necessarily the type to bite back but he certainly isnt DISCOURAGING it

like hell play along and go "wow do i taste good" or very dramatically put a hand to his forehead and go "nooo youve eaten me... now im dying... blehhhh"

one thing he likes to do is let you rest your head in his lap while hes watching tv or something and you can gnaw on his hand/fingers

he makes jokes about it. if other people see hell go like "haha yeah thats what the bandages are actually for" because hes lame like that

i think hes used to it tbh. between chuuya and atsushi i think hes been bitten his fair share of times so it isnt particularly NEW for him. hes not questioning it at least

sometimes he uses it as an excuse why hes not working. like kunikida will grill him about it and hell just be like "i cant my s/o bit me"

keeps asking you to bite him harder ?? and hes kinda markiplier pilled about it where hes insisting he just wants to see how much his body can take and that it is most certainly not masochism

honestly i could see him getting a bite mark tattoo. like specifically of your teeth print. but itd take him a LONG time to come around to that idea bc of his aversion to pain

i think hes a big like. teeth/bone guy. ykwim. like the kind of guy who collects animal bones and teeth he finds. sorry that was an unrelated thought i had

if you had a bad day hes 100% just holding his arm out so you can bite him btw

Ranpo

bites back 100%

this man has the strongest oral fixation ive ever seen and you expect him NOT to be a biter ?? no such luck

hes gnawing on your cheek when he wants attention. when you start doing that sort of thing back hes ecstatic

BIG sensory seeker !! even if its pain !! (pain stimmers unite btw) hes for sure chewing on you everywhere he can feasibly reach

you dont even have to talk him into a bitemark tattoo btw he probably suggests it tbh

its a game for u two. you guys could kiss and then if you bite him he has to bite you back and suddenly you guys have been chewing on each other for like 10 minutes and hulu is like "are you still watching white lotus"

shows off hickies and other bite-shaped bruises as badges of honor and 100% does the like. "shouldve seen the other guy" thing

he doesnt really bite hard necessarily (unless you specifically tell him he can) but he does bite a LOT. like way more than you do

to him biting is just How You Show Love because hes always done it with fukuzawa and his friends at the agency, so it makes sense to bite you as well, but the fact that you bite back does make him a bit flustered bc like. the only person to bite back was atsushi and that was an accident because he startled atsushi

probably also gets you candy in case you need to sate your oral fixation in other ways