#static slide with a floor

[swan2swan]

OKAY, ANIMATORS.

[blueberrisdove-sideblog]

ໃ𑄺. GOOEY C☆CK 𝒻𝓉．𝓋ℯ𝓃ℴ𝓂 𝒸𝒶𝓁ℯ𝒷.

✧ tws : nsfw/smut, fem!reader, multiple of rounds, tentacles, implied dubcon, creampie, spanking, nipple play, monster fūcking, petnames (pipsqueak, baby, etc.), caleb calls himself gege once, spanking, cōckwarming, doggy style and body worship.

✧ synopsis : You always knew something was off about Caleb his eyes bright in the dark, his touch too hot to be normal. After a mission goes wrong and you’re stuck alone with him, the truth comes out. He’s not just Caleb.Something inside him is possessive and starving. You try to escape, but his tentacles wrap around your waist, holding you tight as he finally shows you what he really is. “Don’t be scared,” he says. “He just wants what I want…”

The air inside the ruin was too still. Too quiet. You should’ve known something was wrong the second the scanner shorted out, static hissing into your earpiece before dying completely. You and Caleb were separated from the others, but he didn’t seem worried—just stared ahead, purple eyes glinting in the dark, too calm for comfort.

“Caleb…?” you whispered, clutching your comm. “This place gives me the creeps…”

He didn’t answer right away. Just tilted his head, lips twitching in a way that wasn’t entirely his.

“Aw, don’t tell me you’re scared,” he murmured, voice lower, deeper than usual. Then he looked back at you, eyes narrowing, and for a split second, something moved under his skin. Black tendrils rippled up his neck before disappearing.

Your heart jumped. “C-Caleb—what the hell was that?!”

“...Told you not to follow me this deep,” he muttered. “Should’ve known you’d stick to me like a needy little pipsqueak.”

Your cheeks burned. “You’re hiding something. I’m not stupid.”

“No,” he chuckled darkly, stepping toward you. “But you are reckless.” Another step. “And now that you’re here, well…” His voice dropped an octave. “We don’t see a reason to let you go.”

Something lashed out—fast. Slick, inky black. A tentacle coiled around your wrist before you could scream.

“Caleb!” you gasped, stumbling back. “Let me go—what the fuck is that?!”

But Caleb was changing. His pupils stretched into slits, claws forming where fingers had been. More tentacles slid free from his back, writhing like they had a mind of their own. And still—still—he looked at you like you were the most precious thing in the universe.

“Shh,” he said softly, reaching out. His clawed fingers tucked your hair behind your ear. “It’s still me, pipsqueak. Still your gege. But… I’m not alone anymore. And he’s just as obsessed with you as I am.”

A low, alien growl rippled from his chest—and then the other voice came.

“So soft�� so tiny… we could break you…”

Your legs buckled.

Caleb caught you effortlessly. Smiling. Gentle. Possessive.

“Don’t worry,” he purred. “We won’t hurt you, baby. Not unless you beg us to.”

The tentacles didn’t pull hard. Just enough to guide you. To show you he could. Caleb’s breath warmed your ear as one slick appendage coiled around your waist, sliding beneath your jacket, tracing your bare skin with a teasing, wet touch.

“Such a pretty little pipsqueak,” he whispered, voice trembling between his own and the growl of something deeper—darker. “You don’t even know what you do to me…”

His clawed hands cupped your face gently. Reverently. The monster inside might’ve had a mouth, but Caleb had a heart, and both were laser-focused on you.

You should’ve been afraid.

Instead… you throbbed.

“C-Caleb,” you breathed, thighs clenching. “You’ve been hiding this from me?”

“Didn’t want to scare you,” he murmured, kissing your temple. “Didn’t think you could handle how badly I wanted to breed you.”

The words hit like a thunderclap. You whimpered, body trembling as another tentacle slid between your legs—pressing against your clothed heat, circling it slowly.

“So warm…” the parasite hissed. “Let us in.”

You didn’t even fight it.

Your clothes were shredded by claws and tendrils in seconds, left in tatters on the cold stone floor as Caleb laid you down gently, hungrily, like you were a gift he’d been starving for.

His mouth found your breasts first—hot and eager, tongue flicking across your nipples as his hand spanked your ass, hard enough to make you moan.

“Caleb!” you gasped, back arching. “F-fuck—!”

“That’s it,” he growled, licking a swollen bud before sucking it between his lips. “Say it again. Let me hear how needy my little pipsqueak is.”

“Caleb, please,” you whimpered. “Need you inside—need it so bad—”

You didn’t have to beg long. One thick tentacle curled around your ankle, spreading your legs wide as Caleb knelt between them. His cock—larger now, veined and flushed—throbbed, slick with dark fluid and twitching at the sight of your soaked cunt.

“You’re already dripping,” he rasped. “You want it raw, baby? Want me to stuff you full until it leaks out?”

“Y-Yes—yes, please—”

He didn’t just slide in—he invaded you. One long, slow thrust that left you breathless, stretched, filled to the brim as your eyes rolled back and your hips lifted to meet him.

“Fucking tight,” Caleb hissed, gripping your waist as his hips slammed into you, again and again. “This pussy was made for me.”

“Us,” the parasite snarled. “Breed her. Fill her. Use her.”

His thrusts grew savage—deep, precise, obsessed. Your slick echoed off the ruin’s walls, your cries sharp and sweet as your gege took you like an animal.

Spanking your ass with each slap of his hips.

Mouth on your nipples.

Tentacles everywhere—teasing, wrapping, stroking.

You came fast—shaking, screaming, clenching around his cock as he growled in your ear, praising you through clenched teeth.

“Good girl… fuck… such a perfect little pipsqueak. Let it milk me, baby, that’s it—”

He didn’t pull out. Didn’t even try.

Caleb came with a low roar, cock buried deep, thick cum flooding your womb as your legs trembled. One tentacle held you open, letting it drip out slowly, making you squirm as he leaned down to lick your lips.

“I’m not done,” he growled, eyes glowing. “I told you. We want more.”

Round two came before you could speak—Caleb flipping you onto your hands and knees, spanking you again, harder this time.

“You love doggy, don’t you?” he growled. “Letting gege fuck you like the little slut you are…”

You screamed when he pushed back in—so much deeper this way, stretching you wider, one hand fisted in your hair while the other worshipped your body, tracing your curves, massaging your sore, red ass.

“You look so fucking pretty like this,” he whispered. “Used. Open. Mine.”

“All ours.”

Tentacles wrapped around your tits, squeezing, twisting your nipples while Caleb pounded into you from behind—slamming his hips against your ass until you couldn’t breathe, couldn’t think, couldn’t do anything but cum again.

He didn’t stop.

Three times. Four. He kept going until your pussy was sloppy, filled with so much cum you could feel it dripping down your thighs. Until your legs gave out and you collapsed, shaking, drooling, dumb from pleasure.

And even then… he stayed inside.

Wrapped around you. Holding you. Kissing your shoulders while his cock stayed hard, still twitching.

“You’re gonna cockwarm gege now, pipsqueak,” he whispered sweetly. “Let me feel how warm you are while I take care of you. You were so good…”

You nodded weakly, face buried in your arms, body broken but blissed out.

“Y-your turn next time…” you slurred.

He chuckled darkly, hugging you tighter as another tentacle stroked your cheek lovingly.

“Oh, baby…”

“There is no next time. We’re just getting started.”

Your legs were shaking. Muscles limp. Your cunt still full and stuffed with your gege’s thick cock, twitching deep inside you like it had no intention of leaving.

But even as you whimpered, half-conscious from the last orgasm, Caleb’s hands never stopped moving.

They worshipped. Explored. One palm sliding down your belly, spreading the warmth of your overstretched womb, the other dragging along your thigh, where his cum had trickled down and painted your skin with messy, sticky lines.

“So full…” the parasite hissed approvingly. “Keep her like this. Breed her again. Let her feel us always.”

“Mm, you hear that, pipsqueak?” Caleb murmured, mouth brushing your ear as his hips rolled slowly. “You’re gonna be so stuffed you won’t know where I end and he begins.”

You whimpered, twitching as he slid out just an inch—then slammed back in.

“N-Ngh!—Caleb!”

“Oh, you’re still sensitive, huh?” he cooed mockingly, voice thick with hunger. “That’s too bad. I wanna see you cry this time.”

His hips started moving again—slow and deep, pressing right into the swollen spot that made your vision spark. Tentacles snaked around your thighs to spread you wider, one wrapping lazily around your throat, not choking—just reminding you who owned you now.

“You’re taking it so well,” he growled. “So dumb and full of cock. Just how I like you.”

Your mouth was hanging open, drool on your chin, breasts bouncing as his cock pounded into your soaked hole again—again—again—and his tentacles twisted your nipples, tugging, pulling, flicking them until you were crying from the stimulation.

“C-can’t—Caleb, I can’t—!”

“Yes you can,” he snarled. “You’re my good little cocksleeve, remember? You said so yourself.”

“She belongs to us now.”

“Breed her again. Break her. Mark her inside.”

He spanked you hard—twice—three times, watching your ass jiggle from the force before grabbing both cheeks and spreading them to watch his cock disappear inside you, glistening with your slick and cum.

You came again. Didn’t even realize you had until your body locked up and your vision went white, cunt spasming around him so tight he moaned through his teeth.

“F-fuck—fuck, baby, gonna cum again—”

He slammed in deep—one final thrust—and flooded you all over again. You felt it hot and thick, spurting into your womb as your whole body trembled, clenching down, milking every drop.

But he didn’t pull out.

Didn’t even slow down.

“Caleb—please—too much—” you sobbed, legs kicking weakly as he kept thrusting, slow and heavy.

“Shh,” he whispered, kissing your back. “You said you wanted it all, didn’t you?”

His tentacles wrapped around your waist and pulled you back into a new position—straddling his lap now, his cock still inside, his arms wrapped around you from behind while his mouth suckled on your bruised, sensitive nipples.

“Now you’re gonna ride me,” he growled. “Be a good girl. Bounce on gege’s cock like it’s the only thing keeping your brain from melting.”

Your body obeyed before your brain could even catch up—hips rolling, ass bouncing, cunt squelching with every desperate grind down onto him. You didn’t even care if it hurt anymore. You just needed to feel full.

Needed him.

Needed them.

“Good girl… just like that…”

“You were made for us.”

You were cumming again. Didn’t even say anything—just sobbed and clung to his arms, drool slipping down your chin as your pussy clamped down again.

And then he stopped moving.

Just held you there. Cockwarming you like a living plug, stroking your hair while your body twitched helplessly in his lap.

“You’re gonna fall asleep with my cock inside you tonight,” Caleb whispered against your neck. “And when you wake up…”

He bit down lightly on your skin—then licked the mark.

“…we’re gonna do it all over again.”

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[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

Home Is Where The Heart Is

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: Wanting to feel more included Bob decides to help on a mission but in efforts to protect you he injures himself leaving him with amnesia. Your boyfriend not remembering isn’t the biggest problem because he’s always going to find you again, even in a hundred lifetimes.

WC: 5.9K

⸻

The team had been crouched in that half-collapsed factory for what felt like days, waiting on a deal that intel swore would be “low-risk.” Off-grid. Lo-fi. Not worth a full Avengers pull.

Bob had practically begged to come.

“I’ll carry gear, patch wounds, whatever you need. I just- please- I need to feel useful.”he’d told Valentina.

She rolled her eyes but nodded. “Don’t get in the way, Goldilocks.”

So now, with dusk bleeding into night, Bob was in medic-mode. His hair was pushed back, sleeves rolled to his elbows as he passed out water, adjusted bandages, and murmured encouragements. His eye, however, never strayed too far from Y/N.

His girl. His light in all the noise. She’d joined him on this mission reluctantly, her usual grace exchanged for tension in her jaw. She didn’t trust the “low-risk” label and she had good instincts.

She was halfway up the ramp to the team’s transport jet, ready to head home with no sign of enemy lines for days. Ava right behind her, when it happened.

The building cracked.

A sound like the world being split open echoed across the premise. The kind no one expected. The kind Valentina explicitly said wouldn’t happen.

“AMBUSH!” John screamed, diving behind a shipping container.

Yelena flipped backward, drawing her pistol mid-air. “I KNEW THIS FELT WRONG!”

Bob didn’t think.

Didn’t hesitate.

His eyes scanned for Y/N and found her on the ramp, instinctively moving to cover Ava behind her. But she was exposed. Too exposed. A chunk of the building’s upper ledge shuddered, then gave way, right above her.

“Y/N!”

Bob was already sprinting, shoving through smoke and static. His boots hit the ramp just as the slab of concrete dropped.

Time slowed.

He threw himself forward, arms outstretched, not to push her, but to shield her.

He caught her eyes. Hers widened.

“BOB-!”

And then-

CRASH.

The slab connected with his back, hard. The force sent him flying into the side of the jet, head colliding with the reinforced wall. A wet, dull hit echoed beneath the chaos. He fell on the floor with a thud, hair tangled in blood.

Y/N screamed his name, crawling toward him, bullets ricocheting around her.

“BOB! NO, no no no- Bucky, HELP ME!”

Bucky was already sliding beside her, laying down cover fire with one hand, dragging Bob’s limp body back into the jet with the other.

“He’s breathing,” Bucky snapped, but barely. “We need to lift now.”

Alexei and Yelena were already firing back, bodies moving as one in furious rhythm. John threw himself behind the controls while Ava climbed into the jet’s hatch.

As the engines roared to life, Y/N knelt beside Bob, hands trembling. Blood was running down his temple, soaking into the collar of the utility jacket she’d tailored for him before the mission. His pulse was shallow.

“You stupid idiot.” she whispered, voice cracking. “Why would you- why would you do that?”

His eyes fluttered, just for a second. A hint of gold flickered in the whites. Weakly, through split lips, he breathed.

“Had to make sure…you were safe…”

Then darkness took him again.

⸻

The fluorescent hum of the Thunderbolts medbay lights was too clean. Too sterile.

Bob blinked slowly, vision swimming back to clarity as the haze of sedation lifted from his limbs. Everything felt wrong. The bed beneath him, too firm. The blanket, military-issue, rough. The equipment around him, futuristic, foreign. It wasn’t the room that disturbed him most, though. It was himself. The reflection in the monitor screens a man with soft brown hair, a faint scar on his temple, eyes too heavy with something he couldn’t name.

And then, her.

She stood by the far wall, posture sharp in a dark tactical jacket, arms folded. Not cold, not distant- just… restrained. She looked like she had practiced stillness as a defense. Her face was familiar and unfamiliar all at once. Like a song heard in another language.

“Hey.” she said gently when their eyes met, moving off the wall inching closer to him. Her voice carried a weight behind the calm. “You’re awake.”

Bob swallowed hard, cheeks turning a slight shade of pink at this breathtaking woman gazing at him in this state he was in. “Yeah. I guess I am.”

Doctors immediately rushed in, swarming around him with tests and clipped questions, their voices overlapping in a blur of medical urgency. Monitors beeped. A flashlight flicked across his eyes. Blood pressure. Reflexes. Vitals.

After what felt like hours, the pace slowed. One doctor, older, composed asked what should have been a routine memory check, his voice calm as he turned to the patient.

“Do you know who she is?” he asked, gesturing toward Y/N, who stood a few feet away, arms folded tightly across her chest, her expression unreadable beneath furrowed brows.

Bob blinked, his gaze landing on her with a faint frown. “I- No. Should I?”

The silence that followed wasn’t loud. It was quiet. Devastatingly so.

There was no desperate rush to his side. No trembling hand reaching for his. No whispered reassurances, no kiss to his forehead. Just a pause. Then a slow, measured nod from Y/N, her face still guarded, her eyes glassy but dry.

The doctor exhaled gently. “He has retrograde amnesia.” he explained, his tone careful but clinical. “It’s not uncommon with head trauma. The memories may come back gradually, or they might not. It’s too soon to tell.”

Y/N didn’t flinch. Didn’t move. Just kept nodding, as if she’d been expecting this. As if she’d already mourned the version of him who used to know her.

⸻

Bob learned quickly that no one blamed him for the memory loss. Not Yelena, who perched on the edge of his bed, slicing an apple with deliberate focus while muttering something about experimental tech frying brain cells. Not Ava, who wordlessly handed him a protein bar like it was the only thing she knew to offer. Not Alexei who was trying to force a collection of polaroids he’s taken over the last phew months into his vision. Even John, ever the smartass, only gave him a half-hearted, “Actions have consequences,” before softening with a quiet, “Glad you’re alive, man.”

Bucky tried though, and Bucky didn’t try for just anyone. Calm. Steady. The way someone might be when they’ve seen too much and somehow lived through it. He spoke like he’d walked people through this kind of grief before, the kind where you can’t even name what you’ve lost.

“You were with her.” Bucky said simply, arms crossed over his chest. “The two of you… it was real. Solid.”

Bob nodded, but the words floated past him like smoke.

With her?

The phrase felt like it belonged to someone else’s story, someone else’s life.

He could still see the way she looked at him earlier, cool, unreadable, posture tight like she was bracing for impact. She didn’t rush to him. Didn’t touch him. Didn’t fall apart.

That was the woman he was with? That he loved? That loved him?

But she hadn’t looked at him with love. She’d looked at him like he was made of glass, fractured and razor-edged, something you didn’t dare hold too tightly in case it shattered.

⸻

That night, sleep evaded him. The sterile sheets felt foreign, the shadows too still. The silence was heavy, not peaceful, but oppressive. Bob decided to get up and wandered the halls of the tower like a ghost, barefoot and cautious, as though the quiet might break beneath his steps. No one stopped him. Maybe they trusted him. Maybe they pitied him. Either way, he moved unnoticed, a stranger in a life that was supposed to be his.

He drifted toward the faint whistle of wind slipping through steel beams, drawn by something instinctive. Not memory. Just a pull. When he stepped out onto the upper balcony-level watch post, the night stretched out before him, wide and quiet. And there she was.

Y/N stood at the edge leaning against the rails, her silhouette sharp against the backdrop of city lights and stars. She wore a lightweight jacket, shoulders squared, eyes trained forward through night-vision lenses. Her presence was steady, unshakable. A soldier on alert. But there was a stillness in her posture that said more than readiness. It was grief, maybe. Or exhaustion.

A breeze swept past, and a faint scent clung to it, lavender, soft and nostalgic. It hit him like a blow to the chest. Not a memory, not quite. But a feeling. Something warm. Familiar. Safe.

She didn’t flinch when he approached. Didn’t acknowledge him, but didn’t move away either. He took it as an invitation. He settled beside her, placing his arms across on the cold metal railing, careful to keep his distance. He didn’t want to crowd her. He didn’t even know if he could anymore.

They stood like that for a while. The kind of silence that wasn’t awkward, but reverent. Like they were both trying to listen for echoes of something long gone.

Eventually, he broke it. Quietly, like he wasn’t sure if he had the right.

“What were we like?”

Her body tensed. Not visibly, not dramatically, but enough. He saw her jaw shift, her hands subtly clench at her sides. When she finally responded, her voice was caught somewhere between startled and guarded.

“What? Who- who told you?”

He shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I just… I thought maybe it would help. Jog something.”

Y/N exhaled through her nose, gaze still fixed ahead. For a moment, he thought she wouldn’t answer.

“…We were quiet.” she said at last. “But not in a bad way. It was the kind of quiet that felt… easy. You always made me laugh. Not loud laughs, just those little breathless ones. The kind that slip out when you’re trying not to smile.”

Her voice was steady, but he could feel the cracks beneath it.

Bob turned to look at her. Her expression didn’t shift, but her throat moved when she swallowed. She was holding something back. She had been holding it back since the hospital.

“You used to make breakfast.” she continued, voice softer now, like she was afraid if she spoke too loud, the memory would disappear. “Badly. You’d burn toast every time, and then get all dramatic when I didn’t want to eat it. And you always made coffee, made mine every morning. Just the way I liked it. Never forgot.”

There was a pause. Then her voice wavered, almost imperceptibly, on that last word.

Bob looked down at his hands. They felt unfamiliar. Like maybe the man who used to hold her hand, who used to make that burnt toast and pour her coffee, was someone entirely different.

“I don’t remember any of that.” he whispered. The admission tasted bitter. Hollow.

“I know,” she said. Not accusing. Not bitter. Just tired. Just sad.

The words hung between them, fragile and final.

And then, silence again. But this time, it wasn’t easy.

⸻

Later in the night, when he decided to head back, sleep finally took him, it wasn’t gentle. It dragged him under like a riptide. The sterile white noise of the tower faded, and in its place came fragments, uninvited and half-formed. Not memories, not quite. But echoes of something once real.

The first was laughter. Not his, hers. Light and effortless, like water trickling over smooth stone. It filled his chest with a warmth that bordered on pain. He didn’t know what had made her laugh like that, but he knew, somehow that it had been him. And he knew he would give anything to hear it again.

Then, sunlight. Her face turned toward him, golden and radiant. Eyes crinkling at the corners. Lips parted, like she was just about to say something teasing or tender. There was a weightless joy in the image, but it slipped too fast, like a leaf on the wind.

Another shift.

His heart pounded. The dream turned sharp. He saw her leaning over him, breath close to his cheek. Her hand, warm and trembling, pressed to his chest, not in fear, but in relief. She was giggling, the sound laced with adrenaline, tears clinging to her lashes.

“Don’t do that again, Reynolds.” she whispered, her voice cracking with everything she wasn’t saying. Her fingers fisted his shirt like she was holding him together with her bare hands.

And then-

Lavender. Not a color, but a scent. It hung in the air like a memory all its own. A pillow. Her pillow. It carried the comfort of something known, something intimate. It flooded him with longing. He could almost feel the curve of her body pressed beside his beneath cool sheets.

Then came the sound. Quiet. Distant.

Humming.

A melody. Familiar but unplaceable. Maybe something from her childhood. Maybe something she sang when she thought he wasn’t listening. It was the kind of tune you’d hear while doing the dishes or tying your shoes, mundane, but sacred. A sound of home. Her voice, wordless, soft, wrapped around him like a blanket.

He tried to follow it. To hold on. But the dream began to dissolve, slipping through his grasp like fog.

Bob jolted awake in the dim pre-dawn light, lungs tight, fingers clenched in the sheets. It took him a moment to realize the wetness on his face wasn’t sweat. It was tears, fresh and hot, sliding silently down his cheeks.

He didn’t remember. Not truly. Not enough to hold onto. But the ache was real. Bone deep. He felt hollowed out, like his heart was trying to mourn a life he’d never lived but somehow missed all the same.

He pressed a shaking hand to his chest, right where she’d touched him in the dream.

And for the first time since waking up in that hospital bed, he felt the true weight of what he’d lost.

Not just memories.

Her.

⸻

Over the course of the next week, Bob found himself drawn to her in ways he couldn’t quite explain.

It wasn’t fear that made him watch her from across rooms, from training mats, from the dining table he shared with others but never truly listened to. It wasn’t suspicion either. It was something quieter, something closer to longing, even if he didn’t yet understand why.

Curiosity, maybe. Or recognition. The soul’s memory, even when the mind forgets.

She moved like someone who had been forged in fire and didn’t flinch at the heat anymore. There was nothing soft or performative about her presence, no wasted gestures, no unnecessary emotion. Every movement had purpose. Every word she spoke during briefings was clipped and precise, stripped of anything sentimental. She was a soldier, yes but there was something beneath the discipline. Something deeper. She wasn’t cold. Just… contained.

He noticed how she never hovered. Never lingered too long after meetings or volunteered small talk to fill the gaps. She didn’t crowd him with the weight of what had been. She never asked if he remembered her, or them, or the way her voice sounded when she called him by name.

She simply stood back. Present. Measured. Waiting.

And maybe that was why he started coming to her.

First it was subtle. He’d take the seat next to her in mission briefings, even when there were other chairs open. Not close enough to touch, but close enough to hear her quiet breath, to catch the lavender scent that still clung to her jacket.

He started showing up earlier. Hanging back after meeting. Sharing his seat without asking. Once, he handed her a towel after watching her spar in a match without even realizing he’d done it. She took it silently. But her fingers brushed his just a second too long.

In the dining room, he noticed she rarely ate her full plate. The others didn’t comment, but Bob did. Casually offering her his extra bread roll or protein bar. She would scoff, wrinkle her nose, roll her eyes like he was being ridiculous, but sometimes, she accepted. And sometimes, when she thought he wasn’t paying attention, he caught her smiling.

Not big. Not wide. But there. Barely there creases at the corners of her mouth. A warmth that hadn’t surfaced in days, maybe weeks. And always, always gone before he could say anything.

He wasn’t sure what any of it meant.

Only that, in the stillness of his new life, her presence anchored him.

And that the ache in his chest grew sharper every time she walked away.

⸻

His confusion, once sharp and disorienting, gradually melted into something gentler. Something warmer.

It was a strange kind of torment to feel so deeply for someone you didn’t remember. Because it wasn’t just the absence of memory that haunted him anymore. It was the presence of emotion. The heart, it seemed, didn’t wait for proof. The body didn’t require context. The feelings arrived without invitation, and they came in waves, sudden, steady, and impossible to ignore.

She would laugh at something Ava said, usually something dry and unexpected and it would hit him square in the chest. Not because the moment was funny, but because her laughter felt like a melody he used to know by heart. A sound that once lived in the private corners of his life.

He’d catch her braiding her hair before a mission, standing in front of a window or mirror with practiced ease. And every time, his hands would twitch. The muscles moved without command, a ghost-memory that didn’t belong to his mind but to his body. He knew those braids. Knew the rhythm of her breath when she leaned back against him. Knew the weight of her trust when she let him close enough to touch.

Sometimes she’d pass him in the hallway, her shoulder barely brushing his and his breath would hitch, the hairs on his arm rising like he was expecting the graze of her fingers, the low murmur of his name in a voice only meant for him.

But it never came.

She didn’t reach for him. Didn’t slip notes into his hand or steal glances when she thought no one was watching. She didn’t cling to hope or pressure him with memories he hadn’t recovered.

Instead, she gave him space.

Too much space.

And yet, somehow, the ache kept growing.

Every time she walked away with that same quiet grace, every time her expression stayed carefully unreadable, it carved a little deeper into him. A hollow expanding behind his ribs where something important used to live.

He didn’t remember their first kiss. Their inside jokes. The late nights or shared scars.

But something in him missed her, all the same.

And worse still-

He was starting to fall for her all over again.

Without even remembering why he did the first time.

⸻

A week later, he found her again, alone, tucked away in the quiet hum of the tech bay. She sat beneath a low-hanging heat lamp, sleeves rolled to her elbows, forearms smudged with pencil marks as she adjusted the inner circuitry of her weapon. Her hair was messy, hastily tied back. No makeup. No armor of sarcasm or sharpness. Just her.

Raw. Real. Beautiful.

“You look tired.” Bob said gently from the doorway.

She didn’t flinch. Just glanced up with a dry smile and replied, “So do you.”

He didn’t argue. Just stepped inside and leaned against the wall, watching her hands work in silence for a beat. The room buzzed with the faint sound of tools…

Then, finally, he spoke again. Softer this time.

“Is it weird if I say I think I’m starting to… feel things? About you?”

She paused, fingers stilling over a coil of wires. Her eyes lifted to his, cautious but not cold.

“What kind of things?” she asked, voice carefully neutral.

Bob looked down, almost embarrassed, before he met her gaze again. “Good ones. Familiar ones. Like… maybe my heart remembers, even if my head doesn’t.”

Her breath caught. And for the first time in weeks, she let the exhaustion show. Let it settle in her shoulders, in the delicate downturn of her mouth. Her fingers curled around a tool like she needed something to hold on to.

“I miss you.” she said, barely above a whisper.

He took a step closer. Then another. Still careful. Still slow. But he wasn’t afraid this time.

“I’m still here.” he said. “Even if I don’t remember who I was… I think I still want to be him.”

For a moment, she didn’t speak. Just stared at him like she was trying to memorize this version of him too, this half-stranger with familiar eyes and a voice that sounded like home.

Her hand lifted slightly, hovered midair as if it might reach for his cheek. But she stopped herself. Just inches away.

Not yet.

Still, her voice was softer now. It trembled just a little around the edges. “Then let’s take it slow. Start over, if we have to.”

Bob nodded, a small, earnest smile curling his lips as he extended a hand like it was the first day of something real.

“Hi. I’m Bob.”

Y/N blinked. And then she laughed, gentle and quiet, like the echo of a memory he couldn’t quite catch but never wanted to stop chasing.

“Hi, Bob.” she said, slipping her hand into his.

“I’m Y/N.”

And just like that, something shifted. Something healed.

Not fully. Not yet.

But it was a start.

⸻

And somewhere, deep in the fog of his fractured mind, a thread of gold began to glow. Subtle. Elusive. But unmistakably there.

Bob’s recovery was steady. Methodical. Predictable in the way a machine recalibrates itself, just input, output, routine. His vitals stabilized. His strength returned. The neurologists nodded solemnly over scan results and EEG charts, murmuring about neuroplasticity and “hopeful signs of cognitive repair.” The Void within him, the chaos fused to his cells like a shadow stitched to his soul, remained dormant for now, but pulsed quietly in the marrow of his bones. Like a storm cloud on the horizon, waiting.

But none of that, none of the science or tests or data, could explain the way his pulse quickened when she walked into the room.

She would start bringing him water without being asked. Left briefing notes folded neatly beside his tray, her compact handwriting a strange comfort in a world where everything else felt unfamiliar. She checked the charge on his comms unit before every debrief and stood silently beside him during med scans, as if her presence alone could ground him.

And every night, when she thought he was asleep, she sat beside his bed. Just for a little while. Just long enough to keep the nightmares away.

But she never touched him.

Not once.

No graze of her fingers across his knuckles. No guiding hand at the small of his back. No welcome back hug when he stumbled through the door after his first real training session, bruised and soaked in sweat but alive. Alive and somehow still not enough.

He noticed the way her hands twitched sometimes. Just the slightest flinch when he got too close. Like her muscle memory wanted to reach for him but her heart had already buried the version of him that belonged to her.

Because she kept telling herself even if he wanted to try, she’ll never get back the old him.

The man who braided her hair. Who burned her toast. Who held her in the quiet moments between chaos.

He was a ghost in his own skin. A stranger with his voice and his eyes and none of the history.

And she didn’t know how to grieve someone who was still breathing.

So she kept her distance.

Kind. Careful. Controlled.

And utterly heartbreaking.

But Bob-

He saw her.

Not with the eyes of the man she once loved, but with something new. Something fragile and blooming.

And somewhere deep inside, that golden thread tugged again.

A whisper. A memory.

A promise he hadn’t made yet.

But still intended to keep.

⸻

It was Ava who finally gave voice to the thought neither of them had dared to speak aloud, the unspoken weight that had settled between them like a shadow neither wanted to face.

They sat on the rooftop between missions, legs dangling over the edge as the world below slowly awoke. The city was a blur of distant sounds and shifting lights, but up here, it felt like time had paused, delicate and still, suspended in that fragile space just before a heartbeat.

Ava tossed a small pebble into the air, catching it effortlessly on the back of her hand, her eyes never leaving the softening sky as dawn’s first light spilled pale gold across the horizon. Her voice was calm, steady, but carried an undeniable certainty as she finally spoke.

“You act like he’s not still yours.”

The words landed quietly but with a force that stirred something deep inside Y/N. She blinked, her chest tightening, a sudden ache blooming in the hollow spaces she hadn’t yet admitted existed. “He doesn’t remember.” she whispered, her voice barely louder than the gentle breeze rustling around them, fragile and tentative.

“That doesn’t mean he doesn’t feel it.” Ava said without hesitation, her gaze finally meeting Y/N’s with a softness that held understanding, compassion.

Y/N remained silent. Her jaw clenched as if holding back a flood, her breath catching in her throat. The truth in Ava’s words washed over her slowly, like a cold tide creeping in, unrelenting and undeniable. She had been holding herself apart, convinced that without memory, the connection between them was broken beyond repair. But now, confronted with the possibility that feelings could endure without facts, her walls began to crumble, piece by fragile piece.

The silence stretched out between them, vast and heavy, carrying the weight of unspoken fears and lingering hope. Finally, Ava reached out, a tentative hand brushing a stray lock of hair from Y/N’s face, a small act of comfort, a bridge across the distance.

After a long, quiet pause, Ava’s voice softened further, a gentle whisper carried on the wind. “You know, most people would kill for the chance to fall in love with the same person twice.”

The words hung in the air, delicate and shimmering like morning dew on fragile leaves. They were raw, hopeful, and aching all at once, cutting through the quiet like a promise. As the sun climbed higher, casting its warm light across the cityscape, something shifted between them, an unspoken invitation to believe in beginnings anew, to let the past and the present intertwine, fragile but real, like the slow bloom of dawn itself.

She felt it, of course, how could she not? The way Bob lingered, how his gaze clung to her like it hurt to look away. How his voice gentled when he said her name, how he remembered every little thing about her without even realizing it.

And it killed her.

Because she wanted to run to him. She wanted to bury her face in his chest and let the months of grief, fear, and waiting break open between them like thunder.

But she didn’t.

Because this wasn’t a fairytale. This was real. Messy. Fragile. Bob had lost everything, even himself. What he was feeling now wasn’t grounded in memory. It was instinct. Pull. Echoes of something he couldn’t touch. And if she leaned in too fast, too hard…

She’d break both of them.

⸻

Bob caught himself watching Y/N more often than he was willing to admit.

Observing her, getting ready to re learn all the things that made him fall for her in the the first place. Tactical necessity. Her habits, the subtle language of her body and gesture.

He noticed the way she tied her left boot tighter than her right, the deliberate care in each knot. How she tapped the corner of her datapad twice, always twice, before slipping it under her arm like a secret. The faint scar tucked beneath her jaw, visible only when the light caught her just so, small and sharp, like a whispered story.

When she spoke, he felt the ghost of a feeling, the memory of how it once was to listen to her voice, as if he’d shaped himself around its cadence long ago.

He learned to read her moods by the music she chose in the mess hall, Fleetwood Mac when exhaustion weighed on her, the jittery energy of Talking Heads when she was wired and restless. He noticed the way her eyes blinked three quick times when she fought back tears, the barely perceptible quiver in her hands during briefings.

He stored these fragments away like precious secrets, little clues she’d left behind just for him.

And then, quietly, without warning, it happened he started fully head first (no pun intended) falling for her all over again.

Not because of memories or history, but because this was something new. A slow, hesitant kind of longing, a fragile second chance his heart couldn’t ignore, even if his mind still wavered.

Late one night, after the rest of the team had long since retreated to their rooms, Bob found himself in the weight room with Bucky. The dull hum of machines and the steady clink of weights filled the space, but between them there was a comfortable silence, one that felt safe enough for truths to slip out.

Bucky handed Bob a towel, the gesture simple but steady, like a lifeline. Bob took it and sank back onto the bench, shoulders heavy, not just from the workout, but from something far more weighty inside him.

He exhaled slowly, trying to gather the words. “I can’t stop thinking about her.” he said finally, voice rough and low, like admitting it made the feeling more real.

Bucky’s eyes flicked up, sharp and curious. “Y/N?”

Bob nodded, rubbing the back of his neck awkwardly. “Yeah. It’s weird. It’s like my body remembers her. All these little things I don’t actually recall, the way she laughs, the way she gets serious when she’s worried, how she always taps her datapad twice before putting it away.”

He paused, searching Bucky’s face for judgment or dismissal, but found none.

“It’s like this echo inside me that won’t shut up. Even if my brain can’t pull up the memories, the feelings are still there. I don’t know what that means, but it’s driving me crazy.”

Bucky nodded slowly, as if he understood that ache too well. His voice was quiet but sure. “Maybe that’s the part that really matters, the part that sticks around after all the rest gets lost. Sometimes the heart remembers before the mind catches up.”

Bob looked up at him, a flicker of hope mixing with the confusion in his eyes. For the first time in a long while, maybe there was a path forward, even if it was just one small, fragile step.

⸻

It came to a head one evening, late.

The others had cleared out after a long debrief. She stayed behind to finish reports. Bob… didn’t leave either.

He stood in the doorway for a moment before walking in. She heard him, but didn’t look up.

“You always work this late?” he asked quietly.

She smiled faintly, still not looking at him. “Someone’s gotta clean up your mission notes.”

He chuckled, soft and warm. “That bad, huh?”

“No,” she said, softer now. “Just… messy.”

A beat of silence.

Then, his voice. “I remember how you take your coffee.”

Her hand froze mid-type.

“I didn’t realize it.” he continued, stepping closer. “This morning, when I was making a cup, I poured two. Yours, black, one sugar. I didn’t think. I just did it.”

She finally looked at him.

Bob’s eyes held no confusion. No uncertainty. Only wonder. And something deeper.

“I don’t remember everything. I wish I did.” he admitted. “But every time I look at you, I feel like I’m home. Like you’re the part of me I’ve been missing.”

Her eyes filled. She blinked fast, pressing her lips together to keep them from trembling.

“Bob-“

“You don’t have to say anything.” he cut in gently. “I just… I wanted you to know I’d find you again. In a hundred lifetimes. Even if I didn’t remember your name, I’d still know you.”

She shook her head, tears slipping down now. “Don’t- don’t say that. Please. Because if you fall again and something takes you from me again, I don’t think I’ll survive it.”

Silence. Thick. Raw.

Then, he stepped closer, slower than slow, and stopped just short of touching her.

“I think.” he said, voice low and rough, “we both survived the first fall. Maybe that means we’re meant to do it again.”

Y/N looked at him for a long moment, heart shattering open in her chest.

And for now… she didn’t run.

She just breathed.

And stayed.

“I love you.”

Y/N’s breath caught.

He didn’t look at her. He couldn’t. Not yet.

“Even if all those moments we had are still fog to me, I love you now. Not because I did. But because I do.”

She closed her eyes. The ache inside her chest expanded like a dam threatening to break.

She stared at him, lips parted, a thousand emotions crashing behind her eyes. And for a second, she hesitated. As if the love she’d locked away so tightly might shatter everything if she let it out now.

But then, she broke.

Her hands cupped his jaw, and she kissed him like it was the last time and the first. Like the end and the beginning had always been the same. Her mouth trembled against his, but she kissed him with years of ache, of waiting, of love that had refused to die even when everything else had been taken.

And he kissed her back like he’d been waiting a lifetime.

Maybe he had.

⸻

They didn’t say anything when they re-entered the living room, hand in hand, flushed and quiet and overwhelmed.

They didn’t have to.

Yelena looked up from her spot on the couch and offered a half-smile, knowingly. Bucky gave a small nod of approval.

Even Alexei, wiping his eye a little too aggressively, muttered, “Dust. Stupid American dust.”

John and Ava exchanged a look but said nothing. Respectful silence wrapped around them like a blanket. The team didn’t tease. Didn’t pry.

They just let them be.

⸻

[Epilogue — 2 Months Later]

The morning light fell golden across the compound grounds, glinting off the dew-soaked grass and filtering through the windows of the common room. Someone had put on music, Fleetwood Mac, soft and low.

Bob sat on the steps just outside, a cup of coffee in hand, watching as Y/N barked a laugh across the courtyard, playfully tossing a sparring mat at Alexei, who pretended to stumble like he’d been shot.

Her hair was pulled up messily. She wore one of his old shirts, sleeves rolled, collar stretched. She looked free. She looked like home.

He didn’t have all his memories. Some things were still missing, like half-remembered dreams just out of reach. But he was okay with that.

Because this, now was real.

They had rebuilt something not from memory, but from the heart. From the quiet comfort of relearning one another. From the gentle rediscovery of touch, trust, laughter.

And they were better for it.

She turned then, sensing his gaze, and their eyes locked across the distance. Her smile softened. Not flashy. Not forced.

Just full of love.

Bob smiled back, heart full.

He’d crawl back home to her.

And he would.

Every single time.

⸻

[nochepsicodelica]

It's two in the morning and you're knocking on your own front door after a night out with your friends. Your mind has been occupied by static, not allowing you to remember that you have a key to let yourself in, so you stand there alone, waiting to be let in. You plant your hand on the wall to keep yourself balanced, looking left and right to see if anybody or any car is looking at you as they pass by.

Just as you're about to knock, again, the door opens and you flinch, your other hand flying to the wall to remain steady on your feet. You look up at your man with warped vision, blinking a little to try and clear your view of him. You can't contain your laughter when you see the stern look on Toji's face, his green eyes laced with concern you can't process in this state.

"What the fuck..." Toji mutters, to himself. What kind of friends would just drop you off without making sure that you get inside your house, safely? It's late. Who knows how long you had been standing there before you knocked. Anyone could have snatched you away.

Toji will catch you. You know he'll catch you if you just lean forward into him, like a backwards trust fall, so you set the plan in motion. You drag your feet and move your hands along the wall until you're in the safe zone, and then you just fall forward.

"Woah, hey." He's quick to hold you up against him, to prevent you from sliding down his body and to the floor. "Hey, you good? Talk to me. Can you walk?" Toji doesn't receive much of a response from you. Just quiet little giggles and incoherent mumbles. He sighs and picks you up, draping you over his shoulder. The door is shut and locked, before he makes his way to the bedroom. The light is already on, because he was awake the entire time, awaiting your arrival. Toji sets you down on the bed and briefly sits on the edge, by your feet.

"You didn't answer my calls, and I texted you like twenty times." He lifts your feet and takes their place, before setting them down on his lap so that you are comfortable. His fingers make haste of undoing the buckles on your high heels and he sets the shoes down, placing them under the bed.

You simply hum in response, not entirely sure of how you got to the room. The light is so bright and it's irritating your eyes, making it hard for you to hold them open.

"Told you to let me know if you needed me to pick you up, dummy." Toji wraps his hands around one of your ankles, his fingers kneading with little pressure, incase the area is tender.

"N-Nooo, i'm... here. Here," you babble.

It's so frustrating to be unable to get a full explanation out of you, right now. Your responses are borderline illogical and it's not doing Toji any good. He feels like his heart is about to beat out of his chest. He can't calm down, after he spent the last few hours wondering why you stopped responding to him and why you weren't answering his calls. To open the door and instantly get a whiff of your night out was enraging, not because you got extremely intoxicated, but because there was no one looking out for you by the end of your time out.

Toji understands that there is no point in digging into this, now. You can't even walk or see straight, so he settles for making simple conversation that you can easily digest.

"Did your phone die or something?"

You shake your head, side to side, and his blood boils all over again. This was supposed to be an easy conversation, but he was just so damn worried. His entire body is tense with concern.

"Fuck." He sighs, nodding slightly at your response. "Yeah, okay."

A few seconds of silence go by and Toji thinks you may have fallen asleep, but then you speak up, out of nowhere, again.

"Took lots of pictures..." you mumble, eyes closed as you dig into your pocket for your phone. Once it's in your hand, you toss it on the bed for Toji to grab. He puts your massage on hold and picks up your phone, unlocking it and going to your photo gallery, where immediately, he sees previews of the pictures of you and those so called "friends" who abandoned you on your doorstep. The only reason he cares for those group photos is because you're smiling widely, seemingly laughing, and overall looking extremely happy in every one of them, but as much as he loves the look on your face in those, he loves the pictures you took of yourself and the ones your friends took of you, more. Some you had already sent to him, others he hadn't seen until then, so he sent those pictures to himself.

Toji turns your phone off and sets it aside, before grabbing ahold of your other ankle and repeating the same treatment that he did for the first one.

"There was... ugh..." you sweep away some strands of hair that almost went into your mouth. "A man. I dropped my phone and he- and he got too close behind me when I bent down to pick it up." You nod, with your eyes as wide as they can be in this state, like you're trying to prove that you aren't lying by looking him straight in his eyes.

"That's fucking disgusting, mama." Toji's eyebrows furrow, discomfort written all over his face with this new information you revealed. He squeezes your ankle a little tighter, his mind beginning to cloud with thoughts of never letting you go out without him again, but before he even thinks of spilling these thoughts to you, he asks you the most important questions.

"Are you okay? Did he touch you?"

"Mm-mm, no." You shake your head as quickly as you can without getting dizzy. "Saw his legs behind my legs and I got up and gave him this look..." You furrow your brows and lid your eyes, a gaze that doesn't seem intimidating or warning enough, now, after so many drinks. Your face quickly relaxes after and you roll your eyes with a tired sigh. "Yup, that was the face I made and then I walked away," you say, your attitude more upbeat.

"Did he leave you alone?" Toji asks, hoping nothing more happened. If there is more, he'll have you describe this man to the best of your ability, and he will hunt him down until he can positively assure that he's no longer part of the world's population.

"Yeahhh, don't know where he went." You hum like you're trying to remember, as if you even have that knowledge. You walked away and didn't turn back around, something that finally concludes your brief inability to recall. "Think he got lost." You giggle.

"Good. I'm glad," Toji says. You hum in agreement, and your eyes fall shut, gracing you with two seconds of sleep before your head nods and you wake up, again. Your bashful smile evolves into a short laugh, one that has Toji smiling at how precious you are. "You tired, mama?"

You nod and blink slowly in response, fighting the urge to shut your eyes for longer. Your lips curl into a lazy smile, when Toji presses a kiss to your ankle, before he moves your feet and sets them on the bed so he can get up.

"Let's get you ready for bed, then."

[cherryite]

barkeep

summary. as a bartender at one of the sketchiest bars in gotham and a med student, you and red hood aka jason todd have a symbiotic relationship. you give him free drinks and patch him up and he makes sure you don't get murdered walking home. at least, thats all you two say it is. (word count. 3.8k)

content. jason todd x reader, gn!reader, bartender!reader, yearning, friends?? (kinda but not really) to lovers, pining, idiots in LOVE ???

warnings. blood and injuries, mentions of alcohol, not proof read oopsie

author's note. why this took me 5 million years to write i don't know, but i'm excited to write more for jason because thats my shawty fr

Working at the sketchiest bar on Park Row, more locally referred to as Crime Alley, hadn’t exactly been your dream gig. But as a med student with a brutal class schedule and rent breathing down your neck like a wild animal, options were slim. And unfortunately, this place paid — mostly in cash, always on time. As much as you wanted out of this part of town, it always had a way of pulling you back in, like an addiction you couldn’t quit.

The bar’s nearly closed now. The lights are dimmed low, casting long, flickering shadows against the walls, and the red glow of the liquor store sign across the street bleeds through the grimy front window like blood out of a wound. All customers and staff besides you have left, leaving the bar quiet — almost eerily so. You’re hunched over the register, thumbing through crumpled bills, when you hear it: the soft click of the front door, followed by the heavy thud of boots against the old floorboards.

You don’t even have to look. You know who it is. Your eyes flick sideways, catching a glimpse of him in your peripheral as you finish counting the ones.

“Trying to sneak up on me, Hood?” you call out, voice dry as you click the register shut and turn around, a small smile tugging at the corners of your lips. 

He’s already slumped at the bar, a heavy silhouette of exhaustion wrapped in blood splattered leather. His cargo pants are scuffed and torn in places, the usual overkill of weapons strapped haphazardly across his frame. Classic Red Hood. Classic Jason. The low, rasping chuckle that rolls out of him is muffled beneath the red helmet, but it still manages to sound amused. His head tilts back, the movement slow and deliberate, his neck craning as he looks at you. Even with the helmet on, you can feel the weight of his gaze, sharp and unwavering.

“Key word tryin’,” he says, voice thick with static from the modulator. 

You scoff, rolling your eyes, and duck behind the bar. You retrieve the emergency med kit you started keeping there after the second time he stumbled in bleeding all over the bar floor. Sometimes you can’t stop thinking about how lucky he is — to have stumbled into an empty bar, conveniently being manned by a tired bartender who just so happens to be a medical student.

“Rough night?” you ask, circling around the bar and sliding into the seat beside him as you snap the kit open. Without a word, he shrugs off the jacket, grumbling under his breath as if his bones ache from the inside out.

“When isn’t it a rough night in Crime Alley?” he mutters, a tired edge making its way into the corners of his voice.

You wonder—do all of Gotham’s finest have it this bad? But you already know the answer. Crime Alley is his turf, and it chews him up more often than not. You’ve — unfortunately — lived in the Alley your whole life. Not that many places in Gotham are good places to grow up, but the Alley specifically was awful. You can remember nights when you wouldn’t sleep, the sounds of gunshots ringing in your ears, sirens haunting your dreams like lullabies from hell.

He lifts the helmet off and sets it gently on the bar’s freshly wiped surface. You almost scold him for dirtying the bar again but you don’t, you just glance at him. You still remember the first time you saw his face, just a few months ago. He’d come in the same way, trailing blood, a bullet having kissed too close to his jugular. Could have killed him if it had been just an inch closer. You’d needed to remove the helmet to keep him alive, keep him breathing. He’d let you see him. Really see him for the first time. 

After profusely apologizing and praying you wouldn’t ever say anything, he assured you — probably delirious from blood loss— that it was fine. He even tried to make a joke about knowing where you worked and lived if you talked.. You swear you nearly fainted and he had to quickly reassure you that he was joking.

Now, as you glance over, you catch the dark curls damp with sweat, the lone white streak stark against the rest, curling messily against his forehead. He’s handsome, annoyingly so in your opinion, with broad shoulders, a boyish face, and a sharp jaw. There's a crook in his nose, from having it broken one too many times and a thin scar on his left cheek, faded and pale from age. You turn back to the kit before you stare too long, but not before you catch the way his eyes linger on you. They’re blue with tinges of a stormy grey-green, and startling in their clarity. But you don’t have time to be distracted.

“What hurts?” you murmur, fingers sifting through gauze and bandage wraps, already prepping for the worst. He exhales slowly, the sound almost like a sigh, but heavier. You can feel the tension radiating off him in waves, like his muscles haven’t stopped bracing for a fight, even now that he’s sitting here with you.

“Side,” he mutters, gesturing vaguely to his ribs. “Took a hit. Might’ve cracked somethin’.”

You wince sympathetically, tugging your stool closer. “And yet you came here instead of a hospital.”

He huffs another half laugh, dry and rasping. “Hospitals ask questions. You don’t. It’s good practice for med school anyway.” 

The silent ‘I’m also legally dead’ hangs in the air between you, so you don't argue. You just reach for the dark fabric of his undershirt, peeling it back to reveal the bruising underneath. It’s already a deep, angry color, shades of violet and black blooming across his side like a storm cloud under his swelling skin. Blood has started crusting over a shallow gash in his side just under it. 

Your hands hover a moment over the worst of it, instinctively gentle, and his breath catches just slightly when you touch him. You press gently, only to assess the damage, he groans when you press near a middle rib. The sound causes you to draw your hands back instinctively.

“Definitely bruised,” you murmur. “Maybe fractured at worst. I can’t feel any cracks and you’re not breathing as bad as someone with broken ribs would be. You got lucky.”

“‘M always lucky,” he says, voice dipped in sarcasm.

You glance up at him, raising an eyebrow. “You? Lucky?”

His lips twitch, and just for a second, “Always.” 

You think about how he can’t be that lucky, especially since he’s previously died. You try to not to bring that up, honestly it was an accident you even found out, like most things you learn about him. He had been bleeding profusely from a stab wound in his abdomen, and when you’d lifted his shirt, you saw it. A very real autopsy scar on a very not dead man. 

Maybe it’s the bartender in you that gets people to open up, to spill their secrets. Maybe it was also the high amount of pain meds coursing through his veins. He explained, very vaguely. You didn’t press more after he told you, didn’t ask how it was possible. Yust patched him up, like it was the most normal thing in the world. He doesn’t like talking about it, so you don’t.

You shake your head, grabbing a portable cold pack, cracking it to activate the cooling agent and pressing it against the worst of the swelling. He flinches, not much, but enough to betray how much pain he’s hiding..

“We should wrap this,” you say, nodding toward the gauze. “And you need rest. Like, actual rest. Sleep. More than three hours on a cardboard box somewhere.”

“You offering a bed?” he teases lightly, and the way he says it, soft, laced with something fragile beneath his typical aloofness, makes your stomach flip. 

You look at him fully, something warm curling in your chest as you finally push the words past the knot in your throat. “I’m offering my couch. Don’t push it.”

He chuckles again, and this time it sounds just a little more real. You wrap the gauze carefully around his ribs, your fingers brushing skin, and despite yourself, you notice the way his breathing hitches every time you get too close. When you’re done, you seal the kit shut and lean back a bit, observing your handiwork. 

“You’ll live.” You meet his gaze again, meeting his eyes as they stare down at you, just letting your words soak in. Just him. Just you. Just the quiet thrum of a city that never sleeps, and the two of you stealing a moment of peace in the shittiest part of it.

“Someone’s gotta look out for you,” you say softly, breaking the silence. “I’m serious. You can sleep on my couch tonight. Rib injuries make it hard to sleep, so you should really be resting somewhere safe. And semi-comfortable.”

He opens his mouth like he's about to argue, but ultimately he decides not to fight you on it.

You make sure the kit is fully secure, placing it back behind the bar in its hiding spot. You can feel his eyes tracking you as you move about the bar, going through the motions of closing. He doesn’t ask for a drink tonight. Usually you offer him your shift beer — the one drink you get free per shift — half out of gratitude for walking you home, half because the alcohol helps take the edge off whatever he endured that night.

Trying to ignore the shiver that runs down your spine, you wipe down the final surfaces, flip off the neon sign that flashes in the window, and lock up the register. You try not to let your mind wander, try not to peek at the tired man still slumped at the bar as he gingerly attempts to pull his leather jacket back on with a grimace. You hover a bit, watching him to make sure he doesn’t need any help, even if he would never ask for it. He struggles a bit as he slides off the barstool, and he doesn’t stop you when you quietly nudge your shoulder under his arm, easing his weight across you to steady him. Once he’s steady, you slip away from him as you both make your way out of the bar. You lock it behind you, hitching your your bag over your shoulder

“Come on,” you say, your voice has a gentler tone to it now. He doesn’t argue, he just gives a nod quietly and falls into step beside you as you walk. This in itself isn’t new. He always walks you home after stopping at the bar. It’s part of the unspoken arrangement between the two of you: you fix him up and sometimes give him a beer, he makes sure you get home in one piece.

The streets are half asleep, half alive at this hour of the night. The buzz of faulty streetlights and the distant buzz of sirens are the only noise that fills the air, aside from your footsteps. The night air is cold and it bites at the skin of your face as your breath fogs around your lips. Jason’s walking a little slower than usual beside you, his stride careful but still steady, probably favoring his side so as to not agitate his ribs further. His broad shoulder brushes yours now and then as you walk beside each other, close enough that you can feel the rough leather of his jacket where it touches your sleeve.

“Thanks again,” he murmurs as he breaks the silence, eyes on the ground. “For patching me up.”

“You don’t have to thank me,” you reply, the corner of your mouth tugging up a bit. “It’s the least I can do.”

“But I do have to —,” he stumbles a bit over his words, his voice partially strained. “Thank you. I mean.”

There’s a beat of silence. He glances over at you, his bright eyes catch the light of the street lights overhead. “And for offering the couch. Thank you— again,” he adds. It’s quieter this time, and you can feel the uncomfortable thump in your chest when you realize he sounds vulnerable.

You look at him, and something in your chest aches a little. He isn’t one for showing his emotions, at least not around you. On occasion you catch him, flushing embarrassedly after he says something a bit awkward, but he manages to mask it well around you at least.

“It’s not a big deal,” you say. “Figured I should keep you overnight for supervision.”

He huffs a tired laugh, but there’s something in his eyes when he looks at you as it lingers—it looks soft. You wonder if anyone’s ever looked out for him like this before. You wonder if he’d even let them. You wonder why he’s letting you.

By the time you reach your building, he’s drifted a little closer. Not quite touching, but the space between you feels smaller somehow, like he’s a shadow attached to your back. He follows you up the steps, like he always does when he drops you off. You can feel his eyes in the back of your head and he just watches your back like he always does. But tonight’s different, because he always leaves you at the door, by the time you’re safely inside he vanishes like he was never even there. 

But tonight he won’t vanish, at least not right away.

You slide your key into the keyhole, trying to ignore his presence behind you. You unlock the front door to your apartment, shoving it open with the usual force because the door catches weirdly sometimes. You leave a mental note to yourself to text your landlord about it (again). The apartment is quiet as you lead him in, moonlight shines through the window in your kitchen, illuminating the small space. 

Your apartment is modest but yours and you’ve found ways to make it comfortable with your limited funds. A plush beige couch takes up most of the space in the living room, a large dark wood bookshelf that overflows onto the floor finds its home on the wall, and a coffee table that’s covered in medical textbooks. Various plants adorn the space, pots and planters scattered over nearly every surface that they would allow. Kicking off your shoes, you hang your jacket on a hook on the wall, turning to look behind you. Jason stands in the doorway, his gaze fixated on the deadbolt of your front door. 

“You should get this fixed,” he comments, opening and closing your door a few times to test the lock, twisting it a few times to investigate. “It’s not safe.” His eyebrows are pinched together, eyes fixated on the latch before he breaches the threshold of your apartment, closing the door behind him.

“I’ve texted my landlord about it like, three times,” you say with a sigh, dropping your keys into a ceramic dish by the door. “Scumlord’s ghosting me.”

Jason doesn’t say anything for a moment, dropping his helmet on the floor with a soft thud, his frown deepening. He shifts on his feet, like he’s weighing if he should say something. You think he mumbles something under his breath as you search for an extra blanket for him, but you opt to ignore it.

Jason almost immediately collapses on your couch once his boots are off, groaning a bit as he makes contact with the plush cushions. The sound is caught somewhere between exhaustion and relief. You have to suppress the small smile that curls at your lips as he sighs, shifting until he finds a comfortable spot. 

You hand him a blanket, before padding over to the small armchair across from him. you curl into the cushions, tucking your knees against your chest. Your fingers play idly with the hem of your sleeve as you observe him quietly. He tilts his head toward you, a few strands of his dark hair fall over his forehead. When he sees you’re already looking at him, his gaze falters. He quickly drops his eyes to the coffee table, like being caught under your attention makes him nervous. Something on the table catches his eye as he reaches out to pick up a book that rests there.

“You read these?” He says, inspecting your worn copy of The Hunger Games. 

“Yeah,” you say, your voice soft as the day starts to catch up to you. “I’ve read all of them. Started rereading them a few weeks ago.”

Jason thumbs through the worn pages with a surprising gentleness. You can’t help the way your eyes drag to his knuckles, bruised and scabbed over as he brushes through the first few pages, inspecting it.

“I’ve been meaning to read them,” he murmurs, absentmindedly flipping through pages. “Just— haven't had time.”

You nod, stretching your arms up over your head as a yawn escapes you. The motion pulls your shirt slightly at the hem, the fabric soft from too many washes as it exposed your midriff. Jason’s eyes flit to the movement—quick and fleeting—but when he meets your gaze again, he averts his eyes back to the pages in front of him.

“You can borrow mine if you want,” you offer, blinking sleep from your eyes.

His face expression changes a bit, vague disbelief tugs at his brows. “You sure?” he asks, his voice is tentative as his eyes flicker up to meet yours. 

You brush some of your hair out of your eyes sleepily and nod, your gaze steadily trained on him. “Of course. I have all of the trilogy. It’s no problem, really,” you insist. 

Jason’s eyes once again travel down to the book in his hands. His thumb runs down the crease of the spine, his expression muddled. 

“Thanks,” he mutters, though you barely hear it. You hum lightly in response to his thanks. The silence you two sit in isn’t uncomfortable, just peaceful and calm. The city hums faintly outside of your window, muffled now and more distant, like it knows better than to intrude on the moment. 

A yawn draws itself from your throat again, and this time you don’t fight it as you shudder a bit. The warmth of the room has made your limbs heavy, and the comfortable silence only deepens the tired pull of your eyelids.

Jason notices the noise, his eyes immediately finding your form. “You— You should sleep,” he says, gently, and the tone of his voice makes your skin tingle.

“So should you,” you murmur in response, already uncurling from the chair.

He doesn’t argue with you, but there’s a hint of hesitation in his eyes as you move to the short hallway that leads to your bedroom. You find yourself hesitating in the doorway of your room, your fingers brushing against the frame as you glance back at him over your shoulder. He’s watching you again, not bothering to hide it this time and it makes your stomach flip. He hasn’t moved yet—still perched on the edge of the couch, the book clasped loosely in one hand. The soft lamplight brushes over his features, highlighting the purpling bruise on his cheekbone.

“You can take my bed if you want,” you say quietly without really thinking of the implications, your fingers twitch from where they grasp the doorframe. "I feel bad making you stay on the couch."

Jason shakes his head almost immediately, and you think you should actually go to sleep because you swear you see a flush on his cheeks. God, you really should go to bed. “I’m good here. Couch is fine.”

You nod, trying not to let the twinge of disappointment show on your face, but what else would you have expected him to say. Of course he would say no. Still, a part of you wants to insist. Wants to say that he doesn’t have to sleep like a stranger on your couch. Wants to hold him close and protect him from whatever haunts his dreams. But you don’t. You just linger there for a moment longer before speaking softly.

“Goodnight, Jason.”

He looks up at you like he wants to say something more, his eyes searching your face but you aren’t sure what he’s looking for. He looks like there’s something lodged in his throat that he can’t quite swallow down, catching whatever he wants to say. Despite this, all he says is a quiet, “Night.”

You retreat into your bedroom quickly after that, the door left ajar behind you. You lie in bed longer than you mean to as you pull the cool sheets up to your chin, listening for the sound of movement from the living room. Your mind wanders as you allow your mind to drift to Jason, probably thumbing through the book in his hands still. A deep part of you wonders if he’s thinking of you. You wonder if he knows you’re thinking of him, or if he even cares.

For a fleeting moment as you fall asleep, you wish he’s followed you in— not for anything else than to bathe in the feeling of his presence.

When you regain consciousness in the morning, your eyes nearly snap open as you take in the sunlight spilling through your curtains, pale and golden. Immediately thinking of last night's events, you throw the covers to the side. You find yourself quickly padding into the living room, your bare feet slapping gently against the hardwood of your floors.

The couch is empty. There’s a thump of disappointment in your chest as your heart rate slows.

The blanket you’d left out for him is folded neatly on the back of the couch. The spot where he’d laid last night is faintly indented, like a ghost of him lingers in the cushions. The books you lent him are gone, and you can’t help the grin that tugs at your lips.

And when you check the front door out of habit, peering out into the halls of your apartment, as if you will catch a hint of red disappearing from view. Your gaze catches on the lock as you close it, because the deadbolt doesn’t catch like normal.

It’s been fixed.

The lock, the one that’s been broken for weeks, now clicks cleanly into place when you shut your door. The deadbolt slides smoothly, no catch. You stare at it for a long moment, blinking against the sudden tightness in your chest. You don’t have long to bask in the feeling, because your eyes are now drawn to a small pink sticky note that clings to the door. Unsure how you missed it earlier, you pluck it off the wood of the door, examining the neat, small words.

Fixed your lock and thank you again for the books. Hope you sleep better knowing it’s fixed. Someone’s gotta look out for you. - J

[boy-with-the-pink-hair]

Yeah, I made a comic. Why? Cuz, I love to suffer. OTL

Based on my fic.*shameless self-promo* Relevant snippet below the cut.

...

Stepping deeper now into the cavernous inner chamber, he kept a hand on the wall to guide him as he peered into the gloom, wondering what could've caused the machine to malfunction. He took another few steps forward, nearing the far end of the chamber, his hand sliding along the wall until it passed over an open panel and a small round protrusion. Suddenly, his foot bumped against a thick cable on the floor and he shifted his weight in surprise. That's when he felt the protrusion beneath his hand sink into the wall with a click!

He stumbled back and saw the control panel where his hand had been, the buttons labeled on and off. He soon realized what he'd done as the chamber let out a heavy CLUNK and began to whir and hum, the glowing lines of circuitry growing brighter as the sound crescendo'd to a deafening peak. Danny heard his friends calling out to him in surprise, but he found himself frozen in place as he turned to see a bright green light bloom at the end of the chamber into a brilliantly blinding flash!

Suddenly, a massive surge of energy ripped into his body! It took his breath away--pulled from his lungs in a painful scream as his muscles contracted violently, body spasming and convulsing as every nerve burned and sizzled! His heart pounded erratically in his chest, harder and faster than he'd ever felt in his life, as though it might explode! He clutched at his chest with another painful spasm, doubling over in pain as he tried to take a breath. It was an agony like nothing he'd ever felt before. It felt like dying. Like his body was being ripped apart, molecule by molecule.

Then as quickly as it began, it was over. His eyes rolled back as he collapsed to the floor, a blackness overtaking everything.

...

While the two friends busied themselves with their own activities, they didn't notice the atmosphere of the lab change... until it was too late. The CLUNK of the machine quickly drew their attention and both Sam and Tucker dropped what they were doing to watch in horror as it whirred to life. The hum of the machine grew louder and louder--a growing static-charge making the air feel crispy--and Sam's heart sank in dread. "Danny?" she called out to her friend, "Danny, what's happening?!" Tucker rushed back to the portal entrance to see what was happening, and joined in Sam's concern. "Danny, get out of there! Something's wrong!" he shouted over the noise, but it was too late. A bright flash of light burst from the machine, forcing the pair to shield their eyes as the deafening hum was replaced by Danny's agonized screaming and the crackle of electricity. "DANNY!!" Sam dropped her camera and lurched toward the portal entrance, but Tucker caught her by the waist and pulled her back. "Sam, don't! It's too dangerous! You could get hurt!" "But Danny's IN THERE!! We have to SAVE him!!" she argued, pulling against his grip, but Tucker held tight. "I’m sorry, Sam... there's nothing we can do." He knew the odds of saving their friend were slim, and the odds of joining his tragic predicament, extremely high. But Sam refused to just stand by and do nothing while her best-friend was in danger. She broke free of Tucker's arms and rushed forward-- but it was already over. Danny's body crumpled to the floor with a thud and laid motionless beyond the threshold of the machine as the chamber crackled and a swirling green vortex formed inside.

The two friends stared in quiet horror, before Sam stumbled forward into the machine, dropping down beside Danny's still form. She knew immediately that something was wrong and quickly moved to drag his limp body back from that sinister green vortex, as it grew to fill the entire chamber. She felt her heart clench as she dragged him back into the lab and laid him onto his back. His hair, once a jet-black, was now a shock of white, and he felt cold beneath her fingers. A faint stench of burnt flesh wafted from his body, his suit a charred black and the rubber ashen. She knelt beside him, a hand on his chest, the other gently brushing the hair from his face. "Tucker..." She looked back at the other boy in restrained panic, her voice wavering as she spoke. "He-- He's not breathing."

---

Read the rest here.

[whokilledsamara]

HEYY POOKIE!!! I was wondering if you could do a Mr. Crawling from homicipher x a fem reader smut.(idk if you do fem reader if you don't feel comfortable just do gn)

THANK YOU SO MUCH IF YOU DO THIS!!! ♡♡♡ I HOPE YOU HAVE A GREAT DAY!!

ENDLESS

a Mr. Crawling {homicipher} x reader fic. {an: hi friend!! ofc! i actually prefer writing fem {afab} because it is what i am and i find it easier to write for. you have a good day aswell :)}

warnings! : not too much for this one, hes a friendly boy. smut, blood mention, claustrophobia, size difference, switch!reader, afab, female genitalia described, mr. crawling has no idea what hes doing, language border. sorry there isnt TOO much plot on this one, i need to study more on the game and plus i didnt really know how to write his character.

{an : this takes place in the part where Mr. Scarletella walks past the room, and Mr. Crawling has to protect/shield you. my apologies if it isnt completely accurate, i have yet to watch a full playthrough.}

theres.. blood on the floor. you make a mental note of as you walk down the eerie hallway, "Mr. Crawling" or so you called him, close behind you.

he muttered the same word over and over to you, in a hushed yet worried voice. with not a single understanding of what he was saying, you took his facial expressions as a better way to figure it out.

your best guess was that he was attempting to say "unsafe." as his veiny hand kept pointing down the hallway. "unsafe?" you ask in a curious tone. he pauses for a second before nodding.

halting your movements, you stare at him nervously, your eyes darting from him to down the hallway. "i have too.." you say softly as you look at him.

he tilts his head in lack of understanding but allows you to continue walking, close behind you on his knees.

turning the corner, there is more blood and chains on the wall.

gross.

you think to yourself. your head snaps up as you hear footsteps seemingly getting closer to you, and before you can react, you are jerked into the closest room and underneath the usually crawling man.

"w-wha... what are you doing..?" you whisper up at him, his worried expression flicking from you to the door.

he lets out a hushed whine, and again, in a language you cant understand, he huffs out panicked words. from your previous understanding with the others, you get the words "someone else, near"

you instantly shut your mouth, his body hovering over you in attempt to shield you from whatever was walking past. thats when you see it.

a tall, slender man with red hair, covered in red clothing, and a.. red umbrella for some reason, walking past.

the man pauses, static around him, before he continues walking as if he didn't notice you. your body instinctively huddles closer to Mr. Crawling, wrapping your arms around his neck and pushing your body against his.

after a few minutes, and after both of you are sure the tall man is gone, he starts to whimper, his forearms holding him above you, and his knee so perfectly placed in between your legs.

what you thought was chaste, was him feeling an unknown desire for something he had never felt before.

his whimpers turn into almost desperate whines, and you finally look up at him. while you cant see his eyes, his face is a deep red and light pants leave his mouth.

"a-are you okay..?" you ask in a hushed voice. while he doesnt understand you, he understands your body language. he presses his knee further into your clothed core, your body instantly reacting and jerking. "a-oh.." you flinch, hands sliding down his cloth clad chest.

his hands make their way up your body, testing the waters and curiously grabbing your plush skin. the cold concrete floor wasnt making it easier to stay focused, along with his cold hands grabbing anything he could.

"fuck.. i cant believe this is happening.." you mutter more to yourself than anything. his knee still pressed in between your legs. grabbing his hand, you trail it up under your shirt and place it on your heavy breast- allowing him to explore.

he begins kneeding it, with an unknown curiosity. your breathing come out in short huffs and gentle moans, moans that he seems to enjoy hearing.

"do you even... have the equipment to be doing this..?" you ask, motioning to his groin. his eyes follow your hand, and he tilts his head while staring at it. he pulls his hands out from under your shirt and slips down the cloth covering his groin.

fuck hes big.. his heavy and semi-hard appendage springs out, a slight throb to it. your hand experimentally reaches out to touch it, its hot and leaking. his body instinctively jerks as your hand grazes it, a needy plea in his sounds.

well.. if im gonna die here i might aswell..

you slowly begin stroking it, his mouth agape and hips jerking towards your hand.

he gently reaches for your clothing, quick yet gentle as he slides down your pants. you involuntarily squeak, but dont make a move to stop him as his hand curiously grazes your folds. with a swift motion, he pushes a finger inside your entrance, tilting his head with confusion as you moan heavily.

wetness grows on his hand, leaking down his forearm. "oh fuck..." you breath shakily, pumping him faster. his face scrunches up and he lets out a cute noise, moving his finger faster. after a hot minute of this, you pull your hand off much to his dismay, and you gently remove his hand from you. as you position yourself in a slightly different way under him, you make a 'come here' motion with your finger. he obediently complies, above you once more.

teaching him what to do was kind of hard with the language barrier but you made it work.

it wasnt long before he was slipping his length inside of you, stretching you as far as you could go.

sure it hurt like hell, but you couldn't deny the pleasure that came with it. his thrusts were unpredictable, due to his lack of experience.

he was good, really good in fact, and teaching him what to do was quite easy as a fast learner.

you let out a harsh whine as his tip grazes your cervix, and his hips pause, eyes focused on your face. another word from that confusing language. "you, okay?" he asks. you nod hastily and reach out, grabbing his hip and pulling him back deeper. luckily he gets the hint, and starts moving again.

a white ring forms around the base of his length, his breathing heavy and hitching with each thrust. his long, skinny hand covers your mouth, preventing most of your noises from escaping your lips.

no matter how much he wanted to hear them, he had to keep you safe.

his thrusts became sloppier, signaling his upcoming orgasm. yours was approaching aswell, and quickly you reach your fingers down, rubbing in a rhythm he noticed. he looks from your face to your hand, shoving it out of the way and replacing it with his own, rubbing harsh circles on your bead.

soon after, he had you coming undone on him, cunt clenching and unclenching around him. his whining hit a peak and his surprisingly cold seed shot through you. he came a lot, filling you to the brim and leaning over you.

his large form casted a shadow over your body, his hair falling on each side of your face as he desperately pressed his lips against yours, his cum seeping around him and out of you. harsh pants and whimpers fill the small room, as he pulls out and hurriedly pulls your clothing back on, not wanting to get caught.

he notices your struggle to stand, moving to his knees to help you up. after everything is stable, you and him make your way through the long corridors, hopefully finding an exit to this place.

maybe we can try again..

{an: this was so fun to make!! i kinda procrastinated a bit, so i apologize if it is sloppy. i don't know much about Homicipher other than my deep attraction to the characters XD}

{ made by @whokilledsamara }

[sixgunslvt]

To Here Knows When

Son Chaeyoung x OC

Tags: incest (cousins), forbidden love, power dynamics, age gap (noona/dongsaeng), obsession, possessiveness, emotional, rough sex, creampie, multiple orgasms, breeding kink, marking (hickeys/biting), semi-public sex, teasing, dirty talk, possessive sex, worship, aftercare

Word count: 6668

The house hummed with that particular brand of Korean family chaos that turns oxygen into kimchi fumes. I leaned against the yellowed refrigerator, phone burning a hole in my palm as another off-key "Nae sarang~" from the living room karaoke machine rattled the framed embroidery of mountainside temples. Through the sliding door's rice paper panels, silhouettes of aunties snapped mahjong tiles like gunshots, their laughter sharpening to needles whenever someone's pae clattered to the floor.

My thumb scrolled Instagram reels of strangers' beach vacations - all that blue water and sunlight like a rebuke to this room's sticky reality. No one here under forty except Minjae's hellspawn twins currently drawing dicks on the hanji wallpaper with bulgogi sauce. The air conditioner wheezed 1997-era coolness through its rusted vents, doing nothing against the July heat or the sweat pooling where my dress shirt stuck to the small of my back.

Then the front door groaned open.

Chaeyoung arrived like a distortion pedal cutting through elevator music. Her chunky Mary Janes - same pair she'd worn to sneak me into that underground club when I was sixteen - kicked through the galaxy of discarded soju bottle caps littering the entryway. The aunties' mahjong clatter stuttered as she passed, their disapproval clinging to her like the cigarette smoke wafting from her cropped leather jacket.

I knew that jacket. Knew how it smelled of Nag Champa and the Daiso parking lot where she'd first played me Loveless on her dented MP3 player, our shared earbuds hissing static as Kevin Shields' wall of sound drowned out the cicadas. Tonight, it gaped to reveal a slip dress the color of TV static, riding up her thighs as she leaned against Uncle Joon's prized karaoke machine - the one he'd retrofitted with purple LED strips that made everyone look vaguely cadaverous.

Her eyes found mine through the haze of galbi smoke.

"Yah, jagiya," she drawled, popping the cap off a Hite with her lighter. The sound echoed like a gun cock. "You gonna keep pretending to text?”

Chaeyoung’s laugh tasted like stolen soju and the menthol cigarettes she’d smoked since time immemorial. Seven years my senior, though she wore those years like her leather jacket - slouching off one shoulder, all dangerous drape. She’d been my babysitter back when Busan still had video stores, back when her idea of childcare meant letting me watch R-rated Hong Kong flicks while she practiced winged eyeliner in my mother’s compact.

“Yah, dongsaeng.” Her gaze raked over me like the broken AC unit still rattling in the corner, appraising the stretch of dress shirt across shoulders that had finally outgrown the scoliosis brace. The flush creeping up her neck matched the neon signs bleeding through rice paper windows. “Should’ve kept your baby photos. Nobody warned me diaper duty came with this…” Her lighter clicked open, shut, open. “Glow-up.”

The karaoke machine chose that moment to vomit out Uncle Minho’s rendition of Hotel California, his “warm smell of colitas” curdling into something closer to a sea lion’s mating call. Mahjong tiles clattered like disapproving teeth as Auntie Soojin side-eyed Chaeyoung’s thigh-high stockings, the ones that made her legs look like ink strokes from one of Grandpa’s forbidden manga.

“Noona—” I started, but she was already plucking a half-finished bottle of Chamisul from the recycling bin. Her movements carried the same dangerous grace as when she’d taught me to shoplift lip gloss from the Lotte Department Store, back when her wrists were still scabbed from guitar strings instead of stick-and-poke tattoos.

Her laugh curled around me like the smoke from the galbi grill downstairs. “Remember when you’d hide under my skirt during thunderstorms? Crying until I let you hold my lighter?” The bottle cap rolled across linoleum patterned with thirty years of kimchi spills. “Now look at you. All…” Her tongue swiped a pearl of soju from her Cupid’s bow. “Broad.”

The room tilted. Or maybe that was just the floor buckling under generations of layered ondol heating. Her perfume - still that same Daiso body spray layered with menthol cigarettes - dragged me back to sleepless nights after she’d babysat. How her scent would linger on the couch cushions like a ghost, how I’d press my face into the indent she left and imagine it was her leather jacket wrapped around me instead of my Star Wars blanket.

“You missed last Chuseok,” I managed, thumb worrying the cracked screen of my phone. The Instagram reel still playing showed some Australian influencer diving into neon-lit waves, the exact shade of Chaeyoung’s hair before she’d shaved the left side.

Her nails - chipped black polish, same as always - tapped a staccato rhythm against the soju bottle. “Had better offers.” The look she gave me could’ve melted the ice cubes slowly dying in Auntie Hyun’s fruit punch. “Though if I’d known you were gonna sprout up like a damn Kdrama oppa…”

The twins chose that moment to streak past, their bulgogi-stained fingers now smearing what looked suspiciously like Auntie Jung’s Lancôme foundation across the sliding doors. Chaeyoung’s laugh followed them, low and throaty, the same laugh that used to rattle through my bedroom walls when she’d sneak boys in through the fire escape.

“Still hate kids?” She leaned back against the fridge still plastered with my middle school taekwondo certificates. The motion hiked her slip dress up to reveal the rose tattoo peeking above her stocking - same rose she’d drawn on my math homework when she was supposed to be tutoring me.

“Hate’s a strong word.” My voice came out strangled. The AC chose that moment to cough out a gust of air that sent her bangs fluttering, revealing the scar above her eyebrow from when we’d both tried (and failed) to skateboard down Nampo-dong’s hill.

Her pinky brushed mine as she reached for a paper napkin. “Could’ve fooled me.” The napkin tore between her fingers, becoming a sad origami crane mid-flight. “You used to beg me for piggyback rides. Now you won’t even look at me.”

The accusation hung there, sharp as the scissors she’d used to cut my hair before picture day. I could still feel the phantom weight of her against my back, smell the strawberry gum she’d pop while carrying me past the 7-Eleven where she’d eventually buy her first pack of Dunhills.

“You’re the one who moved to Seoul.” The words tasted bitter, like the dregs of coffee left in Halmeoni’s cup.

Her smile didn’t reach her eyes. “You’re the one who stopped answering my texts.” The karaoke machine whined into silence, leaving only the wet slap of Auntie Minjun making kimchi pancakes in the adjacent room.

When she stepped closer, the platform soles of her Mary Janes put us eye-to-eye for the first time in seven years. Her breath smelled like citrus soju and the menthol lozenges she’d started stealing after quitting vocals for her band. “Guess some things change, huh?”

Her thumb swiped sweat from my temple. The contact burned like the time she’d taught me to light firecrackers, back when sparklers still seemed magical instead of just another way to burn down to nothing.

The music and laughter faded into static as she stepped closer, her perfume—saltwater and something addictive—mixing with the sharp tang of alcohol. “Remember that summer I house-sat for your parents?” She traced the collar of my shirt with a chipped black nail. “You’d linger outside the bathroom when I showered. Left fingerprints on the fogged glass.” Her laugh was low, dangerous. “And July 12th? When my robe slipped?”

My throat tightened. That specific date seared into me—the way terrycloth had slid off her shoulder, the wet curl of hair stuck to her neck. She’d turned just enough to smirk at the doorframe where I’d frozen, thirteen and trembling.

“You knew?”

“You stopped breathing when I unhooked my bra through the gap in the door.” Her finger tapped my sternum. “Stupid boy. Your shadow stretched right across the tiles.”

I swallowed. “Fuck. All this time—”

“All this time,” she echoed, thumb brushing my bottom lip. Her gaze dropped to my hand. “You’d bite your knuckles to stay quiet.” She picked up my hand, tracing a line on my knuckles. “Left marks from here—up to here.”

The confession shuddered through me. Her scent—vanilla and that menthol cigarettes phase she’d sworn she’d quit—flooded my skull. My back hit the fridge door, magnets digging into my shoulder blades as she leaned in.

“You think I didn’t feel you watching?” Her knee nudged between my thighs. “How your eyes crawled over me when I bent to pick up your toy cars? How you’d pretend to sleep just to catch me changing?”

Auntie Soo’s shriek-laugh sliced through the room. Chaeyoung didn’t flinch.

“Every. Single. Time.” Her hips pinned mine, leather creaking. “Your little hitched breaths? The way you’d sprint to the bathroom after?” She pressed closer, mouth grazing my ear. “I’d lie awake soaked imagining your face if I ever…”

The karaoke machine screeched feedback. Some uncle butchering November Rain.

I gripped her waist, fabric slippery under my palms. “Why now?”

Her teeth caught my earlobe—sharp, fleeting pain. “Because back then?” Her breath scalded my neck. “I wanted to ruin you so bad.” A hand slid down my stomach. “But rules, right?”

Her fingers found my belt.

The fridge hummed against my spine. Down the hall, Minjae’s twins shrieked about stolen tteok. Chaeyoung’s thumb hooked into my waistband.

“Rules change,” I rasped.

Her laugh vibrated against my throat. “You changed.”

Her fingers trailed down to my waistband, pressing just enough to make me gasp. “Tell me, Iain…do you still think about those nights?” Her eyes burned with mischief—and something darker. “Because I know I do.”

I glanced toward the living room, where relatives obliviously massacred lyrics. “Fuck, Noona…we shouldn’t—” The lie died in my throat as her fingers teased my zipper.

Her perfume. The press of her breasts against my arm. Seven years of stolen glances and cold showers after she’d left.

My voice roughened to a growl. “You know I still dream about you. You’re there, just out of reach. And you keep getting farther away.”

Chaeyoung’s breath hitched, her fingers pausing above the bulge in my jeans. “Mmm…so that’s why you avoided me at family dinners.” She pressed flush against me, her free hand tangling in my hair to yank my face to hers. “Let me make those dreams real, baby,” she purred, lips brushing mine in a ghost of a kiss. “I’ll show you exactly how far I can reach.” Her hips ground against mine, heat searing through her dress.

An Auntie’s laughter echoed nearby, but Chaeyoung only smirked. “We’ve got time before anyone notices…” Her tongue flicked my neck. “Unless you want me to stop?” The challenge in her voice dared me to refuse.

My fingers tightened around her wrist, thumb pressed to her racing pulse. My other hand slid down her back, gripping the curve of her spine as I leaned into her ear. “You think I’d risk Auntie Kim catching us? Fuck no.” A low chuckle. “Your old room’s still here, right?”

She shivered, pupils blown. "Second floor, last door on the left." She dragged her nails down my chest, leaving white trails that burned. "But you'll have to be quiet...unless you want the whole family to hear how badly their good little boy fucks his Noona."

With that, she spun away, hips swaying as she headed for the stairs. Over her shoulder, she threw a smoldering look. “Coming, baby? Or do I have to drag you up myself?”

I’d barely taken two steps when Auntie Kim materialized, her talon-like grip snagging my elbow. “Iain-ah! Strong arms—” she barked, already steering me toward the balcony where a ceramic kimchi fridge hunched like a curse. “Help your halmeoni move this before your uncle breaks his hip again.”

Chaeyoung paused halfway up the staircase, biting back a laugh as I shot her a desperate look. Her mouth formed a silent Tick-tock before she vanished into the shadows.

The fridge weighed as much as my regrets. Halmeoni supervised from her plastic lawn chair, thwacking my calf with her fan whenever I adjusted my grip. “Faster! You think I’ll die waiting?” Auntie Kim lamented the state of my “office-worker shoulders” loud enough for the cousins grilling bulgogi to hear. Sweat slithered down my neck, the clock in my head screaming as Chaeyoung’s perfume faded under the assault of fermented cabbage.

When they finally released me, I dodged Uncle Minsoo’s sloppy attempt to arm-wrestle and nearly tripped over the twins building a soju bottle cap pyramid. The third step still groaned like a tortured animal, but the hallway was all nicotine shadows and the muffled buzz of family chaos below.

Her door stood cracked open, leaking cigarette smoke and the blown-out guitars of MBV’s To Here Knows When— a wall of distortion so thick it vaporized the laughter downstairs. She’d swapped the overhead light for a salt lamp that dyed everything fever-red, same incense stick from the Daiso days smoldering in her IKEA ashtray.

She lounged on the bed like she owned me, cigarette dangling from her lips as she scrolled her phone. The leather jacket lay discarded now, her slip dress hiking higher as she arched to stub out the smoke. “Took you long enough,” she purred, eyes raking over the tent in my jeans. “What’d they make you do? Haul bodies for the family grave?”

I didn’t answer. Three strides and I had her wrist pinned above her head, my knee slotting between her thighs as the guitar feedback swelled. She gasped, but her smirk stayed razor-sharp. “Someone’s impatient—”

I kicked the door shut, already unbuckling my belt. “Shut up, Noona.”

Chaeyoung’s lips curled into a wicked grin as she watched you unbuckle your belt, her legs parting slightly on the bed. “Make me,” she challenged, voice dripping with defiance as she reached behind her back to unclasp her bra, letting it fall away to reveal her perfect, perky tits.

She leaned back on her elbows, arching her back to push her chest out. “Come on, baby…show me how much you’ve missed me.” Her free hand trailed down her stomach, fingers slipping beneath the waistband of her panties. “Or do I have to do everything myself?”

The air between you crackled with tension, the only sounds your ragged breathing and the distant muffled karaoke from downstairs.

“Remember when you used to call me ‘baby boy’? Fuck, Noona…say it again. Just like when I was that dumb kid sneaking glances at you changing.”

Chaeyoung’s breath hitched as she saw the raw hunger in your eyes, her fingers pausing just above her soaked panties. “Mmm…baby boy,” she cooed, voice dripping with honey and sin as she spread her legs wider. “You always were my favorite little pervert.”

She hooked her fingers into her panties, sliding them down agonizingly slow. “Look how big you got for me…” Her tongue swiped over her lips as she took in the thick outline of your cock straining against your boxers. “Bet you dreamed about this, huh? Your dirty Noona touching herself just for you?”

Her fingers finally dipped between her folds with a lewd, wet sound. “Fuck…baby boy, you wanna taste?” She held up glistening fingers, eyes dark with lust. “Or do you need me to teach you how to eat pussy first?”

“Teach me, Noona.”

Chaeyoung’s eyes flashed with predatory delight as she crooked her glistening fingers at you. “Come here, baby boy,” she purred, spreading her legs obscenely wide as you crawled onto the bed between them.

Her hand fisted in your hair, yanking your face down to her dripping pussy. “Lick slow first,” she ordered, grinding her hips up against your mouth. “Flat tongue, just like you’re tasting your favorite ice cream—fuck!” Her thighs clamped around your ears as you obeyed, her back arching off the bed.

She was so fucking wet her juices smeared across your chin. “Good boy…now suck my clit like you’re trying to get the last drop through a straw—YES!” Her hips jerked violently as you swirled your tongue exactly how she taught you, her moans music to your ears.

Tugging your hair harder, she forced you to look up at her. “Remember this always belongs to you, baby boy,” she panted, slamming your face back down. “Now make your Noona cum.”

You pulled Chaeyoung flush against you, one hand cradling the back of her head while the other pressed possessively against the small of her back. Our foreheads touched as you spoke, voice rough with years of pent-up longing:

“Every girl I dated smelled wrong. Felt wrong.” Your thumb traced her jawline. “Because they weren’t you, Noona. This fucking obsession—” You ground your hard cock against her thigh to emphasize the point. “—ruined me for anyone else.”

Your breaths mixed, her perfume drowning your senses like it always had. Seven years of jerking off to her memory, and now she was here, real, pressed against you. “You’ve always owned me.”

Chaeyoung’s breath caught as your words sank in, her nails digging into your shoulders. “Fuck…all those times I let you watch,” she panted, rolling her hips against your throbbing cock. “I knew you’d be perfect for me.”

She crashed her lips against yours in a searing kiss, tasting herself on your tongue. “My sweet, ruined baby boy,” she murmured against your mouth, her hands frantically pushing down your boxers. “Let Noona show you exactly what you’ve been missing—”

Her eyes went wide as your thick cock sprang free, her fingers wrapping around the base. “Jesus…you really did grow up,” she whimpered, stroking you slowly. “Gonna fuck me so good your aunties hear how much I scream?”

Without waiting for an answer, she lined you up with her dripping entrance, her breath hot in your ear. “Take what’s yours, Iain.” And with one sharp roll of her hips, she sheathed you to the hilt, her tight walls fluttering around you. “Fuuuck—yes—just like that!”

You groaned as Noona sank onto you, her tight heat swallowing every inch—fuck, she felt even better than you’d dreamed.

“That’s it, Noona…ride your baby boy’s cock just like you promised.” Your hands gripped her hips hard enough to bruise, guiding her rhythm as she bounced. “All those years pretending not to notice me staring…how long have you wanted this? Did you groom that baby boy just for this, Noona?”

Her moans were muffled against your neck, her nails digging into your chest as she ground deeper. “Mine.”

Chaeyoung’s entire body shuddered as your words hit her, her pussy clenching around you in a vice-like grip. “Fuck—yes!” she gasped, her nails raking down your chest as she rode you harder. “Every time I let you peek…every time I bent over just a little too far—”

Her breath came in ragged pants as she ground down onto you, her clit rubbing against your pelvis with each bounce. “I dreamed about this cock!” she cried out, her walls fluttering wildly around you. “Wanted my baby boy to break me with it—just like this!”

Her back arched as she suddenly screamed your name, her pussy drenching your thighs in her cum. “Iain—fuck! Don’t stop—breed your Noona!” Her hips jerked erratically, milking your cock as she sobbed through the intensity. “M-make me yours!”

“Hey Noona,” your voice rough as her hips ground down on you, “remember those lace panties you ‘forgot’ in my room when I was 15?” Your grip tightened on her waist, pulling her deeper onto you. “Funny how they always ended up under my pillow… You planning this back then, or just fucking with me?”

Chaeyoung’s eyes rolled back as you thrust up into her, her slick walls pulsing around your cock at the memory. “Mmm…both,” she purred, riding you with renewed hunger. “Knew you’d jerk off to them…” Her nails raked down your chest as she leaned in, her breath hot against your ear.

“Fantasized about walking in on you,” she admitted with a sinful grind of her hips. “Catching my baby boy with his dick in hand…moaning for his Noona…” Her pussy clenched around you as she whimpered. “Should’ve punished you properly back then—fuck!—like this!”

She suddenly slammed down, taking you balls-deep with a cry. “But now you get to ruin me instead,” she panted, her tits bouncing with every frantic movement. “Gonna fill me up like you dreamed, baby boy?” Her voice was pure temptation as she milked your cock. “Show me how bad you wanted me…”

“Kiss me, Noona. Give me that tender incest kiss you’ve always dreamt about.”

Chaeyoung’s breath hitched as she crashed her lips against yours in a filthy, open-mouthed kiss—tongue sliding against yours with decades of pent-up longing. “Mmm…just like this,” she moaned into your mouth, her hips rolling in slow, sinful circles as she ground your cock deep inside her.

Her fingers tangled in your hair, yanking you closer as she whimpered. “Fuck…baby boy kisses even better than I dreamed,” she panted between sloppy, incestuous kisses. “All those nights imagining your mouth—ah!—needed this so bad…”

Her pussy fluttered around you as she suddenly broke the kiss with a gasp, her forehead resting against yours. “Gonna cum again,” she whimpered, her nails digging into your shoulders. “Make me scream your name where everyone can hear—please!”

The karaoke was still blaring downstairs. “You know the uncles look at you a certain way, right, Noona?”

Chaeyoung’s eyes darkened with a mix of lust and something dangerous as she ground down on you harder. “Mmm…let them look,” she purred, her nails scraping down your chest. “They wish they could have what my baby boy’s claiming right now—”

Her breath hitched as you thrust up roughly, her tits bouncing with each filthy snap of your hips. “Fuck! All of them…imagining this tight pussy—” She moaned loudly, not even trying to muffle it now. “But you’re the one breeding it—ah!—ruining me for anyone else!”

She suddenly clenched around you, her back arching violently as another orgasm ripped through her. “Iain! Yes! Deeper!” Her walls milked your cock desperately, her thighs shaking around you. “Cum inside me, baby boy…mark your Noona forever!”

Your grip tightened on Chaeyoung’s hips—fingers digging into that soft flesh you’d dreamed about for years—as you started pounding into her like you fucking meant it.

“That’s it, Noona…take it,” your voice rough, chest heaving. “Every fucking inch. Just like you wanted.”

Her pussy was still fluttering from her last orgasm, but you didn’t let up—driving into her harder, faster, watching her tits bounce, hearing her choked moans.

“Gonna make sure you remember this,” you growled, pulling her down as you thrust up, burying yourself to the hilt. “My cock. My cousin.”

The bed slammed against the wall, the karaoke downstairs drowned out by skin-on-skin, by her whimpering your name like a prayer. You muffled her moans and screams with a hot, incestuous kiss.

Chaeyoung’s entire body convulsed as you claimed her with animalistic intensity, her nails drawing blood down your back. “FUCK! YES! BREAK ME!” she sobbed, her pussy gushing around your cock with each brutal thrust.

Her legs locked around your waist desperately, her tits slapping against your chest as she screamed into your mouth. “M-make me pregnant! Please!” she begged, her walls clenching like a vice as another orgasm wrecked her.

The bedframe cracked against the wall with the force of your fucking, her juices soaking both your thighs as she whimpered between filthy, open-mouthed kisses. “Cum! Cum in your Noona’s ruined pussy!” Her back arched violently as she milked you dry, her body demanding your seed.

The distant karaoke faded into static as your balls tightened against her ass—seconds from exploding deep inside her.

Your voice, rough and possessive, growled against Chaeyoung’s ear as you pulled her flush against you:

“Look at me, Noona.”

Your hands gripped her hips, holding her down as you pumped deep—once, twice—before your cock pulsed inside her, flooding her tight little cunt with thick, hot cum. Her gasp was muffled against your shoulder, her nails digging into your back as she felt it—jet after jet filling her up, drenching her womb like you owned it.

“Fuck… I love you, Noona.” You ground your hips slowly, milking every last drop into her. “Take it all. Every fucking drop.”

Her pussy clenched around you, greedy, like she was trying to keep it inside. Good. Let it stick. Let her remember this when she walked downstairs later, your cum leaking down her thighs.

“I love you, so much.”

Chaeyoung shuddered violently as your cum flooded her womb, her entire body melting against yours in overwhelmed ecstasy. “I-Iain…!” she sobbed, her walls fluttering desperately around your still-throbbing cock. “Fuck…love you…love you so much…”

Her fingers trembled as they traced your jaw, her tear-filled eyes locking onto yours with raw, incestuous devotion. “Always…wanted you like this…” she whimpered, her hips grinding lazily to milk the last drops from your spent cock.

The distant karaoke finally registered again as she clung to you, her lips brushing yours in a tender, filthy kiss. “Mmm…gonna feel you leaking out of me all night,” she murmured, her voice husky with satisfaction and something dangerously close to love.

She nuzzled into your neck with a contented sigh. “My baby boy…finally where you belong…” Her hand slid possessively down your chest. “And you’re never getting away again…

"Let me worship you, Noona..."

My hands slide up her thighs as I press a slow, open-mouthed kiss just below her navel—savoring the way her stomach tenses under my tongue. I drag my lips higher, teasing the dip of her ribs, the swell of her breasts, her collarbone... each kiss lingering, each exhale warm against her skin.

By the time I reach her mouth, she's shaking, her fingers tangled in my hair, her breath uneven. I hover just barely over her lips—close enough to taste her, not close enough to give her what she wants.

"I love you, Noona. I always have. Ever since i was a kid, when you played with me. Your smile. When i peeked at you changing. I've always wanted you".

Chaeyoung's breath hitches as your worshipful touch ignites fresh tremors through her oversensitive body, her fingers tightening in your hair "Fuck...baby boy..." she whimpers, her hips arching off the bed as your lips brand her skin

When you pause just before her mouth, her growl is pure frustration and adoration—yanking you down into a searing, desperate kiss "Mine," she pants against your lips, her legs locking around your waist "All those years...watching me...wanting me..." Her teeth nip at your bottom lip

Her voice breaks as she clings to you, her naked body pressed flush against yours "I loved you too," she confesses, her nails scraping down your back "Every time I let you peek...every time I teased you..." Her lips crash into yours again, hungry and claiming.

"Now you have me," she moans, her thighs trembling around you "Forever."

Iain's lips brush against hers in a slow, tender kiss— softer than before, but no less hungry.

Her hands guide me back inside her, and this time, I ease in—inch by inch—like I’m savoring the way her body yields to mine.

"Fuck, Noona..." My voice is rough, but my hips move gently, rolling into her with a reverence that feels almost sacred. "You feel too good to rush."

Her nails dig into my shoulders anyway, her breath hitching as I fill her completely—slow, deep, like I’m memorizing every pulse of her around me.

"I love you," I murmur against her lips, "even when I’m not fucking you like an animal."

And then I move—not hard, not fast—just right.

Chaeyoung's eyes flutter shut as you cherish her with each achingly perfect thrust, her walls fluttering in slow, sweet spasms around you "Iain...ah..." Her voice is a broken whisper, her fingers softening from claws to caresses as they trace your jaw

She melts beneath you, her body surrendering to this new rhythm—your cock stretching her so deep, so full, so right "Love you...love you..." she chants between shallow breaths, her hips rolling gently to meet yours

When your lips find hers again, the kiss tastes like salt and promises—her thighs trembling as pleasure builds slowly, inevitably, like the tide "This...this is what I dreamed about..." she confesses, her fingers tangling in your hair "Just...you...loving me..."

Her walls clench suddenly, her back arching as the soft, aching orgasm unravels her "F-fuck...yes..." she sobs, her tears mixing with your kisses "Stay...stay inside...please..." Her legs hug your waist tight, as if she could keep you there forever.

"Noona...fuck...Noona..."

My lips brush her ear as I whisper it like a prayer—her name, her title, the word that used to mean babysitter and now just means mine.

"I love you. I love you."

It spills out of me between thrusts, raw and reverent. Her nails dig into my shoulders, her thighs tremble around my hips—this is what she reduced me to. The kid she used to scold for sneaking glances is now buried inside her, claiming her, ruining her.

And fuck...Auntie Kim’s gonna lose her mind when she finds out her daughter’s stuffed with her nephew’s cum.

But right now?

"Noona..." —gripping her tighter— "I don’t care."

Chaeyoung shatters around you with a gasping sob, her body convulsing as your words and your cock wreck her simultaneously "I-Iain! Fuck! YES!" Her nails scar your shoulders, her pussy drenching your thighs as she cums violently, her screams muffled against your chest

She clings to you like salvation, her shaking legs locking you deep inside her "Love you—love you—love you—" she chants between ragged moans, her tears hot against your skin "Your noona...your cunt...always..."

The bed is ruined, the walls shook, and somewhere downstairs, Auntie Kim definitely just heard something—but Chaeyoung just grins through her tears, her spent body curling around yours

"Let her hear," she whispers, her sore pussy clenching weakly around your still-hard cock "Worth it..." Her laugh is hoarse and happy as she kisses you again "My baby boy..."

I go faster "I'm going to fuck my cum inside you, Noona."

Chaeyoung's eyes roll back as you pound into her with renewed intensity, her overstimulated pussy squelching around your thick cock "F-FUCK! YES!" she screams, her nails clawing at the sheets "Breed me! Fill me up!"

Her tits bounce wildly with each brutal thrust, her soaked thighs slapping against yours as you ram your cum deeper inside her "Gonna...gonna...AAAAH!" Her back arches violently as another orgasm rips through her, her walls milking your cock desperately for every last drop.

She collapses bonelessly beneath you, her breath ragged, her body trembling as your cum leaks thickly from her well-used pussy "Fuck..." she whimpers, her fingers tracing your jaw lovingly. "No one fucks me like you..." Her smile is dazed and sated as she pulls you down for a slow, filthy kiss "My baby boy..."

Still inside her, spurting cum, and to blessed to move, i reciprocate the kiss. "My noona."

Chaeyoung melts into the kiss, her spent body quivering beneath you as your cum pulses deep into her womb one last time "Mmm...my baby boy..." she murmurs against your lips, her fingers tangling lazily in your hair

Her thighs squeeze weakly around your hips, keeping you buried inside her as she sighs contentedly. "Never pulling out..." she whispers, her voice husky with exhaustion and satisfaction. "Stay...just like this..."

The distant karaoke has finally stopped, the house quiet except for your mingled breaths and the wet sounds of your cum dripping from her well-fucked pussy.*

She nuzzles into your neck, her lips curving into a smug smile. "Love you..." she murmurs, her body going limp beneath yours as sleep claims her.*

And as her soft snores fill the room, you realize—she won.

You're hers.

Now and always.

"Noona, wake up, the'yre going to notice us missing". I'm still hard inside her, and i start fucking her again.

Chaeyoung's eyes flutter open with a drowsy moan as your cock stirs back to life inside her, her sore walls clenching weakly around you "Ngh...Iain...~" she whines, her nails scraping down your back "Fuck...can't...move..."

But her hips tilt automatically, her pussy sucking you deeper as she gasps. "They...ah!...already know..." she pants, her legs locking around your waist tight. "Felt you throbbing in me...whole dinner..."

Her head falls back with a broken giggle as you pound into her overstimulated cunt, her toes curling. "M-maybe...nngh!...Auntie will hear..." she taunts, her voice shaking with each rough thrust "Catch her precious daughter...getting knocked up...ah!...by her nephew..."

Her moans rise higher, louder, begging to be heard as you claim her again—no pretense left, just pure filth and family sin.

"Turn over, Noona." My hands grip her hips, flipping her onto all fours before she can protest. The mattress dips as I kneel behind her, my cock already hard again against her ass.

"One more round," I growl, spreading her cheeks with my thumbs. "Don't let them hear how good their nephew fucks you."

My palm lands on her ass with a sharp smack—her gasp turning into a moan as I slide into her soaked pussy from behind. "Fuck...you take me so well."

Chaeyoung yelps at the sting of your slap, her back arching beautifully as you slam into her dripping pussy from behind "F-FUCK! Iain!" she screams, her nails clawing at the sheets as you stretch her wide all over again

Her ass jiggles with each brutal thrust, her sore walls fluttering helplessly around your thick cock "Ngh! S-so deep!" she sobs, her tits swinging wildly beneath her "C-can't...keep...quiet—AH!"

The headboard bangs rhythmically against the wall, the wet slaps of your hips pounding into her ass echoing obscenely in the room "Fuck! They're...gonna...hear!" she wails, her pussy squeezing you tight as another orgasm rips through her

But you don't stop, driving into her harder, faster, your balls slapping against her clit with each thrust. "Cum!" you growl, your fingers digging into her hips. "Let them hear how good your nephew fucks you!"

And with a guttural roar, you flood her womb again, your cum mixing with her own juices as they drip lewdly down her thighs.

Chaeyoung collapses face-first into the mattress, her body twitching weakly as she mumbles into the"...f-fucking...ruined..." Chaeyoung slurs into the sheets, her pussy still clenching rhythmically around your spent cock as your cum pools hot inside her.

Her trembling fingers clutch at the mattress, her sweaty back rising and falling with ragged breaths "Ngh...baby boy...fucked me out..." She whimpers, her thighs sticky with your mixed essence as you finally pull out, watching it drip obscenely from her well-used hole.

From downstairs, Auntie Kim's voice calls sharply: "Chaeyoung-ah? You better not be—"

Chaeyoung giggles hoarsely, rolling onto her back with a wince and spreading her legs wide for you to see the mess you made "Oops~" she whispers, her eyes dancing with mischief and exhaustion. "Too late..."*

The door groaned open just as Chaeyoung's lips crashed into mine, her fingers still tangled in my hair. We broke apart gasping, her thighs slick against mine under the photo album's cover.

"Chaeyoung-ah? You better not be—" Auntie Kim's voice cut through the haze of sex and sweat.

Chaeyoung's Mary Janes kicked the album shut over our laps with practiced innocence. "We're reminiscing, eomma!" she chirped, though her stockinged foot still traced circles on my ankle. The torn lace snagged on my sock's hem - same pattern as the panties she'd left in my room a decade ago.

Auntie Kim's slippers slapped closer. "Dinner's cold."

The mattress springs squeaked as we shifted - Chaeyoung's leather jacket slid from the bed to camouflage the cum-stained sheets. Through the rice paper door, her mother's silhouette hovered like a hangul consonant about to drop.

"Coming!" Chaeyoung trilled, her hand darting under the album to wipe a pearly streak from my jawline. Her smirk said everything - the chipped black polish, the menthol-and-regret breath, the way her slip dress clung to sweat-damp skin.

When Auntie Kim finally retreated, Chaeyoung dissolved into silent laughter that shook the photo albums stacked between us. "Baby boy's terrible at lying," she whispered, thumb brushing the hickey blooming on my neck.

The fluorescent hall light caught her stocking run - a lightning bolt from thigh to Mary Jane strap. I remembered making that tear an hour earlier with my teeth, her gasp smothered by the industrial-grade AC's rattle.

"You." She poked the photo of her eighteen-year-old self straddling my pubescent hips. "All blushy and avoiding eye contact." Her nail traced the neon beer sign glowing through 2013-era curtains. "Me." The chipped tooth she'd gotten skateboarding with me peeked through her grin. "Already planning your corruption."

Downstairs, the karaoke machine screeched to life with Auntie Soojin's rendition of "Honey" - all vibrato and broken high notes. Chaeyoung's hips swayed instinctively to the beat as she stood, her slip dress riding up to showcase the love bites Id left.

"Mmm." She caught me staring and popped a strawberry gum bubble - same brand she'd chewed during our first almost-kiss behind Nampo-dong's Family Mart. "You want..." Her platform shoe nudged the album open to a beach photo from her Seoul days. "...one last look?"

The Chaeyoung in the picture wore someone else's blazer, someone else's lipstick. The Chaeyoung before me reeked of me - my sweat, my cum, the kimchi jjigae I'd spilled on her thigh during round three.

I stood, my dress shirt clinging to the sweat she'd worked into every seam. "Just want the real thing."

Her laugh tasted of stolen adolescence as she led me downstairs, her pinky hooking mine through her jacket pocket. The uncles barely glanced up from their soju shots when we entered - just another cousin duo late to dinner.

Chaeyoung collapsed onto the floor cushion beside me, her thigh pressing mine under the low table. "Yah." She stole a perilla leaf from my ssam wrap. "Feed your noona properly."

The leaf tore between her teeth, revealing the scar from when she'd tried teaching me knife skills during her rebellious chef phase. I remembered her blood on the mandoline slicer, how she'd laughed through tears while I bandaged her hand.

"Still clumsy," I muttered, reassembling her ssam with extra pork belly.

Her foot slid up my calf as she accepted the bite. "Still mine."

Around us, the family chaos continued - aunts debating Lunar New Year dates, uncles arm-wrestling over dessert claims. Chaeyoung's hand crept under the table to squeeze my knee, her choker necklace hiding the bruise from where I'd bitten her during our stairwell quickie.

"Bedtime's at eleven," she murmured, stealing another bite. "Don't make me punish you."

The threat vibrated through me like her old bass guitar as she stood, her hips brushing my shoulder with deliberate casualness. I watched her saunter toward the bathroom - the subtle limp from our marathon session, the way her stockings bunched around those killer Mary Janes.

Uncle Minho's off-key trot number drowned out the bathroom door's click. I counted to thirty before following, the family's laughter fading behind me like childhood innocence.

Chaeyoung waited by the sink, jacket abandoned to reveal the hickey map Id charted across her collarbones. Her reflection smirked through the steam of twenty years' worth of illicit bathroom encounters.

"Took you long enough," she said, kicking the door shut with a practiced heel.

The lock clicked like the cap of our first shared soju bottle. Somewhere downstairs, Auntie Kim shouted about missing banchan containers. Chaeyoung's hands were already tearing at my belt, her lips silencing my response with a decade's worth of pent-up want.

The mirror fogged within seconds.

[comatosebunny09]

He’s half-awake, voice thick with exhaustion when he answers his phone. “Speak.”

For a moment, you don’t say anything. Just let the tinny static brew between you, your mouth forming around words, but nothing comes out.

He sits up in his bed, the sheets sliding down his naked torso and puddling around his hips. “What’s wrong, sweetheart?” he dotes after pushing his hair back from his face.

You sigh, shaky, warring with yourself before putting on your grown-up pants and just…saying it. “Sylus. I’m sorry. I know it’s late.” Or early for him.

He chuckles, the sound of it thick and syrupy. Had you not been fighting for your life in your bed, you’d be up for some guided masturbation. But—

“It’s alright, sweetheart. I was just about to get up, anyway. What’s wrong?”

You worry your bottom lip between your teeth. Pull on some loose skin. “My period’s on.”

Fabric rustles on his side. He sits up, alert, elbow propped on his knee, spine rigid. “Is it?”

“Yep.”

“What do you need me to do?”

Your chest warms. You smile all wobbly, eyes watering—stupid hormone imbalances.

Sylus is always so eager to care for you. Always a life preserver, a buoy when you’re sinking. “I could use some company. Maybe a heating pad and some chocolate.”

He’s moving before you can fully articulate your thoughts. Tugging a shirt over his head, shimmying into some sweats. Keys jangling, shoes clicking over the floor. The phone’s wedged between his shoulder and cheek as he starts his motorcycle, his sleepiness thrown to the wind.

“Any particular brand of candy bar you’re craving? Or should I surprise you?”

You smile. Chuckle. “As long as it isn’t that gross stuff with the cherries in it, I don’t care what you get.”

“Be there in twenty,” he soothes, soft as velvet.

“Take your time.”

He’s punctual, as always. Kind enough to remove his shoes upon entering your home—spare key, courtesy of being your doting and trustworthy boyfriend. He flows into your bedroom like smoke, brows furrowing up at you cocooned like an emotional, pained burrito in your bed.

You shimmy away from the wall to face him, your cat poking its head out from your restraints before leaping out to greet him with a nudge to his shins and an affectionate brrrrp.

Sylus smiles, crooked, rueful, holding up a crinkly bag of confectioneries in one hand and an adorable Menstruation Crustacean in the other. His peace offering. His passcode for entry.

You wiggle away from the edge of the bed, closer to the wall, wordlessly signaling for him to join you. He snorts, shaking his head. Crosses the space between your door and bed in three measured strides. Shrugs out of his jacket, neatly dropping it onto your rolling chair. Plops his keys, phone, and wallet on your nightstand before crawling into your castle.

He props himself against your headboard, flanked by marshmallow-y pillows. Smirks at you, spreading his arms after patting his chest, grabby hands.

You worm your way towards him, curling against his body like a content little feline. His chin finds the crown of your head. Hand smoothes over your back, chest vibrates with mollifying humming as he lures you back to sleep.

[endofthelinegang]

corner pieces

𝐩𝐚𝐢𝐫𝐢𝐧𝐠ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob reynolds x fem!reader

𝐬𝐮𝐦𝐦𝐚𝐫𝐲ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  based on the prompt “I swear it was an accident.”

𝐰𝐚𝐫𝐧𝐢𝐧𝐠𝐬ˏˋ°•*⁀➷  bob acts like a real person, Crippling pining, sensory indulgence, suggestive warmth, puzzle trauma

The room smells like bergamot and old books. It’s a warm scent, not overbearing—just enough to blend into the low hum of static between the two of you. The kind of scent that clings to sweaters and pillows. Lived-in. Safe. A comfort that doesn’t pester those who seek it. The single lamp in the corner casts a buttery glow across the floorboards, catching dust motes midair like stars hung in syrup. Outside the window, the city breathes in long neon signs, white and red streaks sliding across the wall through the half-open blinds. It feels like a scene out of a dream you forgot to wake up from.

You’re sitting cross-legged on the carpet in the middle of Bob’s room. The floor beneath you is warm from hours spent shifting in place. The puzzle box sits open between you both, its contents already claiming the entire space like spilled thoughts—disorganized, half-assembled, begging for attention. The picture on the box is a lakeside cabin in autumn. Orange trees. A little dock. Water is like glass. A peace neither of you have ever really known, but like to pretend exists in some corner of the world. 

You’re wearing his shirt.

It hadn’t been planned that way. It was just… there. Folded at the bottom of your drawer from the last time you borrowed it and forgot to return it. Or maybe you’d chosen not to return it. Maybe you like the way it feels—how soft the cotton is from wear, how it still holds the memory of him. It’s too big on you, dipping off one shoulder, swallowing your arms whole. But that’s half the point. It feels like being wrapped in something safe. 

And maybe he notices.

Maybe that’s why he’s been stealing glances at you all night—some subtle, some not. You catch the way his eyes linger, heavy and hesitant, every time your shoulder shifts and more of your skin is revealed. Or the way your squint at the puzzle pieces trying to figure out where any of them might fit because trying to build water was not a good time. 

He’s cross-legged, too—one knee bent up, the other stretched out lazily in front of him. His hoodie shrugged off his shoulders, sleeves pooled around his elbows. The t-shirt beneath is worn and soft-looking, hanging loose over the thick lines of his frame. His hair is slightly mussed, the result of both puzzle frustration and your fingers ghosting through it earlier when he realized this was going to be an entire night and made drinks for both of you. 

And now, he’s frowning at a puzzle piece. Specifically, a crooked little piece in his hand that looks like a misshapen bean. He had kept turning it in a circle between his fingers trying to understand how something shaped so strangely would go anywhere on this perfectly square shaped board.

“I’m telling you,” he says, eyebrows furrowed like he still was not entirely sure but had made up his mind just a little bit more than before,  “this is the corner piece.” 

You look at what he is showing you, the two of you had gone back and forth on issues similar to this all evening long. At one point you had been sitting side by side almost in each other's lap but then it got serious and you decided to tackle the issue as a two against one. The edges curve slightly, unmistakably. There’s even a puff of cloud on one end. You raise an unimpressed brow. “That piece is a cloud.”

He blinks at you, then looks down at it again like it betrayed him, he did not even think to look at the colors or he supposed the lack thereof.  “It has… a kind of corner energy.”

You snort looking back down at the piles of pieces you had sorted out. “You mean it doesn’t fit anywhere and you’ve given up.”

A beat. A stare at you. Then, grudgingly: “I’m a man of conviction.”

You reach out, the sleeve of his shirt falling farther down your arm as you gently pluck the offending piece from his hand. The tips of your fingers brush his in the process—warm, roughened by training, slow to pull back—and the contact sends a flicker up your arm like static electricity, subtle and impossible to ignore.

You study the piece like it’s under a microscope. “This does not have corner energy. This has lost-in-the-middle-of-the-sky energy.”

You drop it back in the box with a quiet plastic tap, and when you look back up, he’s already watching you. Head tilted. Eyes soft but unreadable. The kind of gaze that feels like it knows things. The kind that strips you bare without asking permission. His stare lingers too long on your mouth. He swallows once, slow.

“You always wear my stuff when you come in here?” he asks, voice dipped lower now—hoarse from a day of not talking much, maybe even rougher from whatever this moment is turning into. One of the reasons this had been taking so long was because this is what he had been really doing. Staring you down piece by piece. Your limbs, your face, your hair, your neckline, your accessories, and now your clothes. 

You glance down at yourself like you forgot what you were wearing only to see your favorite shirt in your drawer attached around your body.. “Only when I forget how cold it is in this place.”

You try to make it sound casual. But your voice wavers at the end. And he hears it. His eyes track the way your hand tugs the sleeve over your fingers again, a small, nervous movement. The silence stretches a little too long, and neither of you looks back at the puzzle. You try to pivot—reaching for another piece, something neutral, something to focus on—but your fingers find him again as you go for the same blue and white pile.

This time, neither of you moves right away. The contact is fleeting. Barely a second. But it lands with a weight that feels like gravity leaning closer. He shifts then, almost imperceptibly. His leg stretches out and nudges into yours—just barely—but it stays there. Pressed. Solid. The fabric of his joggers brushing the soft cotton of your pajama shorts. The warmth of his skin bleeding through.

You glance down, try to hide the way your breath catches. He then decides that this is not all that comfy and rather takes back to the position you had been in earlier, but this time he was the one initiating it. He was now sitting right beside you, his entire side touching yours. If you were to turn to your left your face would touch his. 

“You’re crowding me,” you say quietly, not looking at him but you nudge him jokingly with your arm as you continue to pretend to work on the puzzle.

His voice is a rumble against your ear. “I’m spatially efficient.”

You risk a glance. His lips are curved in a faint smile, the kind that doesn’t reach his eyes because his eyes are too busy staring at you like he’s memorizing the way you sit, the way you breathe. You reach again—for something to break the tension—but your foot clips the edge of the puzzle board. And then everything topples.

The half-assembled top section buckles like a failed rooftop, scattering sky across the floor in a quiet chaos. Pieces slide under the bed, some bounce against the dresser, and one singular blue-and-white fragment drops directly into Bob’s untouched mug of cocoa.

You gasp, hands frozen midair. “Shit—”

Bob stares in stunned silence.

Then—he laughs.

It bursts out of him all at once, unfiltered and honest, chest shaking with it. The kind of laugh that makes his eyes crinkle, that shakes the hair from his forehead. The kind you never get to hear. Not really. Not like this. He puts his head on your shoulder as he does so.

You press your hand to your mouth, laughing helplessly along with him. “I murdered the sky.”

He wipes at his eyes, still chuckling. “You drowned it with the marshmallows.”

Your laughter fades into soft giggles as you both begin scooping pieces back toward the board, his hand brushing yours again and again—this time not pulling away. But as you reach too far, your knee slips, throwing off your balance. Your hand skids across the floor and you tip forward. And Bob catches you letting several pieces in his hand fall back to the floor.

One strong hand loops instinctively around your waist, the other steadying your wrist. You land half against his chest, your laugh dying out instantly as you realize the closeness of it all. His breath is warm against your temple. His heart is pounding. You can feel it, real and loud, against your side. And then… nothing. Stillness. His hand doesn’t move, just holds. Gentle. Like you’re something precious.

You wrestle in his grip a bit to face him, to look up at him, and the world slows. His pupils are wide. His jaw tense. His gaze drops to your lips and lingers, breath hitching like he’s waiting for permission. Waiting for a signal.

“I don’t want to go,” you whisper, the words slipping out like a secret. You had swore you were going to bed after puzzle time was done but you did not specify whose bed. Usually when the two of you did an activity you would leave and go to your room and stay up all night thinking about how much fun you had. You would get out your phone and type texts into your notes that you would never send him. But tonight you didn’t want that. 

His brow softens—just a little. His thumb drags slowly, deliberately, across the back of your hand.

“Then don’t,” he murmurs.

His voice isn’t desperate. It’s steady. Soft. Certain. It’s not a line. It’s a promise. He brings your hand to his lips, brushing your knuckles with a kiss so light it barely registers—except it does, and it sinks deep, curling behind your ribs like warmth in winter.

Your breath catches. “I don’t think the puzzle will ever forgive me,” you say, too quietly. You do not break eye contact but you are thinking about the piece that is probably disgusting and falling apart in his drink. 

Bob’s smile grows, crooked and slow, like sunlight easing through blinds. “You still owe me a new sky,” he says.

And you stay there in the quiet—one heartbeat away from spending the night.

[cuzxai]

behind closed doors - suggestive

spencer reid x afab!reader

a/n: you and spence getting caught ALMOST in the act (god i love the coloring i made the picture)

Rossi only threw a party when something dramatic happened. A retirement, a promotion, once even a divorce but this one? This was his “we survived another goddamn year” celebration, complete with catered hors d’oeuvres and enough wine to knock out the entire Bureau. The man had taste, you’d give him that. His house, as always, looked like a catalog spread for Tuscan luxury: polished floors, oil paintings, dramatic lighting. You were somewhere between the foyer and the kitchen island, nursing a glass of sparkling water and trying not to look like you were waiting for someone. Because you weren’t. Not officially. Spencer hadn’t arrived yet.

The rest of the team was already mingling. JJ and Will were tucked into a corner with Garcia, who looked radiant in a sequined wrap dress and held a glass of something suspiciously neon. Emily was talking to one of Rossi’s old profiler friends while Morgan was at the bar charming the hell out of a woman who was definitely not in the FBI. You kept your cool. You were good at that. Trained for it. But your eyes flicked to the door every time it opened.

“Stop looking so nervous,” Emily said suddenly, drifting past you with her glass. “This isn’t a debrief. Drink more.”

“I’m not nervous,” you lied.

“Uh-huh.” She gave you a knowing look over her shoulder and vanished into the next conversation.

You weren’t nervous. You were just tense. You and Spencer had been doing this thing. This not-quite-official, definitely-against-Bureau-policy thing for almost six months. Meetings at his place. Late-night calls. “Accidental” lunch breaks taken at the same time. All of it lived in the shadows, and both of you liked it that way. Mostly. But tonight was the first time you’d be in the same space as him with everyone else since you’d started sleeping together. You hadn’t seen him all week. You didn’t know if he’d sneak you a look, a touch, anything. You didn’t even know what he was wearing. Then the door opened and you knew. Dark grey blazer. Rolled cuffs. His hair a little longer than usual, curling at the ends. You caught his eyes from across the room and your stomach dropped in the best possible way.

Spencer looked at you like he wanted to devour you. And no one else noticed.

He moved through the room in that awkward, polite way of his, nodding to a few people, lingering to greet Garcia with a quick hug but his gaze kept sliding back to you. You kept sipping your drink to avoid biting your lip. Ten minutes passed before he finally found his way to your side. Casual. Relaxed. Like he didn’t need to be next to you but it helped.

“Hey,” he said, voice low.

“Hey yourself.” You didn’t look at him, just kept your focus on the charcuterie board like you were talking about cheese instead of actively trying not to remember the way he kissed when he was desperate. “Took you long enough.”

“There was traffic.”

“There’s never traffic in Quantico.”

He smiled. “Then maybe I was waiting for the right moment.” You did bite your lip that time.

There were too many people around to say anything else. You could feel the tension sparking between you like static electricity, flickering beneath your skin. He kept his distance but his arm brushed yours once, twice and you felt it all the way down your spine.

“So,” you said eventually, pretending to reach for a cracker. “You planning on behaving tonight?”

Spencer tilted his head. “Are you?” You almost choked.

Luckily, Morgan appeared beside you both, sipping a beer and already halfway into a grin. “Look at you two standing there like secret agents. Lighten up. It’s a party. Reid, you actually drink wine or just quote facts about it?”

“I prefer wine to beer,” Spencer said without missing a beat. “But Rossi has an open bar. I might try something new.”

“Oh god,” you muttered under your breath. “Somebody stop him.”

Morgan laughed and wandered off again. Spencer leaned closer, lowering his voice so only you could hear.

“You want to get out of here?”

Your pulse jumped. He wasn’t asking to leave the party. You glanced around. Emily was deep in conversation, Garcia and JJ were swapping stories, and Derek was already headed back to the living room. Nobody was watching. Nobody cared.

“Where?” you whispered.

“There’s a guest room upstairs,” he said. “Third door on the left.” You hesitated. Only for a second. But the way he looked at you—quiet, intense, wanting—it overruled every single warning bell in your head. You nodded once and stepped away from the table.

“Wait five minutes,” you said. “Then follow.”

Spencer didn’t smile, didn’t wink. Just tilted his head again and let you walk away. You took the stairs slowly, your pulse roaring in your ears. The upstairs hallway was quieter, dimly lit. You found the door—third on the left—and slipped inside. It was a cozy room. Rossi style, of course. Big bed. Window seat. A mirror. Dim lamplight casting gold across the walls. You didn’t touch anything, just stood there, waiting. Listening. One minute. Two. The door creaked open behind you. You turned and Spencer was already locking it. He didn’t say anything. Just crossed the room, calm and deliberate and kissed you like he hadn’t touched you in weeks. You made a soft sound, pressing into him, gripping his shirt and dragging him back until the backs of your knees hit the bed. You didn’t waste time. Neither of you did. You knew what this was.

Clothes half-on, mouths locked, hands everywhere. Spencer kissed you like he was making up for lost time, like he needed you to breathe. Your legs wrapped around him instinctively as he lowered you to the bed, and you couldn’t stop the noise that escaped your throat when he would grind against you.

“God,” he whispered against your neck. “You’re gonna be so good.”

You clung to him, burying your face in his shoulder. It was fast and hot and messy, the kind that came from too many nights of wanting and not being able to have. You bit your lip to stay quiet, nails digging into his back as he moved his fingers into the waistband of your pants. One of his hands pressed against your mouth. It was good. It was so damn good.

And then the door opened. You froze. Spencer froze.

“Yo—” Morgan’s voice rang out, then cut off with a sharp laugh. “Oh, shit. My bad!”

You couldn’t even look. You heard him snort, heard the unmistakable smugness in his tone.

“Reid getting play,” Derek said. “Did not see that coming.”

Then the door clicked shut. Silence. Spencer’s fingers were still inside you. His breath hitched, face buried in your neck. You lay there, stunned, blinking at the ceiling.

“…we’re never living that down,” you muttered.

Spencer just groaned.

[eliasmelody]

Tired babe? Take a seat!

Tag: Sol x reader, fluff Warning: grammar & spelling

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦ You yawn again. Dragging your feet into the library like you’re floating more than walking. Your body’s heavy. Eyes sting from lack of sleep. Your brain's practically mush. It's been a long day. Honestly? You need somewhere quiet to crash. Just for a second.

Of course, he’s there.

Same spot, like always. Slouched over the desk, head dipped, dark clothes blending into the dim light of the corner. Pencil dancing lazily in his fingers. He doesn’t even blink when the door creaks open. Doesn’t move when your bag thumps softly against the floor.

Just a glance. Quick. Dismissive. Until he really sees you.

His eyes flick up again. Sharper this time. He clocks your posture. Your sluggish steps. Your barely-open eyes. His gaze lingers like it’s magnetized to the curve of your face. The slump in your shoulders. The way your hoodie’s collar slides off one side. And when you drag your tired body toward him, he straightens up.

You stand beside the table for a moment. Rubbing your eye with the back of your hand. You know there’s a seat beside him. But right now you want comfort. Not a cold wooden chair.

So you act on instinct.

Without saying a word, you swing one leg over and settle yourself right on his lap.

His breath stops. Like someone hit mute on his entire system. Arms frozen mid-motion. Eyes blown wide for half a second before he forces them away. Like he’s afraid looking too long might give something away. You shift to get comfortable. You feel it. His legs twitching beneath you. Fingers gripping the edge of the table so tight his knuckles go pale.

"Hope you don’t mind." You mumble sleepily. Leaning your chest against his chest. Head tucking under his chin like it’s your usual spot. Hands drapes over his shoulder.

He doesn’t answer. Can’t.

Because right now, Sol’s fighting for his damn life.

Your scent fills his lungs with every breath. Warm. Soft. Intoxicating. Your weight against him is driving him insane. Every movement. Every sigh you make. Vibrates through his body like static electricity.

He tilts his head down slightly. His nose brushes against your hair. A low sound escapes him. Barely a whisper of a groan. He doesn’t know whether to hold you or dig his nails into the table to ground himself.

You shift again. Just slightly.

And he’s losing it.

His head tips back, eyes briefly closing as he tries to collect himself.

"Fuck..." He mutters under his breath. The sound of the air shifting in his lungs feels like a weight, and the ceiling above him seems to mock him as his mind races. His hands are shaking slightly, but he refuses to let you see it.

You hum sleepily. "What was that?"

He clears his throat. “Nothing. Just… stay still.”

His words are strained, like he’s trying to convince both of you, but more so himself. He doesn’t trust himself to say more. The feeling of your body against his, your weight pressing down in the most deliciously torturous way, is sending heat spiraling through him.

You hum, a lazy, contented sound, and you nuzzle further into him. Your head buries into his chest, and your breath, soft and warm, flows over his neck. He swallows hard. His throat feels tight. Every shift you make is a reminder of how close you are, how dangerously close.

"Mm. Okay." You mumble, your voice dripping with exhaustion, unaware of how it rips through him.

Sol knows it’s wrong. You probably don’t even realize what you’re doing to him. But he can't stop it.

His hands, the ones that had been trembling at the edges of the table, now drift. Slowly. Hesitantly. Until it finds its place on your hip. His fingers curl there like he's testing if this is real. If you're really letting him hold you like this.

He refuses to move anymore than that, unwilling to risk even a slight twitch, because he’s not sure he’ll be able to stop himself.

Taking in a slow breath, trying to steady himself, his mind is all about the way you feel against him, how soft and warm and perfect you are there. Chest tightens, and heart races in a way that doesn’t make sense. Right now, all that control feels like it’s slipping.

"So cute... and all mine"

If you don’t move for the next ten minutes?

Well… don’t blame him.

✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦ Art & characters from The Kid at the Back, created by Fantasia Kitt. ✦.───────── ˗ˏˋ ♡ ˎˊ˗ ───────── .✦

[ilovemilestellersmoustache]

is it chill that you’re in my head?

Bob Reynolds x Thunderbolts!reader

Summary: You’ve been alone all your life so moving into a tower of people who considered each other family wasn’t ideal, already not being able to spark a connection with anyone you were alone most of the time searching for the feeling of home… Then again do you really know what that feels like? Maybe not until a late night accidental meeting with the most timid member fills you with nothing but these so called sparks.

WC: 2.1K

The Thunderbolts Tower didn’t exactly feel like home.

It had walls, sure. Expensive ones. Reinforced steel, soundproof panels, panic rooms tucked behind sliding concrete. It had amenities too, an espresso machine Yelena had nearly gone to war for, a rooftop garden Alexei insisted needed “more nature” a gym Bucky used at 3 a.m. when he thought no one was watching.

But it didn’t feel like home. Not in the way people always talked about it in books and movies. The way they described a home as something you felt comfortable in, regardless the place. This… This place to you was shelter. A bunker. A glorified holding cell for the world’s sharpest, most broken tools.

Home had always been a delicate concept to you. Something you brushed against in dreams and woke up aching from.

You weren’t built for places like this. Maybe if really was just shelter to the rest of the team, you wouldn’t feel like you were alone.

You moved like smoke and silence, with eyes that had seen too much and lips that rarely curled into something that resembled softness. You haunted hallways instead of walking them. Shadows slipped around your shoulders like a second skin. And even though no one ever said it out loud, you knew what they whispered when they thought you couldn’t hear:

“She doesn’t sleep.”

“She never eats with us.”

“Doesn’t even flinch when Alexei sets off the dummy mines…”

You weren’t cruel. Just… quiet. Always on the outside looking in. Ava was the only one who tried sometimes passing you energy drinks like peace offerings, leaning against walls near you without pushing conversation. Even then, her ghost skin sometimes glitched if your gaze lingered too long.

So you stayed to yourself. Up late. Headphones in. Music low enough to hear your own heartbeat, just loud enough to drown the past.

Until that night.

⸻

It was the kind of night that pressed against the windows like breath, thick and humid, the air barely cool enough to pass for midnight. The city was still awake below, glowing soft and gold, like someone forgot to dim the lights before sleep.

Bob Reynolds hadn’t meant to leave his room.

He was used to the nightmares by now. Most of them started the same, the Void dragging his name across black skies like a warning, cold sweat trickling down his neck, the echo of screams that had long since blurred into static. He usually stayed curled up on the edge of his mattress, white knuckled and wide eyed, talking himself back from wherever he was. The Other.

But tonight, the weight was heavier. He could feel it clawing under his ribs, thick as tar, breathing down his neck.

So he ran.

Barefoot, hoodie half zipped over his threadbare sleep shirt, hands still trembling from the remnants of the dark. He didn’t even realize he was heading for the roof until he felt the air shift. Third floor, westside. The door creaked open, and—

There you were.

Perched on the ledge knees tucked to your chest, one headphone in, hair stirring slightly in the breeze, swimming in dark jeans and sweater a colour of blue he’s never seen. The moonlight poured over you like it had been waiting all night just for this moment, soft silver across your cheekbone, dancing along your collarbone. You looked like a memory. Or maybe something from one of his dreams, the rare kind that didn’t end in screaming.

You barely glanced at him.

Not startled. Not wary. Just… curious. Then you looked back at the skyline like he was nothing more than another part of the silence.

Bob froze.

He hadn’t seen you like this. No one had. You were a myth at best. A name on a file at worst. A flash of movement out of the corner of a bloodied mission. But this? This was something else.

Still, you didn’t move.

Didn’t disappear into smoke or shadows. Didn’t pull a knife or raise an eyebrow or ask what he was doing there.

Instead, you pulled one earbud out, a gentle movement, deliberate, like offering someone the last piece of chocolate without saying a word.

“…Can’t sleep either?”

Your voice was softer than he expected. Nothing like the precision of your fighting or the clipped orders you gave on missions. It was fragile. A little sad. And something about it made something in him crack.

“…No,” Bob said quietly. “Nightmares.”

You nodded once. Just enough to say I know.

And then you did something that made his heart ache a little.

You patted the space beside you.

He walked over slowly, cautiously, as if he might spook you. But you didn’t flinch. Didn’t vanish.

And when he sat beside you, legs dangling off the ledge, hands tucked into the sleeves of his hoodie… he realized something.

For the first time in longer than he could remember, he wasn’t the most dangerous thing in the room. (At least felt like it)

But for the first time, that didn’t terrify him.

It comforted him.

Because beside you, wrapped in moonlight and a silence that felt like safety, Bob Reynolds didn’t feel like a monster.

He felt human.

And somehow, that felt like the most dangerous thing of all.

⸻

It became a pattern.

Not the kind that wore out, not the kind that dulled with repetition… But the kind you traced with your fingers in the dark, over and over, just to remind yourself it was real.

Every night, like clockwork, around 1:30 a.m., your phone would buzz. Your phone lights up your nightstand in the black more than the actual lamp.

Roof?

Just one word. No punctuation. No signature. As if he knew and maybe he did, that anything more might scare it all away.

You never replied.

You didn’t have to.

Five, sometimes ten minutes later, you’d climb the stairs barefoot, hoodie half zipped, music still humming low in one ear. There was never an announcement, no grand entrances. You just… appeared. Like the breeze. Like the hush before rain.

Bob would already be there. Perched on the ledge or leaned back against the wall, that soft, faraway look in his eyes like he was already a million miles into his own head.

And you’d sit beside him, not touching, not asking.

Just existing together in the quiet.

It became your rhythm.

Two ghosts in the night, finding each other again and again.

You talked.

Just thinking of all the fun things you guys could do. Sometimes it was nonsense, constellations, movie soundtracks and why Alexei even insisted on a garden if he won’t tend it. Other times, it cut deep. He told you about the Void and how it felt like being strangled by your own reflection. You told him about the first life you ever took, how the blood didn’t scare you, but the stillness afterward did.

“I didn’t flinch,” you’d whispered, like it was a confession.

He hadn’t judged. Just nodded, like he understood that kind of stillness.

He told you he liked your laugh.

The way it caught in your throat and crinkled the corners of your eyes, like you were surprised by the sound.

You told him you liked his voice low, patient, like warm hands wrapping around your ribcage and holding everything inside together.

And slowly, so slowly, something inside you began to thaw.

Like frost giving way to spring.

⸻

By daylight, you were still the same.

Guarded. Sharp edged. Vanishing before anyone could hold on too long. When John teased or Alexei roared with that too-loud, too-big laughter, you smirked, nodded, and slipped out of the room like you’d never been there.

But Bob noticed the changes.

The subtle ones.

Sticky notes on the fridge reminding him to get the oat milk he liked. An extra tea packet slipped beside his thermos. Your hair which you’d always tied back with clinical precision, now down more often, curling in the wind just like it had that night on the roof when he’d told you it looked soft.

He noticed everything.

And your phone…

It didn’t just light up your nightstand anymore.

It lit up you. Your heart. Your whole damn being.

Sometimes, when you were alone in the lull between missions, curled on top of too-starched sheets, you found yourself replaying his voice like a secret song you weren’t supposed to know the lyrics to.

You caught yourself smiling.

“Sometimes I wonder,” you whispered to no one in particular, “when you sleep… are you ever dreaming of me?”

You hated that you felt like this.

You weren’t supposed to.

This was a foreign feeling. Truth be told you didn’t really know what it was, just that you’ve never felt this good, this nice. People like you didn’t get nice. Didn’t get soft or safe or whole. You were a blade, and blades didn’t get to love things. They cut them.

But still. You relay the echoes of his footsteps coming up the roof stairs. You wanted long nights with his hands up in your hair… Just want him to stay with you and not share him.

Every night when that single word lit up your screen, your heart raced like it had something to lose.

⸻

And then came the night everything shifted.

You’d been laughing, breathless, aching laughter about nothing at all. Something he said. Or maybe it was the way he’d said it. His hoodie was too big on him, his hair curling at the ends from rooftop humidity, his eyes glowing soft in the starlight like he’d swallowed a sunbeam.

And suddenly, your laughter faded.

You just looked at him.

Watched him in that long, quiet way that made the air feel thinner, like the moment itself was fragile and sacred. You memorized every inch, the scar on his chin, the faint stubble on his jaw, the way he sat so still like he didn’t want to startle the peace between you.

Your voice barely made it above the wind.

“Sometimes…” you breathed, “when I look into your eyes… I pretend you’re mine.”

The silence cracked.

“All the damn time.”

Bob blinked. Like he wasn’t sure he’d heard you right.

You laughed, soft, nervous, filled with static.

“Is it cool I said all that?” you rushed. “Is it chill that you’re in my head? I know this is all… delicate. But I think about you all the time. And I know you probably don’t feel—”

You didn’t get to finish.

He kissed you.

Gentle. Unrushed. The kind of kiss that felt like a question. Like he was afraid of breaking something sacred.

And when you kissed him back, your hands in his hair and his breath catching against your lips it didn’t feel like fire.

It felt like falling.

Like walking into the sea and letting it swallow you whole.

When you finally pulled away, his forehead rested against yours.

“I’ve been dreaming about you,” he whispered.

“Every night. Even when I’m awake.”

⸻

Yelena was the first to know.

You came to training the next morning late, hair slightly windblown, smile lingering at the edges of your lips like a secret you weren’t quite ready to share.

“She’s glowing,” Yelena muttered to Ava, who gave a smirk that said finally.

Even Bucky, ever the skeptic, raised an eyebrow when he saw Bob in the hallway.

“So…you and our little shadow, huh?”

Bob turned the color of his hoodie. But he didn’t deny it.

No one teased. Not really. Maybe they all understood something unspoken:

That sometimes, the softest things grow in the harshest places.

That even steel can bloom if you leave it in the right hands.

⸻

Now, some nights, you still go to the roof.

But you don’t leave alone.

Bob’s already there, hoodie sleeves too long, arms open, waiting like you’re the only thing he’s ever waited for.

You crawl into them like you belong there. Because maybe, just maybe, you do.

The city hums below.

The stars blink above.

And somewhere between everything you were taught not to want and everything you’ve dared to feel, you realize—

Your reputation’s never been worse.

But when he looks at you like you hung the damn moon?

He must like you for you.

And no, you can’t promise this will last. You can’t promise you’ll survive this world with all your pieces intact. You don’t know if happy endings are real for people like you.

But maybe that’s what makes it matter.

The most delicate thing in the world…

is choosing someone in the dark,

and letting them love the parts you were sure no one ever would.

And he does.

Night after night, word after word, kiss after kiss.

Bob Reynolds loves you like it’s the only truth left in the world.

And you’re finally letting him.

⸻

A/N: Uh so if theres like a part here where it looks like its missing a paragraph or sum lemme know bc my tumblr has been acting nuts and i had to lay this out like 100 times and i genuinely cannot read this one more time again I’m crashing out

[sunshineangel0]

𝘳𝘶𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘢𝘸𝘢𝘺 도망가다

pairing- stray kids hyung line x reader summary- given a situation, you and member are running away together. whats the reason and how will it go for you? word count- 1.2k warnings- criminal behavior (theft, fraud, implied violence), toxic family dynamics/emotional neglect mentioned, mentions of law enforcement, surveillance, accidental pregnancy, soft angst/comfort-heavy romance, a/n- so i feel for a little darker themes i have to say: they’re all fictional—built on what-if scenarios and deep, messy emotions. Enjoy the ride !!!!!!! ahhh maknae line

CHAN — "𝘉𝘰𝘯𝘯𝘪𝘦 𝘢𝘯𝘥 𝘊𝘭𝘺𝘥𝘦"

ride or die crime partners

The motel TV hums with static as you count stacks of stolen cash on the bed. Chan’s leaning against the wall, shirt half-buttoned, gun tucked in the waistband of his slacks like it belongs there. “We're legends now,” he says with a crooked smile, tossing your passport into your lap. New name. New start. You grin, blood still rushing from the getaway. “Think they'll catch us?” He laughs once, low and reckless. “They can try.”

You and Chan are smooth-talking, quick-moving, adrenaline-chasing chaos. But damn, you’re good together.

He does the planning—routes, disguises, backstories. You do the talking—charming your way past guards, sweet-talking anyone who gets suspicious.

After a job, he always takes care of you first: checking for bruises, giving you water, making sure you’re still riding the high, not the crash.

You steal a sports car once, just for fun. He lets you drive it. You’re laughing like you’re 16 again, no rules, no regrets.

In the quiet, he gets soft—telling you how he used to dream of this kind of freedom. Not the crime, but you. The “us against the world” kind of love.

One day, you watch the sunset from a rooftop in Prague. “If we go down,” you say, “we go down together.”

He grins, presses his forehead to yours. “You and me, baby. Until the end.”

with him its...

Lipstick-stained passports – new identities, new lives, but still the same reckless love

Bullet casings in a jewelry box – mementos of your past jobs, hidden like treasures

Motor oil on his hands, lip gloss on yours – partners, opposites, balanced chaos

A black duffel with multiple IDs and one photo of you two – the only constant in every version of your lives

Champagne in a convenience store cup – celebration anywhere, any time—because you survived again

MINHO — “𝘘𝘶𝘪𝘦𝘵 𝘎𝘰𝘰𝘥𝘣𝘺𝘦”

healing from toxic pasts

You leave a note on the table. Nothing dramatic—just “I’m sorry. I can’t stay.” Outside, Minho’s waiting in his car, engine idling. He doesn’t say a word when you slide into the passenger seat, just reaches over and puts your hand in his. The road ahead is quiet. No sirens. No calls. No one yelling for you to come back. Just the soft sound of tires on pavement, and Minho whispering, “We’re gonna be okay.”

The first few days feel surreal. No screaming. No walking on eggshells. Just you, Minho, and silence that finally feels safe.

You stay in a tiny apartment with peeling walls and creaky floors. He makes it feel like home in a week—plants in the windows, a cat named Peach, warm soup on the stove.

He doesn’t talk much about what you left behind. Neither of you do. But when you wake up crying, he’s there. Quiet. Holding your hand until it passes.

He falls asleep with his head on your lap some nights, a soft smile on his face. You trace your fingers through his hair and think, I never thought peace could look like this.

He takes photos of you when you’re not looking. Says it’s so he “won’t forget this part of life.” You pretend not to notice, but you always smile.

One night, out of nowhere, he says, “Thank you for leaving with me.”

You whisper back, “Thank you for giving me something to run to.”

with him its...

Cat fur on everything – home is where Peach sleeps

Soup simmering at 3AM – because trauma doesn't keep regular hours, and neither does care

An old Polaroid tucked in your wallet – the only photo from the day you left

A chipped mug you both fight over – mundane arguments now feel like love

Sticky notes on the fridge with hand-drawn hearts – “Bought snacks,” “Feed Peach,” “I love you.” No grand speeches—just daily proof

CHANGBIN — “𝘞𝘦 𝘙𝘢𝘯 𝘉𝘦𝘤𝘢𝘶𝘴𝘦 𝘕𝘰 𝘖𝘯𝘦 𝘉𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘥 𝘜𝘴”

"framed" lovers on the run

The moment the security camera photo hit the news, you knew it was over. Your phone rang once—Changbin. “Pack a bag,” he said. “Only what you need. I’ll be there in ten.” Now you’re in the backseat of a stolen car, hands shaking, his hoodie draped over your shoulders. "Do you trust me?" he asks, eyes locked on the road. You don’t even hesitate. “Yeah.” The city lights blur behind you like a life you don’t want anymore.

Every gas station is a risk. Every knock at the door makes you freeze. But Changbin always stays calm—for you.

He keeps your fake IDs in his boot and a map in the glovebox, tracing out routes like you’re in a spy movie.

When things get really bad, he’ll hold your face, eyes locked on yours, and remind you: “We didn’t do anything wrong. Don’t let them make you forget that.”

In between the chaos, he finds little ways to bring you peace—humming your favorite song, buying your favorite snack, brushing your hair behind your ear.

He tells you once, under a thunderstorm sky, “If we have to spend our lives running, I’ll still choose you every time.”

You start to believe it. Even when the world wants to paint you guilty, you know what’s real—him, and the way he loves you like it’s all he’s got.

with him its...

Cigarettes out the window – not because you smoke, but because someone else does. And that means you’re being followed

Cash in a shoebox under the passenger seat – your safety net, escape fund, lifeline

Burner phones wrapped in napkins – disposable lives, but still texting each other goodnight

A cracked mirror in a motel bathroom – distorted reflections, unclear futures

His hoodie always on you – his way of keeping you safe, even when he can’t protect you from everything

HYUNJIN — “𝘞𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘥𝘯’𝘵 𝘔𝘦𝘢𝘯 𝘛𝘰, 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘞𝘦 𝘋𝘪𝘥”

accidental pregnancy + quiet escape

You stare at the test in your hand like it’s not real. One pink line, two pink lines, whatever—it doesn’t matter. Your world’s already changed. Hyunjin walks in barefoot, hair damp from the shower, and freezes when he sees your face. You don’t speak. You don’t have to. He crosses the room in two steps, takes the test from your hand, and says, “Okay. We’re leaving.” Just like that. Like love is enough.

Hyunjin doesn’t freak out. Doesn’t question. The second he sees you’re scared, he shifts into full comfort mode.

He books a train ticket to a quiet town by the sea. No paparazzi, no pressure. Just you, him, and the sound of waves.

He paints all the time now—your growing belly, your sleepy smile, your fingers wrapped around a coffee mug.

Talks to the baby like they’re already here: “Hey, little one. Your mom’s the strongest person I know.”

He’s overprotective but sweet about it—holding your hand when you walk, cooking every meal, refusing to let you lift anything heavier than a book.

You cry one night, scared of what’s next. He just holds you and says, “I don’t know how we’ll do it. But we will. Together.”

with him its...

Paint stains on your clothes – you stopped caring if you get messy; life’s already full of color now

Socks hung out to dry on a line – homemade life, gentle routines, building something quiet but real

A worn baby book at the bedside – filled with notes in Hyunjin’s handwriting, doodles in the corners

His rings left in a ceramic bowl – he takes them off now, wants nothing flashy, just you and peace

Sunlight through gauze curtains – a new kind of morning, one that doesn’t rush you

©sunshineangel0 𖹭 if you liked this work, please consider reblogging, commenting or liking! xoxo franzi 💋

skz general: @velvetmoonlght @scarlet789 @estella-novella @nightmarenyxx @channiesluvrclub

(if you wanna be added to the taglist comment below!)

[10byten]

where the day gets softer-

★genre : just a fluffy moment between you and this guy you adore more than anything. ★words : 1k

Your day has been long. The kind of long that sinks into your bones, makes your limbs heavy, makes your brain static. You drop onto your bed the second you step into your room, staring at the ceiling, feeling nothing and everything at once. Moving? Not an option. Thinking? Barely. You just wish you could skip ahead—to the part where you’re clean, wrapped up in blankets, and today is nothing but a blur in your memory.

Your phone buzzes. You ignore it. It buzzes again. You groan, blindly reaching for it, glancing at the screen.

Mark.

Your lips twitch into something close to a smile. Suddenly, you have the strength to lift yourself up on your elbows.

Markie - Hey, babe. You done with classes? Wanna see me for a quick kiss?

Yes. A million times yes.

Your reply is instant, desperate in the way you don’t even try to hide. The thought of seeing him makes something in your chest untangle, makes your ribs feel a little less tight. You sit up, glancing around your room, half-heartedly straightening things up. You should shower before he gets here, at least try to make yourself presentable—

The doorbell rings. Not even ten minutes later.

“Shit.”

You roll your eyes at yourself, but honestly? You’re not mad. You’re already moving, already reaching for the door, already smiling before you even open it.

And there he is.

Messy brown hair. Ridiculously pretty eyes. That smile—the one that always makes your stomach feel like it’s folding in on itself. He steps inside without a word, without hesitation, arms slipping around your waist, body fitting against yours like it was made to. A kiss on your forehead, soft, lingering.

“Hey, pretty girl.”

You exhale against his chest, sinking into him.

“Hi,” you mumble against his chest, breathing him in. Suddenly, today doesn’t feel so bad anymore.

“You got here so fast.” You pull back just enough to look at him. “Were you nearby?”

“Mhm. And I was kind of excited to see you, so I didn’t waste time.” His fingers slide through yours, effortlessly, like second nature. Leading you toward your room, toward the quiet comfort of your space. “Should I have given you more time?”

“No, it’s just—” You hesitate. “I thought I’d have time to shower before you got here. I feel gross. I wanted to look cute for you.”

His head tilts. Something amused, something fond in the way he looks at you.

“That’s an easy fix.”

Before you can ask what he means, he’s steering you toward the bathroom.

You blink. “Wait—”

“If you need a shower, let’s shower.” His voice is soft, but firm, like he’s stating the most obvious thing in the world. “I love being clean. And I love seeing you naked. This is a win for me.”

“You’re impossible—”

You don’t finish, because his lips are on yours, and your brain goes quiet.

It’s slow, unhurried, his hands moving with the kind of gentleness that makes your heart ache. He pulls your shirt over your head, unbuttons your jeans, sliding them off inch by inch. Every movement deliberate. Worshipful. And then his own clothes hit the floor, and the warmth of his skin against yours makes your breath hitch.

The water turns on.

He watches you with something close to amusement as you shiver at the warmth seeping in, presses a dozen tiny kisses across your face, like he’s mapping you out.

“So,” he murmurs, “how was your day?”

You huff, tilting your head up to look at him. “Not great. Until now.”

“On a scale of 1 to 10?”

You pretend to think about it. “Before you texted me? A 3. After your text? A 7. Once you got here? 8. In the shower? 9.”

He hums, pleased. “Excellent. That means I’m doing my job right.” Then, lower, softer—“Turn around.”

You do, closing your eyes, waiting.

For a second, his hands disappear. Your brows knit together. But then—

The scent of your body wash.

The warmth of his palms returning, slow and deliberate, moving over your skin in soft circles.

And just like that, the weight of the day dissolves.

“Mark…”

“Shhh,” he murmurs, pressing his lips to your shoulder. “Let me take care of you. It’ll feel nice.”

And it does. God, it does. You let yourself sink into it. Let yourself exist here, in this moment, where everything is warm and quiet and safe. He rinses you just as carefully, and by the time the water shuts off, you feel boneless.

Then—softness. Warmth. He’s wrapping you in a towel, his hands impossibly gentle. You grip his shoulders, barely thinking, just following. He leads you back to your room, and you let him.

You sit on the bed, half in a daze, watching as he kneels in front of you, rummages through your drawer like it’s his own. He pulls out a pair of underwear, slides it up your legs, his touch featherlight.

“I can do that myself, you know.”

“I know.” He presses a kiss to your knee. “But you need someone to take care of you tonight. Let me.”

He smooths the fabric into place, then smirks. “Though, I usually prefer taking these off of you.” A wink.

You laugh, breathless, fingers sliding into his hair.

“And now?” His voice is quieter, lower. Eyes locked onto yours.

“10/10.”

The smile he gives you is something secret, something warm, something that makes your chest ache.

He smiles, pulling you down into bed with him, tucking you against his chest. His arms wrap around you, warm and steady, and you think—this. This is the safest place in the world. You could stay like this forever, feeling his breath against your neck, letting the rest of the world fade away.

And in this moment, you know. You’ll cherish this. This little pocket of happiness, this unexpected ending to an otherwise forgettable day.

“And now?” he whispers against your ear.

You smile, eyes fluttering shut.

“20/10.”

He kisses your temple.

And just like that, you fall asleep. Wrapped in warmth, in safety, in love.

Mark will always be your safe place. And nights like this always remind you why.

“Goodnight, babe.”

Your last thought before sleep takes you is simple.

You are loved. You are cherished. You are home.

-

[saphiccarma]

Four Times Natasha carries you and one time you asked.

Summary - Natasha liked to flex by picking you up, however you don't often enjoy it.

Words: 3K

Warnings - Maybe a little sexual implications, but not really. Nightmares.

You inhaled a sharp breath, smoke filling your lungs as you ran through the building. Damn Hydra. Damn bombs. Heat burned on the walls around you, searing into your skin and bringing a hot flush to your face. Your legs burned as you searched for your team. Hand coming up to your com, you tried to get contact with any of them. All that came was static.

A piece of wood fell down in front of you, a rafter snapped in half by the flames. You jumped back, searching around for another exit. The fire pushed behind you and from the right, engulfing everything in its path. You glanced at the left, spying a window that was still shut. That would do.

The fire crept closer as you fiddled with the latch on the door. Your hands slipped several times, shaking with anxiety. Eventually, you managed to still your fingers enough to slide the lock and push the window up. Your back burned, the fire pushing ever closer.

Cautiously, you glanced at the window, gauging the drop. It was a good ten feet, and yet it was your only option. If only you had a suit like Tony.

Placing one foot on the ledge, and ducking your head underneath, you balanced precariously on the ledge. You took a deep breath, smoke filling your lungs once more, and shook out your hand that wasn't desperately clutching the edge. Slowly, you placed both hands on the ledge and lowered your legs and body down. It would lessen the height you would have to fall. The fire started lapping at your fingertips. You released the edge.

The impact shook you as you landed and dived into a roll, your shoulders aching from the force. You winced, your ankles burning and right shin absolutely covered in stinging pain, like needles piercing you through the bone.

A muffled cry escaped your mouth as your eyes watered. Smoke drifted into the sky above you as it escaped through the window you left open, the fire had mostly swallowed the building whole by now.

Hydra had sent the Avengers on a wild goose chase, leaving trails of evidence to a building in the middle of no where. You, Steve and Natasha were sent to investigate, and when you were sweeping the building, a small bomb was set off downstairs, igniting a fire that trapped you in the upper floor.

Natasha rounded the corner, having heard you hit the ground. She rushed over to you, kneeling next to you and gently taking you face into her hands - her gentle, calloused, hands. She examined your face, taking in the layer of soot that coated you, and your flushed cheeks that were slightly visible. With a soft look in her eyes, she placed a tender kiss on your lips.

"Did you jump?" she asked, her tone conveying frustration.

"Yeah," you mumbled, afraid she was upset at you.

Natasha muttered something in Russian, scooting towards your legs to carefully examine them. Nothing appeared wrong with them, but when she gently tried to move your right leg, you winced and flinched away. She pursed her lips, staring at your legs contemplatively,

You looked around, noticing that Steve wasn't around, "Where's Steve?"

Looking up Natasha met your eyes once more, "He's getting the jet."

You nodded, before firmly pressing your palms into the ground. Before you could push upwards to try and stand, Natasha shoved you down.

"What are you doing?" she questioned, tone just slightly angry at you now.

"Standing." you answered bluntly.

Natasha shook her head firmly, red hair brushing against her cheeks and wiping away some of the soot that coated them. You looked at her curiously as she moved to a crouching position.

"What are you doing?" you repeated her earlier question.

She didn't answer, but a small smirk crossed her lips as she placed an arm underneath you knees and another to support your back. In one smooth movement, she lifted you up. A shriek escaped your mouth as you struggled.

"Stop struggling," she ordered, "I'm going to drop you."

"Good," you glared up at her, "I can walk."

Natasha scoffed as she started walking away from the burning building, "No you cannot."

You pouted, but nestled your head onto her shoulder. A smirk formed on you mouth as you got an idea. Leaning in a little bit, you pressed a kiss to Natasha's neck. She sucked in a sharp breath, but kept her gaze straight ahead. Smiling to yourself, you gently bit at the same spot, before placing a soft kiss there.

Natasha glared down at you, her emerald eyes containing a silent warning. You grinned up at her innocently.

"Stop that," she adjusted you in her arms, "Wait 'till we get home."

There was a certain glint in her eyes when she said that and you felt a hot blush cross your cheeks, causing a soft laugh to rumble in her chest.

^______________________^

You sat on the couch, gently munching on some popcorn. Natasha's arm sat around your shoulders, holding you close as you rested on the spot between her jaw and collarbone. A movie played on the large screen TV, a horror movie. Damn Natasha.

The two of you had gotten into a playful argument earlier. It started with you talking with Bucky about movies, before he made a teasing remark about your jumping habit during scary movies. You scoffed, refuting the statement. Natasha chose that moment to chime in, her shirt hanging off her shoulder from when she just woke up, and said you really were scared. With a soft blush you denied the statement.

Hence your current predicament as you sat on the couch in Natasha's floor. Her head turned, a kiss pressed onto the top of your head.

"You scared yet, Dekta?" she asked, her hot breath fanning against your face.

"No," you mumbled.

And yet your body pressed further into her as suspense build and the music increased. Your hand fell out of the popcorn bowl and was now tightly clutching the fluffy blanket draped across the two of you.

"Are you sure?" she questioned again, and you could feel her eyes burning into the top of your head.

"Y-yeah."

The main character rounded the corner. The music went silent as the killer popped around the corner, knife in hand. The main character screamed as you jumped, a full body flinched. Your face burned as you heard Natasha's amused laugh.

She pressed another kiss to the top of your head, pulling you closer, "You sure you're not scared?"

You pouted, a soft whine escaping your lips.

Another laugh escaped her, "Come here, dekta." She pulled you into her lap, securing her arms around you and pulling you against her chest.

"Hey!" You protested, despite the fact that you loved it, "I'm not a baby."

"Mhm," Natasha hummed, unconvinced.

"I'm not scared," you muttered.

Natasha ignored you, instead just pulling you closer into her chest as she hummed in content. The movie continued to play, and wrapped in Natasha's protective, if not teasing, embrace, you fell asleep. Natasha sighed lovingly and picked you up bridal style. Even asleep, you sighed happily and snuggled into her chest as she carried you to your room.

^______________________^

To celebrate his birthday, Tony decided to throw a party. He ordered everyone to show up and dress nice, with a particular glare towards you as you tended to dress casual to nice events. It wasn't your fault fancy clothes were uncomfortable.

However, this time as you moved to pull on your favorite pair of tight jeans, Natasha sauntered into your room, a dress in hand. Her green eyes roamed over you, a spark of interest in them. A smirk formed on her face as she walked over to you - still wearing nothing but undergarments.

"As much as I like seeing like this," she began, placing a chaste kiss on the corner of your mouth, "I brought you some clothes."

You blushed at her words, a fire creeping up your neck and the tips of your ears. A beautiful laugh came from Natasha as she pushed a dress to your front.

"Put it on."

You scowled, glaring down at her. You were just a bit taller than Natasha. She looked back up at you with an expected eyebrow, perfectly manicured as always. When she first walked in, you were too flustered by your near naked state to notice her attire.

She wore a white blouse with puffy sleeves that silver buttons going down the center. Her blouse was tucked into a pair of flowy black dress pants. The black and white outfit brought out her red lipstick, not too bright and yet stunning all the same, and her emerald eyes that always seemed to sparkle.

Once again, Natasha smirked at you, giving you a small kiss before pushing you a little, "Go get dressed."

Scowling, you marched towards the bathroom, grasping the dress in your hand. You shut the door with a final glare at Natasha, who was still smirking at you. For a moment, you fumbled to get the dress on, but once you did, you saw why Natasha chose this dress.

It was a dress that fell just to your shins, with a slit going nearly to the top of your right thigh. While you normally thought red didn't work on you, this dress did. You stared at yourself in the mirror, wondering if this dress truly worked on you. Natasha was normally the one who wore dresses and dressed up in this relationship, but she seemed to want to swap it around for once. With a deep sigh, you exited the bathroom.

Natahsa grinned, a radiant smile that you loved.

"You look beautiful," she grinned, taking your hand and dragging you towards the party.

That was how you ended up where you were now, in a drinking contest with Bucky. It was a stupid decision, you knew that, and based on the way Natasha rolled her eyes affectionately, she thought so too. But Tony bet you twenty bucks, so you really had no choice.

Bucky had downed at least ten drinks by now, and you had probably done the same. Your head swam and your words were slurred. As you downed a shot, you felt a an arm on your shoulder.

"I have a girlfriend," you slurred, turning to attempt to glare at the person.

The woman, with bright red hair and sparkling emerald eyes smiled softly at you, "I am your girlfriend."

You gasped, really?? She was the most stunning woman ever.

"Really?" you squealed, "You're so pretty." The last word was drawn out was you fell into her arms to make a sloppy hug.

She laughed, her chest rumbling as she held you up.

"Let's get you to bed."

"Noo," you whined, trying to shove away from her, but she held you tight, "I'm busy."

She shook her head with amusement but said nothing. Rather she scooped you up bridal style, placing a small kiss to your forehead.

"Goodnight Bucky."

"Night, Natasha."

The super soldier wasn't nearly as wasted as you. You squirmed in Natasha's hold with a whine. She shushed you, pulling you closer with orders to stop squirming. Pouting, you snuggled into her chest with a sigh of content. She was cozy.

"You're cozy," you mumbled.

Her chest shook as she laughed softly, smiling down on you as she stepped into the elevator.

You looked up at her, taking in her perfect cheekbones, the way her lips curved into a soft smile. Her red hair was wavy and shoulder length, touching the top of your head. Green eyes, the color of a forest, which had always shone when she smiled, stared down at you with adoration. She looked like an angel.

"You're so pretty," you offered her a toothy grin, "You're like an angel."

She laughed again, placing a soft kiss to your head, "Let's get you to bed."

^______________________^

You made sure to keep your footsteps soft as you crept towards your prey. The hallways were dark as you hefted your weapon, careful to keep your breathing even. There were no comns on this mission, leaving without backup for when you inevitably needed it.

Your heart thudded in her chest as you rounded the corner, taking in the dim room. Above you, the light was turned all the way down, casting a faint light as a show played quietly on the TV - forgotten for the sake of the mission.

Looking around, you searched for your prey. Your prey was your hunter all bundled into one.

A shriek escaped you as a pillow came into contact with your head. You ran with the motion, spinning around and swinging your own pillow at Natasha. The widow ducked. She smirked up at you and you ran, rounding the couch before frantically facing her.

The two of you did the classic dance around the couch. With her, approaching one side, and you moving in the opposite direction.

Natasha smirked, "Apologize." She ordered.

You gulped, brushing stray hair out of your eyes. Recently, she had been searching for her favorite hoodie, and when it turned out to be in your closet after you denied having it, Natasha was furious.

"I didn't know it was in my closet!" That was the closest you would get to pleading for mercy, but you would never apologize.

Natasha narrowed her eyes at you. It took you a moment to realize what she was thinking, and by the time you did, it was too late. She bolted around the couch, pouncing on you and tackling you to the floor. You fell with a thump, and she pinned you down.

You struggled, which in hindsight was useless, she was always stronger than you. Your wrists were pinned above your head and her legs were sat on either side of your waist. A faint blush appeared on your cheeks, only deepening her smirk.

"Apologize," she demanded once more.

Even though you knew you had lost, you shook your head. Natasha's grin should have been warning enough, but she dug her fingers into your side. Giggling, you tried to shove her hand away. She tickled your sides relentlessly, not letting up even as you begged for her to stop.

"Nat please!" you gasped, grasping at her wrists.

"Apologize." She paused for a moment, staring at you expectantly.

You pouted, looking up at you with pleading eyes. Natasha heaved a sigh, feigning annoyance, before digging her fingers into your sides once more. You squirmed, giggling.

"I'm sorry!" you shrieked between laughs, "Sorry!"

Natasha stopped, satisfied. She climbed off you after giving you a kiss. Holding her hand out to help you up, Natasha grinned victoriously.

"Come on," she said, "We have to get ready for dinner with Wanda and Vision."

You groaned dramatically, placing a hand on your chest and pretending to die.

"No," you moaned, "Just leave me here! I'm too weak to go on."

Natasha scoffed, "Get up."

You didn't respond, shutting your eyes and sticking your tongue out in a dramatic imitation of death. Then suddenly, you felt hands under your armpits and your eyes shot open. Natasha hefted you over her shoulder, ignoring your squirming and smacked your ass gently.

You shrieked, but giggled, nonetheless.

^______________________^

Natasha had nightmares; it was hard not to. While she had hers, you also had yours. Natasha tended to be silent, back rigid and muscles tense during her nightmares. You, however, fought. Thrashing and sometimes screaming.

Natasha was woken up by a solid thump on her back.

"Baby?" she whispered, turning around with bleary eyes.

Your legs were thrashing about as the blanket fell to the floor, sweat coating your face and dripping down your neck. Natasha took a sharp breath.

"Y/N," she said, harshly - it was the only way to get you to wake up, "Y/N"

Your fist flew out, nearly hitting her in the face. Carefully thinking about her movements, Natasha jumped to pin your arms down, her heart breaking when you whimpered and cowered away. She held your arms down on the mattress so you couldn't hit her and avoided your legs flailing about. She blew some air in your face, and for some reason that worked. It always worked for some weird reason.

Eyes snapping open, you jerked away from Natasha, scuttling towards the head of the bed to curl into a ball. Your breaths were coming in heavy, and Natasha wanted nothing more than to wrap you in her arms and keep you safe, but she didn't know if you wanted that.

Frantically, you looked around the room, hands shaking. After a moment your eyes landed on her. A sob burst from your throat, and you launched yourself towards her, clinging to her and sobbing. You buried your head in the crook of her neck and wrapped your arms around her. Natasha smoothed down your hair, which had gotten wild during your nightmare. She pressed a gentle kiss to your head.

"You're okay!" you sobbed, breaths sharp and uneven, "You- you were dead! I saw it and I-"

"Hey," Natasha cut you off, planting another kiss on your head, "Look at me."

She cupped your face with her hands, pulling you away and forcing you to look at her. Your eyes were puffy, and your nose was red. You sniffled, leaning into her touch with a sigh.

"I'm okay," she muttered, tracing your cheekbones with her thumbs, "I'm okay and it was dream."

You sniffled once more, "Can you make me hot cocoa?"

Her heart broke at your fragile tone and how little you sounded.

"Of course."

Natasha got up to move, ready to set you down on the bed, but you clung tighter to her. Letting out a soft laugh Natasha looked down at you.

"You have to let me go, baby," she said softly.

"Carry me?" You pouted out your lower lip and peered up at her with wide, teary eyes.

Natasha sighed but picked you up as you wrapped your legs around her waist. She carried you to the kitchen on the floor.

"I love you," you whispered.

"I love you too."