importantstudentbusinessspy-blog

Latest Posts by importantstudentbusinessspy-blog

can i be honest? i think you’re all very cool and beautiful and capable. i think you deserve so much kindness and love and happiness. i hope it comes back to you tenfold. i think you deserve that.

Hi, I just wanted to know if your fic of Jacaerys Targaryen Dragon Blood is completed or if it's gonna be and update soon. Thank you 🙂

Hello! Thank you for your message and for being so polite :)))

It is not complete, I left it on such a cliffhanger, I need to update it haha. I just haven't gotten an idea of where to take the story and gotten carried away with writing other characters :*).

It will definitely have an update!

The Girl From Home

Sid Phillips x Reader

GIF By: @rockpaperscissuhs

Please Read

Author’s Note / Historical Disclaimer:

This story is a fictional work inspired by the character of Sidney Phillips as portrayed in HBO’s The Pacific. While the show draws from the real stories of World War II veterans, this fanfiction is not intended to represent or depict any real people — living or deceased. It is purely a work of fiction, and I have changed details accordingly.

Additionally, this story includes period-accurate language and terminology that may be considered offensive or inappropriate today. Slurs and harsh military slang are used not to endorse these views but to reflect the historical reality and emotional toll of war. Please read with that context in mind.

Tags: 18+, Mature themes, PTSD, violence, some sexual content, Minors DNI

He never even got your name.

All Sid has to remember you by is that day.

The one moment you shared on the morning following his enlistment.

It was a warm Alabama day.

He'd just passed the bakery when a display of ice cream flavors caught his attention. Thinking he'd indulge himself before he went off to war, Sid stepped into the store.

Grasping the two crumbled dollar bills in his pocket, he had his mind made up on a cone of vanilla strawberry, whatever the heck that was.

But when his gaze took a lazy scan around the room, he came to a halt.

Mobile wasn't a big town by a long shot; everybody pretty much knew one another. And yet, he had never run into you before. Perhaps you and your family had just moved in?

His gaze first skimmed over you in the pharmacy corner, but then, then he had to look at you again. His body decided to act for him. "Warm out, isn't it?" He said. He just wanted to make you speak to him.

You looked up from the receipt you had been reading. Your eyes. Oh my, they could write books about eyes like that, Sid thought.

You smiled the way girls did in moving pictures when approached by a boy. "At least they run their fans in here. The parts shop was a sweat lodge."

Ah, so you were new. Rosemary's was owned by a wealthy family, so they could afford to run their fans on longer than other businesses.

"Yeah, most people know to avoid's Phill's shop until at least late afternoon." Sid said, just noticing the sheen of sweat glistening over your delicate collarbone above the hem of your pretty blue dress.

He cleared his throat, feeling his face warm. "After the sun ain't so bad."

Your own cheeks held a blush. "Where were you an hour ago?"

Sid chuckled, following the movement of your hand rising to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear. Nails pale, delicate.

How cruel of god, he thought, to send him a girl like you just days before he was shipped off for who knows how long.

Perhaps it was a test of faith, like his pastor often talked about.

The pharmacist returned from the backroom, holding out a paper bag and handing you back your change. "There ya go, sweetheart. Tell your grandma to only take one at a time."

You thanked him.

The pharmacist then looked from you to Sid, eyes creasing with recogn. "Sidney!"

"How are you, Carl?"

Carl smiled. "Not bad, not bad. How's your mama? Headaches any worse"

"Much better now, thanks to you."

"That's good, that's good." Carl's tone took a dip. "Heard you enlisted."

"Yes, sir," Sid glanced your way just in time to see the sharp intake of breath through parted lips.

Carl's nod was mechanical, his gaze held things unsaid. "When are you boys shippin' out?"

"In five days,"

Carl was quiet for a long time before he cleared his voice. "Now, you go there, and you do everything you need to do to survive, to win."

"Will do, sir."

Holding your things, you looked as if you wanted to say something but were unsure. At last, you met his gaze.

"Good luck." Voice soft, yet firm at the same time. Then you walked past him and out the door.

"Hey, wait!" Someone called behind you. You turned to see Sid running to you across the road, an ice cream cone held in each hand.

The corner of your lips lifted as he came to stand before you.

"I paid for one, but Carl gave me the second one for free." He spoke with a shrug. "I'd hate for it to... ah, go to waste."

Your hand rose to cover up your giggle.

Before Sidney Phillips sees action in Guadalcanal, he sees two mutilated U.S. marines. Boys his age. Bloodied, tied to trees, gouged eyes, and severed parts.

That evening, their medic is shot down by friendly fire. The man had just stepped out to relieve himself.

It was their third taste of incompetent leadership. The first was when the generals pranked them into thinking they were landing into enemy fire—only to hit a beach full of marines. Sid had to hand it to them. It was a good one.

In their dugout, they watch the American and Japanese fleets shell each other. Sid returns with edible coconuts and passes them around.

They cheer through the night like it’s a football game.

They nickname him Johnny Reb. He doesn’t know what it means. Sweating too much to ask.

Freshly eighteen, Sid is the youngest in his troop. Barely tasted his first drink. Leckie offers him a swig from a champagne bottle left behind.

He works hard. Eager to prove himself.

The Japanese fleet circles the island by the dozens. There isn't an American shit in sight. Jesus, where are their guys? Sid bites the inside of his cheek to keep from voicing his question... Have the american fleets abandoned them?

Sid goes partially deaf from the gunfire. Japs descend onto the beaches at night. Silhouettes in the dark. He fires. Some drop. Some don’t.

He moves. So do the men. Keep shifting to avoid bombs.

He and Leckie stumble upon their platoon leader. The once cocky, macho man is rolled over, crying in his dugout while he and the rest of them are running canon fodder, defending the island as the Japs run in by the hundreds.

How many break the line? he doesn't know. Too dark to see, so they fire and move and fire again.

The morning after, the beach is a graveyard. Corpses rotting in the sun. Some are floating in a pool of their blood.

The tragedy is one thing, but the smell...

Sid walks away, trying to find a clean place to vomit.

"A real turkey shoot."

"Run fucker!" Some of their men cheer and hoot as the last Japanese soldier standing runs around, looking at the corpses of his fallen comrades.

Sid screws his eyes shut as his supposed enemy screams out in desperation, taking shots and shots. He wonders if the Jap... if the soldier even registers the physical pain of the bullets. He doubts it.

This disturbing charade continues until Leckie has the mercy to pull his pistol out and shoot the poor boy in the heart.

Sid digs into the bags that belonged to the fallen Japs, trying to find anything useful. Edible. Instead, he finds family pictures and dolls... and books.

His eyes linger on those items. That woman in the photograph... had he killed her son? His eyes begin to swim, and he tears his gaze away, moving on to the next bag.

He can't dwell on it. On any of it.

He long has it been?

His birthday had just passed.... a couple of months then. Shit, he forgot it was his fuckin' birthday until he read Eugene's letter. He folds the envelope and hides it in his pocket.

They're thin. Sunken faces. Skin and bone. Bags under their eyes, sick, hungry. Sticky with blood and sweat.

Hoosier's hands tremble. He hasn't had a smoke in a couple of minutes. Sid managed to get his hands on a full pack of lucky strikes the other day but now sees the empty paper box discarded beside Hoosier's boot.

Chuckler has the runs for the fourth day in a row.

Runner has crazy eyes.

Leckie looks like an entirely different person.

Sid has at least a dozen cuts he's pretty sure are infected. His head is swaying, too.

Mama used to say women like to see men hard at work.

He chuckles to himself.

Yeah. Bet you'd love to see him now.

Withered. Sickly. A murderer.

He lights a cigarette. Dinner.

Semper fi, he thinks to himself. Happy birthday to me.

The army runs off to hide from the air raid, leaving a completely perfect delivery unwatched. So the boys swoop right in to pop open trunks in search of shoes, cigars, and booze.

Feeling like a kid on Christmas, Sid heads straight for the crates containing weapons. Throwing the crowbar aside after he busts the lock open, what he sees inside ruins his mood.

Disbelief, then denial, then rage.

He looks around to look at his comrades, looting brand new uniforms, cigars...

Who gives a shit?! They got the army rifles manufactured in THIS CENTURY. While he got to use shit that his grandpa wouldn't even hunt a bunny with.

His shoulders drop. Do they even give a fuck?

Do they care that the first marines are dyin' out here?

"So yeah, apparently, back home were... well, we're heroes." Leckie finishes relaying what the cook had told them in the mess hall.

They're all sitting aboard the boat, headed to Australia for some recovery, and resupply.

To Leckie's side, half listening, Sid sits with his head propped against the wall, a blank look on his face. Ya, here that, Soldier? He thinks. Every Jap ya killed has made you a hero back home.

The boy is broken. When he walks, it's without purpose. He's just taking step after step like the rest of them.

He doesn't bother greeting you when he plopps down on the wooden chair at your station. The nth soldier to do so in a room full of nurses today.

You gasp. "Sid."

The dirt covered boy looks up at you, eyes narrowing.

Does he know you?

Slack mouthed, and you take in the sight.

His once styled hair is now a disheveled mess falling over his forhead. His face all hollow cheeks, sharp edges, and poorly cut stubble. Eyes distrusting of their own shadow.

Even as you see the recognition there.

You whisper, "It's really you."

There's something in your voice you can't quite name. Excitement? Shock?... Relief?

But whatever goes on in your head, the opposite's in his. You see recognition flicker. Then apathy.

Eyes drop.

"Yeah... it's me."

You sit alone in the mess hall, quickly and hungrily eating your rations when Sid Phillips limps in.

His eyes find you instantly. He realizes hasn’t looked at a woman in months. Really looked. You're all soft skin and clean hands, dress hugging your waist, your breasts... he wonders if you're required to look so put together, so beautiful for your job.

He can't imagine why? Not much beauty out here.

Maybe that's why.

They ran out of clean clothes to give the soldiers so he's still walking around in his uniform. Torn over his stomach and chest, sleeves gone, exposing sunburnt arms.

One thing that stood out during your health check was a bunch of poorly healed welts and a once broken, mostly repaired ankle. You assigned him to triage for a wrap and a disinfection. There was a line to go to the showers, so you gave him an early number. But it looks like they hadn't gotten to his turn yet.

A lit cigarette hangs from Sid's dry lips as he makes his way to you, taking a seat across from you.

Suddenly nervous, you quickly wipe your mouth and plant your hands on the bench underneath your thighs. You watch your food, gaze occasional jumping to him, not ready to speak first.

"When did you become a nurse?"

The voice is softer than expected. Conversational. Not entirely kin, but you can tell it's difficult for him.

He’s trying.

"1943," you say. "The day after my high school graduation."

He nods, soot covered, fingers scratching his stubble. "... Do you like it?"

You swallow, cobsidering his question. Did you? It wouldn't feel right to say you enjoyed the sight of blood...

"I..." you begon, thinking over your answer. "Enjoy helping people. Serving my country."

He lets out a dry chuckle, turning his head to exhale the smoke away from you. "Yeah. No question there."

That stings more than you expect. "Excuse me?"

Seeing your reaction, Sid's smile drops as he realizes how he must have come across. "Oh, fuck."

You tense. You're used to profanity by now — every nurse is — but hearing it from Sid, who once spoke like a choirboy, catches you off guard.

"That's not what I meant."

You remind yourself not to judge him because you don't know what he's seen... what made him the way he is now. So you sit back, willing yourself to be more open-minded.

"It's alright." You offer gently.

"No," he rasps. "Its not. I'm... its me. There's something wrong."

A terrible curiosity claws at your chest. What had he seen out there?

"... what is it?" You ask.

"You... you have no idea what's it's like there. I'm sorry, they..." he looks around, paranoid. "They don't care. They dont care who lives or dies. There's no logic to it." He said brokenly.

"Who? The Japs?"

Chuckling again, he shakes his head. "No, not the Japs."

Before you can ask more, your name is called. The two of you turn to the entrance. A doctor stands, pulling on a pair of blue rubber gloves, his coat is smeared with blood stains. "If you're finished, nurse, we need hands."

"Yes, sir." You stand and pick up your tray, sending Sid an apologetic look.

He gives you a nod, his eyes dropping to your tray. Something he sees their makes him sit up. "Oh, is that chewing gum?"

You look down at the small white wrapper, then you hand it over. "Take it."

Judging by the expression on his face you'd think you had just offered him the moon.

"I was just going to ask for one–" he begins.

"I have much more. Take it." You reassure him. Then, diciding to risk making him laugh, you offer with a smile. "Please, you need it."

Priceless. The look on his face is priceless. Sid gapes at you, not unlike a proper southern dandy whose pride was just insulted. But then his gaze drops to your smiling lips, letting him know you're teasing him. And his own teeth start to show with the hint of a grin.

His fingers, dry, callused, brush yours when he takes the gum.

"Thanks,"

You nod, turning to leave, even when you yearn to stay with him for a little longer.

The marines line up to disembark, boots thumping on the metal plank leading to the harbor. An hour's passed since docking, and Sid scans the crowd—one hand gripping his pack, eyes moving from nurse to nurse, face to face.

But you're not there.

A tug at his collar jerks him forward.

Runner, grinning. "Nostalgic already, Johnny Reb?"

Sid shakes his head. "There’s a nurse I wanted to say goodbye to. She's from back home."

Leckie slings an arm around him, already pointing toward the crowd gathered at the dock. Sunhats, curls, lipstick. Cheers rising like confetti.

"Behold, my friend." Leckie drawls, "an endless line of sun-kissed Australian girls, all waiting to give a hero the welcome he deserves."

Sid follows the line of Leckie’s gaze. They are pretty, all of them. Fresh-faced. Smiling.

He looks back at the ship one last time.

Then he steps off the ramp, into the streets of Australia, ready—if not eager—to forget the Pacific.

He’d slept with a woman. Drank half the liquor in Australia.

Its… unbelievable.

That food can taste this good. That a bed could feel this soft. That a body could bring this much comfort.

If he ever makes it home, he swears, he’ll never complain again.

And then—training starts back up.

Fuck whoever invented blisters. He can't sleep most nights, not with the pain in his feet screaming through the thin material of his boots.

Marches across the scorched Australian fields blur his vision.

One night, wide awake and soaked with sweat, Sid reaches into his breast pocket and pulls out the white container.

The last stick of chewing gum.

He pops it into his mouth, folding the wrapper neatly before slipping it back into his pocket.

The days after a massacre are always hauntingly quiet. Sid is used to it. Probably for the best.

The rain lets up, leaving a sticky heat in the air. Pavuvu is a mess of swaying palms, mud, and tents that smell like mold and guns.

Sid sits under the lean-to behind the infirmary, rifle balanced between his knees. He's not on watch. He just can't sleep.

His stomach aches. Or maybe its his back. Or head. Always something lately.

"Phillips," someone barks, boot steps squelching in the mud.

Sid turns his head up.

"Mail," the corporal tosses a fistful of soggy envelopes into his lap before disappearing again.

He flips through it. Most of it is nothing—military nonsense, forms, nothing from his folks—

He freezes.

One of the envelopes has his name on it in script. Slanted.

He tears it open.

Dear Sid,

I'm writing you because I’m not sure if I’ll ever see you again. Not because I think you’ll die but because things don’t happen like that.

I didn’t get to say goodbye. I looked for you. But I figured you were already on a boat or maybe drunk somewhere with the boys. (Tell Hoosier he owes me a packet of morphine, and that those things are not candy.)

Things are the same back here. Blood, noise, more soldiers every day.

I still remember that day, by the way. That "free" ice cream.

I guess I’m writing this to say I hope you’re still ok. I hope there’s something in you they haven’t taken yet.

Be safe, Sid.

–The girl from home

Sid reads it twice. Then again.

The rain starts up again. But he doesn't move.

Instead, he folds the letter back into the envelope, slides it into his breast pocket with the gum wrapper and Sledge's letter, and leans his head against the tent pole behind him.

The sun is doing its best to boil Peleilu and them with it. Sid crouches behind a half-buried chunk of rock, sweat burning into the cuts on his back.

A Japanese sniper has them pinned down. No way forward. No way back.

Chuckler mutters beside him, working the bolt on his rifle.

Sid’s vision blurrs. Retinas burning. He blinks, then blinks again. His head is pounding. He hadn’t eaten in thirty hours. Maybe longer.

He puts a hand on his chest—instinct—and feels the envelope crinkle.

He hadn’t opened it again. Didn’t need to.

He remembered every word.

"I hope there’s something in you they haven’t taken yet."

Sid snorted under his breath.

Still something in him, huh?

He wasn’t so sure.

"Whatcha laughing at?" Leckie asks without looking.

Sid shakes his head. "Letter."

Leckie nods. "From back home?"

"Sort of."

"Girl?"

Sid looks out over the ridge. "Maybe."

On the day you receive your college acceptance letter, you run into Sidney Phillips for the third time.

It's been two weeks since you came home to Mobile. Sleeping in your childhood bed, enjoying your parents’ clean house and warm meals. The first week was rest. The second is something like healing.

When you finally feel like yourself again, you start going out. Visiting old girlfriends. Catching up over soda counters.

"You'll love college, dear," your friend Mary says, sipping Coca-Cola through a red-and-white paper straw. "I’ve never had access to so much education before. We ladies are even allowed to take the labs with the men now."

Your brows arch. "That’s wonderful!"

"Aha!" Marie winks proudly. "We’ll show them women can engineer just as well as they can."

You’re about to reply when something behind her catches your eye. A flash of navy blue.

A uniform.

You freeze.

There, walking down from the end of the street where the wealthier homes sit, is Sidney Phillips. His hat tucked neatly under his arm. He looks—

Washed. Shaved. Pressed.

Older. His cheeks have filled back in, but not enough to restore that boyish softness. There are still shadows under his tired eyes.

You rise abruptly, startling Mary. You mutter an apology—something about needing a moment—and cross the street, heart pounding like it did when you were seventeen.

He’s looking off in the distance, lost in thought.

Then he sees you.

He stops in his tracks.

Neither of you says anything.

Then your arms are around his neck.

He catches you instantly, arms circling your waist, holding you like something precious.

He pulls back enough to study your face.

His expression is unreadable at first—somewhere between awe and disbelief.

"How...?" he breathes.

You don’t know. Your throat is too tight to speak. The emotion you’ve been swallowing for months finally breaks loose.

A sob escapes you, and your shoulders tremble in his arms.

He flinches, not from you, but from what your pain unlocks in him. His features fold inward. The guilt is sudden, visible.

He gathers you back to him. Tighter this time. Desperate.

"Darlin’… please don’t cry," he murmurs against your hair.

He holds you like he doesn't think he deserves this moment. Not your tears, not your arms, not your presence.

You are warm. You are real.

And all his friends are still bleeding in Peleliu.

When he walks you home after your third date, you two are laughing. He'd just finished telling you about running into Sledge on his last day with his company in the first marines. Clearly, he had a favorite in one charismatic writer. Seeing him as a role model of a sort.

"Did Leckie ever read you any of Vera's letters?" You ask.

Sid purses his lips. He allows himself a sad smile. "You know, I never asked. In the case that she hadn't written back."

"Oh but she must have," you think out loud. "You made him sound infatuated with her. What girl would ignore such devotion?"

He considers your words while studying the way your hair falls over your shoulder. He yearns to run his fingers through it. Then, he gets another idea.

Wrapping his arms around your waste, he lifts you in the air and twirls you around. "Why the sudden fascination in my buddy, miss?"

The sound of your laughter makes him wonder if he's dreaming.

"Sid!" You sqeual, stomach hurting from laughter.

His hands hover over your waist like he’s afraid to touch something clean. When you kiss his shoulder, he lets out a noise that sounds more like grief than pleasure. He kisses softly, but when the two of you are alone, he kisses like a dying man kisses air. Greedy, shaking. You reassure him with a light brush at his jaw. "I’m not going anywhere."

He nods. He tries.

When the two of you are laying in bed and you lazily play with his dog tags, he reacts almost instinctively before realizing what you’re doing, then lets you.

The way he grips your thighs when pulling you onto him is urgent, not dominating — like the touch of your skin will pull him out of his mind.

His body trembles, just slightly, when he finally enters you. It is a kind of overwhelmed tension — not fear, not excitement, but something heavier. He doesn’t say what he saw, but the way he touches you — fists in your nightgown, mouth pressed against your chest — makes it clear. He’s trying to feel something other than his memories.

The smell of onions in butter is heavy in the air. The windows are cracked open, and birds chirp outside.

The war is over. Japan has surrendered. Sledge came home and was sitting in your porch in the grass, sipping a bear in silence. It’s another hot Alabama summer, and the floor tiles under your bare feet are cool.

Sid stands beside you at the counter in your kitchen, sleeves rolled, paring knife in hand. He’s not particularly good at peeling potatoes—he keeps taking off too much—but he’s focused. Determined.

"You’re gettin’ it now," you smile, brushing flour from your fingers.

"Yeah?" he grins. "Reckon I make a decent sous-chef?"

He’s happy, relaxed. It’s a rare thing to witness. You smile to yourself just having the chance to watch him.

He flinches.

"Shit."

You hear the metal clatter before you see the blood.

He’s nicked his thumb cleanly, the cut shallow but red.

You’re already moving. Your hand is steady as you pull the towel down from the hook and press it to his hand.

He holds it down, not needing to be told to.

You open the drawer where your mother keeps the tin first-aid kit. Gauze. Tape. Salve. You kneel at the table, taking his hand, already unwrapping the towel.

"It’s nothing," he says, trying to make light of it.

Quiet, you clean the wound efficiently as you were trained. Press gauze, tape it down. Your fingers work the way they always do.

Until—

You pause.

Something about the blood. The curve of his wrist.

You blink, and you’re not here anymore.

You’re on the canvas floor of the tent. It’s dark, there’s screaming, and someone’s leg is—

"Hey."

His voice cuts through it. Gentle.

You’re back. You’re holding gauze. Your hands are trembling.

You drop them.

"I'm fine." You say quickly.

"You’re not."

His bandaged hand lowers, and the other brushes your arm — soft, light.

You sit back against the cabinet, your eyes wide, unfocused.

"I didn’t even feel it coming," you whisper.

"That’s the worst kind," Sid murmurs, crouching down beside you.

"It was just a cut."

"It's not the cut," he says. Understanding in his voice.

He doesn’t press you. Doesn’t touch your face or try to fix it. He just waits. And when your breathing slows, he quietly says, "C’mon. Porch’s cooler anyway."

You nod.

And he stands, waiting for you to take his hand. You do.

loved ur recent jt work <3 quietly wished for a pt2 after reading but i saw that it was just a oneshot

Thank you so much!!

I did leave it on a cliffhanger haha, but I think people can infer what happens next.

And who knows? Maybe if I get some ideas, I could write up a part two, but for now, I'll let him be happy.

Back When You Left Me

Jason Todd one-shot

Pairing: Jason x Reader

Rating: Explicit / NSFW/

Tags: mutual pining, slowburn, childhood crush, age difference, mentions of abuse, class differences, glow ups, sexual tension, emotional smut, reunions, sex, thigh riding, first kisses, first time, virginity,

Episode 1 - Your Apartment

The malfunctioning fan at the corner of your living room rotated from side to side, occasionally providing a faint breeze in the heat.

Spring swept by in a blink, and June came in with full steam. Baby hairs that have fallen out of your braids were sticking to the sweat of your forhead. In your lap was your graduation gown, in your lips, a pair of pins. Needle held carefully in your fingers, you threaded the design of a flower onto the blue gown that once belonged to your older brother. There was no point in buying a new one. Almost everyone in your eighth grade class had an older sibling whose graduation gown was passed down to them. It was cheaper that way.

Every once in a while, you glanced at the tv screen, watching the pretty reporter sitting in an air-conditioned studio and announcing the latest updates.

Another building had been demolished. Third time this month. Purchased by a millionaire and destroyed to be rebuilt into his own luxurious complex. Its tenants displaced and sent to social services.

You recognized the building. One of your classmates, Rose, had lived there with her family. You wondered what was going to happen to her now. Would her parents find another place to stay? Should you offer yours? Doubtful. Rose had four siblings, and you barely had enough room with your mother and brother in the two-bed you shared.

Shawn dropped out of school to get a part-time job and help your mother with rent. When you offered to do the same, you were met with screams of "over my dead body" from both of them. So you did your best to keep your grades up. For their sacrifice.

A clutter came from the your ceiling, drawing your attention from the TV. There was screaming followed by a door slamming and footsteps heading down.

Your upstairs neighbour, Mrs. Todd must have been in another one of her moods. Either that or her boyfriend was on another drinking binge. Those two gems did all they could to rid the entire complex of any peace and quiet.

Sure enough, a moment later, your door opened and in walked mrs. Todd's son.

Tall, broad, and brooding as always, Jason gave you an acknowledging look as he headed straight for the fridge.

Your heart spiked the way it always did whenever he was around, but you schooled your features with a tight-lipped smile.

Jay was a junior like your brother. Short and messy black hair fell onto his forehead just so, above blue eyes you could see from across the room. His beautiful face was usually always cut or bruised, and he wore a piercing on his left ear.

Unlike Shawn, Jason didn't drop out. He had received a scholarship in his freshmen year and kept the grades to maintain it throughout. But that didn't mean he attended every day.

Like Shawn, Jason worked to help pay rent.

Standing by the fridge, he leaned down to inspect the contents.

"Ah," he said when he found what he was looking for, pulling out all bags of frozen chicken and plopping down at your kitchen table, holding it to his eye.

Grease stains clung to his rolled-up sleeves, the fabric stretched tight across arms you tried not to stare at. Tried and failed.

Your friends and classmates had already begun dating. And despite everyone at school knowing your brother's reputation and protectiveness, some had even asked you out. To no avail. You politely declined invites to dates, saying you weren't interested.

But really, they never stood a chance.

Since the first time you saw Jason stumbling into your apartment, all scraped up elbows and torn jeans, it was over for you. He got in a fight that Shawn pulled him out from and brought him to you to get stitched up so that he wouldn't have to go to the hospital.

Your hands had shaken too much. You were used to sewing clothing, not bleeding skin. Ironically, Jason was the one to calm you down.

There were two many people in the room, too much noise, he asked the to leave because they were distracting you. When it was just you two left, he spoke to you in a calm town, even though it must have been hard with his torn shoulder.

"You're okay, kiddo." He'd whispered to you, sitting up on the couch. "This is just like one of your designs. Same technique."

You'd sniffled. "I-i don't know, Jason. We should call the hospital. What if I mess up? You could get hurt–"

"Are you kidding? I've seen that bird you sowed onto that ugly French thing you like to pretend is a hat."

"The beret you mean? That's a very popular style all around the world."

"It can't be."

"Jason!" You giggled. "Don't make me laugh right now."

"You're right. You're right. Im sorry." He said, wincing as the wound on his shoulder pulsed with blood. "But what I'm trying to say is I trust you. You can save me, darling, I know you can. Please try..."

You swallowed, staring at the wound. "Okay," you said, keeping his words in mind. "Okay,"

You did what you were used to, cleaning the wound and slowly, carefully stitched him up. By the time you were finished, Jay was pale, but his breathing had calmed. The bleeding stopped.

He took a painkiller as you wrapped gauze around his shoulder, and he eventually fell asleep from exhaustion.

Since that day, you developed a crush that held you in a vice like grip.

Jason played dumb, but it was a defense. You’d seen the glint behind his eyes when he solved problems. And he was kind. He tutored the neighbourhood kids and brought groceries to your elderly neighbours. He took care of his mom, even though she didn't deserve it. He worked hard. He cared about his friends. Enough to join a brawl for them, no questions asked.

Sure, he only saw you as his friend's little sister, and sure, each time he brought a girl home, it hurt like a punch in the chest, but some part of you hoped that one day...

"Ah!" He hissed, drawing you from your thoughts. You looked to where he'd placed the frozen chicken on the table, shaking his hand as if it he burnt it.

"Here," you stood up from the couch, setting your sewing kit on the coffee table and made your way to him, bare feet against the hardwood flood.

You wrapped the chicken in a paper towel and held it gently to his eye.

Even seated, Jason towered over you. He let out a sigh and closed his eyes, leaning into your hand. This close, he smelled like a mixture of sweat and cheap cologne. He smelled like home.

You lifted the pack off his face and studied the damage. The skin around his eye was beginning to bruise. You pressed the cold towel softly to it.

"Jay," you spoke softly. "Did your mom–"

"Is Shawn around?" He cut you off. His voice raw, like he was holding back a growl. One look at his clenched hand confirmed he was trying to calm himself down. Before you could stop yourself, your other hand rose to brush his hair away from his eyes.

He stilled. But his hand unclenched, and he took a calm breath.

"He went out to the store earlier." You said. "He'll be back soon."

He hummed.

Your phone buzzed, the screen flashing with a message from your classmate.

Parlour tn?

You quickly grabbed your phone and shoved it in the pocket of your shorts. Maybe he didn't see it?

"So, you're going to the parlour." Jason asked.

"Yep." You muttered.

"You know people go there to drink and hook up."

You snorted. "Oh my god, what?" Then rolled your eyes. "Are you gonna tell my brother?"

"Of course I am."

You shook your head, grinning. "Whatever. You guys were my age when you started going there."

Jason was quiet. "Just be careful. All men are dogs."

"Not all," you grinned, your eyes catching a hole in his shirt. Right at the seam above his left shoulder. Was that new?

"Do you want me to fix this?" You asked, fingers brushing the ripped material.

"Nah, don't waste your threads." He gave you a smile, despite his voice sounding tired. He must have taken extra shifts at the shop. "I'll ruin it the next day anyway."

Your heart clenched from the exhaustion in his tone.

Of all the people who you knew at the slums, if anyone deserved out. It was Jay.

Episode 2 - The Parlour

The parlour was in full swing. The skate park was covered in neon graffiti. Discarded bottles and solo cups lay around as skatebords, bikes, and Rollerblades glided across concrete to rock music blasting from the speakers.

You sat on a ledge overlooking the river, enjoying the brush of summer wind against your skin.

Swinging your legs in the air beneath you, you hoped your jean skirt and t-shirt combo was enough to keep you warm.

You eyed the construction site a block away. A new condo was being developed. A month ago, it was another old apartment building.

"I wonder what the view would be from the top of that crane." You mumbled.

"Okay, that's enough of that." Your friend Emma giggled while taking away the bottle of... something wrapped in a paper bag you'd been holding. "I know you like climbing, but it's not exactly the tree in our school yard."

You chuckled.

As the night went on, you went from drink to drink, from person to person. You weren't sure how you ended up in the construction site, wandering your way to the crane.

You heard low voice behind you. "What the hell are you doing?"

You froze, turning around to see him. The bruise around his eye had lightened.

You closed your eyes, lifting your hand to your heart. "Jay, you scared me."

"You scared me." He folded his arms in front of his chest. "What are you doing at a construction site?"

"Don't know... ," Your gaze veered to your surroundings. "What do you think they're building here?"

He shrugged. "Who cares?"

You turned around. "I do."

He kicked a piece of debris, leaning against the side of the crane.

"And you do too." You informed.

His lip quirked up in amusement. "You know me that well, hmm?"

You took a step towards him. "I know you like to act like you don't give a shit."

His jaw ticked as you got closer.

When you reached him nervously and slowly, you lifted your gaze up at him.

Jason gazed down at you. His expression unreadable.

"I know you don't like the people that are kicking our friends out of their homes." You said. "I know you're a good guy. You punched Billy Vincent for saying his shoes cost more than our house."

He blinked. Blue eyes narrowing at you. "How do–"

"Shawn told me." You raised a brow, risking a step closer to him. Your hand lifted to his cheek–

He backed up. "Don't. Don't do this–"

"Why?" You asked. "Would it be so bad?"

"Yes!" He looked at you in disbelief. "You're your Shawn's little sister!"

"Who cares?" You argued. "I know what I want."

"You want me, then. Yeah?" Suddenly, he turned an interrogating gaze to you. "With all my baggage?"

"I do." You lifted your chin. You loved everything about him, why couldn't he see that?

Jason shook his head. "Trust me, you'd be better off with guys like Freddie Fletcher."

You were taken aback. What did this have to do with your classmate?

"Dont bother." Jason shook his head. "He told everyone the two of you slept together. Shawn almost killed him."

"He's lying!" Anger rose in your chest. "Nothing happened! I never even had my first kiss!"

"... you haven't?"

His smirk made your skin burn.

Folding your arms, you looked away from him and at a pebble on the ground.

"I mean, I could have." You kicked the rock. "Several guys at school have tried..."

You risked a glance at him, seeing the faint amusement on his smirking lips.

"But...?" he prompted.

"... But they weren't you." You admitted.

Ocean blue eyes wavered. Then he began walking towards you.

Your pulse spiked, breath catching as he got closer and closer.

For some reason, the silence felt suffocating, and before you could stop them, the words spilled out of your mouth. "I dont care what Shawn or anyone else thinks. I'd choose you over any of them–"

Then his mouth was on yours. Dry lips, soft breath, years of memories collapsing into a single exchange. You made a sound like a half gasp, half sigh — as your fingers threaded through his thick hair, tugging just slightly.

He tasted like cigarettes and gum.

When he pulled away, his breath hitched. Like he hadn’t meant to go that far.

His gaze was locked on yours, black pupils blown wide. You had to look away, afraid you’d say something too weird. You bit your lip to keep it from trembling.

"You are... not a good kisser." He chuckled behind you.

Seriously?

He was laughing at you?

After your first kiss...

You spun around, heat rising in your face.

"That's not what Freddie Fletcher said." You snapped.

His expression shifted. One brow lifted — not in surprise, but calculation. Like he didn’t like hearing that name in your mouth.

"You're right." He drawled, ocean blue eyes teasing. "Fletcher said you rocked his world. And now I know he lied."

Before you could tell him to go fuck himself, his lips covered yours again.

Episode 3 - The Batman

You were standing over the kitchen stove, stirring the contents of the chicken soup for your mother. She came home from work sick a few days ago, and since then, things haven't improved.

Your phone flashed with a text from Shawn.

Not gonna make it for dinner. Hitting up town with the boys.

You replied "Be safe."

While the food cooked, you cleaned up around the house, gave your mother medicine, watched some TV, and flipped the channels until you found a romcom to watch.

A few hours later, your front door opened, your brother and his friends stumbling in, sweaty, and breathless.

Jason wasn't with them, likely he went straight to his mom's.

You looked at them, confused by their disheveled states. "What the hell–"

Your brother turned to you, bewildered. "We saw him. The fuckin' Batman!"

Your mouth dropped.

You were little when rumors began. A masked vigilante man doing the work the police were too powerless to do. It made the people in your neighbourhood happy. Finally, someone was punishing Gothams criminals and gangsters. Maybe their children will have bright futures.

At the same time, though, you found him terrifying. You heard stories. Gang members beaten to a pulp and tied up for the police to find like presents, scarred and broken beyond repaid and too petrified to move.

"We were at the shop when we heard a crash. Went to see what happened, and it was him. Cape, bat ears, all that shit." He chuckled. "He made the whole gimick look badass. Oh! And he was in this huge, fucking tank of a car– holy shit you should have seen it!" Shawn shook his head.

"Anyway, he ran into Montana's convenience store– Apparently they're hiding guns for the Hell hounds–"

"What?!" You blinked. Aubrey Montana was one grade above you. Her dad always seemed so nice...

"Listen, listen!" Shawn urged. "The batman, he's busy fighting those guys, right? We all look at his car, then at each other. And we have the tools. So we get to work."

They what?!

Your hands shot to the top of your head. "Are you insane?"

"Okay, maybe we had a little too much beer." He laughed.

Not finding it funny, you urge him to tell you what happened.

"Jay figured out how the car worked — magnets or something. We tried to strip it, but Batman caught us mid-heist. He was pissed. I've never run so fast in my life."

"Oh god," your hands covered your mouth.

"But he shot us with some stun gun or something. Kept us there and interrogated us until someone confessed to figuring out the whole magnet thing in his car. We kept our mouths shut but then Connor, damned pussy, breaks out and cries that it was Jay."

You swallowed, listening with anxiety as he went on. You couldn't wait for this dumb story to end.

"Anyway, batman's threatening to keep us there til the cops show up and arrest us. But then Jay stands up and tells him he'll fix his car if he lets us go."

"... and?" You whispered, fearing the inevitable.

"He gave him this whole speech. ‘we’re not criminals, just poor’ blah blah. Batman looked like he might puke."

You don’t laugh. "So?"

"He let us go. Kept Jay."

That landed like a gunshot.

You urged. "Shawn. The atman kills people!"

"He does not."

"Okay, he doesn't. But he hurts them! Badly! We have to go after Jay!"

Something about Shawn's expression shifted.

"Relax," he sneered. "Your boyfriend's gonna be fine."

You stilled. "He's... not my‐"

“He told me you two kissed,” Shawn muttered, bitter. “Guess I was wrong about you being smart.”

You froze. “Excuse me?”

“Jay doesn’t stick around, you know. Not for anyone.”

You considered his words, knowing they were cruel and that you shouldn't believe them. So wiping your nose, you ran into your room and closed the door behind you, not caring that you were acting like a child.

You weren't sure what kept you awake that night more. Your brother's words or your worry for Jason's safety.

Episode 4 - His Asence

Jason didn't come home that night. Or any night after. Everyone assumed the batman did arrest him. But no one actually knew what happened to him until months later, when he made his first appearance on TV as Bruce Wayne's new ward.

The rumor going around was that Jason went to Juvie and got out. Worked odd jobs until eventually scoring a gig at WayneTech.

It was really impressive, considering he only had a high school education.

You were partly relieved. When he didn't come back, you'd assumed the worst. So seeing him healthy and happy on TV, surrounded by heiresses and models, was... bittersweet.

You remained in the slums with your sickly mother and your brother, who was falling deeper into a life of crime.

It was clear Shawn resented Jason. Accused him of abandoning his best friend for the privileged life.

"You abandoned him first." You once reminded him, annoyed by his 40th rant of the week.

Shawn didn't like that.

"Or maybe he had nothing worth coming back to." He spat at you.

Your eyes swam with tears, and you stormed out of your apartment.

Years went by, and you got accepted into a good fashion program, worked to help provide for your family. But you soon realized that the pay wouldn't keep up with constantly rising rent.

Your friend helped you get a second job at a high-end bar uptown. The usual crowd were Wall Street types or rich college kids, so you earned more than your fashion internship from tips alone.

That's where you met Selina.

She was a beautiful woman, confident, elegant, and resourceful. She never paid for herself.

Grateful the bathroom walls muffled the deafening music, you washed your hands when silky voice spoke up behind you. "You should act more interested in what they have to say. That'll get you bigger tips."

You looked up at the mirror to see her standing next to you. Tall, athletic, and lithe, she filled out her dark blue dress perfectly. Instinctively, you straightened your back to tred to stand tall, but you were still quite scrawny next to her in your cheap black tank top and skirt.

"Is that what you do?" You asked.

Her lips widened into a grin, and slowly, she walked up to the mirror, reapplying her lipstick.

Your eyes were glued to her. Every movement was precise, almost artistic.

"The shade is called Royal Red. Dior." She said, puckering her lips. "And before you ask, no, I didn't pay for it."

You frowned at the comment.

The way it was phrased made you think she stole the product. But she most likely meant that it was a gift from one of her admirers.

Then she turned to you, raising the lipstick to your face. Caught off guard, you gasped, then stood still and let her brush the red across your lips.

When she was done, you turned to look in the mirror, your eyes widening. The deep crimson on your lips was enticing.

"Red looks good on you." She was smirking.

It did. You looked... kissable.

"It's about the fantasy," she was smiling behind you. "You dont have to do much. Just make them think you're interested. Attainable. And let them pay for the rest. Also, clothing goes a long way. The tighter, the better." She winked.

You nodded, marking her words.

The following day, you used your tip money on that months rent. And whatever was left you took to the fabric store.

If Shawn had a problem when the shopping bags you'd brought home, he didn't say anything about it. That evening, you pulled out your sewing kit and some old clothes and got to work.

You stood in front of your bathroom mirror and experimented with different makeup and hairstyles.

The following night, you showed up to work in a tight leather skirt, knee-high boots with five inch heels, and a silk red top that clung to you like a second skin.

You felt ridiculous at first, but then the makeup and clothing almost acted like armor and a mask. The looks you got boosted your ego, and your movements and behavior came naturally with it.

You batted your eyelashes, bending over extra slowly when putting down drinks at a table with a bunch of businessmen.

Your tips tripled.

"Love the choker." Selina sat at the bar in front of you, sipping a martini.

Your hands rose to your neck, fingers brushing the velvety material of the collar-like necklace that had a single charm dangling in the front. It was shaped like a gun.

You smiled to yourself, and lowered to whisper to her. "I got it at hot topic."

She laughed, a rich, genuine sound. "As long as it's their money, you're spending."

You developed a new routine, working, spending time with friends, talking to Selina, taking care of your mother, avoiding your brother, and soon enough, Jason left your mind completely.

Episode 5 - Back When You Left

Strobe lights distorted your vision as speakers blasted techno from all sides. The effect was made to make everything seem like it was in slo-mo.

Used to it by now, you easily maneuvered your way through the crowd with your tray.

You suddenly clashed with a tall man in what looked like a brand new Armani suit. "Oh, im so sorry!" Your hands brushed his arms. "Are you okay?"

He blinks down at you, pupils dilated as they devour your dark red sleeveless top and matching colored skirt. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out.

You made sure your voice was extra breathy. "I can be such a kluts when they turn on the strobes."

His eyes were soft when they landed on you. "Y-you're alright, sweetheart."

You offered him a smile before brushing past him, his expensive cufflinks safely hidden in your left palm. He was left none the wiser.

It was a game you and Selina invented when days were particularly uneventful. You competed to see who can get pickpocket the most expensive object. She usually won. But she was the master. It took you a few weeks to be able to tell high fashion from cheap knock-offs. And a few more weeks to learn slight-of-hand.

"You're not bad with your fingers," she once said. "It's good you know how to sow."

It took you some time to grow comfortable with the entire idea of stealing. But Selina said something that changed your mind.

"You think these guys care that their gold came with money they got from kicking people out on the treet?"

You thought of your friends back home. Your mother, brother. How they worked tirelessly to be abke to afford living in squalor. Suddenly, you lost all sympathy for Gotham's one percent.

The key was to move your fingers quickly while distracting them. Selina had taught you moves in her flat. Demonstrating on the clasp of a bracelet, she swiftly removed it from your wrist before placing it on her own for you to try. It took a lot of practice, but eventually, you got the hang of it.

You weren't sure what she liked about you, but you were happy she did. She was like the big sister you never had.

You quickly stashed away the cufflinks in a makeup bag of you keep behind the bar before you're called to table 5.

"It's a bunch of trust fund kids." The host, Felix, grinned at you before making a gesture with his hands like he was making it rain dollar bills.

You laughed and made your way over the booth, planting your hand on your hip. "Good evening, boys. What can I get you–"

You faltered when a pair of ocean blue eyes met you gaze.

The last time you saw those eyes was the night you got your first kiss.

He sat surrounded by friends, huddled over a game of cards.

He wore a white button-up with a gucci pattern. The top few buttons were undone, offering a view to the expensive silver chain hanging off his neck and down his pronounced collarbone. His breaches, Hugo Boss. Sleeves drawn up to his elbows, tanned skin contoured in muscle and scar tissue. The Rolex resting around his left wrist was the last accessory you registered before your eyes shot up to his face.

Sharper now. Angular. Almost aristocratic features. The black stud he used to wear in his ear was replaced with a small golden hoop.

He was bigger now. Not overly so, but definitely bulkier. Like he'd been regularly working out. Like he had a healthy diet.

You wanted to hate him. You should hate him. For stealing your first kiss, making you fall for him, and then abandoning you. No goodbyes, no explanations, nothing.

But you couldn't bring yourself to feel anything other than heartache.

He looked good. Happy and healthy. There were no bruises around his eyes or cuts on his lips.

Of all the people who you knew at the slums, if anyone deserved out. It was him.

Jason’s own gaze was wide with shock. Then, slowly, his eyes traveled from yours down your body.

You felt heat rise to your cheeks – hopeful it was hidden by your make-up.

It was ridiculous. You flirted with billionaires, playboys, and bachelors like it was a game. And yet, one look from him undid you completely.

Someone's hand was circling your waist drew your attention to your side. Jason followed the movement on your hip with a gaze that could burn his buddy's hand.

"Hey gorgeous," the trust fund brat holding you said. "I know my boy's quite the looker–" he tilted his head in Jason's direction, "–but I told you my order twice now."

You blinked. He did? When?

Trust-fund-brat put his free hand on his heart. "You're gonna break a poor man's heart like that, baby."

Oh, god.

You masked your grimace with a shy giggle.

Trust-fund-brat looked at your mouth.

"Sorry, I thought I recognized him from somewhere." You tucked a strand of hair behind your ear.

Glancing at Jason, you saw his dark brows drawn together in confusion. He was wondering why you had just lied.

"Please repeat that, handsome?" You asked the trust-fund-brat, and he repeated his order with a triumphant grin, then they all went one by one.

When it was Jason’s turn, he almost looked nervous. And he masked it by looking unhappy.

Hand rubbing the back of his neck, he cleared his throat. "Uh... Macallan 18."

Your heart ached once more a how he had changed. The Jason you once knew would beat up anyone with a pretencious drink order like that.

Nodding, you wrote down his order, meeting his eyes one last time before turning to the next guy.

He looked unhappy still.

Sweetly pulling out of the trust-fund-brat's hold, you promised you'll be back soon before heading to the bar.

"What the was that?" Selina asked, wide-eyed when you returned to mix drinks.

"What?" You mumbled.

"Don't play dumb. That boy with the Rolex had you practically drooling."

"It was a really nice Rolex." You lied.

Selina lifted her brow. "You know him, don't you?"

"No."

"So you wouldn't care if I went over there and introduced myself?" She raised a brow.

The thought of her going anywhere near Jason made your teeth vrind together.

You loved Selina like a sister, but Jason wasn't like one of those men she took advantage of.

Was he?

Something about your reaction made Selina laugh.

"Come on, who is he?" She asked, eager. "Your ex?"

"I have to work." You said, balancing the tray in your hands.

She popped a cherry in her mouth. "It's okay, I'll wait until your shift is over. I'm guessing he will, too."

Ignoring her, you headed to the booth and handed the drinks out without any more "drooling." It was quite easy, actually. All you had to do was avoid Jason.

The rest of the night, you were on high alert, feeling a weird vibration in your side, coming from that booth.

Eventually, your shift had ended, and you headed to the staff room to pack up. As you were getting your bag, you heard the door open and closed behind you.

Turning around, you froze in place. "What are you–"

"You," he rasped, voice gravel and heat, "What the hell are you wearing?"

You blinked, pulse thudding in your throat. "You’re one to talk." Your voice came out shakey. "I almost didn’t recognize you without the grease."

Jason’s gaze dropped, dragging along your body like it hurt him to look. "You’ve changed."

"So have you," you snapped, finding your confidence at last. And then, because you couldn't help yourself, you added. "I guess all those yacht parties with supermodels–"

He backed you toward the wall of lockers. Two fingers lifted your chin up before his lips claimed yours. You let them. You hated that you let him.

He pressed you back. His thigh slid between yours as he crowded into your space, making you forget the rest of your sentence.

Feeling an unbearable rush of need, you let your hands rise to his face, your fingers threading into his hair.

Jason let out a strangled breath, like he’d just been punched.

You understood the feeling.

His hands slid down, gripping your thighs, lifting you effortlessly onto the bench behind you. You parted your legs automatically to keep him close.

His thigh pressed up again, and you gasped. That felt good. You wanted to feel it again.

Pulling him back into a kiss, you leaned back on your hands, rocking your hips against him the way Selina once described.

But it wasn't perfect. It was clumsy. A little awkward.

Jason didn't tease you.

What he did surprised you even more. He cupped your face gently. "Slow down," his voice was quiet. "Let me show you."

Then he pulled you closer and guided your rhythm, hands firm on your waist, breath in your ear.

The friction was delicious. Maming your breathing uneven.

Is this how you take charge? You could almost hear Selina's voice chastising in your mind.

He was leading the whole thing.

And you liked it.

And that's when you understood. None of it mattered. All this time spent working, studying, enjoying life, and not thinking about him. It wasn't real. You had always missed him. He was entrenched in your skin.

The door pushing open had you two drawing apart.

With impressive speed, Jason maneuvered you to stand behind him, blocking you from the person who had entered the room.

"Oh! Sorry." You recognized the gasp of one of your coworkers, Stephanie.

"No, it's my bad," Jason let out a charming chuckle, hand coming to scratch his head in a shy gesture. "Thought my girl would find this type of thing romantic."

He tightened his hold on your wrist, leading you out the door behind him. You cast your gaze down, hiding behind the fallen locks of your hair until you two were in the safety of the dance floor.

Your heart beat louder in your ears than the beat of the music.

You tried to slide your hand out of his hold and escape but he wouldn't let you. Instead, he pulled you to his side, sliding his hand possessively around your waist, leading you around the room towards his booth.

Before you could ask what he was doing, Jason called out to his friend. "Montgomery, can you pass me my jacket?"

Your old friend, the trust-fund-brad, turned in Jason's direction, his mouth dropping oce he took in the view of you in Jason's arms.

You were in quite a shock yourself.

You risked scanning the room until a pair of Cheshire eyes locked with yours. Again, you attempted to twist out of Jason's hold, only to be pressed further against him.

Help-me you mouthed to Selina.

Dont-be-so-dramatic she mouthed back.

You turned back just as Jasons grabbed his jacket from a slack mouthed Montgomery, threw a bill on the table, and flashed his friends a wink. "I'll see you guys tomorrow."

He didn't wait for their reactions, pulling you to the exit. But you didn't miss their laughter and cheer, and Montgomery's silence.

The next few minutes were a blur. You registered sitting in the passenger seat of a fancy red convertible. Jason drove. There was no conversation.

You remembered the entrance of a fancy high rise in a part of town you've only seen on pictures. Taking the elevator. Somewhere around this time, you seemed to regain some of your self-awareness.

This was Jason's fancy new apartment.

Smooth hardwood floors, leather furniture, floor to ceiling windows with a view of the harbourfront and walls with paint that didn't chip. Slack jawed, you stood at the entrance, taking it all in.

"Nice place," you finally found your voice.

His thumb brushed against your jaw like he was scared you’d disappear.

"I used to dream about you," he murmured, like it embarrassed him. "Every night. I’d see you in that pink dress— the one you made..."

"With the black stitching on the hem?" you asked, voice caught in your throat.

He gave a quiet laugh. “Yeah. That one. You’d wear it and… it was over for me.”

You couldn’t help the smile tugging at your lips. Even after everything, that tiny confession broke you in the best way.

"Jason what happened?" You asked him. "Did he arrest you? The batman?"

His gaze softened. "You could say that... but he also bailed me out."

"So then why didn't you come back?" Your voice broke.

"I couldn't, sweetheart." The admission looked like it hurt him to say, like he was reliving a bad memory. "She'd kick me out for getting in trouble... or hit me or I don't know. I couldn't go back ther–"

Unable to take the pain in his words, you rose up on your tip toes, claiming his lips.

It was slow. A little shaky.

Memories. Regrets. Longing. His hands were held your waist like it was a lifeline.

His lips were warm on your skin when he murmured. “You must hate me.”

You shook your head. “I don’t. I can’t. I’ve tried.”

Jason’s lips claimed yours again, lifting you in his arms like you weighed nothing. This kiss was more intense, deeper, with the intention to go further.

"God, I've missed you." He breathed. "You're the only thing that felt good back then. Still are"

You didn’t realize you were trembling until he pulled back and looked at you.

"Whats wrong?" he asked, brushing his nose against yours.

"Nothing."

A beat passed.

"Wait, Jason…" You felt your cheeks flush. "I’ve never…"

He froze. Just for a second. Then his brows softened. His voice went quiet.

"We don’t have to," he said.

"I want to," you whispered. "I just… thought you should know."

He smiled softly, looking at you like you were something precious. "I’ll go slow."

He kissed your forehead first, then your cheek, then the edge of your mouth. His hands moved to your back, warm and wide.

Clothes came off one by one. Not rushed. Slow. Just fingers finding zippers, mouths, and meeting skin. You were certain your heartbeat could be heard through your skin.

He pulled you onto his bed.

He looked like a boy sculpted into a man. Same messy blacm hair, same sharp jaw, same challenging gaze. But everything else bigger. Broader. His chest was smooth planes and definition, trim waist, dark happy trail below the waistband of his jeans. You used to daydream about what was under his shirt. Now you were seeing it — and it was better than a dream.

When his mouth moved down your neck, your hands tangled in his hair.

"Tell me if you need me to stop," he whispered, lips against your collarbone.

You nodded, and he kissed your chest, wide shoulders flexing as he lowered to kiss your nipples, your stomach, your thighs. His actions were seductive but calming at the same time. Worshipful in a way. Like tasting your was a privilege.

Everything he did had your thighs rubbing together, moisture slowly building up in between.

He rose to hover over you, lining himself up, his eyes locked with yours.

"This okay?" he asked.

You nodded, heart in your throat.

But the moment he pushed in, your breath hitched. Your hands grasped at his sheets. The pain flared hot and bright.

You bit your lip from the pain. "Jason–"

"I know, I know," he whispered, kissing your temple. "I’m right here. Try to relax around me. Just breathe."

You whimpered, trying to follow his instructions.

His hand slipped down between you, moving in slow, practiced circles over your clit. You had become so sensitive, and the feeling his hands was... unbelievable! The distraction served you well. Slowly, your body adjusted to his size. Your hands came to clutch his biceps, grounding your in his warmth, his presence, his whispered reassurances in your ear.

"You’re doing so good, sweetheart," he murmured. "God, you feel so fucking good."

The ache gradually softened. Pleasure started to curl around your body like a rush.

You moved your hips experimentally, and Jason groaned low, his restraint weakening.

"Fuck," he rasped, "you sure you’ve never done this?"

"Actually," you said, breathless. "Now that I think about it, Freddie Fletcher–"

He laughed, forehead against yours, rolling his hips deeper.

You gasped — not from pain this time.

That friction of his fingers on your clit. That stretch. That feeling of being filled and wanted and with him.

Your crimson painted nails clawed at his back, pulling him closer.

You just wanted him. Like you always did. Always would.

"Jason!" You cried as your body shook from your orgasm.

Jason’s fingers wrapped in your hair, tugged on it with a hint of desperation as his hips met yours, each movement had his hitting a spot inside you that made you see stars.

As exhaustion invaded your senses, you felt yourself held steady in his arms.

Episode 6 - Crimson

"So he disappeared just like that?" Selina interrupted you mid story. "No goodbyes, no nothing?"

You sighed, sipping your coffee. "Pretty much. He always wanted out of there. So when he saw his chance he took it."

"Leaving you behind."

"It's not that simple." Even now, the need to defend Jason was something like a second nature. "I was safe with a loving family."

"And Shawn." She added.

"Again, not comparable." Your head was shaking before she even finished speaking. "Shawn may be annoying and mean but never raised a finger against me."

Silena had a contemplative expression on her face. Studying you again.

"I'm extremely lucky." You added, feeling the need to fill the silence.

"Poverty can make people mature way before their time." She mused before raising her own coffee to her lips. "Anyway, I hope you gave him a tongue lashing back at his place..."

"Wel..." The back of your head felt suddenly itchy, the contents of your cup fascinating. Anything involved not meeting her gaze and admitting you let Jason take your virginity. And then make sure it was gone one more time that morning.

Selina was rolling her eyes when you risked a glance at her.

"Was it at least good?" She drawled, but there was a smirk.

You nodded eagerly, conjuring up images of last night. Grasping hands, sliding hips, lips on your skin, smoldering blue eyes.

"Oh my god, pull yourself together!" She threw a sugar cube at you, grinning.

"I can't!" You whined, your face dropping to the palm of your hand. "I've tried... it's him!"

Selina was quiet for a long moment. Peaking between your fingers revealed her looking out the window, reminiscing with a longing expression.

You cleared your throat. "You said you wanted me to repair something?"

That drew her out of her thoughts. "Correct." She pulled a black garment out of her bag and let it fall on your kitchen table. It looked like a bodysuit.

You inspected the material, taking in wear and tear. The material was strong... There were rips, dirt, ashes?

"What is this for?"

"Dont ask questions, darling." There was a glint in her eye. "Just name your price and do whatever you can to mend it."

That got a chuckle out of you. "Yes, boss."

As you got to work, Selina watched you carefully. The gears in her mind are already turning with ideas and plans.

One thing was for sure, if her color was black. Yours would be crimson.

Pretty When You Bleed

Masterlist

A Devil May Cry (Netflix) one-shot

Pairing: Dante x Demon!Reader

Tags: Explicit, NSFW, Enemies to Lovers, blood, blood drinking, angst, traumatized reader, flashbacks, rough sex, restraint, flirting, biting, scratching, banter, supernatural, dark romance, violence, toxic, morally gray behavior, Dante being Dante, happy ending?kinda?

Disclaimer: I didn't play the games, I just watched the show and have a minimal understanding about its lore. Reader is a succubus/vampire hybrid.

Turning the key to your dingy apartment door, you tighten your hold on the grocery bag as you balance it on your hip. The pouring rain has seeped through your torn jeans and fishnets, causing your legs to shiver from the autumn cold outside.

Sighing, you try to regain your strength.

Man, are you hungry.

It's been months since you last fed. Properly fed. Not human food but... well, demon food.

You had a perfect chance today, too... just as you were heading back from the bodega, you saw the creep pushing up against some women on the subway. They kept leaving the cart in discomfort while he smirked at them.

You shake your head in frustration. You should have done it– It's not like anyone would have missed him.

You could’ve curled your finger and beckoned him closer. Made him think he was gonna get lucky before you sunk your fangs into his throat, or better, dragged him to an alleyway and fucked his brains out, draining him of his energy until you were full.

But you stopped yourself. You couldn't risk being seen.

Each time you fed, you left a trail and those damned uniforms at Darkom would find you right away and drag you back into their cells and labs.

So you resisted. You worked to be able to afford fruits, vegetables, and meat, all of which tasted like sandpaper to you. Small price to pay for safety, you suppose.

But it was beginning to mess with your head, the hunger. Passing by humans made you dizzy. Their smell causing you to drool, your fangs to grow on instinct. You even wore glasses to hide the way your eyes would glow whenever you sensed blood.

And worse, thanks to your new diet, you were growing weak.

Stomach grumbling, you stumble into your one bedroom unit, oblivious to a pair of steps growing louder as someone made their way up the stairwell.

You throw your keys into the bowl and lower your grocery bag on your unstable kitchen table.

It happens in an instant. One moment you're turning around at the sound of something moving, and the next, you're being pulled down to the ground, trapped. You barely have time to recognize the familiar seal holding you in place when the overwhelming power knocks you unconscious.

When you come to, the wooden floor is cold against your knees. Hands chained, collar humming with anti-demonic tech around your throat, wrists raw from the cuffs. You don’t heal fast enough in this state. Now you really regret not eating the subway creep. You don’t feel fear. Not anymore. Just rage.

You kept your head down. You starved. You suffered.

No bodies. No evidence. No fuck-ups.

And still, they came for you.

What’s the point of playing nice when you’re always gonna be the monster in their stories?

The collar buzzes. You choke on your breath as your mind flashes — white light, cold metal against your bare skin, the sound of metal on metal. Needles and knives. Questions with wrong answers. A voice behind a screen, talking about you like you're a thing. Calling you a test subject.

You blink it away. Not now. You can't let yourself get captured.

Your door groans open, and the silhouette that fills it is tall. Broad.

His steps are slow. Confident.

Red leather. Silver hair. A smirk that’s audible before it’s visible.

Dante.

That damned traitor.

Your gaze lifts to him, trembling with anger. Though your vision is swimming, your head fuzzy from the effects of the seal. What's worse is you can smell his human blood, his essence. And its dangerously enticing.

You hold back a whine threatening to rip out.

"Hey there pretty demon." he looks down at you.

You meet his gaze with the kind of stare intended to burn. Who's he calling a demon? hypocrite.

You feel the weak glow of your eyes, subdued by the collar.

"Still with Darkom?" you mean to sneer, though the words come out slightly slurred.

His scent is so strong you could practically taste it. You sniff desperately, trying to get as much of it as you can.

"Aha." He nods. Taking in the ripped fishnets under your torn jeans, the dark top, whose silky material is clinging to your skin under your raincoat. "And you still dress like a goth stripper."

"As opposed to dressing like a regular stripper the way you do?"

His chuckle is low, amused. He steps closer, fingers dancing along the hilt of his blade. "Cute. Still got a mouth on you."

You roll your eyes.

He takes slow steps forward. Circles you like you’re a relic he's inspecting.

"Dante," your voice is low, almost broken. "You know I didn’t do anything."

You don’t beg. But there’s a thread of something desperate tangled in your words. Just once, you want someone to believe you.

"Not what I heard, little demon." He mutters. "Dispatcher said a demon — one that looks like a human girl but registered off-the-charts power down by 12th and 7th station. Sounded kinda familiar."

As far as you knew, there were few of your kind – demons that resembled humans (if you didnt count their fangs and glowing eyes. Some had tiny horns that could be easily hidden under hair).

So he knew it was you he was sent after. The hypocrisy was almost laughable. Here you were, berated by a member of your very own species.

"They warned me, ya know. Told me you were dangerous." he lowers to a squat in front of you, hands hanging lazily off his knees. "Personally, I think you’re just lonely."

Something in you snaps.

Fed up and hungry, you lunge. You use all of your remaining strength to snap your chains and tackle him onto the floor. The collar stops humming. You feel your fangs grow back in.

Straddling him, you try not to get distracted by the feeling of his lips under yours.

"Still look lonely?" you snarl, making a show of licking your sharp teeth and lowering them, aimed for his throat.

He flips you effortlessly — your body slamming against the cold floor, his weight pinning you.

Your breaths mix. Your heart pounds. He looks down at you, eyes unreadable.

"Still a bitch apparently." He grins down at you. Despite his biting words, his grip on you isn't strong enough to hurt.

You swipe your claws at his shoulder — not deep enough to maim, but enough to scratch.

He doesn’t flinch. Just grins as the scratch marks pull themselves shut. In an instant, his skin is repaired. Like nothing ever happened to it.

"That all you got?"

His face is inches from yours.

His gaze drops to your lips. Yours to his.

Neither of you moves.

It's so potent, his smell. You begin to drool, tongue brushing against your extended canines. You can see the veins on his neck, pumping half human blood. He would taste so good...

"Go ahead, little demon. Bite me." His voice is taunting, but one look at his face shows that he isn't smiling, nor mocking. He looks serious.

You blink, taken aback.

"Go on." His fingers squeeze your wrist. "I know you need to."

Your brows furrow. Is he serious? Is he playing with you?

Either way, your body doesn't care.

You do as he says.

It starts rough.

You pull him down for a kiss. Teeth click. His hands are in your hair, yours tangled in his coat. The kiss is violent, desperate.

You should feel like you're betraying yourself.

Instead, you feel so good.

Your teeth scrape his bottom lip and he grins against your mouth.

Warm, delicious blood, spills from where your fang punctures his lip and you can't stop your whimper.

He groans like he's the one that wants to devour you. His hands are rough, needy — one tangled in your hair, the other pinning your hip so hard it hurts.

You pull back, breathless and whiny. The pleasure of his taste overwhelming. The metallic taste on both your lips.

He drags you onto his lap like you’re weightless, straddling him on the floor as your collar rattles with every grind of your hips. His mouth is on your throat, your collarbone, your breast.

He tears your top with a growl.

"For someone who hates me, you sure can't get me naked fast enough." You can't resit a taunt, even as the words spill out in a series of gasps.

Your pants are yanked down and your thighs spread open with one strong hand while he frees himself — big, hot, thick.

You your teeth capture your lower lip. This time, you cant hold back the whines. You're excited. You don't remember the last time you felt this rush.

Oh yes please, please, please!

If only he could read your mind, he'd know your taunts weren't worth shit.

He strokes once, twice, before lining himself up against your entrance.

Your moans come out high, broken, breathy. God your neighbors are gonna kill you for not letting them sleep at night.

"You still talking, sweetheart?" Dante raises a brow up at you.

"Shut me up." you say, anticipating the coming.

You're met with a cocky grin. His eyes rake down your exposed figure and the excitement is written all over his face.

"Say 'please'," He drawls.

You're beyond dignity at this point, pushing your hips to his, desperate to be filled. "Please!"

He slams into you in one deep, punishing thrust that knocks the breath from your lungs.

Your mind goes blank. But you feel the effect everywhere else all over your body.

His hands grip your hips. The room fills with the sound of skin on skin, the floor creaking rhythmically with every savage thrust.

You rake your claws down his chest, drawing blood around the chain he wears around his throat. His body shudders — not from pain, but pleasure.

The wounds knit themselves together almost instantly, the blood drying hot against his skin.

Half-demon. Just like you.

He fucks like he fights — rough, relentless, smirking up at you through the blood and sweat.

And oh god, it's the first sense of fullness you've felt in months. His energy fills all your senses and you feel your body fill with power. Senses sharpen. Healing sped. Strength and speed are back.

You can’t help it. You moan his name.

"Dante—"

He grabs your chin. Forces your eyes on his. Their glow reflects in his own irises.

"Say it again."

"Dante!"

"Good girl."

The orgasm hits you like an explosive — your walls clenching, you convulsing around him. He follows, growling low as he spills inside you, gripping your hips like he’s afraid you’ll vanish.

You don’t kiss again.

You just breathe. Still straddling him. Still tangled.

He watches you from his place on the floor. In awe — almost. His thumb brushes your jaw. You lean into the touch.

Your body hums with magic.

You don’t stop him when he touches your hip. Or when he murmurs into your skin.

You sit on the cold floor beside him, still tangled in the aftermath.

Great, you think. First you let him fuck you. Now you're about to let him take you in.

You adjust your torn shirt, waiting for the inevitable.

You wait a while, but the handcuffs don't come.

Instead, he just lights a cigarette with blood still drying on his lips. "What'd you do to piss off Darkom this time? Hmm?"

"Nothing." you grit out. "Yesterday was the first time I've fed in months..."

There's a moment when his eyes flicker with something.

You cast your eyes down, not wanting to hold his gaze. That's when you spot something on him. Same place you have one. From the same lab, same experiment.

You notice it when he’s pulling his shirt on. Just below his chain — the brand. The number.

"Didn’t think they did that to their own," you whisper.

"They don’t," he mutters. "Not to their own."

You meet his gaze again. His intense eyes almost hold you hostage. Then, without saying more, he gets up and pulls on his leather coat.

You watch in confusion as he walks to the door.

"You’re letting me go?" you finally ask.

"Guess I am."

Your brows draw together. "Why?"

"Because I want to."

That shouldn’t be enough — but somehow, it is.

He stands. Looks down at you one last time.

"Get out of here, sweetheart. Before they send someone not so nice after you." Then he strolls out.

A few hours later, your things are packed, and you're on a one-way ticket out of town.

"You had her! And you let her go!" Darkom's director shouts over his desk. A single vein looks very close to popping on his temple.

"Yup." Dante smirks, tilts back in his chair. "Guess I was feeling generous."

The moan groans, dropping his face into his palms. "Oh my god– You’re out of line."

"You wanna fire me?" He kicks his boots onto the table. Lights another smoke. "Go ahead."

They don’t fire him. They can’t. He's their most successful experiment. Their best hunter. They need him.

So Dante walks away — coat swinging, smirk ever present.

Later, on a rooftop, he watches the skyline.

Somewhere out there, you’re still moving. His fingers brush the spot on his jaw where your teeth left a mark.

He smiles to himself.

"Pretty little demon," he murmurs. "I’ll see you again."

Controlled

Masterlist

Pairing: Bucky Barnes x (f)reader

Tags: NSFW, third person POV, 1950s-60s, spies, psychological conditioning, telepathic reader, mind control, PTSD, cold war, Hydra, winter soldier program, split personality disorder, emotional, jealousy, protective bucky, possessive bucky

Additional tags: sex, sub reader, dom/sub dynamics, intimacy, forced proximity, sadism, blood, biting

“Test number five.” The Hydra research intern, a man named Mark, spoke into the recorder before clicking it. “Since our last test, subject G-34, was able to read the thoughts of all the people in the room with her, she has been practicing since. Isn't that right, G-34?”

“Right,” she nodded, wiping her sweaty palms on her beige uniform. The same uniform all the test subjects in the facility wore.

“And now, we will test her ability to read someone outside of her vicinity. I have a screen with me where I will type questions to Dr. Braun, who is in the next room. He will type the answers back to me. All I want is for you, G-34, to tell me his answers. Nod if you understand.”

As soon as she nodded, he began to type into his computer. “Go ahead.” 

She closed her eyes and concentrated on locating Dr. Braun's mind. When at last she found her intended destination, she began with the first answer. “The shirt he is wearing is the color blue.”

The scientist nodded, before typing in a new question.

“The number he is currently thinking about is 34,” She answered.

“Very good.” The scientist mumbled, already typing in the next.

She focused again. “His dog is a mix of a husky and–” her voice cut off with a sudden gasp. 

Braun’s voice was gone. Replaced by a completely different one. The new voice belonged to a man, English. No... no, American. “No, no, no, please I don't want to forget!!” 

She cupped her ears, desperately trying to quiet the overwhelming mental scream. 

Simultaneously, someone else spoke to the screaming American, in Russian.

“Желание” (wish) The third party spoke. 

“No!” The American cried desperately.

“Семнадцать” (seventeen)

“Stop!”

“Ржавый” (rusty)

“Please! I don't want to feel this anymore! Please just kill me! Kill me!” The American begged.

“Stop it!!” G-34 let out a cry of her own. With her head in her hands, she was desperate for the torment and pain to cease. Whoever he was, wherever he was. He was in agony. He was terrified. What kind of experiments were they running on him? She shivered from the thought of it alone.

“G-34?” Mark placed his hand on her shoulder. 

“S-sorry,” She said through clenched teeth. “I am hearing from someone else. A man. He is in great pain.”

“... Interesting.” The scientist said. Not a shred of sympathy in his tone as he wrote in his notepad. “Can you still hear him?”

“Yes, he–” Before she could finish speaking, the voice disappeared. Or rather, changed. He was calm now. Quiet. At first, she wondered if she was back to hearing Dr. Braun. But no, it was the same voice that had been screaming just a moment ago. This time however, he spoke in Russian. 

She had only managed to catch the last few words when he said, “Зимний солдат... готов отвечать.” (Winter soldier, ready to report). 

“He… he stopped.” She said, lowering her hands from her ears.

Mark hummed, raising a brow at her. “Stalling our tests again, G-34? You know that only wastes both our time.”

“I was not stalling, sir!” Her mouth felt dry. “Really! He... was begging to die…” Her voice felt hollow at the haunting sound. “I thought he needed help.” 

The scientist blinked, waiting for her to say more. 

When she didn't, he clicked his pen and offered a disappointed smile. “Well, let’s try to stay focused from now on.” He gave a dry laugh. “Nod if you understand.”

Still in shock, she nodded absently.

Two Weeks Later

“Subject G-34,” Dr. Arnim Zola, the head researcher at the facility smiled at her. “Meet subject Z-26.”

Zola gestured proudly to the man standing across the room from her, like a child presenting a high test score to their parent. 

She gazed up at Z-26. So this was the man whose screams she had been hearing for the last couple of weeks. The man whose family called him ‘James’ and whose friends called him ‘Bucky’ in his deep subconscious memories.

The Winter Soldier. 

She gave a choppy nod. “Hello.”

Z-26 nodded back. With his chin raised and his hands resting behind his back in military fashion, he towered over everyone in the room. She curiously eyed his left arm, which seemed to be made entirely out of metal. 

In the fluorescent lab lights, he managed to be somewhat more tanned than everyone else, hinting at his foreign origin. Perhaps he grew up spending lots of time outdoors. 

He was in his twenties. Clad in a new pair of combat boots, cargo pants and a clean white t-shirt. He looked like a commodity rather than a person. 

His facial features were sharp, angular, yet unlike everyone else in the facility, he did not look malnourished or underfed. He looked strong. Blue eyes with dark circles stared pointedly at her as if sizing up a target. His dark hair was cut short, matching the same haircut as all male test subjects.

“G-34 is one of our brave volunteers,” Zola explained to the soldier.

Z-26 eyed her with an unreadable expression. In his mind, she heard the very voice ask, “She volunteered for this...?” 

“She is a very valuable asset to our mission. Like yourself, soldier. We think the two of you could partner up someday. Brains and muscle.”  Zola gestured to them both excitedly. “We anticipate a fruitful partnership.” He cleared his throat. “But for now, you are both still training.”

A Few Days Prior

After another successful task, G-34 finally mustered up the courage to ask. “Dr. Zola. I was wondering…”

“What is it?” Zola muttered as he typed away on his computer. 

She wiped her sweaty palms on her uniform and cleared her throat. “What... or I suppose, who is the Winter Soldier?”

Zola instantly stopped what he was doing. 

A dreadful feeling of instant regret crept over her. One day, her curiosity would surely get her killed.

“How does she know about the Winter Soldier?” Zola’s mind raced.

She licked her lips. “It was something I overheard the other day. During a test with Dr. Braun.”

Zola bit the inside of his cheek while his mind ran; browsing through options, plans, and contingencies. At last, he folded his arms, leaning back against his chair. “‘The Winter Soldier’ is a program we use for our protection.”

“This can go one of two ways.” Zola thought. “No one other than cleared personnel knows about the program's existence. So either she keeps this a secret or she tells someone…”

“I will not.” She insisted “Tell anyone, that is. I was just curious.”

Zola eyed her for a long moment. “She's too valuable an asset to waste.”

Waste? In what way? Alarm bells rang in her mind. “I will keep this a secret, Doctor.” She insisted. “I swear on my life.”

He shushed her then. “Your life is a gift, child. Do not say such things. I know you will not tell.”

She sighed in relief. 

“But I need to think about some things. Let's end the session here.” He clicked off the recording device and got up before leaving the room. Before he let the door close, he turned back to her with a smile. “Good work today.”

Present

“And G-34, I do not need to tell you too much about Z-26.” Dr. Braun said, tapping his temple; a knowing grin plastered on his face. “You have shown us that you are perfectly capable of finding that all for yourself.” 

Catching on to what the Doctor had implied, Z-26 aimed a glare her way. His brows drew together, nostrils flared. “Get out of my head, you witch.”

She gasped. Instinctively taking a step back. 

“What is it, G-34?” Zola asked. His voice was strained, barely containing his excitement. “What is Z-26 thinking?”

Before she could respond, Braun gave an obnoxious chuckle. “It is the first time the poor bastard's seen a woman since the war.” He turned to give another scientist a mocking grin. “Besides you Mark.” 

The research intern shook his head, giving Braun a rude gesture as the men around them broke into laughter. 

“The dog is probably imagining all kinds of depraved shit.” Braun jeered, eyeing Z-26 with disgust. Reading Braun’s mind, G-34 felt a wave of hatred rolling off Braun, aimed at Z-26. No, not just. Aimed at all Americans. He enjoyed humiliating Z-26 because he knew the soldier couldn't fight back without orders. He felt safe, but at the same time, on edge.

She looked back at Z-26, his glare was now aimed at Braun. “Idiot.”

She couldn't help her curiosity. Or her fascination. Why was he thinking in English? Why had he spoken Russian that other time? She wondered if Z-26's identity is still tied to his American past, while the Winter Soldier was shaped by Hydra’s programming. 

Regardless, she did not get a chance to find out, as the meeting adjourned shortly and both subjects were led back to their cells. The session was deemed a success, if Zola's thoughts were any indication.

A Week Later

She caught the creak of leather boots pressing against the floor, and suddenly, she knew she wasn’t alone in the lab.

Then came his voice, low and indifferent.

“Ah. The volunteer.” Z-26 thought as his gaze fell on her seated at the metal lab table. 

He walked in carrying a heavy box of supplies, putting it down at the corner of the room.

She tensed. Not at the words but the way they felt. Filled with disdain. 

“I did not volunteer because I thought this would be fun,” she muttered, not looking up from her notebook

That was a mistake.

She knew it the second his body stilled. 

When he turned to her, his movements were slow. His eyes were dark and meeting his gaze, she felt the way an animal feels the stare of a predator before an attack. 

Unconsciously, she shrunk back against the cold metal desk where she was working.

“Stay out of my head.” Z-26’s words weren’t raised, or shouted. But they cut like a knife. “As if they haven't screwed me up enough,” he thought. “Now not even my thoughts are safe.”

She wanted to tell him that she had no intention of using his thoughts against him. But that would just reveal that she read his mind again. 

Instead, she opted for the truth. “I hate it here as much as you do.”

“I doubt that.”

“It is true. Those of us who volunteered had no other choice. My family was starving, and now they are not. Thanks to my being here.”

“Choice.” He thought as his bitter, soundless laughter rang in the room. “My corpse was dragged and reanimated in a lab. My body was made into a tool. For my enemy to use as they please. And speaking of family, any memory I may have had of mine was wiped clean. I don’t even know what my fuckin’ name was.”

He didn’t say any of this out loud.

Patients reacted to trauma in different ways. Some screamed. Some bore it silently. She concluded that Z–26 fell under the latter category. Even if his mind was screaming the entire time.

She hesitated. Then, softly she spoke. “James.”

He didn’t react. Didn’t even breathe. For a long moment, she thought she had made another mistake. Then, slowly, his blue eyes narrowed.

“That is your American name,” she said, watching him carefully. “It is what people call you in your subconscious memories. Sometimes your friends call you ‘Bucky’.”

She braced for it. For the anger. The accusation. 

Instead, his lips parted slightly. “James,” he murmured. Testing the sound. “Bucky.”

And for the first time since she met him, there was no coldness in his voice. Only a hollowed, broken sound.

Two Weeks Later

Taking her hand, Zola led her around the banquet hall. 

Unused to wearing heels, and dressed, G-34 stumbled clumsily in her gown, relying on the scientist to keep her balance. Her gift was more of a curse when she could hear the other guests mocking her clumsiness in their minds.

The hall was full of impeccably dressed, wealthy, immoral, well-fed, greedy people. Arms dealers, oligarchs, oil tycoons. And her mission was to read their minds and report anything of interest back to Zola. 

She looked around the room, searching for Z-26. He was in the car with them on the way here, but since they had entered the building he was nowhere to be found. 

“Jean!” Zola greeted an elderly man dressed in a black suit. 

Reading his mind, G-34 concluded he was a French biologist named Jean Armand. 

“Ah, old friend.” The Frenchman greeted him. “Are we to expect your, how do they say ‘A-game’ at tonight's show?”

What show? G-34 blinked, looking between the two men.

Before either could speak again, two large doors opened at the far end of the hall and the crowd began to pour in with exciting murmurs and whispers. 

What was happening? G-34 tensed. She turned to Zola with a look of confusion. 

“It’s time to find out.” Zola said to Jean, before offering her his arm once again. “Shall we, my dear?”

She let him lead her into an adjoining room. 

The room was filled with seats at all sides. With a boxing ring in the center. 

Once everyone took their seats, all of the lights shut off to a chorus of delightful laughter and awe. Only the boxing ring was left illuminated.

The crowd clapped as a well-dressed man walked onto the middle of the ring holding a microphone in his hand.

“Ladies, and gentlemen.” He raised the microphone to his lips. “The moment you have all been waiting for!” 

She looked around nervously. Where the hell was Z-26?

“Please, give a warm welcome to our returning champion, The Frenchman we all know and fear, Vincent 'Unbreakable' Seine!” The announcer gestured to the left of the ring. 

The crowd roared with excitement as a burly, hulking man strutted around with his arms raised, encouraging more cheers. Like Z-26, one of the Frenchman's arms was entirely made of metal.

“And now.” The announcer spoke again. “We have a newcomer, he is young and inexperienced, but he may blow us away just yet. Please welcome, The Winter Soldier!”

G-34 froze. Her eyes widened as she slowly turned to the ring. On the opposite side of the giant frenchman, stood Z-26. He had discarded his suit for his uniform combat boots and cargo pants. He was lean and on the thinner side in comparison to the Frenchman, and despite his height, was shorter. His lab dog tags hung loosely over his muscular, bare chest. 

“Isn’t he pretty, ladies?” The announcer joked. The crowd cheered in response. 

Z-26 was glaring at his opponent. G-34 recognized that look. The same one that was aimed at her the first time they met. Her hands shook nervously. 

So this was what Jean Armand had meant by ‘tonight’s show’. She looked to him sitting giddy beside her. Sick man. 

“Gentlemen. I wish to be entertained tonight.” The announcer said in a serious tone, looking from the left to the right. “So whatever you do in the next five rounds. You better keep it dirty.” He cackled after the last word. 

The bell rang as the crowd roared, the two men took their first swings. 

The Frenchman was growing tired after the third round had ended. 

His moves were less sharp. His face was covered in fresh cuts and bruises. His breathing labored. 

In contrast, Z-26 remained agile, circling the Frenchmen and dodging his blows, much to the crowd's amusement.

Suddenly, the large man landed a punch with his metal arm. Hard too. A cruel sound echoed as metal connected with Z-26’s lip. 

Her hand shot up to her mouth. The crowd roared as Z-26 lost his balance, landing hard on his back before quickly rolling back and onto his hands and knees.

“Your boy is good, Arnim.” Pierre turned to give Zola a smug look. “But we shall see if conditioning can beat experience.”

Zola was undeterred. “We shall.”

Z-26 looked up slowly. His mouth dripped with hot blood. 

Then he did something that made his opponent, and everyone in the room, falter. 

He grinned.

The crowd erupted in cheers and roars, chanting. “Soldier! Soldier! Soldier!” 

Sizing up his opponent. Z-26’s chest rose and fell in increasing speed. Reading his mind, she felt his adrenaline spike. 

He wiped a hand across his bloody lip, leaving a crimson residue like a mask across his face, and flicked it, splattering his blood in droplets on the floor. What was before stoic indifference was now animalistic intimidation as he paced around his opponent in a slow circle. 

The Frenchman lunged at him again, and Z-26 blocked his blow with impressive speed, grabbing the man's arm and twisting it hard behind his back. A loud crack was heard just as the opponent cried out in pain. 

She shut her eyes. In Hydra’s lab she was exposed to many uncomfortable visuals - blood samples, sickness, pain. But nothing quite so depraved. 

The hairs on her skin rose as she heard Z-26 cruel laughter ring out. Only, it sounded different. That wasn’t Z-26 anymore. That was the Winter Soldier. 

She dared a glance, squinting as the soldier picked up his opponent by his throat with ease, before slamming him on the ground, then using his metal arm to pummel him with a volley of bone chilling punches. 

She could hear his thoughts. “Break his jaw. Crush his throat. Tear him apart. Hurt him. Hurt him! HURT HIM!”

G-34 dared a glance at Dr. Zola. He watched with a look of pride, thinking: “My perfect creation, my masterpiece” 

The winter soldier mercilessly threw punch after punch. His bloodstained dog tags swinging in front of his bare chest.

She desperately searched for the opponent’s thoughts, but there was nothing. No thoughts. No movement. No heartbeat.

Her breath caught in her throat. Incidentally, she hid her face in her hands and turned around, not wanting to see the kill. She didn't notice that she was leaning into Dr. Braun. She only understood that once his arms came to circle around her as a faux display of comfort and he cooed, “poor girl, this is no scene for such a lady.” 

He didn't fool her. 

Without having to read his mind, she knew he was terrified simply by the way his hands shook slightly. Peeking behind him, she also saw the rest of the audience was unsettled. The once-cheering spectators had gone silent, their faces pale. 

She didn't feel bad for them. They paid to see a spectacle, and that's exactly what they got.

Four Months Later

“That song at the Gala yesterday... it was Glenn Miller, yes?” G-34 asked in a last ditch attempt to start up a conversation with Z-26.

Silence and a beat passed before she got his answer. “How do you know Glenn Miller?” He asked. 

Sitting across from her, he was clad in a tweed suit - the counterpart to her long coat. The two looked the part of a body guard and a wealthy heiress. 

Suppressing a satisfied smirk, she looked out the window of the train, watching the trees and snow covered fields pass them by. What a privilege it was to see the outside world, after having spent so long underground. “When the allied soldiers liberated our village, they had record player with them. And they played his music on V-day.”

Z-26’s gaze fell to his hands and he sighed. “I'm more of a Louis Armstrong man myself, but Miller's certainly better than the propaganda shit they listen to here.”

She liked him when he was like this. Sincere. When he let his guard down enough to engage in conversation. Offer his opinion. These moments were rare, and she suspected she was the only witness to them. 

“Can I ask you something?” She rested her chin on her hand.

“You just did.”

Rolling her eyes, she gave him a look. “Do you still resent the fact that I volunteered as a test subject?”

“Do you?” He challenged, raising a brow.

“I do not know.” She admitted. “There was a clinic near our street. One day they put up a sign. 'Offering double rations in exchange for research.' I signed up and…” She lifted her hands, gesturing around herself as if to say, here we are.

His expression wasn't blank, but it still did not give much away.

“What are you thinking?” She prodded.

Pained blue eyes met her gaze. “You remind me of someone.”

“Who?”

“... I can't remember.” 

But she knew. The person he was failing to remember. The one who she reminded him of was his best friend back in Brooklyn. A skinny blonde boy who had grown up on the same street as him. Who also volunteered for a sciencer experiment to defend his loved ones.

Some of the memories she'd seen of them in his subconscious were enough to fill her eyes with tears. Short, blurred fragments of laughter, scraped knees, joint bike rides, and sunny days. 

“Ladies and gentlemen.” The voice of the conductor came over the announcement microphone. “We will be arriving at our destination shortly. Please have your bags ready. We thank you for traveling with us.”

Z-26 got up, pulling up their suitcases from the overhead compartment. As the train came to a stop at Brussels station, G-34 gathered her things, securing a fashionable beret on her styled wig. 

The two had completed their training. They were on their own mission for the third time. Hydra deemed them a good team and she tended to agree. 

Her alias was that she was an heiress, who was representing her wealthy father in Europe's elite gatherings while he was busy conducting business abroad in Asia. Z-26 was her bodyguard.

The chauffeur met them out front. Another Hydra agent. He took the suitcases and placed them in the trunk of his buggy. 

“How was your trip, Madame?” He asked. 

She smiled at him as he opened the car door for her to sit down. “You know how I love the gala season.”

Hearing the code words, the chauffeur nodded before closing the door and taking a seat behind the wheel. 

Z-26 stood outside her car, holding a cigarette lit in his gloved hand. He eyed their surroundings under the guise of someone taking in scenery during a smoke break. 

A moment later, he walked around the car and took a seat beside her, addressing the driver. “Don’t take the main road. Take the alleyway and park at the back entrance of the hotel.”

G-34 eyed him. Had he seen someone suspicious? She opened her mouth to ask him a question, but nothing came out as he wrapped his fingers around her wrist, giving her a squeeze. He turned and gave her a warning look. His favorite look. The ‘be quiet’ look. The meaning was clear. Not now.

That evening, the two of them had gone out for dinner, as they often did. 

“It is beautiful at night,” she murmured, glancing up at the dimly lit street. Never having been to Brussels before, she wanted to take advantage of the rare free time they had to take in the city’s beauty. 

“We should’ve taken a car,” He grumbled, but he let her pull him along.

“Hmm, is that why you are looking at me like you are Lenin I am bourgeoisie?”

He eyed you with a look of confusion. “I’ll never get used to your soviet expressions.”

She smirked. “Would you prefer I say ‘screwed the pooch’ like you Americans do?” 

In a rare showcase of emotions, she saw the corner of his lips lift as he shook his head. 

Then, he abruptly stopped walking. “Get behind me.”

Obeying instantly, G-34 looked out around them in alert as she grasped the back of his coat.

The cold evening was quiet. The air tense. 

Then she saw what concerned him. The assassin suddenly moved - drawing a gun from his coat.

Z-26 moved before G-34 could react. A sharp twist, a sickening pop—the pistol clattered to the ground. The man barely had time to gasp before Z-26 shoved him down, his boot pressing hard against the attackers throat.

The assassin gasped, struggling. 

She darted to Z-26’s side, breath shallow. “Who sent you?” She questioned the assassin. 

Her mind latched onto his only to find nothing but pain as Z-26 applied more pressure. His boot pressing, relaxed, then pressing again, as he toyed with his victim. 

She felt her own blood drain from her face. “That’s enough.”

Z-26 didn’t move. His grip remained steady, fingers twitching at his side as if deciding whether to finish it. 

Eventually, the assassin stopped trashing. Stopped moving altogether. 

Covering her mouth with her hand, she stammered. “He’s done.”

But her words fell on deaf ears. She read his mind to figure out why he wasn’t listening. Images of him crushing the enemy’s throat with his bare hands, or taking out his swiss army knife and twisting the blade deep into his side, continuing to strike even after the threat was gone.

“James!” She choked out his name. 

G-34 finally released his hold. He wiped his boot on the rubble as if brushing off dirt and stepping away as the assassin lay limply, his body growing cold.

This was the part of the job she could never get used to. Though Z-26 seemed to have no problem with killing. What he did have a problem with was knowing when to stop. 

She turned away from him, wiping away her tears as she clicked on her Hydra-issued communication hand radio. “We n-need a clean up crew on the Galeries Royale.” 

“Copy. A crew is dispatched and heading to the location right now.”

“We need to go.” She said to her partner, swallowing down her bile as she eyed the dead man. Unaffected, he tugged at her until she finally began to move towards the road filled with taxis.

As they drove to the hotel, she couldn't help but glance at him sitting on the other side, a strange feeling settling in her stomach. 

Even as they stepped into the grand ballroom the following Friday morning, the vision of Z-26’s bloodlust lingered on G-34’s mind.

Having just finished a conversation with a Chinese diplomat, she spotted a shiny movement to her right. 

A striking woman in a sparkling flapper dress and headpiece to match, likely an homage to the prohibition era, was swaying close to Z-26. A half empty glass of champagne in her gloves hand couldn't have been her first drink of the day or even second. 

With her telepathy, G-34 gathered that the woman, Rosa, was the wife of an arms dealer from Monaco. And that she was picturing Z-26 in all types of compromising positions. 

The corner of our protagonist's mouth rose in distaste.

The woman stepped closer still, putting her glove on Z-26's arm. His jaw tensed as he looked down at her. 

G-34 moved before she could fully calculate her plan. Putting herself between her partner and the Monegasque, she gave a light laugh to Z-26. “Darling, do you have room to breathe?” Before turning to give the woman who was touching him a forced smile. She wanted her gone. “Madam, please take a step back from my bodyguard.” She said with barely contained venom.

Something strange happened. 

G-34 felt a pull in her chest like an invisible thread pulling her words out of her mouth. 

As if she was pushed by an invisible force, the Monagasque took one full step back, her heels clicking the floor as she put distance between herself and the couple. 

The drunken look of her eyes was replaced by one of surprise. As if she had not expected to move like that. 

G-34 blinked in surprise as well, not expecting her requests to be taken so literally. 

“No, not couldn’t be…” G-34’s stomach twisted with a realization. “I did that.”

She recalled the speculative discussions she had with the Hydra staff regarding her ability and its extent. Could it be that mind control was a component of her telepathic power?

She turned back to meet Z-26's gaze. He was eyeing her knowingly and she read the exact same question in his mind. 

Her voice was odd when she said that to him. “I'd like to go home.”

He nodded and the two made their way out of the ballroom.

“Z-26, did you also see that back there?” She turned to him in the car. “That woman took exactly one step back like I told her–”

“Yes. I saw.”

“That was strange, right?”

“I suggest you drop it, G.” He gave a clipped response.

“But why did it happen?” She asked. “What caused it? Do you not think that it is worth testing?”

His gloved grip on the wheel tightened. “What part of the test process are you so eager to relive?” His voice was low, measured—dangerous. “The endless cycle of blood tests? The surveillance? The drug trials? Or maybe it's another puppet show?”

Ah yes, the ‘puppet show.’

Every time a test subject showed progress, they were brought to present their abilities in front of a crowd of Hydra’s biggest stakeholders. 

Much like the time Z-26 was put in the boxing ring to show the effects of his super strength and conditioning to follow orders, the next year was G-34’s turn to showcase her telepathy. 

No she wasn’t eager to relive that dread and embarrassment of being put on display.

She swallowed and turned back to look out the window.

A few minutes had passed when Z-26 spoke up. “I didn't need your protection back there. You could have exposed us.”

She turned to him in astonishment. “You did not know what that woman was thinking.” 

In a rare showcase of emotion, Z-26 laughed quietly. “I knew exactly what she was thinking. I don't need you to keep women off me.”

She huffed and said nothing, turning back to watch the streets as they drove past.

When they returned to the hotel, she made a beeline for the shower, shutting the door behind her without a word. The heat washed away the tension of the day, but not the thoughts circling in her head.

By the time she emerged, towel-drying her hair, Z-26 had taken her place. He was quicker, stepping out minutes later, his waste wrapped in a towel as he ruffled a hand through damp locks.

Seated at the desk, she flipped open her notebook, pen scratching the pages as she recorded her findings from the gala—especially what happened with the woman. A single occurrence wasn't enough to confirm anything, but she wrote down ‘Mind control.’

The thought made her queasy. She needed more tests. Proof.

She glanced at Z-26, asleep on the bed, his bare chest rose and fell in steady rhythm.

She snapped the notebook shut and grabbed her coat.

By the time she returned, two oranges sat in her palm.

Z-26 stirred at the click of the door, messy hair falling over his forehead as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. His gaze flicked to the fruit, brows knitting together.

Oranges were out of season.

His voice was still rough from sleep when he asked, “Where’d you get those?”

She moved to the table, setting them down before offering him a sliced one, which he ate. “The only place to get oranges here at this time of year is from a greenhouse thirty minutes away.”

Throwing on a pair of loose-fitting pants, Z-26 stood, walking closer, picking up the fruit. He rolled it between his fingers before bringing it to his nose, inhaling deeply. The scent of citrus filled his nose. “What did you do?” 

She swallowed, gripping the hem of her cardigan. “I asked a waiter in the café downstairs to bring me an orange.” A pause. “More accurately... I commanded him to.”

Z-26 said nothing, watching her.

She exhaled sharply. “And then he walked out of the café. Left the hotel entirely. It took him thirty-five minutes to return with these.”

The weight of her words settled between them.

When she met his gaze again, her heart was beating too fast. "I know. You said to drop it. But I think…" She hesitated, the words foreign even to her own ears. “I think I can harness mind control.”

The weight of her words settled. A realization, heavy and unspoken. Her heartbeat thrummed in her ears. "I can control people."

A humorless laugh escaped her. It sounded ridiculous.

But Z-26 wasn’t laughing. Instead, he was staring at her, something unreadable flickering behind his gaze.

“Say something,” she said.

He didn’t.

She took a breath, focusing on locating his thought-

“Don't read my mind." His voice was sharp.

She flinched. “I only wanted—”

“If you wanna know what I'm thinking, ask.”

She met his stare, lifting her chin. “Fine. What are you thinking?”

His response was immediate. “I'm disappointed in you for going off alone.”

She blinked, thrown off by the answer.

“Don't do that again.” He said. 

She waved him off, knowing that’s not what he was mad about. “What about the power?” she asked. “Mind control. Do you think that—” she chose her words carefully, “that something good can come of this?”

His expression hardened. “Nothing good can come of this, G-34.”

She bristled. “What? Why not?”

“I don't wanna talk about this anymore.”

“Of course,” she muttered, frustrated. Asking herself rhetorically, “When do you ever?”

“Don't start,”

“You don’t let me read your mind, but you also refuse to talk to me.” Her arms crossed tightly over her chest. “How are we supposed to communicate as a team?”

His jaw tensed. The air in the room shifted.

She realized too late—she had pushed him too far.

Z-26 stepped forward.

Instinctively, she stepped back—her spine pressing against the cold wall.

The flicker of movement made something flash across his face. Not anger. Something else.

Her breath hitched. “Those f-fear tactics don’t work on me, Z-26.”

The rocky surface behind her felt rough through the soft fabric of her cardigan, but she barely noticed it.

“What?” His voice was lower now, unreadable. “What fear tactic-”

The question was genuine. Like it hadn’t even occurred to him that she might be afraid of him.

“I know what it means when you look at someone like that.” She swallowed hard. “It won’t work on me. I know you too well. So stop.”

His brows furrowed in genuine confusion. “Look at someone like what?”

She clenched her hands into fists to keep them from shaking. “Like you looked at the assassin the other day! Like, you would enjoy hurting me!”

His brows rose. “G-34,-”

“I know you enjoy hurting people, Z.” She exhaled shakily. 

Silence.

She hesitated, then pushed forward. “I see it. It just... takes over your mind. I've seen how much you…”

“How much I…” He prodded.

Pressing her lips together, she spoke in a small voice. “How much you like it.”

He stiffened.

For a moment, she thought he would snap. But he didn’t. Instead, his next words were spoken calmly, but offered no less surprising value to her. “I can’t help but feel insulted that you think I’d be capable of hurting you of all people.”

The tension in the air was unbearable. He made another step towards her slowly. She pressed herself harder still against the wall. 

Then, suddenly—he dropped to his knees.

Her breath hitched.

That was so unexpected, so unnatural, she froze, her body going rigid as he knelt before her.

His hands slid up her bare legs, fingers digging into her thighs. “I… feel a certain way about you. More protective than I’ve ever felt of anyone as far as I can remember.”

She gasped at the sharp press of his calloused—not gentle. Not soft.

Her pulse thundered. She had gone and done it again. Her and her big mouth. She knew that one day it would get her in real trouble. 

Still, she couldn’t help herself. “Well you have a sadistic way of showing it.” Hissing at the way his fingers dug into her thigh, leaving marks.

Right. Super strength, he remembered. The fingers that dug into her flesh slightly let up, messaging the places they bruised. The sudden gentleness contrasted with the pain made her feel… twisted.

Under the heat of his hands holding her legs steady, she felt adrenaline rush through her own veins. 

Slowly, he lifted her leg, resting it over his shoulder, his gaze never leaving her. Waiting. Not asking. Just giving her time to object. She didn’t. 

His right hand, cold, metallic pressed into her thigh, and then she felt it—the barest graze of teeth. Her breath caught, her pulse hammering. She was at his mercy.

And then, he bit down.

A sharp sting bloomed through her nerves, deliberately cruel, but not enough to truly hurt. 

A small, broken sound slipped from her lips, and his grip flexed against her skin.

His bite was deep enough to draw blood, and when he pulled back, he licked the sensitive skin where she now saw a fresh mark. 

He assessed his work, allowing himself a small grin, before leaning back to plant another bite, this time, closer to her bare sex. 

“You are a sadist, like I said. You enjoy hurting people.” She stuttered, breathless. “It is part of your conditioning.”

“I never said you were wrong.”

“And now when you’re angry. And you want to hurt me. It is like a reflex.”

His voice was low, even. “Did you get that by reading my mind?” His tone almost accusatory.

She shook her head. “You asked me not to.”

God was she tempted to though. She felt almost like she lost one of her senses. Exposed in a way she was unfamiliar with.

“Good.” He lowered his head under the hem of her cardigan. 

She tensed, anticipating another painful bite on the most sensitive part of her body. Flattening herself against the wall when she felt his teeth grazed her folds, making her breath hitch. 

She squeezed her eyes shut, she waited for the pain to come. He was slow and meticulous, his warm breath fanning her skin. 

The pain didn't come. Instead, his tongue moved between her folds in a slow, torturous lick. 

A choked gasp left her mouth. And her hand shot up to cover it.

His lip turned up in amusement as blue eyes challenged her. “You're drenched.”

She was. She didn't realize just how much this whole time he was teasing her had affected her. 

Suddenly, there was a familiar, feminine voice echoing in his mind. Her voice. “He is clearly struggling to understand intimacy outside of his past trauma. That is why he behaves this way with me.” 

Only she hadn’t spoken out loud.

It took him a moment to realize whose thoughts he was hearing. “If you won’t read my mind, why are you shoving your thoughts into it?”

She blinked. “huh?”

“I'm clearly struggling to understand intimacy outside of my past trauma?” He repeated her words, or rather, her thoughts, back to her. “So now your telepathy includes broadcasting your psych-evals?”

“I… I did not mean to!” Her eyes widened. “Are you saying you can hear my thoughts?”

He nodded. 

She shook her head. “I did not even know I could do that.” Her voice was equal parts fascination and terror. “What triggered it? First, mind control, now this... is it heightened emotions? is it him?"  

“You're still doing it.” He watched her with hidden amusement.

And then her thoughts turned paranoid. 

“Oh no. Can anyone know what I'm thinking? Dr. Zola? Dr. Braun...?”

Z-26 was then witness to a series of moments from her point of view. Braun smirks at her, eyeing her inappropriately, calling her "pet", "dove", "kitten", and all other kinds of unwanted affectionate nicknames. 

“No!” Her thoughts were panicked. “I have to learn to control this. No one can know about this–”

He growled in irritation. “Stop or I'll make you.” 

“I cant!” She whined helplessly.

His finger drove into her entrance then, curling stroking the sensitive nerve endings inside. 

She let out a gasp as her head rolled back against the wall and her hands grasped for his hair. Instantly, the paranoid thoughts stopped. 

His finger was joined by another, along with his tongue and all three worked together to ‘distract’ her. A feeling deep in her belly rose and rose. She was squirming, straining herself to stay upright against the wall. “Gonna fall... Knees… weak.... Bed.”

He stood, picking her up with ease and carrying her to her bed. Feeling small and limp in his hold, she felt oddly safe in his arms, allowing herself to curl up into his warmth.

He lowered her onto her back on the bed covers. The mattress springs squeaking underneath their combined weight and he crawled on top of her, towering over her under his large, muscular frame. Before she could say anything, his hand wrapped around her neck and pulled her up to meet his lips in an harsh, merciless kiss. He bit down on her bottom lip, enough to draw blood again. 

“Be gentle!” She choked out with quiet defiance when they pulled apart. “I am not as strong as you are.”

Her mind betrayed her though. "... the way you handle me... it shouldn't make me feel like this..." 

“Do you feel guilty for enjoying yourself?” He asked, eyeing the glossy redness covering her bottom lip. He wanted to bite her again. 

Then he realized. She was right. He was sadistic. He was conditioned to enjoy pain. And he enjoyed hers. 

She pressed her lips together, hesitating to give him a response.

“I do.” her mind betrayed her again. 

Something in her confirmation made him content. She was just as messed up as he was. They were the products of their reality. But that didn’t have to be a bad thing.

“Do you realize I want you to enjoy it?” He challenged. 

The words made her freeze. She eyed him wearily. Not eager to believe his words.

“Read my mind. I give you permission.”

“Are you sure?” She whispered.

His hand wrapped around her calve squeezed hard, conveying the meaning clearly. Don't make me repeat myself.

“Okay,” she nodded, closing her eyes and focusing on reaching his mind. 

“Intoxicating,” He thought. “Watching her dissolve under my hands. The way she tries to push back, only to collapse when I push her further. What I wouldn’t do to keep her safe. To keep her mine. Mine. Mine!”  There was something raw, possessive in his voice. A part of him wanted to see how far she would let him go.

Her brows furrowed. “You want me to enjoy it? Or do you want to hurt me?” She blurted out. “Which is it?”

A sad smile appeared on his face. She couldn't tell if he was laughing at her or pitying her. “Naïve little thing. Why choose?”

With his metal arm, he easily flipped her onto her hands and knees, his hand curling around her throat to pull her up until she was flush against his chest. Her cardigan was unbuttoned and hanging loosely off her shoulders, exposing the peaks of her breasts. His fingers found her nipples and gave them a painful squeeze. She flinched and arched against him, pushing her breasts into his hold.

Her sleeves fell down to the tips of her fingers as her hands grasped to hold him. 

He lined himself up at her entrance and slowly pushed in. 

They both gasped at the deliciously painful sensation. He reached his other hand to her sex, finding her clit and rubbing it in circles in time with his gradual pumping. 

Every brush of his fingers, every thrust, had her tensing. Her vision blurred as he pressed a particular spot on her throat with his thumb. 

Overwhelming—too strong, too fast, too much—but she never felt safer than in his arms. He handled her like she was his, like she could take it, and she found herself sinking into that certainty. Handing over control.

"Z-26–" she grasped for him, her fingernails scratching the scarred skin of his forearms.

She turned her head and saw that his facial expression was one of agony. Furrowed brows and shut eyes. His hands gripped her as if he was afraid she’d disappear.  

The sharp angles of his cheeks were dusted pink as he panted into her tasting faintly of oranges, before sinking his teeth into her skin. Every rough tug, everywhere his body pressed against hers, sent another shiver down her spine. Thought slipped away, leaving only the dizzying sensation of being handled by him.

The warmth built up in the core of her stomach and only grew stronger as his hips sped up against her. 

The climax rolled over both of them – leaving her shaking and reaching for him desperately. “J-james!” she whimpered. 

“’m here, darlin’” He rasped, laying kisses along her neck and shoulders as he continued fucking her into her orgasm.

It hit her all at once, making her shake and ride it out like a wave. Panting, she still maintained a steel grip on him, afraid to let him go. 

He wasn't stopping. Wasn't slowing down either. 

Her pulse thumped in her ears, breath coming in sharp, shallow gasps. He had her caged in, his body a wall of heat and strength, and her own was betraying her—arching into him again. 

Breath hitching. Back arching. A slow, insistent ache built deep in her core again, curling low in her core, spreading warmth through her veins. Every touch, every squeeze, every press of his body against hers only increased the heat, making it harder to breathe. She felt vulnerable, exposed, every inch of her skin burning under his hands, desperate for more. “I can’t…  it’s too much!”

“You can.” He responded to her out loud. “You and I are the same. We had no say in our own bodies for years, no control. But here we are, sweetheart. You, obedient, giving yourself over to me completely. Because you know I could take care of you. Because I know how to make you feel good. Because no one else knows what we’ve been through.”

“Yes!” She couldn’t help but moan. 

“Read my mind, G-34.” He said. “Read how you make me feel.”

She read his mind. 

“I have nothing.”  He thought. “No past, no future, nothing that was really mine. But this? This is real. She’s mine. The way her body reacts to me without hesitation. The way we are at this moment. No one could take this from us.”

“Ah,” Her head rolled back as she felt her pleasure grow stronger and stronger. “James!"”

Suddenly there was a knock at the door. They froze. Panting. 

The insistent knocking returned. “Miss?” A muffled male voice called behind the door. Likely belonging to a staff member 

She called back breathily. "J-just a second!" before gathering her clothes and limping her way to the door on weak legs. She gathered the material around her, hoping to cover the marks and bruises and marks. Brushing her hair back, she got ready to open the door. Z-26 was behind the door in an instant, standing with a gun in his hand, and quiet anticipation. 

Still flushed, she waited for his green light. He cocked his pistol and nodded. She twisted the door handle and cracked open the door an inch. 

“A telegram for you, miss.” The bell boy standing outside of her door handed her a letter.  “Mr. Zola is waiting for you at the restaurant downstairs.”

End of Part 1/2.

That's the Job

Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x (f) reader.

Tags: friends to lovers, fluff, smut, angst, betrayal, emotions, anxiety, heartbreak, workplace romance, coworkers to lovers, confessions, oral(f receiving), fingering.

Snippet:

You choked on the next words, eyes blurry now. "I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know it’d hit me like that."

He took another step. "So you left?"

"Wouldn't you? I mean—wouldn’t anyone?"

"And you lied." his voice took a tone of hurt.

☆☆☆☆☆

A week has passed since the nightmarish incident. That day, all staff at Top Gun were informed, as is protocol, of the crash that resulted from a sudden birdstrike during field training, nearly taking the lives of two pilots. Both of whom had been close friends of yours.

Thankfully, both Natasha and Bob survived. Although, they and Coyote were rushed to the hospital for urgent care and testing.

But part of your job description as a rookie R&D Analyst was to assess post-mortems, and when you got your eyes on the images of jet – completely destroyed and burned, your mind flooded with awful hypothetical images.

They were lucky – you realized. Because one minute longer, one detail off, and they could have been gone. He could have been gone. For good.

Images flashed in your mind. Blood and lifeless brown eyes...

Your chest hurt.

Before anyone in the office could notice, you turned away from your computer screen – leaving the images of the destroyed jet on display – and strode out of the room.

☆☆☆☆☆

Engineers — even brilliant ones — didn't go into a job expecting to confront the potential violent death of the people they worked with. It’s not part of their emotional framework. So as a young adult that was new to the field, watching Bob and Phoenix nearly die did something to your brain. Making it scramble for control. And the easiest way it could think to do that was Distance. Detachment. You never wanted to feel that way again.

Prior to the crash, you had been assigned a project; a request to improve the laser nav systems, submitted by Lt. Robert Floyd. You and the WSO had gotten along extremely well, right off the bat. He didn't discard your ideas like many members of your own team did, and you were extremely impressed by his expertise as a Weapons Systems Officer and overall badass.

And he was kind. He often came across as technical and serious, but you found yourself inspired by his dedication to his job.

He was also... distracting.

When you two worked together when you just couldn't help a glance over at him. Your eyes tended to linger.

On his lips pressing together when he would concentrate. On the movement of his arms – muscular under his uniform, muscular from days of training out in the sun as he disassembled and assembled the machine you were working on. On the gentle hums he would make when you had suggested an idea and the way he would listen with the most intense gaze, afraid to miss a detail. On the way, his hair was a curly blonde mess falling into his forehead after a long day of training – the only time he could come and assist you with the project.

And what's worse? He was brilliant! He knew his stuff almost too well. Every observation, every test, and every note was detailed to near obsession.

You pointed it out once.

It had been when he had disassembled the laser chamber, displaying each piece on the desk and labeling them to perfect accuracy.

"I didn't know pilots knew so much about the cogs and gears of the weapons systems." You had murmured, not thinking much of it.

"I'm a Weapons Systems Officer." He leveled you with a smirk.

Your face must have gone red, because his smirk widened into a laugh.

He offered you his hand as if to introduce himself. "Hi I'm Bob. It’s my job to use the systems in combat. If it fails, I take the hit."

"Sorry! I didn't mean it like that."

He shook his head, laughing. "Don't apologize, I get that a lot. Just know I’m not just here to press buttons and look good in a uniform.” He winked, a rare gesture from him, and it was enough to ease a smile out of you.

Alright, so he was smart, beautiful, snarky, and also a badass. Great.

You always looked forward to interacting with the aviators, but it was different with him. It made you giddy. And you often had to remind yourself to be professional.

Annoyingly, thoughts of him would often cut into your personal life. At the gym, you motivated yourself with memories of him doing push-ups with his fellow flyers on the concrete. Sweaty and tired but still determined, and God damned resilient. With your friends, you'd re-told some of you work stories, which mostly involved him. And when you were by yourself...

That aside, you two had even made great progress on your project to improve the laser systems. In fact, the day of the bird strike, Bob was testing out a new fix you two had come up with.

Now, it had been destroyed along with the rest of the plane. And what's worse, you were pretty sure what you did next was going to hurt him even more

Because that evening, after you dried your tears in the bathroom and got your breathing under control, you requested to be reassigned from working with Bob on the project.

☆☆☆☆☆

You went through the next few days on autopilot, burying yourself in your work. Your new projects were dull, but dull meant safe. Your coworkers helped. They joked, they complained, they distracted you. They left at reasonable hours.

The aviators were all back at the academy, too busy pushing their bodies past the edge of human capability. Their breaks were short, their evenings longer. You barely passed them in the halls, and you were grateful for it.

Occasionally, the uncomfortable conversation you'd had with Bob would replay in your head.

On the day he was discharged from the Military Hospital, it was 18:05 when Bob strode through the metal doors of the hangar. Boots, cargo pants, white shirt — the usual. He carried his tablet under one arm, his dog tags tapping softly against his chest.

“We lost the prototype with the last jet, so we’re back to square one,” he said as he walked up to your table. "We gotta move fast to catch up—"

He paused.

You were perched on the edge of the desk, your work bag at your side. Not unusual in itself — end of the day and all — but you weren’t unpacking, rearranging, or reviewing notes. You were just sitting there. Like you were done.

His expression shifted. "Are you going somewhere?"

You stood, shouldering your bag. Just say it, you told yourself. Be professional. Clean cut.

"Lieutenant," you said, voice steady, "it’s been an honor working with you. But I’m stepping away from the project."

He blinked. "...Can I ask why?"

You hesitated. He was waiting — not with anger or even with disappointment, just that open Bob-ness that made it worse somehow. So trusting.

"I’m just not interested in the project anymore," you said quickly, like ripping off a band-aid.

There was a beat of silence.

"That’s… sudden," he said slowly.

You looked away.

Then, he spoke up softly. "Was it something I did?"

Your stomach twisted. "No," you answered too fast. "Not at all. It’s not you."

"I thought we worked well together," he said, softer now. "Didn’t we?"

"We did." You adjusted the strap on your shoulder. "This isn’t personal. I just… want to try something else."

He nodded, but not like someone who believed you. More like someone who was trying really hard not to push.

"Well," he said, clearing his throat and standing straighter. "Good luck with whatever’s next."

You nodded and offered a tight smile. "You too."

You'd jerk back and shake your head as if trying to force the thought away willingly.

☆☆☆☆☆

You’d stayed late in your cubicle, distracted by some calibration notes. You barely registered the footsteps in the hallway until a shadow fell over your desk.

"Hey."

You looked up.

He stood in the doorway, uniform loose on his frame, dark bags under his eyes, stubble on his chin, his dog tags still. 

Iceman's funeral was mere days ago. It had really hit the aviator's morale. The death of a legend. Someone who'd been a mentor to them.

One hand clutched the strap of his bag like it was the only thing grounding him.

"I’m flying out tomorrow," he said.

You blinked. " …you were picked."

An unsettling feeling began to grow in your stomach. Either anxiety. Or fear for his safety. You weren't sure at the moment.

"Phoenix and I." He nodded. "With Mav."

"Congratulations." Your throat closed. You set your pen down, bracing your hands on the desk to stop their tremble. "Who else?"

"Rooster. Payback. Fanboy."

You nodded slowly.

Then, your voice caught as you said. "Be careful."

He didn't react. Almost as if deliberately. At first, it looked like he was ready to leave, but then his gaze was back on you.

"You know," He took a small step forward. "I asked Phoenix and Hangman about you."

You raised your brow, unsure where he was going with that.

He took another step, coming closer. "Figured maybe you needed space. But… turns out they haven’t heard from you either. None of us have."

You backed up just a little until the edge of the desk pressed into your hip. "You were all busy."

"Oh, we’d have made time." He paused — not hurt, just searching. The rest of his sentence was implied in his furrowed brow. And you know it.

It was true. Being one of the youngest recruits, you were closer in age with the mission candidates and have grown quite close with all of them through your work. And you've been avoiding them like the plague in hopes you wouldn't have to see any of them possibly die...

"See…" Bob cleared his throat. "I was going crazy, trying to figure out what I did wrong. Thought maybe I’d said something. Maybe come off too strong."

You didn’t allow yourself to speak. How could you explain leaving them in a way that didn't make you sound childish?

"I saw you nearly die and it fucked me up. But since you do this for a living and something... worse could happen, I'm scared of what it would do to me, so the less we interact the better."

Yeah, good luck with that.

His voice softened. "And then I realized. It was that day. Wasn’t it?"

You inhaled sharply, eyes stinging.

He stepped closer. Not enough to crowd you, but enough to make you feel him. "The crash."

You looked down. "You nearly died, Bob."

"But we didn’t."

"But you still could have!" Your voice cracked. "And what if you... don't walk away next time?"

His tone lowered, serious. "That’s the job."

"Well, I don’t do what you do!" You sniffled. "I haven’t had friends die mid-air or disappear off the radar. I'm not used to this. I'm not wired for it. And hearing you drop like that—seeing what was left of the plane... if you were still inside—"

You choked on the next words, eyes blurry now. "I couldn’t breathe. I didn’t know it’d hit me like that."

He took another step. "So you left?"

"Wouldn't you? I mean—wouldn’t anyone?"

You found yourself wondering this to no end for the past says.

"And you lied." his voice was hurt now.

You flinched.

But he didn't fill the silence, waiting for you to speak.

"I didn’t want to tell you because…" you swallowed. "Because if I said it out loud, it’d mean I couldn’t handle it. That I’m not strong enough for this. For any of this.”

That I don't belong here. At the job I've dreamed of since I first picked up a physics textbook back in elementary school.

Silence. A breathless, raw silence that pulsed between you like static.

Deep, beautiful brown eyes searched your face. He was so close bow. "You think I don’t get scared too?"

You swallowed hard. 

His hand brushed your cheek. Barely there. And still, you felt it like lightning.

He leaned in — close enough you could see the pale gold of his lashes that brushed his cheeks.

Then he stopped. Right there. Inches away. His breath uneven.

"I want to," he whispered.

Your breath caught. You looked up at him, eyes glossy. For a second, he leaned in — the moment hanging in the air like a held breath.

Your eyes held his, steady now.

The words were on the tip of your tongue.

If you're going to kiss me... you'd better come back.

He hesitated, then stepped back. A full, aching step. "This isn't right."

Your chest squeezed. He was walking away and taking his warmth with him and what if he wasn't coming back.

Timidly, your hands moved from their place behind you and grasped as his uniform, and you brought your lips to his.

He gasped. The soft intake of hair brushing your lips. Then his arms wrapped around your waste and tightened, pulling you into himself.

He deepened the kiss. Lips possessive over yours, brushing in a slow but powerful movement that barely gave you a chance to take a breath as he took a step forward. Your back was against your desk.

Capable hands brushed over your body, as if memorizing it.

You wondered if he was thinking the same thing you were. What if this was the first and last time?

Sometimes, his timid demeanors made it easy to forget he was an battle-hardened soldier, a fact that was very evident now by the way he lifted you up with ease and held you like you weighed nothing.

He groaned against your mouth, his glasses brushing your nose.

"Its not fair to do this." His tone was quiet but hard.

With a sinking feeling, you nodded, agreeing. But as your harms began to lower from around his neck, he began to kiss down your throat, not as keen on stopping as you thought he was. Each brush of his lips or his tongue on your sensitive neck sent you gasping arching into him.

Thank god you'd stayed late and most people had gone home for the day.

Your fingers curled into his dirty blonde locks, also attempting to memorize the feel of him.

"M-maybe we should stop?" You stammered.

"Yeah," he nodded, though his fingers were undoing the buttons of your long-sleeved shirt, pulling it out of your skirt. "After, we'll stop."

You couldn't help but giggle, then shudder against the cold air hitting your skin all at once. He gently pushed you to lay down with your back to the desk.

Most of your shirt was still mostly on, only open at the front. His movement was slow and deliberate, lowering your bra straps and cups like he was disassembling a machine. Then he took your breasts in his hands and rolled his thumbs over your nipples.

Your breath caught as pleasure shot through your beasts and you moaned before your could stop yourself. He lowered his mouth on yours to remind you to be quiet.

You felt one of his hands travel down from your breast to the hem of your skirt, fingers brushing the inside of your thigh, making you shake. He pulled your panties aside and slid his finger into your heat.

"Oh fuck," he was struggling to keep quiet too.

You could feel how slick you were, how easily he could slide his digit in and around your pussy, spreading your slick around and over your clit.

You looked up at him, as your chest still rose and fell with his stimulation of your left nipple. Bob had his lower lip between his teeth, eyes scanning your face and body, committing them to memory.

Then he lowered to his knees. Your hand flew to cover your mouth as you felt his tongue join his fingers.

"Nhn!"

You were getting very close.

His mouth began to move your your folds. Kissing you, licking, sucking your clit. He added another finger inside you, curving and making you buck your hips.

Your hands grasped the edge of your desk. Everything he was doing was sending waves of pleasure through your body. Palm still over your mouth, you bit your finger to stop the moans slipping out.

Then, as if he sensed you were there, he sped up his mouth and fingers.

Oh god.

You couldn't stop panting loudly as you reached your orgasm. Hips shuddering and bucking against him, you fingers grasped hus hair, needing him closer.

His mouth was on you throughout. Still leaving slow, gentle kisses on your poor, sensitive cunt as you came down from the high.

Standing up, he cupped the nape of your neck and brought you up to taste yourself on his lips.

He kissed you for a long time. You don't know how long.

"I had to." He said against your mouth. "I had to know what you tasted like."

The words made your breath catch. "Promise me you'll come back," your voice broke.

He hid his face in the crook of your neck. "I can’t promise that," his voice barely audible in your ear.

You nodded, even though it cracked something in you.

Bob lingered in the doorway. Just before he turned, he looked back over his shoulder.

"Oh — by the way… the laser nav works perfectly." A faint smile. "We fixed it."

And then he was gone.

☆☆☆☆☆

A Proper Send-off

Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x (f) reader

Tags: one shot, established relationships, fluff, smut, NSFW, flustered Bob, celebration sex, kissing, p in v sex, oral (male receiving), teasing.

Synopsis: After receiving good news at work, the first person you wanted to tell was your sweet boyfriend, Bob. But you couldn't help messing with him a little before spilling the tea. And you certainly didn't expect the equally surprising news you was about to tell you after.

Your eyes widened at the words as they left your higher up's mouth. Currently sat across from you, they held a proud grin on their face.

You were hung up on that word. One of the several they had just spoken to you. It began replaying in your head over and over.

"Promotion,"

Like tunnel vision, and the bright light was showing the way.

All those hours of work, that dedication, passion, effort. It all paid off! You knew it would. You believed it was leading to something great! And voila!

And now you wanted to celebrate. God, you've been dreaming of this moment ever since you began working on your project.

You itched to tell people! You needed to tell him. Your favorite person who believed in you every step of the way. Who believed in you when you didnt believe in yourself. Whose determination in telling you "youre gonna get this!" Was enough to drive you forward.

He was right. He never doubted you.

Your throat closes up when you rush out a series of thank you's to your boss. They smile a proud smile and tell you to go ahead and tell your folks. They know you want to.

You notify your family before your friends.

Their replies to your message come almost instantly. Words to congratulations and excitement beam back at you from your screen.

One friend texts you, asking if you told him. What did he say?

You let them know you I hadn't yet. That you want to tell him in person. Politely asking all the recipients not to mention word to him just yet, you explain you wanna see the look on his face when he finds out.

By the time they end of the work day rolls around, your hands are still shaking as you grasp the wheel on your commute home. Your heart beating quickly as the sunset radiates your path.

At home, changed and excited, you don't fully have a plan, per say. But you do wanna catch him off guard. You know that much.

So when your apartment opens and he walks in in work clothes, you're on him like a magnet, nearly knocking the nerdy wall of muscle off his feet.

You wrap you arms around his waist, still sweaty from his commute home and pull him flush against you. Hard muscle presses into you and his arms circle you instinctively as he lets out a soft chuckle and a "woah," before you silence his lips with yours.

Moving in perfect sync against one another, your lips brushing softly, tongues licking. He tastes like his favorite gum. And he chuckles, the sound low and deep vibrating through you.

By now he should be suspecting something's up.

Don't get him wrong, you're always eager to greet him when he comes home from work – especially when he's off on month-long missions – but he's been home for the past month working a [REDACTED] project for the navy (as far as you could know. NDA and all) – so... whats going on?

You pull back, directing a michious smirk up at him as you bite your lower lip.

He's gazing down at you, cheeks flushed, chest moving up and down with rushed breathes.

"... baby...?" Your boyfriend's voice comes out, quiet and adorably confused at the same time. His glasses are slightly fogged up with vapors from your combined breathing. It's an image you're used to, one you find endeering.

"...Bobby..." Your voice is melodic purr.

He gulps. It's always fun to make him flustered. To see this big army man melt at something as trivial as your intonation.

You start laying soft kisses down his throat. Gentle, teasing.

His breath catches in his throat, just above your ear. "'m sweaty!"

Oh, he's fine. The sweat is barely there, and plus it's mixed with the chocolate-y scent of his cologne. You bought him it a few years ago, and ever since he's only used that one, insisting he wanted his signature smell to be something you chose.

"So what?" You ask, whatever attention isn't on covering every inch of his skin with either lipstick or bite marks is focused on sliding up the hem of his shirt, before pulling it over his head and throwing it over your shoulder.

His eyes widen as he watches the discarded garment. It lands on the floor, he openes his mouth to say something, only to stutter as your hands run up his toned belly, torso, and chest; appreciating ridges of hard muscle developed through years of rigurous training.

You unleash more onto his chest, biting, licking, kissing down his rising and falling abdominal.

As you reach his belt buckle, you're suddenly lifted up into his arms. With ease, his hands come to hold your ass, squeezing it over your shorts. Your confused fly boy turns until your back is against the door, and he's eyeing you with a curious, golden retriever eagerness. "Tell me."

You flutter your lashes at him, innocently placing your hand on his wide shoulders. The dog tag he never takes off hangs over his collarbone.

"Take me to bed." You put your finger under the chain and crook it to pull him towards you.

His lips quirk up. Brown eyes narrowed slightly behid his glasses as he gazes into.

You recognize that look – he thinks he's on to you.

"Is it work? Did something happen?" His teeth come to nip at your ear and you giggle. "Come on, darling. You know I hate guessing."

So dramatic. You tisk.

In one move, your hand comes to the hem of your own t-shirt and pulls it over your head.

He barely has time to notice the messy way you throw your shirt to join his on the floor.

His eyes are on your bra. It's a light pink, lacy one he has a long history with. That history being him seeing it in your wishlist and buying it's set for your first anniversary. Also, historically, you wore it each time you wanted something. And you usually got what you wanted.

The magic lingerie does it's thing, because his brown eyes are back on yours and he swallows hard once nore.

"Bed?" He asks. His voice breaking slightly.

You nod at him, laughing as he turns around and carries you into the carpeted bedroom. The curtains are open, letting early evening sunset shine in, but you're beyond caring about anyone seeing you.

Of course, your fly boy is a different case. He lowers you onto the bed slowly, making sure to cup your head until it hits your pillows. Ever the gentleman. Then he quickly shuts the curtains, making sure no one else got this view but him.

Then he's back wrapping his fingers on the belt loops of your shorts and pulling them down your legs.

You wonder if he realizes how his lips part when he sees your matching pink panties, with a little bow at the front. Then he stops, his brows furrowed as his gaze lands back on yours again.

You rest on your elbows and tilt your head. "Whats wrong?"

"We were talking about something." His voice it back to deep, serious. Still breathy though. "You distracted me."

It takes some force, but you manage to flip him onto his back in a quick manuever.

"Am I?" You crawl on top of him slowly. You know ot comes across sexy, if the noise he makes at the back of his throat is any indication.

His eyes take on an fascinated look, as if youre a model and hes some average man. You love that he cane make you feel this way with just one look.

You unbutton his jeans. God how his torso fits in them, he could be a model himself. But you've already suggested the idea and few times and were given a chuckle each time you did.

Before he notices, you've made quick work discarding both his pants and boxers, giving them a light push as they slide off the sheets and onto the floor.

Your hair falls around you as you lower down to kiss his waste, then lower, lower, then –

Oh.

Oh he never stood a chance. Good, you grin as you take in his length.

You wrap your lips around him, eager to please him as yout tongue and hands get to work.

"Mnnhh!" He moans above you. His fingers coming to intertwine in your locks.

In typical Respectable-U.S.NAVY-Lt. Robert-Floyd fashion, he's trying to be gentle with you. Hands crossing you rather than pulling, grabbing, squeezing. And you can tell the restraint is killing him. But thats not your problem, so you get back to work. Every twitch, every gasp above you brings a mix of joy and triumph.

When you feel he's getting close, you let up.

"Darling..." he groans in agony. "Nhnnn..."

You raise yourself to sit up, and manuever your body to position yourself on top of him. Soon, your lingerie set joins his jeans and boxers on the floor.

"How're we doin' Bobby?" You make your voice so sweet it's nearly evil.

"Not good..." he wimpers. "Please–"

"Remember that thing you wanted me to tell you before?" You ask, sliding back and forth above him, letting your juices coat his length. The stimulation on your pussy makes you bite your lip. "Hmm?"

"Uhm... oh yeah right, yes –"

"Do you still wanna know?"

"I do! Of course I do" he sounds desperate. Its so adorable, the way his frows furrow as he tries to focus on your words, while simultaneously raising his hips to rub against you as you allign yourself. Still, you force youself to sit up, not quite yet giving him what he desperately needs.

"I got promoted." You announce, and then you slide down in on move until his fills you.

His eyes widen. Then they close. Then they flutter. He's not sure what he's doing.

"Oh fuck!" He moans as his hands finally give up their attenpt at gentleness and wrap tightly around your hips, fingers digging into your skin deliciously.

Your head rolls back as your own breath hitches again and again. Your hands grasp his shoulders as you raise and lower yourself on him. First sliwly, then gradually gaining momentum. "Ah, Bobby-"

"Oh... ah..." adorably and incoherently, he manages. "Baby, I'm so proud of you–"

You grin. "Thank you." And roll your hips in a move you know will drive him insane.

Suddenly, the world turns upside down as you're flipped onto your back, and he's on his hands and knees on top of you.

"God, you're evil!" He gasps as you grasp at his ass, pulling him closer, deeper into you. With each thrust you feel a strong build up in the pit of your stomach.

"Please!" Your whines are coming out high pitched now.

"Fuck," he drops onto his elbow, leaving bites on your collarbone. "Oh fuck,"

"'m close," you whine, arching your back, pushing your chest towards him.

"I know." He lowers his lips to your hardened nipple, licking and sucking. Shooting a current of pleasure to your core.

"Bobby!" You moan, nails digging into his back.

"Come for me," he wispers against your lips. His hand – the one he's not leaning on – comes up to rub circles on your clit. "Fuck, so fucking hot. Oh fuck."

He mumbles incoherently and thrusts hard into you with a groan.

You begin ti shake, eagerly riding and prolonging the waves of your orgasm, nails digging into his back as your body shakes.

"Youre so beautiful." He brushes your hair away from your eyes and lashes.

Later, when your lying on his side, resting your head on his chest while drawing mindless shapes on it, he suddenly clears his throat. "I... also have news."

You look up at him, suddenly tense. News can go either way in his line of work...

"Whats up?" You ask softly, your lips forming a reassuring smile.

"Theyre calling me back to Top Gun."

A Proper Send-off

Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Floyd x (f) reader

Tags: one shot, established relationships, fluff, smut, NSFW, flustered Bob, celebration sex, kissing, p in v sex, oral (male receiving), teasing.

Synopsis: After receiving good news at work, the first person you wanted to tell was your sweet boyfriend, Bob. But you couldn't help messing with him a little before spilling the tea. And you certainly didn't expect the equally surprising news you was about to tell you after.

Your eyes widened at the words as they left your higher up's mouth. Currently sat across from you, they held a proud grin on their face.

You were hung up on that word. One of the several they had just spoken to you. It began replaying in your head over and over.

"Promotion,"

Like tunnel vision, and the bright light was showing the way.

All those hours of work, that dedication, passion, effort. It all paid off! You knew it would. You believed it was leading to something great! And voila!

And now you wanted to celebrate. God, you've been dreaming of this moment ever since you began working on your project.

You itched to tell people! You needed to tell him. Your favorite person who believed in you every step of the way. Who believed in you when you didnt believe in yourself. Whose determination in telling you "youre gonna get this!" Was enough to drive you forward.

He was right. He never doubted you.

Your throat closes up when you rush out a series of thank you's to your boss. They smile a proud smile and tell you to go ahead and tell your folks. They know you want to.

You notify your family before your friends.

Their replies to your message come almost instantly. Words to congratulations and excitement beam back at you from your screen.

One friend texts you, asking if you told him. What did he say?

You let them know you I hadn't yet. That you want to tell him in person. Politely asking all the recipients not to mention word to him just yet, you explain you wanna see the look on his face when he finds out.

By the time they end of the work day rolls around, your hands are still shaking as you grasp the wheel on your commute home. Your heart beating quickly as the sunset radiates your path.

At home, changed and excited, you don't fully have a plan, per say. But you do wanna catch him off guard. You know that much.

So when your apartment opens and he walks in in work clothes, you're on him like a magnet, nearly knocking the nerdy wall of muscle off his feet.

You wrap you arms around his waist, still sweaty from his commute home and pull him flush against you. Hard muscle presses into you and his arms circle you instinctively as he lets out a soft chuckle and a "woah," before you silence his lips with yours.

Moving in perfect sync against one another, your lips brushing softly, tongues licking. He tastes like his favorite gum. And he chuckles, the sound low and deep vibrating through you.

By now he should be suspecting something's up.

Don't get him wrong, you're always eager to greet him when he comes home from work – especially when he's off on month-long missions – but he's been home for the past month working a [REDACTED] project for the navy (as far as you could know. NDA and all) – so... whats going on?

You pull back, directing a smirk up at him as you bite your lower lip.

He's gazing down at you, cheeks flushed, chest moving up and down with rushed breathes.

"... baby...?" Your boyfriend's voice comes out, quiet and adorably confused at the same time. His glasses are slightly fogged up with vapor from your combined breathing. It's an image you're used to, one you find endearing.

"...Bobby..." Your voice is melodic purr.

He gulps. It's always fun to make him flustered. To see this big army man melt at something as trivial as your intonation.

You start laying soft kisses down his throat. Gentle, teasing.

His breath catches in his throat, just above your ear. "'m sweaty!"

Oh, he's fine. The sweat is barely there, and plus it's mixed with the chocolate-y scent of his cologne. You bought him it a few years ago, and ever since he's only used that one, insisting he wanted his signature smell to be something you chose.

"So what?" You ask, whatever attention isn't on covering every inch of his skin with either lipstick or bite marks is focused on sliding up the hem of his shirt, before pulling it over his head and throwing it over your shoulder.

His eyes widen as he watches the discarded garment. It lands on the floor, he opens his mouth to say something, only to stutter as your hands run up his toned belly, torso, and chest; appreciating ridges of hard muscle developed through years of rigorous training.

You unleash more onto his chest, biting, licking, kissing down his rising and falling abdominal.

As you reach his belt buckle, you're suddenly lifted up into his arms. With ease, his hands come to hold your ass, squeezing it over your shorts. Your confused fly boy turns until your back is against the door, and he's eyeing you with a curious, golden retriever eagerness. "Tell me."

You flutter your lashes at him, innocently placing your hand on his wide shoulders. The dog tag he never takes off hangs over his collarbone.

"Take me to bed." You put your finger under the chain and crook it to pull him towards you.

His lips quirk up. Brown eyes narrowed slightly behid his glasses as he gazes into.

You recognize that look – he thinks he's on to you.

"Is it work? Did something happen?" His teeth come to nip at your ear and you giggle. "Come on, darling. You know I hate guessing."

So dramatic. You tisk.

In one move, your hand comes to the hem of your own t-shirt and pulls it over your head.

He barely has time to notice the messy way you throw your shirt to join his on the floor.

His eyes are on your bra. It's a light pink, lacy one he has a long history with. That history being him seeing it in your wishlist and buying it's set for your first anniversary. Also, historically, you wore it each time you wanted something. And you usually got what you wanted.

The magic lingerie does its thing, because his brown eyes are back on yours and he swallows hard once more.

"Bed?" He asks. His voice breaking slightly.

You nod at him, laughing as he turns around and carries you into the carpeted bedroom. The curtains are open, letting early evening sunset shine in, but you're beyond caring about anyone seeing you.

Of course, your fly boy is a different case. He lowers you onto the bed slowly, making sure to cup your head until it hits your pillows. Ever the gentleman. Then he quickly shuts the curtains, making sure no one else got this view but him.

Then he's back wrapping his fingers on the belt loops of your shorts and pulling them down your legs.

You wonder if he realizes how his lips part when he sees your matching pink panties, with a little bow at the front. Then he stops, his brows furrowed as his gaze lands back on yours again.

You rest on your elbows and tilt your head. "Whats wrong?"

"We were talking about something." His voice it back to deep, serious. Still breathy though. "You distracted me."

It takes some force, but you manage to flip him onto his back in a quick manuever.

"Am I?" You crawl on top of him slowly. You know ot comes across sexy, if the noise he makes at the back of his throat is any indication.

His eyes take on a fascinated look, as if youre a model and he's some average man. You love that he cane make you feel this way with just one look.

You unbutton his jeans. God how his torso fits in them, he could be a model himself. But you've already suggested the idea and few times and were given a chuckle each time you did.

Before he notices, you've made quick work discarding both his pants and boxers, giving them a light push as they slide off the sheets and onto the floor.

Your hair falls around you as you lower down to kiss his waste, then lower, lower, then –

Oh.

Oh he never stood a chance. Good, you grin as you take in his length.

You wrap your lips around him, eager to please him as yout tongue and hands get to work.

"Mnnhh!" He moans above you. His fingers coming to intertwine in your locks.

In typical Respectable-U.S.NAVY-Lt. Robert-Floyd fashion, he's trying to be gentle with you. Hands crossing you rather than pulling, grabbing, squeezing. And you can tell the restraint is killing him. But thats not your problem, so you get back to work. Every twitch, every gasp above you brings a mix of joy and triumph.

When you feel he's getting close, you let up.

"Darling..." he groans in agony. "Nhnnn..."

You raise yourself to sit up, and manuever your body to position yourself on top of him. Soon, your lingerie set joins his jeans and boxers on the floor.

"How're we doin' Bobby?" You make your voice so sweet it's nearly evil.

"Not good..." he wimpers. "Please–"

"Remember that thing you wanted me to tell you before?" You ask, sliding back and forth above him, letting your juices coat his length. The stimulation on your pussy makes you bite your lip. "Hmm?"

"Uhm... oh yeah right, yes –"

"Do you still wanna know?"

"I do! Of course I do" he sounds desperate. Its so adorable, the way his brows furrow as he tries to focus on your words, while simultaneously raising his hips to rub against you as you align yourself. Still, you force yourself to sit up, not quite yet giving him what he desperately needs.

"I got promoted." You announce, and then you slide down in on move until his fills you.

His eyes widen. Then they close. Then they flutter. He's not sure what he's doing.

"Oh fuck!" He moans as his hands finally give up their attempt at gentleness and wrap tightly around your hips, fingers digging into your skin deliciously.

Your head rolls back as your own breath hitches again and again. Your hands grasp his shoulders as you raise and lower yourself on him. First slowly, then gradually gaining momentum. "Ah, Bobby-"

"Oh... ah..." adorably and incoherently, he manages. "Baby, I'm so proud of you–"

You grin. "Thank you." And roll your hips in a move you know will drive him insane.

Suddenly, the world turns upside down as you're flipped onto your back, and he's on his hands and knees on top of you.

"God, you're evil!" He gasps as you grasp at his ass, pulling him closer, deeper into you. With each thrust you feel a strong build up in the pit of your stomach.

"Please!" Your whines are coming out high pitched now.

"Fuck," he drops onto his elbow, leaving bites on your collarbone. "Oh fuck,"

"'m close," you whine, arching your back, pushing your chest towards him.

"I know." He lowers his lips to your hardened nipple, licking and sucking. Shooting a current of pleasure to your core.

"Bobby!" You moan, nails digging into his back.

"Come for me," he whispers against your lips. His hand – the one he's not leaning on – comes up to rub circles on your clit. "Fuck, so fucking hot. Oh fuck."

He mumbles incoherently and thrusts hard into you with a groan.

You begin ti shake, eagerly riding and prolonging the waves of your orgasm, nails digging into his back as your body shakes.

"You're so beautiful." He brushes your hair away from your eyes and lashes.

Later, when your lying on his side, resting your head on his chest while drawing mindless shapes on it, he suddenly clears his throat. "I... also have news."

You look up at him, suddenly tense. News can go either way in his line of work...

"Whats up?" You ask softly, your lips forming a reassuring smile.

"They're calling me back to Top Gun."

i hope every lover girl finds her super calm gentleman who is unashamedly and insanely obsessed with her

just imagine bob getting kidnapped

Kidnapper, on the phone: I've kidnapped Bob. Bail will be €10000-".

Bucky: Oh no. DON'T HURT HIM. DO YOU HEAR ME??

Kidnapper: I won't hurt Bob if you pay the-

Bucky: Shut the fuck up BOB CAN YOU HEAR ME???? DO NOT HURT HIM!

Kidnapper, now sweating: what

I know how fun this night will be. I'm gonna go home with Dad.

Sirens (2025)

peeta: breathes

katniss, internally: hm. interesting. strategic. emotionally destabilizing. soft. fluffy. uncalled for.

“American propaganda” and it’s just Glen Powell as a naval aviator and a cowboy meteorologist

if heaven's a moment | Rhett Abbott x Reader

Word Count: 16,000 Cross Posted on AO3 Warnings & Notes: 18+, AFAB!Reader, alpha! Rhett, omega! Reader. Size kink, forbidden love (ft. a weak excuse for the forbidden part. we're here for ✨vibes✨, not logic), food, running away, biting, mating cycles/heat, ruts, mentions of breeding (but no implication of children/anything of that nature), first times together, knotting, the worst epilogue known to man. Brief Summary: At one point, you suppose that you did. Marrying rich sounded like a wonderful idea when the subject was brought up ten years ago. But you just had to run right into the Abbott family's youngest son, the one who had nothing but a black horse, a couple of flannels, and a championship rodeo buckle to his name. A new ranch hand, with his scruffy smile and the kindest hands you've ever known. 

There are too many cars in this damn driveway. 

Scratch that, too many fucking alphas. With their bright, gaudy outfits and stupid, overapplied pheromone colognes that do nothing but give you a chemical-induced migraine. If those claims about luring in potential mates are true, then you must be an outlier because you've yet to find yourself head over heels for a man based on his scent alone. 

A warmth greets your nose; something tied between leather and the embers of a roaring campfire, a hint of smokiness lurking underneath it all. Just a hint of it at first, swirling around your head like a daydream and weakening your knees, growing stronger with every step toward this old barn. 

...on second thought.

The barn door opens with a groan, cutting through the silence and echoing up toward the house. Your eyes dart toward the back porch, still flocked full of mingling bodies in their finest courting attire, chatting it up like they haven't had an intriguing conversation in years. Whether or not someone heard that is anyone's guess, but nobody is interested enough to look in your direction.

Thank god because you don't have a single explanation for why you're slipping into the storage barn at ten o'clock at night. 

It's too dark to see where you're going, but you've walked this path so many times that you can do it with your eyes closed. Drifting around the corner. Past the four-wheeler that hasn't run since last autumn. Through the clearing that will soon be cluttered with seasonal equipment once the hands finish tearing out the brush that has taken over the south pasture. They'll promise it's gone for good, but it'll be sprouting again come spring, and the cycle will repeat, just as it always has. 

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

The room spins. A weight appears on your back, forcing you face down into a bale of hay. The straw prickles your cheek, but it's nothing compared to the sandpaper texture that scratches the back of your neck. The coarse stubble of someone's recently shaven face.  

A cold nose brushes against your nape. 

"Hey!" You squeal, foot blindly kicking at a jean-clad leg, but he just does it again, blissfully unaware of the goose bumps rushing across your skin.

Arms curl around your waist. "What's the matter, sweet thing?" Muttered into your ear, as if there's a risk of someone overhearing.

"Your nose is cold!" And you've got just enough leverage to turn your head to the side, nipping at his jaw. Softly tugging at his skin with your teeth, ticklish little motions that have Rhett laughing, shifting to stand up straight, as if that has ever helped him escape your reign of terror. 

"'m sorry," that nose bumps into your forehead, clumsy, "I only finished up a little bit ago."

Even in the dark, you can tell that he's still clad in those leather chaps, dirty from a long day in the fields and on the back of his horse. This close, they'll surely leave behind a noticeable grime on your white clothes, but you can't bring yourself to care. This is worth the stress of getting your clothes into the washer before anyone can see the stains.

It only takes the slightest nudge for him to reel back, allowing you to stand straight and twist in his embrace. Pale moonlight peeks through the holes in the roof, bathing the right side of his face. Unveiling the smile that upturns the corners of his eyes and the fading cut in his bottom lip, split open in a bar fight this past Sunday.

"They're working you that hard?" Tilting your head to the side, curious. Peak season isn't for another three weeks. What gives? 

"Only on party nights," Rhett chuckles, and he's just close enough for you to feel it rumbling in his chest like thunder. "How else are your folks supposed to tell them rich fellas that y' come from a good ranchin' family?"

Your brows furrow. "I didn't know that I came with a dowry."

It's easy. Laughing with him and falling into his big, warm chest, wrapped up in those arms that ought to have been chiseled from stone for you and you alone. The scruff of his cheek scratches your skin as he snuggles you impossibly closer. Your nose bumping into his neck, just below the scent gland lurking there.

The voice in the back of your head wonders if you'll ever get to enjoy the privilege of him scenting you. Dipping his head down to rub the barely visible glands against you, not stopping until you smell just like him. The closest one can get to saying 'mine' without tattooing it in red across someone's forehead.

"So which of them alphas ya pickin'?" There's that solemn tone again, low and heavy as if the words are too much for his tongue to lift.

And you know that you shouldn't say this; it's only going to make this harder than it needs to be, but it slips out of you, anyway. "The one that's standing in front of me."

There's a sourness in the air. Barely there, but you're so close that it's impossible not to catch the switch, chased by the falter of a smile. 

Oh, why does he have to look at you that way? Deep-set frown and lowered eyes, can hardly bring himself to meet your gaze, as if this will all fall apart the moment that he does. But you're still here, even if it's for a fixed amount of time. You can't have him forever, but you can until your heat decides to set in, whenever that may be. 

"We'd have to flee the state even for a chance of that workin'," he's talking under his breath like it's a thought he didn't intend to make it past his mouth. But you hear it loud and clear. 

 "Maybe..." Feigning playfulness, if only to ignore the sour twist of your belly. "But if you ever decide that you'd like to start running, you know where to find me." 

If only it worked like that. You'd love to live a life so simple that he could run up to your window and steal you away on a random midnight. Off to live your own happily ever after, never to be seen again. 

Rhett tilts his head forward, then off to the side, those pretty blue eyes never quite leaving yours. 

It's like knowing that you're allergic to something and biting into it anyway, but you just can't help it. There are only so many times that you'll get to do this, and the number is shrinking by the minute. Nuzzling the side of your head against his neck and lower jaw, dancing painfully close to the glands on his neck, a faint sheen the only thing to indicate their presence. Rhett's so big that you could spend all day rubbing yourself against him like a cat, always able to find a spot on him that isn't drowning in the warm scent that you call your own. 

Out of nowhere, a sharp puff of air bursts out of him. Some little animalistic noise that you only ever hear when you're doing this, his nose nuzzling your temple as he makes that noise again. The arms around you pull a little tighter as if there was any space left between your bodies to begin with. 

A truck engine roars to life. Obnoxious. 

Rhett jolts, his head spinning toward the door you came through, stiff like some kind of well-trained guard dog. In a sense, you suppose that's exactly what he is, considering all of those bar fights with unruly alphas who could only see you as an easy piece of meat. 

"Sounds like some of 'em are gettin' ready to leave," he concludes after a moment, and he doesn't need to speak for you to know what he intends to say next. He's got to take you back to the house before someone notices you're missing. 

You can't help the whine that rolls out of you, pitchy and drawn out. This whole situation is so unfair; you just got here a few minutes ago! Why do you have to go back inside and parade yourself to men and women that you couldn't give a damn about? All because you were unfortunate enough to be born as some dumb omega. 

"Naw, don't get all sad on me," Rhett mutters, and you're not entirely sure when he moved, but one of his hands has risen to curl around your cheek, coarse thumb stroking the skin there. "I'll come to your window, a'ight?"

"Rhett!" Your leg twitches, kicking against his side. Pulling hard on his hair, thighs involuntarily fluttering around his head. It's the most you can do with this pillow wedged beneath the small of your back. Open and on display for him and his hungry mouth.

"Shhh," but he can hardly deny himself the simple pleasure of pausing to drag his tongue in a loose circle just to feel you squirm. "Don't want us gettin' caught, do ya darlin'?"

Whining, your head thrashes back and forth. There's a 'no' on the tip of your tongue, but you just can't get it out—two little letters trapped in your wide open mouth. Fuck, fuck, fuck, he's forcing your legs up over his shoulders, oversized hands spanning out against the outside of your thighs, keeping you put.

"Won't be able to eat this sweet little pussy if your folks find out," Rhett just can't quit talking. Babbling as if he's completely and utterly lost himself in this, in you. "Fuck, can y' imagine the look on their faces?"

You're not sure if it's the words themselves or the vibration of his voice against your clit, but something about it has a bolt of lightning jumping up your spine. Rattling a whine out of your throat, hardly stifled by the teeth that sink into your bottom lip, your futile attempt at keeping yourself quiet. 

"Comin' in and seein' a ranch hand between your legs, runnin' my tongue up your pussy jus' like..." and he draws just far back enough for you to see the way his tongue pokes out of his mouth as he begins to lick a fat stripe up your cunt. "This."

And your back is rising up off the bed, greedily chasing the burning heat of his mouth, as if even a second of no contact might break you into two. The beat of your heart spurred on by the sloppy, wet noises that punctuate his every movement. Half of it isn't even from you; no, it's from him drooling into you like a goddamn dog. 

There's so much of it, running down your thighs and into your sheets, sure to leave a spot that you'll struggle to make an excuse for. It's a problem that you should fuss at him over, chide him for making such a mess, but he's guiding a hand between your legs, two thick fingers nudging at your entrance, and you just can't bring yourself to say anything. 

It's impossible to be upset when he's got you so wet that you don't need to pause for lube, gliding into you with dazzling ease. So, so much bigger than your own touch, such a sudden stretch that you catch the hint of an ache as they bottom out. More. You haven't even gotten used to this yet, and yet you want more. 

Abrupt, Rhett's pointed tongue dances around your clit, fingers crooking upward, seeking a special little spot. "Can't market ya as an innocent little omega if they know a man like me 's been eatin' your pussy for years."

If only he knew how often you think about that. 

The memories that flood your mind every time you've been put in a fancy restaurant to be wined and dined by some well-dressed know-it-all, intrigued by the false purity he saw in your eyes. How it's not the small talk that has you fiddling with your fork, but instead caused by the crystal clear image of a cowboy who had gotten on his knees for you earlier that morning, eating you alive, much like how he is now. 

And the perpetual, hopeless fantasy of that same cowboy barging in and taking you for his own, fed up with this sick game you've been forced to play together. All because you were born an omega, so rare that the wealthy have begun to see you as a status symbol. 

Sparkles dance in your vision, glittering like fireworks. Course fingertips spiral into a little cluster of nerves, in perfect sync with the tongue still working around your clit. The invisible flames of a wildfire ignite, heat coiling between your parted thighs and flushing up your chest. Fuck, fuck, and the room is spinning around you, hands tightening in Rhett's hair as if there's a risk of being blown away. 

"Rhett, I'm—"

"God, y' taste so fuckin' good," mindlessly babbling, but those eyes are peeling open, the corners of them wrinkling with a cocky grin. "Y' gonna cum?"

"Uhuh," frantically nodding, the best that you can without looking away from him and this. The sight of him between your shivering thighs, legs propped over his broad shoulders, fits so perfectly that your heart skips a beat. That coil is winding tighter and tighter in your lower belly, body stiffening as his tongue keeps working you over, loud and sloppy and out of sync with the fingers working inside of you. 

His chuckle has your foot kicking against his back, a barely muffled whimper slipping out of your throat. "Come on then," a third finger abruptly joins, mouth sucking harshly on your clit. Lightning jumps up your spine, arching up off the pillow. "Give it to me, sweet thing."

And that's all it takes to have you clamping a trembling hand over your mouth, cumming without further warning. Crying out into your palm as your vision goes white, heart racing in your chest, spinning out of control. Feels as if you've been thrust into the clouds, soaring among them for a few fleeting moments.

The hand remaining on your thigh is what draws you back down into reality. 

Or maybe it's the sudden discomfort of emptiness as Rhett draws his drenched fingers out of your cunt, sitting up on his haunches, obscenely shiny chin catching in the light. The pillow pulls out from beneath your hips, and it's not until you feel the rush of relief that you realize there was a strain in your lower back.

The corner of Rhett's mouth lifts, the mattress dipping as he climbs up next to you. "Reckon I wore ya out." Those jeans still unfairly cling to his hips, a little too dirty to be allowed in your bed, but you don't have the luxury or the will to complain.

Certainly not when he's settling down, an arm draping across your belly, very nearly distracting you from the scent in the air. His usual leathery scent, mixed with something a little bit sweet, a little bit warm, and entirely you. 

"For now," you croak after a moment. The simple motion of shifting to lay on your side has the room rolling again, like some kind of fucked up hamster ball. 

On its own selfish volition, your hand begins to wander. Gliding up Rhett's naked chest, feeling the groove of muscle and roaming over the old tattoo lurking just below his right collarbone. It's almost strange to think of how it was brand new when you first met him, so fresh that he'd yelped when you ran straight into each other.

You shouldn't allow it, but you can't resist wandering down his belly, exploring the soft muscles of his belly, only stopped by the elastic waistband peeking out from below his pants. It's impossible to miss the bulge tenting his jeans, such a sight that it almost makes his obnoxiously large belt buckle look averagely sized.

You wish you were as familiar with his body as he is yours.

"It ain't that I don't want ya too," Rhett must be able to read minds because he's already jumping onto your train of thought, "'m still worried I might..."

Lose control. You know. This conversation seems to arise every time you have a little fun together. The dangers of an alpha who gets too carried away and leaves behind too much evidence of your private rendezvous. 

"What if that's what I want?" You say it so firmly. Confident. 

You want him and everything that comes with him. The Abbott name, the not-so-glamourous life of being mated or even married to a man like him. Hell, you want the dirt that tracks in on his boots, the stench of sweat that clings to him after a long day at work, and the horse he's dragged to three different ranches so far. No other mare will do. Only his. 

"'s what I want, too," his hand curls around yours, delicately guiding it up to his chest, where he can crane his head down and kiss your knuckles. "Shame everyone would be able to smell me on ya. Think I'd kill to be there when they realize their special little omega got mounted by some grimy ol' cowboy."

"You're not grimy," it's only after you say it that the memories come flooding in. Dirt clinging to his jaw and neck, all the times he hasn't been able to finger you due to some crude, black substance clinging to his nails. That one time, when he came back covered in a thin layer of mud, muttering something about heifers and tagging a damn calf. "...most of the time." 

If it's not the moaning that's going to get you caught, surely it'll be the fit of giggles that squeeze out of the cracks in the door frame.

The roar of a rodeo crowd never fails to remind you of why Rhett does this. Feet stomping on the metal flooring of the bleachers. Hands clapping in a thundering applause. Unafraid to shout and jeer as the numbers on the scoreboard count up.

Four seconds. The bull's head twists to the left. Back legs kicking high into the air. A plume of dirt kicks up.

Five seconds. Rhett's right hand bobs in the air. Torn between the sheer will to keep up for the judges and the overwhelming instinct to use it to steady himself. 

Six. Your breath fogs in front of your face. Shouting Rhett's name. As if doing so could possibly help him hold on. 

Seven. The scream of the crowd is rising now. Booming voices and cowbells so loud that you can no longer hear the beat of your heart in your ears. 

Eight. The buzzer sounds. Artificial flames burst from above the chutes. 

You blink, and he's off the bull. The bullfighters are scurrying like ants. Rhett's scooping his hat up off the ground. Spinning around to face the scoreboard just as the rankings make their switch. You think the crowd may have preemptively exploded into celebration because they're cheering and hollering before you've even realized what the screen says.

1. Rhett Abbott 89.5

You've got to read it twice before you finally understand what that means. He's moving on to the finals next week.

And lord, does he know it. 

Fist pounding against his vest so hard that his hair shakes with every strike, jolted by his own strength. Mouth open. Shouting something that doesn't make it past the arena fences, his wide eyes scanning the bleachers, slowly drifting until they seem to lock with yours.

It's impossible; he's so far away that you can hardly see his features. But he's looking at you, and he's grinning, waving a big hand toward a building lurking just behind the chutes. You've only been to these particular rodeo grounds once, but you've seen that gesture enough times to know what he's asking and that you don't have to head over there right now. 

You won't see him until after he's had his five-minute shower. When he's had time to scrub the adrenaline out of his system and doesn't run the risk of knocking you off your feet by scent alone. 

Do you still regret letting him know that he almost sent you into heat once? Yes. 

A lot.

Though it can't be all that bad. Not when you and your newly acquired chili cheese fries have the pleasure of stumbling across a hell of a scene. Wet, unruly curls and a thin white t-shirt that's ever so slightly too small, clinging to every muscle and curve of his chest, biceps bulging from beneath the restrictive fabric. You can see his tattoo right through it, that bucking bull as prominent as ever.

A pair of green eyes squint back at you, attached to wavy blonde curls and glimmering lip gloss. She's not the only one batting her long lashes at Rhett and twisting her hair between her delicately manicured fingertips; there's a brunette giggling along next to her. A barrel racer done up in purple plaid to your left, another girl in glasses wearing a rodeo hoodie, and those are just the ones that you've noticed. 

All of you are so different in nature, and yet, you have the same end goal: Rhett Abbott.

He'll come when he realizes you're here; you know he will, but hell if this influx of attention doesn't make your stomach twist. Technically, Rhett isn't yours. He can pick any one of these starry-eyed onlookers and never be happier. At least they'll never hold him to the constant strain of being with an omega.

 Something plops atop your head, so big that it falls into your eyes. 

"Whatcha starin' at?" There's that familiar voice that you've become so accustomed to, rumbling from somewhere behind your right shoulder. A familiar scent greets your senses: warm, twisted with the woodsy aroma of body wash, and...something else. A faint musk that makes your nose feel funny.

With the back of your hand, you push his hat up, peering at him from beneath the rim, "I was thinking."

Rhett's head tilts to the side. "'bout?" 

Something tells you that you weren't supposed to see the swift flicker of his gaze. Down to the forgotten snack in your hands, then back up to your face as if nothing ever happened. His tongue darts out, wetting his bottom lip. 

"How I'm gonna explain where I've been all night," it's the weakest lie told this century, but you're covering up for it by lifting your container of fries. "Want some?" 

If he catches on to the waver in your voice, then he doesn't mention it, too busy fighting off the little grin working its way onto his handsome face, still clinging to that stoic alpha demeanor that you both know he doesn't have. 

One of these days, he'll figure out that his fluttering eyelashes are giving away his true emotions, almost excited to reach and take two of your fries. Cheese drips as he lifts them, so artificial that it hardly even counts as dairy, the perfect match to those greasy gas station snacks that he's been serenading you with. 

"Y' weren't out here waitin' too long, were ya?" Talking in between bites, sauce clinging to his lips like an absurd gloss. 

Your head shakes, cowboy hat jostling back and forth with the motion. "Only about a minute or two." 

A pair of sour faces twist your way, surveying the competition. If there even is one. Rhett doesn't so much as spare them a glance. Preoccupied with you lifting his beloved hat off your head and pressing his cheesy lips to your temple like this is some kind of normal thing between you two. 

"Hey!" You squeal, but Rhett's already on the move, dodging your light-hearted swat and shoving a stolen fry into his mouth. 

He'd ought to consider himself lucky that he's got those big, blue eyes to get himself out of trouble. With that big laugh that bounces around your head for far longer than it should, enough to make you a little bit dizzy.

"I thought you were worried about..." pausing to swipe at the residue with the back of your hand, wiping away his sloppy kiss, "you know, people seeing?"

Your people seeing. Or hearing. Or even catching the slightest whiff that you're entertaining the very idea of someone who wasn't at last night's party.

But Rhett just shakes his head, that stupid smile prominent as ever. "Ain't no-one to recognize us out here." 

...huh.

"So you're not worried if I..." Taking one step forward. Then another, until you're nose to nose, so close that you can almost taste the mint of his toothpaste. "Do this?"

His forehead thunks against yours. "Not one bit." 

Kissing Rhett Abbott has always been a dream, but kissing him in public is another whirlwind entirely. The rose-tinted novelty of cementing who he belongs to, whose arms you're meant to fit into, and all of those shallow things that onlookers really couldn't give a damn about. They don't care about the strong arms that wind around your waist, the palm that flattens against the curve of your spine. How difficult it is to blindly hold your fries off to the side, trying your best not to crush them between your bodies. 

As quickly as he'd leaned in, Rhett draws away, nose wrinkled. 

"What?" Is there something on your breath? Melted cheese somewhere on your face?

But he just shakes his head, leaning in for another kiss. "Nothin'."

It must have been something in the wind because he doesn't make another mention of it again. His nose doesn't even twitch when you drift past the food trucks, all lined up in the front section of the parking lot, with their fried snacks, greasy meals, and sugar-filled treats that ought to make anyone drool. 

You've only just finished your fries, but you've already caught sight of another truck, white in color, selling something that you don't know the name of but smells like heaven itself. There's no reason for your stomach to be growling, but it sings its little tune regardless of all the things you've snacked on this afternoon. Shame that you left your wallet in the truck and spent the last of your cash on those fries. 

Why are you so hungry today?

"See somethin' ya want?" Rhett's voice is damn near the only thing that can pull you out of your stupor.

"I don't need it," really, you don't. You've already had three things from here; if anything, another greasy snack is the last thing that you need. There's food at home. 

But Rhett's already taking you by the hand, drawing his wallet from his back pocket, and it's just so hard to deny his firm offer to get you anything you want. The food tastes exactly how it smells: warm and easy on the tongue. Your spare glance at the folks selling fried dessert has him bringing over two plates of it. Maybe it's something he wanted, or maybe he's eating it just to make you feel better, you're not sure, but it's gone in minutes.

In the time it takes to walk to the truck, you've acquired a bag of handmade candy, sweet and wonderful, aside from the bizarrely tart green ones that Rhett insists he likes. White lie or not, you're just happy that you won't be accidentally popping one into your mouth again.

"You're sure ya don't want anythin' else?" The squeal of the passenger door almost covers up his question. One of these days, he'll figure out a solution that'll last for longer than a week.

"I'm sure," though if he gives you an hour, you've got a feeling that the answer will be different. For now, your stomach is so full that you almost wonder how you manage to climb into the truck, the slightest bit dizzy from all that sugar and grease.

Or maybe it's from something else because it doesn't seem to be fading. If anything, it seems to be getting worse, the cars in the parking lot spinning around your head like you're in a cartoon. Even the subtle sway of the truck as Rhett gets in the driver's seat is enough to worsen it. 

You can't see it, but you can feel his eyes on you. "I don't think..." That's your voice...but you never planned on talking? What are you trying to say?

Somehow, you've gotten yourself into the middle seat. Close enough for Rhett to loop his arm around your shoulders, drawing you into his side. He's so warm that you melt like ice on a summer day, head falling against his chest, the thump of his heartbeat loud in your ear. 

"Sweetheart..." his lips brush against your temple, some little thing that sends a shiver down your spine. "You feelin' okay?" 

"Dizzy." Concluding before you've even realized what he's asked. "Why?" 

A hand curls around your cheek, urging you to nuzzle closer as if you could possibly need any more encouragement. You're already starting to wedge yourself into the crook of his neck, right where his scent is the strongest. The little gland hidden there has a thicker sheen to it than usual, glistening even in the barely there light.

"Rhett?" You try again, and this time, you might have a little more control over what your body is doing. 

His jaw scratches the top of your head, sucking in a long, audible breath. "Your heats startin'." 

No, that doesn't make sense. Why would...why would your heat be starting? This isn't your first rodeo; you would have recognized the signs if it was coming on. The mood swings, the sudden onset of clinginess, the sudden bouts of lightheadedness that leave you stumbling, the insatiable hunger right at the cusp of—

"Oh."

You don't even feel your face fall. Or maybe you do, and you're just too distracted with the sting of wateriness building in your eyes, distorting your vision, and already trying to spill over. No. No, no, no, no. This can't be your heat. You've always had them toward the middle of spring, never late autumn. That doesn't—that doesn't make sense. Why would it start now?

"Hey, hey," it's not until Rhett starts talking that you realize you've been muttering your thoughts out loud. 

Problem is, you don't care that he's heard you. How are you supposed to when there's the looming possibility that you're never going to see him again? Doesn't he remember? You've got to choose someone before your heat starts, or else your parents will choose for you! 

"I ain't goin' anywhere yet," he's pulling you in, both arms wrapped tight around you, and even the awkward angle cannot distract you from the shiver that's settling into your bones. 

"I don't want you to go anywhere at all!" You don't mean to cry out like a child, but it happens anyway, pitchy and breaking in the middle.

Rhett doesn't open his mouth again. He can't. The Abbotts may have a reputation for being able to repair anything they get their hands on, but there's nothing Rhett can say or do to fix this. All he can do is keep pulling you close until he's leaning back against the door, and you're settled up on top of him, with not an inch of space left between. 

Maybe if you don't move, time won't tick by so quickly. 

The one bad thing about time is that it does pass, regardless of what you have to say on the matter. Because eventually, that time does come when Rhett has no choice but to start his truck; there's an hour's drive ahead of you, and red flags will begin waving if you come home in a full-blown heat. 

For the first time in a while, you see Rhett's speedometer five miles below the speed limit, uncaring of the impatient vehicles blaring the horns. Doesn't get riled up when some asshole drives by flipping him off, hardly even fusses when the guy merges too early and nearly clips the front of his truck. 

All he's worried about is taking as much time as he can, keeping that arm around you for as long as he can manage. Only draws away to handle sharp turns but quickly returns soon after, and frankly, you don't even care about chiding him for his risky driving. 

There's some dumb, sad song droning on the radio when he finally puts the truck into park, and it may be dark in this truck, but you can still see the wateriness brimming his eyes. You know it because you have that same glassiness, too. 

You've got a million and one things you could say, and yet, you can't bring yourself to say a single one of them. There's no point in it; this is probably the last time you'll ever see him. Unmated, at the very least. 

The front door opens before you can utter a single word. Don't know who it is, nor do you care. 

Rhett's forehead presses against yours, mouth opening, then clamping shut just as quickly. Can't say anything either. But then he leans his head down, temple rubbing against yours, and it's the closest thing to a goodbye that either of you can manage. This short, unspoken thing; rubbing his scent on you for both the first and the last time.

Either something about him was warding off the vicious beginnings of your heat, or the very smell of him threw you off the deep end because you hardly make it into your bedroom before the dizziness takes hold again. Feet dragging across the floor, forced to guide yourself with a hand against the wall while someone else shouts their recognition to the whole goddamn world. 

By the time you get your door closed, they're already muttering about which Tillerson to choose for you. Luke or Trevor? Who is the most worthy of selling you off to, like a piece of meat? 

The dizziness takes over before you've even made it to the bed. 

If heaven can be a moment, then this must be hell.

Waking up is always the worst. A dull, incessant throbbing deep in your bones, the edges of your vision blurry enough to give you the worst tunnel vision you've ever had the displeasure of experiencing. Sleeping on the floor has done you no favors, leaving a stiffness in the left side of your body that definitely was not there before. 

It's almost enough to distract from the obscene wetness between your legs. A clear fluid that stains the crotch of your pants and has left a big spot on the floor itself. 

"Maybe sleeping on the floor was worth it..." you mutter as you push yourself to your feet. Cleaning slick out of a mattress is much harder than those YouTube tutorials cropped it out to be; you'll be able to clean that before another wave of dumbness washes over.

The wipes in your bathroom are enough to take care of it, taking it off the hardwood with ease. Leaves you with more time to figure out what to do about these pants, if you're committing to trying another heat while fully dressed, or if a nightgown, while uncomfortably exposing, will be easier to handle. 

Your instincts are itching at you to build a nest, but is it even worth it, all things considered? If everyone has their way, you'll be shipped off to some alpha's house by the end of the night. First with a weekend bag, then the rest of your things once the heat fades. 

And what's that sitting on your windowsill? 

It's an amalgamation of color: dark red, beige, navy blue, balled up inside of something gray. Hell, even when you're looking at it through the glass, you haven't the slightest clue what it is. Leaves you with no choice but to peel open the window and—

A familiar scent strikes your nose. 

Rhett.

These are his shirts. Wrinkled and warm from the sun, and oh, they smell exactly like him. You can't help but squeeze the whole bundle to your chest, shamelessly burying your face into them. He must have spent the whole night rubbing on these like one of those overly friendly cats.

It's about that time of the morning when he puts his horse up in the pen while he helps with the usual barn maintenance, but you don't see her anywhere. The other horses are there: two palominos, a paint, and a handful of chestnuts, but that sturdy little black mare is nowhere to be found. 

Must have put her around the other side. 

Something crinkles inside of these clothes, deep down in the center of them. You know what it is before you've even unraveled the mess of fabric. Snacks. Your favorite chips, a candy bar, and the hard candies that you didn't realize you left in his truck. A torn piece of paper has been tucked into the candy bar wrapper.

Don't forget to eat :) 

Such a simple message shouldn't have tears stinging at the corners of your eyes, but it does, and as much as you'd like to blame it on your heat, you know that's not the case. Funny how even the bare minimum can look like the greatest act of kindness when your heart is torn in two.

Between the impending doom that is the rest of your life and the next wave of your heat coming along, you've got no appetite. That was the whole point of your inability to feel full last night, your body's futile attempt at stocking up on calories before it devolved into a weeklong period of craving nothing but sex, and knots, and alphas, and skin contact, and everything else under that umbrella.

Still, you eat it.

It's not so bad when you manage to convince your heat brain that Rhett's little note was growled into your ear, an order that you cannot possibly disobey. Snacking on the candy bar when you climb out of the shower, taking bites in between your routine, finishing it off when you settle into bed with one of those flannels. Storm clouds are rolling in, and they're doing nothing to ward off the sleepiness your heat is bringing on.

Your impromptu nap is interrupted by the impromptu barging in of someone letting you know that Trevor Tillerson has been chosen as your alpha. He'll be here sometime around nine to pick you up and take you to some fancy resort that he's rented just for the two of you. Somewhere far, far away from Wabang and the dark clouds looming overhead. 

If you had a choice in the matter, maybe it would be romantic.

The chips get you through a bout of doom scrolling on your cellphone until your face begins to feel hot, and you're rudely reminded that you've got to pack while you still can. A righteous pain in the ass that does nothing but frustrate you to no end. 

How are you meant to shove a week's worth of clothes into so few bags? On your heat, no less, the one time when you'll be soaking through most of your garments! And your laptop, where the hell do you shove that? Between the shirts? Do you even bother with these shorts? 

"Why am I doing this?" You mutter it as if you've got a choice in the matter, idly pawing at your spinning head. 

At one point, you suppose that you did. Marrying rich sounded like a wonderful idea when the subject was brought up ten years ago. A life with everything you could ever want. Endless vacations and money to spend on anything you want because you were born an omega, and such a rare thing deserves only the best. You'd had it in your head that you'd find the person of your dreams dressed up in a suit worth more than your entire family ranch. 

But you just had to run right into the Abbott family's youngest son, the one who had nothing but a black horse, a couple of flannels, and a championship rodeo buckle to his name. A new ranch hand, with his scruffy smile and the kindest hands you've ever known. 

Now, here you are. 

Your parents have invested hundreds of hours and an insurmountable amount of money into luring in alphas. They've made friendships with the families of your suitors and formed expectations for the outcome of your life that no longer align with your desires. You're in so deep that a simple 'no' will not suffice. Especially not when Rhett comes into the deal. 

A sourness blossoms in your chest, spreading into your lower belly like a plague, gut-twisting and churning as if you're about to be sick. There's an invisible hand squeezing around your heart, so tight that it just might burst, but you don't feel nauseous. Not one bit, and maybe that's got something to do with the blurring of your vision.

"Rhett," whining. Rhett. You want Rhett. Here. Right now.

That dizziness is growing worse. A foreign heat spreads deep in your inner thighs, flushing to superheat the rest of your body, but your face feels cold, and something wet is spilling across your cheeks. Tears fall quicker than the rain pattering against your window. A never-ending stream that has you hiccuping, frantically sucking in breaths of air that never quench the ache in your throat.

It is the whim of your own frantic hand that leads you to grab your phone. Scrolling through your contacts until you land on the fuzzy shape of a name that you've seen enough times for it to be familiar. 

It rings.

And it rings.

...and it rings.

"Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system," that robotic voice drones through the speaker, already beginning to ramble off the digits of Rhett's phone number. 

Maybe he didn't get to the phone in time. Yeah, that's got to be it. You'll try again. He'll pick up this time. 

"Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system."

Thunder rumbles outside, heavy enough to shake the house, rattling the knick-knacks on the shelves and sending slick rushing down your thighs. Sticky and burning, and oh god, your head is spinning like you're on a fucking merry-go-round. 

Someone's knocking at your door, the distorted sound of your name dancing through the room. Whether or not you respond, you've got no idea, but they're responding as if you did.

"Trevor is here," her voice is oddly familiar, but a face isn't coming to mind. 

"I need..." shaking your head, rattling a coherent thought into place. "I need...a little bit longer to pack."

Silence. And then, quietly, "Okay." Footsteps echo through the hallway and then dissolve into nothing.

You can't see. The colors of your room merge together into a sea of splotches, a fire burning up in your chest, the embers reaching all the way up into your skull. White and black, and gray and a spot of green that you just know is the call button. Your thumb darts across the screen. Tapping once. Nothing. Then a little lower.

The screen color changes. 

"Your call has been forwarded to an automatic voice messaging system." Whether or not you manage to press 'end call,' you have no idea. All you know is that the screen color has changed. 

He turned off his phone. It didn't even ring before sending you to voicemail this time; he doesn't want to talk to you. 

Maybe he's already found company in one of those girls from last night's rodeo. Or maybe he's entirely decided that it isn't worth entertaining you anymore, not even in the slightest. But that doesn't explain why he's left you some of his flannels, like the one that you're pulling off the bed. 

His scent has already begun to fade, but as you bury your nose into the fabric, it smells as if he's really here. A little bit of focus is all it takes for you to convince yourself that he's right next to you. A big shield, curled around you, right here on the floor. How his jaw would tickle your neck as he rests his head on your shoulder, waiting until you're ready to get up and run off into the sunset with him.

Hell, if only it were that easy. 

If you were to take off on your own, right here and right now, you wouldn't make it out of Wabang. You can't smell them, but every alpha in town will pick up on the pheromones wafting off of you, and you're in no state to defend yourself. 

Even without the heat, you wouldn't be safe. So long as your neck remains bare, you run the risk of being seen as a piece of meat to others, both alpha and beta. One little nip is all it would take for someone to bond you to them forever; so simple that someone can run up from behind and do it within a second. 

When you open your eyes again, the world around you is a little clearer. 

...strange. 

Waves of your heat should last at least an hour or more, not a few minutes. Standing, even with the uneasy sway of your body, shouldn't be this easy. Yet you've got the strength to walk yourself over to the window, still open from when you took the shirts off the ledge. The wind has carried rain into the room, scattering across the floor and nearly causing you to slip. Your only saving grace is the windowsill itself, your clammy hands gripping it tight as they can. 

Evidently, house shoes aren't meant to traverse the elements. Not even a little bit of water. 

As if to reveal its schemes to you, the wind blows once more. Cool air kisses your burning cheeks, the only indication of how much you've already adjusted to your heat. Now, if only your eyes could do something similar and adjust to the shift in lighting. 

It can't be anything past eight o'clock, but night has already fallen in its entirety, a thick blanket of black covering everything beyond the horizon. Even so, you can vaguely make out the shape of something sitting in your driveway. Blocky, but there are four bits of round metal catching in the dull light hanging outside of the barn. 

Something behind it moves. Noticeably lighter than the dirt and whatever that object is. 

Your eyes narrow. Fighting the urge to lean further out the window as the thing creeps across the drive. A growl rumbles out of your throat. Goosebumps prickle across your skin. It's growing closer. 

Clink.

Clink. 

Clink.

Wait a damn minute.

"Rhett?" 

A laugh twists through the air with all the grace and beauty of a ballerina. "Did I hear you growlin' at me?" 

"You shut off your phone when I tried calling you!" Is all your dumb, cloudy mind can come up with, pitchy and whiny like a child. 

"Shh, shh, I know," there he is. The dull porch light is the only thing illuminating his handsome face. 

His mouth opens like he's got something else to say, but it closes just as quickly, still searching for the right words. Then, trying again. "Ya remember what y' said in the barn 'bout runnin' away?"

"Yes, but..." pausing to look over your shoulder at the closed door before looking back at him. "What about your horse? And, and, your job and your things at the bunkhouse?"

"I got it all taken care of," he's a little closer now, enough for you to see the longer scruff clinging to his jaw. Soft. Not quite as wirey as when it's freshly shaved. "'m startin' on a ranch in Nebraska next Monday mornin'. Owner says he knows a guy with a house I can rent for us. It ain't all that much, but I—"

"Okay." You can't help yourself. He doesn't need to say another word. 

His eyes flutter. "Okay." Parroting you, as if to make sure the word is what he thinks it is. 

For a moment or three, it's quiet. Nothing but the crunch of dirt beneath his boots and the jingle of spurs that he's too lazy to take off. And now he's standing right in front of you, nothing but this window and a small shrub separating you. His nostrils flare, and you're certain that if it were brighter out, you'd be able to see the darkening of his pupils.

There's that smile. Sprawling across his face, wrinkling the corners of his eyes, pearly white teeth glistening like he's the star of a toothpaste commercial. Can hardly close his mouth as you lean in, lips brushing against his. 

Voices echo from down the hallway, squeezing in through the cracks. 

Shit.

Your feet are moving before you can even process what's happening. Scrambling across the piles of clothes that sit on your floor. Grabbing whatever you can. Shoving it into the still-open bags. T-shirts. Shoes. Loungewear. You don't know what else. What you have and what you're missing can all be sorted out later. All you know is that those voices are getting closer, and you can't get back to the window fast enough.

You're not even sure if Rhett hears them talking, but he's not wasting time by asking questions. Already pulling the duffel bag from your arms and turning back towards his truck. Lightning flickers as you run back to your bags. Heart hammering so loud that you hardly even notice the thunder that follows.

One of the voices says your name. A laugh rattles after it. 

A zipper fumbles between your fingers. Climbs halfway down the track. Then catches on the hem of something sticking out. You can't see what it is. 

"Fucking—" swearing under your breath. You pull it again. No give. 

It'll have to do. You're already scrambling to shove the bag into Rhett's open arms. Twisting back for the last one. Phone. Where is your phone? But the room is spiraling with your movement, and your eyes feel as if they're rolling around in your skull. Vision darting every direction except for where you want it to go.

There it is. On the floor, next to his shirt. Which part of the bag are you shoving them into? You don't know. 

The voices are closer. Three. Four. Five of them. Talking, laughing together as they edge near your room and your unlocked door. 

"Baby." Rhett's voice cuts through your thoughts like a knife. 

You don't think any time has passed, and yet, turning back to the window feels like the first time you've moved in minutes. The edges of your vision swim, merging into a haze of black as you scramble to him. 

You've gotten over this window before. He's seen you do it. But as you draw a leg up and over, his hands dart out and settle on your waist. Holding you steady, like you might fall to your death if he doesn't.

Rain pelts your face like tiny bullets, freezing on your superheated skin, and the voice in your head wonders if this is what freedom feels like. The rush buzzing through your veins. The big hand that squeezes yours, the mud that kicks up under your heels as you tear down the driveway. 

Wind squeals in your ears so loud that you nearly miss the clatter ring through the window. But it's too late for them to kick in the door. You're too far gone for them to catch. Because your feet are flying beneath you. And Rhett's right alongside you. And even the storm cannot conceal the glisten in his eye. The way he laughs, loud and triumphant and excited. 

It's the scene that's played through your head ever since you met. 

A voice calls out. Rhett splits off to slam his truck bed cover closed. You keep going.

Another one echoes through the storm. Deeper. Shouting your name.

"Stop!" 

But there's no leash to hold you back. No magical lasso that they can throw out and reel you back in with. Nothing stops you from pulling on the handle of the passenger door and leaping up into the seat, scrambling to slam it shut before someone can magically appear to wedge it open. 

Rhett's door squeals open. Vehicle swaying as he all but launches himself inside, fumbling for the gear shift. 

The truck jerks forward, engine roaring as the tires spin. The tail end jerks to the left, then the right, then back to the left again, gunning it down the driveway.  

Light pours through the front door, vaguely human blotches rushing out onto the porch. Even as you twist to look out the rear window, they're nothing more than tiny spots of color, growing smaller and smaller. The headlights of a truck flick on, but it's no use. Rhett's tires are already kissing the pavement of the main road.

You blink, and the house is gone; you might as well be a million and one mile away.

Rhett's head turns, just as yours does, eyes locking for the briefest of seconds. A little rumble of something escapes him, and it must be contagious because something a giggle is bubbling out of you, boiling into laughter.  

"That was," his mouth fumbles through his smile, "not how I planned it."

"What, were you hoping to get shot at, too?" Slow, you turn to settle back into the seat, wedged between him and the duffel bag crammed against the passenger door. 

Something sharp stabs in your lower belly. So sudden that it has your knees knocking together, eyes squeezing shut. As quickly as it happened, a wave of heat curls into its place, an uncomfortable wetness appearing between your legs.

A hand appears on your thigh. Hot. Clammy. "You okay?" 

"Heat." Is all you can say. 

That's all it is, really. Cramps. The one thing that manages to be worse than your heat itself. You can handle the overwhelming craving for an alpha between your legs, stretching you to your limit as he knots you over and over and over.

Ugh. You can't be thinking of this right now. 

Just like how you shouldn't be slouching to your left, cheek squishing Rhett's shoulder, big and warm, and right where he tends to spray his cologne. Faint from a day of wear, but there's still a peppery note lingering on him, overwhelmed by...something you can't describe. 

Something that makes the tip of your nose feel numb. 

Odd. It was there last night, too, but you don't recall it appearing any other time before that. There was certainly no trace of it in the barn or when he snuck into your bedroom afterward. Maybe your heat has warped your sense of smell again; it wouldn't be the first time. 

Rhett's foot shifts from the gas, gently pressing against the brakes for an upcoming red light, fingers audibly drumming against the steering wheel. 

Something white rolls across the floorboard, tiny somethings rattling around inside. Tumbling toward the front of the truck, then falling back to thunk against the toe of your muddy hose shoe. 

"'s just some vitamins," Rhett mutters, kicking them with his foot, sending the bottle thunking against the passenger door, cap popping open. A myriad of long, round blue pills spill out, decorating the floor. 

Huh. 

You've never seen blue vitamins before, their pastel color seeming to glow in the lights hanging overhead, Wabang's feeble attempt at keeping the darkness of night at bay. Curious, you lean down and reach out for the container. Your fingertips brush against the plastic on your first try, depth perception warped by the haze of your heat, but you get it on the second attempt.

Suppressants for Alphas only 250MG Rut Suppressants.

Your head turns to Rhett. His eyes dart from the label. To yours. Then, back to the road. 

The pieces click together so perfectly that you can hear them falling into place. Resonating through your empty skull until every fiber of your psyche echoes the same thing. 

"You started your rut," it slips out of your mouth like it's a scientific breakthrough. A discovery that will be written in the history books for millennia. 

His Adam's apple bobs, swallowing hard. A pink tongue darts out to wet his lips. "Didn't want ya thinkin' that was my reason for all this."

"I wouldn't have thought that Rhett," reaching for the hand that still rests on your thigh, fingers slotting between his, lightly squeezing it in your grasp. 

But his head just shakes, foot twitching against the gas pedal. The truck lurches, finally beginning to pull through that traffic light. "'s my fault your heat started." 

"I know." You already put that together. It explains everything: the odd timing and the sudden onset of it at the rodeo. That funny scent he's been wearing...it was from the pills. 

He looks at you again, teeth worrying his bottom lip, already swollen from the abuse. First, the licking, now the chewing. If you give it a minute, he'll start rubbing at them with his fingertips. For now, those heavy eyes dart back to the road. Guilty. "'n you're not upset 'bout that?" 

You're not entirely sure what to say to him. That the timing may be inconvenient, but you're happy to be here with him, running after a fever dream that might or might not work out? Do you admit that you wish this would have happened sooner? 

So many thoughts, and yet, not a word drifts down to your tongue. Instead, all you can think to do is this. Leaning over, left arm crammed between your bodies, as your right squirms across his belly, squeezing him. A poor attempt at a hug, but he softens under your touch all the same.

"It's not your fault," you murmur after a moment. The world around you is beginning to twist again, warping into a familiar blur, makes it hard to move your mouth. "You wouldn't hold it against me if my heat triggered your rut. Why would it be any different the other way around?"

You don't feel him move, but his lips find their way to your temple, lingering for a fleeting second. They would likely stay longer if driving didn't demand so much of his attention, hand idly working the steering wheel as you rumble through Wabang. If anyone has followed you this far, then surely they'll lose you here; too many winding streets for them to maintain a trail.

There's a part of you that wonders if you fell asleep because the next time your eyes open, the road is different. One moment, you're in town, and the next, you're on a dark, four-lane highway merely illuminated by the vivid beams of his headlights. 

Or maybe...maybe it's just two lanes because the lights on the dash seem to have doubled. Blurry and out of focus, no matter how much you try to blink your vision back into clarity. Shifting in the seat, you lift your head. 

And immediately let it thunk back onto Rhett's shoulder, vision twisting as if you've spent the past thirty minutes spinning in circles. "Ugh."

"There you are," Rhett hums. His hand drops down to squeeze your knee, giving it a little shake. "Did you know that ya snore?" 

"I do not!" Your squeal comes out as a hoarse croak. So foreign in your mouth that you hardly recognize it. 

An invisible bolt of lightning fires up your belly. 

Slick pools between your legs, staining your underwear and seeping down to your thighs. There's a shiver in your bones that wasn't there before, wavering like a leaf in high wind, without rhyme or reason. And there's this deep set ache in your lower stomach, reaching all the way to your weeping cunt, almost sore from lack of use, demanding attention that your fingers can't satisfy. 

"What's wrong?" Rhett's voice meets your ears like a ray of sunshine on a stormy day. 

Shame that it can't ward off the wave of cramps thundering through your lower belly. "Hurts," 

"Jus' a few more miles, 'kay?" His arm lifts, draping across your weary shoulders like a blanket. It's a fleeting touch that'll be forced to end at the next curve in the road, but it's nice to slouch into, head coming to rest against the side of his chest. Thin muscle flexes under your cheek, stretched so tightly that you can feel the bone lurking underneath. 

You wonder if he's just naturally built so wirey or if he'll be one of those alpha's that grow bulkier with a mating bond. It's hard to figure it out without being familiar with his family; if you knew the Abbotts personally, then maybe you'd have heard the stories of it happening with his father or brother. Maybe even a grandparent.

On its own, your hand shifts, crawling to rest on his knee. It's just as bony as the rest of him, and yet, conceals just enough muscle to cling onto the backs of those bulls. They're invisible at first glance, but if you squeeze, you can feel the softness of them, wrapped around hard bone. 

"Are you feelin' me up?" He chuckles, wiggling his leg back and forth as if to try and shake you off. 

Well, you weren't yet, but now that he's put the idea in your head...

Rhett sucks in a breath. His hips jerk, the truck lurching as his foot spontaneously presses against the pedal. You've felt him in your palm before, but fuck you don't remember him being this thick, twitching under the slightest bit of pressure. 

"Wait," he grunts. That arm is already slipping out from behind your shoulder, big hand encircling your wrist.

Maybe you should have asked first. "Did I—"

"No. God no," talking so fast that he stumbles over his words, "just...hurts." 

And yet, he makes no move to draw your hand away, letting it remain there as he focuses on keeping the truck on the road, grip so firm that you're almost certain he won't let you pull back. It's all you can do to ignore the way he throbs through his jeans, pulsing against your soft palm, testing the will of the zipper confining him.

It must take a year for him to begin turning off onto an exit, dark and poorly lit by a scattered array of frail lamp posts. The road thins, and all of a sudden, neon flickers to life—a hotel sign. Logo written in such gaudy cursive that you can hardly read its name. 

A whine rattles out of you, squirming impossibly closer. 

There's a blip in your memory. 

You don't remember when he pulled into the parking lot or when you got out of the truck. But the air is cool around your ankles, and his arm is tight around your waist, forcing you to remain upright. You can't feel your feet moving, but you're stumbling along next to him anyway, head hanging low, too heavy for the rest of your body. 

"Where...?" 

"Almost there." His voice is on your left. Damn this stupid heat, why was that such a surprise to you? 

A shrill beep sounds. Green flashes. 

A bed.

It's as if a switch has flipped. The door falls shut behind you, but your feet are glued to the floor; the edges of your vision still twist, but the world around you has become noticeably...still. Surreal, even. Any moment now, you're waiting to blink away the sight of this drab little hotel and find yourself standing in the four familiar walls of your bedroom.

But as you lift your head, gaze crawling up Rhett's chest like a hungry animal, that doesn't happen. The sight of him doesn't begin to fade, his body remaining firm against yours, even as your eyes dare to meet. 

According to the romance novels and the films you've spent so much time watching, you're supposed to be the disheveled one here. Hell, maybe you are. But those films never depicted how pretty an alpha can be when their rut has set in. Freshly bitten lips, messy hair, and rosy cheeks, gazing at you with those glistening eyes. It's as if you hold his entire world in the palm of your hand.  

Slow, you twist, careful to mind where your numb feet fall, greedy hands roaming up the thick expanse of his chest, sculpted from a lifetime of back-breaking labor. Then, wandering up his neck, slowing to feel the vein bulging there, chasing it up into the soft hair clinging to his jaw. Your thumb swipes across his bottom lip, watching how it squishes under the pressure.

His eyelashes flutter; you wonder if he was a butterfly in his past life, still clinging to old habits. It's a question you'll have to ask him later when you're not halfway into leaning in and catching those thin lips in yours. 

There goes your head again, swirling 'round and 'round, set into motion by the hum that rattles out of him. One little peck. Your hands drop back down to feel the swell of his chest. A second. His arms begin to wind around you. A third, and the heel of his palm is pressing into the small of your back, and you're crumpling.

It's like a freshly knocked-over candle. The smokey leather of his scent, haunted by the fading chemical that temporarily overrode the pheromones radiating off of him. Invisible to the nose at first, but the fire is already beginning to spread until it's roaring so bright that you reckon flames might come out of your ears. 

Your arms coil around his thin waist, cinching him in with a strength you thought you'd lost. A stray foot slots between yours, his chest pushing into you, and the room is spinning. Caught by a mattress that squeals and bounces with your combined weight, unprepared for such a landing. 

"You 'megas sure get strong when ya want somethin'," Rhett's hair tickles your forehead as he settles on top of you. Perfectly slotted between your parted legs, jeans deliciously rough against your exposed thighs, pajama shorts hardly doing anything to conceal you. 

A little too curious, your hips roll, eager to find out if you can feel the bulge of his cock. 

You can.

Worse. He felt it too, already beginning to swivel forward, a foreign pressure appearing against your weeping cunt. Something jolts up your spine. Doesn't necessarily hurt; more of a reminder of what you don't have.

"Like you're so innocent in all this," your words come out rushed, riding the coattails of a shaky breath. 

He doesn't have anything to say to that, maybe a little shy as he nuzzles his nose against your cheek. A stark contrast to the bold hips that press into you, so eager and desperate to feel you. It's like the first time you crossed that boundary, ground down on each other until neither could take it anymore. 

Except, this time, you've no reason to stop there. 

No family. No concern about high-dollar alphas or uncomfortable, fashionable outfits. These peeling walls couldn't care less about who you coil your legs around. This bed isn't going to fuss at you for spreading your legs to a scruffy ranch hand without a pedigree. 

You're the only one who cares about the way he guides himself with his nose, blindly wandering back to meet your mouth. Kisses you with all the fervor of a man who's just found everything he's ever wanted. 

His hands are everywhere, cradling your face, skirting down your sides, and wandering up under your shirt, callouses catching on the soft skin of your belly as he roams beneath. Then he's above your shirt again, dragging up the swell of your breasts, on his way to grip your jaw.

It's so hard to stay still. Your fingers find their way to his flannel, already trying to work it open. It's so much harder with your eyes closed, shivering hands struggling to remain still. Fuck, this button just doesn't want to move. Stubbornly caught in the hole, refusing to slip through, even as you pull—

It snaps off. Lands atop your heaving chest. Rhett draws back, already looking down at it. 

"I'm sorry—"

"Don't be." The corner of his lip lifts, flashing a sharp canine. Cocky, as he reaches for the shirt, buttons flying as he yanks it open. "'s kinda hot."

And just like that, he's leaning back onto his haunches, hands skimming down your sides until his fingers can comfortably hook under your shorts. Obedient, your hips lift, knees cinching up to help get them past your ankles. They're gone in an instant, underwear and all.

Is he trying to take his time? Probably.

Does that stop you from impatiently pinching his belt buckle open and yanking on the zipper? No. No, it does not. 

"Alright, alright," only Rhett Abbott can laugh this prettily, cherry red cheeks and all. "'n here I am tryin' to be a gentleman." 

You and your swirling head know that he has to pull away to get those jeans off. They need to come off, but you're already whining for him to come back. Some primal, involuntary noise that you don't recall making before, pathetic as a wounded animal.

Rhett's head jerks up. "It's okay, it's okay," he's already coming back. You knew he would, but the dumb part of your brain argues that he wouldn't have unless you made that pitiful little noise. 

But regardless of the reason, his big, warm body is slotting between your legs, his big chest flexing as he crawls up to meet your mouth. It hardly even counts as a kiss, more of a pressure that serves to remind you he's there. He's here. With you, and he's not going anywhere else. 

"I ain't goin' anywhere," he murmurs as if he's heard every silent worry racing through your dumb little mind. Can't seem to think about anything except for him and his scent and the feel of him against you and what he might be doing next.

His head dips, nuzzling you with his temple. It's the simplest damn thing, but hell, if it doesn't suck the air right out of your lungs. The innately primal drag of his scent glands against your skin, marking you like a prize he's fought tooth and nail to keep. Perfect in every sense of the term, everything you've imagined and more. 

You don't know what made your eyes drift down, but one way or another, they do, and—

"Jesus, Rhett." You've been anticipating this going a number of ways, but good lord, you didn't have this on your laundry list of ideas, what-ifs, and daydreams. 

Even when you were greedily decorating your imaginary version of him, you never quite pictured his cock to be this fucking thick. So damn heavy that it hangs between his legs, hovering just above your belly, the faintest swell of his knot already beginning to show. 

His chuckle almost sounds devilish; knows damn well what he's got and what it could do to you. "Don't think much of me is gonna fit." Understatement of the fucking century. 

No wonder he never let you touch him; he probably thought it would scare you away. In your right mind, maybe it would, but you can almost feel the hearts blossoming in your eyes, already beginning to reach for him. Your hand freezes midway—maybe you should ask first. He still might not...

He's gently taking you by the wrist, guiding you the rest of the way. This is your first ride in this particular rodeo, but your fingers wrap around his base as if you've been doing it for decades. Oh, he's so much bigger than he looked, makes your hand appear tiny as it glides up the length of him. It's enough to have your heart jumping in your chest, pitter-pattering with a newfound vigor. 

Wetness pools between your legs. So much of it that you can feel the way it runs down your thighs, and you just can't help but angle him down, dragging his fat cock head through your weeping folds. 

He groans. 

Your vision blurs. 

The world might fall apart.

A sudden shiver takes hold of you. Quaking like you're being rattled from the inside out, another wave of slick drooling out of your poor, unused cunt, delirium settling at the forefront of your mind. Saliva drips from the corner of your mouth, the edges of your vision blurring to the point of disappearing entirely.

"Shit..." One of you says it. You're not sure who.

It's as if you're the gasoline and Rhett is the lighter, setting you ablaze with the slightest hint of a flame. You don't realize you're still wearing a shirt until after it's peeled over your head, and even then, the loss of it does nothing to soothe the invisible wildfire claiming every inch of your skin.

Oh, and you think he might have it as bad as you do. Noses and chests crashing together, pinning your arm between your bellies, his cock rutting against your cunt like it's always belonged there. He whines into your mouth, jerking forward, the underside of his length massaging against your swollen clit. 

"Fuckin'..." he loses track of his words, panting against your mouth like a dog in the sun, "hell, 'm tryna go slow, but—"

Your body jerks up off the bed. Desperate. Needy. Aching for more than just a brush of him against you. The slow glide of him isn't enough. More. You need so much more. But it's hard to speak when your mouths clash, tongues tangling so sloppily that calling it a kiss would be an insult to the word. 

"Go." Panting against his lips. "Slow." One more word. One more word. "Later." 

Rhett draws back, spit-slick lips glistening in the light. The corner of his eye twitches. As if set off by it, you involuntarily clamp down around nothing, needily seeking something that isn't there yet. The emptiness is nauseating. 

"Rhett," you plea, because why in God's name is he not in you yet?

Dumb, stupid, well-meaning alpha. Always has to be taking his time and treating you like you're made of glass, ready to shatter at any given moment. But you're made of the same material as he is, fully capable of rolling over and—

Teeth sink into the scruff of your neck. Every bone, muscle, and fiber in your body goes still. You're stuck like this. Face down, trapped beneath his body, ass high in the air for him. Big arms cage your waist, his chest resting against your back like you're a pair of wild animals—no grace or sophistication about it. 

"'m tryin' to be careful with you, darlin'," his growl is muffled by your own flesh, still caught between his sharp teeth, "y' don't want me bruisin' this little pussy of yours, now do ya?" 

And as if to punctuate his sentence, his hips twitch toward, cock slipping between your slick-soaked thighs. Draws back, angle shifting just enough to have his blunt tip pressing against your weeping entrance, opening you the slightest fraction, then slipping out to slide through the folds of your cunt instead. 

The voice in your head suggests it's a threat. A reminder of what he's capable of. But your body says otherwise, already pressing back into him despite the teeth holding you pliant. Thick waves of want pulsing through your veins, thoughts aligning to echo the same damn thing. You need more. 

A cramp takes hold of your lower belly, a stabbing sort of sensation that makes you wince. Whatever primal instinct lingering in your genetics is livid.

"It hurts." You cry in a pitchy tone you've never heard yourself use before. 

"'m gonna fix it," his mouth reels away from your neck, licking over the irritated skin. "I promise."

Again, you push back. Hands digging into the bed, moving with your whole body. Sharp teeth sink back into your neck, his arms coiling around you, pulling tight until you can no longer move. 

That pressure appears again, and this time, it doesn't disappear. The unmistakable sensation of his fat cock head pressing into your pussy. He feels so much different than the silicone of your toys, warm and pulsing and so much fucking thicker; you're quite literally made to take a cock like his, loose and slick with your heat, and yet there's still an ache blooming. 

It feels impossible. There's no way...there's no way that's going to fit. 

Oh, but the feel of his tip alone has you gushing around him, an obscene amount of slick waterfalling down your thighs and onto the mattress below. He groans, low and heavy, his heated breath tickling the back of your ear.

"Rhett..." 

"I'm here," he's murmuring, and again, he's soothing the bite with his tongue. You wonder if this is what it would feel like for him to mate you. For him to sink his teeth into the scent gland on the side of your neck and let instinct take over, lick the wound clean, smother you in his scent, and then bear his pretty, pale neck for you to take for yourself. 

You can't think about it for long. Not with his cock sinking into your aching heat, filling every centimeter of you, so big that he presses against each and every little nerve without needing to try. It's as if you're being split wide open, forced to do nothing but relax and take it like a good little omega. 

A whimper escapes you, pitchy and involuntary. Set off by the drag of his tip against a particularly sensitive spot. 

"'s that where you like it?" He coos, rumbling into your ear. It's all you can do to tilt your head back, your cheek bumping into his nose. So close, not another word spoken.

It's like being broken apart and then built back up again. Fuck you can feel him up in your throat. The stretch of him is so much that it aches. Your mouth falls open at the feel of him inching deeper and deeper, pushing the air from your lungs, winding your muscles tight. Head spinning with a gentleness that wasn't there before as if your own body knows that it no longer needs to fuss about an alphas cock. 

The solid bone of his hips presses into the swell of your ass. Fully in you now. His heated breath fans out over your shoulder, heavy and carrying the faintest noises along with it. 

You'd thought that you'd let go of the breath caught in your throat, but...but...

"Fuck, look at you," the soft scruff of his jaw tickles your naked shoulder, such a foreign sensation to feel him there. So unfair. You should have known this feeling years ago. "So fuckin' pretty." 

His hands roam up your sides, callouses catching on the smooth skin, dragging just right. A shiver ripples up your spine, body involuntarily falling forward, only to sway back into him. 

Stars sparkle. Your legs nearly come out from under you. "Shit, Rhett..." 

So much. There's so much of him. In you and around you and on top of you and crowding every single one of your senses. There's no hotel.  No concern about how terrible everyone at home may feel. No earth around you. Not a single star in the galaxy. Just Rhett, Rhett, Rhett. 

"Move," you whisper as kisses press to the length of your spine. One after the other, like he's trying to love on each and every bone there. 

You squirm forward, then back again, hardly enough to even count as a movement, but the underside of his cock drags right against a nerve that damn near takes your voice away. His hand flattens against your belly, but he doesn't hear you. 

"Move," you try again, craning your head to look at him. Dark blue eyes lift, looking back at you, still peppering your back with love. "Please, Rhett—"

His hips snap into you. Pressing hard.

Your elbows crumple, falling face first into the pillow, but he just keeps fucking pressing into you, as if you could possibly take any more. A whine sparks out of you, twisting to expose your neck to him. He chuckles at that, low and dark, tongue poking past his lips to run over the delicate scent gland hiding there. 

 Then, slowly, he begins to move. Drawing back at a snail's pace, his forearms caging your waist as if to keep you from running away when he pushes back into you. Shivers run through your thighs, already beginning to clench from the feeling of him inside you alone. 

You've dreamed of this too many times for the newness to remain for long, squirming beneath him, fighting to keep your eyes on his face. Flushed and red in the cheeks, has yet to say anything, but it's easy to tell that he's feeling it, too. 

Those careful back and forths are already beginning to find their confidence, like he's slowly realizing that his cock isn't going to break you into two, no matter how much it feels like it will. Hips hitting your ass hard enough to send you jolting, a surprised little 'uh' breaking past your lips. 

"Only goddamn omega in the state of Wyomin'," he muses aloud, nails dragging over the side of your ass, making you squirm against him, "n here ya are, gettin' mounted by a cowboy." 

Impatient, he snaps into you. Heavy balls smacking into your clit. Electricity jumps up your belly. You hardly recognize what's happening. But you're fluttering around him. Heart lurching in your chest. Slick gushing down your thighs. Crying out as you suddenly cum on his cock. Eyes rolling back into your head and all. 

"Fuck, that's...fuck,"  Rhett hisses through grit teeth, but he's not stopping. No, no, he's not even slowing down. 

Shocks fire through your nerves with every motion. The kiss of his fat head against your nerves. The drag of his length along your trembling walls. The slight swell of a knot catching on your swollen entrance. But it feels so good that you can't do anything but hold still, clenching around him like a goddamn vice.

"Can't believe I never—mmh," his head falls forward, thunking against your shoulder, hips rolling into you in languid motions. "Can't believe I went this long without breedin' this pretty lil pussy of yours." 

Air catches in your throat. Cunt sent into a spasm from his words alone. "If you keep talking, I'm...I'm..." You haven't got an ending for that sentence, left open-ended and hanging. 

Kisses lead up the side of your neck, working their way to your jaw. You tilt your head, trying your best to meet him. The angle puts a strain on your neck, unable to bend any further. Even as you push your hands into the mattress and try to force yourself backward, you can't...quite...

The room shifts. Falling forward into the pillow. Rhett's heavyweight collapses on top of you. Cool air greets your swollen cunt, suddenly empty. 

"Well, that didn't..." Rhett's laugh is a melody in your ear, his smile so big that you can feel it against your cheek, "that didn't work too well." 

Between the emptiness in your skull and the sudden change in position, figuring out where you start and where he ends is a...challenge. He starts moving at the same time that you do. His knee awkwardly slots behind your thighs. Your knuckles accidentally smack into his jaw. And he's moving toward you, but you're twisting against the mattress, and your noses are smacking into each other—

"There's your pretty face," he grins, a little too cheerful. You've barely got time for your back to settle against the cheap mattress before he leans in.

The kiss is a little too innocent for what's going on below. Soft, chaste pecks. A sharp contrast to the way he settles between your parted legs, heavy cock bumping into you. Your hand darts between your bellies, blindly guiding him toward your sex. 

It's easier the second time. The gentle glide of him, chasing away that infuriating emptiness as he sinks back into you, balls bumping into your ass. So much better. This is so much better. You're already wandering, hands roaming across the broad expanse of his shoulders, seeking the perfect spot to cling on to him.

"Look at that..." he breathes, and you don't need to guess to know what he's referring to, "gonna have y' limpin' before the nights over." 

It's the kind of thing that has you shivering. The obscene sight of his thick cock disappearing between your legs stretched to your absolute limit. Impossible to look away from, even when he draws back by an inch or two, testing the angle as he sinks back in. Almost effortless, he nudges against a bundle of nerves. Sets it ablaze like a match on gasoline.

"Fuck. I can feel ya clenchin' round me, sweetheart," his eyelashes flutter, hair falling into his red face, swinging in synchrony with the lazy rocking of his body, easing in and out of you. "'s it feel that good?"

Greedy, you reach for his biceps, squishing the girth of them, muscle flexing beneath your fingertips. "Uhuh," speaking dumbly. Not another thought crosses your mind. 

There can't possibly be a bad position with Rhett, but this is something else entirely. Feels so nice to wrap your legs around his hips, heels digging into his ass, clinging to his big, warm body. Chest to chest, so close that his scruffy jaw tickles your cheek, big blue eyes threatening to drown you if he gets any closer.

Your mouths fall open, meeting for another one of those kisses that insult the romantics attached to such a word. Nothing but lewd tongue and saliva running down your chins, panting into each other, breath so hot that it ought to fog up the room. And you just can't help it, not with the press of his cock against your nerves, so damn big that missing them is impossible.

He's too quiet. Stiffling little noises in the back of his throat, extinguishing them before they can make it past the tip of his tongue. One of your hands is slithering up his arm. Wandering across the expanse of his shoulders, fingers tangling into the loose curls at his nape and pulling. 

A whine cuts through the air. Muffled at the end, but it's there nonetheless.

Words collide in your head. Tumbling down onto your drooling tongue. "Wanna hear you." 

It should take more convincing than that, but for some reason, that's all that it takes for him to give you what you want. A little noise soars out of him with all the perfection and catchiness of the new biggest hit playing on the radio. 

You think you can cum from that sound alone. 

This is so surreal. 

The nuzzle of his nose against yours, panting against your lips. The flex of muscle in his belly, as he draws himself back and forth, rutting into you, slow, yet meeting your body hard enough to have your back jostling against the mattress. You think you catch the sound of your name, twisted into the symphony of noises rattling around the room.

"I love you," it slips out of you with crippling ease; has been sitting on your tongue for so, so long that you forgot it was there at all. 

His lips wobble up into a smile. There's a glassiness in his eye that wasn't there before. "And I love you." 

He melts. 

Falls into you, even. 

Nothing but sweaty skin and wandering hands and peppered kisses everywhere that they'll fit. Up the side of your clammy neck, atop his burning forehead. The base of his knot is starting to swell, catching on your entrance with every stroke, tugging just enough for it to rip a gasp out of you. 

"'m close," he whispers, just a little secret to be shared between you and him. Not another soul is allowed to know of this little slice of heaven situated atop this old hotel mattress. "You gotta...baby, if y' don't let me go, 'm gonna..."

"Knot." Blurting. Your eyes flutter. "Please, I want—"

He hums. Doesn't need to open his mouth for you to understand that he gets it. No fuss about the crippling lack of a condom or how you really, truly can't go back from this, instead blindly following your request with crippling loyalty. Yours. Your alpha. The one who would follow you to the ends of the earth without a word. 

Even if you wanted to, it's too late to change your mind because his knot is too swollen to slip out of you. Weary, unstable thrusts are forced into an unfamiliar shallowness, but it's forcing an angle that has him rolling directly into every little nerve. You can't stop the hand that dives between your bodies, fingertips pressing to your clit in a familiar fashion.

Just a little more. Just a little more.

An involuntary clench is all it takes to have him spilling over the edge. Face falling into the crook of your neck, cumming with a choked cry that rings through your head. Fuck nobody ever told you that you'd be able to feel his knot swelling inside of you. Stretching you beyond your limit, hot cum spilling into your pussy, not a drop of it spilling out. 

Without warning, your back twitches up off the bed, cumming without warning. Head thrown back. Heart pounding against your chest. Clenching like a vice around Rhett's twitching cock. You might be muttering his name because you can feel your mouth moving, but you're too far away to hear what's leaving your lips. Entirely lost in the thundering clouds looming in the skies. 

However long you're up there, you have no idea, but at some point, Rhett finds the strength to settle onto his forearms. Pressing kisses to your lower jaw and trailing up to your temple, shiny with your scent. No two descriptions of it have been the same, but you like to believe his description is closest to reality. A fresh strawberry pie, sitting on the windowsill after the rain has ended. 

You can't help yourself, his neck is right there. The gland exposed to you like he's trying to show it off, so sensitive that he gasps at the nip of your teeth. 

He hums, leaning back just far enough to get a look at your face. Whatever he finds looming behind your sparkling eyes is enough to have a smile contorting his lips. Then, he tilts his head to the side, properly bearing his neck to you.

You know what he's offering. Asking. The quietest proposal you've ever heard. 

Logic suggests that you wait. Give yourselves time to grow together. Adjust to the discomfort of a collar in exchange for the opportunity to take things slow. The world won't end if you step off onto the well-worn path of tradition; if it's worked for everyone else, then it should work for you.

But you've done enough waiting. Your heart made its decision a long time ago. 

The movies made this seem like some blinding moment of passion. The moment your teeth sink into the delicate scent gland, the world should explode into colors that you've never seen before. The answers to the universe ought to dance around your fingertips, hearts springing from your eyes. 

But all Rhett does is giggle. 

Gidy, like a little kid on the playground, as he cranes his head to find the matching spot on your neck. Soothing it with his tongue before his canines break the skin. 

Blood rushes to your face so quickly that you can hear it in your ears. Your heart jumps, and maybe it grows the slightest bit warmer, but...nothing changes. It's still you, Rhett, and his big, strong body shielding yours from the world. These hands that cradle your cheeks are still the ones that you've known all these years. He still nuzzles your noses together, and you wouldn't have it any other way.

Voices rattle in the hallway. Something—no, someone, bumps against the door, her giggles intertwining with the laughter of a much deeper voice. 

"Mine." 

You don't recognize...

was that you?

 "'re you growlin' again?" Rhett asks, in that playfully accusatory tone, shoulders already shaking with a laugh.

You don't realize your chest is rumbling until it stops. "No." Blinking. No, that wasn't...

"Didn't know y' were this possessive of me," there's no arguing with him; he knows what he's heard. Already beginning to cover your cheek in kisses, his body shifting between your legs. That knot is still snug, tying your bodies together for the next half-hour at minimum. 

"I'm not possessive," you try, but it's hard to be convincing when he's looking at you with those pretty blue eyes like you're his whole world and then some. Maybe that's your hopeful heart talking, or maybe it's truly what you saw. 

"Yes, you are," amusement lacing his tone, "'s cute." 

If heaven's a moment, then you must be dead. 

There are too many things in this damn kitchen.

Scratch that, too many fucking cookies. Some still rising in the oven, and others are scattered on plates across the counter, with their stupid, sweet aroma that does nothing but give you a mild migraine. This idea was better in theory than in execution. You'll be damned if you get ambitious and decide to bake treats for everyone on the ranch again. 

A warmth greets your nose. Leather and something smokey sweet, like a marshmallow roasting over an open campfire. Just a hint of it at first, carrying in through the back door and swirling around the room like a loose tornado, growing in tune with the boots thunking toward you.

Clink.

Clink.

Clink.

"Are you ever taking those spurs off?" You chirp, too focused on setting this tray on top of the stove to look in his direction. If you drop these, your life might end on the spot.

Arms coil around your waist, the thick muscle rippling as he draws you back by an inch, your back coming to rest against a sturdy chest. Lips press to your cheek. One. Two. Three kisses. Leading down to his favorite grand finale: the scar on your neck. 

A shiver ripples up your spine. 

"Gon' have to leave soon," He doesn't answer your question. Probably because you already know the answer; he was going to, but he forgot. "'s a long drive, 'member?"

"Hang on, hang on." Placing the oven mitt off to the side, you reach for a cookie. Still warm, but no longer a burn hazard. Blindly, you lift it to your shoulder until he leans forward to take it with his mouth. "You go pro, and all of a sudden, you're insufferable again."

A chuckle rumbles out of him at that, but he's temporarily muzzled, the short hair on his chin tickling your skin when he nears the end of the cookie. His lips wrap around the tips of your fingers, stealing away the final piece. 

"Like you ain't got a thing for showin' me off after a good ride," his arms tighten as he speaks, fully securing you against him now. 

...and drawing your ass right into a familiar pressure. Don't need to look to know that you're pressing yourself back into the bulge in his jeans, heavy and looking for fun that you, unfortunately, don't have time for. "Are we still talking about bull riding?" 

Twisting in his arms is easy. You've done it so many times that you ought to know that you should draw your head back, but your noses collide anyway. Breaking the habit isn't worth it. 

"Dunno," he's got chocolate on the corner of his lip, and even his smile cannot distract you from it, "you tell me." 

This is a routine you've danced a hundred times. The pre-rodeo adrenaline that has him crawling all over you like some kind of love bug, desperate to relieve the tension building in his muscles. 

Relieving it is only temporary; you should know. You rode him within an inch of his life last month, and he still jumped the fence to get to you, the camera chasing him and touting you to the world as Rhett Abbott's mate—his omega, at that. So much for organically reaching out and introducing your family to the man you left everything for. 

You still need to answer the bombardment of texts that have been rotting in your phone. 

Careful to avoid the hot pan, your hand darts back toward the counter, feeling around until you find something warm and round. Making extra of these has been your best idea yet.

"Then we're talking about both," you pull him in for a kiss. Swift. Chaste. And before he can lean in and seek out any more, you shove the cookie into his mouth. 

Your shirt is gone before you can leave the kitchen. 

By the time your back hits the bedroom door, his hands are disappearing below your waistband, and sickly sweet chocolate is the only thing you can taste on his lips. There are things to do. Places to be. Bags to load into the car and a map to figure out.

But you fear you've grown addicted to these grumbling kisses of his, crave the warmth of his body against yours and all of the other things that come with him. It's a hunger you've never been able to satisfy, and not another alpha will do. Not one with money. Or someone that your family hand-picked. Or someone with a fancy cologne crafted by a brand you can't pronounce the name of.

Just this one. 

Quiet cat gf vs loud dog bf

source

"you twins?"

"nah, we cousins"

I can feel Peeta press his forehead into my temple and he asks, "So now that you've got me, what are you going to do with me?"

I turn in to him. "Put you somewhere you can't get hurt."

- The Hunger Games, Page 368

yawn | bob reynolds x reader

Word Count 6,400 Read on AO3 Warnings/Notes 18+ MDNI, AFAB!Reader. Slice of life, thunderstorms, cuddling, accidental superpower usage, lazy sex, just a lot of fluff, really. This was my sleepy version of a character study that managed to evolve itself into a proper oneshot. Synopsis As the storm rages on, you wrap yourselves in each other.

A white flash lights up the room. Lightning crackles in its footsteps, seeking vengeance for giving you a whole winter away from its blinding wrath. Thunder shakes the ground, the bed seeming to momentarily buzz around you. 

The bottle of melatonin on the bedside table is beginning to look like a better and better option by the minute. If you hadn't psyched yourself into a mind over matter agenda and tried to go without them, then maybe you would be sound asleep right now, wrapped up in a blissful, vivid dream.

But no. The clock reads 1:39 AM, and here you are rolling over for the umpteenth time, letting your eyes scan across the dark silhouettes of your bedroom decor, mind running rampant with thoughts of monsters and mythical cryptids. 

The pile of clothes in the corner is actually a stranger who has broken in and is waiting till the moment you look away to attack. That light reflecting off your mirror is the eyes of a monster never once witnessed by human eyes. Lightning flickers. The figure standing in the hallway is a trained assassin sent to—

"Holy—!"

"I'm sorry, I'm sorry!" The dark silhouette jumps, raising its palms to the ceiling. "I'm sorry!"

"Jesus Christ, Robert!" Somehow, you've wound up with your back pressed against the headboard, heart caught in your throat. How long has he been standing there? Why did you not hear him come in? 

"I'll...I'm sorry. I'll leave," his figure shrinks deeper into the hall, one hesitant foot after the other. 

"No," it comes out sharper than you intended, bordering something embarrassingly desperate. "Don't. Come back here." 

Like a fish, Bob reels back in, slowly creeping through the threshold. The room lights up once more, two, three, four, five flashes one after the other. It's there and gone in a matter of seconds, but you've already caught sight of the dark circles lingering beneath his eyes, messy hair poking in every which way. 

Sliding back down into the bed, you peel back the sheets, arms wide open for him. His feet quicken, audibly padding across the hardwood floor, and then he's falling into you. No grace or effort to be slow about it, too eager to wedge himself into you, tucking his head under your chin.

Your fingers comb through his hair, dragging your nails against his scalp. "Do you want to talk about it?"

His head shakes, squirming a little bit closer. A vicious boom sends something crashing down in the hallway. Bob grumbles. One of his legs slots between yours, coiling an arm around your waist, as if to try and meld himself into you. 

"I tried to call," he's so close that his voice vibrates up your neck. "I promise I did."

"Don't apologize for that," you pause, just long enough to press a kiss to his forehead. Instantaneously, his lips find your collar, always keen on returning them. "Just...say something before you start looming in my doorway like a damn ghost."

"Sorry," his mouth breaks away from you with a giggle. "I didn't realize you were awake until you jumped."

Lightning strikes something outside the window. An ear-splitting crack tears through the room. 

Bob jumps. 

Frankly, so do you. And maybe that's why he started squeezing you tighter, because that's exactly what you're doing, too, wrapping your arms around his shoulders and squirming the slightest bit closer. As if that will save you in the event lightning chooses your bed as its next, unfortunate target.

Morning arrives in the form of raindrops pattering against the window. Gloomy hues of gray serve as their backdrop, thick clouds masking the sunlight so seamlessly that you can't tell what time it is. It could be early morning, or the afternoon could be coming to a close; it all looks the same.

You've rolled over at some point and time, but Bob's arm still rests around you, his forehead nestled into your shoulder. He's so warm, damn near drawing you back into bed before you've clambered out of it, but the overwhelming desire for something to drink triumphs above all else. 

It was a picture frame that fell off the wall last night. Face down on the living room floor, in a pile of shattered glass that a future version of you will have to clean up.

That future version of you arrives within the next few minutes. You can only stare at it for so long before you're inclined to clean it up while the kettle boils. If you don't do it now, then you won't do it until either the end of the day or when Bob inevitably steps on it and cuts his foot wide open.  

You still don't know what time it is. Your phone sits on the counter, right where you left it, the little notification light blinking like a ticking time bomb, ready to explode if it receives one more text. 

And frankly, that's why you don't want to pick it up. 

A scratchy chin settles onto your shoulder, familiar arms once again coiling around you. "You left me."

"Only for a few minutes," you hum. It's like leaning into your own sentient blanket, one that squeezes you a little bit tighter and tilts his head to press a kiss into your cheek.

A shrill whistle dissolves the moment before you've had a chance to soak it in, the boiling water squealing with rage until you pour it into a tacky little mug. Hot chocolate mix rises to the surface, stubbornly refusing to mix until you stir it with the spoon.

"What did Yelena ever do with the rest of these?" You still don't understand what possessed her to buy that giant, hundred-dollar mystery box at the thrift store. Something something, 'you never know what you'll find!' only for her to cut the tape and unveil a museum of many, many ugly mugs.

It's hard even to remember them all. Tacky vacation souvenirs, bad jokes. Some had odd, novelty shapes, others changed colors at different temperatures, a few belonged to movies and TV shows that you've never heard of. There was even one from a 2007 art class hidden in there, a rough but valiant attempt at creating a cat. 

"Kept some for the kitchen, stashed the rest in Bucky's briefcase," Bob's laughter breaks through his yawn. "We crammed so many in there that we could hardly get it closed." He doesn't say anything, but you can feel his eyes follow your hand into the bag of mini marshmallows, watching as you drop a handful of them into the hot chocolate.

"Is Bucky aware of this?" Lifting a marshmallow to your shoulder. 

"Not yet," his lips brush your fingertips, and the spongy little treat is gone. You offer another. It suffers the same fate. 

You fully intend to step out of his arms for a moment; you're only heading toward the fridge, but Bob waddles along with you as if he's been permanently bound to you. Two ice cubes are all you're after, the final, necessary touch to keep him from burning his mouth again. 

For all intents and purposes, he should know this is for him; he only takes his hot chocolate one way. And yet his eyes go round when you offer it to him.

"For me?" As if the 'I heart Bob' cup could be for anyone else.

"Yes, for you," lifting it a little bit higher, insistent. 

You're convinced that the mug shrinks the moment he takes it from you. There's no other explanation for it, the damn thing is microscopic in his oversized hand, a thick, bulging vein sprawling up the back of it and into his forearm.

...you've got to quit staring. 

"Have you taken your medicine yet?" It's the first question that pops into mind. You should have asked this anyway.

He shakes his head, lifting the mug to his mouth. One sip is all it takes for the melted marshmallow to coat his upper lip. A twinge of gold colors the inside of his iris when he finds what he likes, there and gone in the blink of an eye.

Two pill organizers sit right next to the marshmallows, decorated with stickers and faces drawn in Sharpie, courtesy of a long, drawn-out power outage that lasted longer than your phone batteries could. The pale green one is his, emptier than you remember it being and definitely in need of a trip back to his apartment for a refill, but there's enough for today. 

"Three in the morning?" You think it was three. There are three in here, but his prescriptions are constantly changing, still trying to find the perfect concoction of medications that will work for him. 

"Two. I'm taking the green one at night now," his sleepy, lopsided grin is blinding. "Taking it during the day makes it feel like there's a tiny little man in my head who tasers my brain every few seconds." 

The gears in your head start turning, working to conjure a mental image of that evil little man he speaks of. 

Bob's grin drops into something meek. "That...doesn't make much sense, does it?"

With a hum, you drop the two pills into his empty palm, leaning in to kiss his cheek. "It was a great analogy." You just need a moment to process what he's said. 

Heading back to bed is tempting, but the potential hot chocolate spill risk is what ultimately lures the two of you into the living room, curled into the corner of the couch like a pair of otters floating aimlessly in the sea. Except your sea is composed of all the blankets Bob can get his hands on, topped off with a dalmatian plushie who, conveniently, is also named Bob.

Rain still patters against the windows, with tiny little 'tap tap tap's that merge into a lullaby of sorts, drawing your eyes to a close against their will. Bob isn't doing much better, his head settles onto your shoulder mere seconds after you hear his mug settle onto the coffee table. Half empty. 

Always half empty. 

Give it some time, and he'll mosey back to it, wrinkling his nose when he finds that his hot chocolate has had the utmost audacity to go cold on him. He'll pop it into the microwave and stand there, watching it spin around on the glass tray until four seconds are left on the timer, take it out, chug the rest, and then delicately place his mug into the back left corner of the sink.

"I can hear you thinking," he murmurs. Outside, lightning cackles, as if to agree wth him.

"I thought you weren't using your superpowers?" It's the same deflection every time.

But he lets you get away with it, too kind and too sleepy to press you on what is going through your mind right now. Instead, he nuzzles further into you, hiking a leg over your hip. "Is being able to read someone's face supposed to be a superpower?"

"If it is, then it's definitely in your arsenal," like a moth to a flame, your hand wanders into his hair, already beginning to toy with a curl.

"Millions of dollars and decades of research," a yawn wracks through him. "All to create a guy with the magical ability to know when his partner is thinking really hard about something."

And now you're yawning, too. "It's a scientific miracle."

The pitter-patter of the rain is what whisks you away once more. The soft rumble of thunder and distant, howling wind blends into a comforting white noise, only interrupted by the slightly louder purr of Bob's snoring. You no longer know where you begin and Bob ends; you've simply melted into a puddle, the cocoon of blankets is the only thing to keep you from spilling out and onto the floor below.

But a cozy nap doesn't prevent a storm from rolling in, and for the umpteenth time, your eyes open to the sound of lightning, striking something nearby. It's darker now, the living room cast into dark hues of gray and black, broken apart by the occasional blitz of light from outside. Your phone buzzes on the counter, either a phone call or an emergency alert, neither of which is worth picking it up.

What's the point of a cellphone when the only person worth talking to is blinking up at you with sleepy blue eyes?

"I'm gonna take a shower," you announce, after a long moment. Might as well get one in, just in case a power outage revokes the luxury of hot water.

Bob blinks, visibly processing what you've just said to him. A moment passes, and then, a thought comes to him. "Can I come?"

You nod, but nothing happens. You're not moving. He's not moving. Time has either stopped and let your consciousness reap the terror of being trapped in a frozen body, or you really just don't want to move. 

When your feet finally hit the floor, you're not sure, but at some point, you find yourself being greeted by a steady stream of warm water that nearly melts you on the spot. Like your shadow, Bob follows close behind, and you've never been more thankful to be blessed with this walk-in shower, because frankly, you don't think this would work if you were squeezing into a tub together. 

Not with those broad shoulders, that is. Composed of thick muscle that flex and collect tiny rivers that flow down the freckled expanse of his back, past the three circular scars along his spine. Experiment souvenirs. They're not very big, you can perfectly fit your fingertips into them like buttons, but in comparison to the sheer size of his body, they might as well be microscopic.

"Watcha looking at?" He's peeking over his shoulder, eyes sparkling. 

You've been caught. 

...might as well commit to it. 

"Nothing," coy as can be, you grab a handful of his ass. 

His mouth pops open, the tips of his ears twinging with pink, then red. But as quickly as the shock sprang onto his handsome face, it melts into something bashful, suddenly unable to meet your gaze anymore. The only thing that doesn't change is the soap bubbling in his hair, slowly but surely making its way down the back of his neck. 

He turns toward you, tilting his head back into the steady stream of water. There's only so much the water alone can do, and you're sure that he fully intends to do it himself, but you find yourself reaching for the shower wand, bringing it closer to help you and your one remaining hand to wash the soap from his hair.

"'s nice," he hums, his hands settling on your hips. "Are you washing all of me?"

"Washing you and myself?" Feigning shock. 

"Well, I can help with that," he blindly reaches out, first stealing away your wash cloth, and then feeling about for your body wash.

...you wonder if he knows that he's floating the damn bottle toward himself. Surely if he knew, he wouldn't still be patting around, looking for the shape until—

It lands in his hand. 

Yeah, he doesn't have a clue. He's so preoccupied with getting soap on your chest that he can't possibly be thinking of anything else, rubbing it into your skin in loose, lazy circles. For something so simplistic, it's shockingly difficult. Your arms keep bumping into his, he's trying to get a part of your back, but pulling you forward only ends in you accidentally spraying him in the face. 

"Hey!" Bob squeals, as if he didn't directly cause this by himself.

"Your fault!" Dodging an attack to the chin from the soapy cloth. 

Your wet hand futilely smacks him in the chest. He gets you on the belly. You tilt the wand to spray water at the nape of his neck. A glob of soap gets you in the cheek, you can only gather it so fast, but he already knows your game plan, dodging before you can get it on his nose. And then—

There are lips on yours. Soft and fleeting, there and gone within milliseconds, appearing again on your cheek, the bridge of your nose, and your forehead. You can't possibly keep up with them; Bob has gotten in two more attacks in the time it takes for you to retaliate.

"Bo!" Yelping, pawing at his chin. No dice. Nothing is getting between him and his vicious attack. "Damnit, Sentry!" 

"Don't 'Sentry' me!" His giggle is so loud that it echoes, ringing incessantly in your ears, so damn distracting that you fall victim to his finishing move. A proper kiss. It hits you so hard, so easily that you nearly fall backward with it, only held up by his big, steady hands. 

This is what you've been missing. 

Every shred of tension melts from your body, washing away, swirling down the drain, and into the abyss. You're nothing but a limp mess in his arms, collapsing into his chest, helpless to do anything but chase the sweetness of his lips, molding against you so wonderfully that it borders on unfair. 

He steps forward, and your back finds the bathroom tile. Cool against your skin, a stark contrast to the warm body that closes the gap between you. Hands nudge at your thighs, pressing into the fat of them until you get the hint and jump. His hips slot between your legs with such ease that it nearly causes you to short-circuit. 

Kissing Robert Reynolds, frankly, is an otherworldly experience that ought to bring out the sun and banish every dark cloud from the sky. Perfection exists, and it's this. The delicate way that his kiss draws you into him, lips tangled in a dance that you're far from mastering, taking the wrong steps, yet somehow managing to avoid stepping on the other's feet.

Your hand rises to his jaw, feeling the subtle flex of the muscle there, far too innocent for how he grabs a handful of your ass. Payback, you suppose.

"Robert," you don't mean to sound so desperate, you really don't, but it's too late, you're mewling like a cat in heat. 

"Bedroom?"

"Uhuh."

You're either developing a memory loss problem, or Bob is tapping into another unknown super power, because you don't remember what happens from there. One moment you're up against the wall, the next, you're being greeted by the familiar comfort of the bed, curving perfectly to your frame.

Bob's forearms brace themselves on either side of your head, caging you in as his warm body slots against yours once more. You haven't the slightest clue how much time has passed. Don't really care, either. It's hard to give a damn about anything when the tip of Bob's nose traces along the side of your cheek, guiding himself back to your mouth.

The storm protests with a vicious cackle, the bedside lamp flickering with a wordless threat to plunge you into permanent darkness. Wind squeals around the corners of the apartment, shrieking a threat that you don't care to listen to. The whole building could collapse for all you care, so long as this doesn't end. 

Bob's hips tilt forward, his heavy cock rubbing against the inside of your thigh, "this is still okay?"

"I would have told you if it wasn't," and if that's not convincing enough, your legs wrap around his waist, clinging to him like it's the only thing you know how to do.

And oh, does he let you. If anything, he's ushering himself closer, his firm belly flattening against yours, erasing every bit of space that dares put itself between you. One of his hands are cradling your face, and your fingers are in his wet hair, and—

The kiss breaks with a mutual gasp. 

Again, he rocks his hips forward, thick cock slipping between your folds and rubbing against your clit. How you didn't feel him lazily rutting between your legs, you have no idea, but you are so not complaining. 

"I've missed this," he blurts, speaking against your lips. 

It takes a moment to find your voice, one of the many controls lost to the mindboggling distraction that is him grinding into you. "It's been like a week," and it sounds like it's been a week since you've had anything to drink, too.

"A week too long," Bob nips at your bottom lip. You don't respond. He nips again, whining at you like an expectant puppy, eager for something you can't deny him any longer. Lips part. Tongues meet in an instant. 

It's a losing battle before the fight has even started; he's already licking into your mouth, swallowing the whine he draws out of you. So unfair. You didn't even stand a chance, helpless to do anything but follow his lead. On their own, your hips twitch, and pleasure shatters the kiss once more. 

In its place, appear kisses on your cheek, trailing along the side of your jaw, and to your neck. They linger in the space behind your ear, gently sucking on the skin there, enough for you to feel the pressure of it, but never bruising. If someone were to catch sight of a hickey on you, he might spontaneously combust. 

"Robert," you don't know why you're whispering his name, lifting from your tongue like a sacred prayer. 

He hums, peering up at you through his lashes, working his way down the side of your neck. One kiss after the other, his wet tongue leaving a faint trail in his wake. There's nothing you can do but cling to his shoulders, fighting to stay still as he kisses along your chest. 

"Tickle?" He knows the answer to that question, grinning like a cat who got the cream. 

A breath strangles out of you. "No."

"You're squirming," and he's got the audacity to laugh while he says it, like he's not also reaching to cup your breast, swiping his thumb over a soft nipple. 

You've got no response to that, quietly watching him lean in and swirl his tongue around it. The warmth of his mouth is more than welcome, drawing your back up off the bed, chasing his touch, but...there's something else that you want a whole lot more.

Your hand darts to the bedside table, where the lube rests on the nearest corner. The tips of your fingers brush against the plastic tube, gaining traction, only for it to scoot beyond your reach entirely. 

The bottle jumps into your hand. Suddenly sentient.

Bob stiffens. "Oops." 

"I thought you weren't using your powers?" You're trying to sound serious about it, but you lose this battle, too, your own laughter causing you to struggle to even open the cap.

"I didn't mean to, I—!" The color drains from his face by the second, shocked as can be. "I wished it would go to you and it just...did!" He sits up, looking at his hands as if he thinks the Void is already taking over.

But he remains unchanged, just like any other time that he's subconsciously done this, whether he's realized it or not. Leaving you ample time to pour a generous amount of lubriant into your palm, so much that it nearly spills through your fingers as you reach down and wrap your hand around his flushed, pink cock. 

"Ah—!"

Aside from his hair, this is the darkest part of his body, cock head flushed a deep crimson that contrasts so beautifully against the rest of him. Precum spills, swiftly collected by your thumb, spreading it and the lube across his length in one, practiced motion. You know you're doing it right when he tries to chase your retreating hand. 

A pout etches itself onto his face, "mean." 

"Would you rather stick to just a handjob?" It's a genuine question laced into your best, teasing tone. 

"No, no, no," Bob is already on top of you again, before you can begin to take your playful suggestion seriously. "I'm just...being..." His brow furrows, something self-deprecating visibly forming in his head.

"Being cute?" You fill in the blank before he can, reaching to squish his cheek with your clean hand. 

There he goes. Smiling at you like the world's sweetest fool, borderline shy about returning to the task at hand, guiding himself between your legs. The wet tip of his cock dips between your folds, brushing past your clit, and then—

Familiar pressure greets you. It's all you can do to keep from impatiently pushing yourself onto him, hanging onto what little self-control you have left while he takes his time, slowly pushing in like it's the first all over again. But this time, he slips in much, much easier. 

Lord, have mercy, you've already forgotten about the sheer width of him. You should have known from the start that those doe eyes were compensating for something, but how the hell could you have predicted...

You shouldn't have looked. 

Now you can't tear your eyes away.

There's something mesmerizing about the sight of Bob's cock gradually disappearing inside of you, your pussy visibly stretching to accommodate him and his obnoxious girth. Bob follows your line of sight, hips stuttering when he finds what has your attention. 

"I can feel you clenching, baby," he mutters, breaking you from your hypnosis. 

Yeah, that might be why he's moving so slowly. But just because you're telling your body to relax, doesn't mean it's going to mindlessly obey. Not this part of you, at least, stubbornly clamping down around his fat cock like you're trying to catch him in some kind of obscene chokehold. 

Fingertips trail up your sides. Featherlight kisses work their way up your chest and into your neck, tickling. You're giggling before you know what's going on, pawing at his hands as he all but lays his weight on top of you. 

Heat races up your belly, the side of his cock rubbing against sensitive nerves. Oh, and the stretch of him aches, but you can't...you can't focus on anything other than how full you feel. It's all that you can think about, how he sinks into you bit by bit, gradually opening you up around him. 

A fragile gasp breaks through the air; he's bottomed out. 

"Bo..." You don't know why you're using that silly little nickname, mindlessly speaking everything that comes to mind. 

Bob's nose nuzzles into your temple. "Are you okay?" 

"More than okay," you breathe. 

Thunder booms, and you're sure that the lightning is putting on her greatest show yet, but she doesn't have an ounce of your attention. No, that's all reserved for this. 

Experimental, Robert begins to move. 

Slow. Not in any rush to pull out of you, once again taking his time as he gradually pushes himself back in. It's easier this time, a wet little noise punctuating the meet of your bodies. There's nothing heated about it; you've got no reason for it to be. It's just you and your ridiculously superpowered boyfriend, taking all of the time in the world. 

"There," sparkles light up behind your eyes. "Oh my god, right there."

Shit, how is he already rubbing into those nerves? Usually, it takes him a minute to find them, but today—

"Right there?" Only Robert Reynolds can manage to sound so innocent when he's fucking you, like a damn earnest puppy looking for his treat. But he's doing exactly what you've asked of him, and if you had a treat, you'd give it to him.

Your arms loop around his shoulders, pulling him even closer, noses bumping. Gold laces his irises, washing over their usual blue, there and gone with a simple blink of his eye, but you know what you saw.

"I love you," he mewls, and you can practically see the hearts in his eyes. 

Mouths collide like two galaxies, stars and planets exploding behind your eyelids like fireworks. A once-in-a-lifetime showing, and you've got front row tickets. The universe itself ceases to exist. There is nothing else, only you and Bob Reynolds himself, tangled so deeply that eternity herself can never hope to unravel you. 

"I love you, too," you can't hear yourself over the incessant thump of your heart, loud in your ears, as if it doesn't have a designated place to be. 

But you wouldn't be shocked if Bob's fat cock was so big that it entirely rearranged you, because that's certainly what it feels like. There's no other word for it, other than full. Stretched to your limit, your cunt struggling to even flutter around him as he sinks into you. 

That so-called little noise of your bodies meeting is growing louder. Fuck, its so unfair, he's so big that he hits everything and you're absolutely soaked. The very sound of it is far too obscene for the moment, so loud that the neighbors can probably hear your pussy practically weeping around his damn cock. 

Bob's hand tucks beneath your thigh, pushing it up to your belly, opening you even more and—

"Oh my god!" You wail. He's hitting it. Oh god, oh god, oh god, oh. "Fuck, Robert—!"

He sucks in a sharp breath of air, his head almost tipping back at the sensation of you clenching around him. The rhythm he so carefully built is dissolving by the second, and frankly, so are you, unraveling like a loose thread.

"Keep squeezing my cock like that, shit," Bob's groaning, irises flickering with gold, just like the lightning in the window. "Your pussy feels so good."

What's louder, the raging wind or the two of you panting, like dogs in the hot sun? You don't have the answer. You're too busy focusing on pressing your fingertips to your swollen clit, massaging it in a tune that definitely does not match the sway of Robert's body. 

But it doesn't matter. The heat is already coiling in your lower belly, burning into your thighs and winding you impossibly tighter around Bob's length. Your back is trying to rise up off the bed again, and your hand has somehow gotten in his hair, and he's kissing you again.

"I'm gonna cum," he blurts. Ragged. 

Your lips are moving. Nothing comes out. All you can do is nod.

"Please cum on my cock," Bob all but collapses into you. Whispering into your ear. Begging. Pleading. "Please, can we come together? Please? Oh my god, please."

A noise blurts out of you. Close. You're so close. Hanging onto him for dear life, his blunt tip keeps kissing that spot over and over and over and

"Oh my god, cum for me please, please—!" Bob cries out. The final snap of his hips shoves you up the bed, pulsing with an orgasm so intense that you can feel him twitch with it, and...you're cumming with him.

It washes through you in one big wave, beginning with a delicate twitch down in your toes, rolling up into your thighs, up your belly, and following your spine, swirling in your head. The world itself is a distant memory. All you can comprehend is the pleasure of cumming around him, fuel poured into an already raging fire. 

Reality flowers in the form of cool air, rushing in from the vent like a medic, here to valiantly chase away the beads of sweat that have collected on your skin. But nothing is quite as warm and grounding as the big, burning body on top of yours. Robert, with his messy hair and pink cheeks, snuggled on you like you're his personal pillow.

"Hi," he chirps, with a yawn. 

"Hi," you're yawning too, now. Must be contagious. 

He does, ultimately, roll off of you at some point, though you're not sure how much time passes before that happens. The sheets are beyond saving; the valiant efforts of a wash cloth can't remedy this, only the washing machine and its humble sidekick, the dryer, can save the day now. You've practically slept the day away, you should have energy to get up and deal with it, but...

Bob's arms are distracting. 

So are his hands, for that matter, absently wandering up and down your skin, going as far as he can comfortably reach. In return, you trace the hard lines of his belly, following the grooves of his abdomen like a maze, with his veins functioning as a shortcut to his chest and lower belly, stopping just shy of his soft, oversensitive length.

But then, he freezes.

"Bo?" Did the air conditioning cause him to turn into ice? 

"I forgot to feed the cats," he says it in such a way that it sounds like he's committed a federal crime. Which, as far as the kitties themselves are concerned, may be valid.

"The stray cats who live outside of the Avengers building?" You know which ones he's talking about. The small but humble colony of kitties who fuss at local reporters while they're on the air, determined to get their side of the story on television. 

You're beginning to suspect that the silver tabby is nothing but a gossip. She has crashed at least five news networks by now.

"They're not strays, they're official employees." There's no way he isn't making this up on the spot, just to get a laugh out of you. 

And it works. You're giggling about it even when you're standing in the living room, trying to squeeze your shoes on without untying them first. Official employees. Representatives of the company. Paid interns. Soon enough, the New Avengers will be fully feline run.

"What made you start feeding these guys, anyhow?" You ask, watching him lift the forgotten mug to his mouth. 

His nose wrinkles. The hot chocolate has once again dared to become cold. "I accidentally dropped a box of leftovers and watched three of them run out to steal everything that spilled out."

The story continues as he walks away, heading for the kitchen. "They still looked hungry, but I couldn't, you know, feed them a half-eaten burger and some fries, so I went and got them their own kibble." Three beeps. The microwave begins to hum. "Now I can't stop, because they expect it from me."

You don't need to see what happens next. The microwave stops, chased by a moment of silence. The water runs, and then, the cup audibly settles inside the sink. Back left corner. 

Night has already fallen on the outside world, washing the city in hues of black and blue, broken apart by headlights and stubborn, LED signs that all clamour for your attention. They don't know that their competition is Robert Reynolds, world's most distracting man, who uses his thumb to rub circles into the back of your hand. 

A small swarm of felines resides in the alleyway outside of the tower, adorable, screaming balls of damp fur and rage. Most of them are friendly, trotting at Bob's heels and meandering between your feet, but others dart further down the sidewalk or dodge behind a dumpster, looking for any good spot to hide from your prying eyes. 

Bob only leaves you for a moment, returning with plastic bowls and a bag of cat food that he nearly spills on top of a particularly bold, orange cat. Why wait for the bowl to be filled when you can shove your head right into the stream of kibble? 

The final bowl is placed, and...

Silence. No more meowing or endless screaming, only the soft crunches of tiny jaws chowing down on dinner. 

The orange cat, despite being first to his bowl, moves on to the next as soon as he's run out. There is a reason why he's beginning to look closer to a bowling ball than a feline, the fuzzy glutton. His deadly sin runs another cat off from the bowl, a calico who is content to rub herself against your leg, rather than fight over a meal. 

"Oh," Bob has wandered away from you, standing over by the dumpster now. "Oh!" 

"What?" You squint, but you can't see what he's picking up. 

Whatever it is, he's using both hands to cradle it under his chin, a precious little thing that he's found. "It's a baby!" 

You can't see it until he's right in front of you. A tiny, bite-sized ball of fluff, marked with even tinier stripes, another tabby, this time in the smallest form possible. Its mouth opens with a faint, but mighty "mew!" 

And then promptly bites Bob's finger. Ferocious.

Oh god.

Oh god, there are big, expectant eyes looking at you now. He's already pouting; you know what he's about to ask, and he knows what your reply is. He can't keep it in the tower; the chances of someone leaving a door open and it getting out onto the streets are astronomical. 

But that little kitten is another mouth to feed. A very expensive, tiny mouth at that. There's no way that little bitty thing can eat hard food, its eyes aren't even open! And the cost of buying kitten formula? In this city?

Lightning silently flickers, casting a strange, monstrous shadow. 

...

It's last night all over again. The ongoing storm. A creepy, unexpected sight created by a momentary burst of light. Robert and his pleading eyes, with his new kitten tucked against his neck, if not identical to how he fit himself beneath your chin. 

The last-ditch effort begins, scanning each and every cat, looking for a recently pregnant momma who might have left her baby unattended for a meal. No kittens, no dice. The closest thing to pregnant is that damn orange one. 

"Do you think we can—"

"Yes." 

There's something else you plan to say, something about custody rights and who is feeding it and when, but the thought dies before it gets to your mouth. You can feel something...

Oh. Now, why did you go and wear the gray sweats? They're already showing off every rain drop they've absorbed, and now...

"Come on," you're taking Bob by the arm, careful not to jostle the tiny thing from his hand as you pull him along. "We're finding a bathroom, and then we're off to the pet store."

He tilts his head. "Why the bathroom?"

Now that you've felt it, you can't unfeel it. Why must there be consequences to your actions? "Because I've got your cum running down my leg."

"Oh!" He squeaks. Then, lowering his voice. "Well, I can help...with that...?" Bold, until he loses momentum mid-sentence.

"Not with a child in your hands, you're not." 

The kitten mews. It's starting to sound like Bob already. 

Bob and the Superhero Love Story Arc

Masterlist

Pairing: Bob Reynolds/sentry x (f)reader

Tags: fluff, feelings, kissing, comfort, learning disabilities, childhood friends, found family (thunderbolts), some nice times because Bob deserves it

You were just an intern at The Washington Post, clutching your phone as you tried to keep up, typing every word Valentina said with great effort. Your brows knit in concentration. This could be your big story. You didn't want to mess it up.

You looked up off your screen to take a brief look at the new Avengers.

Then your eyes caught on him.Your hand flew to your mouth.

He’d changed.

He used to hunch over like he was trying to disappear into a desk. Now he stood tall—broad-shouldered, navy sweater tight across his chest. His curly brown hair was longer and messier, but it still fell into his blue eyes when he looked down.

Your old classmate, Bob. Your first crush... was an Avenger. A superhero!

You were ten years old.

You were both in the same special needs class in elementary school.

Even if your needs were different.

It was your first day at a new school after you and your older sister had just moved to a new town. It was a small suburban town, with a small school at its center and small classrooms. Your sister had registered you at the main office, quietly informing the principal that you had a learning disability. He nodded and got up to exchange some hushed wispers with the front desk lady. A moment later, the woman offered a soft smile before motioning for you to follow. "Come with me, hun."

Down the hallway, she led you into a quiet classroom where about ten students your age sat. The teacher paused mid-lesson as the door opened, and everyone turned to look at you next to the front desk lady.

"Miss Brown, please welcome your newest student," the secretary said.

The teacher, an older woman with kind eyes and a denim vest, nodded. "Good morning, why don't you come up here and introduce yourself."

You walked up to the front of the class, slightly fidgeting with the hem of your dress and told everyone your name.

Ms. Brown smiled. "It's very nice to meet you, y/n. We don't get new students often around here."

Gesturing to a boy at the far end of the room, she said. "You can have a seat next to Robert."

He sat alone, half-curled into his hoodie, shaggy brown hair hanging over blue eyes. The desk beside him was empty. You crossed the room with your backpack slung awkwardly over your shoulders, pulled the chair back, and sat down. Your hands were slow as you pulled out your notebook and pencils.

"Hi," he wispered, looking up for only a second.

You smiled. "Hi. I’m Y/N."

He nodded. "I know. You told us a minute ago."

"Right," you chuckled, feeling your cheeks heat. You sometimes blabbed when you were nervous. "I like your name, Robert."

"Bob’s okay," he murmured, opening his notebook and scribbling the date in the corner.

At lunch, a few of your classmates came over, smiling and curious.

Feeling like you somehow said the wrong thing, you turned to your desk and did the same, copying down the teacher’s notes.

Your grip tightened on your pencil as the words blurred. Like they always did.

"Hey, I’m Alex," a boy said.

"I’m Kate. I like your dress," added a girl sitting beside him.

A few more names followed. A boy named Timothy and a girl named Gillian.

"So, what do you have?" Timothy asked plainly.

You blinked. "What do you mean?"

He motioned vaguely around the room. "Everyone's got something in this class. I have ADD. Alex is on the spectrum... what about you?"

"Oh," you understood now, swallowing. "I’m dyslexic," you said quietly, pressing your lips together the way you always did when you told someone about your disability.

Out of the corner of your eye, you noticed Bob glance up from his desk, eyes flicking to your notebook before returning to his.

"What’s that?" Kate asked.

"I... I have difficulty reading," you explained.

They gave you a variety of looks. Some curious, others sympathetic.

"I’ve never heard of that," Gillian said. "Sounds awful."

"Gillian," Bob said, without looking up.

Gillian grimaced, giving you an apologetic look.

"It's okay," You smiled, grateful even for that brief defense. "It’s not too bad," you said, even if you didn’t always believe it.

The truth was that the school didn’t have the resources to distinguish between different types of needs. So, they grouped everyone together. And in time, you all became something like friends.

But Bob was still... distant. When you all tried to include him in group games or projects, he’d just shake his head, shoulders hunched, eyes fixed on his desk.

Until one day.

Your sister was late to pick you up, and most of the others had already gone home. You sat on the curb, arms wrapped around your backpack, and then noticed Bob lingering nearby.

You plopped down next to him, your leggings brushing against his scraped-up knees poking through wrinkled cargo shorts.

"Your parents not picking you up?" you asked.

He flinched slightly, then glanced over. His hair was a mess and falling into his eyes. You had the sudden urge to brush it away.

"Sometimes they’re late. Or they forget," he said with a sad little smile, eyes fixed on his shoes. "It’s alright."

You frowned. He smiled, but he clearly wasnt happy. You looked around, trying to come up with something to change his mood.

You froze when your gaze landed on the school playground. "Wanna go on the swings?"

He looked at you, uncertain.

You offered your hand. "Come on. It’ll be fun."

He hesitated. Then, slowly, his hand met yours. It trembled slightly in your grip.

It was that day you first felt it. A little flutter in your chest came with holding his hand. A crush.

From then on, you watched him more closely. How he always sat in the back. How he flinched at loud noises. How his eyes lit up when a teacher asked a question about science, or outer space, or machines.

It was during a group project—the group being your entire class— that you realized how sharp he was.

You and your classmates were brainstorming ideas for a model bridge, and Bob sat at his desk and mumbled something about tensile strength and suspension systems.

Kate blinked. "How’d you know that?"

He shrugged. "It was in one of Ms. Brown’s books."

"Huh. That sounds smart. Let me write it down for the presentation," Alex said, scribbling it down. "Thanks, Bobby."

Bob smiled a small smile. "Sure thing."

And that smile stuck with you longer than it should have.

You enjoyed math's and sciences enough, but your favorite subjects were history and literature. The ones that ironically required a LOT of reading and writing. After your sister showed you a movie about a pair of journalists who uncover a major political conspiracy, you had your goals set on becoming a journalist. And for that, you'd have to ace the humanities.

One afternoon, you were hunched over your history book, researching for an assignment, frustrated nearly to tears. The letters wouldn’t sit still.

"Can I?" Someone asked softly. You looked up and saw Bob, taking a seat next to you, motioning toward the book.

You nodded, swallowing hard and handing it to him. Afraid that if you'd open your mouth, you'd might let out a sob.

He read aloud, voice low and steady. Something about the way he spoke made it all easier. You could’ve listened to him for hours.

You never told him how grateful you were. How safe you felt in that moment.

By the time you both turned sixteen, Bob had started to withdraw even more. You still waved in the halls. Sometimes he waved back, sometimes he didn’t. He was absent more often than not. But somehow, his name always showed up on the academic distinction list that was plastered on the wall at the end of each term.

The crush still lingered, quiet and patient.

He didn’t come to graduation.

And you wouldn’t see him again for a long, long time.

You were twenty-two now.

The surprise press conference was in full swing. Cameras flashed as Valentina stood at the podium, parading the new Avengers. The memory of the recent disaster still lingered in the air.

You’d been on the opposite end of New York during the Void attack, but the moment authorities announced it was safe to return, you were assigned to cover the story. So you rushed to the scene with your press badge and your crew.

You were just an intern at The Post, clutching your phone as you tried to keep up, typing every word Valentina said with great effort. Your brows knit in concentration. This could be your big story. You didn't want to mess it up.

You looked up off your screen to take a brief look at the new Avengers.

Then your eyes caught on him.

One of the team members was clapping awkwardly with the crowd, standing a little behind the others like he didn’t quite belong.

Your hand flew to your mouth.

Oh my God.

"What is it?" Your co-worker, Anthony, asked while snapping pictures with his professional camera.

"Uhm, nothing. I'm just excited about the story." You mumbled, your eyes glued to Bob.

He’d changed.

He used to hunch over like he was trying to disappear into a desk. Now he stood tall—broad-shouldered, navy sweater tight across his chest. His curly brown hair was longer and messier, but it still fell into his blue eyes when he looked down.

But his smile—shy, unsure—was exactly like you remembered.

Your old classmate, Bob. Your first crush... was an Avenger. A superhero!

After the conference, you circled the venue until you found him, chatting with the Avengers. You made your way over.

Only to be stopped by a stone-faced agent.

"Stand back," he said flatly.

"Right. Sorry." You lifted your badge. "I’m with The Washington Post."

He gave you a once-over. "Interns don’t get access to the Avengers."

The comment was meant as a dig, but it didn't work. By now, you were used to being overlooked and underestimated. And you knew you could deal with it with sass when the time was right. You raised a brow and offered a charming smile. "You’re gonna regret that when I’m head writer someday."

He snorted. "Come back when that happens."

"Come on," you said, trying not to sound desperate. "I just want one statement from the team."

"No—"

"I give statement to nice young lady," came a booming voice behind him.

You turned to see the Red Guardian looming like a wall of muscle, casting a long shadow over the both of you.

"We have orders—" the agent began.

"Davai, Shoo, little man. I get brand deal now," Alexei said, swatting him away like a fly.

You blinked, feeling starstruck. "You're the Red Guardian. From the Soviet Union."

"I am him, yes." He grinned a bearded, gold-toothed grin. "Washington Post, you said, da? I enjoy watching senators play... what you call... football. Ridiculous game. The name makes no sense. It's called football, but they hold it in their hands—ne vazhno. it's very violent. Entertaining."

You read a lot about him in your history of the Cold War 101, a required course in your journalism program. Alexei was truly a fascinating figure, a warrior. A spy. A soldier. A human experiemnt. There was so much about him still unknown to the public, and let's face it, probably to himself too.

And he stood in front of you in the flesh.

"Uhhh..." Before you could say more, a quiet voice spoke up.

"Y/n?"

Bob had stepped beside Alexei, eyes wide with recognition. Your heart skipped. His voice was deeper now, steadier.

You smiled, a little breathless. "You remember me?"

He nodded, warm and surprised. "Of course I remember you." His gaze roamed down your body, and a pink coloring appeared on his cheek. He'd changed since you were kids, and so had you.

Recovering, he turned to the others, gesturing to you. "Guys… this is a friend from back home."

They all gave you the once-over, some more skeptical than others. You offered a sheepish smile and wave.

Bob glanced at your badge. His brows lifted. "You’re with The Post? That’s amazing!"

There was genuine pride in his voice.

You smiled back, feeling something catch in your throat. "Well… interning for now. But yeah. It’s a real dream come true." You hesitated, then added, "And you’re an Avenger!"

According to Valentina, he was one of the strongest beings alive, too.

He laughed softly, rubbing the back of his neck. "You probably don’t remember me that well. I mostly—"

"I remember you, Bob."

He blinked. Swallowed. Opened his mouth—and couldn’t find the words.

The agent came back, signaling to you to wrap things up.

You cleared your throat and lifted your recorder. "Sentry, can I get a statement on this exciting new team-up?"

Bob opened his mouth, then closed it without saying anything. He did this a couple of times.

Beside him, John Walker elbowed him. "Say something before you embarrass yourself."

Bob coughed. "C-can I see you again?"

Walker winced, shaking his head. Alexei let out a deep chuckle, rubbing his belly as he looked between you and Bob.

You froze, lowering the recorder. Then let out a small, surprised laugh.

"I mean, we don’t have to—" Bob backtracked.

"How’s next Monday?" You cut in.

His eyes lit up. "I’d… I’d like that."

You tore a page from your notebook and scribbled your number. When you handed it to him, he looked at it like it was something rare.

"I do not like her," Yelena muttered, pacing the lounge.

Ava rolled her eyes from where she was sprawled on the couch. "What now?"

"Too pretty."

"I know," Bob mumbled sat in a chair, eyes on the floor. "Why would someone like her want to be with someone like me?"

Walker chuckled, chips halfway to his mouth from the bowl he held in his hand. "Nice going, Yelena."

"What?! No—," Yelena exclaimed, then turned to Bob. "I just don’t want you to get hurt, okay?"

"You can’t protect Bobby from everything, docha," Alexei said with a shrug, stretching out over the other leather sofa. "Even heartbreak is part of every mans journey."

Bob frowned. "Heartbreak...?"

"Oh my God," Bucky groaned, rubbing his temples. "Can you all shut up? They haven’t even gone on one date yet."

He clapped a hand on Bob’s shoulder. "Relax, son. It’ll be okay. Not that im, uh... the poster child for romance, but she doesn't seem like the kind to break your heart."

"Plus, you're an Avenger now." Walker piped up. "Show it off... act like it. If you get what I'm saying."

That gave him reassurance. And enough courage to text you that evening and invite you over.

New tech filled the lab at Stark Tower. Bob was tucked into the far corner, flipping through the worn, half-burned files from Valentina’s vault.

Equations lined the whiteboard in his handwriting. On the table beside him lay pages from Tony Stark’s notebooks, dog-eared and annotated with scribbled notes. Every so often, he muttered to himself, tapping a finger on a page.

"Hydrogen density ratios don’t match…" he murmured, then sighed. "Unless the pressure chamber’s offset by six degrees…"

You smiled at the door. Sentry—the mighty Avenger—looked like a very tired, very nerdy engineering student.

You cleared your throat.

He looked up, startled, then grinned sheepishly. "Oh. Hey. Sorry, I was just… working on something for the team."

"It’s okay. Your friend Walker let me in." You stepped closer, glancing over the papers. "Anything interesting?"

"Sam’s flight suit overheats at high altitudes. I thought Stark’s insulation algorithm might be adaptable."

You nodded slowly. "Wow. That sounded really smart. I wish I understood half of it." You chuckled.

"I can explain it to you," he offered, shrugging. "If… that’s something you want to hear."

"Yeah. Definitely." You bit your lip. "Maybe over pizza, though?" You raised your brow in emphasis.

His eyes lit up as he remembered your date. He shoved away at the papers.

"I didn't forget." He rushed out. "I just got carried—"

You let out a soft chuckle. "Its fine, Bob. You don't have to apologize."

His shoulders dropped with a sigh of relief.

You licked tomato sauce off your fingers. "So, you’re solving cooling issues while the Red Guardian is learning how to post on Instagram?"

"He is?" Bob asked before taking a bite of his peperoni and mushroom slice.

You held out your phone. "He’s live right now. Doing a Q&A."

Bob raised a brow. "Wow. Twenty thousand viewers?"

"They mostly ask him about his workout regimen."

He snorted.

The two of you walked side by side down a quiet Midtown street, the city’s hum distant behind you. Hands jammed into his jeans pockets, he nudged a pebble with the toe of his sneaker now and then. No godly aura. Just… a guy.

You laughed softly as you reached your building. "You’re still the same, you know."

Bob looked down. "I don’t feel the same."

You watched him—how his jaw flexed when he was deep in thought, how his brow furrowed like it always had. "You are. Just taller."

At the door, you turned your key. "Thanks for walking me home."

"Anytime." He lingered, hands still in his pockets. "Can I see you again?"

"I’m heading to D.C. next week for a press conference," you said, before joking. "Wanna fly down to meet me, Sentry?"

He smiled. "I might stop by if I’m in the area." Then he leaned in and kissed your cheek before wishing you a good night.

A knock came from your hotel window.

Sunset spilled across the National Mall in orange, blue, and soft pink. Stepping away from your papers and notes you've collected from the day, you walked over, heart skipping as you spotted him hovering over the balcony, wind in his hair, a shy grin on his face.

You threw open the window. "Oh my god!"

"How was work?" he asked.

Shaking your head, you laughed. "This isn’t real."

"I want to show you something." He held out his hand.

"…Are you serious?"

"Trust me."

You hesitated, then pulled on a jacket and boots before coming back and placing your hand in his.

"If you drop me—"

"I won’t."

With a gust of air, you lifted into the sky, wrapped in his hold. The city dropped away beneath you, a sea of lights and honking horns. Your stomach tensed as your hands gripped his shoulders.

"Don’t let go!"

He laughed above you, the sound vibrating agains your ear, and tightened his hold.

"I won’t, I promise." he said quietly.

He brought you to a rooftop that overlooked the Potomac, the city was wide and glittering in the distance. Wind woodshed around as Bob touched down, setting you down gently.

You whispered. "This is… amazing."

By a rusted AC unit, a picnic blanket was laid out with a paper bag and two bottles of Coke.

"Did you do this?" you asked, sitting beside him, knees brushing.

"Do you like it?"

You peeked into the bag and gasped. "Burgers? This is the most romantic thing that’s ever happened to anyone!"

You took a bite of your burger and moaned. “God, this is good. All i had to eat today was a croissant for breakfast." You turned to him. "You really are a superhero."

He chuckled.

"Im not kidding." You insisted.

"What can I say? I’m setting the bar high."

His smile faltered as he turned and looked out at the horizon. "Still doesn’t feel real."

You wiped around your mouth, lowering the burger in your hand. "Must’ve been a massive adjustment, huh?"

"Sometimes, when everyone’s asleep, I just sit there… waiting to wake up. Like this is a dream."

You blinked, unsure what to say.

"You remember everything now?" You asked.

He nodded. "Bits. Enough. Mostly the bad parts."

You placed a hand on his. "Wanna to talk about it?"

"I should." He hesitated. "My therapist says it’s healthy. But maybe not right now."

You nodded. "Whenever youre ready."

He glanced at you. "I was wondering… when we were kids, how did you handle your dyslexia?"

You leaned back on your palms. "It was hard. People often thought I was lazy. Until I finally went to a school that recognized what having a learning disability means."

His jaw tensed. "Thats not fair. Im sorry."

"It's not so bad." You shrugged with an easy-going smile. "I got creative. Audiobooks helped a lot. Or people reading to me. Like you used to."

He looked at you, something tender in his eyes.

You asked gently, "Where did you disappear to after high school?"

His gaze drifted. "Nowhere good. I tried to… change. To fix myself. But Sentry—he wasnt a good solution. I couldn’t stop the—"

He stopped talking when he realized he was about to say "void" and possibly reveal his dangerous alter ego to you. He wasn't sure how you would react.

"I couldn’t stop the bad times. Until the guys helped me claw my way out."

"Its good you have them," you said softly. "And that you’re here."

He finally looked at you. His eyes were glassy, filled with something wounded and ancient.

"Yeah," he said. "I guess it is."

The two of you sat like that. Talking and watching the city light up the night.

After he flew you gently back to your balcony, Bob touched down with barely a sound, the soles of his sneakers brushing against the floor. The wind tugged at his hoodie, making his hair tousled from the flight.

He stepped back, motioning for you to go inside. But you lingered in the doorway.

"Thanks for tonight," you said, your voice low, carried barely above the breeze.

He smiled, looking down at his shoes. "Anytime."

You hesitated.

Then stepped toward him.

Before he could say another word, you leaned up and kissed him softly.

He froze for a second. His breath caught, sharp and startled.

You wondered if it was a good surprise or a bad one.

But before you could pull away, his hand lifted, finding the small of your back, pulling you gently but firmly closer.

His fingers rose to your jaw, warm against the curve of your neck. His lips softened into yours, gradually going deeper, more certain.

You gasped softly against his mouth as his his thumb traced the edge of your cheekbone. The scent of him, laundry detergent and wind, filled your senses. Your hands found his chest, feeling the muscles and ribs underneath his hoodie.

His hand shot out, bracing against the wall beside your head with a solid thud, his body crowding yours back into the doorway. Your blood roared in your ears.

And then you heard a crack.

You pulled back slightly, breathless. "What was that?"

He glanced at his hand, still pressed to the wall… or rather, into the wall.

A small hand shaped hole had formed beneath his palm—brick flaked and splintered, dust crumbling down.

Bob blinked. "…Shit."

You burst out laughing.

He groaned, dragging a hand down his face. "Great. Smooth. Way to go, Bob."

"You dented my wall!" you exclaimed, but you were still laughing.

"Yeah, well, you kissed me!"

You stared at each other. Then you were both laughing.

You grinned. "Goodnight, Bob."

He stepped back, hovering just off the balcony, the night air catching the hem of his hoodie like wings. His eyes never left yours.

"Goodnight, y/n" he said, voice low and happy.

And then he rose into the sky.

Bob came back to Avengers tower at around two in the morning.

"Where have you been?!" Yelena ran to him in a range, then pulled him into a hug. "Don't just walk off like that without telling us where you're going!"

Bucky leaned against the wall behind her, his face a mixture of disinterest and worry. "She's right. You could have been hurt."

Bob wanted to laugh, he felt like a kid being lectured by his parents, but in a good way. He's never experienced that before.

"Did everyone forget the part where I'm invincible and have superstrength?" Bob patted Yelena on the back as she hugged him, muttering angrily that if she had to tie him to herself, again, she'll do it.

"Yeah, and what about your other version of pops by to say hello again?" Ava walked up to the living room with her hands folded.

His smile dropped. Ava was right. He slowly relearned to control Sentry's powers, but he never learned to control the Void. Hell, he barely understood what the Void even was, and thanks to Valentina, any scientist who may be able to clear that up was dead.

He didn't feel the void resurface as much since becoming an avenger. Even forgetting about him—especially since things were going so well with you.

"Ah, relax and let the kid have some fun, would ya?" Walker strolled out of the kitchen in bunny slippers and civilian clothing, his presence a welcome disruption of the tension. "You did have fun, didn't you, Bobby?"

Bob nodded eagerly, then slowed his movement when he saw Yelena's narrowed eyes. Now was probably not a good time to mention the fact that he got so excited from your kiss that he broke a brick wall with his hand.

"You be careful of pretty girls." She pointed a finger at him, then turned towards the hallway. "Hooligan, you nearly gave me a heart attack."

As his team all dispersed into their rooms, Bob plopped down on the couch. Instead of trying to wake up from a dream, he played with the strings of his hoodie, smiling as he thought of your laugh.

"But you already wrote that trope."

Heyy! I loved Academia with Damian Wayne!!! I would love to read more (at your convenience, of course). You write really well! 🩷🎀

Aaaaa! Thank you, thank you, thank you! 🤗

I think as far as Academia, I could write an Epilogue?

But incould also just switch directions and write more plots with more villains... im not sure yet 😅

Spice & Secrets

Masterlist

Pairing: Constantine Corrino x (f)reader

Tags: NSFW, Childhood Friends to Lovers, Mutual Pining, Slow Burn Romance, Betrayal of Duty vs. Love, Angst, Yearning, Power Dynamics, Politics, reader is a bene gesserit, first time,

This chapter takes place roughly throughout the first episode.

Prologue

You knew each other as children growing up in House Corrino. Back then, conversations of the Butlerian Jihad and the spice trade passed through your ears without a second thought. The three of you were playmates: Constantine, the emperor’s bastard son, his younger sister Ynez, the princess and heir to the throne, and you, the daughter of the household's headservants.

You and Constantine always sought each other. Your parents were well-respected by the Corrinos and established themeselves as head servants of the great House, allowing you to accompany the royal children in their studies.

Each time you heard a funny joke in school, you'd glance at him, eager to see his knowing smirk. Every time the two of you were caught being noisy, his golden eyes would find yours, laughing at your shared trouble.

In your younger years, you loved picking flowers for your mother, always dragging Constantine along to the gardens with you. It’s how you earned the nickname "Flower" from him.

In a way, he had always been your defender. One of the noble boys in the court, a brute named Colin would always victimize you. Whenever the kids played, you'd always say something strange and be the first to get picked on.

One day, Constantine had overheard one such jab coming from Colin and his friends. He stood in front of you, shielding you from them and staring them down, he said. "Leave her alone."

Collin was taken aback, forcing a laugh to make it look like all good fun. Since that day, the teases relented.

Your future seemed secure, bound to the service of House Corrino.

Until one day, an elderly Bene Gesserit named Ella recognized a curiosity in you. A skill that could be honed, refined, and weaponized.

One afternoon, while you were playing in the gardens, your mother pulled you aside. She spoke calmly, telling you not to be afraid. You followed her quietly as she led you through the palace halls. The next thing you knew, you found yourself alone in a dark room, staring at a woman whose face was hidden by robes. Confused, you turned, seeking your mother-

"Face me."

The command rang out through you, and without thinking, you obeyed, turning to face the old woman. Your heart raced in your chest.

"Kneel."

A cold command that your body obeyed without hesitation. Kneeling, you stared at the woman, fear coiling in your stomach.

With the calm tone of authority, she spoke. "Put your hand in the box."

She revealed a small, dark box, and as the room seemed to shrink around you, your mind screamed to pull away, but your body remained frozen.

An hour of excruciating pain later, you were escorted out, trembling. You’d survived the Gom Jabbar trial, but the experience had changed you, though you couldn’t understand how. The pain had been unbearable, but you’d managed to endure by thinking differently. It felt… strangely empowering.

That evening, Constantine noticed you seemed different.

"Where were you?" he asked, sitting across from you at the supper table.

You hesitated before telling him about the ordeal.

He looked horrified by thr time you finished your story. "Did you tell your mother she hurt you?"

"I think she knows," you replied, giving him a look that looked unsure.

"We should tell Father." His eyes flared with concern, his voice tightening.

You bit your lip, trying to calm the anxiety that was growing inside you.

“That woman hurt you!” His words were filled with disgust.

"I think she meant well," you said softly, but doubt twisted. "I don't know why, but I think it happened for a reason."

That night, after dinner, your mother pulled you aside once more. The Bene Gesserit had already made their decision, and you were sent away to the school on Wallach IX, tearing you from House Corrino and from Constantine.

Constantine was heartbroken. For an entire month, he kept asking about you.

"Wallach IX is in a nearby galaxy," he cried, clutching a map. "We can go rescue her!"

"She does not need rescuing," his mother, Francesca, soothed, brushing his hair gently. "She's studying to become a great woman. Who will protect herself. And you."

"But that woman hurt her!" He yelled at Francesca, his young eyes filled with hatred for the unknown woman who had taken you away.

"She’ll be fine," Francesca said calmly. "Trust me."

Despite her reassurances, Constantine couldn’t forget. Every day without you felt unbearable. His heart ached, and his mind raced with thoughts of you. He wished he wasn't a bastard.

He wished he were in line for the throne. Then, he would never let his loved ones be taken away from him. Then, he would be in control.

Meanwhile, you rebelled against your training. You refused to listen, deliberately failing your lessons, hoping they would send you back.

"You need to learn these things, child," mother Tula Harkonnen said after you cursed her out for commanding you to practice a basic mental defense tactic. "To protect yourself."

"I don’t want to protect myself." You crossed your arms stubbornly, refusing to meet her eyes.

Valya, the mother superior, watched you closely. Her gaze pierced you, reading every subtle movement.

"And what of protecting those you love?" she asked, voice steady. "What about him?"

The words hit you like a bolt.

"Young Constantine," Valya continued, her eyes never leaving yours. "The Emperor’s first born. The one you can’t stop thinking about. Dreaming about. The reason you want to return so badly. Do you care for his safety?"

The mention of his name made you worry. You could only blink. "Don’t touch him." You said steadily.

Valya and her sisters engaged a meaningful look before turning back to you.

"Then you must learn." Valya's voice softened, but her command remained clear. "Learn to protect him."

Years had passed, and you excelled at your studies. By the age of fifteen, you had become one of the best in your class. Your motivation stemmed from that day when Valya advised you to protect the ones you loved. To protect Constantine.

One morning, as you sat at the library with your sisters, an imperial delegation passed through the halls. You recognized the House Corrino sigil on the gards uniform immediately.

All motion slowed around you as the delegation walked by. You craned your neck to see behind the guards, trying to make out who was visiting.

You were met with the sight of a young man in imperial royal uniform, his curly brown hair falling over tanned skin. Familiar golden eyes flicked playfully toward the other girls in the room, who flushed and turned away.

Beside him stood a pale, thin girl, her brown hair mirroring his.

Your heart skipped. You didn’t even think before the words slipped from your lips. "Oh God. Princess. Your Highness!"

The delegation halted. The girl, Ynez, turned toward you, her eyes wide with recognition.

"God," She hurried forward, wrapping you in a tight embrace.

Before you could say anything, Valya’s sharp voice cut through the air. "After me, Princess."

Ynez pulled away, clearly annoyed. "This is my childhood playmate! I haven’t seen her in years-"

"We must make haste." Valya’s tone was imperious.

Ynez shot you one last glance before reluctantly following the mother superior.

"Flower," a familiar voice called softly from behind you.

Your heart raced as you turned.

"Constantine," you whispered, your voice breaking slightly.

He stood there, taller, sharper, his boyish charm now replaced with the beginnings of a handsome young man. But his golden eyes still carried the same pain.

"You look... changed." His eyes roamed over you in wonder. "Can we go somewhere private?" he asked, his eyes sweeping the room, offering a smile to the girls surrounding you.

Outwardly, you projected a demure smile, but inwardly, your pulse quickened. Your skin itched with the urge to touch him, to hold him close in a hug that could convey all the apologies and confessions you’d carried with you over the years.

"Yes, please come with me." You stood from the lunch table and led him away, hearing murmurs and whispers rise behind you as you walked.

Down an empty hall, you reached for his hand instinctively. His fingers interlaced with yours, and the contact sent a jolt of warmth through you, like sparks of electricity. You couldn’t help but squeeze his hand, a small giggle bubbling up inside you, threatening to escape.

Once in an empty classroom, Constantine told his guards to stay outside, then turned to face you. Before you could react, he pulled you into his arms. You hesitated only for a moment before wrapping your arms around him tightly. He towered over you, and you fit perfectly beneath him, feeling the steady rise and fall of his chest against yours.

"I missed you," he whispered, his breath uneven, the words tumbling out in a soft, desperate rhythm. "I missed you, I missed you."

You swallowed the lump in your throat, pulling away just enough to look at him. His golden eyes were full of intensity, affection pouring from them as he gazed down at you, still holding you close.

Your hand lifted, brushing gently against his cheek, your fingers tracing his face. "You grew your teeth back," you said softly, a fond smile tugging at your lips as you remembered his funny smile when he was still losing his baby teeth.

A playful glint sparked in his eyes as his brow quirked. "You learned to clean up your boogers," he teased.

A laugh bubbled out of you, and your body shook against his chest. "I missed you, Costa."

He pulled back just enough to look at you more seriously, his eyes scanning you for any signs of distress, as if looking for the aftermath of the pain he knew you'd endured. "How have they been treating you?" he asked, his tone laced with concern.

"I'm alright," you reassured him, your voice steady. It was true enough. The training had been difficult at times, but now you were learning to control your emotions and nerves, just as all Bene Gesserit were trained to do. "Really, I'm doing very well."

His hand cupped your wrist, pulling your fingers back to his face, and he leaned into your touch. "I want you back home," he murmured, his voice soft yet heavy with something more. Something desperate, you could feel it in the way his breath hitched, how his grip on you tightened. The happiness in his voice mirrored your own. You wanted to go home too, more than anything.

Your chest tightened, a hollow ache in your stomach. You wanted to ask him everything. To tell him all the things you hadn’t shared in years. "I graduate in a couple of years," you said, swallowing against the tightness in your throat. "Then I’ll be assigned to a great house as a truthsayer."

"Can you choose where?" His voice was laced with hope, but also something darker. Possessive, perhaps.

No. You couldn’t choose. But they would assign you based on what they thought you were best suited for. The Mother Superior would decide.

You shook your head. "The Reverend Mother chooses for us."

Constantine’s jaw tightened, his frustration flickering. "I want you home," he repeated, this time with more force. The command in his voice sent a shiver down your spine. "By my side."

You felt the weight of his words press against you, pulling at your chest. "What happened, Costa?" you asked softly, trying to make sense of the change in him, hoping his response would give you some clarity.

He sighed deeply, and you could hear the weariness in the sound. "It's nothing," he said quickly, but there was an edge to his words. "Just... watching the world move on around me as I do all the work while my little sister is raised to inherit the throne."

Ah. His vulnerability stemmed from his illegitimacy. The realization came quickly, but before you could give it more thought, you caught yourself. You were thinking like a Bene Gesserit again, analyzing him clinically. You pushed the thought aside.

"Perhaps you should look at it differently," you suggested gently, meeting his gaze. "Enjoy the freedom that comes with your birthright."

He blinked, his golden eyes considering your words in silence. You could see the wheels turning in his mind, but you didn’t yet know the weight those thoughts would carry, how much they would shape his path in the years to come.

"But for now," you added with a smile, "someone needs to look out for your sister."

That seemed to break through his thoughts. Constantine smirked, that familiar, easygoing smile returning. "Just promise me one thing," he said, his voice light but serious.

You nodded, waiting for him to speak.

"Don’t value the Sisterhood above all else."

You froze. His words hung in the air, heavy with meaning. It was a request you weren’t sure you could fulfill. A promise you didn’t know if you could keep.

But you didn’t answer right away. You only gazed up at him, the weight of his words pressing against the boundaries of your heart.

You blinked at him.You could feel his presence in a way that was deeper than before, his warmth radiating into your chest. Your hand lingered on his cheek, your thumb tracing the contours of his face as if memorizing the feel of him.

You caught the crease of his forehead - worry lines.

Then youd picked up a hunch to his shoukders - a courtecy of spending lots of time writing, or reading, or strategizing.

There was a slight bulk to him and caluses on his palms - he's intensified his combat training.

"When did you become such a grown up?" You asked.

He broke into a chuckle. "I’ve missed that sharp wit most of all," he murmured, his voice breaking the silence.

A soft laugh escaped your lips. "I’ve missed you too, Costa. More than you know."

The sound of footsteps echoed from the hallway. Constantine stepped back, his hands reluctantly leaving your body. You couldn’t help the pang of disappointment in the absence of his touch.

"I should go," he said, his voice losing a bit of the warmth it had held just moments before. "They’ll be expecting me."

Chapter 1

Years had passed again. Your duties as a Bene Gesserit trainee had been demanding, but you fulfilled them with perfection.

At twenty-one, you were now a full-fledged Bene Gesserit sister.

Your transformation was striking. The soft, girlish features of your youth had been replaced with sharp, elegant lines. Hollowed cheeks and a refined jaw gave your face a mature look. Your movements were careful and deliberate. Each step, each turn of your head, is calculated to command attention. The art of cosmetics and aesthetic was second nature now, and your training in the weirding way had honed your body into a lithe, disciplined instrument.

You accompanied a delegation of Spacing Guild representatives to Seleusa Secundus. The great houses gathered hosted by House Corrino to celebrate the princesses' betrothal. The celebrations of the first night were in full swing.

The occasion called for blending in, and your attire reflected it. You wore a sleeveless black gown with a structured corset of shimmering silk, its golden threads weaving spice-inspired patterns down the bodice before cascading into skirts that swirled around your feet. A high slit revealed glimpses of toned legs as you walked. Your hair was braided and pinned like a halo, with loose tendrils framing your face. Gold-dusted shadows and dark liner enhanced the sharpness of your eyes, and your lips glistened with a subtle, golden sheen. Long gloves stretched past your elbows, completing the picture of poised sophistication.

Playing your role, you walked through the grand halls with hands folded and chin high, a display of both power and vulnerability, a subtle invitation to admire the curve of your neck and the gleam of your collarbones. Your half-lidded gaze swept the crowd, offering brief flickers of attention.

The palace was just as you remembered. Its Greek-inspired architecture and opulent displays of fountains, tapestries, and priceless artifacts were all a testament to House Corrino's wealth and pride. You scanned the crowd, your eyes catching a glimpse of your mother speaking to a servant. A pang of familiarity struck, but you couldn’t approach her now. You had a mission to complete.

At your sister Lila's subtle hand gesture, you slipped away from the delegation, descending into the palace's lower levels. This was where secrets were whispered, and it was your job to listen.

The revelry below was a world apart from the formal elegance above. Young royals and aristocrats surrounded themselves with exotic animals, dancers, and indulgent laughter. Music filled the air, its rhythm almost intoxicating.

You spotted Princess Ynez first, entwined with a man whose face you didn’t recognize, one thing you knew for certain was that he was not her betrothed. The softness of her gaze and the closeness of their bodies spoke volumes. Your curiosity piqued, and you strained to catch fragments of their whispered exchange.

But then you heard a laugh familiar and full of mischief. Your sister Hera.

You turned, ready to ask what's so important that she left her post when your gaze followed hers.

Your composure slipped.

Constantine Corrino lounged on a golden bench, radiating effortlessly. He was surrounded by young nobles, some familiar and others new. Among them, Colin, his old training partner who had once tormented you, laughed loudly, a drink in hand.

Constantine commanded your attention. He had grown into a man who seemed sculpted by the gods themselves. His open shirt revealed a broad, muscled chest, and his powerful legs were clad in tailored trousers that accentuated his athletic frame. Gold adorned his hands and neck, catching the firelight and making him appear otherworldly.

He leaned back, his golden eyes fluttering closed as his head tipped against a pillow, his fingers randomly strumming the strings of a balliset. The sight of his tongue darting out to taste the lips of the girl on his lap sent a strange warmth through you. Her lack of wardrobe made her job obvious, but it was the slow, deliberate kiss they shared that held your gaze.

You pressed your thighs together, your breathing shallow. His hand moved to her waist, his fingers gripping her with an intimacy that made your cheeks burn.

Then you saw it.

A small pill balanced on her tongue as it dipped into his mouth.

Your eyes widened, and before you could think better of it, you stepped toward him.

"Your Highness!" Your voice cut through the revelry, louder than intended.

The couple broke apart, both sets of eyes turning to you. The surrounding nobles followed suit, their gazes heavy with expectation.

Recognition dawned in Constantine’s eyes, followed by a flicker of surprise and something deeper as his gaze roamed your figure.

You forced yourself to focus. "Your Highness, that woman wants to drug you. She's hiding a pill in her mouth."

The courtesan laughed. Then Constantine joined her, his voice deep and mocking.

"This would be the fourth time tonight," he drawled, his smile a sharp blade.

"You knew," you whispered, the realization hitting you like a blow.

Constantine turned to Colin. "Do you remember little Y/N?"

"Of course I knew." He laughed, leaning back lazily. I’m not as defenseless as you think."

Embarrassed, you focused on not letting the blood flow to your cheeks and give away your shame.

Colin’s drunken grin widened as he took you in. "Holy shit, flower? Where have they been hiding you?"

You ignored him, offering a respectful bow to the emperor's bastard. "Forgive my interruption."

You turned to leave, but Constantine’s voice halted you.

"You’re not dismissed." His tone was sharp, commanding. You paused, turning back slowly to meet his gaze. The playful air around him had shifted into something heavier, darker.

The courtesan curled herself around him, trailing her lips along his neck as he stared you down.

"With all due respect, Your Highness, is there something you require of me?" Your voice was sweet, but the steel beneath it was unmistakable.

Constantine lifted the woman off his lap and rose, his height forcing you to tilt your chin to meet his eyes. He stepped closer, his presence overwhelming.

"Walk with me." He smiled.

You swallowed hard. "As you wish."

You followed Constantine down the hall, your ears straining to catch snippets of conversation from the crowd you’d left behind. Each whisper and muttered word held the potential for valuable intel, and though you knew rumors would spread about this moment, you also knew Constantine’s reputation would absorb most of the shock. His scandals were too numerous to surprise anyone anymore.

A subtle hand gesture behind your back signaled to your sister, who was stationed across the room, that she shouldn’t follow. Whatever this was, you’d handle it alone.

The hall narrowed, the opulent sounds of revelry fading into muffled echoes. You’d barely taken a step into the darkened space when his hand circled your waist, pulling you abruptly against the cool stone wall. The unexpected movement forced a gasp from your lips.

Before you could react, his mouth was on yours.

The kiss was a confession—desperate, hungry, and unrelenting. His hands framed your face, his body pressing into yours as though he could anchor himself in your presence. Your training told you to push him away, but your heart betrayed you, your fingers finding their way to the nape of his neck.

For a moment, you let yourself burn in his fire.

But it couldn’t last.

"Constantine," you breathed, pulling back just enough to break the kiss. Your face ws flushed, and your thoughts were in disarray. "I’m working."

"I don’t care." he said, his voice thick with intoxication. His golden eyes searched yours, raw and unguarded. "You stopped writing to me. Why?"

Your lips parted, but the words caught in your throat. How could you explain? How could you even begin? You thought of the courtesan on his lap mere moments ago, her hands all over him, and jealousy flared hot in your chest. But before you could reply, his lips found yours again, more insistent this time.

"Who taught you how to kiss?" he murmured against your mouth, the question both curious and accusatory.

You hesitated, your silence more telling than any answer could be.

His voice darkened. "Was it one of your sisters?"

You didn’t respond, but the truth hung heavily between you. Bene Gesserit taught everything. How to seduce, to manipulate, to control. And intimacy was no exception.

His eyes narrowed, his gaze searching. "Are you a virgin?"

A shy shake of your head was your only answer.

His shoulders dropped, his breath hitching. "Your first time was supposed to be with me." The admission was low and hoarse, as though dragged from the depths of him by whatever drug coursed through his veins. His lips brushed your neck, and his hands slid down to your hips, pulling you impossibly closer. His body was a furnace, his heat searing through the fabric of your gown.

"I was supposed to show you pleasure," he whispered, his words half promise, half regret.

A soft moan escaped your lips despite yourself. "If… if you were, you’d be the first," you confessed, your voice barely above a whisper.

He froze, his gaze snapping to yours. "You mean… you’ve never?" His voice was filled with both disbelief and something far darker.

You shook your head again, a blush creeping up your neck.

The look in his eyes turned molten, a hunger you’d never seen before consuming his features. It made you shiver.

Slowly, he lowered his lips to your neck, kissing your throat. The sensation both tickeling and deliciously sensitive. His lips painted your neck with kisses. Instead of hunching lower to reach your collarbones, he picked you up, holding you above himself against the wall the two of you fitting like a puzzle. Your fingers curled around his locks as you whispered. "Dont leave marks."

He snorted. "There are women who'd consider it a privelige to have my 'marks' on them."

"You didnt offer me privilege." You whispered, as your hands glided over the ridges of his muscular back. "You offered me pleasure."

He snorted at that. "Oh its like that." Before his free hand lowered to the slit in your skirt, cupping your sex, and applying preassure on your clit. Your breath hitched and you grounded your hips against him. He obliged you with more pleasant strokes before releasing you back to stand on your feet. Before you could ask why, he kneeled in front of you, wasting no time and setting aside your skirt and tasting you. His tongue played a game. Circling your clit in slow moves before eagerly licking it woth more pressure. He did this again and again, occasionally dipping into your opening. You held your moans, suppressing them to a volume only the two of you could hear. "Costa, please-"

He moaned against you. The vibration sent a delicious shudder throughout your body. You felt the start of a warmth in the pit of your lower belly. Never recalling such a feeling before, you enjoyed the new sensation. "Costa... I... I feel -"

He silemced you without saying a word. His finger sliding into your core, brushing your nerves inside as his tongue continued its assault. You shook with the overwhelming sensation you'd read about so many times. Many emotions stormed within you. Disbelief, ecstasy, guilt.

That's when your vision went red. Burning. All you could feel was burning. A suffocating pain all over your skin. And a pair of blue eyes staring at you as you died.

"Y/n... Y/n!" A voice urgedn, anchoring you back to reality.

You blinked, you vision showing you a worried Constantine watching you. He cupped your face in his hands, his eyes searched yours, widened with worry.

"Flower, what's wrong? What just happened to you?" He asked, and for a moment, you saw the boy you once knew. Filled with honesty and love.

"It isn't safe here." You breathed, coming down from your vision. "Where are you guards, you must go to your room."

"What?" He asked in disbelief. "Are you fucking kidding me? What just happened to you? Was it one of those weird bene gesserit mind tricks?"

"I can't explain right now." You shook your head, running your hands over your dress, smoothing it. And cleaning up your hair. "I have to go."

"What? Back to your sisters? The ones drugging you and fucking up your mind?"

"Constantine-" You began, urging him to see the seriousness of the situation.

"No, go on." He waved you off, already walking out into the party. "You're going to do it anyway."

Workplace

Next Chapter

Pairing: Dick Grayson/Nightwing x (f)reader

Tags: NSFW, secret identity, vigilante reader, office romance, fingering, kissing, biting, wounds, penetration, slightly toxic Dick Grayson,

"Holy shit, y/n?" A gruff voice called your name from across the police station. You turned away from your papers and in the direction the address was coming from, meeting a bloodshot wild gaze of a man who looked around your age. You didn't recognize the man, who was currently being escorted into a cell.

You didn't respond, assuming he confused you with someone else. He called you again, though. "Y/n! It's Spencer Van! We were in the fifth grade together-"

You met his crazy gaze again, raising your brow in question.

"Ms. Strums class!" He added.

You blinked, recalling the name of your fifth grade teacher. You began to recognize him. And your mouth twisted in disgust. You didn't remember much, other than him being a piece of shit; bullying the smarter kids, and constantly interrupting your teacher during class. Not someone worth remembering.

Your grimace didn't deter him, though, as his gaze slowly studied you up and down. You began to regret your earlier decision to discard your blazer when his gaze landed on the undone top buttons of your blouse.

You hated going to the police station for this exact reason. The staff were nice, but the people they brought in... different story.

"Damn," Spencer groaned, his tongue sliding across his teeth. "You grew up gorgeous."

The blood drained from your face, and you felt nauseous. Now definitely swallowing bile. Detectives and staff were looking between you two as you took in a steadying breath and tried to avoid glaring at him.

"You like me like this?" Spencer continued, grinning a dirty, crooked smile and wiggling his eyebrows suggestively. "You like seeing me in handcuffs?-"

Before he finished his sentence, he was brutally shoved into the cell. The sound of the slam echoing throughout the station.

The detective who shut him up, Dick Grayson, stood towering, muscular, and gorgeous in his uniform, and your secret crush on him only grew. Grayson barely broke a sweat while Spencer bounced off the wall and was now wheezing, struggling to get back up.

"You son of a bitch-" Spencer choked. "You fucking broke my rib!"

"Yeah?" Dick challenged. "Press charges after you're done serving ten years for drug trafficking. Prick." Then he slammed the cell door shut.

The rest of the room fell back into routine, the sounds of phone calls, walkies, filing papers, and conversations filling the air once more.

Grateful for the change in pase, you returned to your documents.

"Ms. L/n, are you alright?" A low masculine voice you instantly recognized spoke behind you. You turned to see the detective. Sharp features and ocean-colored eyes pierced through your thoughts, catching you off guard. Your breath hitch at his size towering over you, while the smell of beachy cologne invaded your senses. His uniform hugged his body so well that you could almost see the defined muscle under the material.

"Yeah, thanks for shutting him up." You stammered, your shoulders rising slightly.

"Im sorry I didn't do it sooner." He frowned, his gaze flicking to Spencer, who still groaned in his cell.

You gathered your files. "Should we sit down to look over the Falcone case?"

"Yes, right." Dick gestured for you to take a seat at his desk. It was the only one in the room that wasn't covered in a million papers. Just his computer, a notepad, pen, and calculator lined up against each other in a tidy order, with a half finished cup of coffee sat on the corner. "Can I get you anything? Coffee? Water?"

You shook your head. "Is there somewhere private we can talk?" Then, at his raised brow, you rushed to add. "I'll need to share some sensifitive information."

He nodded in understanding and got up, leading you down the hall. Your heels clicked behind him as he opened the door to a meeting room lined with shelves. A single table and two chairs sat in the middle of it, illuminated by warm toned lights. The noise died down as he shut the door before pulling out your chair for you to sit.

He spoke up as you sat down. "Late nights at the DA's office, huh?"

You blinked, trying your best to look confused, also trying to cover the blush on your cheeks. "N-no. Why do you ask?"

He shrugged, offering you his signature joking smile. "According to our email exchanges, you were originally supposed to come here yesterday. I was just curious why the last-minute change. I've got a very busy schedule today."

"Im sorry," you shook your head, rushing. "I just... I wasn't feeling well."

"Oh no." Dick said, his brow creasing.

His tone of worry hid a chuckle that was desperately trying to escape. You were such a bad liar. "I'm glad you're feeling better then."

"Yes, well," you took your seat, pulling out a series of photographs from your folder and placing them on the table for him to see. "Falcone met with the owner of MacKenzie Buildings in his club two nights ago."

Dick made a big show of studying the photographs, which he took himself two nights ago. "Hmmm."

You continued. "Yesterday, as you know, MacKenzie was found dead in his apartment."

Dick nodded along to your words, picking up a photograph to study it closer before frowning. His brows furrowed as he looked at the picture. "How'd you get these? Did you hire a P.I.?"

"Not exactly." You lowered your voice, eyeing the locked door behind you.

When you turned around, his blue gaze was narrowed at you. Questioning.

"I'd like to keep the source confidential."

Two nights ago.

"I need to go use the ladies' room." You spoke over the music before getting off your date's lap. He grinned and nodded, barely acknowledging you as he was distracted with a pair of women dancing on a tabletop.

You matched with the man on a hookup app an hour ago, suggesting this club to meet up, and he was more than happy to go - probably thinking he was going to get lucky.

In reality, it was just a cover.

As soon as you walked off the main floor, you headed for the back of the club and out to an alleyway behind the building. Unwrapping a bandana from your wrist, you tied it around your face, hiding all of it, save for your eyes.

Taking quiet steps in your combat boots on the gravel, you grasped at the bag slung across your shoulder as you spotted your opening. With a running start, you jumped up, grabbed onto the ladder, and began to climb.

Nightwing followed you for the fourth week in a row. This time, your escapades brought you to Falcone's nightclub, with some creep who wouldn't stop running his hands over the open back of your corset top. Dick had half a mind to knock him out there and then each time you stiffened from his hand, brushing your skin.

Wearing an all-black outfit which helped you blend in, you hiked your makeshift mask covering your face. You used the railings to scale your way up the roof with practiced ease. Either gymnastics or calisthenics - if Dick had to guess. Either that, or the mandatory self-defense classes at Gotham Law had incorporated parkour into the syllabus. Brushing his chin with his fingers, he perched casually on a nearby rooftop.

Silently lifting yourself up and positioning yourself on a rooftop that overlooked a large window, behind which Falcone and his men were gathered around a table. Dick watched you pull out a camera from your bag and begin to snap pictures. Like you were some kind of private investigator.

Dick watched patiently. He's seen you do this several times now. He was curious where this was heading this night.

Silence and the howl of wind replaced the club’s thumping bass, and for a moment, you felt utterly alone - until you heard the faintest shuffle above.

Instantly, you rolled out of the way just as a fist came down to the spot where you just were. You got up, hid your camera in your bag, and assessed the assailant. Only one. Good. That you can handle.

You dodged the following blow as well, dropping to your hands and swiping your leg under both of his, knocking him off balance. He went down fast, and you took out the taser you always had in your pocket, bringing it to his neck and activating it until his body began to shake. You held it long enough for him to pass out. Then, you held your hand to his neck, making sure you found his pulse, ensuring he was still alive before you walked on, taking your camera back out.

As you continued snapping the pictures, what you didn't see were the two other bodyguards approaching you on the roof.

Good thing Nightwing did.

Out of nowhere, you were grabbed around your waist and flung onto a higher up rooftop, and away from the meeting. "Hey!-"

"Quiet." A deep voice orderer in your ear.

When you two landed on another rooftop, you stumbled and caught yourself on the rubble. You turned around, facing your new assailant.

Momentary shock took over as you were met with THE Nightwing. The protector of bludhaven, glowering down at you with a disappointed look under his mask.

"Nightwing!" You choke out.

"The one and only." He confirmed.

You've never seen him in person, never mind standing inches away from him. Your initial shock wore off to make room for anger of your own. "Look... thank you for saving me, but I don't need your help."

He smirked like you just made a joke, then gestured behind you, tilted his chin. "Turn around."

Tentatively, you turned and faced the street, away from him.

"Look down, down at the alleyway." He said. "See those guys patrolling outside the club with their M16's?"

You strained your eyes, trying to see what he was referring to. "No..."

"Exactly." He came to stand side to side with you, taking something out or his utility belt and holding it up to you. Upon initial inspection, you concluded it was a lens of some sort, and you brought it up to your eye. The lens did show a pair of bodies walking back and forth behind a brick wall. Heat sensors.

Embarrased, you handed him the lens. You took a breath, steadying yourself under his intense gaze. Heart pounding, you wondered why his presence felt just as dangerous as comforting.

"It sucks. Doing what I do. Not everyone can." He said.

"I'm not trying to do what you do." You defended yourself. "I'm no vigilante."

"Why do you need these pictures?"

You follow his gaze down to the camera clutched in your hands. "That's confidential,"

He then stood face to face with you. Or rather, face to chest with his frame dwarfing you. "Are you a P.I.?"

"No." You huffed, hoping your raised brow will stop any more questions. "Thank you for saving me. See you around." Then you hopped down the rails and to the ground.

You pushed open the door to your apartment, stepping in still in your club clothing. The corset top was dirty and pulled out of your leather tights, which tore at some point during your escapades, and your feet were in immeasurable pain from walking in those boots all night. You were tired as you tossed your keys into a bowl and locked the door.

A man cleared his throat behind you. "So this is where you live," Nightwing stepped into your living room.

Your voice hitched, and you jumped, rushing to switch on your lights. You stumble over your heals and nearly fall. He caught you around your waist and stabilized you.

"What were you doing at Falcone's club?" He asked, eyes searching your apartment.

"Did you follow me?" You asked, tone incredulous.

"Didn't have to," he pulled up a piece of paper and held it to you.

Your eyes widened. "Is that my car insurance?"

"Mhmm," he nodded, walking to your kitchen and flipping through the papers on your counter. "Pro tip: when you go on patrol, don't bring ID. Otherwise, the mask becomes obsolete." He grinned and picked up an envelope. "Ah cute, your children's hospital donation went through."

You snatched the envelope from his hand. "Give me that! And get out of my house!"

He tisked and shook his head. "Not before you tell me when you were doing following Falcone."

"I- I already told you-"

"You told me fuck all." He interrupted. "Now, I know exactly who you are, miss. L/N I know everyone you've ever met and how to find them. Easily."

He stalked closer, the shadows of your dimly lit room casting sharp angles on his face. “Now ill ask you one more tim. What were you doing at Falcone’s club?” His voice was low, the threat behind it unmistakable, and for a moment, you wondered if Nightwing was as dangerous as the people he fought.

You gulped, straightening your neck. "Look, nightasshole-"

He snorted.

"You're breaking and entering." You continued. "I could call the cops on you."

He grinned, wondering if he should let you, only for his phone ring when you dialed. Then, he set the idea aside. "That building you were on when you were snapping your pictures belongs to Falcone. You were on private property without permission. I'm sure a lawyer would know what the name for that is,"

Your shoulders sagged as you lowered your gaze. "Trespassing."

"Very good." He said. "So go ahead and place that call, y/n." He shrugged. "Tell them that Nightwing, identity unknown, address unknown, broke and entered into your house." You approached you, his tone sharpening. "Meanwhile, I'll place my own call. About Y/n L/n, from apartment 2a on 21 Nelson rd. For trespassing on Carmine Falcone’s private property. We'll see how long you get to keep your license."

Your eyes widened in shock. Would he really ruin your career over this? And all of a sudden, the mantle of "protector" became subjective in your mind. You swallowed nervously, regarding him with unease.

In a sudden move, you raised your knee, aiming straight for his groin, hoping to take him by surprise.

He was way ahead of you, and he dodged your knee along with the follow up attacking from your punches and kicks.

You were backed up against the wall, one of his hands easily held both your wrists above your head.

"Cute," he murmured, his voice mockingly soft, as though you're struggling amused him. "Should I be insulted that you think you can fight off Blüdhaven’s ‘protector’? Those defense classes they make you lawyers take get worse and worse each year -"

You collided your forehead with his nose.

"Shit!" He swore, then huffed a laugh, raising his free hand to wipe at the trickle of blood trickling from his nose, and looked down at his hand. The distraction you hoped for wasn't effective as you struggled against his hold, which was rock solid.

"I think you broke my nose." He said as a matter of factly. "How's your head?"

"Fine!" You snapped at him, fighting to keep your vision from blurring at the edges. That was the wrong angle to use, you thought, cursing yourself for forgetting the lessons you got from your self-defense training.

"Yeah?" He sounded doubtful. "Not throbbing anywhere? Like over here," he gave a gentle tap to your temple.

"Ow!" The point he pressed shot excruciating pain throughout your head, and your vision blurred even more.

"Yeah, valiant effort on your part." He commented, his voice growing more and more muffled as you struggled to... to...

He snapped his fingers in front of your eyes. "Hey, hey, no. No falling asleep. You gave yourself a concussion."

"Get... out of my home," you slurred.

"Can't do that either." He sighed. "I'd be leaving you for dead." He grinned. "That wouldn't be very heroic of me."

Well, this is certainly the most creative way he had to keep a woman up all night, Dick thought to himself, bringing the smelling salts up to your nose.

"Ah, christ!" You exclaimed, jerking away from the violent stench. "Why do you even have these with you?"

"You'd be surprised how often head injuries can occur in my line of work." He explained, putting them away. "I've had to keep myself awake after a lot of brawls."

You nodded, eyeing him wearily. It was so odd how casual he was acting about this entire situation. You felt like you were a prisoner in your own home, with him as a friendly warden.

"How's your nose?" You asked, your hands rubbing your temples to try and ease the pain.

"Eh," he shrugged, looking at his reflection on your phone. "I've had worse."

He demanded on staying until he confirmed you were better. When the throbbing stopped, he did a quick assessment of your vitals using some kind of gadget you've never seen before.

The following afternoon, you came back to a package resting on the pile of mail on your kitchen counter.

There was a note on top, scrawled in sharp, hurried letters: "Thank me later."

Suspecting who it might be from, you carefully turned the folder over, spilling its contents—a stack of photos showing Carmine Falcone in a close conversation with Owen MacKenzie, the owner of MacKenzie Buildings.

Present Day

"Let me guess," Dick said, arms crossed as he leaned against his desk. "You’re suggesting there’s a connection between MacKenzie’s death and his meeting with Falcone."

You nodded. "Just speculation for now, but it’s no secret Falcone’s been after those developments. I think he made MacKenzie an offer he didn’t like, and the next day…"

Dick’s gaze narrowed, his fingers tapping idly against the edge of his desk. "So, what do you need from me?”

"You have access to the autopsy report," you replied, leaning forward. "If we can prove it was murder we can keep those properties out of Falcone’s hands.”

He studied you, scratching his head. "That’s making a lot of assumptions."

“Which is why I came to you,” you pressed, holding his gaze.

He raised a brow, lips quirking in mild amusement.

"If we’re right, we could keep dozens of families from getting pushed out onto the streets," you said, more earnestly.

After a long beat, Dick sighed and nodded. "I’ll see what I can do."

Later That Night

Either that concussion affected your memory, or it dulled your self-preservation instincts, Dick mused as he watched you. He couldn't fathom why you kept diving headfirst into life-threatening situations.

You climbed the scaffolding at an abandoned construction site, slipping past rusted barriers until you reached the eighth floor. Perched on a narrow ledge, you crept toward a makeshift office in the corner. Little more than a desk and chair surrounded by half-finished walls. Kneeling, you pulled out a lock-picking set and made quick work of the drawer, glancing over your shoulder once before opening it.

A low chuckle sounded behind you. "Not a shred of self-preservation in that cute little body."

You jumped, heart pounding, and spun around to find Nightwing leaning casually against a support column, arms crossed over his chest.

"God," you muttered, trying to steady your breathing, "I thought you were a -"

"Bad guy?" He chuckled, tilting his head. "What exactly would you have done if i was?"

"Maybe tase you," you shot back, turning back to sift through the documents in the drawer.

In two strides, he was beside you, looking over your shoulder at the papers. "What are we looking at?"

You glanced up at him, momentarily struck by his proximity. It took a beat too long for you to refocus, the sheer size and quiet intensity of him throwing you off balance.

"I’m looking for a ledger or a blueprint - anything tying this site to MacKenzie."

Nightwing raised a brow. "The project’s been transferred to Falcone. Announced just this morning."

"Do you believe that?"

He sighed, arms crossed. "Alright, trouble. Enlighten me - what’s your theory?"

"You really need me to spell it out?" you asked, arching a brow.

He smirked. "You think Falcone’s behind MacKenzie’s death."

You nodded. "A friend in Blüdhaven is working on getting me his autopsy report, and - "

"Oh, a friend?" he interrupted with a teasing tone. "Must’ve gone through all the right channels to get that, yeah?"

You frowned. "Of course."

He leaned in, the playful spark still in his eyes. "You know, a real friend would’ve gotten it for you just cus. No questions asked."

You stifled a blush, hoping your mask hid the heat rising in your cheeks. His gaze softened as it lingered on you, just a shade too long, his lips curling in a way that made your pulse quicken.

You were overcome with a need to defend Dick after Nightwing’s comment. "He's more noble than you," you said.

And oh god, if the irony alone didn't make Dick want to burst out laughing. Pull yourself together, he said to himself.

"Did anyone ever tell you." His voice was lower now, softer. "You have really pretty eyes."

Thrown off, you glanced away, muttering, "Just… let me know if you see anything with MacKenzie’s name on it."

A low ding from the far end of the floor interrupted your sentence. You both froze, watching as the elevator doors slid open, and heavy footsteps echoed into the hollow silence. You quickly locked the drawer and put everything back in place.

Before you could even react, Nightwing’s arm was around your waist, pulling you back toward the edge of the building. He fired his grappling hook to the floor above, tugging you both up to safety. His hold on you was firm yet controlled.

Landing, you were acutely aware of every inch of him pressed against you, his gaze unreadable as he raised a gloved finger to his lips, signaling for silence. You swallowed, pulse racing, unable to tear your attention away from the solid, unyielding warmth of him beside you.

"Destroy every file on that table," a voice ordered. "Burn it all if you have to. I don’t want any trace left of his fingerprints here."

Your eyes widened. Proof that MacKenzie had been involved after all. You looked up at Nightwing, who nodded, clearly understanding the gravity of the moment.

The voice spoke again, sending a thrill of hope through you. "And make sure they do the same over at the south location. We don’t need loose ends."

Your eyes met Nightwing’s, urgency clear in your expression. There was still a chance to get evidence.

The smell of smoke drifted up from the floor below, mingling with the crisp night air as flames started licking up from the table and chair. You looked at Nightwing, panic flashing in your eyes. He didn’t move until the elevator dinged again, signaling the men’s departure.

"We need to get to that second site," you whispered, barely able to contain your urgency.

Nightwing’s gaze hardened, his earlier playfulness replaced by a steely resolve. "I need to get there. You’re going home."

"But-"

"No buts," he said, his voice leaving no room for argument. "You want to help these people? Stay out of sight and leave the dangerous work to me. Trust me. This is my city."

For a moment, you considered arguing back, but something in his gaze warned you not to push him further. Instead, you gave a reluctant nod, allowing him to guide you away.

There was a knock at your window.

You look up from your phone, already ready for bed in your pijama shorts and tube top. You see his outline through the glass as you aproach the window, already half-expecting bad news as you open it cautiously. You are met with Blüdhaven’s protector, leaning on the rail of your balcony, clutching his side, blood seeping through the cracks of his suit.

"Hey," he rasped, short breathes coming out of cut lips with a pained smirk as he raised a USB. "Got your evidence."

"You’re bleeding," you said, your voice a mix of shock and concern.

"Only a little," he grunted, but when he stumbled, you caught his arm, guiding him inside before he collapsed entirely. "You should see the other guy."

He helped you remove the top of his suit, leaving him bare to his hips. You tried not to linger too much on the ridges of hard-defined muscles lining up his chest, arms and stomach - it was a challenging endeavor.

Your hands moved carefully as you cleaned the gash on his side, trying not to let your worry show. "You should’ve gone to a hospital."

"They ask too many questions," he said with a wince but tried to smile. "And I’d rather have you play nurse."

Huffing, you rolled your eyes, but his words sent your pulse racing. You could feel his breath close to your cheek as you look down, the faint brush of his gloved fingers against your arm as you worked.

"Ive got a first aid kit. One moment." You said, getting up and bringing the white box that was kept on the top of your bookshelf. You've had some practice stiching up wounds back when your little siblings would get scrapes on the playground. You even wanted to be a doctor when you were a kid. Before you decided studying law was more interesting. Especially in a city like Bludhaven.

He drew in a gasp as you carefully threaded the needle, stitching up his wound. Finishing up, you placed a gauze bandage around the affected area, tisking. "You should still go get it checked out."

His fingers gently wrapped around your wrist, making you look up at him. Your eyes flickered to his, and for a second, wondering what color they were behind his mask.

“You dont need to worry about me,” he said softly, his fingers coming to play with the hem of your crop top. Your skin tingled where his touch brushed you. "But... I like that you do."

His words hung in the air, and your pulse raced as his gaze dropped to you lips, then back to your eyes.

“We shouldn’t-” you started, but before you could finish, his hand slid up under the back of your shirt, his warm fingers sending tingles along their path.

“I know,” he whispered, but then he pushed you towards him, lips pressing softly against yours.

Your hand moved to the back of his neck, pulling him closer as the kiss deepened. You took a moment to orocess the fact that you were kissing a stranger. It coukd be anyone under that mask. The need to know clawed at you.

"Nightwing?" You asked.

"Yes, trouble?" He wispered, lowering his lips to lay kissed down your neck.

You felt your cheeks warm as your shoulders rose. "D-do you do this often? Sleep with people you save?"

He grinned then, nipping your earlobe as his hand, covered in calluses and scars reached around you, pulling you onto his lap. Gasping, you could feel his hardness on your silk shorts.

"Only when they take such good care of me." He asnwered, grinding up against you, brushing your sensitive clit in the process. "You know, to return the favor."

You gasped and he repeated the movement a few more times, until you were riding him still separated by your layer of clothing.

"You're gonna open -" You wimpered when a particularly long brush of his Dick sent a powerful sensation down your core. "-Your stitches. This... this isn't a good idea."

"It's a good thing you're here to fix me up then, isn't it?" He challenged, an evil grin playing at his lips.

You moaned and shook your head, still trying to think logical. "It will hurt."

"It hurts more not being inside you now, trouble." He wispered- no, whined- as his lips brushed your ear. "Please, put me out of my misery."

His finger slipped under your shorts and between your folds. "Fuck-" He caught his lower lip between his teeth, the bit leaving a beautiful read mark on his gorgeous lips. "You're so wet, trouble."

Unable to look away from him, you whimpered as his fingers brushed your insides.

"I dont even know who you are," you wispered in disbelief, more so to yourself than to him. "I don't even know your name,"

A small, curious part of him wondered how you'd react if he pulled off his mask and presented you with the very same face that's been working with you this past week at the station. Your "good friend" detective Grayson.

"I'm no one," he said instead.

A minute later, his suit was discarded on your carpet, along with your pijamas, as the two of you gasped and writhe against each other on your couch. You were riding him, the feeling of him filling you up was extacy. And his view provided him with an image of you panting on top of him, red lips parted as your hair fell in messy stands around your face and shoulder. "Trouble," he moaned. "You're so fucking sexy. Oh my god."

"Thanks, you like... a seven." You joked, then squealed, arching your back as he rose and bit your collarbone, driving into you hard.

"For that," he growled, a wolfish grin playing on his lips as he eyed the new bite mark forming on your skin. "I'll keep you up all night."

"Y/n?"

You looked up from your computer to see your co-worker standing nearby, balancing a cup of coffee and a stack of files. She offered you a shy smile.

"Detective Grayson from the station is here for you."

"Oh, thank you!" you replied, quickly standing and smoothing your skirt and blazer. Nearly tripping in your heels, you mentally scolded yourself for coming to work instead of calling in sick; you could’ve used more sleep.

At the front entrance, Dick waited in uniform, coffee in hand, his usual bright smile already in place.

"Good morning," you greeted him with as much energy as you could manage.

"Morning," he replied, grinning. You couldn’t help but wonder what he put in his coffee to always look so chipper.

He held up a folder. "Here are the autopsy reports you asked for."

Your eyes lit up. "You got them? Amazing!" Taking the folder, you looked up at him gratefully. "Thanks, Dick."

"Happy to help," he said, dimples appearing as he smiled down at you. "I’ve got to get back, but let me know how the case goes, yeah?" He turned toward the elevator, giving you a casual wave.

"I will! Have a great day!"

As you watched him leave, someone cleared their throat behind you. Turning around, you found Lily standing there, a slightly nervous expression on her face.

"Hey," you said slowly. "Is everything okay?"

Saying nothing, she took your arm gently and lifted her phone, angling the camera so you could see yourself in selfie mode.

Your hand shot to your mouth in shock.

Clear as day, a bite mark peeked out from your collarbone. "Oh god."

You felt your face heat up as realization hit. How many people had already seen that? And oh god! Dick definitely saw it too!

Meanwhile, in the elevator, Dick allowed himself a small, satisfied grin.

Academia

Masterlist

Pairing: Aged up Damian Wayne x f reader

Tags: academic setting, rivals to lovers, friends with benefits, smut, fingering, edging, oral, p in v,

You guys have been in the same program for a year now. Being who he was and having the skills, family, and privilege he had, Damian was used to getting what he wanted. He could tell you wanted him too. There were the obvious signs like the pink blush under your glasses coloring your cheeks whenever he'd challenge a point you raised during your physics lecture. Then there were some hidden signs like the way your breathing would pick up whenever he made his presence known. To any clueless passerby wouldn't think twice of it, but for someone like him who'd trained in the art of detective work - you were practically panting.

Every day, you came into your lab dressed pristine like you were in some prep school. Today, you wore a white button-up tucked into a plaid skirt, dark leggings, and some leather shoes that looked like they belonged on a doll. Damian grinded his teeth, grasping at his bicep as he watched you make your way to your seat, ignoring something his friend, Felix, was saying about their previous night's escapades. So prim and proper. Always. He wanted to tear that skirt off you. He wanted to untie the bow, holding your hair in a ponytail. He'd let you keep your glasses, thinking they made you look so, so cute. He wanted to see how much cuter you would be disheveled and writhing under him.

"Are you boys coming to tonight's kegger?" A feminine voice spoke up, and his view of you was disrupted by a pair of women taking their seat at the table in front of Damian and Felix.

"Kappa is hosting!" One of the girls, Joanna excitedly spoke. "It's gonna be fun! Damian?"

"Hmm?" Damian raised a brow distractedly before remembering what was just said at him. "Oh, sure. I might need to leave early, but I'll drop by."

The second girl, Marcy, tisked, pursing her lips in mock dissappointnent. "You always leave the parties early! I swear to God you're like the only sophomore I know who's bedtime is at 10 pm!"

Sure, he was fine with them thinking that. Most nights, Damian went off to patrol gotham with his brothers and father. Sometimes, he went to meet with his mother and granfather. But he still wanted the campus experience. He still made an effort to show up.

"Yeah, Wayne tech isn't going to run itself when Daddy retires." Felix jabs, leaning back and giving Damian a cocky sideways glance.

Damian turns to him, unbothers and winks. "You know it won't."

Joanna and Marcy both flush red in their cheeks. Damian presumes it has something to do with the reminder of his bloodline and power, which Felix just provided, in an attempt to put him down. From his peripheral vision he can see Felix's shoulders slump as the man realized he fumbled his goal. It's okay, tiger, there's always next time.

"Is y/n going?"

Marcy tilts her head. "Who?"

Damian nods towards you, sitting a couple rows below them and reviewing your notes. From where he sat, he could see your writing was organized but not neat at all. You were in the wrong major.

The girls follow his gaze to you and share a look.

"We didn't ask everyone yet." Marcy nudges Joanna, who goes down to talk to you.

Damian watches as you look up from your notes as Joanna talks to you, nodding along with what she's saying before politely smiling and shaking your head before turning back to your notes. Joanna nodded and walked back up to rejoin the group. She opened her mouth to speak, Damian was eager to hear the excuse you offered, but at that moment, your professor walked into the lecture hall.

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"Y/n,"

You turned away from your phone and towards the source of the masculine voice that's just spoken to you. A tall, broad shouldered freshmen who you came to know by now strutted out of your lecture hall, hand clutching the strap of his bag while the other was in his jean pocket.

Damian wayne had caught your eye fairly easily - as you're sure he did with everyone else. For starters, he was the only man in your engineering major who didn't come to class everyday in sweatpants.

You detested the inequality you saw each day, where girls put an effort to dress nice, no matter how they felt and guys just gave up. We were representing the future of our country, you once thought while cringing at your freshmen year gathering, if we cant even dress ourselves well, how are we supposed to inherit our responsibilities well.

Damian was a breath of fresh air. He typically wore some variation of neat button ups or golf tees tucked into his jeans, and the sleeves usually rolled up, emphasizing muscular, tattooed forearms The top button was typically undone, showcasing his necklace, the symbol of which you were unsuccessful in spotting, above a hard muscle chest. Sometimes, he wore his signature leather jacket, creating an image that had popped up more than once in your head before falling asleep. He also smelled like some sage.

Today, Damian went the casual route with a Gotham University hoodie and jeans falling into classic black Converse. He exceled at his rugged look. Facial features sharp as usual, with angular eyebrows that often give him a serious, brooding expression, like his father often held in conferences. Black hair swept slightly forward. His green eyes were always striking. They mesmerized you when you first met him, and they mesmerized you still.

"Damian, hi." You said, gathering your textbooks in your arms. "How are you?"

"I heard you're not coming to today's kegger at Kappa." He didn't answer your question.

"No, I can't tonight." Or any other night, until I graduate, you wanted to add.

"I haven't been seeing you much around lately," he raised a sharp brow.

You grasped your textbook against your chest, chuckling nervously. "Yeah, I went and got myself the idea of doing a double major. And now since we're sophomores, I have a whole year to catch up on. So I spend most of my free time studying."

"What's the other major?"

"Math. Statistics and probability." You said, then opened your mouth to tell him you'll see him around.

"How come?" He beat you to it. Students and faculty were making their way past you in the hall, and you made sure to get out of their way. Damian hadn't moved an inch.

"Uhm, it's kind of a long story."

In truth, interning at Wayne Tech for the summer has been eye-opening. You loved getting to work with the engineers developing weapons and defense systems, but you also found yourself constantly curious about the work the data analysts did. It didn't take long to realize you found their skills and knowledge in predicting contingencies to every possible outcome really cool and wanting some of it for yourself. The next week, you went to your academic advisor and asked how you could do a double major.

"Come to the party tonight." He ordered. "We'll have plenty of time."

"I..." you rushed to refuse but his gaze wasn't leaving room for argument.

"Come to the party. And tell me what possibly inspired you to take up maths and physics simultaneously." He took a step closer to you, crowding your space. You swallowed nervously, looking around to see if anyone was watching you. He gazed down at you.

You nodded, swallowing nervously, then something caught your eye. There was a bandage on his neck, just below his ear. "What happened to your neck?"

"I'll see you tonight." He brushed past you and kept walking to his next class.

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Damian dropped his gym bag in the trunk of his Camaro and slamed it shut before making his way up the busy street on frat row. It was still early in the night, but Kappa's party was already in full swing. People were out on the lawn, on the porch, and the muffled music from inside the house could be heard down the street.

Someone offered Damian a drink, which he politely waved off as his keen eyes searched the first floor for a particular person. It didn't take long, surely enough he zeroed in on you, standing with your drink awkwardly linking hands with a girl he remembered to be your roommate, Alice. You exchanged your sweater and skirt for a t-shirt over a maroon colord silk dress. You let your hairdown, styled in perfect curls, one side pinned up by a maroon pin. Ever the color coordinating type, Damian snorted.

"You came," he approached you slowly.

You offered him a timid smile. "To be honest, you intimidated me into thinking I had to."

He raised a brow, pursing his lips. "Good."

He then turned to your roommate, tilting his head towards you. "Mind if I take her for a moment?"

Beside you, Alice gave you both a knowing look. "Take her for longer than that." Before gently unlinking your hands and walking off somewhere.

Damian tilted his head towards the window behind you. "It's nice out, wanna go for a drive?"

You followed his gaze to a black, shiny Camaro parked out front, and you felt your face flush. Did you just get offered a ride in Damian Wayne's muscle car?

"Umm, I wasn't planning on staying long -" you began.

"Just long enough to tell me why you changed your major."

"I didn't change it, I'm doing an additional -"

"Tell me in the car," he says and takes you by the hand, leading you to some cheers and hollers from your classmates and fellow program students. Some are patting Damian on the back, others are catcalling the two of you for being the "fist fuck of the night". You're in disbelief that even in college, people behave like they're in high-school. Damian mostly ignores them. You avoid eye contact as much as you can.

When you two are seated and on the road, you're still as tense as always. You turned to look at him in the drivers seat. Always so at ease, with one hand on the wheel, the other resting between your seats, ringed fingers tracing a pattern on the skirt of your dress.

"Where are we going?" You ask.

He doesn't meet your eyes, watching the highway intently. "My place."

"Oh, umm." Your heart picks up and you feel a tingle between your legs and especially on that spot where his finger is fidgeting. "I'm - Damian I think you're really nice. Definitely attractive," you babble nervously.

"Thank you."

"And what's more is you're smart, and that ticks off a lot of boxes." You continue.

"Does it?"

"And from a well off family."

"Very much."

You go on, unable to stop yourself. "I mean, I'm so flattered. I could do so much worse."

"So much worse." He supplies.

"But I'm just in a state in my life where I'm not really looking for a relationship." You scratch behind your ear. "Which is true, I'm not just saying it to you, I said the same to another guy who asked me out last week."

"Who asked you out last week?"

You saw his hand tense around the wheel, and your eyes widened. "No one! It doesn't matter since I'm not really dating right now."

"Who said anything about dating?" He asked.

You blinked at him. "Huh?"

"Sweetheart," he turns to face you, the speedometer showing the speed excelerating as you two merge onto the highway. "I'm not interested in dating you either."

"Damian, watch the road, please." Your hand shoots to the handle bard as your breathing speeds up. "A- and then why are we going to yours?"

You turn away from the highway and back to face him only to see the smirk he's giving you. "What?"

"Why do you think?"

You turn away, unable to hold his heated gaze. "Well..."

"Y/n, I want you. And I know you want me. In order for us to move on happily with our lives, we need to get each other out of our systems. Capiche?"

Not expecting such blunt honesty, even though your should be used to it by now, whitnessing it in your joint lecture halls for three semesters now. Your gaze travels down to where his hand is now holding your thigh. Your skin is so warm there. "I... yes. Capiche, I mean."

He grins, turning back to the road. "Good."

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Damian's building was in the upper side of Gotham, where most of the upper class resided. His elevator led straight into the penthouse suite. You followed him into the big room, taking tentative steps and looking around. Like his wardrobe, his apartment was clean and crisp. Every item was organized or folded in its dedicated spot.

"You have a nice place."

"Nicer than the Gotham U dorm room?" He asked from the kitchen, making you snort, covering your mouth.

"You want something to drink?" He asked from the kitchen island.

"No thanks, I'm good." You shook your head.

"Perfect." It took him three strides to reach you. He cupped your face in his hands, lowering to kiss you.

Surprised by his dedication not to wasting time, you were too overwhelmed to resist as he walked you back into a wall, all while his lips never leaving yours. His kisses ranged from playful bites of your lips to long licks against your tongue as he tilted his head to fit you against each other like two puzzle pieces.

One of his hands left its place on your cheek to travel down to your shoulder, lowering the strap of your dress and reaching in to lift the t-shirt under it, exposing your maroon colored bralette. Your hands slowly brought themselves to his hair as he moved the cup of your bralette aside, circling your exposed nipple with his finger. You let's out a breathy moan against his lips, and he drew back to assess the "damage."

There you stood, leaning against the wall, panting. Your parted pink lips were shiny with saliva, and your pupils were wide, gazing up at him with a glazed look. The left strap of your dress hung off your shoulder, the left side of your shirt lifted, and your cute breast was exposed, pretty nipple raised in excitement.

Damian felt a surge of extasy gazing at your mouth. "I wanted to mess up that lipstick all day."

Your knees buckled, and you were afraid you were going to fall, only to look down in surprise to see his knee had wedged itself between your thighs. "Why did you stop?"

"I just wanted to see what else I could mess up about your perfect look." He said before his hand traveled to your panties under your dress. "Are you wearing a matching set?"

"Yes," you panted.

Damian raised his brows. "For who?"

"For- ah!" You moaned as his finger found your clit, rubbing slow circles on it. "For me."

He lowered himself onto his knees in front of you and lifted your dress, then you heard a tear and realized he'd just ripped off your panties. You gasped. "Damian! They're expensive!"

"Oh no!" He whined, mimicking you. "Feel free to charge me for your troubles."

"That's not funny - oh!" You tilted your head back as he licked circles around your clit. "I won't forget this." You struggled to say.

"I wasn't kidding." He wispered against your pussy, licking eagerly. "I'll buy you a new pair."

You whimpered, your fingers tightening around his hair as he ate your pussy. "Fine,"

You arched your back, feeling the familiar tremors of orgasm start in your core. "Oh!"

Suddenly, he pulled away before you could reach your climax.

You tanned, looking down at him. "I was close! Why did you stop?"

He gave you a shit-eating grin and shrugged, those green eyes shining with mischief. "I wanted to see your reaction."

You didn't understand him. "Well, umm could you... please..."

"Please...?"

"...Make me come?"

He shrugged again, as if to say 'well see' before spreading your legs and diving in to lick your pussy again.

He eged you three more times. Each time, he stopped just as you were about to climax. You let out a frustrated whine, pouting. "Damian!"

"Y/n!"

"Why are you doing this?"

He stood up to wisper in your ear. "Because you like it."

He lifted you up with ease and carried you to his bedroom, laying you down on his massive bed. Your mind was swimming on oversensitivity and overstimulation that you'd barely registered him taking off his clothes and positioning himself at your entrance. Only when he was on top of you again did you have time to take in his glorious physique. Muscles upon muscles from his arms to his shoulders to his back and his abdomen. When he finally entered you, all of the edging you'd experienced until then made you nearly come simply from the first penetration.

You moaned, arching as your hands grasped against the black silk bedsheets.

Damian groaned above you, causing your ears to vibrate with the erotic sound. You gazed down at you. "You look perfect. Just like this."

You bit your lip, whispering. "Wait, please give me a moment."

"No." He began thrusting slowly.

"Damian, its too much-"

"You can take it. You excel in everything." He let out a sound which was a mix between a moan and a chuckle. "My little perfectionist."

You arched your back, feeling him fill you up. "I'm close again!"

"I know." He smirked, grinding in and out of you. "I know. You're so good, baby. Come for me again."

His hips increased their speed against you. The both of you moaning with each movement. Your nails clawed on his back as you felt him hit your g spot.

"Please, don't stop!" You begged.

"I won't," he panted. "Kiss me," he ordered.

You lifted yourself to meet his lips as he sped up, his finger back on your clit, making you whimper into his mouth, the two of you reaching your orgasm.

That was the last thing you remembered before falling asleep.

Cold-hearted Wolf

Tags: Angst, fluff, arranged marriage, eventual smut, cregan is repressed and mean at first, then falls for the reader.

Master list

Pairing: Cregan Stark x Martell princess reader

All fiction, the reader is a made-up character. Im a long-time reader, but first-time writer.

Chapter 1 - Every decision Cregan Stark made was with a heavy sense of duty to his people. And this union, this upcoming wedding with the Martell girl, was no different. In his mind, you were just a pretty decoration, spoiled by the sun and riches of Dorne.

The skies over Winterfell were gray. The Martells of Dorne had arrived, bringing with them a warmth that was foreign to the North.

Cregan Stark was a formidable figure, trained to rule and fight from a young age. Past generations of Starks ran in his veins. Every decision he made was with a heavy sense of duty to his people. And this union, this upcoming wedding with the Martell girl, was no different. He saw it as a political move. In his mind, you were just a pretty decoration, spoiled by the sun and riches of Dorne.

You, on the other hand, were a bright-eyed girl. Though you have been trained in combat since a young age, as per Dornish custom, you had always been drawn to beauty – not war. The tales of the dashing Northern warrior had you intrigued. Since your announced engagement, you had imagined him with the ice of the North in his eyes and a heroic presence. And as the two of you finally met, you weren't disappointed. He was every bit the man of your dreams.

"You're as handsome as they say, my Lord," you offered with a smile and a bow, your voice tinged with genuine admiration.

Cregan simply nodded, taking you in. You were dressed in a gown the color of a sunset, your bare shoulders and collarbone a bit too revealing by Northern standards, and he could see the goosebumps lining your skin.

You began to second guess your wardrobe as you felt yourself shiver. Your maids tried to warn you of the exposed dress, however, you had told them that it would all be worth it once he sees your beauty.

You overheard a snicker come from the crowd. One of Cregan’s men, unable to resist, whispered loudly, "Looks like the sun forgot a few places."

You blushed as Cregan turned to give the man a deadly look, and the man's smirk instantly dropped.

Cregan’s icy grey eyes fixed on you again. "It's quite cold in the North, princess.”

You chuckled nervously. ”Yes, my lord. I seem to have forgotten.”

Instead of reciprocating your attempt at a joke, he took off the wolf hide around his shoulder and wrapped it around you. You accepted the warmth with gratitude.

“Perhaps in time, you'll learn to dress as befits the wife of a Stark." Was all he offered.

The words landed as a sharp jab. Your smile dropped as you looked down at yourself. You had tried, tried so hard to look beautiful for him, to make a good impression. Instead, you felt the weight of his disappointment.

The ceremony that followed was quite somber. Cregan was stoic. He did his duty, saying the words, making the vows, as did you. But there was a distance between the two of you. As the festivities went on, and the music played, he had not called upon you once to accompany him to the floor.

As you sat, your excitement slowly faded. You felt out of place. And as the night went on, you couldn't help but wonder if this marriage of convenience would ever know genuine affection.

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On the morning after his wedding, Cregan woke up to an unusual sound – he could have sworn he heard footsteps echoing outside his window. The chill air from the cracked open window mixed in with the fire in the hearth as he rose from his bed of furs. He looked to his side and stirred when he didn't see his bride's sleeping form beside him.

His loyal dog stirred beside the bed. "Easy, Grey," Cregan whispered, his hand soothingly running through the thick fur of his pet, who settled back down.

A glance out the window revealed a figure descending the roofs of Winterfell. As Cregan squinted against the early morning sun, he saw a figure in tight riding leathers, hair escaping from the hood in a braid. The figure turned to assess the distance to the ground, and beneath the hood, he recognized your distinct features. Unaware of his gaze, you scaled down the tower.

Panic briefly gripped Cregan at the thought of you falling. However, as you maneuvered with ease, his concern turned to curiosity. "Where are you going, princess?" He asked no one in particular.

Quickly dressing and concealing his identity with a hood, Cregan descended the stairs of the castle, avoiding working servents to sneak into the barn.

In the quiet darkness of the barn, Cregan spoke softly to his horse, Storm, as he saddled him. He clicked his tongue, guiding the horse as he followed you out of the castle.

Amidst the early morning silence of Winterfell, Cregan spotted you again, tossing a rope around one of the gate's stone columns. With a graceful swing, you scaled the wall before landing nimbly outside the castle grounds.

Cregan urged his horse onward, determined to follow your path.

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Having successfully snuck out of the castle (your gymnastics instructor was right in saying you would someday need the skill), you now stood behind a railing, quietly overlooking the jeweller at work in his shop.

Yesterday, the same jeweler had gifted you a stunning silver bracelet, crafted to resemble a viper wrapped around your hand. It occupied your thoughts pretty much the whole night, lighting the desire for a matching one for your other hand. Your early morning escapade confirmed the jeweler's location, and here he was—the handsome man, strands of grey hair falling on his forehead as he worked.

"What are you doing?" A voice whispered behind you.

You gasped, jumping to face Cregan, who leaned against the window with an air of anger, clad in riding leathers, his hood hiding part of his face. His eyes roamed over you in suspicion.

You blinked in surprise to meet his gaze. "My lord," you said, questioning. "Did you follow me?"

Raising a single brow, Cregan responded, "Merely concerned over my wife's reputation, what with the sneaking out of castle grounds, out of our marriage bed, no less, in the break of dawn."

Noting the harshness in his words, you retorted. "I don't see why there has to be an issue, given that everyone in Winterfell knows I belong to you anyway."

Something stirred within him at your words, and he took a couple of steps forward, backing you against the railing.

"That's right," he murmured, his voice low so as to not get you two caught. "It will be good you remembered it as well. Do you often sneak away into strange men’s homes?"

You, over your haze since last night, were unimpressed, maintaining your composure, responded, "Should I be alarmed by your sudden interest in me?"

Cregan, feeling oddly aggressive, leaned in, his lips dangerously close to your ear. "Alarmed or not, wife, I am the one who will leave a lasting mark on you."

Your heart sped up, and you felt an odd warmth in the pit of your stomach where his hand lay. You were a princess, after all. No one had ever spoken to you in such a commanding tone before.

You let him pull you through the window, and the two of you took his horse to find your way back to the castle. Neither spoke during the ride.