Exhausted Fangirl

Kay | 26 | Superhero nerd | Teacher | Broadway Stan| 18+ MDNI

[stolenstarsart]

i’m SO proud of this omg! i’ve been super obsessed with x-men, and especially storm and nightcrawler, so it was truly a matter of time before i drew them!! def gonna have to draw my favorite x-men (kurt wagner) very soon, but jn the meantime, i hope you like my take on storm!

[stealingpotatoes]

to nobody's surprise, some wanda doodles

(links // tip jar!)

[stealingpotatoes]

i love you wanda my favourite mentally ill super-overpowered milf

(commission info // tip jar!)

[cania-ana]

Jeannie

Since she’s in Wolverine I drew her

[wandaslovey]

hear me out:

you’re ovulating and during your shower with wanda (she was innocently helping you wash in there) she notices the collection of stringy discharge at your opening when she was washing your body.

when you get out, she says nothing as she towels you off. but once you’re in bed, ready to snuggle with wanda and her wife, you’re slightly disoriented when wanda begins to strip you of the pajamas she just dressed you in. you address her in confusion but she shushes you and tells you to lie back on the bed.

you listen of course and that’s when you see natasha reappear in front of you at the end of the bed. she’s wearing a strap with an 8 inch dildo.

you swallow, calling out to natasha now as she crawls over your body on the bed.

“shhh, baby. daddy’s just giving your pretty cunt what it needs.”

with that, she spreads your legs. wanda lies next to you and strokes along your naked body. she coos and praises you as natasha works the strap slowly inside of you. they both talk you through it—inch by inch.

your gasps and whimpers are muffled as wanda presses her hand over your mouth.

when natasha bottoms out, she stays completely still. her hand that wasn’t holding your legs open draws the softest circles around your clit. it wasn’t enough—but that was on purpose.

your whines get louder against wanda’s hand. you want natasha to move so badly. your cunt clenches around her cock.

wanda kisses your cheek and then your forehead, assuring you that you’re okay.

that’s when natasha pulls out barely an inch. she reaches down and squeezes the base of her faux strap. it’s cum filled.

she squeezes it, effectively filling you up nice and deep. you register the cum spilling inside your womb and it makes your thighs twitch.

natasha eyes burn into yours as you whine and squirm on her strap.

“ohhh, baby—you’re okay.” she soothes, her palm cupping the side of your face.

she stays there for a couple more minutes. when she pulls out, wanda makes quick work of putting your panties back on.

“can’t have you dripping onto the sheets.” she had said. but really it was because they wanted you to be squirming in your wet panties.

you can hardly think about going to sleep at that point. you whined, pleaded and begged for either of them to touch you—please you. you even took turns humping their thighs at two separate times, completely uncaring how pathetic it was.

they didn’t give in. this was simply about filling you up, just like your body wanted.

can you tell i’m currently ovulating?🧍🏻‍♀️

[maiamore]

clark’s exactly the kind of dork who’d purposefully leave his watch in your apartment just so he could find a reason to see you again.

it’s completely transparent and juvenile, but you’d fall for it anyway. not because you’d been dumb enough to, but because of the stupidly earnest line of texts he’d send — clearly, he held some pride in his sneaky methods to court a girl he really really liked the old fashioned way.

except, even with his heart set to being a gentleman, it was hard to deny chemistry, and ever harder to deny you when you’d curled your arms around his neck, pulling him into a gentle kiss.

he had you hoisted up, guiding your thighs around his hips in a swift move. kissing you was the most natural thing he’d done, even more than even establishing anything with you. once he’d gotten a taste of your sweet, soft lips, he couldn’t stop.

head bowed, tilting his head as he slotted your lips against yours while lowering you onto the softer duvet. it’s when he sees you — lips flushed raw, hair pressed against the gentle white, that he figures, to hell with the proper order of things.

[barnesonfilm]

★ summary: can’t stop thinking about this tweet. so here’s this!

★ pairing: clark kent x reader

★ warnings: 18+ mdni, smut, no plot just porn, p in v, praise kink, rough sex, squirting, breeding, overstimulation, inappropriate use of x-ray vision

★ word count: 1.2k

You knew Clark was Superman from the start of your relationship, with his metahuman strength and his heart of gold. He was always so tender with you throughout everything, so when you both tiptoed around intimacy, he was ever the gentle giant you’d imagine he’d be. Always making sure you were okay, soft lingering touches, making sweet love to you. He made you feel on top of the world.

In no way were you not enjoying yourself, but sometimes you wanted nothing more than for him to push you into the bed and fuck you senseless. You wanted him to have you drooling in the bed, fucked out of your mind. A few times during sex, you’d ask him to go harder, to pull your hair, and he always obliged. Just too gentle for your liking. He’d move heaven and earth for you, but he was so scared of hurting you. He didn’t know his own strength, and he’d never forgive himself if he was too rough. The one time you asked him to smack your ass, he acted as if you had asked him to throw you through multiple concrete walls. 

It was another night of making love, Clark’s head nestled into your neck, your hands gripping his shoulders as he whispered sweet nothings into your ear. It felt amazing as usual, but you had an ache; you needed him to itch. 

“Hey, Clark.” You whimpered, pulling his head up to look at him. His thrusts slowed down, making sure you were okay. 

“Yeah, honey?” He hummed, his signature dimpled smile beaming at you.

“I need you to fuck me like you hate me.” 

As soon as the words left your mouth, his hips stilled inside you, his cock twitching inside of you. Betraying the concerned look lacing his features. “But I don’t hate you?” 

“Yeah, honey. Obviously.” A laugh escaped your mouth, running your hands up and down his back.  “I just want you to fuck me. I love making love. I love it. But I want it fast. Hard. I can feel you holding back, you won’t break me.” 

“I don’t wanna hurt you.” 

You pressed a kiss to his cheek, “You’re not gonna hurt me. I trust you with my life.”

“I don’t think you know what you’re asking.” His eyes turned dark, staring down at you with a newfound desire swirling in them. 

“I wanna feel you for days. Need you to fuck me silly, please, Clark.” You whined, clenching down on his cock. He was silent, reaching down to grip your thighs, wrapping them around his hips. He braced his hands on the headboard, gripping the wood. Without warning, he thrust up into you so hard all the air escaped from your lungs. It felt like he was in your throat, reaching places he’s never even been before. His hips are pistoning into yours so fast you couldn’t even process it. 

“F-fuck Clark, I can’t-” A wanton moan escaped your chest, digging your nails into his skin of steel so hard it hurt your hands. 

“Oh, come on. This is what you wanted, right, baby?” He grunted, making you nod, drunk off the feeling. Nothing but the sounds of the bed creaking and the slick sounds of you creaming around his cock. The creaking sounds got louder, and suddenly there was a loud crash. The bedframe splintering underneath Clark’s hands, the bed slowly falling apart around both of you. He shielded you from the debris, never once letting up his pace. 

“The bed- fuck-” 

“You feel so good, honey. Letting me use you like this.” His eyes were dark, pressing hard kisses against your neck as the bed slowly slumped to the floor. He was so lost inside you, he barely noticed the splintered wood beneath his hands.  And he was fucking you too good for you to care about it. Moving to grip your hips harshly, fucking up into your body as if you were nothing but a toy for him. 

There was no way you were able to speak with how fast he was going, the only thing alluding to you cumming was your loud whimpers and your cunt squeezing his cock. 

“I’m right here, baby,” Clark promised, moving your legs up, determined to fuck into your guts, “Being so good for me, huh? Look at you coming on my cock.” 

His eyes didn’t move away from where you both met, a white ring of release forming at the base of his cock. As soon as you were able to get some air into your lungs, you moaned his name over and over. 

“C-Clark, I can’t-” Your legs were trembling under his hold, every part of your body was on fire. So overstimulated in the best way. Clark shushed you, letting one of his hands travel down to thumb at your puffy clit. 

“Yes, you can,” He cooed, admiring the way you fluttered and shook around him. All you could do was take it, your body greedily sucking him in still. Your second orgasm coming fast, feeling different from before. He tried not to use his x-ray vision on you, but he couldn’t help it. He could see your release growing, pushing against your walls, just begging to be let out. 

“W-wait-” You stuttered out, moving your hands to try and slow him down. “I feel like I’m g-gonna-” 

He had a mischievous glint in his eye, continuing to hit the spot inside you that had you screaming. Your eyes rolling into the back of your head let him know he achieved his goal, your cunt spurted around him. A deep pleasure rolling through your body, a new sensation that had you cursing, not asking him to do this sooner. The warmth of your release had Clark’s hips stuttering, chasing his own high not far after yours. 

He tried to keep his pace, stuttering over your trembling frame. Never once stopping his praises.“Isn’t that good, baby? Knew you could do it.” 

“I love you. Love you so much.” You slurred, practically seeing stars.

“O-oh.” He whimpered, his cock twitching inside you. He was mumbling ‘I love yous’ as he watched his cum seep inside your womb, filling you up so much he could feel it leaking on the bed, mixing with where you soaked the sheets. Soon, he was gently flopping his body on top of yours, pressing small kisses to your sweat-lined skin. Both of you are catching your breaths, holding each other in the post orgasmic haze. 

Clark felt it before he knew what was happening, his head rattling on your chest. When he looked up, he saw you stifling your giggles. Contagious, Clark was unable to stifle his own laughter, and soon both of you lost it in hysterics. 

“Our bed is broken.” You wheezed, looking around to where the bed was now sitting on the floor in a pile of snapped wood. “So fucking worth it though.” 

At this, Clark looked up at you, your skin glowing and your face blushing. “I’ll buy you whatever bed you want. I’ll fly to Paris and get you one of those expensive ones. Or I’ll build you one with my own bare hands-”  Cutting his romantic rambling off, you smiled down at him. “Maybe after round two? I mean the bed’s already broken..” 

[doll2kiss]

CLARK "just the tip" KENT when he knows he has to be at work in less than ten minutes and all he can think about is not pushing his whole cock inside you—and damn it, it's so hard for him. i mean, how do you expect him not to do it when your folds felt so warm and wet around his length? soaking it up and moaning his name in little pleads.

clark is so immersed in your moans and the obscene sound his cock makes as it rubs against your core that he'll probably be left with a warning from his boss, not that it bothers him because if it's for this… yeah, it's completely worth it.

[iipxilf]

shy!clark kent is loud in bed (mdni 18+)

𝐘𝐎𝐔 𝐃𝐎𝐍'𝐓 𝐄𝐗𝐏𝐄𝐂𝐓 𝐇𝐈𝐌 𝐓𝐎 𝐁𝐄 𝐋𝐎𝐔𝐃.

not him, not the boy who blushes when you flirt too hard, who fumbles with his glasses and looks away when you wear anything tight. you always thought he’d be shy in bed—quiet, maybe, the kind to bite down on a groan and keep his eyes shut tight.

but the second your hips roll down on him—bare, slow, deliberate—clark gasps.

and then moans.

long and low, like it’s been punched out of him. like the sound was clawing its way up the whole time and just needed a reason to come out. his hands shoot to your waist and grip, hard. but it’s his voice that makes you stop.

“oh, gosh—” he chokes, jaw going slack.

you blink down at him, stunned, because he doesn’t stop.

every rock of your hips earns you something different. a groan that borders on a whimper. a gravel-deep grunt as his head tips back against the pillow. panting gasps that get louder, messier, when you clench around him on purpose just to hear them.

and you realize, breath hitching—

he’s so fucking loud.

and you love it.

“clark,” you breathe, leaning forward, kissing him just under the ear. “you always this vocal, or is it just me?”

he moans—high, broken, desperate—and grabs your hips again like he’s trying to slow you down but can’t. “just you,” he gasps. “just you, baby, i swear—”

you grin, dragging your fingers down his chest as you ride him harder.

and he whines.

masterlist !

[srenique]

⌑ ⊹ ࣪ ˖ ⌑ ⌇ @ 𝑠𝑟𝑒𝑛𝑖𝑞𝑢𝑒 | ‌ | ‌ | 𝑤𝑤𝑤.𝑏𝑒𝑑𝑐ℎ𝑒𝑚.𝑙𝑜𝑣𝑒 ( mdni )

CLARK KENT’S sexual awakening never happened. His ma did enough to hide him from the more carnal parts of life, so imagine his surprise and borderline nose-wrinkle in sex-ed junior year when he found out what adults did behind closed doors.

Even when he grew up, got a job in the Planet, made his alter-ego known, he still didn’t feel the need to… have coitus. He was too scared he’d snap some poor girl in half if he tried.

The first time he ever tried, he’d barely got the tip in before he came, embarrassingly quick. Maybe it was the nerves of it all, maybe his body was eager to get it over with. Safe to say, that girl — as lovely as she was — broke up with him a week later because she felt like he was just in pursuit of his own pleasure. Not true, by the way, his ma always told him to think of the lady first.

Like every Monday, he was pushing his way through the Metropolis work crowd, against the tides of people. Not really looking where he was going, trying not to drop an iced tea — Lois forced him to try it, just to be clear — on any unsuspecting people by holding it high above possible shoulders.

That failed.

In the pursuit of not splashing anyone with peach iced tea, he forgot to look straight and collided straight into someone, sending a drink flying into a silk dress.

Oh, no.

He watched in horror as the material dampened, clung to your body, and became slightly more sheer by the second. “Golly, I’m so sorry—”

The subsequent scoff nearly tore into his self-esteem battery for the day. “Hey, watch where you’re…”

Your eyes locked. All anger faded away, replaced by the dread that you hurt this sexy behemoth of a man’s feelings and he now hated you forever. “… you know what? No worries, don’t— don’t think about it too much.”

He instantly shrugged off his blazer and held it out to you. “But your dress— great dress, by the way,” it was a… really pretty dress, golly, “it’s ruined. I ruined it. I can pay for the dry cleaning.”

You waved your hand noncommittally, but you took the blazer anyway to cover up, it was massive on you. Lord— wait, he shouldn’t take his name in vain. “Seriously, I’m fine. I was on my way to a bachelorette party, one of my friends there will definitely have a spare, she has one for everyone.”

He blinked. “Everyone?”

“Yeah.” You grinned, gosh, it was a pretty smile. “She’s like that. Weird, I know. And— don’t worry about the dry cleaning, I’ve got it. I’m sorry about your drink.”

“No, you saved me.” He laughed nervously. “My coworker forced me to try it, to tell y’the truth, I did not want to.”

“So I saved you.”

“Yeah.” He rubbed the back of his curls, messing them up even more. “And please. Please bill me for the dry cleaning, I’ll feel bad if you don’t.”

“Fine. Fine.” You laughed, rolling your eyes. “I’ll bill you.” Locking eyes with him once more took the words from his lungs. Good Lord, those eyes were sexy. All of him was sexy, in a cute way, bumbling gait, pushing his glasses up his nose, the rosiness of his cheeks. You checked your watch. Fuck. “Well, I’m in a rush, so—”

“Yeah, you gotta—”

“See you.” You began walking off at a fast pace. Something jolted in his navel. He felt hot from embarrassment. His relaxed-fit trousers felt… not so relaxed anymore.

He looked down. That looked like a sexual awakening.

“Clark!” He yelled loudly, head snapping up to stare at you like a dishevelled deer in headlights. What the hay? Why did he do that? Why did he yell that? He covered his crotch with his messenger bag.

Your smile told him you noticed. With an uptick in your heart rate and an increase in your breathing’s heaviness, a sweet smell tickled his nose. It wasn’t the bakery next to him, that’s for sure. You smiled, and shouted back your name at the same volume.

He hurried to the nearest bathroom to yell at his body.

Cat slid onto his desk, setting core in front of him. Not for him, clearly. “I was at a bachelorette last week.” She started, tapping her nail on his desk to get him to look at her. Deadlines needed to be crunched, so he barely did. She accepted that.

Clark’s fingers kept flying. “Cat, you’re gonna have to be more specific.”

She laughed. “I have a friend. She asked me about a dorky guy named Clark Kent who still writes his name on the tags of his clothes.” She dropped a sugar cube into her coffee, stirring it. “A habit I thought we left back in our sophomore year of high school.”

His neck turned red. His foot covered the name tag on his bag’s handle. But she laughed and dropped another sugar cube into. He sent a furtive glance of concern for her health. “Whatever.” She sighed, taking a long sip. “I told her you were single.”

He almost spluttered over no liquid. “What?”

“I told her you were single.” She repeated simply.

“Why?”

“She asked.” This time he almost choked on a gulp of straight, bitter black coffee. “I gave her your number. To bill you for the dry cleaning.” Pause for an effectively captivating sip of over-sweetened coffee. “Among other things.” She muttered under her breath, but he caught it. She smiled widely. “Toodles!” She got up and walked off.

He threw his hands up, tripping over his words. “Cat— you can’t—” But she was in her own world, singing Freak by Doja Cat.

His phone buzzed. With shaking hands, he opened it, unknown number.

Didn’t know they made clothes in your size. Underneath: Wanna come round to get it this weekend? To talk to bit.

He saved your contact first. Before typing out a clumsy agreement, which he didn’t know was possible over text. Judging by how you didn’t immediately get put off, you were into it.

He was on time, on the dot of the agreed time, which was two o’clock. After lunch, before it got too dark, but still enough time to talk.

He’d cleaned up a little more than usual. Tried to use a hair pomade to ensure his curls weren’t as wild as they usually were. Wear a slightly tighter fitting shirt than before. Brush his teeth. Pop a few breath mints. Avoid the morning coffee, put on copious amounts of hand lotion and lip balm. Everything had to be perfect. He even trimmed his happy trail for this.

You laid the plan. Took a shower so your skin was dewy. Prepped your hair. Kept the makeup minimal, because a full beat would give the plan away. You chose your best, flowiest robe.

You wanted him to unwrap you like a present.

When your doorbell rang, you dabbed on a final bit of lipstick before you chucked it onto a side table and opened the door.

You felt your thighs rub together on instinct the moment you saw him. He felt his breath leave his body when he saw you, checking his watch. “Maybe I’m early—”

“You’re on time.” It came out more breathless than expected. Nodding back into your apartment. “I… I have your jacket. I put it in the wash, the inside got stained with a little iced tea.”

“You can bill me for that too.”

“Seriously? No.” You waved your hand. “No. You’re fine.” You ushered him inside. “It was a thank you, for paying for my dry cleaning and lending me your jacket.” You waved him towards the couch. “Can I get you anything? Water?”

You.

“Um, I’m fine.” He sat on the couch, you sat opposite, picking up a glass of wine that was there before he came. You looked… stunning. He felt his collar get hot. He tugged at it. “You invited me to watch a movie.”

“Yeah.”

“Do you still want to watch a movie?”

“No.”

“Oh. Oh. I was under the impression that we’d be…” He gestured in between you two. So he had the same assumption you did.

Your lips curled up. “I was under that impression too.”

He nodded. You could see a bulge slowly growing in his trousers. “I mean, I— I have to warn you, I’m not that… experienced.”

You blinked, slightly amused. A little interested. “Oh? How so?”

“I…” He made a weird motion, he didn’t even know what it was supposed to mean. It’s likely get interpreted as something like flying a plane, “finish too quickly. Women find it off putting.”

The way you were looking at him, it seemed like you found it off putting as well. Just frozen in time, sat there, staring at him. “That’s…” You let out a whoosh of air. Then your hand gripped his jaw, “really fucking hot—”

Oh. You were into it.

Huh. You were kissing him.

Golly. He was kissing back.

His hand covered the one holding his jaw, pressing into your lips and your body instinctively like there was a magnet from him to you. You pushed back, swinging a leg over both of his till your knees knocked into his hips. This was new.

You smiled when you saw his other hand hovering awkwardly. Not knowing whether he had the right to touch beyond what was respectful. So you guided it to your thigh, fabric moving and bunching under his fingers. Allowing him to touch bare skin.

Oh, boy.

The soft whine from the bottom of his throat was a boost to your ego, a deep moan following when you pressed open mouthed kisses to his neck, rolling your hips forward. “Ohhhhh, gosh,” He breathed out slowly.

Oh, fuck. He was massive. Though you didn’t know what to expect, he was six-five.

Both his hands flew to your hips, pads of his fingers pressing into your skin, head tipping back against the sofa cushions, breathing in sharply. He could feel you gently sucking on his skin, he knew it wouldn’t leave a mark, but he whimpered quietly anyway, dragging your hips forward, so he could feel your pussy drag over his dick yet again. His head spinning as your tongue traced over his Adam’s apple.

Your hands slipped off his tie like you’d had practice, popping the buttons of his shirt slowly. You felt his warm palms burning up your waist, stopping at where your robe was tied at your front. His eyes were wide, blinking up at you through his lashes. “Can I…?”

Fuck, he was hot.

You undid the tie yourself but let him gently move the fabric off your shoulders, undoing his belt and letting you take off his trousers. His cheeks flushed as he dragged his boxers down, cock painfully hard. It was pretty, flushed at the tip, pre smeared just a little.

Oh, that was a lot bigger than you manifested.

“Oh, shit.” You grinned at the sight of him, watching his whole face turn red.

He adjusted his foggy glasses, stumbling over his syllables. “Will it…” He gulped, wondering how to say it, “fit?”

The look in your eye almost made his heart stop. Like you didn’t care. “Oh, honey.” You laughed a little. “We’ll make it.” You positioning yourself above him, ready to sink down onto his throbbing cock was not something he expected to see. He let out a strangled sound, placing a hand on your arm. “Don’t you want me to… prepare you?”

“I’ve quite literally been prepared since the first time we met.” You grabbed a condom from — wait where did you get that from? — and tore it open delicately, giving it to him to roll on. He did, safety was key, and when you finally did lower yourself onto him— holy shit.

His forehead pressed to your shoulder, before he started pressing sloppy, whining kisses, almost making out with it as he felt your pussy grip him deliciously. So this was what he’d never felt drawn to. Until now.

He was stretching you out. A lot. For a guy so shy about his own abilities his endowment was something women only experienced in their wildest dreams. The more you learned, the more turned on you were.

Huh. That usually didn’t happen with men.

You let out a deep sigh as you sank down further, feeling his size fill you in the best way. His tip nestled against your cervix, pretty vein brushing your g-spot, fuck, maybe moving would feel too good.

But you did it anyway, small, cut-short gasps and moans jumping from your throat as he kissed his way back up to your lips so he could feed his own noises of encouragement into your mouth. Holding your hips just tight enough so he wouldn’t bruise them, still guiding you firmly, still holding your hips just close to him as he clouded your brain over with every push and pull of his hands and each wet smack of his lips and yours (and skin on skin, but we don’t mention that).

His head was fuzzy. Mumbling shit he couldn’t make out himself in between every collision of your lips, tangling one hand in your hair while the other slipped down to press his thumb onto your clit.

You clenched hard; he almost came right there.

His eyes rolled back for half a second and he willed himself not to finish too early but he couldn’t stop it once you clamped down with the second roll of his thumb, your name leaving his mouth, the highest you’d heard his voice be, cracks in between syllables feeding your ego. But he kept circling your clit like he was born to do it, mumbling encouragement, his forehead glistening as his head fell back.

“C’mon, sweetie, gotta make you feel good too,” He panted, gripping your hip so he could encourage you to grind forward into his thumb. “Please, please give it to me—”

It all felt too much. The onslaught of his thumb, his tip still prodding at your cervix, seeing him fucked out from one round (that made you more horny than you’d care to admit) had you coming too, him swallowing that moan by meeting your lips in the middle, stroking your hair back from your face and rolling his hips up a little so the high wouldn’t be harsh on you. His kisses turned slower, more languid, to the corner of your mouth, your jaw, your neck, finally lifting your hand so he could kiss your palm and the back of your hand.

“You’re stunning.” He breathed, kissing your knuckles. “So beautiful, honey.”

How the fuck was he respectful after the best sex you’ve ever had? There had to be a catch.

“So… that was hot.” You smiled, brushing his curls back from his forehead. “You were being pretty modest.”

“I’m pretty sure I didn’t last past two minutes.”

Your tongue traced your canine as you smiled. “Well, I wanna see it again.”

He blinked. Oh, boy. “Golly.”

© 2026 ALL RIGHTS RESERVED : SRENIQUE. DO NOT MODIFY, REPOST, PLAGIARISE, TAKE DIRECT INSPIRATION FROM OR CLAIM MY WORK AS YOUR OWN WITHOUT PERMISSION OR GIVING CREDIT.

NOTES: again it may just be me but I feel this is a litttllleeee sloppy

[tieflingkisser]

[lesbianslimefriend]

here's where to find it on windows 10

[the-tiny-dragons-tea-room]

Ugh, it was in mine. It's off now.

[the-tiny-dragons-tea-room]

IT GETS WORSE

I had to turn this off, but it's something that allows Windows and anyone using your device to generate text/images.

LOBOTOMIZE YOUR MACHINES

[marougus-the-dragon]

AI is a freacking plague, I share this for any windows user.

[heldbybarnes]

bucky slowly realizing he can’t live without y/n? it creeps up on him so subtly he doesn’t even realize it, but suddenly his day doesn’t start until u walk into the room? or he can only concentrate once he knows ur safe? he doesn’t know when exactly u became his entire world and he’s a bit terrified of it bcuz of how easily he could lose u

There’s no lightning bolt, no cinematic swell of music, no single moment where Bucky Barnes wakes up and thinks, I can’t live without her.

It creeps in quietly. Patiently. Like dawn bleeding into the sky before you even realize the sun is up.

At first, it’s small things.

He notices that his coffee tastes better when you’re in the kitchen with him. Not because you add anything to it—he still drinks it black—but because you’re there, humming softly while you dig through the fridge, stealing sips from his mug when you think he’s not looking. He pretends not to see. Pretends not to wait for it.

But on mornings you sleep in? He finds himself standing at the counter longer than necessary, mug cooling in his metal hand, listening for your footsteps in the hall.

His day doesn’t feel like it’s started until you appear.

He tells himself it’s coincidence.

It isn’t.

He realizes it again during missions.

There was a time when Bucky could compartmentalize anything. He could put emotions in a locked box, shove it to the back of his mind, and focus solely on the objective. Clean. Efficient. Detached.

Now?

Now he checks his phone before every briefing.

Just to make sure you texted back.

Just to make sure you’re safe.

He doesn’t relax until he sees your name on the screen—some mundane message about groceries or a picture of the stray cat you’re trying to befriend. His shoulders loosen. His breathing evens out.

Only then can he concentrate.

Sam notices it before he does.

“You’re distracted,” Sam mutters one afternoon while they’re reviewing intel.

“I’m not.”

“You are.”

Bucky bristles automatically, jaw tightening. But when Sam raises a brow and glances pointedly at the phone in Bucky’s hand, Bucky feels something twist low in his gut.

He sets it down. Pushes it away.

He doesn’t pick it up again.

Not for fifteen whole minutes.

And then he checks it anyway.

It’s subtle at first, the way you become the axis his world turns on.

He starts timing his workouts so he’s home when you are. Starts grocery shopping for things you like without thinking about it. Starts leaving a light on if you’re coming back late because he doesn’t like the idea of you walking into a dark apartment.

He tells himself it’s just… consideration.

He doesn’t realize it’s devotion.

The first time it truly hits him is on a random Friday.

You’re late.

You said you’d be home by six.

It’s 6:17.

And Bucky is pacing.

He hates that he’s pacing.

His chest feels tight in a way he hasn’t felt in years—like something is pressing down on his ribs from the inside. He checks his phone. No new messages. He considers calling you, then stops himself. He doesn’t want to be overbearing.

You’re fine.

You’re fine.

You’re—

The lock clicks.

You walk in, shaking rain from your jacket, muttering about traffic and a flat tire and how your phone died halfway through the tow.

You barely get two steps inside before he’s in front of you.

“You okay?” His voice is rough, sharper than he means it to be. His hands hover at your shoulders like he’s afraid to grab you too tightly.

You blink at him. “Yeah? Buck, I’m fine.”

But he doesn’t breathe properly until he pulls you into his chest and feels the steady rhythm of your heart beneath his palm.

And that’s when it settles in.

The realization.

It’s quiet and terrifying and absolute.

His world doesn’t function right without you in it.

He doesn’t know when it happened.

He doesn’t know the exact moment you became the first thing he looks for in every room, the person his mind reaches for when things go wrong, the calm in the storm of his thoughts.

He just knows that somewhere along the way, you stopped being a part of his life and became the center of it.

And that scares the hell out of him.

Because Bucky Barnes knows loss.

He knows how easily things can be ripped away.

He knows what it’s like to wake up in a world where everything you love is gone.

The thought of that happening with you?

It makes him feel hollow.

He starts watching you differently after that; much more aware.

Of how you laugh when you’re half-asleep. Of how you chew your bottom lip when you’re thinking. Of the way your hand always finds his without looking.

He memorizes you.

Like if he learns every detail, he’ll somehow be able to keep you.

One night, you catch him staring.

“What?” you ask, smiling softly from where you’re curled against him on the couch.

He hesitates.

He doesn’t do vulnerable easily.

But this feels too big to swallow.

“I don’t remember when it happened,” he says quietly.

“When what happened?”

“When you became… everything.”

You go still.

His thumb brushes over your knuckles, metal cool against your warm skin.

“My day doesn’t start until I see you,” he admits. “I can’t focus unless I know you’re safe. If you’re late, I feel like I can’t breathe.” His jaw tightens. “And that’s— that’s dangerous.”

“Dangerous?” you whisper.

“For me.” He swallows. “Because I know how easy it is to lose things. I know how fragile good things are. And you…” His voice falters just slightly. “You’re the best thing I’ve got.”

You reach up, cupping his face in your hands, forcing him to look at you.

“Bucky,” you murmur, pressing your forehead to his. “I’m not going anywhere.”

“You can’t promise that.”

“No,” you agree softly. “But I can promise I’m here right now. And I choose you. Every day.”

The tightness in his chest eases, just a fraction.

He wraps his arms around you, holding you close like he’s grounding himself in something solid.

He may not know when you became his entire world.

He may never pinpoint the exact moment.

But he knows if loving you means being terrified of losing you, he’ll take that fear.

[heldbybarnes]

If you are taking requests can we get a fic of Bucky thinking he’s ready for the toddler stage because he’s a super soldier but his daughter is a break for freedom kid who runs like the law is after her whenever the opportunity arises. Bucky turns around for a second and she’s running like she’s trying for the olympics, he lets go of her hand and she’s chasing a duck under a hedge having the time of her life while he tries to understand how a child can escape him.

Bucky Barnes has lived about 8 lifetimes and survived hell nobody can comprehend. So when you hand him your daughter’s tiny jacket and say, “You’ve got park duty today,” he just smirks like this is the easiest mission he’s ever been assigned.

“It’s a toddler,” he says, confident, already crouching to help her shove her arms into the sleeves. “How hard can it be?”

You don’t even bother answering. You just kiss your little girl’s head, then his cheek, and walk away with a suspicious sort of calm that should’ve tipped him off.

Because Bucky is prepared.

He’s done research. He’s read articles. He’s even asked Sam, who laughed so hard he had to sit down before offering any advice. Bucky doesn’t get it. He has enhanced strength, enhanced speed, enhanced reflexes. There is quite literally no version of this where he loses control of the situation.

Your daughter—small, sweet, curls bouncing, shoes that light up when she stomps—grins up at him like she knows something he doesn’t.

“Ready, Sergeant?” he teases, holding out his hand.

She takes it. For exactly twelve seconds.

The park is calm when they get there. Kids on swings, parents on benches, a couple dogs trotting around. Bucky does a quick scan out of habit, cataloging exits, possible hazards, anything that might pose a threat. Everything is under control.

He looks down at her. She’s staring at a group of ducks by the pond, eyes wide, completely transfixed.

“Those are ducks,” he explains, because apparently that’s what parenting is. “They’re—”

She lets go of his hand.

It’s subtle at first. Just a shift. A tiny tug of her fingers slipping free.

Bucky barely registers it.

And then she’s gone.

Not gone gone—but running.

Running like her life depends on it. Like she’s been training for this exact moment since birth. Her little legs pump with terrifying efficiency, light-up shoes flashing like warning signals as she makes a beeline straight for the ducks.

“Hey—hey!” Bucky calls, startled for half a second before instinct kicks in and he's moving fast.

He's faster than any normal person is; however, your daughter is faster.

Or maybe not technically faster, but unpredictable. Chaotic. She zigzags with absolutely no pattern, giggling as the ducks scatter, her delighted squeal carrying across the park. Bucky adjusts his path, calculating angles, intercept points—

She ducks under a hedge.

A hedge.

Bucky skids to a stop at the edge of it, staring down like it personally offended him.

“How—” he mutters, blinking.

There is no logical reason for this. The opening is small. The hedge is dense. He is a super soldier.

And yet his toddler has just disappeared into shrubbery like a fugitive.

On the other side, her laughter rings out, bright and unbothered.

“Quack quack!” she yells, chasing after a very confused duck.

Bucky exhales slowly through his nose, crouching down to peer through the leaves. He can see flashes of her jacket, those blinking shoes, the absolute chaos of her tiny form barreling forward without a single ounce of hesitation.

“Doll,” he calls, attempting calm. “We do not chase wildlife.”

She shrieks in delight.

Not listening.

Of course she’s not listening.

Why would she listen?

Bucky drags a hand down his face, then stands, quickly moving around the hedge to cut her off on the other side. This time, he’s ready. He positions himself perfectly, steps wide, arms out—

She runs straight past him.

Not even a pause. Not even a glance. Just pure, unfiltered toddler rebellion as she darts in a completely new direction, laughter bubbling out of her like this is the greatest game ever invented.

Bucky turns, stunned.

“What the hell,” he breathes, before taking off after her again.

It becomes a cycle.

She runs.

He catches up.

She slips away.

He recalculates.

At one point, he manages to grab the back of her jacket—victory, finally—but she twists in his grip with the determination of someone who has never known defeat, dropping to the ground and wriggling free like a tiny, giggling escape artist.

“Absolutely not,” he says, half exasperated, half impressed.

She’s already back on her feet, sprinting toward a new target—this time a squirrel.

Bucky stares at the sky for a brief moment, like he’s asking for strength.

“This is not a fair fight,” he mutters.

Because it isn’t.

Not when she has no fear, no strategy, no concern for consequences. Just joy. Just curiosity. Just the overwhelming need to run and explore and chase anything that moves.

Eventually—eventually—he catches her properly.

It takes a well-timed scoop, a quick lift that brings her up into his arms mid-run. She squeals, kicking her legs, still laughing like she hasn’t just put him through tactical warfare.

“Got you,” he pants, holding her close.

She beams at him, cheeks flushed, eyes bright.

“Again!” she demands, like this was all just a game he willingly participated in.

Bucky stares at her.

Then he huffs out a laugh, shaking his head as he presses a kiss to her hair.

“You are unbelievable,” he tells her, voice soft despite the exhaustion creeping in. “I fought trained assassins with less trouble than you.”

She pats his cheek, entirely unconcerned.

“Dada slow,” she says, with absolute confidence.

Bucky barks out a laugh, loud and helpless, pulling her closer as he starts the walk back home.

“Yeah,” he admits, adjusting her on his hip. “Guess I am.”

Wthen she leans her head against his shoulder, finally still for more than three seconds, he can’t help the small, fond smile that tugs at his lips.

Because maybe he didn’t win.

But he’s pretty sure he didn’t lose either.

[splattynatty1984]

ᴛᴀᴋᴇ ᴀ ʜɪɴᴛ

You text Natasha from a bar because a man is not taking your hints to back off.  She arrives by motorcycle and handles the situation accordingly. Then she fucks you to celebrate it. Featuring Liho.

featuring: possessive/protective Nat, spit kink (thank you to my unc anon), breeding kink

18+, NSFW, oneshot | 5.9k words

Based on the song from Victorious

ao3

This wasn't the first time this had happened.

It was always men, and it was always the ones who just didn't seem to get it. You liked to think you were a nice person—you genuinely tried to be, tried to lead with warmth and give people the benefit of the doubt—but maybe that was exactly the problem. Maybe the polite nod and the friendly smile read as something other than what it was, which was you being too kind to say what you actually meant, which was: please stop talking to me. Please take your cologne and your name-dropping and your incremental lean and redirect them toward literally any other person in this building.

Kate and Yelena had been gone for twenty-three minutes.

You'd clocked what they were up to the moment they'd both excused themselves to the bathroom at the same time, with the poorly concealed urgency of two people who had been eye-fucking each other across the table for the better part of an hour. You'd checked your phone with resignation, having seen this coming from the moment Yelena had suggested this particular bar—which had, you'd noted upon arrival, a single-occupancy bathroom that locked from the inside. You were happy for them. Genuinely, completely happy that they were in love and passionate about it in bar bathrooms on Friday nights. You were also alone now, your drink getting low, with a man standing approximately eight inches closer to you than he'd been when he first materialized at your elbow, and the gap was still shrinking.

He had been talking for a while now. You'd stopped absorbing the content of it around the five-minute mark, somewhere in the middle of his third celebrity name-drop, which you were fairly certain represented a one-time encounter he'd since promoted in his memory to a close personal friendship. Since then you'd been performing the minimum facial expressions required to sustain the impression of a conversation—a small nod here, a neutral sound there—turning your glass slowly on the bar and waiting for literally anything else to happen.

"—so at that point I just told him, look, I know more about this than you do—"

"Mm," you said.

"—and honestly the numbers backed me up completely—"

"Hm."

He shifted his weight, leaning further on the bar in a way that angled his whole body toward yours, and you noticed immediately. He had the confidence of someone who had never seriously entertained the possibility that this conversation might be going worse than he thought, not aggressive but something almost worse than aggressive, simply and completely certain of himself in a way that made your skin prickle. He'd had you at hello, if you were being honest with yourself. You had thought he was nice and this would simply be a casual conversation.  And then he'd opened his mouth, and here you were.

He leaned in slightly when he laughed at something he'd said, and his breath reached you, and you thought very privately that he could use a mint. Several, maybe. A whole pack and a lifestyle change.

"You know what I mean?" he said.

"Totally," you said, having retained nothing.

He smiled, encouraged—the wrong reaction on your part, you knew it the moment his posture opened up—and his eyes dropped to your mouth in a way he'd been doing periodically for the last ten minutes, a recurring check that had started to make the back of your neck prickle. He looked back up and seemed to think the eye contact was going well.

"So what's your sign?" he asked.

"Stop," you said, laughing it off because it was a little funny, like a stop sign. You were still trying to be nice.

He laughed too. "You’re a funny one. Can I buy you a drink?”

"I'm good," you said, lifting your current one to demonstrate.

"Come on," he said, with the smile of someone who had decided your no was a negotiating position rather than an answer. "Let me get you something. I know the bartender."

You looked at him steadily. "No, thank you."

He smiled again, wider, like your refusal was a move in a game rather than a conclusion, and you thought if you had a dime for every name he'd dropped tonight, for every thinly supported claim, for every moment of this conversation—you'd be somewhere considerably more pleasant than this bar stool. He said something else, something about a rooftop bar nearby, and you were doing the math on how bad it would actually be to just text her, whether that was the nuclear option or just the sensible one, when his hand settled at your hip.

He wasn’t aggressive about it, not trying to hurt you or restrain you. He genuinely thought this was a reasonable course of action based on the way he perceived the conversation to be going.

It wasn't.

You went very still, but he kept talking. You weren't hearing it anymore. You pulled out your phone, angled it away from him, and typed. You knew she’d be able to decipher the words being typed, so it didn’t worry you that you couldn’t quite see the entire keyboard as your thumb slid against it.

Bar n Clement. Kate and Ylena in bthroom. Man tlking to me 

The three dots appeared before you'd finished the sentence.

Are you okay?

He wont take th hint

On my way.

You locked your phone, tucked it away, and turned back to the man with the polite expression of someone who had just quietly solved the problem and was simply waiting for the solution to arrive.

"Sorry," you said. "You were saying?"

He was saying something about interest rates. You chose to sing the ABC’s in your head to pass the time.

(-)

You heard the motorcycle before the door opened.

It cut through everything—the music, the hum of conversation, the man who had now progressed to telling you about his apartment—and it didn't go to your ears so much as land somewhere lower, somewhere that didn't require conscious processing. A sound you'd learned to recognize the way you recognized her voice. Your body knew it before your brain had finished the sentence, some deep-wired thing that had developed over a year and a half of her arriving places and your nervous system treating it like a fixed point.

The door opened and she was moving before you'd fully located her in the room.

The leather jacket was the dark one, worn soft at the elbows and fitted to her like it had been made specifically for the geometry of her shoulders, which knowing Natasha it might well have been. Dark jeans, her boots, her hair down and longer than it had been last spring. She had all her ear piercings in, the small silver ones climbing the curve of her left ear, the simple ones in her lobes. When she was just herself, the version of herself that existed in the spaces between everything else, and you thought every time you saw her like this that it was your favorite version, which was saying something because you were partial to all of them.

She wasn't scanning the room. She already knew where you were. She'd known before she walked in.

Her eyes found you and she read the situation in the two seconds it took her to cross half the distance—the man at your side, the placement of his hand still at your hip, the careful neutral set of your face that she knew was not relaxed neutrality but managed neutrality, which were two different things and she had always been able to tell them apart. Something in her expression did a thing, like the physical look of a decision completing itself. She was already done deliberating before she reached you.

Natasha didn't look at him at all.

Her hand came to your jaw—warm, certain, the cool familiar weight of her rings—and she kissed you. You tasted coffee and underneath it the warmth that was just her, and you felt it move through you from the point of contact outward. Down your spine, into your fingertips, somewhere warm and low. The man ceased to be a factor you were tracking for several consecutive seconds.

Her thumb moved once across your cheekbone when she pulled back. Those green eyes, darker in the bar light, asked their question without asking it out loud.

You were fine. She already knew you were fine. She was checking anyway, because she always checked, because that was who she was underneath everything else.

The man had recalibrated. You could hear it in the way he broke the silence. "Okay, so—" his hand hadn't moved from your hip, and now his other arm was beginning to move, angling toward Natasha— "if you're both—I mean, I'm very open-minded—"

Natasha looked at his hand on your hip.

Then she looked at his face. The sequence of it was very controlled, very still, and you watched something happen to his expression in real time—the beginning of the understanding that he had fundamentally miscalculated something—and then his arm finished its motion, trying to loop around toward Natasha's shoulder.

She caught his wrist. One hand, smooth and immediate, and then she had his head and it met the bar with a sound that made the nearest tables go completely quiet. The efficiency of someone who had done this many times and saw no reason to perform it. He made a sound that was both startled and pained. She let him start to straighten and her knee found his stomach before he'd finished the motion, and the air went out of him entirely, and he folded. She stepped back and looked at him on the floor for a moment with the expression of someone completing a checklist, and then, almost as an afterthought, she placed one boot on his crotch and applied just enough weight to make her feelings on the matter clear.

She held it for a moment. Then she stepped off when she was satisfied.

The bar was very quiet.

Natasha reached past you for a cocktail napkin. She wiped her hands—methodical, unhurried, the way she did most things—and set it down. She looked at her hands briefly, checking, and then looked at you with an expression that had loosened around the edges, the loosening that happened when the thing she'd been carrying since your text had been handled and set down.

"Ready?" she said.

You looked at the floor. You looked at her. "We should probably—"

"No," she said.

"But—"

"No." Her hand found the small of your back, steady and familiar through your shirt, and she steered you toward the door with the calm certainty of someone who had already closed the chapter.

Outside, the night air was cool and smelled like the city, and the motorcycle sat at the curb where she'd left it, and Natasha was already pulling the spare helmet free and holding it out.

You took it and stood with it in your hands, looking at her in the low light from the bar window—hair loose around her shoulders, rings catching the light, the leather jacket, the small silver piercings along her ear—and felt the thing that had been sitting warm in your stomach since the sound of the engine on Clement Street.

"Nat."

She raised an eyebrow.

“Aren’t you—”

"He had it coming," she interrupted. The corner of her mouth twitched into her familiar smirk.

The laugh arrived before you could do anything about it. "Okay," you said. "Okay. But are we—should we be worried about—"

"Get on the bike, baby," she said.

You didn’t argue with that tone. She swung on in front of you with the easy automatic grace of someone who had been doing this for decades, and you wrapped your arms around her waist and pressed your face between her shoulder blades and felt the warmth of her through the leather, the solid reality of her back against your chest. The engine came alive beneath you both—low and certain, a sound you felt in your sternum—and just before the helmet went on, she paused.

"The cops know better by now," she said.

You didn’t question it.

(-)

Natasha kept her eyes on the road and let the rhythm of the bike work through her the way it always did, stripping things down to their simplest version.

She'd been moving before she'd finished your text. She had just grabbed her jacket and her keys without deliberation. The whole ride over she'd been running the numbers on how long you'd been sitting there being polite while some man who didn't deserve a minute of your time had taken twenty-four of them, and by the time she'd walked through that door she'd already decided.

She hadn't been angry, exactly. Anger was loud and imprecise and she'd never found much use for it. What she'd been was certain, in the way she was certain about things that mattered to her—clear-eyed and calm and entirely, completely sure of what was going to happen next.

You pressed closer against her back through a long curve and she felt your arms tighten at her waist and one hand press flat against her stomach briefly, just a moment of contact, and it moved through her chest and settled there warm in a way she'd stopped trying to catalog because the catalog had gotten too long.

Mine, something in her said, the way it always said it. Simple and blunt and not interested in being argued with.

Yeah, she told it. I know.

(-)

The apartment was quiet when you got in, smelling like home, and Liho appeared from the hallway within seconds—black cat, hazel eyes. She wound around Natasha's ankles with focused thoroughness and then, after visible deliberation, extended the same courtesy to you.

"Hi, Liho," you said. “Have you behaved?”

Liho walked away, which was the typical response you got.

Natasha hung up the leather jacket and turned, finding you watching her with an expression she recognized—that look, the one you had when you were feeling something large and hadn't decided what to do with it yet. She crossed the room, taking your face in her hands and kissing you. You got your hands into the front of her shirt, and she walked you toward the bedroom without breaking the kiss.

She sat you on the edge of the bed and stood in front of you in the lamplight and just looked at you for a moment, really looked, the way she let herself look in rooms like this one when there was no performance required of her. She'd seen you in lamplight hundreds of times by now, in this room and in rooms that weren't this room, and she should have been past the part where the sight of you did something to her chest. She wasn't past it. She suspected she never would be.

She reached for her own shirt first and pulled it over her head, set it aside, stood there in the unselfconscious way she'd arrived at gradually over years—the scars, the map of everything she'd survived written into her skin, none of it something she needed to manage or explain. You looked at her the way you always looked at her and she felt it land in the place it always landed, which was the place she'd never thought to armor because she hadn't known anyone would aim there.

She reached for you, undressing you with careful hands, each piece of clothing removed deliberately, her eyes following what her hands uncovered with the focused attention she gave to things she found worth her full care. By the time she pressed you back against the pillows there was warmth in her chest alongside everything else, something she'd stopped trying to name because naming it hadn't ever done justice to it. She settled over you and looked at your face again in the lamplight.

She kissed your throat first, finding the spot below your ear that she'd mapped the very first time and committed to memory because your breath changed there without fail. She let herself stay there for a while because she wanted to, her mouth warm against your pulse point, feeling your heartbeat quicken under her lips while her hands moved down your sides in long, slow strokes. She found your breast and her thumb traced circles against it until you arched into her hand, and she kept the pace deliberate, not rushing toward anything, letting the warmth build at whatever pace it wanted to build.

She kissed down your body after—your collarbone, the center of your chest, the soft curve of your ribs—pressing her lips to each place with intention, spending time where your breathing changed. She found the birthmark at your hip and pressed her mouth there, acknowledging it, and felt the small sound you made above her move through her chest. She kissed along the inside of your hip where the skin was thin and sensitive and felt you shift against the mattress, and she took her time there too, not because she was teasing but because she was here and she wanted to be here, wanted every part of this the way she'd wanted it since the first time she'd understood that she wasn't going to stop wanting it.

She pushed your thighs apart gently and settled between them, looking up at you with dark eyes that seemed to explain everything she wanted to do to you.

She slid her hand up the inside of your thigh and found you through your underwear and pressed, and the sound she made at what she felt there was involuntary and entirely sincere—quiet and satisfied, something low in her pulling tight in response. She pressed again, feeling the soaked fabric give, and felt your hips tilt toward her hand before you'd decided to move them.

"Christ," she said softly, almost to herself. She rubbed slow circles against your cunt through the fabric, learning the pressure that made your thighs tremble, and listened to the sounds you were making above her get less managed. "You're soaked through. All of this is for me?"

“Natasha—please—"

"I know,” she said, grinning at you.

She hooked her fingers into your underwear and drew them down and off in one smooth motion, and then her hand was back and there was nothing between her and you. She slid through your folds slowly, thoroughly, the way she always started—learning you again even though she already knew every part of you. She pressed two fingers to your entrance and felt you clench toward them and held them there, not pushing in yet, just letting you feel the promise of it.

"You did a good job,” she said. “Texting me tonight. I hate that you had to deal with that.”

"Natasha," you said. "Please—can you just—”

She pushed inside, both fingers deep and immediate, your back coming off the mattress before she'd finished the motion. She curled them on the first stroke, finding the right place with the accuracy of someone who had learned you completely, and the sensation of that curl dragging against your inner walls made you make a sound that filled the room entirely. She held that angle and started to move—not slow, because tonight wasn't a slow night, because she could feel how wound up you were and had been since the bar—purposeful and steady, the curl on every stroke deliberate, her thumb finding your clit and pressing in circles that matched her rhythm. Her free hand spread flat across your lower stomach and she felt the movement of her fingers from the outside and you clenching around her.

"Natasha—" Your voice was already broken at the edges. "I'm already—I'm going to—"

"Not yet." She eased the pressure by a fraction, held you right at the edge with the particular patience of someone who found the edge interesting. "You can wait."

"I really—I genuinely—Nat—please—"

"You can," she said, against your hip. "You're going to be so good about it." Her fingers pressed deeper and you made a sound that wasn't a word. "Aren't you?”

"Yes—yes, please—I'll wait—"

"Good girl." She felt you clench hard at that, the immediate response you always had, and the pull in her stomach went sharp and low. She added a third finger gradually, feeling you stretch around them, heard the sound you made—different from the others, fuller—and held there for a long moment, just letting you feel it, before she began to move again. The fullness of all three, the curl on every stroke, her thumb working your clit without mercy,  was intoxicatingly intense and you were gripping the sheets in both fists, making sounds that had moved well past language.

She built it and held it and built it and held it—watching your face the whole time, reading every shift and sound and the way your expression kept cresting toward something and falling back—and when she finally pressed her thumb hard over your clit and curled her fingers one final time and said "okay", the orgasm that broke over you came from somewhere compressed and suddenly released, rolling through you in long deep waves. Your back came fully off the mattress, your thighs locked around her hand, and she worked you through every second of it without stopping until you were trembling and pulling weakly at her wrist.

She slid free, looking at her hand for a moment. Then she started moving down your body.

Her lips at your ribs, your stomach, the soft skin below your navel, each place acknowledged with the warm press of her mouth. She found the mark she'd left at your hip and pressed her mouth there briefly, and then settled between your thighs and looked up at you.

She let the spit gather slow in her mouth and released it—warm and deliberate, landing directly on your cunt—and the sound you made was completely undignified and she felt a low pull of satisfaction move through her at it before she lowered her head.

The first press of her tongue was thorough and exploratory, moving through your folds like she was relearning something she already knew. She didn't go to your clit first. She mapped the rest of you with slow attention, the taste of you moving through her, and you found her hair with one hand and held on without directing. Her tongue moved and she heard every sound you made in response.

Then her hands slid under your thighs and pushed them wide.

She was strong, and the experience of her using that strength to hold your thighs open and simply keep them there—while your body tried instinctively to close them against the overwhelm and found that it couldn't, that she was simply holding you where she wanted you without apparent effort—registered in a category entirely its own. She held you wide and lowered her mouth to your clit and the sound you made was loud enough that she was briefly aware of Liho somewhere in the apartment making a mildly concerned noise, and she didn't slow down at all.

She worked your clit with focused attention, in tight circles that varied just enough to keep your whole body chasing, pressure building and redirecting, her arms locked around your thighs. Then she sealed her lips around it and sucked once, brief and precise, and the sound you made filled the room completely.

She pressed the flat of her tongue against you and held. She didn't move and your hand in her hair was not gentle anymore and she didn’t care. She held your thighs wide and stayed exactly where she was, your back coming fully off the mattress again. The orgasm arrived enormous and deep, rolling through you in long waves that started in your chest and moved outward, and she stayed through every second of it—licking you through each wave, easing gradually as the oversensitivity built—until you were trembling and making sounds that were nearly the word stop.

She lifted her head, looking at you. You were flushed, your chest heaving, barely coherent—exactly what she loved seeing. She crawled up your body again, strong biceps supporting her weight over you. She cocked her head to the side, an idea visibly forming on her face.

"Say ahh," she said, her voice very close to a coo.

Your brain processed that slowly and opened your mouth.

She grinned in satisfaction, leaning over you and letting the spit gather and fall from her lips to your tongue in one slow, warm drip. You felt it land on your tongue, the weight of your taste left in her mouth and the thought of what had just happened at the same time, and then she kissed you—deep and slow, her tongue moving against yours. You barely kept up, your body still reacting to the act in ways you didn’t know how to explain. She pulled back and looked at you for a long moment with that open expression, the one that only surfaced in rooms like this one, and then she reached for the nightstand.

She got the harness on with practiced efficiency, no ceremony, the way she approached everything she'd already decided. She checked the reservoir carefully, ran her thumb along it, and came back between your thighs and looked down at you in the lamplight.

"Still with me?" she asked.

You made a sound that was approximately yes.

"Good." She settled her weight, lining the strap up against your entrance, and she pressed forward slowly, watching your face the entire time. She felt you stretch around the strap as she pushed inside, the ridging catching at your entrance and dragging along your inner walls on the way in, each ridge distinct and registering clearly in your oversensitized body. 

Once she bottomed out inside of you, she held there for a long moment—both of you breathing, the strap fully seated, the base of the harness against her clit—and she let you feel the fullness of it, the warmth of what was already inside you, before she started to move.

The rhythm she built was deep and deliberate, long strokes that gave you everything on every push forward, the ridging dragging back along your inner walls on every pull. She felt the base grinding against her clit on each stroke and the accumulation of it was something she had to focus through, the pleasure building steadily alongside yours. At the deepest point the strap filled you completely and she held there on each stroke for a half-beat longer than necessary just to feel it, just to hear the sound you made at the fullness of it.

"You feel incredible," she said in a low tone, and she meant it completely. "So perfect. Taking me so well." She moved deeper and you made a sound that went straight through her. "Mine. You understand that? All of this is mine."

"Yes—" Not really a word.

"Good—fuck—good girl." She kept the rhythm steady and deep, her breathing going less even with each stroke, the base working against her. The sounds you were making were just sounds, incoherent and unmanaged, filling the quiet apartment. She groaned softly on a particularly deep stroke, the sensation of the base against her clit sharp and exact, and she felt your nails in her back at the sound.

Natasha was shaking slightly with the effort of maintaining herself through it, the base relentless, and she pressed the mechanism at the bottom of each deep stroke, small measured releases, and felt more fake cum filling you each time. Every time she bottomed out she could feel it, the increasing warmth and fullness of you around the strap. 

She pulled out and grabbed your hips and flipped you, and before you'd finished registering the position change she pushed back inside from behind. The angle was entirely different—deeper, more direct—and you dropped onto your forearms with a sound that filled the room. She grabbed a handful of your hair, gentle enough not to hurt, tilting your head back slightly, and she felt you push back toward her, your body asking for more before you could have formed the words.

She gave it to you. Of course she did.

She moved fast from here, the rhythm she'd been managing coming loose, her hips striking yours with a sound she felt in her sternum. She was groaning on the deep strokes—the base against her clit, the feeling of being inside you, the sounds you were making below her all layering into something she was losing the edges of.

Her hand came down on your ass—clean and sharp—and she felt you clench hard around the strap at the impact and she hissed through her teeth and smoothed her palm over the heat before doing it again, lower. You made a sound that was not a word and she groaned at it and reached around to find your clit with her fingers.

"Come on," she breathed. "Give it to me. You're so—god—" Her rhythm stuttered slightly and it took her longer than either of you expected to steady it. "So perfect. Mine. Say it."

"Yours—" Not quite a word. "Yours—please—"

She felt you clenching toward another orgasm and moved harder and you came apart. She groaned through it with you and then pulled you upright—her arm hauling you back against her chest, the strap still buried inside you, your back against her front. She held you there with one arm across your chest and her hand splayed across your stomach, and you grabbed her forearm with both hands and held on.

She rolled her hips slow and deep and from this angle the strap hit somewhere new and the sound you made against her throat was broken and helpless. You both loved it.

"I've always protected you," she said, into your ear. Low and certain, nothing performed in it, just true—the way the truest things came out of her, plainly, like stating something decided long ago. "I'll always protect you. You know that."

It was said in desperation, like she needed you to know. She needed you to understand it. You were hers, and she would never let anyone harm you. She’d slam every man who annoyed you into a bar, and she would break any law she needed to, if it meant you were safe and happy.

"You're mine," she said. "So fucking mine." Her hips thrusted deeper and you sobbed. "And you're going to feel that. Right now. You're going to feel exactly who you belong to."

You came completely apart.

She held you through every wave and then eased you down—one hand gentle between your shoulder blades, pressing you forward until your face was in the pillow and your hips were up—and she moved with everything she had left. Her arms were trembling on either side of you with the sustained effort of it, the base of the harness grinding against her clit on every stroke, and her groans were real and uncontrolled as she approached her own orgasm. Each thrust brought her close, and it was the way you arched into her even in your current fucked-out state that allowed her to fall over the edge.

She pushed deep and held there, pressing the mechanism for the last time, giving you the full release. Her whole body was shuddering, her breaths uneven through her parted lips, beads of sweat forming on her brow.

Natasha’s forehead dropped to the back of your shoulder, both of you breathing in the quiet apartment. When she could move without falling on top of you, she pulled out slowly, shushing you softly when you whined.

She reached between your thighs after removing the strap—gentle now, entirely gentle, the shift from one thing to this happening without a gap or an announcement, just a change in temperature—and felt where the fake cum had begun to slip out. She pressed it back in slowly, two fingers careful and deliberate. You made a small sound, and she kept going, until she was satisfied.

"There," she said softly. Maybe it was to you. Maybe to herself. Maybe just to the room.

She cleaned you up with a warm cloth from the bathroom—careful with every mark, her lips pressing briefly and without comment to the ones at your hips—and got you into the sheets with the efficient tenderness she brought to this part every time. She lay down beside you, and you turned into her immediately. She let you, her arm coming around your back, her chin at the top of your head. Her fingers began their slow arcs along your spine.

You lay there in the warmth of her and felt your heart rate making its slow return to something resembling normal. The city outside did whatever cities did, and in here there was just the lamplight and both of you breathing.

The mattress dipped, and Natasha smiled into your skin.

Liho landed with the authority of a cat executing a decision that didn't require anyone's input. She walked the full length of the bed, assessed the situation with hazel eyes that missed nothing, turned in a precise circle, and settled against Natasha's side. Her small warm weight pressed against you both. 

One small black paw extended and came to rest on your neck, and you didn't move it.

Natasha's hand migrated from your back to Liho's fur and then back, the same slow rhythm for both without any apparent awareness that she was doing it, and you felt that somewhere in your chest in a way that didn't need explaining. The tenderness of being included in the same motion as something else she loved and would never fully admit to loving.

A long quiet settled. Liho purred. Your eyes were closed.

"She’s beautiful, isn’t she?" Natasha mused quietly to Liho, the way she talked to Liho when she thought you were asleep. 

Liho purred once, an agreement.

"There was a man," Natasha said, with the serenity of someone reporting mild weather. "He had his hand on her hip." The hand in your hair stilled briefly. Then resumed. "He made a miscalculation."

Liho made a small sound, and Natasha interpreted it as a knowing laugh.

"She's mine," Natasha said, the way she said things she had decided were simply true and required no further support. "And I’m glad she trusts me with that.”

Liho flexed her small paw against your neck.

"Think I’ve been softened up," Natasha laughed, sighing at the end as she stared at the ceiling for a few moments before her eyes came back down to Liho. “Did you ever expect that?”

Liho purred again. Natasha could’ve sworn the cat said “yes, I did”.

Natasha laughed once again, closing her eyes and burying her face in your neck. You smelled like yourself, but you had her scent as well, and that comforted her in a way nothing else could.

Liho was the last to fall asleep, settled against both of you like she knew it was right where she belonged. 

And somewhere, probably at home with his golden doodle named “Gracie”, the man from the bar held a bag of frozen peas to his crotch and whimpered with every breath he took.

He still probably didn’t take the hint.

[midastouch013]

Shy

Based on this req

I don't remember if i used this gif already, but there's not enough Nat gifs out there.

Summary: You're the new rookie to the avengers. Shy? Definitely not you. Sarcastic? Yes. But around a certain redhead, shy is all that you are

Warnings: Just you being a shy mess around her

------

You noticed it the second week you moved into the Tower.

Not the crush. God, no. You’d noticed that the first time Natasha Romanoff leaned against the briefing table and gave you a lazy little “you keeping up, rookie?” with one eyebrow raised.

No, the thing you noticed in week two was worse.

You physically could not act normal around her.

Everyone else? Easy.

You sparred with Steve without flinching. You stole fries off Sam’s plate. You sat cross-legged on Bruce’s lab counter while he rambled science at you for an hour straight. You even let Tony drag you into one of his chaotic workshop arguments.

But Natasha?

Natasha walked into a room and suddenly you forgot how chairs worked.

It was humiliating.

“Pass the salt.”

You nearly dropped the entire container into your soup.

Natasha blinked at you from across the dinner table.

“…You okay?”

“Yep,” you answered too quickly.

Sam snorted into his drink.

You kicked him under the table without looking.

Natasha took the salt from your hand carefully, fingers brushing yours for maybe half a second.

You stopped breathing.

Actually stopped.

She frowned a little. “You sure you’re okay?”

“Mhm.”

Your voice cracked.

Clint outright choked laughing.

—

Natasha, somehow, did not get it.

Which made absolutely no sense because she was literally one of the best spies in the world.

She could tell when people lied before they even opened their mouths. She noticed tiny shifts in posture, changes in breathing, microexpressions.

But apparently your painfully obvious crush existed in a blind spot.

Or maybe—

Maybe she noticed and just didn’t care.

That possibility haunted you most.

So you avoided her.

Not dramatically. You weren’t hiding behind walls or sprinting in the opposite direction.

You just… strategically disappeared.

If Natasha entered the kitchen, suddenly you remembered you had laundry.

If she sat beside you during movie night, you’d excuse yourself for water you didn’t need.

If she tried talking to you one-on-one for too long, your brain melted into static.

It got so bad that one morning Steve found you fully climbing back out of the common room window.

“…Why are you using the fire escape?”

You glanced past him.

Natasha was inside making coffee.

“…Fresh air.”

Steve looked unconvinced.

“You live on the thirty-eighth floor.”

“Cardio?”

—

The thing was, Natasha made it impossible.

She wasn’t even trying.

She’d casually sling an arm around your shoulder after missions.

She’d smirk at you from across the training room.

She’d praise you in that low, rough voice like it was nothing.

“Nice shot.”

“Good work.”

“You’re improving.”

And every single time, your brain replayed it for the next six business days.

The worst part?

Natasha liked being around you.

A lot.

She liked your dry sarcasm. She liked how you got protective over the team despite being newer and younger. She liked how your hair curled slightly at the nape of your neck after training.

She especially liked making you flustered.

Not maliciously.

It was just… cute.

You’d get all stiff and avoid eye contact while trying so hard to act normal.

And Natasha, despite decades of emotional repression and spy instincts, had somehow mistaken your crush for intimidation.

Which honestly offended her a little.

One night after a mission, she cornered Clint in the kitchen while he dug through the fridge.

“She’s scared of me.”

Clint stared at her.

Then he started laughing.

Natasha narrowed her eyes. “What?”

“Oh my God,” he wheezed. “You seriously don’t know?”

“Know what?”

“You’re kidding.”

“Clint.”

He looked at her for a long moment.

Then realization slowly crossed his face.

“Oh my God,” he said again, quieter this time. “You like her too.”

Natasha scoffed immediately. “I do not.”

“Nat.”

“I don’t.”

“You look at her like she personally invented sunlight.”

Natasha opened her mouth.

Closed it.

“…That dramatic?”

“Worse.”

—

After that conversation, Natasha started paying attention.

And suddenly everything clicked into place.

The nervous fidgeting.

The avoiding.

The staring when you thought she wasn’t looking.

The way you’d go completely silent whenever she sat too close.

Oh.

Oh.

The realization hit her so hard she nearly walked into a glass door.

You had a crush on her.

A big one.

And somehow, impossibly—

Natasha felt warmth bloom low in her chest at the thought.

—

The next few days were torture for both of you.

Because now Natasha noticed everything.

Like how your ears turned red when she touched your arm.

Or how you always looked for her first after missions.

Or how your entire face softened whenever you thought no one was watching.

It was unbearably endearing.

Which became a problem when Natasha started getting shy too.

Not externally, obviously.

Natasha Romanoff didn’t really do externally shy.

But internally?

Disaster.

You smiled at her in the elevator one morning and she forgot what floor she needed.

You complimented her fighting stance during training (something which you had taken a whole of 30 minutes to muster up the courage for) and she spent the next hour punching the bag hard enough to split seams.

It was deeply inconvenient.

—

The breaking point came during movie night.

You were curled into the far corner of the couch, hoodie sleeves shoved over your hands, trying very hard to focus on the screen.

Natasha arrived late carrying popcorn.

Your heart immediately started acting traitorous.

There was exactly one open spot left.

Beside you.

Of course.

You contemplated death briefly.

Natasha sat down close enough that your shoulders touched.

You froze.

Completely.

She noticed instantly.

And this time, instead of pretending not to, Natasha tilted her head slightly.

“You always this nervous around me?”

Your eyes widened.

“…No?”

“Liar.”

The fondness in her voice made your stomach flip.

You stared determinedly at the TV.

“I’m not nervous.”

Natasha hummed softly. “So if I did this—”

Her fingers slipped carefully around your wrist where it rested against your knee.

Gentle.

Warm.

You nearly short-circuited. Luckily no one noticed, at least, they pretended not to

“Shut up,” you muttered weakly, still staring straight ahead.

Natasha’s thumb brushed against your pulse.

Way too aware. She was way too aware of how fast your heartbeat got.

Her expression softened.

“You know,” she murmured quietly enough just for you, “for someone so confident around everyone else…”

You finally looked at her.

Big mistake.

Natasha was already watching you with this small, impossibly soft smile.

Not smug.

Not teasing.

Just… warm.

Your face burned.

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Mhm.”

“You’re imagining things.”

“Probably.”

But she still didn’t let go of your wrist.

Actually, her fingers slid down slowly until they tangled with yours.

Your brain stopped functioning entirely.

Natasha squeezed your hand once.

Then, very casually, she leaned her head against your shoulder.

You looked at her like she’d personally rewritten reality.

Natasha didn’t look up from the movie.

But you caught the tiny smile tugging at her mouth when your fingers squeezed hers back.

---

[hamstertaffy]

jealous clark kent that doesn't understand that he's jealous.

——————————————————

he was already used to noticing things he didn’t mean to. it came with living in a city that never really went quiet and with being someone who was always, in some way, aware of more than he said out loud

you were beside him, not in front of him, because you both had walked there together from his apartment like you always did on slow mornings. you had grabbed his jacket off the hook near the door without thinking, and he hadn’t corrected you because it had started feeling normal in a way he didn’t fully know how to describe yet

your apartment now was his apartment and his apartment was yours, even if you still occasionally argued over which mug belonged to who

you leaned slightly forward in line, deciding what to order, sweater sleeves pulled over your hands the way they always were when you were thinking. clark stood just half a step behind you, close enough that his shoulder almost brushed yours when he shifted

he was listening to you talk about wanting something sweet, something you were pretending you didn’t already plan on ordering

the barista looked up when it was your turn and his attention lingered on you a moment too long

“what can i get you” he asked

you gave your order easily, familiar and comfortable in the space

clark’s eyes stayed on your face instead of the counter. the small movements you made when you spoke. the way your expression softened at the edges when you were being polite. the ease in your body when you didn’t feel watched the way you sometimes were

“that’s a good choice” the barista said after you finished, smiling a little too knowingly

you laughed softly

“it’s mostly sugar so i hope so”

clark’s eyebrows drew together faintly. not enough for anyone else to notice but enough that he felt it happen

the barista leaned forward on the counter slightly

“you come in here a lot right”

“yeah sometimes” you said

clark felt something settle uncomfortably in his chest even though nothing had really happened yet

“i think i’ve seen you around” the barista continued “you’ve got a nice vibe. kind of hard to forget”

you blinked once, then gave a small polite smile

“oh, thanks”

clark shifted his weight, jaw tightening briefly before he let it go again. he could feel the familiar internal argument starting before he even fully formed it

it’s nothing

you’re allowed to talk to people

you’re here with me

that last thought landed heavier than it should have

the barista slid your drink forward

“if you ever want something different i could make you something custom. on me”

you shook your head gently, still kind, still easy

“that’s really nice but i’m good with this thank you”

“sure” he said, already moving on

clark exhaled slowly through his nose and only then realized his shoulders had been slightly tense

you turned toward him with your drink in hand, your face softening immediately when you saw him like your attention had just been waiting for him the whole time

“hey” you said

his expression changed right away, subtle but clear. whatever tension had been there eased just a little just from looking at you

“hey” he answered

you tilted your head slightly as you both stepped away from the counter

“you okay”

he nodded too fast

“yeah i’m fine”

you didn’t fully believe him but you didn’t push. you just walked with him toward a small table near the window like you trusted he would talk when he was ready

that was something about living with you that still caught him off guard sometimes

you didn’t demand answers from him. you just stayed close enough that silence never felt like distance

⸻

later, you went home together like you always did

there wasn’t really a distinction anymore between “his place” and “yours” in practice. there was just the apartment in metropolis that had slowly started accumulating your presence in ways neither of you had formally discussed but both of you had quietly accepted

your shoes were by his near the door

your jacket was on the chair he used most often

your voice echoed lightly from the kitchen while you talked about something unrelated as he set his keys down

it felt normal in a way that still sometimes surprised him

you were already on the couch when he came back into the room, legs tucked under you, scrolling your phone with the relaxed comfort of someone completely at home

“you left your mug in the sink again” you said without looking up

clark paused

“it’s your mug”

you glanced at him briefly

“it lives here now”

he gave a faint look that was almost a smile but not quite

“we’re still arguing about that”

you hummed in agreement

then you looked up properly at him

and the small softness in your expression shifted slightly

“something’s bothering you”

clark hesitated

he had been trying to let it pass. it was small. it always felt small until it didn’t

“the barista was flirting with you” he said finally

you blinked once, then leaned back slightly

“oh”

that reaction alone made him feel like he had misjudged the weight of it again

he ran a hand through his hair, slower this time, more tired than tense

“i’m not mad” he added quickly “i just noticed it and it stuck. and i didn’t really know what to do with it so i just kept thinking about it”

you watched him for a second, expression steady

“clark i can handle someone flirting with me”

he nodded immediately

“i know you can. i do know that”

his gaze dropped briefly to the floor then came back up

“i just didn’t like it” he admitted

that was the real part

the part he didn’t usually say out loud because it sounded too close to something he wasn’t sure he was allowed to feel

you shifted on the couch, opening space beside you without asking him to come closer

he did anyway

he always did

he sat down, shoulders still a little tense, hands loosely clasped for a moment before relaxing at his sides

“was it just that you didn’t like him saying it” you asked gently

clark exhaled

“it wasn’t him specifically” he said carefully “it was just the way it felt like i wasn’t part of the situation even though i was standing right there”

you studied him for a moment

not surprised

just listening

“you are part of it” you said simply

he gave a small, almost helpless look

“i know that logically”

you raised an eyebrow slightly

he corrected himself

“i know that emotionally it didn’t feel like that in the moment”

that earned a small quiet nod from you

his hand shifted slightly before settling again, like he was catching himself from fidgeting too much

“i should’ve said something instead of just letting it sit in my head” he added

you leaned into him slightly and he immediately adjusted, arm going around your waist without hesitation like muscle memory

“you can just tell me when it happens” you said

“i don’t want to make it your problem” he replied automatically

you looked up at him

“clark” you said softly “we live together”

that made him pause

you didn’t say it like it was a correction. just a fact

his expression softened in response without him meaning to

“yeah” he said quietly “we do”

a beat

“i’m still sorry” he added out of habit

you sighed, but it was warm

“i know”

⸻

later that night the apartment was dim and quiet in that familiar way it only got when both of you had fully settled into it

you were pressed into his side on the couch, your weight relaxed against him, his arm resting around you at your waist like it had been there all along and would probably stay there for a while

his thumb moved slowly over your sweater without him really thinking about it

you tilted your head up slightly

“you’re still thinking about it”

he hesitated

then nodded once

“a little”

you gave him a look that was patient without being indulgent

“you don’t have to compete with anyone for me”

his brow furrowed faintly

“i know that logically” he said again

you reached up and lightly touched his cheek, turning him toward you

his expression softened immediately at the contact, tension easing out of his face in small visible stages

“you’re here” you said

he looked at you for a long moment

then leaned in and kissed you

this time there was less hesitation in it

less overthinking

just him returning to something he already knew was real

when he pulled back he stayed close, forehead nearly resting against yours

“i’m still sorry” he murmured automatically

you gave a soft exhale that almost sounded like a laugh

“i know”

and this time he finally let it go

just held you closer in the apartment you shared in metropolis, like it had always been yours together and he was finally learning how to believe that too

[blondwhowrites]

Give me a Clark Kent who loves to manhandle his partner. He's so strong, could hold the world in his hands if he wanted to, but nothing, nothing compared to holding you. You just fit so perfectly in his arms. It’s like you were made to be in them. So automatically, he just takes that as a fact. Look, he doesn’t make the rules; he just enforces them.

When you're in his way, he’ll just pick you up and move you out of his way, always giving you a kiss when he sets you back down.

When it’s time to retreat to bed, he’ll just scoop you up and take you to the bedroom.

One Halloween you forced him to dress up as a pirate so you could be the parrot on his shoulder. You spent that entire night perched on his shoulder, and boy, did he enjoy it. Best Halloween ever <3