who am I kidding?

Just call me duckie, I'm currently at lvl 24... yes that's my age

[roxxmo]

north star | part three

summary: you finally let dex in. don’t be surprised when he decides to stay. pairing: benjamin poindexter x f!reader content/warnings: 18+ (mdni), stalking, invasion of privacy, obsessive thoughts, mentions of masturbation, sexually explicit content, delusions, brief mention of cancer, canon-divergent, no use of y/n word count: 4.6k A/N: i got tipsy on margaritas and wrote this :P FINALLY earning our 18+ warning here yippee! this is actually my first time ever writing anything remotely sexually graphic despite only ever reading smut in my free time so i apologize in advance if it seems clunky. i SWEAR i know how a dick works!! and you all will find that out in future chapters :-) thank you again for all the love on the previous parts and i hope you enjoy this one! this is genuinely just the tip of the iceberg for dex and northstar!reader and i cannot wait for y’all to see how insane it gets in the upcoming chapters.

divider by: @uzmacchiato

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A North Star only works if you know where to find it.

And that’s what you were. A North Star.

His, to be exact.

Dex should’ve known it from the moment he opened the door to see you holding that frog-colored plate. He should’ve known it when you blushed and apologized for talking too much before handing him your heart, battered and baked into perfectly symmetrical cookies. He should’ve known it when you bared your teeth in that bewitching little smile you did and said “good morning” like you didn’t know you were made for him. He should’ve known.

But you see, love takes time. Dex was still learning that.

So, he adjusted. That’s what lovers do, don’t they? They compromise. And Dex was not one to compromise easily, which should’ve gone to show you just how sorry he was to not have recognized your purpose sooner.

After that night, after Dr. Johnson and the shooting range and the creased pink note that was still the centerpiece of his makeshift altar to you, he understood exactly what Mercer had meant all those years ago. It was difficult in the moment, being so young and filled with hate and confusion in the hellhole that was the Riviera Psychiatric Institute. For the longest time, he thought Mercer was speaking about herself. Maybe she was, in a way. She cared about him. She wanted him to succeed. She tried to teach him right from wrong. She gave him tools to adapt, and for that, he was thankful. But she had left him anyway.

Cancer, Mercer had told him. As if naming it made it hurt any less.

If Mercer was his North Star, his true North Star, why did she not fight to stay?

You would fight for him. Dex knew that, deep in the pit of his soul. You were caring, selfless. The kind of person who went out of your way to help neighbors you barely knew, who still called your parents, who taught little children and looked after friends. He had never known that a woman like you existed.

And more than all of that, you were good.

No one had ever successfully explained the difference between good and bad to Dex. Mercer had tried, as futile as it was. But Dex now knew why no one could teach him what good was…because you were the only one who showed it. That was what a North Star should be. Someone who was good not only in theory or out of obligation, but in genuine action.

It was your goodness that regulated him more than any breathing exercise ever could. Dex soon learned that in the days after you left that note outside his door.

It was difficult at first, naturally. Change always was. He’d still get a little twitchy when he left the house thirty-two minutes later than when he usually did. Or when he had to adjust the route of his daily jogs so he could follow you on Sunday mornings to the bakery two blocks away (“follow” was an ugly word; he preferred to think of it as “observing”).

But it was so, so worth it.

He knew that on the very first morning of his newfound strategy. After he had waited to hear the click of your doorknob and stepped out just as you were locking your own door. You had greeted him, seemingly pleasantly surprised, and Dex felt his face morph into a smile that copied yours.

You both had entered the elevator after, side-by-side. It was a cool September morning, but Dex could still feel sweat beginning to soak the cotton of his shirt. You just had that effect on him.

As the elevator ticked slowly down each floor, you gave a sigh, crossed your arms, and finally turned to look at him. “Okay. Be honest with me. The lasagna was horrible, wasn’t it?”

“I– no,” Dex stuttered. He felt a droplet of sweat drip down his back. Why couldn’t he stop sweating? “No, of course not. It was good. Thank you.”

The corner of your mouth lifted. “You don’t have to lie to me.”

“I-I’m not.” He would never lie to you. Well…about that, specifically. You should’ve known that.

“Okay, okay.” You raised your hands in mock defeat and giggled. “I’m glad it was edible. I hope it made your night a little better. You looked pretty ragged.” You stopped yourself and Dex watched hopelessly as your face flushed. “Sorry, I don’t mean you looked bad– I just… I’ve had my fair share of bad days before, so…I thought maybe you had one, too.”

See? This is what Dex was talking about. “I did. Have a bad day, I mean.” Dex fiddled with his cuff buttons. “It’s fine, though.”

You nodded patiently. “What do you do for work?”

“I work with the FBI. The uh, Crime Division.”

“Wow.” Your eyes widened. “Seriously? Like, the FBI FBI?”

“…Yeah.”

“That explains the suits, I guess,” you said. “Probably a much more stressful job than dealing with third graders, huh?”

Before Dex could answer and tell you, no, your work was more important, your life was more important, the elevator gave a quiet ding and its doors slid open. You hoisted your tote bag back up onto your shoulder and Dex watched helplessly as you put one foot out of the car.

“I’ve got to run if I want to catch the bus on time,” You paused, and glanced back at him. Your eyes softened a fraction and Dex felt it in his bones. “Take care of yourself, okay?”

You were gone.

Take care of yourself.

God, he wished he could. He had spent years trying. But Dex couldn’t help himself. Only you could take care of him. Your presence. Your smile. You.

That short elevator ride was only the beginning. Dex had become very good at finding you.

Each pass in the hallway, every quick comment on the weather or last night’s Knicks game, every time Dex just so happened to be sorting his mailbox when you came to check on yours, every time he passed the bakery you frequented Sunday morning and prayed you wouldn’t notice him through the window…it fueled him. It was more addictive than any drug imaginable. Your presence grounded him.

A few seconds of seeing you, or better yet being near you, or if God was good, talking to you, it was rejuvenating. He felt more…complete. More human. He did better at the field office, slept better, ate better. You were good for him.

But Dex had become greedy. He needed more than just glimpses or a few casual words exchanged. He needed to know you. Understand what made you the way you were.

So at night, he would wait patiently for the jazz in your apartment to turn off. Wait until he could no longer hear the pattering of your feet or the running of the water from your bathroom (Dex had always hated how thin the apartment walls were. Now he found himself grateful for them). Once he imagined you were snuggled and safe in your bed, fast asleep, he would make his way to the desk in his bedroom, open his laptop, and begin his research.

At first, it was simple things. A quick Google search of your name unveiled a plethora of information already. Dex scrolled through the page.

First link: your Facebook. A profile picture of you at your college graduation with what must have been your mother and father (he would have to look them up after, of course). Shifting down the profile, he saw posts about school fundraisers, attending friends’ weddings and baby showers, birthdays, childhood pets, holidays… All the painfully ordinary things Dex had always wished he could be a part of.

The Instagram was a slightly different story. You had a profile, yes, but it was private. Dex didn’t have an account before, but now he had a reason to create one. A burner, obviously. No profile picture, just random letters and numbers. Heart in his throat, he sent a follow request, and…you accepted it. Hmm. He would really need to talk to you about internet safety, one day.

Perusing through your profile, it became clear to him that Facebook was for family, and Instagram was for friends. You uploaded photos of mimosa-fueled brunches where your smile was loose and your eyes shiny. Or posted song links to your story late at night. His favorite post from you was from just a few weeks before you moved into 416: a collection of photos from the start of the school year. Your classroom in Harbor View Elementary that you had obviously put hours of hard work and poured your own money into decorating for your students, a view of the sunset from your old bedroom window, an expensive-looking matcha latte next to a dog-eared copy of The Secret Garden, and then…a picture of you. Taken by one of your friends, most likely. You were sitting, cross-legged on a picnic blanket somewhere in Central Park. Mid-laugh, your hand was frozen halfway in the air like you were trying to cover your mouth.

Dex liked that photo. It made something pool within him, warm and fresh and childlike. Happiness, maybe.

If it was a particularly long day or he hadn’t gotten to see enough of you, he would sit there in his dark bedroom and just…stare. He would stay there, basking in the blue light of his laptop, until he felt that warm feeling again. Sometimes it would be minutes. Sometimes hours.

Still, it just wasn’t enough. More, his brain would demand. So, he kept digging.

Your Pinterest board with lesson-planning templates and pastry recipes.

Your school staff page with your classroom bio.

The wedding website of your childhood friend where you were listed as her Maid of Honor.

The baby registry for the same childhood friend where you bought her a pack of swaddles with ducks on them.

The rental listing of your old apartment.

The Venmo requests you sent to old college friends with captions like “Friday Uber” and “December utilities” and “girls night!! 🥂”.

Your parents’ address.

Your phone number.

Your driver’s license photo.

Your Social Security number.

It was never enough. 

Dex was contemplating this one morning as he waited in the apartment lobby, mindlessly shuffling through the same stack of bills and junk mail that he kept recycling through his mailbox. By now, he knew it was only a few minutes until you’d emerge from the elevator as you did on Friday mornings.  

He knew the basics of you by now, daily whereabouts included. But there was more to you than that or the snippets of information he had scraped together online. What was the name of the jazz album you played in the evenings? What kind of ground coffee did you buy? Did you like paperback books, or hardcovers? What side of the bed did you sleep on? What was the name of that intoxicating, citrus-smelling shampoo he could sometimes smell wafting from you? 

Of course, Dex knew there was a very easy way to find those answers. An apartment like yours would be almost laughably easy to break into. A simple bobby pin twisted and turned just right, and then he could finally have what he wanted. 

Oddly enough, though, the temptation didn’t sit right with him. He didn’t want that. Dex didn’t want to be a thief in the night; he wanted to be invited. He wanted you to open your door wide and ask him to stay forever. 

The mailroom’s elevator dinged. Right on time. 

When the doors slid open, you were there. Tote bag in tow, thermos in hand. Just as Dex knew you would be.  

Your eyes lit up the moment you saw him. 

“Dex!” You trotted over to him, the canvas bag thumping against your hip. “I was hoping I would see you this morning. I have a huge favor to ask.”

He felt like he had been shot in the heart. Dex imagined he would remember those words for a long, long time. You? Hoping for him? Plus, he was honestly a little offended, because did you really think he would say no? He would do anything for you. Hell, if you asked him to cut off his own hand, he would’ve sharpened the knife and asked which one, left or right? 

“I– uh, yeah,” Dex stuttered, mail forgotten. “Yeah, what’s up?”

“I’m going home this weekend to my parents, it’s my dad’s birthday,” you began to explain. Ah, of course. He knew your dad’s birthday was coming up. And your parents’ home, too. From sale price to square footage to the lilac-painted room that you grew up in. “I’ll be back Monday evening, but my friend just gave me this beautiful fern that’s like, a total diva. It has to be watered every couple of days or it’ll drop dead. Would you be able to come by while I'm out and water it for me?”

Dex blinked. For a brief moment, he genuinely wondered if you were a mind reader. Because honestly, what were the odds? Fate, he decided. 

Yes, it was that moment, standing in the apartment’s lobby holding a pile of dated junk mail he kept in his mailbox for the sole reason of seeing you, that Benjamin Poindexter finally realized he believed in fate. 

How else? Why else would something so impossible fall directly into his hands? 

“Of course,” Dex said immediately. He tried to keep his voice from shaking. “Of course, I– yeah, I can definitely water your…fern.”

You clasped your hands in relief. “Thank you. My fern should be safe with an FBI agent watching over her.”

His eye twitched.

You continued on, oblivious. “I’ll just leave my key under the doormat, okay? You can just put it back once you’re done.”

“Okay.”

“Great!” You turned on your heel and started walking to the lobby’s front door, waving at him over your shoulder. “I owe you one!”

Dex didn’t sleep that night. 

Every time he closed his eyes, he saw himself standing in apartment 416. Surrounded by your photographs, your books, your smell, your…everything. 

He would roll over in his bed, trying to force himself to think about anything else, but twenty minutes later he would be imagining it in perfect detail all over again.  

After tossing and turning the whole night, Dex was at least awake to hear you shuffle out your door when the sun was barely up. It was hard not to worry as he listened to your footsteps pass by. Were you driving home? Taking the train? Who was picking you up, your father? Your mother? What if something happened? What if you needed him? Not knowing was killing him. Dex had a brief thought that maybe he should just go with you–

No.

He tried to rein it in. You should spend time with your parents. That’s what someone like you did, anyways. Still care about the people who created you, because they deserved it. They didn’t take one look at you, just a helpless little wailing infant, and decide, “Hmm, maybe not”. They raised you with love and affection, and maybe that was why you were lucky and he was not. 

But there was no need to feel bad for him. 

Because Dex was lucky in his own way, too. 

You needed to leave because this was fate’s greatest gift to Dex: the literal key to have complete access to your life. 

Dex spent the morning pacing his living room floor. His hands were clammy, his body practically vibrating with anticipation. He tried futilely to tell himself to be normal about this– water the fern, maybe take a quick look around, then come back to 415 and spend the rest of the weekend being miserable until you returned. Dex knew, of course, that wasn’t going to happen.

Finally, having mentally fortified himself as much as he could, he exited the apartment and walked the three steps across the hall. In front of your door lay a small mat, prints of daisies decorating the edges and “Please leave by 9!” stamped in the middle. 

He crouched, and lifted the mat. A small silver key lay under it, identical to his own apartment key. 

If anyone had ever found a key to heaven, the discovery would have felt less transcendental than this.

He gingerly retrieved the key and stood up. It took a few tries to slot it in the lock with how much his hands were trembling. Eventually, the key slid in, turned, and the door gave way.

Instantly, Dex was hit with a wave of familiar scents– citrus, something sweet and sugary like a pastry, a hint of coffee beans, the smell of paper and markers, and…you.

He had to physically grab the door frame to steady himself and take a deep breath.

In…and out. 

Dex focused his eyes on the floor until the world stopped swimming around him. Okay. Okay. He could do this. Duty first, reward later. 

He straightened himself. Directly across the room under your living room window, a collection of potted greenery was arranged on the floor. In the middle of the group was a fern. You were right. The plant was beautiful. 

Dex forced his feet to move one in front of the other, his gaze fixed on the plants, willing himself to just focus. A small tin watering can was on the windowsill. He picked it up– seemingly, you had already filled it up for him, because you were thoughtful like that.

Dex tipped it over the fern. Glug, glug, glug.

Once he was satisfied with the plant’s hydration, he set the can back onto the windowsill.

And slowly turned to face the room. 

The morning light cast soft rays across the floor, blanketing the whole apartment in a soft golden haze. A green velvet couch was scooted against on the far end of the wall, a warm, patchwork quilt folded over the back. The coffee table in front of it held a small homemade vase, slightly crooked and decorated with unevenly painted smiley faces. It looked like it might’ve been made by a child. Folders, notebooks, and some half-graded math worksheets were stacked neatly next to it. A record player was sitting on a side table near the couch, a crate of organized albums below it. 

On the other end of the apartment, a small oak table with two matching chairs was tucked into the corner. The kitchen was similar to his own, but instead of the sterility of Dex’s, assorted colors of pots and bakeware and cooking tools were placed wherever there was space– over the fridge, on the countertops, hung on hooks above the stove. 

The walls were decorated with photos of you with friends, you with family, framed posters from movies and bands, and vintage artwork prints.

Dex never knew a place could feel so…warm. Alive. 

He felt like a man starved all his life and set before a feast. Like someone dragged out of a cave and shown the sun. Or, perhaps most accurately, like a sinner on death’s door, crawling into a cathedral for absolution. 

Apartment 416 was his chapel, and you were his God. 

His North Star. 

It was overwhelming, honestly. Standing there in the soft pale glow of the sunrise, surrounded by you. It almost made him want to…cry. 

He hadn’t cried since Mercer. 

But now was not the time. The greedy, insatiable thing inside him had lifted its head, recognizing the opportunity for something more than scrolling through your photos in the dark of his bedroom.

Dex began with the thing closest to him. He opened the record player to see an album still on the mat. A Love Supreme by John Coltrane. Dex paused over it, thumb hovering just above the sleeve. Even your music seemed to understand what fate had brought you to apartment 416 for.

From there, his attention drifted to the stack of papers on the coffee table. Still grading on a Friday night? Of course you were. Looking more closely, he saw the worksheet on top of the pile. “Great job!” you had written in purple ink, a smiley face next to the words. “Proud of you!”

His heart swelled. 

Dex walked into the kitchen. For a moment, he could imagine it clearly: you at the stove, sleeves pushed up, stirring something while Coltrane’s saxophone played softly in the background. A quiet evening. Two plates on the table.

And maybe, Dex.

More, the dark pit in his mind commanded.

That mental image opened something in him, an urgency. A daze, almost. He kept moving. He opened your cabinets. Your coffee, some small-batch blend from a farmer’s market. Your cereal. Your preferred brand of bread. Next cabinet. Your plates. Cups that had been touched by your lips. He ran his fingers over one of the rims.

More. 

In a trance, he drifted out of the kitchen, down the hall, past the photos and posters. They stared back at him. You as a young girl, squeezed in a tight embrace with your mother on a playground. You at your middle school graduation, gangly-limbed and mouth full of braces, posing with your father. A toga party from college. A group portrait of you and friends at a wedding. Years of you. Years he had missed.

More. 

Dex pushed open the door to the bathroom and flipped the light on. It was narrow and clean. A small tortoiseshell dish held a bar of hand soap. Next to it, a cup for your pink toothbrush. He opened the medicine cabinet. Ibuprofen, nasal spray, Band-Aids, a hair comb. Certainly more empty than his own, which held little besides a plethora of orange prescription bottles. He opened your striped shower curtain. A set of blue bottles waited for him. Dex picked one up and twisted the cap off, bringing it to his nose. 

Oh. 

Your shampoo. 

He inhaled again, deeper. There it was. It smelled like oranges and the sun. Like your hair when you passed him in the hall.

Dex considered taking the shampoo with him, but then realized how rude that would be. Instead, he made a mental note of the brand and decided he would have to do some shopping later. 

By the time he staggered to your bedroom door, he felt drunk on it. That citrus smell of you still lingered in his nostrils. Dex knew that if he went into your bedroom, he would not be coming back. No, because this was your inner sanctum. And he wanted in, so fucking badly. All reason had left his mind. No caution remained. No pretending that this was casual cataloging. Only the need for more.

More. 

And so, abandoning all pretense of humility and honor, he opened your bedroom door. 

For a second, Dex could only stand there. 

Your bedroom. Your bed. A sweatshirt hanging off a chair. A pair of earrings in a little ceramic tray. The ordinary evidence of a life interrupted, of a body that had been here hours ago and would return again soon.

The pillow on your bed still held the faintest impression of where your head must have rested. Dex stared at it until his eyes burned and his vision blurred at the edges. He shouldn’t. Mercer would say no. She would say stop. She would say this was wrong.

But Mercer was dead. 

His legs moved before he gave them permission. One clunky step. Then another. Then his knees were sinking down into the edge of the mattress, one hand braced against your sheets, breathing too hard and too loud. The bed dipped beneath his weight. He crawled forward, drawn in by that greedy thing inside him that he knew would never be satisfied.

Finally, Dex lowered himself face-first into the bed until he was smothered in the sheets. He would have died happily if he suffocated like this. Because this was more than your shampoo. This, layered with detergent and cotton, was the scent of you. 

He dragged it as deep into his lungs as it would go.

In…and out.

This was where you slept. Where you dreamed. Maybe where you sat in your pajamas, talking and laughing with friends on the phone. Where you read until you fell asleep, pages still open against your chest.

Where you touched yourself.

His fingers tightened in the sheets and his breath stuttered. Yes. This was the place. Where you lay at the end of the day, body hot and aching with need. Where your hand might drift beneath the waistband of your pajama shorts.

Would you tease yourself? Would you take your time, fingers tracing over the swell of your breasts, over the softness of stomach, over your hip, along the inside of your thigh until you were slick with want? 

Or would you be impatient? Would you go straight to it, pad of your index finger circling your swollen clit until your hips shifted against the mattress? Until you had to stifle your moans of pleasure into the very pillow Dex was lying on?

Dex had grown hard, cock throbbing painfully in the confines of his jeans. He pushed his face deeper into the pillow and groaned. 

“Fuuuck.”

It would have been easy, so easy, to find relief. The smell, the vision, the unbearable mercy of finally being this close to you, it had already brought him close enough to his peak that one simple thrust into the mattress would have sent him over the edge. 

But Dex couldn’t. The shame, the disgust with himself still lingered underneath the infatuated haze. And deeper still, that insatiable monster knew it wouldn’t be enough. He didn’t want to spill in his pants like a teenage boy. He didn’t want to go back to his apartment and jerk off in the dark like the pathetic thing he was. He wanted you. Always, always you. Your body, your mouth, the heat of your cunt pulling him in deeper and deeper still until there was no telling where he ended and you began. 

And so, he took one last inhale of your pillow and slowly peeled himself off the bed, cock still aching against the zipper of his jeans. The absence was immediate, cold air hitting his face and the room brutally returning around him. 

Ignoring the pulse in his groin, he took care to smooth the bed and adjust the pillow where he had disturbed it. He stepped back, his own heartbeat settling, and heard the bedroom quiet.

Dex had overstayed his welcome. He knew what he needed to know. It was time to leave. He made sure the cabinets were closed, the lights turned off. Double-checked, then triple-checked everything for good measure. And finally, he returned to 415. 

The weekend passed without incident. Dex did his morning jogs, he read the newspaper, he did his stretches and his one hundred push-ups and one hundred sit-ups. He did not enter your apartment again, as strong as the temptation was. Years of denial still existed within him and Dex knew how to exercise restraint when required. When it was what you needed from him. 

By Monday evening, you were back in the hall, standing in his doorway while you thanked him for watering your fern and complained about how long it took you to get back into the city with all the traffic. He nodded, assured you it was no problem, and wished you a good night as he watched you retrieve your key from under the doormat.

“Seriously,” you said as you unlocked apartment 416. “You’re a lifesaver.”

You closed the door behind you.

For a moment, he remained in the open doorway, staring at the place where you had just been. Then he reached into the back pocket of his jeans. The copy of your key was warm against his palm.

“Anytime.”

taglist

🏷️: @maximumcoffeeme @triceraquake @ugh-whytho @bibiishin @starlitflora @genya1617 @lostfallenangelsblog @weallhaveadestiny @pomme-meadow

[iamreadynoimnot]

[sintaera]

𝐎𝐅 𝐆𝐔𝐍𝐒 𝐀𝐍𝐃 𝐆𝐋𝐎𝐑𝐘 | 𝐁𝐀𝐄𝐋𝐎𝐑 & 𝐌𝐀𝐄𝐊𝐀𝐑 𝐓𝐀𝐑𝐆𝐀𝐑𝐘𝐄𝐍.

In which you, an orphan of Flea Bottom, learns that some books are safer closed, and some men are far more dangerous than the stories claim.

𝐖𝐀𝐑𝐍𝐈𝐍𝐆𝐒; Mafia AU, character deaths, inaccuracies of said Mafia AU because I ain't that fucking sharp in the head, nothing too explicit for now, Modern Westeros.

𝐏𝐀𝐑𝐓 𝐎𝐍𝐄.

Just let me know if you want to be tagged for any future updates. This is the first part of the series.

The rain in Flea Bottom never simply falls. It arrives like a debt collector, persistent, cold, and entirely without pity, it seeps into the cracks of the old brickwork, turns the narrow alleys into sluggish streams of gray water and worse things, and makes the neon sign above your little shop flicker like a dying heartbeat.

You have lived with that rain for as long as you can remember. It was raining the night the orphanage finally gave up on keeping track of the quieter children. It was raining the first time you slept in a doorway with a stolen paperback for a pillow.

It is raining now, on the evening everything changes.

You stand behind the counter of The Dragon’s Quill, wiping the same spot on the polished wood for the third time in ten minutes, because the alternative is looking at the empty street beyond the rain-streaked window and thinking about the names that keep disappearing from the neighborhood.

The wood is warm under your cloth and the shop smells of paper, dried lavender, and the faint metallic tang of the old kettle you refuse to replace, outside, the city breathes in wet concrete and exhaust.

Old Masha from the bakery two doors down. Gone three weeks. Her son said she went to visit a sister in the Reach. No one has a sister in the Reach who never writes back.

You used to bring her leftover tea leaves for her morning brew; she used to leave you day-old rolls wrapped in brown paper. The rolls stopped coming the same day she did.

Then young Tobho, who used to deliver the evening papers and always stopped for a free cup of the cheaper tea. He had a gap between his front teeth and a habit of quoting the sports scores even when no one asked.

Last seen arguing with two men in black coats near the old fish market. The papers never mentioned him again. His route was taken over by a quieter boy who does not stop for tea.

And now the whispers have begun to circle Councilor Criston Cole.

The man who made speeches about cleaning up the underworld, who posed for cameras outside the Red Keep claiming the Targaryen family was nothing more than a legitimate shipping consortium with an unfortunate reputation.

People in Flea Bottom knew better. People in Flea Bottom kept their mouths shut.

You have heard the name more times in the last fortnight than in the previous year. Cole has been asking questions in places where questions are not welcome.

You, unfortunately, have never been particularly good at keeping your mouth shut when it matters. It is a character flaw you inherited from no one, or from everyone. Orphans collect habits the way other children collect toys.

The bell above the door jingles, soft and weary. You look up, already arranging your face into the polite, slightly tired smile of a shopkeeper who has been open since seven in the morning and will stay open until the last lonely soul decides they need either a book or something warm to drink.

The smile is a tool.

You have worn it so long it almost feels natural.

“If you’re looking for the latest political manifesto promising to rid the city of corruption,” you say, drying your hands on a clean towel, “I’m afraid we’re fresh out. Sold the last copy to a very optimistic man yesterday. He paid in coins that still smelled like the docks. I tried not to take it as an omen.”

The customer is a woman in her forties, coat too thin for the weather, eyes too sharp for someone who only wants tea.

She glances at the shelves of secondhand paperbacks; romance, history, a few dog-eared mysteries, and the small display of loose-leaf tins, then at you.

Her gaze lingers a moment too long on the dark circles under your eyes.

“Just the house blend,” she says. “And maybe something that doesn’t taste like the end of the world.”

“I can do chamomile with a little honey,” you offer, already reaching for the tin. “It won’t fix the end of the world, but it might make the apocalypse more polite. We aim for courtesy in the face of catastrophe here. It’s cheaper than therapy and slightly more effective than prayer.”

A ghost of a smile touches her mouth. She pays with a crumpled note and leaves a tip that is larger than it needs to be.

You don’t comment. In Flea Bottom, extra coin is either gratitude or a warning. Sometimes both. You slide the tip into the jar you keep for the street kids and turn back to the kettle.

After she leaves, the shop settles back into its usual quiet. Rain against glass.

The soft tick of the old clock on the wall. The faint scent of paper and dried flowers and the cheap incense you burn when the damp gets too heavy.

You move through the familiar motions, straightening a stack of novels, wiping a ring of condensation from the window ledge, checking the level of the sugar jar.

Routine is a kind of armor. You have built your life out of small, repeatable acts because the large ones have always belonged to other people.

You are twenty-three years old, an orphan of the alleys, and the sole proprietor of a bookshop-slash-tea-house that should have failed three times over by any reasonable economic measure. The only reason it hasn’t is because people in Flea Bottom still need soft places to land, even if those places sell secondhand novels and overpriced Earl Grey.

You found the lease by accident, an old woman dying and no one else willing to take the damp little space. You cleaned it with your own hands, painted the walls a hopeful cream, and hung a sign you painted yourself. The Dragon’s Quill.

A joke, mostly. Dragons are for the powerful. You are not powerful. You are persistent.

You are kind. You give free tea to the street kids who hover near the doorway when the rain is especially vicious. You let old women sit for hours without buying anything, because the alternative is them sitting in cold rooms alone.

You remember birthdays when no one else does. You are also, by most accounts, a sarcastic little shit who cannot leave a foolish statement unchallenged. The combination has kept you alive so far. You are not certain it will continue to do so.

The afternoon crawls the way afternoons do in weather like this. A pair of university students come in arguing about whether the latest Targaryen ‘philanthropic foundation’ is a front for money laundering.

They wear expensive raincoats and the confident ignorance of people who have never had to choose between paying rent and eating.

You let them argue while you steep a pot of something floral and expensive, then say, mildly, “If you’re going to discuss organized crime in my shop, at least buy the expensive tea. The cheap stuff is for people who still believe in honest government. And while you’re at it, lower your voices. The walls in Flea Bottom have excellent hearing and very poor discretion.”

They laugh, a little too loudly, the way people laugh when they are not entirely sure whether the joke is on them.

They buy two of the expensive pots and leave arguing about something safer, literary theory, or the weather, or the latest celebrity scandal that has nothing to do with men who make other men disappear.

You do not laugh with them.

You have lived in Flea Bottom long enough to know that the Targaryens are not a rumor. They are a fact of weather, like the rain. You simply try not to stand in the open when the storm is overhead.

Baelor Targaryen.

The Hammer, some call him, though never where his people might hear. They say he is the most capable head the family has produced in three generations, strategic, controlled, terrifyingly competent.

The kind of man who can smile at a gala and order a disappearance in the same breath. People who have met him claim he is almost gentle in conversation, until he isn’t.

There are stories of him sitting with the widows of men he ordered removed, speaking soft condolences while the family made certain the widows never wanted for anything again.

Kindness as strategy. Mercy as calculation.

You do not know which version is true. You only know that the name carries weight the way a loaded gun carries weight.

And Maekar. The Anvil. The younger brother. The one who does the work that requires less conversation and more blood.

Efficient, brutal, the man you do not want to see in a dark alley, because if you do, the alley is the last thing you will ever see, or so the stories claimed. They say he lost his wife to a rival’s bullet and never quite recovered the softer edges he might once have had.

They say his children learned early that their father’s love was real and his patience was not. The stories paint him as the necessary shadow to Baelor’s careful light. Together they are the Hammer and the Anvil, and the city is the metal they shape.

Both widowers.

That detail always seems to surface in the quieter stories, the ones told over late-night drinks when the teller thinks the walls are not listening. Baelor’s wife dead of illness, or so the official story goes, some long wasting thing that even the family’s money could not outrun.

Maekar’s taken by violence years ago, a message left in blood that the family answered in kind. They raised their children in the shadow of that loss.

Baelor’s sons Valarr and Matarys, already stepping into the family’s heavier work, carrying the weight of expectation.

Maekar’s brood is more complicated: Daeron with his bottles and his bitter humor; Aerion with a temper that burns too hot and too bright; young Aegon still finding his feet between the worlds of the family and something quieter; Aemon somewhere far from the blood if the rumors are kind. The daughters, Rhae and Daella, kept closer to the family’s softer edges, or so the neighborhood likes to believe. You have never met any of them. You hope you never will.

You do not know if any of those details are true. You only know that when the Targaryen name is spoken in Flea Bottom, voices drop, and eyes flick toward the door. Survival is a language you learned early. Part of that language is knowing which names not to say too loudly.

By the time the clock crawls past five, the rain has settled into a steady, miserable curtain. A mother comes in with two small children, both of them dripping and wide-eyed.

You give them free cocoa from the emergency tin you keep under the counter and let them sit by the heater while their mother pretends to browse the children’s shelf. She buys a paperback she will never read and leaves looking a little less hunted.

You wipe the table after them and try not to think about how many other mothers are out there tonight, doing the same quiet math of survival.

At half past six you begin the closing routine: counting the till (never enough), wiping the last of the tables, checking the locks on the back door that leads to the tiny storage room and the even tinier staircase up to the flat where you sleep.

The flat is three rooms if you are generous, a main room that is both kitchen and sitting space, a bedroom barely large enough for the bed, and a bathroom that requires strategic planning to use. It is yours. That fact still startles you some mornings.

You are turning the sign from OPEN to CLOSED when the bell jingles one last time.

A man steps inside, shaking water from a dark coat. Mid-thirties, perhaps. Clean-shaven, sharp-featured, the kind of face that belongs on campaign posters and news screens. You recognize him immediately.

The posture, the careful way he surveys a room as though measuring exits and audience. Councilor Criston Cole has been on every screen in the city for the past month, promising reform, promising transparency, promising that the old powers will no longer operate in the shadows.

He looks around the shop as though surprised to find it still standing, then offers you a smile that has been practiced in mirrors and focus groups.

“Still open?” he asks.

“Technically no,” you answer, “but I’m a soft touch for politicians who look like they’ve lost a fight with the weather. What can I get you, Councilor? Tea, books, or a lecture on the dangers of optimism in Flea Bottom?”

His smile tightens a fraction. Most people in this part of the city do not address him by title unless they want something, or unless they are already calculating the cost of speaking.

“Tea. Something strong. And information, if you’re selling it.”

You raise an eyebrow and turn toward the kettle, giving yourself a moment to decide how much honesty the evening can bear.

“I sell books and tea. Occasionally bad advice. Information is above my price range and beneath my survival instincts. Also, I’m closed. You’re getting the last of the day’s hospitality and the first of my dwindling patience.”

He leans against the counter, watching you work. The rain has plastered his dark hair to his forehead. Up close he looks tired in a way that no amount of campaign lighting can hide. There are lines around his eyes that did not come from smiling.

“People are disappearing,” he says quietly. “From this neighborhood. From others. I have names. I have patterns. What I don’t have is anyone willing to speak on the record. Every door I knock on closes. Every witness develops a sudden case of amnesia or a sudden urge to leave the city.”

You pour hot water over the leaves and let the silence stretch. The steam rises between you like a fragile barrier. Outside, a car passes slowly, headlights cutting through the rain.

“And you thought the orphan who sells romance novels and oversteeped Assam would be the one to break ranks?” You keep your voice light, almost amused, because light is safer than honest. “I’m flattered. Truly. But I’m also attached to breathing, and I’ve noticed that people who talk to men like you have a tendency to stop doing it.”

“I’m not asking you to testify,” Cole says. He accepts the cup when you push it across the counter. “I’m asking if you’ve noticed anything. Patterns. Men in nice cars who don’t belong here. Conversations that stop when certain names are mentioned. Deliveries that happen at strange hours. Anything.”

You set the spoon down carefully.

“Councilor,” you say, and for once the sarcasm is tempered by something closer to honesty, “everyone in Flea Bottom has noticed. Noticing is free. Speaking is expensive. And some debts you never finish paying. Old Masha is gone. Tobho is gone. Half a dozen others whose names never made the news. If you’re looking for a pattern, start with the people who asked the same questions you’re asking now. Then ask yourself why you’re still standing in my shop instead of lying in an alley somewhere.”

He studies you for a long moment, the politician’s mask slipping just enough to show the man underneath, tired, determined, and perhaps a little afraid. He drinks the tea in silence. When he sets the cup down, the leaves have stained the porcelain the color of old blood.

“You’re sharper than you pretend,” he says.

“I’m exactly as sharp as I need to be to stay alive. Flattery won’t change the math.”

He places a card on the counter with a number that is not the public office line. The paper is heavy, expensive, the kind that does not belong in a shop where the sugar comes in bulk bags.

“If you change your mind,” he says. “Or if you hear something. Anything. There are people who still believe the city can be cleaned. We’re not all cowards.”

“No,” you answer softly. “Some of you are just slower learners.”

He almost smiles at that. Then he steps back into the rain and disappears toward the better-lit streets that lead out of Flea Bottom.

You lock the door behind him, turn off the front lights, and stand in the dimness of your shop feeling the weight of the day settle into your bones. The card sits on the counter like a small, white accusation. You do not pick it up. You leave it where it is and climb the narrow stairs to your flat.

You should eat something that isn’t tea and toast. You should sleep. Instead you find yourself pulling on your coat again, the one with the deep pockets and the hood that mostly keeps the rain out, and stepping back into the night. You tell yourself you are only going to the corner market for milk.

You tell yourself the long way around has nothing to do with the fact that Criston Cole walked in that direction, or that the disappearances have been clustering near the old warehouse district where the river meets the worst of the alleys.

You are an excellent liar when the audience is only yourself.

The streets of Flea Bottom at night are a different creature than they are by day. The neon signs buzz and spit pink and blue light into the puddles.

Music leaks from basement clubs, bass thudding like a second heart. Groups of young men cluster under awnings, smoking and watching with the careful boredom of people who know exactly how much trouble is worth.

You keep your head down and your hands visible, the universal language of someone who is not looking for trouble and would prefer trouble not look for her. The rain has soaked through the shoulders of your coat by the second block. You ignore it.

You pass the bakery where Masha used to stand in the doorway with flour on her hands. The windows are dark. A handwritten sign says CLOSED FOR FAMILY BUSINESS. You pass the corner where Tobho used to lean against the lamppost with his stack of papers. The lamppost is still there. The boy is not.

You keep walking.

You are three blocks from the market, in the stretch of street that runs between the last of the residential tenements and the first of the warehouses, when you hear the voices.

Not loud, not shouting, but just the low, controlled cadence of men who have already decided how the conversation will end. The sound carries strangely in the rain, bouncing off wet brick and empty loading docks.

You should keep walking. Every instinct you have cultivated in twenty-three years of surviving this place screams at you to keep walking. The market is the other way. Milk is the other way. Safety is the other way.

Instead you slow, edge closer to the mouth of the alley that cuts between a shuttered pawn shop and a building that used to be a bathhouse and is now something less wholesome.

The rain has turned the pavement into a mirror of sodium light and shadow. Your boots make soft, wet sounds that feel too loud.

You see them clearly for only a moment, framed by the alley’s walls like a scene from a play you never wanted to watch.

Criston Cole, back against the wet brick, hands raised in a gesture that is half placating and half defensive. His coat is open. His face is pale.

Facing him is a man built like a soldier who never left the war, broad-shouldered, short-cropped silver-white hair shot, face carved from something harder than stone.

He holds a pistol with the casual certainty of a man who has held many pistols and used most of them. The weapon is an extension of his hand.

Maekar Targaryen.

You know his face from the rare photographs that make it into the papers, always in the background of some charity event, always looking as though he would rather be anywhere else. Up close he is larger, colder, the living embodiment of the stories that keep children indoors after dark. There is no theatrics in the way he stands. No wasted motion. He is a man who has come to finish a task.

“You were warned,” Maekar says. His voice is low, almost conversational, the voice of a man discussing the weather or the price of grain. “More than once. The family does not appreciate men who dig where they are not invited. You were given every chance to walk away with your reputation and your life.”

Cole’s reply is tight with fear and something that might once have been courage. The rain runs down his face like tears he refuses to shed.

“People are dying. Disappearing. You can’t simply erase them and expect the city to look away forever. There are records. There are people who know. The public—”

“The public believes what it is told,” Maekar interrupts, and there is no heat in it, only fact. “And I will. The question is whether you leave this alley walking, or whether someone has to explain to the press why another reformer had a tragic accident involving a mugger and a dark street. We prefer simplicity, Councilor. You have made simplicity difficult.”

Cole laughs, a broken sound that has no humor in it.

“You think the public will believe that forever? There are records. There are people who—”

Maekar raises the pistol. The movement is economical, almost bored. No flourish. No speech. Just the final punctuation of a conversation that ended long before this alley.

“There are always people,” he says. “Until there aren’t.”

The shot is not loud. In the rain, with the city’s constant noise, the distant traffic, the thump of music, the hiss of tires on wet asphalt, it is almost swallowed. A sharp, final sound.

Criston Cole’s body jerks once and slides down the wall. The rain begins at once to dilute the dark bloom spreading across his chest. His eyes stay open.

You will remember that later.

You will remember the way the light from the street caught in them for a second before the life left.

You do not scream. Some part of you, the part that has survived this long, the part that learned silence in doorways and alleys and the cold rooms of the orphanage, knows that screaming is how you die next.

Instead you turn, every muscle locked in the sudden, animal need to be elsewhere, and you run.

You make it three steps out of the alley’s mouth before you collide with something solid and immovable.

Hands close around your upper arms, not crushing, not yet, but firm enough that escape is no longer a conversation. The grip is precise, controlled.

You look up, and the world narrows to a pair of mismatched eyes and a face you have only ever seen in photographs and the careful, fearful stories of the neighborhood.

Baelor Targaryen is taller than the photographs suggest. Broader through the shoulders. The rain has darkened his dark hair to something closer to wet steel, and those infamous Targaryen eyes are fixed on your face with an attention that feels like being pinned to a board and examined.

There is no surprise in his expression. No anger. Only the calm of a man who has just been handed a complication and is already calculating the cleanest way to resolve it.

“Well,” he says, and his voice is quieter than his brother’s, smoother, the kind of voice that could negotiate treaties or order executions with equal ease. “This is unfortunate.”

Behind you, footsteps. Maekar emerges from the alley, pistol already disappearing into the folds of his coat. He takes in the scene, you, his brother’s hands on your arms, the open street beyond and his expression does not change.

The Anvil does not waste energy on surprise.

“She saw,” he says. Not a question. A statement of fact, the same way one might note the weather or the time.

“She did,” Baelor agrees. His gaze never leaves yours. “Which presents us with a choice.”

Your mouth is dry. Your heart is trying to claw its way out of your ribs. The rain runs into your eyes and you cannot lift a hand to wipe it away. And somehow, through the terror, the familiar, defensive edge of your sarcasm rises like a reflex you cannot switch off.

“If the choice is between a quiet conversation and a bullet,” you hear yourself say, voice thinner than you would like but still recognizably yours, “I’d prefer the conversation. I’m told I’m a terrible conversationalist, but I’m an even worse corpse. And I’ve already had a long day. Dying would just feel like overkill.”

Something flickers in Baelor’s eyes, not quite amusement and not quite respect, but something that acknowledges the words without being softened by them.

The Hammer of the Targaryen family has heard many things from people who were about to die. You wonder if any of them made him look at them quite like this.

“Courage,” he murmurs, almost to himself. “Or stupidity. The line is thinner than most people admit. Particularly in this weather.”

Maekar shifts his weight.

The movement is small, but it draws the eye the way a blade does when it is partially drawn from its sheath.

“We don’t have time for philosophy, Baelor. The street is open. Someone else could walk past. The body needs handling before the wrong eyes find it.”

“Then we move,” Baelor says. He releases one of your arms but keeps the other, guiding you, not roughly, but with absolute certainty, toward a dark car that has appeared at the curb as though summoned by the rain itself.

A driver is already opening the rear door. You catch a glimpse of a second man further down the street, speaking quietly into a phone.

The machine of the family is already turning.

You dig your heels in for half a second. It is not resistance so much as the last spark of the girl who has always known that once you get into a car with men like these, the story rarely ends with you walking away free. The knowledge sits in your chest like a stone.

Baelor notices, of course he does. The best Don the dynasty has ever produced does not miss the small tells.

“If I intended to kill you in the street,” he says, almost gently, the way one might speak to a nervous animal, “I would not have bothered with introductions. Get in the car. The conversation we need to have is not one for wet pavement and open alleys.”

You get in the car.

The interior smells of leather and rain and the faint, expensive ghost of cologne that probably costs more than your monthly rent. The seats are dark and soft.

Maekar takes the front passenger seat without a word.

Baelor settles beside you in the back, close enough that you can feel the heat of him through your wet coat. The doors lock with a soft, final sound that seems to seal the night outside.

The car pulls away from the curb. Through the rain-streaked window you watch the alley where Criston Cole’s body is already being claimed by the night and the water and the men who will make sure no one asks the wrong questions in the morning.

A van that was not there a moment ago has pulled up. Figures move with quiet efficiency. You turn your head away.

Baelor is watching you. Not with hunger, not with cruelty. With the focused attention of a man who has spent a lifetime reading people the way other men read ledgers and maps.

You wonder what he sees. An orphan with a sharp mouth and a shop that barely pays its bills. A witness. A problem. A possible tool.

“Your name,” he says.

You give it. There seems little point in lying. He could find it in an hour if he wanted, and the truth costs nothing yet.

“The bookshop on the corner of Muddy Way and the old fish lane,” he continues, as though confirming a file he has already opened in his mind. “The Dragon’s Quill. You live above it. No family on record. No known associates of interest to us. You pay your taxes, which is almost quaint in this part of the city. You keep irregular hours and have a soft spot for the neighborhood children. And tonight you decided to take a walk in the rain at precisely the wrong moment.”

You swallow. The leather of the seat is cold against your back.

“I was concerned about the disappearances,” you say. The words come out smaller than you intended. “Cole came into the shop earlier. Asked questions. I told him I didn’t know anything useful. I wasn’t following him. I was just walking, the long way, the wrong way, as it turns out.”

Maekar makes a sound from the front seat that might be a laugh if laughter were made of gravel and old iron.

“Convenient timing for a walk.”

“I’m a terrible planner,” you reply, the sarcasm rising again because it is the only armor you have left and you will wear it until it is torn from you. “If I were any good at it, I would have been home with a book and a locked door instead of starring in the latest Targaryen morality play. I hear the reviews are mixed.”

Baelor’s mouth curves, just slightly. The expression does not reach his eyes, but it is there.

“Morality play,” he repeats. “An interesting choice of words for a woman who has just watched a man die. Most people in your position reach for quieter language.”

“I’ve watched men die before,” you say, and the truth of it sits heavy in the car between you. “Flea Bottom doesn’t offer many alternatives. Knife fights. Overdoses. The occasional body left as a message. The difference is usually that no one important is holding the gun, and no one important is deciding what to do with the girl who saw it.”

Silence stretches. The city slides past the windows, neon, rain, the occasional cluster of people who do not look too closely at dark cars with tinted glass. You recognize the route in pieces.

You are leaving the warren of Flea Bottom behind. The buildings grow taller. The streets grow cleaner. The rain seems somehow less personal here.

Baelor leans back slightly, considering you the way a strategist considers a board.

“You run a small business. You keep your head down. You have no political affiliations, no criminal record, no family who would ask dangerous questions if you simply… vanished.” He says the last word without emphasis, which somehow makes it worse. The absence of threat is its own kind of threat. “By every practical measure, you are a loose end that is easily tied. A single phone call. A quiet arrangement. The city would not notice. Flea Bottom would invent a story and move on, the way it always does.”

Your hands are cold in your lap. You force them still. You have faced down drunks and thieves and the occasional would-be landlord who thought a young woman alone meant easy prey. This is different. This is the kind of power that does not need to raise its voice.

“And yet,” you say, because if you are going to die you will at least die with your mouth intact, “you put me in a car instead of leaving me in the alley with Cole. Which means either you’re more sentimental than the stories claim, or you haven’t decided yet whether I’m more useful alive. I’m hoping for the second option. Sentiment seems unreliable in your line of work.”

Maekar turns his head just enough to look at his brother. The look is a question. Baelor does not look away from you.

“Sentiment,” Baelor says slowly, “is a luxury I buried with my wife. Usefulness, however, is a currency I still respect. You noticed the disappearances. You noticed the pattern. You spoke to Cole and chose silence over cooperation. That suggests a certain… practical intelligence. The question is whether that intelligence can be directed, or whether it will continue to wander into alleys at the wrong hour.”

The car turns onto a broader avenue. You see the distant lights of the old Red Keep district, the sprawling, heavily secured estate that the Targaryens have held for generations under various legitimate and less legitimate titles.

In the modern age it is less a fortress and more a private city of its own, with walls and cameras and men who do not need to show weapons to make their purpose clear.

“Where are you taking me?”

“Somewhere we can speak without the rain interrupting,” Baelor answers. “And without the risk of another idealistic councilor stumbling into the middle of family business. The compound is private. The conversation will be private. What follows from it will depend on you.”

You laugh once, short and brittle. The sound surprises even you.

“Family business. Is that what we’re calling execution in an alley these days? I prefer the older terms. Murder. Assassination. The quiet removal of a political inconvenience. At least those have the dignity of honesty.”

Maekar’s voice is flat from the front seat, the voice of a man who has long since stopped needing to justify the work.

“Cole was given every opportunity to walk away. He chose to keep digging. He chose to bring his questions into neighborhoods that do not belong to him. The family does not apologize for defending itself. We never have.”

“And the others?” you ask, because the terror has loosened something reckless in you and there is no point in pretending caution now. “Old Masha from the bakery. Tobho who delivered papers. The ones who didn’t have campaign posters or political platforms. The ones whose names never reached the screens. Were they defending themselves too hard as well? Or were they simply in the way?”

The silence that follows is heavier than the previous ones. Baelor’s expression does not harden so much as it becomes very still. The stillness of deep water and the stillness of a man who has decided that the next words will matter.

“You have been paying attention,” he says.

“Hard not to, when the people who buy tea from you stop coming in. When the neighborhood gets quieter in the wrong places. When the rain starts to feel like it’s washing more than just the streets.”

He studies you for another long moment. Then, almost as though reaching a decision he has been circling since the moment you collided with him, he says,

“The people who disappear from Flea Bottom are not random. Some of them talk to the wrong people. Some of them take money from the wrong people. Some of them simply see things they are not meant to see and decide that silence is optional. Cole was the latest and the loudest. He will not be the last if the pattern continues. The family did not invent the rules of this city. We simply learned them better than most, and we enforce them when necessary. Sentiment does not keep the peace. Order does. And order, in this city, has always required a certain amount of blood.”

You process that.

The car is climbing now, toward the wealthier districts that ring the old Keep. The gates of the Targaryen compound appear ahead, high walls, security lights, the dark shapes of men who do not need to show weapons.

The gates open without the car slowing.

You are expected, or at least, the possibility of someone like you was already accounted for.

“And me?” you ask. Your voice is steadier than you feel. “Where do I fit in the pattern? Witness? Loose end? Potential employee of the month?”

Baelor’s answer is quiet, and for the first time there is something almost like honesty in it.

“That, I am still deciding. Which is more consideration than most people in your position receive.”

The car slows beneath a covered entrance. Stone and glass and the soft glow of lights that do not flicker. Baelor steps out first, then offers a hand that you do not take.

You climb out on your own, legs unsteady, rain still misting the air around the edges of the shelter.

Maekar is already speaking quietly into a phone, arrangements, clean-up, the ordinary logistics of an extraordinary evening. The machine continues to turn.

Baelor gestures toward the heavy doors of the main house. They are older than the rest of the modern security, heavy wood banded with iron that has been maintained rather than replaced.

A reminder that the family has been here longer than the cameras.

“Inside,” he says. “We will talk properly. And then we will decide what is to be done with a young woman who has seen too much and spoken too little to the wrong people. You will be given the chance to speak for yourself. Use it wisely.”

You look up at him, the man whose ruthlessness is wrapped in such careful control that it almost passes for civility.

Beside him, Maekar waits, patient and inevitable, the brother who does the work that leaves less room for conversation.

Together they have shaped this city in ways most of its citizens will never fully understand. Together they are deciding the shape of the rest of your life.

You have survived this long by knowing when to look away.

Tonight you did not look away.

And now the two most dangerous men in King’s Landing are deciding whether that will be the last mistake you ever make.

You square your shoulders, lift your chin against the rain and the fear and the weight of the night, and walk toward the doors. Your boots leave wet prints on the stone. The prints will dry. You are less certain about the rest of you.

“Just so we’re clear,” you say over your shoulder, because even now the words will not stay behind your teeth, “if this ends with me in a shallow grave, I’m going to be extremely disappointed in the quality of the tea you serve at the afterlife. I’ve spent years refining my standards. Don’t let the dead down.”

Behind you, for the first time that night, Baelor Targaryen almost—almost—smiles. The expression is small, quickly controlled, but it is there. Maekar watches the exchange without comment, but something in the set of his shoulders suggests that Maekar has filed the remark away for later consideration.

“Then,” Baelor says, following you into the light of the house, “we had best make certain the conversation is worth the risk. The tea, at least, I can promise is better than what you serve in Flea Bottom. The rest remains to be seen.”

The doors close behind you with a sound like the end of one life and the uncertain beginning of another. The rain is shut out. The city is shut out. What remains is the house, the brothers, and the long night still ahead.

Somewhere in the rain-soaked alleys of Flea Bottom, the body of Criston Cole waits for the morning to discover what the night already knows: that in the city of the Targaryens, some truths are paid for in blood, and some witnesses are not allowed the luxury of silence.

And somewhere in the quiet of a small bookshop on Muddy Way, a white card still lies on the counter, the number on it never dialed, the man who left it already becoming another story the neighborhood will tell in lowered voices when the rain is heavy and the doors are locked.

You step deeper into the house.

The Hammer and the Anvil walk with you.

The conversation is only beginning and you pray to whichever Gods were willing to listen that you did not end up with a bullet through your head.

Totally not going to apologize for offing Criston Cole. He was number one on my shit list.

[iamreadynoimnot]

[lovee-potions]

LAZY MORNINGS

thinking about lazy sex with clark...

tags — 18+ minors dni | f!reader, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), spooning sex, size difference, pet names (sweetheart & baby), dirty talk, creampie (0.6 wc)

the clock on your bedside table reads 7:14am and clark has you on your side, his body engulfing yours as his chest presses up against your back. with an arm wrapped around your front, clark holds you tight against him—rubbing slow, languid circles on your swollen clit.

a soft, muffled groan tumbles from clark’s lips as you slowly roll your hips back—his cock nestled deep inside your cunt, stretching you open. you desperately try to fight back your need for him, for his cock, knowing you have to get ready for work, but you’re practically begging for more. 

his pelvis is snug against your ass—coarse curls beneath his navel brushing against you. you feel all of him, every ridge, every vein, every twitch as he rocks into your cunt. clark moves his hand to grip your thigh, his fingers sinking into the soft flesh as he gently hooks your leg over his thigh, spreading you wider.

the new angle drove him deeper, the head of his cock kissing your cervix with each thrust. the room fills with your breaths mingling together with the filthy, wet sounds of his cock sliding in and out of you. 

just as quickly as it left, clarks hand returns to your clit and you instinctively clench around him, trying to pull him deeper as he ruts against you. clark’s breath is warm against the nape of your neck as he lightly bites down on the skin of your shoulder. 

every roll of clark’s hips is with a little more tenacity each time, seeking that delicious friction. the pleasure is overwhelming, completely taking over all of your senses. you can’t think of anything else, except for clark, and how he's ruining you for anyone else.

“taking me so well, baby,” he mutters, kissing behind your ear.

you cry out, fingers clawing at the sheets, then at his forearm—your nails leaving crescent indents in his skin. he revels in the soft, needy moans you make with each shallow thrust. you move your hips in counterpoint, chasing the pleasure of his fingers and the fullness of his cock. 

“I’ve got you, sweetheart, that's it,” he mumbles, his cock hitting that sweet spot inside you repeatedly. 

an embarrassingly loud moan slips from your lips as you cum without warning. your body shudders hard against his—your orgasm crashing through you and taking your breath away. clark gently coaxes you through it, rocking his hips in a slow, gentle rhythm while pressing tender kisses along your shoulder and neck. 

clark's hips stutter and his own orgasm catches him off-guard. he buries himself to the hilt, releasing thick, hot ropes of cum deep within your cunt—filling you completely as his cock throbs and pulses inside you.  

you clench around him and clark hides his face in your neck with a weak, tired chuckle. his hand squeezes your hip tenderly as he slowly eases himself out of you. your cunt clenches around nothing, missing his cock already. you can feel his release leak from you and slide down your thighs but you pay no mind to it.

“good morning to you too,” clark says through soft pants.

“hmm, good morning indeed,” you hum, turning to face him with a small smile.

note — post #1 for my 1k celebration!!

(req) — can you please write something for clark where he lazily fucks reader in the morning???

[iamreadynoimnot]

[carmenberzattosgf]

illicit affairs

summary: When Superman came to your rescue a few weeks ago, you thought that would be the only time you'd ever see him up close. That is until he crash lands on your balcony battered and bruised (aka this is my take on hooking up with Superman before ever knowing Clark Kent) word count: 8.5k content: superman x reader, wound tending, pwp, power dynamic???, fingering, p in v w/ no physical protection (bc mentioned), superman has soft dom vibes, he talks you through it, size kink, multiple orgasms, aftercare, this is quite filthy if I'm honest, im posting this at 4:42 am after staying up all night so this is not proofread

A loud boom rings outside your window, thunderous enough to make you jump. When you stand up from the couch to investigate the noise, the last thing you expect to see is Superman lying on your balcony floor. You’ve only seen him up this close once before, nearly two weeks ago.

That morning on your way to work, you unfortunately found yourself in the middle of a massive attack in town. A monster the size of a two-story house, appeared out of nowhere on your commute. Out of fight, flight, or freeze, you froze when the monster ran towards you. Completely froze. The gigantic creature’s claws swooped right at you, but your feet might as well have been made of lead. Closing your eyes, you braced for impact, and tensed every muscle in your body. 

The impact never came. Instead, you opened up your eyes to the city street far below you. Superman made it just in time, wrapping you in his arms and flying you away from the scene at lightning speed. As quickly as he picked you up, he placed you back down on a rooftop nearby. “T-thank you,” you stuttered between panicked breaths. 

His voice was deep and calm as he spoke. “Sit down, and take some deep breaths. You’re safe, now.” Superman flashed his signature grin before he flew back down to finish off the creature. That smile has stuck with you ever since; the pictures of him don’t do it justice.

You snap out of your thoughts and run over to open the balcony door. The balcony isn’t in total ruin.  He narrowly missed the glass pane table during his crash landing. Two of your flower pots, however, were not so lucky. Dirt and shards of pottery cover the floor. Not to mention the concrete beneath him is cracked. 

This is not the Superman you typically see close up on TV, or the one that saved you two weeks ago. Right now, his suit is covered in dust, dirt, and who knows what else. Cuts of various depths and sizes cover the skin of his face. Instead of that bright smile, he grimaces with a busted bottom lip as he clutches at his side.

“Superman? Are you—are you okay?” It’s a stupid question. You realize that the moment it slips out of your mouth, but what else are you supposed to say?

He coughs to clear his throat. “Peachy,” he rasps. You walk closer to him, avoiding the pottery pieces to kneel at his side. Pain paints over his face as he moves his head to look at you. “Sorry about the pots. I’ll, uh, get you some new ones.”

“Don’t worry about that—what on earth happened?” For Superman to be this banged up, it must have been a major incident.

“Metahuman—a very strong one. Packed one heck of a punch,” he winces as he shifts to sit up. “I got some good blows before it launched me. The justice gang’s got it from here.”

“Here, let me help you inside.” You offer him your hand, and try to lift the very tall hero to his feet. Once he’s up, you throw his arm over your shoulder and direct him inside. “You know, it’s kinda funny. This is like a total role reversal,” you ramble as you both step over the threshold into your living room. 

“What do you mean?” he asks, stumbling onto the couch as soon as he reaches it. 

“Oh! You rescued me two weeks ago—from that giant monster thing in midtown. I thought I was going to get shredded by its claws, but you saved me just in time.” Heat grows in your cheeks as you retell the story. 

“Gosh, yeah. I remember you—Sorry I never caught your name. I was kinda in a rush,” he smiles. Although his bottom lip is completely busted, he still has that same smile, dimples prominent as ever. You try not to dwell on the fact he remembers you, but a small grin slips past your lips at his words. 

There’s a small lull before you speak again. “Can I do anything to help you? At least clean you up a bit until you feel strong enough to leave?”

“I don’t want to intrude—” He moves to sit up straighter on the couch, ignoring the pain in his side.  “I’ll get out of your hair in just a couple of minutes—” 

“I really insist,” you interrupt. “It’s the least I can do. You quite literally saved my life.” He lets out a deep exhale, before nodding in agreement. “Do you need me to help you up again?” A chuckle leaves his lips. It’s quick. Easy to miss.

“I think I can manage,” he replies. In the next moment, he’s up. “Where do you want me?”

“My first aid kit is in the kitchen,” you say, motioning towards that direction. 

“Don’t people normally keep those in the bathroom?”

“My horrible knife skills made me move it. I’ve cut my hand more times than I can count,” you explain. Superman follows you as you step into the kitchen. You grab one of your barstools and place it beside the kitchen sink, before opening a cabinet to grab the first aid kit. “Okay, you sit on the barstool, and I’m going to get a washcloth really quick,” you direct before walking down the hallway to the bathroom.

He does as he’s told, sitting down on the stool. He takes in your apartment, looking at the pictures you have on the wall, and the way you’ve decorated the place. It’s only a few moments before you return with the wash cloth in hand. 

You turn on the water faucet to wash your hands before you get started. “I know you have healing abilities or… whatever, but cleaning you up can’t hurt right?” The interlude in conversation is killing you a little bit. “Well, it might sting a little” you trail off, lathering soap in your palms. 

“I heal from the sun. It’s why I’m not healing right now. No sun, and the moon doesn’t have enough sunlight to work,” he elaborates sheepishly. He’s not used to this much conversation while being in the suit, let alone having a stranger help him instead of the other way around.

“So you’ll be completely better as soon as the sun comes up?” you ask as you reach for a paper towel to dry your hands.

“Pretty much, especially since this isn’t that bad.” 

You finally turn towards him with a pensive look on your face. His height will make this a challenge to actually reach his face. Even while sitting down, he’s practically looming over you. “Um—can you reach under and press the paddle thing? On the bottom of the stool?”

“Oh, sure,” he responds. He reaches for the wrong side at first before he finds the lever. When he presses it, the stool lowers quickly, catching him off guard. 

“There. That’s much better.” You’re at eye-level with him, now. The brighter lights in the kitchen illuminate the damage on his face. A bruise begins to bloom on his left cheek, and the gashes look much worse than you originally thought. “Man—if you’re this rough I can’t imagine the other guy,” you marvel.

Superman laughs again, but this time it’s louder than before; a deep belly laugh, which is followed by a wince as he grabs his side. He knows his ribs are bruised. The pain isn’t sharp enough for them to be broken. He recovers the conversation quickly. “Trust me, he’s much worse. This is nothing,” he insists. 

A comfortable silence develops between the two of you. Turning back to the side, you wet the rag under the warm water and squeeze out the excess to start on him. The dirt is what you tackle first. Careful of the gashes, you wipe away the dirt covering his skin, rinsing out the rag between every few passes. His eyebrows are caked with dirt and blood, taking multiple passes to get clean.

You reach up to hold his head gently, directing him to lean his head back so you can get the grime off of his neck, too. Superman’s glad you can’t hear his heart pounding inside of his chest. Butterflies form in his stomach at your touch on his skin. Your hands are so careful with him, like you could hurt him more somehow.

“So what do you normally do when you get beat up like this? I’m assuming crashing into apartments isn’t a regular thing for you,” you ask, breaking the silence. 

“I’m not beat up. The other guy is beat up,” he counters.

“Sorry—sorry. What do you do when you get… slightly wounded like this?”

His throat bobs before he responds. “Uh—let’s just say I have a place to go to when it gets bad. like I said earlier I can get out of your hair if you need me to—I can probably fly now with no problem.”

Immediately, you hold the side of his face between both of your palms and tilt his head down to meet your eyes. “This isn’t a bother. I would tell you if it was.” He nods, gaze diverting to the ground. Your hands leave his face to rinse the rag again. “Okay— I’m going to start on the actual cuts now. This will probably sting.”

The gash on his forehead catches your eye first. It extends all the way from his temple to his hairline; The wound is deep, concerningly deep. With brows furrowing in concentration, you wipe along the wound, getting off the dirt and dried up blood. “Sorry,” you whisper, seeing him grit his teeth together. 

The longer this goes on, the harder Superman finds it to ignore how pretty you are. Your genuine care for him, and how your eyes search over his face is not something he’s ever experienced before. When he’s at the Daily Planet, he blends into the background, and when he’s Superman, he’s more focused on other people than caring for himself

If he’s honest, he’s thought about you quite a lot since that day. After disposing of the monster, he went back up to the rooftop to check on you, but you were already gone. He assumed within a couple more weeks he would forget about you. Fate had other plans. Ones that included crash landing at your apartment.

Your voice interrupts his train of thought. “Are you sure you don’t need stitches for something like this? Or at least steri-strips? It’s a really deep cut, and it’s still oozing a little bit of blood.” You step back for a moment, reaching back to the med kit on the counter. “I think I have some in here—“

Superman catches your wrist, halting your movements before you start digging through the supplies. The action is simple, gentle even, but you can’t ignore the sheer strength of him. If you wanted to break free from his grasp, you wouldn’t be able to. “I promise I’ll be fine. I don’t want you to waste them on me,” he asserts, letting go of your wrist. You miss the feeling of his hands on you the moment it’s gone. 

His eyes overwhelm you. Such a deep blue color that you could drown just by looking into them. It feels like he can see right through you. Sighing deeply, “If you say so, Superman,” you quip, getting back to the task. 

He has another cut along his cheek. This one is not as deep as the gash on his forehead, so it won’t take as long. You repeat the same motions, wetting the rag, squeezing it out, and cleaning off the dried blood and dirt from around the cut. As you work, his dark, long eyelashes flutter against his cheeks, making perfect contrast with his blue eyes.  

“So, how did you end up in the middle of that mess a couple weeks ago?” He asks. It’s the first time he’s initiated conversation since getting here. 

“Well, it’s a boring answer. I was heading to work. I picked up the shift from one of my coworkers so she could go to a doctor’s appointment. Just my luck.” 

“Getting to be saved by Superman is pretty good luck though—not everyone can brag about that,” he says through a smile. 

“You know what? That’s a good point. I was telling people about it all week long,” you confess. After a few more passes, you finish the cleaning cut on his cheek. All you have left is the area you’ve been dreading the most, his busted bottom lip.

Superman has no idea where to look, especially not when your eyes focus so keenly on his lips. The rag brushing against his lip should hurt, but he’s too distracted to really feel the pain. He doesn't mean to listen in so closely, but he does. The sound of your heart pounding in your chest resounds in his ears, much faster than it was ten minutes ago. 

Meanwhile, you're doing everything in your power to avoid eye contact, keeping your gaze focused on the task. You’re close to him. Probably too close. Every breath he takes hits your skin. The dried blood on his lip is particularly stubborn. You turn the facet to be warmer, hoping the temperature change will help.  

His leg bounces steadily while you press the near hot cloth against his lip. The nervous energy has to escape him somehow, especially since he can’t mumble his way through conversation. 

Finally, you pull the rag away, toss it in the sink, and turn off the water. You don’t move other than that, standing between his parted legs. “There. All finished,” you whisper. He stays leaned forward, eyes locked into yours. He doesn’t dare move back. The tension is palpable, so thick you can barely breathe. You’re not sure if you’re imagining the way his eyes flicker to your lips and back your eyes. 

The magnetic pull towards him becomes unbearable, eating at you from the inside out. All the inhibition you have left is wearing thin. Screw it. You fall forward, pressing a soft, chaste kiss to his mouth. The pressure against his lips is light, not wanting to hurt him. You pull away from him quicker than you leaned in to kiss him.

Your eyes are wide, like you’re shocked at your own actions. “Shit—I don’t know why I did that. I’m so sorry. That was so not cool of me to do—“ 

Superman doesn’t let you finish your sentence. He replies by kissing you back—hard. The last thing on his mind is his busted lip. It might as well be healed with how he’s kissing you. Both of his hands wrap around your waist and tug you to him, moving you with hardly any effort. Within seconds, he’s on his feet, causing you to stumble backwards. The barstool falls to the floor and you gasp at the loud clatter. Taking the opportunity, he presses his tongue into your mouth to deepen the kiss. 

With nowhere else to move, you walk backwards. Superman mirrors your every step until you run into the wall behind you. Leaning down, his hands slide to the back of your thighs, and he lifts you. His body is all encompassing, completely overwhelming you. The only thing that stops your head from hitting hard against the wall is his hand cupping it. Your hands travel to his hair, threading into his dark curls, while your legs wrap around his waist.

He kisses you in a way that tilts the world on its axis.The act is messy. His hands are all over you. Respectful, but still all over you. One of his hands grips your thigh tight. Tight enough to bruise. With his other hand, he holds your side, and inadvertently nudges up your shirt in the process. Rough and callused fingertips clutch your bare skin.

He licks into your mouth, tongue pressing against yours. The kiss is messy. His lips slotted between yours. You both alternate between who gets the bottom lip. If his busted lip was hurting, you wouldn't know from the pressure against your mouth. A faint taste of iron hits your tastebuds when his saliva mixes with yours. 

Overwhelmed, you break away for a moment. You don’t risk looking into his eyes, burying your face in his shoulder instead. Superman is sensitive. That’s clear to you the second your lips touch his neck. His hand tightens on your hip as his head falls back. The action exposes more skin for you to kiss. “Jeez Louise—" he pants. He can’t remember the last time he’s felt anything like this. Your lips are hot against his skin as you mouth all over him. 

You’re only stopped from going lower by the collar of his suit. When you suck at his pulse point, he groans. Loudly. The wanton noise should embarrass him, but he’s lost the ability to care. His heart hammers in his chest, pulse throbbing under your tongue. Your hands tug gently at his curls. The soft noises he lets out only encourage you to pull harder. You feel the vibrations in his throat from all the moans he’s holding back.

There’s a voice of reason in his head trying to convince him to stop, or at the very least slow down. He tangles a hand into your hair and pulls you back from his neck, while his other hand cups your face. Your pupils are huge, completely darkened in comparison to before. Looking at him with wide eyes, you pant through your parted mouth, desperately trying to catch your breath. 

Without thinking, his thumb moves from where it rests on your cheek. The digit runs across your bottom lip that was now covered in his spit and swollen. He’s on the verge of speaking before you move.

It’s too close for you to resist. You open your mouth and wrap your lips around his thumb as you take it deeper. He's completely exasperated. “Oh my goodness.” His pupils dilate as your tongue presses against the pad of his thumb. The moment doesn’t last long. The way his eyes bore into you makes you lose nerve fast. 

After you release his thumb from your mouth, you start examining his suit closely. Your hands slide down his frame, touching at his sides. You can’t feel any of his skin, the tough fabric prevents that. The separation is driving you crazy. You want to touch him. You want to feel his skin. "How do you—how do you get this suit off?” you ask hazily. 

He pauses, dead in his tracks. The gravity of the situation is catching up to him all too quickly before he sets your back down. “I-I really don’t think this is a good idea—we shouldn’t—I shouldn’t.” He takes a small step back from you with his hands held up in surrender like he had done something wrong. 

“Why not?” You don’t mean for your voice to sound so desperate, but he’s awoken something in you. His chest aches at the sound of your voice. 

“B-because I’m Superman. I rescued you  like two weeks ago…” he stammers. He takes a moment to rub his temples in an attempt to relieve the building stress. “This has to be an inappropriate power dynamic,” he sighs. “It just wouldn’t be right.”

“I’m a fully grown adult if that’s what you’re worried about,” you contend.

“That’s—“ he pauses and huffs, almost frustrated. “No that’s not the issue here.”

“Superman’s not allowed to have some fun every once in a while?” You tread lightly, taking small strides to close the distance. This time, you corner him against the counter and tilt your head to meet his eyes. Your hand falls to his abdomen, wandering dangerously close to the part of him that’s aching, that’s been aching ever since your lips touched his.

“Gosh—you’re making this really hard,” he gulps, voice almost pained. It's taking all of the strength he has in him to resist. More strength than he used to fight the meta human earlier

“Yeah, I can tell,” you taunt, glancing down to the fabric of his trunks. 

“Not like that!” he protests, eyes going wide with bashfulness. His presses his eyes closed as he pinches the bridge of his nose 

“Please? I don’t kiss and tell if that’s your concern. I won’t run off to the daily planet to tell everyone,” you continue.

“I just— I don't want to take advantage…” he begins to argue, but you’re not having it. Your hand trails from his abdomen to palm him over the trunks, placing enough pressure to make him gasp. 

“Please? I’ll be good,” you beg. Superman’s last bit of resolve disintegrates at those words. 

“Shoot. Gosh. O-okay. There’s uh—a zipper in the back.”

“I was expecting something more elaborate than that,” you giggle. You reach for his hand, interlacing his fingers with yours. Nerves pulsing in your skin, you guide him down the hallway to your bedroom. He looks at you longingly as you stand in front of the bed, which only makes your nerves worse. “You wanna turn around?” you ask. 

“Oh! Yeah. Yes,” he stutters. Without a word, his hands reach up to detach the cape from his suit. When he turns around, you spot the zipper running down the middle of the suit. As you unzip it, the broad muscles of his back come into view. His creamy skin is covered with bruises from the fight. You allow your hands to explore the expanse of his back. The rigid muscle of his shoulder blades tense under your touch. 

When you take your hands off of him, he instantly turns back around. He begins the task of getting the rest of the suit off. He’s not off to a great start, nearly falling over while pulling his boots off. You help him with the rest of it, tugging the fabric down his body, and onto the floor. 

Entranced by the newly exposed skin, your hands roam over his chest. The suit hides most of his muscle definition. Superman melts into your touch. He can’t remember the last time anyone traced over his skin with such reverence. Your fingers are careful not to apply too much pressure over any of the bruises. You smile when you notice the goosebumps rising on his skin. 

A particular bruise stands out to you, right below his pec over a rib. It’s already a dark purple, despite the fight being less than an hour ago. Your head moves before you can think, pressing your lips gently over the bruise. Almost as if a kiss would make it better. 

Superman’s almost convinced it does make it better.  His mind is racing. He’s never done anything like this before, ribs aching in his chest, lip throbbing. He pushes the feeling down, much like he pushes your sweatpants down. 

The adrenaline takes over for him. He steps towards you again and leans down to attach his lips to your neck. He’s practically making out with your neck. Indulging in the taste of your skin as his tongue glides against your carotid artery. A whine leaves your lips. 

You overwhelm his senses. He can feel your heart pump under his tongue. He can taste the salt on your skin. He can hear the blood traveling through your veins. All the while, he’s touching you like you might disappear. A hand in your hair. Around your waist. Cupping your cheek.

It’s not long before his mouth trails up your neck, to your cheek, and lands back on your mouth. Superman kisses you like he’s starving. Like he’s been poisoned, and you’re the only antidote that can save him. It’s so messy—spit threatening to drip off of your lips. 

You exchange groans and moans between each other as he lays you down softly on the bed. When he breaks the kiss, the look of desire in his eyes almost melts you into a puddle. His gaze examines you, looking at the skin of your legs he couldn’t see before. 

Now that he’s out of the suit, you’re finally able to get a good look at him. He’s in a pair of black boxer briefs. They hug his skin, showing off his strong thighs. His happy trail catches your eye. Dark black hair disappears underneath the band of his underwear. He’s broad. The way he’s standing in front of you while you’re laid back on the bed should be daunting. His abdomen is taut, but he’s not obnoxiously ripped.

You're still in a shirt and underwear, laying back on the bed. “I- I don't think I can handle much more of the staring,” you mumble. Superman doesn’t say anything, not at first. Instead, his hand skims the hem of your shirt, pushing it up to reveal the waistband of your underwear.

His eyes, while blown out and dark, are comforting. You feel safe under his gaze. “Can I—“ he pauses, fighting the voice on his shoulder telling him this is a bad idea. “Can I touch you?” He’s trying to keep eye contact, but his eyes keep flickering back and forth from your eyes, to the damp spot on your underwear. His breathing picks up at the sight of it. Your legs spread wide for him, knowing exactly what he’s looking at.

You nod your head eagerly. “Want you to touch me.” 

He begins over your underwear, finger dipping just enough under the elastic waist to make it snap lightly against your skin. “These are pretty,” he says, looking back up at you.The underwear is from a multipack you bought at Walmart, not exactly what one would typically describe as pretty.

You stifle a laugh, “Funny joke.”

“I’m being serious.” His eyes are locked on the space between your legs as he traces down your slit. You take in a sharp breath as he finds your clit through the fabric and presses gently. “The pattern on them is pretty—I like them.”

His finger drifts lower. “You’re so wet,” he mumbles as he reaches the damp spot. “You’ve soaked through these.” His voice is one of awe, like he’s surprised he warrants this much of a reaction. He presses a fingertip over your entrance through the fabric. The action grows the size of the darkened fabric. Superman’s eyes flicker to yours for a brief moment, and the heat in your cheeks increases by tenfold. 

“Can I take them off?” You answer the question for him, lifting your hips and pushing the fabric hastily down your legs. The urgency brings a smile to his face. “Eager?” he asks.You nod, not trusting your voice to answer. He helps you pull them all the way down and off your ankles before discarding them to the side of the bed. “Scoot back for me,” he mutters.

Clumsily, you move back on the mattress, leaning against the pillows on your headboard. You watch him through hooded eyes as he sinks to his knees on the bed, before resting on his chest between your legs. His body just barely fits on the mattress. 

Both of his hands rest on one of your thighs, engulfing your skin in his grip. His calloused thumbs rub gentle circles into your thigh as he watches for any signs of discomfort. When he finds none, he guides your legs to spread open. The act is incredibly vulnerable, especially with the way his gaze dissects you. 

Without thinking, your legs close, or at least try to close. “Don’t need to be shy with me,” he whispers, voice thick with desire. Superman keeps your thighs spread open, letting him take in the sight of you in front of him. “Pretty here too,” he mumbles. It’s quiet enough that it probably isn’t meant for you to hear, but you do. Loud and clear. 

The comment makes your cheeks burn with embarrassment. Your hands reach up instinctively to cover your face, muffling your voice as you speak. “You can’t just say stuff like that.” His deep chuckle doesn’t help calm the fire burning on your skin. 

“M’just telling the truth,” he remarks. “Take your hands off your face.” You listen, stomach feeling warm at the command.

One of his hands slides up your inner thigh, making you shiver at the touch. In the next moment, he takes his thumb and spreads your folds, looking like he's about to devour you whole. If you didn’t know any better, you would think he’s going to do just that. He breathes in sharply when he sees the wetness at your entrance, threatening to drip down onto the sheets.

He removes his thumb, only to let his pointer finger slide through your folds. The touch is featherlight, sending electricity through your veins when he nudges your clit before stilling at your entrance. His bright blue eyes dart back up to you. “Need to stretch you out a little bit… is that okay?” he asks, voice gentle.

The words weigh on you for a moment. Stretch you out. Evidently you weren’t hallucinating the massive bulge in his boxers. Still, you nod eagerly, “Y-yeah. Mhm.”

He circles around your entrance first, collecting the wetness on his finger. He watches your face as he eases his middle finger into you slowly. Even just one finger causes all the muscles in your body to tense as you whimper. Meeting resistance, he eases back out before trying to sink deeper into you. “Relax for me.” His head rests against your thigh, curls splaying on your skin. The sight is enough to send another pulse through you. His gaze is caring, bordering on full adoration. 

You relax enough for him to sink deeper into you. He’s slow and careful, pressing in all the way until his knuckle. You pulse around him when he, just as slowly, pulls his finger back out to the tip. He watches your little gasps. The way that your hips grind ever so slightly with each thrust of his finger. He’s not in a rush, letting the rhythm of the slow steady strokes continue for a couple of minutes. It’s obvious the goal right now isn’t to get you off. He’s prepping you for him. 

“Can I add another?”

“You can do whatever you want,” you whine.

“Careful, sweetheart. You don’t know what you’re getting yourself into,” he warns. 

“You’re Superman—I trust you.”

His heart tightens in his chest. You trust him. The voice deep down screams at him to stop, that he shouldn’t be doing something so depraved, but your voice is louder. His pointer finger easily joins his middle finger inside of you. 

It’s the rare time he takes his eyes off of your face. He’s too entranced by the way your entrance accommodates the stretch. “Wish you could see this. Taking it so well.” His face is concentrated, and the movement of his fingers is intentional. He doesn’t rush for a single second, slowly working you to take both fingers as deep as he can press them inside of you. 

When the tip of his ring finger slips into you, you feel the stretch. The movement is unhurried, letting you take him in at your own pace. Your head lulls back into the mattress. “Oh, God,” you whimper as all three fingers fully sink into you. 

His head still rests against your thigh as he watches your reaction. “That’s it… there you go…” he coddles before turning his head to press a sloppy kiss against your thigh. Now that he’s managed to fit three fingers inside of you, his goal shifts again. He needs to make you fall apart. 

He sets a pace with his hand, not too fast, and not too slow. You whimper, the sound desperate. Rolling your hips against him, you reach down to hold his other arm. You need a touch to ground you. “I know, baby. I know,” he whispers. There’s not an ounce of condescension in his words. 

You jolt when his fingers stroke against a specific spot. He grins wide. “There it is,” he says under his breath. “That’s the spot isn’t it?” When you don’t immediately reply, he continues. “Talk to me, baby. Is that where it feels good?”

“Y-yeah—yeah. Feels s’good. R-really good.”

He curls his fingers to nudge against the spot repeatedly, and your reaction is instantaneous. You buck against him, but his strong arms keep you from moving away from the stimulation. “Can feel you pulsing around me. Doing so good f’me.” Once his thumb drifts to circle over your clit, you’re done for.

Your orgasm hits you like a freight train as your head falls back against the pillows. Your hips spasm in his grip, muscles tensing with pleasure, Superman continues pistoning in and out of you throughout the waves. You’re too distracted to notice his own hips grinding against the mattress.

He slows down the pace of his fingers as your orgasm fades. He lifts his head from your thigh to place a chaste kiss to your pulsing clit, before he finally removes his fingers from you. You whimper at the loss. 

He stands again at the foot of the bed, looking down at his hand and spreading his fingers . Superman’s fingers glisten in the dim light of your bedroom, strings of slick between them. He doesn’t give it a second thought before he pushes his fingers into his mouth to clean them off. He’s confident with it. The way he licks them clean like it’s no big deal almost makes you mad. Key word, almost.

“Oh my God,” your jaw drops.

His eyebrows raise as he pops the fingers out of his mouth. “What is it?” he asks. If you didn’t know better, you would think this was an act. 

“You just—“ your eyes flicker to his hand that’s now damp with saliva.

“Oh—golly. M’sorry if that was—weird.” Superman is shy in front of you. Actually shy. The blush scattered over his cheeks and nose grows more vivid by the second.

“Don’t apologize. I think that’s one of the hottest things I’ve ever seen,” you reassure him. He’s within arms reach, so you grab his hand and pull his body closer to the bed. Looking up at him with wide eyes, you palm him through his boxers. His length is solid underneath your hand. He chokes back a groan at the pressure, head falling back.

When you take away your hand, his eyes are instantly back on you. You reach down to the hem of your shirt to tug it off of your skin. Your sports bra follows quickly afterwards. He gets starry eyed the second he sees the skin

He lets a gentle hand cup your breast, thumb tracing over your nipple. Slowly, he trails feather light finger from the base of your collarbone, all the way down to your nipple. Goosebumps rise in the wake of his finger. It’s almost like he’s forgotten where he is—how hard he is right now. He’d be content enough to stand here and study you if you’d let him. 

His lips follow the trail of goosebumps, leaving sloppy kisses over your skin. He takes your nipple into his mouth, letting his tongue swirl around it while his other hand grasps your other breast. Your hands tangle into his messy black hair as his mouth works on your chest. When you think he’s finished, he switches to your other breast instead.

You tug on his hair, trying to get him to stand back up. He takes the hint, giving your nipple a slight graze of his teeth before standing. Both of your hands press against his abs. “Wanna see you, too,” you plea. There’s no care in the way he strips his underwear off of his body, leaving himself bare to you. 

You can’t hide the way your eyes widen in shock. “You’re really big…” you mutter breathlessly without even thinking. The words tumble out of your mouth, and it;s much too late to take them back. 

He turns red. Tomato red. You’ve seen him a million times on tv in the midst of battle, soaked with sweat and blood. Yet, you’ve never seen him as flushed as he is in front of you. His hair, usually so put together and styled, sticks up in all directions from your hands running through it. His curls become more prominent from the sweat of his skin. 

“I’m sorry. We don’t have to do anything—we can stop.”

“No, no! I didn’t say that, I just—never taken anything like that before.” He’s trying, really trying to not lose his mind at your words. You're not making it easy. 

“I’ll be gentle—say the word and I’ll stop. The last thing I want to do is hurt you.” He doesn’t move immediately, and you can basically see the gears turning in his head. “Do you have any condoms?”

“Shit, uh—no.” “But I’m on birth control if—if that’s okay with you?”

He gulps, Adam’s apple bobbing. He knows what the answer should be. He should scramble to put back on his suit and fly back over to his apartment to grab the sealed box of condoms that have been collecting dust in his drawer. It would take less than five minutes to make it there and back. 

Patience is not his strong suit. Especially when you’re laid out in front of him like this, with your thighs spread wide. He watches how you pulse around nothing. He can hear how your blood pulses, rushing down to your core. He tries to calm down, but the pure desire drips off of him as he speaks. “That’s fine with me.”

He strokes himself a few times, precum leaking from his tip. He kneels on the bed between your legs. His free hand softly lands on your knee, thumbing your skin. He’s staring at your entrance like he’s trying to figure out how he’s going to make this work. Your voice interrupts his thoughts. 

“Um.” You push yourself up a little bit on your elbows. “I’m realizing I don’t even know what to call you… I can’t call you Superman while you’re inside me, that’s just weird.”

The bluntness of your words makes him cough on the saliva collected in his mouth. “Goodness, uh,” he stutters, stopping the movement of his hand on his dick. He’s breaking all kinds of rules right now, so why not another? Lex’s video already published it to the world. 

“Call me Kal-El,”

“Kal-El?”

“Y-yeah.” He hasn’t heard another person call him that before. It lights a fire in his stomach.

“Okay. Please, Kal-el. Want you.”

His eye contact is too much. Way too much. His gaze somehow makes you feel more naked. The feeling in your stomach from his beautiful eyes looking into yours grows to be too much. When he lines himself up, nudging at your entrance, you let your gaze fall to the ceiling. Without missing a beat, his hand grasps your jaw, capturing your chin between his thumb and fingers. His palm rests on the front of your neck. The grip is gentle. He’s barely applying any pressure. He tilts your chin. “Keep looking at me.”

“O-Okay.”

You’re glad he makes you look, because the sight of him sinking into you is heavenly. He’s gorgeous. His eyelids flutter for half at second, and his mouth falls open. The groan that leaves his mouth is downright sinful, and causes you to pulse around him. You gasp at the intrusion.

He moves slowly, filling you up inch by inch. Kal-El’s hips jolt, accidentally pushing in faster than he meant. You wince at the stretch, letting your nails dig into his back. 

“Sorry, sweetheart,” he mumbles. As if to prove his apology, he presses kisses all over your face, before moving to your hairline, and then your forehead. The action is so incredibly affectionate, making your heart tighten in your chest. 

It’s around the half way point when you really start to struggle with his size. 

“Shit—so much. Too much—”

“Shh—you can take it. It’ll fit,” he coos. One of his hands comes up to stroke your side to soothe you. “Breathe, baby. Take a deep breath for me, yeah? Let me in.” He praises you the second you steady your breathing, taking one large breath to calm yourself down. “That’s it. Can I keep going? I can stop if you need me to.”

The idea of stopping nearly sends you into panic mode. “No, no—no. Please, don’t stop. Want more.” Your hands grab at his back, trying to keep you as close as possible. He twitches inside of you at your words. It’s clear that you’re struggling to take him, but you want more. You want to make him fit. 

“O-Okay sweetheart. Calm down. M’not going anywhere.” He kisses you to keep you distracted while he eases himself into you, urging you to open up for him. “Being so good for me,” he mumbles in between kisses. His hand engulfs your neck, wrapping around it to hold your jaw and keep your lips on his. 

Your nails claw into his back when he bottoms out inside of you, scratching down his skin. It’s almost too much, like you’re nearly being split in half. “Kal-El—fuck. Oh, fuck. You’re so deep. Oh my god.”

“I know baby—” His eyes are closed tight above you. It’s clear he’s holding back, and it’s taking everything in him to do so. “Golly, you feel so good. So warm. Gosh, gosh, gosh,” he rambles. 

When he finally opens his eyes and sees you underneath him, the expression on your face melts him on the spot. Your eyes water at the stretch. The sight shouldn’t stroke the fire in his stomach, but it does. He did this to you. Taking your face in his hand, his thumb swipes away the tears that escaped your eyes. He leans down to press soft kisses to your lips, swallowing every sound you make.

“Did so good, baby. I’ll wait as long as you need me to wait,” he mutters against your mouth. His lips drop down to press at your neck. The kisses are sloppy, mostly his tongue licking at your skin, tasting the salt that’s accumulated there. The care in his words makes you dizzy, and him sucking into your neck doesn’t make you feel any less lightheaded.

He sticks to his word, not moving an inch inside of you. At least five minutes have passed before you speak up. “You can—you can move. Please move.”

The pace he sets is just as slow as he moved his fingers earlier. He doesn’t want to do too much too quickly. The ache fades the more he grinds into you, pleasure replacing it. Kal-El’s blue eyes remain on you, looking for any sign that he needs to stop. 

Every stroke of his cock inside of you sends stars across your vision.  “Feel you—feel you in my stomach—” you whine. You look down through glassy eyes at the sight of your bodies connecting. Seeing just how thick he is between your legs makes you whimper.  Your gaze is drawn elsewhere, though. It’s slight, oh so slight, but you can see it. The subtle bulge right above your mound that moves with every thrust. “Kal, look—” you whimper. 

He leans back onto his knees, no longer hovering over you like before. It makes the bulge even more visible this way, with your ankles wrapped around his back. “Jeez—goodness sake—” He’s completely speechless, watching the way it becomes more prominent the deeper he thrusts. 

Your hand moves, slipping between your bodies before resting over the bulge. When you press down, you feel him moving from the outside. Fireworks explode across your vision. Heat bubbles in your veins. You can barely breathe. 

“S-See?”

“Yeah—” he swallows. “I see it, baby.”

You want him to feel it, not just see it. Grabbing his hand from where it holds onto your thigh, you move it to rest over the spot. He groans deeply. Desperately. He presses down, hard, grinding his hips to thrust against the top of your walls. “Feel so full—s’full,” you gasp, barely able to get the words out.”

“Shh—I know. Taking it like you’re made for it.” You nod your head at that. Like you want that. Like you want to be made for him.

“D-do you like that? Like the idea of that?”

“Please—please, please, please,” you beg. You’re not sure what for, but Kal-El moves like he knows. 

“I’ll give you what you need, baby.” He unwraps a leg from around his waist and throws it over his shoulder. You gasp at the change in angle, and your hands grab at his skin. His thrusts become slow and calculated, like he’s teasing you. In actuality? He’s trying to hold himself together, because he knows the sooner he cums, the sooner this whole thing ends. The last thing he wants is for this moment with you to end because he can’t control himself. 

Kal-El watches as you fight the pleasure growing in your belly. He counters this by finding your clit with his thumb. While his thrusts are gentle, his thumb circles your bud at a pace so fast your head spins. “Let go, baby. Let go for me,” he encourages. The heat bubbles in your stomach, releasing through your veins as your orgasm hits you. Your body shudders with each wave of pleasure. You murmur his name over and over again like it’s the only work you know.

He stops circling your clit, but he doesn’t stop the pace of his hips. Your leg falls from his shoulder as he presses his forehead against you. He cages you in with his body, forearms at the side of your head holding him up. Your legs wrap tightly around his waist, trying to get him as close as possible. 

“So pretty. So gosh dang pretty,” he moans. Your eyes are weepy and red. Your swollen lips are covered in spit. Sweat collects on your forehead... But gosh, you’ve never looked more pretty to him. Completely coming undone for him. Being so vulnerable with him. 

People aren't vulnerable with him, especially not as Superman. Though, you have no problem showing him your weaknesses, showing him the spots that make your eyes roll into the back of your head. You're more than happy to show him your achilles heel if it means you get to stay in this haze for a little while longer. 

He’s getting close, dangerously close. His thrusts grow erratic and powerful. The force behind them jolts you in the bed. You’ve reached the point of pure overstimulation. Broken whimpers and moans leave your lips. He wants to keep you grounded, to keep you focused on him. He grabs your hand, and pins it beside your head, fingers interlacing with yours. 

“Want you to cum again for me. You can do it, sweetheart. Know you can.” He’s moved on from thrusts to deep grinds. His pelvis nudges against your clit. You shake your head at his request.

“C-can’t. It’s too m-much,” you whine. He doesn’t let up on the pace, snapping his hips roughly against you. 

“Wanna see you cum for me one last time. So beautiful when you do. Please? Be good for me.” You sink into pleasure as your third orgasm overtakes you. Your cunt pulses around him, squeezing tight. You shake in his grasp, muscles completely out of your control

“Oh gosh, gonna—where can I—” 

“Inside—p-please,” you say in the most hazy, fucked out voice he’s ever heard. With a few more calculated thrusts, he spills inside of you. You whimper with every pulse of his cock inside of you. You cling onto him like a lifeline.

He falls against you, pressing every inch of his skin to yours. You’re almost asleep when speaks. “Gotta get you cleaned up. C’mon, sweetheart.” He’s lifting up off you, urging you to sit up. 

“Sleepy—Don’t wanna move,” you mutter, trying to hold onto his arm. You hear a faint chuckle above you. Kal-El takes matters into his own hands. He finds your bathroom, and brings a warm, wet rag to wipe between your legs and your thighs. You barely acknowledge the touch, drifting into a deep sleep.  The last thing you recall is the feeling of a shirt slipped over your head. 

The first time you wake up, it’s when the sun is just about to rise over the horizon. Your curtains are open. The light just starts to hit your face as your eyes flutter open. Around your waist, you feel the weight of his arm holding you close to his chest. He has you tightly against him, legs entangling with yours. You’re practically engulfed by his warmth. You let sleep take you once again, content to stay as long as possible in his arms. 

The next time you wake up, the curtain across from your bed is closed, and the space next to you has gone cold. It’s silly to feel disappointed, but you can’t help the frown on your face as you sit up in bed, trying to rub the tiredness out of your eyes. 

Out of the corner of your eye, you spot a neon sticky note pad on your nightstand. The writing on it is slightly messy, like he left in a rush. 

Unfortunately, Superman has a secret 9-5 job. I couldn’t bring myself to wake you up before I left… you looked too peaceful. Thank you for fixing me up the best you could. The sun finished the job this morning. See you around. 

-S

As usual, Clark finds himself very late to work four weeks later. Extremely late. He can’t even blame it on Superman. He just forgot to set his alarm. He decides to go to a bakery that opened up a couple months ago near the Daily Planet. If he’s going to be this late, he might as well bring donuts. 

He’s not paying much attention, reading the paper in his hands as he stands in line. He glances up when it’s finally his turn, and instantly becomes a deer in headlights when he sees you. It takes him way too long to remember the glasses—you have no idea who he is right now.

Despite his very awkward pause, you don’t lose the smile on your face. “Can I get you something?”

“Oh uh—hi yes. Can I get um—a dozen assorted donuts and…” Clark barely manages to pull himself together as he blabs out his, Jimmy, and Lois’s order from muscle memory.

“Of course! What’s the name for the order?”

“Clark.”

[iamreadynoimnot]

[waddyaknow]

A LITTLE TOO MUCH LIKE ME michael robinavitch x daughter!reader

summary: robby had always thought your boyfriend was a little too much like him. turns out, there’s a very simple explanation for that.

content: 18+ MDNI, age gap, older man/younger woman, incest, father/daughter, fingering, slight domestic violence, no use of y/n.

w/c: 3.7k

a/n: idk what but there's something about robby that inspires such filthy, degenerate thoughts in me that i had to pick up writing fanfiction again lmao sorry if it's not super spicy it's been a hot minute

Robby had always thought your boyfriend was a little too much like him.

Not quite his age, but considerably older than you. Older than Robby thought he should be, anyway. He was a surgeon at Westbridge, because of course he was. Trust his daughter to find a partner in the very career he’d fought so hard to keep her away from.

With your mother out of the picture, you’d spent most of your formative years in or near a hospital. Robby supposed it was inevitable that you would come to find a sense of home and comfort in its chaos.

The irony of that wasn’t entirely lost on him.

In many ways, your boyfriend looked a lot like Robby, too, with his short brown hair and similarly brown eyes. His face was different, of course, but there was enough physical resemblance between them for Jack to crack a joke about it. Robby had snorted at the time, but in hindsight, even he couldn’t deny the glaring similarities.

Naturally, Robby didn’t like him.

He never had, firmly believed he never would.

The man was a decent enough doctor, maybe even a decent enough guy, at a superficial level. But dig a little deeper, and you’d find a head so big it barely fit through the hospital doors. Robby knew enough men like him to know you’d never be his priority. Work would always come first.

When you turned up at his door with a split lip and teary eyes, he felt he was justified in that opinion.

“Uhm—” Your lip wobbled.

It took less than a second for Robby to pull you inside and wrap his arms around you. His heart twisted in his chest. You were a tough girl, had never been particularly scared of getting your knees bruised, but there was a definite difference between getting hurt and being hurt. Robby knew, in the same way he knew when to call a trauma, that this was a case of the latter.

He let you cry against his chest for a moment, swaying gently from side to side. He kissed the crown of your head. You were warm and soft in his arms, trembling slightly with the force of your silent tears. When was the last time he had held you like this, with you breaking down in his arms?

He held you a little tighter.

Minutes passed before you eventually calmed down enough to talk, your sniffles coming to a halt.

Robby gently cupped your face, his thumbs wiping away your hot tears as he assessed your swollen lip. Nothing major. It didn’t look like anyone had swung at you, but…

If your pathetic excuse for a boyfriend had laid a hand on you—

Robby clenched his jaw, swallowing the anger that simmered within him. If that was truly the case, the most important thing right now was the girl wrapped in his arms. The anger could come later.

“Baby, what happened?” he asked softly, his fingers gently tucking a strand of hair behind your ear.

You shook your head. “We… had an argument.”

Or right now.

“He hit you?”

“No!” Your rejection came too quickly. “No, he… it was my fault. I was being difficult—”

“I don’t care if you asked him to steal the damn moon. He has no right to—” Robby swallowed his own words, forcing himself to calm down. Following a deep breath, he asked again, “Tell me what happened.” Then, after a beat, “Please.”

It broke his heart to look at you, tears clinging to your lashes as they refused to let go.

You blinked, wiping them away with the back of your hand.

“Uhm—” Your voice shook slightly.

Robby hated it. He hated that his presence alone wasn’t enough to help.

“He pushed me,” you finally admitted. Robby watched your throat bob as you swallowed thickly. “He came home from work. I don’t know if he’d had a long day, or…? But he wanted to… to blow off some steam.”

You moved your jaw as if to make the words come loose. “And I wasn’t in the mood, so when he started touching me, I moved away. And he got so angry—”

Robby felt sick.

“—I don’t know what came over him.” You shook your head, as if in disbelief. “He was so upset, and started ranting and complaining about how I’m never in the mood, apparently, about how he’s been so patient with me. And I didn’t even know he felt like that, like, at all—”

Your breath hitched as you forced yourself to carry on. “—and I tried to tell him that wasn’t the case, but he didn’t believe me. I went t-to kiss him, but he was so angry he shoved me away, and I stumbled and fell and—”

Robby had heard enough.

Heard enough to know that he never wanted you near that man ever again.

“You’re moving back home,” Robby interrupted.

“N…No, that’s—”

“Baby, I don’t care if he’s never done it before.” Robby cupped your face again, his hands firm and his gaze steely. “I don’t care if he promises never to do it again. It happened, which means it could happen again, okay? I’m not letting you take that risk. Please.”

You nodded solemnly. You knew he was right.

And so what if moving back with your dad didn’t sound so bad?

“Okay,” you agreed, your voice wet.

“Jack and I are both off tomorrow,” Robby insisted. “Okay? We’ll go and collect your stuff while he’s at work, and you’ll never have to see him again.”

You simply nodded.

Tired, exhausted, defeated.

“Yeah.”

“Yeah,” Robby concluded. He pressed his lips to the warmth of your forehead and wrapped his arms around you in another embrace, shielding you from any harm and evil.

Beyond PTMC, you were his world. You were the only person able to pull him out of the dark hole his work drew him into, the only one who made life worth living, and he’d be damned if he let you wither away in the grasp of some idiot who didn’t know how to appreciate you.

You stood there for what felt like forever before the doorbell inevitably rang, and the calm that had settled between you shattered.

Robby felt you give a slight start in his arms, a small jump that gave away your unease. He gave you a reassuring squeeze.

“Stay here,” he ordered despite knowing you wouldn’t listen. He hoped you had enough sense to stay out of sight, at least.

Robby took his sweet time reaching the door, each step slow and heavy. He felt no rush to confront the person he knew was waiting on the other side. The door creaked open, just enough to glimpse through, and Robby feigned surprise before pushing it further.

Your soon-to-be ex stood at the doorstep, back rigid, all prim and proper. He looked annoyingly perfect. The tie around his neck without fault, and the hair on his head perfectly arranged. But there was a wild look in his eyes, Robby noticed, a hint of desperation and panic he hadn’t entirely managed to hide.

He stood tall, sure, but Robby stood taller.

“Doctor Miller,” Robby said coldly.

“Michael,” he smiled, his perfect teeth on display.

Arrogant prick.

Robby offered no invitation, merely shifting to lean against the doorway and block any view inside.

“I need to speak to your daughter,” he insisted.

Robby hummed. “Why would she be here rather than at home with you?” he drawled, with no particular interest.

The younger doctor hesitated. “We…” He cleared his throat. “We had an argument, and she ran off. I just want to know she’s safe.”

Robby tilted his head upwards, looking down at him. At length, he said, “She’s safe.”

“So, she’s here?” He took a step forward, attempting to step inside, but Robby quickly narrowed the opening by shutting the door a little in response.

“I said she’s safe,” Robby repeated, more firmly.

It was as if someone had flicked a switch. The man's demeanor shifted, and his desperate charm gave way to cold fury.

“Is that how it’s going to be?” he said more than he asked. “She’s sending Daddy to handle everything while she hides inside?”

Robby’s fingers curled around the door’s edge, knuckles turning white.

The fucking audacity of this guy.

“Listen, son,” Robby mimicked, stepping purposefully closer. “You’re a grown-ass man. You think you can come to my home, demanding to see my daughter, after you chased her away? Go home.”

Robby placed a firm hand on his chest, forcing him to take a few clumsy steps backwards, away from the door.

Furious, the man bounced back, jabbing a pointed finger at Robby’s face. “You’re always in the fucking way!” he snarled, very nearly foaming at the mouth.

“Excuse me?”

He growled in frustration as he withdrew his finger and instead ran his hand through his previously perfect hair, trying to calm himself. “You know what I think?” he sneered after a moment, venom coating his voice. “I think she loves her daddy a little too much.”

Robby tried not to flinch. What the fuck? Sure, you’d been clingy as a child, and yes, maybe he’d allowed it for longer than he should have. But under no circumstances had it ever affected your adult life—

“You think I can’t see the resemblance, hm? How similar I am to you?” He’d made his way back to Robby, their faces only a couple of inches apart.

Robby’s heart pounded in his chest.

“But that’s not enough, is it?!” He yelled over Robby’s shoulder, aimed at wherever he thought you were hiding.

Some of his spit flew onto Robby’s cheek. “Hey, hey—!”

He let out a half-broken, almost maniacal laugh. “I bet she's drooling at the thought of sucking your cock.”

Robby was not going to address how that comment made him feel, even as a sudden image of you on your knees intruded on his mind.

“I bet she already has, hasn’t she?”

Robby snapped back to reality.

“The reason she doesn’t want me is that she’s already been getting it from you, isn’t it? I can’t believe I didn’t see it sooner—”

“Enough!” Robby exclaimed. “That’s enough. Jesus, listen to yourself. You need help.”

“I need help? Me?” He shook his head. “Your daughter—”

“—my daughter deserves better than you!” Robby cut in, refusing to listen to another word against you. “You’re done! Leave. I never want to see you here or near her again.”

A bitter laugh escaped him. “Fine,” the man conceded, his hands raised in faux surrender. “But for the record, I’m breaking up with her. We could have had something good, you know, but no one can compete with Daddy, I suppose.” He scoffed at his own words, shaking his head. “Fare-fucking-well.”

He all but spun on his heels to leave, hands dropping to his sides as he walked away, shaking his head in exasperation. Robby closed the door behind him, choosing to ignore what sounded suspiciously like ‘fucking whore’.

The moment the door shut, Robby turned the lock and pressed his forehead against the cold surface. He let out a heavy sigh.

What just happened?

Robby didn’t know where to even begin. He didn’t know whether to address the fact that your now ex-boyfriend—whom he had broken up with on your behalf without asking—firmly believed you were in love with him, or to confront the fact that he would have liked it if you were. At the very least, he could take some comfort in knowing he would never have to see the asshole again.

Gathering his wits, Robby made his way along the corridor.

He found you just around the first corner. Out of sight from the door, but not out of earshot.

You looked so small, slumped against the wall, your glassy eyes fixed on the floor and the nail of your thumb clamped between your teeth.

Once again, Robby chose not to address how that made him feel, even as his heart skipped a beat.

“I’m sorry,” you said quietly, your voice raw despite having said nothing for some time.

Robby blinked, instantly positioned in front of you. “What for?”

You worked to find the right words.

“He’s right,” you muttered, and Robby’s heart skipped another beat.

Right about what, exactly…?

“We could have had something good, a family—”

Oh, that.

“No,” Robby interrupted firmly. Whatever future you could have had with him would not have been good, Robby thought, and, distantly, jealousy reared its ugly head. You were his family. It was supposed to be you and Robby, no one else. “I’d rather you never marry at all than marry some jerk like him. The way he behaved, the things he said—”

He cut himself off upon noticing you shrinking in on yourself.

“Do you hate me now?” You sounded small and uncertain.

“No,” he said quickly, worried, his own voice unexpectedly vulnerable. “Why would I hate you?”

You shrugged, and a long moment passed before you replied. “Because of what he said about… how I feel.”

“Well…” Robby’s body moved closer without meaning to, and the look in his eyes darkened slightly. “Is it true?”

You wanted to look away, tried to, ashamed, but Robby’s hand found your face. He kept your gaze locked on him and tilted your head towards his.

You wet your lips.

“Yeah.”

Something snapped within him.

Desire roared to life in his chest, loud and all-consuming.

He fought a grin. So, there was a reason your boyfriend looked like him, after all.

“Tell me.” His thumb brushed your cheek, your soft skin a stark contrast to his own, rough and dry from overuse of hospital hand sanitizer.

Even now, after everything, you shook your head. A confession was too difficult, too heavy. Although you suspected—knew—it was mutual, you couldn’t bring yourself to say it.

“It’s okay,” Robby reassured. What began as a simple desire to have you quickly grew into a desperate need, latched to his soul. “You can tell me, sweetheart.”

The air grew heavier by the second.

“I… like you…”

Robby clicked his tongue. No, that wouldn’t do at all. “Lots of people like their dads,” he said with a soft laugh.

“…more than I should.”

Robby hummed softly as his thumb pressed gently to your swollen lip. “Yeah? How much more?”

Your chest rose and fell with each breath as your heart thudded fiercely against your ribs.

Your lips parted, but no sound came. Every word died in your throat, and your voice faltered. Seeing no other option, you parted your lips wider, wrapped them around his thumb, and sucked.

A soft, almost inaudible sound escaped your father. His thumb spun in your mouth, and your tongue swirled around it, drawing it deeper. Your brows pinched in concentration, committing every sensation to memory, stopping only as it grazed the split in your lip. You winced slightly, more in surprise than in pain, having forgotten it was there.

With a wet pop, Robby pulled his thumb from your mouth.

Then, before you could do as much as whine, his lips crashed onto yours.

A hand found your face, and its thumb swiped across your cheekbone, slick with your spit. All the while, its opposite found your hip and dug into the softness of your flesh, forcing your pelvis closer to his.

Robby’s mouth moved against yours, taking your breath away as his beard brushed against your skin, a sensation you had only ever dreamed of.

He kissed you.

Robby kissed you.

“Dad—” It was all you managed before he stole another breath.

It hurt. Every touch of his lips stung from the fall that had sent you running into his arms in the first place, but you couldn’t find it in you to care. The pain didn’t matter because it was Robby placing those kisses. All you felt was dizzy, needy and undeniably aroused.

Robby swore as he braced his arm against the wall above your head and pressed his body more firmly against yours, his trousers tightening at the crotch. “Is this what you wanted, hm?” he asked, only to swallow your attempt to respond with another greedy kiss. 

“Yes,” you managed, chasing him. “Yes.”

Robby smiled against your lips, unable to stop the glee blooming in his chest. A sick, perverted pleasure swelled at the thought that you had only ever had eyes for him, that any partner had always paled in comparison to him.

“Should’ve told me sooner,” Robby murmured, kissing along your jaw. How much time had you lost when you could have been with him all along? “You’ve always been my girl, haven’t you?”

Twisted heat coiled between your legs.

Before you could respond, the hand at your hip slipped beneath the hem of your shirt. You gasped as Robby’s fingers brushed against your abdomen. Goosebumps erupted despite the heat, his fingers searing across your skin and leaving trails of fire in their wake.

“I hate that he’s touched you,” he growled, teeth grazing the skin of your neck. “I hate that his handprints are on you.”

He wanted to erase their imprint, to wipe away every memory your body held of their touch. The only touch you should know was his.

Deft hands found the button of your jeans and tugged them down at the sides, a hand dipping into your underwear before they even hit the floor. His fingers moved between your folds and rested dangerously close to the sensitive bundle of nerves that ached for his attention.

Robby hummed pleasantly at what he found. “You’re so wet for me,” he cooed with a smile. “So wet for Daddy.”

Your knees almost gave out at the rasp of his voice, head swimming, and your weight fell against the wall. Robby caught you by the waist, holding you against him, and you felt the hard bulge of his cock, straining against his pants.

Achingly hard, all for you.

His fingers teased the entrance of your cunt in slow, languid circles, gathering the slick around his fingers. Every nerve in your body responded. Your hand shot to his wrist, fingers digging into the muscles to stop him.

You had never felt this sensitive before.

“A-ah, Dad—!” You gasped, and Robby groaned against your neck. Hearing you still call him Dad, even with his hand buried between your legs, only aroused him even further.

“I’m here,” he purred. “Dad’s right here…”

He swirled his fingers over the hood of your clit, and your hand clenched around his wrist in turn. “It’s okay, baby. Let go for me.”

Robby peeled your hand off him, moving it instead to cup his crotch. The size of him filled the palm of your hand, and your breath hitched at how well-endowed your father truly was. He grunted softly, grinding into your hand as small, blissful moans escaped his lips and caught in your ears. Even through the layers of clothes, pleasure ignited in his veins.

He continued his ministrations.

The intensity took you by surprise, moans slipping past you as your mouth dropped open.

“You could come like this, couldn’t you?” he teased. “On my hand, just like this?”

“Uh-huh—" You bucked your hips to get more friction.

A chuckle rumbled through his chest. “Greedy,” he said, but did nothing to halt his efforts

The pads of his fingers moved, stroking down the length of your cunt. A finger pushed inside you, then a second, and Robby pumped, the meat of his palm pressing against your clit. His fingers curled.

“Oh—!” You inhaled sharply.

“Here?” Robby smirked, as if he didn’t know.

“Yes—ah, yes!” Your hand clutched his shirt, fingers digging into the fabric.

“Fuh-uck, you’re dripping for me.”

You squirmed against the wall, rising to the tips of your toes as Robby worked his wrist faster. “Dad—”

Like a broken record, it was all you managed to say.

Robby devoured every needy moan, every cry for pleasure, stringing you higher with every pass of his hand. Your moans pitched as he urged you towards the edge.

“Dad. Dad, I need—”

“So greedy.”

“Don’t stop. Please, don’t stop—”

You clung to him, grabbing fistfuls of his shirt. His fingers pumped and curled against your walls as his other hand found your clit. Your body jerked.

“Oh my god,” you breathed, pleading cries caught in your throat. You were close; he could tell.

“That’s it, baby.” His fingers circled your clit and your face twisted in pleasure, lips parting. “Wanna feel you come on my hand—"

Your muscles tensed, and the world around you blurred at the edges.

All you knew was him.

A final touch sent you reeling over the edge.

Pleasure swept through you, leaving a shaking mess in its wake. Your cunt throbbed, clamping down on his finger, milking for something that wasn’t there.

Robby worked you through it. Slowing, but not stopping just yet.

Your ears rang, chest heaving as you came down from your high.

With a grunt, Robby gently pulled his fingers from within you and lifted them to his face. You watched him through heavy-lidded eyes as he wrapped his lips around them and licked them clean, shutting his eyes and even moaning as he did. He looked to be enjoying it entirely too much.

His own personal brand of ambrosia.

“Oh, that’s…” you started, and Robby’s eyes snapped open. Behind his lust-blown pupils was all the love and adoration in the world.

You gave a breathy laugh, still gathering your thoughts after the most mind-blowing orgasm of your life.

Filled with biblical greed, you reached for his pants.

Robby stopped you, his hands gently wrapping around your wrists.

He chuckled. “‘m not gonna fuck you against the wall.”

As if his back allowed him to, anyway.

“But—”

Robby shook his head. “I’m taking you to bed—”

He kissed your neck.  

“—where I plan on spending the rest of the night—”

His voice was right by your ear.

“—fucking you full of my come.”

The world shifted on its axis.

Dumbstruck, you said nothing.

He looked at you from below his eyebrows, a smirk on his lips. “Does that sound good to you?”

“Y-yes,” you croaked, fighting to regain the ability to speak. “More than good.”

“Good girl.”

The problem was never that your boyfriends had been similar to him.

It was that they hadn’t been similar enough.

[iamreadynoimnot]

[dietcokepitt]

getting worked up over robby bc. ugh. duh SMUT AHEAD! 18+ MDNI! -> afab!reader x robby, unprotected p-in-v, pussy pronouns

you stopped wondering why it was like a switch flipped every time robby walked through the front door of his apartment. you didn’t really care, not anymore, not when he steps inside with those heavy, tired footfalls, creases under his eyes a little deeper, a deep sigh leaving him. the smooth, downward slope of his nose, the breadth of his shoulders as he shakes off another twelve-hour shift. you can’t help it, if your gaze goes hungry.

you almost feel guilty for it, almost, as gives you a slow wave hello as he drops his backpack by the door and leaves his keys in the catch-all. any guilt fades as he hooks his fingers underneath the collar of his scrub top, pulling it off, revealing a sliver of his curved abdomen and the happy trail that leads underneath his matching trousers. he tugs his olive green undershirt over his stomach. you shut your mouth in fear of drooling.

“okay day?” you ask him, from where you’re curled up on the couch as he approaches the back of it, leaning down and resting his hands on the upholstery. he drops his head to look at you, as a little smile plays at his face.

“as okay as it can get,” he says, taking one hand and pinching your cheeks between his fingers, giving your lips a slight pucker as he leans in to kiss you. your fingers curl into his shirt as his lips meet yours, and they stay there, even as he breaks away. you whine, gripping his shirt tighter, not letting him move an inch.

he laughs. “sweetheart, i needa get changed.”

“you can get changed right here,” you croon, kneeling on the cushions to face him, running your hands down his crewneck. “i missed you.”

“pretty girl,” his hand cups the side of your neck, thumbing the hair at the back of your head. he smiles, a little exasperated, as he looks down at you. “i missed you, too. can i go shower? please?”

another whiney sound escapes you, brows furrowing as you tug him closer. again, he laughs, a little disbelieving. “jesus christ.”

“you look so good right now.”

“thank you.”

“i want you.”

he chuckles. “i can tell.”

you shoot him a glare, lips jutted out in a little pout. your finger hooks into the drawstring of his pants. “don’t laugh.”

“oh, i’m sorry. this is serious for you.”

“this is very serious for me,” you mutter, tugging his scrub trousers along with his boxers down, just enough to free his half-chubbed cock.

he hisses, big hand finding its way onto the side of your neck. “can’t go a second without you trying to jump my bones.”

“can you blame me?” you ask him. you start pumping his cock in slow, lazy strokes, feeling him harden in your palm. your eyes stay locked with his, half-lidded and hungry.

his jaw shifts. he rubs at it with his free hand, shaking his head in resignation. he lets out a huff of air, amused. “no, sweetheart.”

“that’s what i thought,” you respond, self-satisfied, as you wrap your lips around the warm head of his cock. he groans, thick neck tilting back with the movement of his head, hand on your cheek shifting to fist into your hair. he lets you get your fill for a good minute or so — but robby’s old, and god knows he’d hate himself if he shot a load down your throat instead of fucking it into you the way you both want it, so he’s pulling you off and rounding the couch, climbing onto it and tugging you into his lap.

he pushes your shirt up over your chest, groaning lowly at the way your tits spill out of it, soft, nipples pebbling. lifts his big hands to palm at them, feeling the flesh between his fingers as you smile, giggle, at his ogling.

“happy?” he asks mindlessly, eyes lost in the sight of you bare-chested in front of him after a long, grueling work day. “got all my fuckin’ attention now.”

you’re in just your panties, because, of course you are — and a wanton moan leaves you as he cups your heat over the fabric. pink lace, wet and translucent under his palm. eagerly, you nod, a cheeky smile gracing your features as he pulls you in, slotting his lips with yours.

his fingers slip underneath the gusset of your underwear, if only to hear you gasp, to see the way your eyes widen a fraction. he hums in satisfaction when he comes into contact with your wetness, circling your clit in small, tight, slow motions. "jee-zus," he drawls, as you whine, licking into his mouth as you begin to gyrate your hips. he grins in an almost goading way, nodding against your lips as he mutters, "yeah. that's good. fuck yourself on my hand, sweetheart, just like that."

"robby," you shudder.

"i'm right here," he chuckles. you mewl at the sound, condescending and loving at the same time, his big brown eyes crinkling at the corners.

"shut up," you pant, continuing to grind down on his fingers as he trails them lower, slipping his index and middle digits into your waiting hole. you squeak, bottom lip getting caught between your teeth before they part again in a loud, pitchy moan. "can you–can you fuck me?"

"no magic word?"

you groan, rolling your eyes.

"none of that, hon, c'mon," he says, a grin on his face like he's fighting the urge to laugh. "say it. taught you to be nice."

through gritted teeth and a weak glare that shakes when he curls his fingers, you say, "can you fuck me, please?"

his smile splits wider. "'course i can.”

it’s only a handful of minutes before he’s got you on your back against the couch, knees up to your ears as he bullies his cock into you. he loves it, the way your face scrunches, those knit brows and puffy lips parted in silent gasps at the pleasure. big hands hold your thighs up and apart, squeezing at the flesh as the sound of his intense thrusts echo through the room, alongside your squeaks and mewls.

he’s had a hard day.

“mi—mike—“ you gasp, words coming out strained, almost choked at the press of your thighs against his chest and every thrust he gives you. “oh, my god, mikey, yes!” you moan, and the sound is so pornographic he can’t help the way he quickens his pace out of his own need.

“fuuuck. yeah? feel good?” he pants, letting out a soft whine of his own when you clench around him. he hooks your legs over his shoulders. “fuck, sweetheart. squeezin’ me so tight, look at her. wants me to stay in there forever, huh?”

eyes rolling back, you don’t register that you’ve already nodded. he chuckles lowly to himself, shaking his head. “pretty fuckin’ pussy, baby. suckin’ me in — oh,” he groans, watching with rapt attention the point where your two bodies collide.

“robby—oh, god, r–robby,” you mewl, body arching as far as it can underneath him. “i’m gonna come, robby, please, please let me come.”

“yeah,” he nods breathlessly, the warmth of his stomach pressing against yours causing you to tighten around him again, sending a hiss through his teeth. “fuck, yeah, sweetie. come all over this cock, show me what you can do,” he rambles, pinning his thumb over your clit and rubbing it in rapid circles, sending you over the edge.

he follows not long after, only slowing down once he feels his cock soften inside of you, wanting to watch the way his cum seeps out of you.

“that was so good, robby,” you mumble, close to mindless, eyes elsewhere once he finally lowers your legs. “fuck.”

he chuckles again, softly. “yeah, it was,” he rasps. “can i go take a shower now?” he asks.

you giggle. “yeah, yeah,” you mumble. “but only if you let me join you.”

he gives you a smile and holds out his hand. you take it.“yeah, y’can. just don’t get any ideas, you li’l freak. think i almost pulled a muscle back there.”

[iamreadynoimnot]

[maayhemi]

clark kent talks you through it...

content.ᐟ 18+, unprotected p in v, praise, sweet sex, pet names (baby, honey)

him ramming his hips against yours as the tip of his dick kisses your g-spot over and over again, the lewd squelching of your mixed arousal filling the room, and your only task is to sit there and look pretty for him, be his pretty girl.

"golly, baby" he shakes his head, admiring the view; you laying beneath him with that fucked-out expression after god knows how many orgasms, glazed over eyes, hair splayed out across the sheets, and your jaw slack in pleasure.

he just can't stop. his kryptonian genes come with high stamina and a strong libido. so the least he can do is always make sure to take the best care of you, not letting you lift a finger in bed.

"i know, honey," he coos, "just- just one more, okay? p-please baby?" you nod dumbly at his sweet talking, too focused on another impending orgasm growing in your belly alarmingly quick.

"so pretty f'me," he speaks in that impossibly gentle and breathy tone, reserved only for you. he makes you feel like the only person in the world like this, brushing strands of hair away from your face to bend down and press soft, reverent kisses to your flushed skin while fucking into you.

"clark" you whine, your voice soft and raspy from just how vocal you've been. "s'too much" the feeling of his cock hitting that spongy spot inside of you with perfect precision on every thrust is overstimulating, but you can't help but arch into him, it's almost instinctive. of course, clark doesn't know he's hitting that spot inside of you that makes you see stars.

"oh, baby..." his heart softens at you, but he can't help the knowing smile that plays at his face, because he knows he's not actually hurting you. "just a little longer, yeah? you don't have to do anything, let me take care a'you" he coos, leaning his head down to lick and suck at your nipple, making your breath hitch. his precious girl, turning to putty under his touch and words. how did he get so lucky with you?

his cock twitches violently inside of you, the soft whimpers and whines of his name falling from your pretty lips, along with the feeling of your pussy fluttering around him is almost enough to push him over the edge. he would have spilt inside you a long time ago if he didn't have so much self control, fucking superman has its perks!

your legs shake when you feel his hand snake down between the two of you, and the pad of his thumb rub tight circles around your puffy clit. "shit!" you squeal, the tight band in your gut snapping almost instantly. your nails dig into his back hard enough to draw blood, cumming around his cock with a cry.

"oh- gosh honey," he groans at the feeling of your cunt nearly sucking him in, a feeling he'll never get used to. "yeah- t-there ya go..." he kisses you through your orgasm, swallowing your insistent moans and whimpers.

even superman can't hold off for long, his balls tighten up impossibly when he feels you scraping his back hard enough to leave bright red marks.

"inside! i-inside-" you pant, looking deep into his wide eyes. "wha- are- you're sure?" his voice is filled with restraint, but he's cut off by his own orgasm, his hips burying himself to the hilt as he pulses and fills you with his warm, sticky release in globs. he lets his head fall down to your bare chest as he whimpers and whines, holding onto you to ground himself.

while he's laying heavy on you, you can't ignore his still very hard dick sitting inside of you. you know he's going to gaze up at you with those big puppy dog eyes and ask you for one more. the way he takes care of you makes up for it all

© mayhemi | all rights reserved.

i hate this ...

[iamreadynoimnot]

[danitecx]

Waiting to Be Seen - Part I

Note: I don't know yet if there will be a second part, but if you like it, I'll post it :)

Part II

Clark Kent x Female Kryptonian reader x Ultraman ¿?

Sinopsis: After years of loving Clark Kent in silence, a Kryptonian journalist watches the only person who ever truly understood her fall in love with someone else.

Warnings: Unrequited love, emotional angst, heartbreak, betrayal, breached trust, identity secrets, insecurity, violence

WC: 8,900 words approx.

Your eyes drifted back to the view beyond the large window of your apartment. The city looked gray, just as it always did, but today that gray felt heavier, as though the sky itself had grown tired. A faint redness lingered around your eyelids, and the dark circles you'd been carrying for days were more noticeable than ever. You had slept badly, once again, and your body reflected it. Your breathing still came in uneven waves, as if something inside you had broken and could no longer be put back together. The world outside felt distant, so distant that you hardly cared what happened beyond those windows anymore. Only you existed, sitting on that couch with your gaze lost in nothingness.

Your heart beat slowly, painfully slowly, as though it no longer had the strength to keep going. It was the heartbeat of someone waiting for something while already knowing, deep down, that disappointment was inevitable. Like waiting for a phone call that never comes or for words that are never spoken. That was how your chest felt—empty and unbearably heavy at the same time. You looked down at your phone again, the same one as always, its screen dark. With a gentle tap, it lit up, and there it was. That photograph you treasured like the most precious thing in the world, as though it were the last memory of something that no longer existed. You let out a long, deep sigh, your fingertips brushing lightly over the image.

It was him.

Of course it was always him.

"Come with me. Come on, we'll be in Metropolis. The Daily Planet is where you belong."

His voice echoed through your mind once again, just as powerfully as the first day you'd heard it. So clear. So certain. So convinced.

And you, as always, had followed that voice without asking a single question.

Because whenever he spoke, you listened.

Whenever he asked, you gave.

Whenever he smiled, you smiled too.

Now, though, that voice felt different, like an echo that no longer belonged to you.

You should have realized it from the very beginning.

That was all you were to him: a traveling companion, someone who happened to share the same place of birth among the stars, the same powers that made him extraordinary. But despite the Kryptonian blood running through your veins, Clark only ever saw a human woman before he saw you.

It had always been that way.

And you had always known it.

You had simply refused to accept it.

You squeezed your eyes shut until tiny stars danced behind your eyelids. Your brows furrowed, and another sigh escaped your lips.

Why were you doing this to yourself?

Why were you still holding on to something that had never been yours?

You had met him in college, back when everything still seemed possible. He was the quiet boy who always sat in the back of the classroom, the one who looked as though he were hiding something behind those glasses. And you, with your own secrets, knew exactly what it meant to hide who you truly were.

Everything changed during a history field trip, when the bus veered off course and chaos erupted. Your friend nearly flew out of the bus after fainting, and in that moment you didn't think—you simply acted. You activated your heat vision to push the bus back into place and used your strength to catch your friend before pulling her to safety.

Everything happened so quickly that you barely had time to process what you'd done.

But he saw it.

Clark told you one night, with that calmness that always defined him, as though it weren't a big deal. You barely spoke back then. You weren't even friends.

Then, all at once, he became your everything.

You felt seen.

Understood.

Like you finally weren't alone anymore.

That warmth inside your chest became something you never wanted to lose.

"People talked about you," you had told him that day, looking straight into his eyes.

"On other planets, Kal-El."

You called him by his true name with a smile that tried to hide just how much it meant to you to say it aloud.

"You're lucky you ended up on a planet that doesn't attract the attention of the people searching for you," you whispered, as though sharing a secret that only the two of you understood.

He smiled.

That smile.

The one that always unraveled you.

Then he nodded.

In that moment, everything made sense.

You had arrived on Earth when you were fifteen years old, alone and terrified, knowing nothing about this world. But the parents who took you in loved you as though you had always been their daughter. They taught you that humans weren't selfish, that they could be kind, compassionate, and generous.

And with Clark by your side, life felt right.

It felt as though everything had finally fallen into place.

Like you'd found something you'd been searching for without ever realizing it.

He convinced you to apply to the Daily Planet, and the two of you did it together, like a team. After living together in the same apartment for a year, you eventually found a place of your own directly across the hall from his.

It was routine.

Comfortable.

Safe.

You believed Clark would eventually see you as a woman instead of just his friend. He was so close, close enough to touch, close enough to dream about.

But time passed.

And he never took that step.

Then she appeared.

"No, it's just..." Clark said, his eyes shining with a light you'd never seen before. It was different, as though he had discovered something entirely new.

"God, I mean... Lois is... she knows so much."

He laughed softly, his cheeks turning pink like a boy talking about his very first love.

"Seriously," he repeated, almost as though he needed to convince himself.

"The woman you work with?" you asked, even though you already knew the answer.

Your voice sounded far calmer than you actually felt.

You had seen her countless times.

Not with Clark.

At the Planet.

She was everyone's favorite. The one who always received praise. The one everyone admired.

You thought it would pass.

That it wouldn't change anything.

That everything would stay the same.

But then you saw them.

Normally, you worked alongside Cat as both a photographer and a reporter, which kept you away from the office most of the time. That day, however, you came back early.

The moment you stepped into the building, you saw them.

Clark was holding two cups of coffee.

With a smile that shattered your heart, he offered one to Lois Lane.

They stood there together, close enough that the rest of the world seemed to disappear around them.

You froze.

Watching them from a distance.

Feeling something inside you splinter apart.

"They look good together, don't they?" Jimmy teased as he appeared beside you without you even noticing.

You forced one of those smiles.

The kind you wore whenever you wanted to hide what you truly felt.

"I already told Clark he should ask her out," Jimmy added enthusiastically, as though he were doing the greatest favor imaginable.

"I hope it's soon," you replied.

Your voice sounded so natural that it almost surprised even you.

Jimmy nodded before heading back to work, leaving you alone with your thoughts.

The smile vanished from your face the moment he walked away.

You looked at Clark.

You could hear his heartbeat perfectly.

Fast.

Excited.

A rhythm you knew better than anyone.

Then you left.

Because they did look perfect together.

Like two puzzle pieces that had spent their entire lives searching for one another.

Like two magnets already pulled together, with only time separating them from becoming completely inseparable.

There was no place for you in that story.

And no matter how much it hurt...

You knew it.

But the real reason you now found yourself sitting silently on your couch with swollen eyes and smeared makeup was what had happened during that night out with your coworkers.

Everyone knew one another.

Including Lois.

Clark had already told her about you.

So she knew you as "Clark's friend."

The girl who was always by his side.

The one who shared his secrets.

The one who seemed to understand him without either of you needing to say a word.

You should have expected it.

You should have prepared yourself.

But when the music thundered through the room, when everyone else danced while you remained leaning against the bar, you saw Clark kiss Lois.

Your vision blurred instantly, as though someone had placed a sheet of fogged glass in front of your eyes.

Your hair fell loosely around your shoulders, the same hair you'd spent so much time carefully straightening, hoping he'd notice it and give you a compliment.

It became nothing more than another hairstyle.

He didn't notice.

He didn't notice that you were wearing the blouse he'd once told you looked beautiful on you, the one you'd carefully saved for a special occasion.

He noticed nothing.

Every bit of effort.

Every ounce of hope that maybe, just maybe, he would finally look at you differently...

Disappeared in a single second.

Your heart pounded so hard that you were certain everyone around you could hear it. But what shattered you the most wasn't the smile they shared after the kiss, or the blush spreading across Lois's cheeks, or even their fingers intertwined as though they were two perfect pieces of the same puzzle.

What truly broke you was when they walked over to you as though nothing had happened, as though you hadn't just watched your entire world collapse.

Then they laughed, and Lois said something while you picked up the glass of orange juice you'd ordered simply so you wouldn't have to drink alcohol.

"God, it must be awful not being able to get drunk. I guess alcohol tastes different for you," Lois said with an easy smile, as casually as if she were commenting on the weather.

You looked at her, confused at first. It took your mind a few seconds to process what she'd just said.

"What are you talking about?" you asked, your voice tighter than you intended.

"Oh, don't worry. His secret is perfectly safe with me. Besides, it's amazing knowing a woman can be just as strong as a man," Lois replied with a kind smile that somehow made you feel even worse. "But I won't pressure you to talk. Clark said it's only a matter of time before your warm personality comes out."

She let out a light laugh, as though it were some inside joke.

"I'll go get another drink," she said before walking away with the same confidence she'd arrived with.

You stood there frozen.

You looked at Clark, and he was watching Lois as though she were his entire world, as though the whole universe had narrowed down to her alone.

You pressed your lips together and swallowed the knot forming in your throat.

To anyone else, her comment had been harmless.

But to you, it carried years of ridiculous remarks, lingering stares, and whispered conversations that had filled you with insecurities.

Years of hearing you were too strong.

Too strange.

Too different.

Did Clark see you that way too?

Did he think that because you were so strong, you couldn't be fragile inside?

Did he really believe that just because you could lift a car with one hand, your heart couldn't break into a thousand pieces?

"Did you tell her your secret?" you asked quietly, your voice barely above a whisper, nearly swallowed by the music.

He looked at you, and for a brief moment you caught something that resembled guilt in his eyes.

"Yeah... she figured it out. And I wanted her to trust me, so I told her who I really am," Clark said, as though it were the most natural thing in the world.

"And while you were at it, you decided to tell your beloved my secret too?" you asked, unable to hide the sharp edge in your voice.

Clark looked at you again.

This time, he noticed you were angry.

"Lois is trustworthy," Clark said with the certainty he always seemed to have. "She won't tell anyone."

"It was my secret, Clark. I don't care if she found out about you. I..."

You stopped yourself.

The music kept pounding through the room, an irritating buzz echoing in your ears.

You stared at him, feeling anger and heartbreak twist together inside your chest.

"You've told her so much about me, haven't you? That's why she seems to know me almost as well as you do," you said, your voice trembling by the end.

He shook his head, though not with the confidence of someone who truly believed what he was saying.

"No, it's just..." Clark stopped, searching for the right words. "You're my best friend, and I thought... Lois likes me—I mean, I like Lois. I wanted to be honest with her."

Your eyes drifted toward Lois, who was already walking back with another drink in her hand.

Without thinking, you grabbed your purse.

You needed to leave.

You needed to breathe air that wasn't poisoned by the sight in front of you.

You hurried away, hearing your name being called behind you.

Clark tried to stop you, but you were already heading for the exit.

With your super hearing, you caught Lois saying something about "the noise must have overwhelmed her," followed by the sound of Clark's footsteps chasing after you.

Outside, the night air was freezing, slamming into your face with force.

You didn't care.

You didn't shiver like a human.

You couldn't feel the cold settling into your bones.

It did nothing to you.

The only thing you felt was anger.

Hot.

Bitter.

Rising through your throat like vomit you couldn't force out.

Knowing Clark had told Lois everything about you.

That everything the two of you had shared...

She now knew.

Your secrets were no longer yours and Clark's.

They belonged to Clark and Lois now.

There was nothing left that belonged only to the two of you.

You finally stopped when he continued following you.

The streets were empty, illuminated only by streetlights flickering as though they, too, were exhausted.

"I know... I was wrong," Clark said, using that gentle voice he always used whenever he wanted to fix things. "But you're important to me, and Lois deserved to know our story."

"Everyone has their own story," you said, your eyes burning as you looked at him. "Did you tell her where I came from? Did you tell her what happened to me on the other planet I lived on before I came here? Did you tell her all of that, Clark?"

Your voice broke on his name.

He looked at you with shame.

With that expression that confirmed everything you already knew.

"You stole my story!" you shouted, tears threatening to spill over. "You revealed things I only shared with you because you're so blinded by your love for her!"

"It wasn't like that... I just..." he tried to explain before stopping himself.

Maybe he had finally realized what he'd done.

Maybe, for just a second, he understood.

You didn't wait to find out.

You shot into the sky without caring who saw you.

You flew through the clouds, passing your apartment building with your purse still hanging from your shoulder.

Clark didn't follow you.

Because you knew he'd rather go back to Lois.

Because he wanted to protect her.

Because you were strong...

...and she wasn't.

Because you could send people flying with a single punch.

Because you could eliminate threats with the heat vision blazing from your eyes.

Lois Lane couldn't.

Lois was fragile.

Human.

She needed protection.

You didn't.

Tears filled your eyes as you flew, the icy wind crashing against your face but doing nothing to soothe the burning ache inside your chest.

You climbed higher and higher until you were above the city, watching its lights flicker below like tiny stars scattered across the earth.

Then you went home.

That was how you ended up curled up on your couch, your knees pulled tightly against your chest, your hair now a tangled mess after all the effort you'd put into straightening it earlier.

You slipped off your ankle boots with trembling hands, realizing that everything you'd done to look pretty had been for nothing.

Maybe that was the moment you finally understood.

Clark wasn't looking at you that way.

And he never would.

To him, you were the strong friend, the one who could always take care of herself. You had always been that way, even before arriving on Earth. And once you got here, nothing changed. You fought back against the people who tried to hurt you, against those who mocked you. You were strong by nature, by genetics. Hurting you was nearly impossible. With only the smallest fraction of your strength, you could knock down any man foolish enough to stand in your way.

"God, no one will ever want you. You're the man in the relationship," they used to tease before you even started middle school. The girls would laugh behind your back, whispering that you were too rough, too aggressive, that no boy would ever want someone who could break his bones with a hug.

"Don't wear skirts. You act more like a man," others would say, simply because you refused to let people walk all over you. Because whenever someone tried to hurt you, you fought back. Because you refused to stay quiet. Because you never lowered your head.

And so they called you manly, tomboy, freak.

Words that lodged themselves beneath your skin like tiny needles, one after another, until you taught yourself not to hear them anymore. Until you learned to smile and pretend none of it mattered.

You looked down at your hands.

The same hands that could crush steel as though it were nothing more than paper.

Kara loved her powers just as much as Clark loved his. She was proud of who she was, proud of everything she could do.

You weren't.

You wanted to be normal.

You wanted to blend into Earth.

To go unnoticed.

To avoid drawing attention to yourself.

That was why you didn't have a suit like theirs.

No cape.

No symbol across your chest.

You didn't fly around saving people like Clark or Kara did, unless someone happened to be within your reach.

You didn't use your powers.

You never used your strength.

At least not intentionally.

Sometimes, though, when Jimmy looked like he was about to throw his back out carrying heavy boxes, you'd pretend to be struggling even more than he was. Then, the moment he turned around, you'd lift every box effortlessly and stack them where they belonged.

Always carefully.

Always afraid someone might notice what you were capable of.

"Clark helped me."

That was always your answer.

A lie you repeated so often you had almost started believing it yourself.

But even then...

You had been exposed.

Lois knew.

And who knew how many other people did too?

Your feelings had to stay buried.

Your secrets weren't yours anymore.

Your identity had been revealed without your permission.

You wiped away your tears with the back of your hand, but they kept coming, as though someone had left a faucet running somewhere deep inside you.

"You're so strong. You don't need anyone."

"You can handle everything on your own. You always can."

But none of it was true.

You wanted someone to hold you too.

You wanted someone to tell you everything was going to be okay.

You wanted someone to see beyond your strength.

Beyond your powers.

You wanted Clark to see you as a woman.

Not as his strong friend.

Not as the girl who could handle everything on her own.

But maybe the world would never accept people like you.

Maybe Clark would never truly see you, because for him there was only Lois.

And nothing else.

You were merely another presence in his life.

A blurry memory he turned to whenever he needed something.

You remembered every single time you had held yourself together.

Every time you wanted to cry but couldn't because the strong one doesn't cry.

Every time you wanted to ask for help but stayed silent because you can do it on your own.

You had built yourself an armor made of strength.

But beneath it...

There was only a little girl who wanted to be loved.

And now, sitting on that couch with your makeup smeared and your heart shattered into pieces, you finally realized that armor had never protected you from anything.

It had only made you heavier.

You remembered the day, back in school, when a boy shoved you against a row of lockers and called you a freak.

You had simply looked at him, knowing you could have lifted him with one finger and slammed him into the ceiling.

But you didn't.

You stayed perfectly still.

Biting your tongue.

Swallowing every urge to show him what you were truly capable of.

Because if you did...

You would only prove everything they already believed about you.

And being different was already hard enough.

The memory slowly faded away.

You stood up from the couch and walked toward the hallway mirror.

You looked at yourself.

Your hair was a mess.

Your eyes were red and swollen.

The blouse you'd spent so much time choosing was now hopelessly wrinkled.

You stared at your own reflection.

At the girl who had always wanted someone to truly see her.

And for the first time, you wondered whether it was worth continuing to wait for someone to do it.

As soon as the sunlight slipped through the curtains, you slowly opened your eyes. The energy flowing through your body, the warmth radiating from the sun, almost made it seem as though nothing had happened. It was as if your skin and every cell within you were renewing themselves, as though emotional pain could heal as easily as your physical wounds always did.

But it couldn't.

No matter how rested your body felt, no matter how much strength the sunlight gave you, the weight in your chest remained exactly where it had been, unmoving, like a stone that refused to be lifted.

You sighed as you shifted beneath the covers.

It was Monday afternoon.

You hadn't stepped outside your apartment all weekend.

The blinds were still closed, silence filled every corner of the room, and you had done nothing but exist between your bedsheets and your thoughts.

You knew Clark was waiting for you to come out so he could talk to you.

You had heard him.

Of course you had.

Even when you didn't want to.

Your hearing always picked him up without your permission.

It was as though your body had been programmed to look for him, to find him, to know exactly where he was at every moment.

You had memorized the sound of his heartbeat.

Those slow, steady beats that had always filled you with peace whenever you listened to them.

Just as he had memorized Lois's heartbeat, you had memorized his.

It wasn't something you could control.

It was as natural as breathing.

As instinctive as blinking.

He was on the other side of the wall, inside his apartment, and you could feel him there.

His presence pulled at you like a magnet.

Now, more than ever, you wished it didn't.

"I know you can hear me," he had said on Saturday morning.

You heard his voice clearly, as though he were standing right beside you.

Your hearing always searched for him, like a storm searching for calm.

His voice was so gentle, so full of emotion, that it made you feel things you didn't want to feel.

Even his laugh, a sound that had once felt like music to you, had become nothing more than a reminder of everything you could never have.

Without meaning to, your hearing always tuned itself to the sound of his voice.

Now you wished it wouldn't.

You wished you could switch off that connection between the two of you, as though it were nothing more than a light you could turn off and forget.

"I'm sorry. I truly am."

Clark didn't have to raise his voice.

He knew that.

He could have looked through your walls with his X-ray vision if he'd wanted to.

But he never did.

It was one of those boundaries neither of you ever crossed, one you both respected because privacy mattered.

That morning, while he spoke from the other side of the wall, you remained silent, staring at the ceiling as tears once again slipped down your cheeks.

"I should've thought about it. I was only thinking about myself. You know how important you are to me. Please... just talk to me."

Then he waited.

But no answer ever came.

You couldn't speak.

You couldn't even move.

The words remained lodged in your throat like thorns that refused to come out.

So you stayed there, staring at the ceiling while tears silently rolled down your face.

You thought about every time you'd imagined a future with him.

Every morning you'd woken up hoping that day would finally be different.

You thought about all the ways you believed the two of you might someday become something more.

That Clark would look into your eyes and finally notice the way they always lit up whenever you looked at him.

That he'd notice how you searched the skies every time there was a battle, even though you hated using your powers.

But if he needed you...

You would have used them for him without hesitation.

That your smile always grew wider whenever he laughed, whenever those dimples appeared on his face.

That your heartbeat changed whenever he was close.

It sped up.

It raced.

It completely lost its rhythm.

If he had noticed...

If he'd only paid attention...

Maybe everything would have been different.

Sunday passed slowly, stretching endlessly like an hour that refused to end.

You knew eating wasn't necessary.

Your Kryptonian body didn't need food the way humans did to survive.

You enjoyed eating.

You simply didn't need it.

Back in college, you used to skip meals to save money.

It wasn't because you didn't have any.

You just didn't want to spend it on something you didn't actually need.

Until Clark said something to you one afternoon while the two of you were sharing a park bench.

"If you don't eat, then what's the point of living?" he had said that day, breaking his sandwich in half with his large hands.

His eyes looked so blue beneath the sunlight that you found yourself staring at them for a second longer than you should have.

You smiled.

You accepted the half he offered you.

For a moment, everything felt perfect.

He had managed to make something as simple as eating feel important.

Now that memory hurt far more than it should have.

Your thoughts were interrupted by your phone.

It wasn't ringing.

It wasn't vibrating.

But the screen lit up with Cat's name.

You hesitated for a moment, staring at it, feeling like you didn't have the strength to talk to anyone.

In the end, you picked it up and answered, clearing your throat so your voice would sound as normal as possible.

"Finally, you answered! Where are you? Do you have any idea how worried I've been? Are you okay?" Cat asked so quickly you could barely keep up.

"Yeah," you replied, your voice sounding far more fragile than you wanted it to. "I got sick, but everything for the article we worked on is already scheduled."

You wanted to change the subject.

You wanted her to know that, despite everything, you'd still done your job.

"Hey, that doesn't matter," Cat said, her voice softening. "I thought something had happened to you, especially after I saw Clark's little shadow asking whether it was true that you hadn't come in. And him asking is weird because out of everyone here, he's the only one who should know where you are."

Cat paused, as though waiting for you to say something.

You stayed silent.

"I'm home, Cat. Don't worry. I'll be back tomorrow," you said, your voice sounding steadier even though you still felt completely broken inside.

"You left the party early too, sweetheart. You might be able to fool everyone, even Kent, but we both know what you saw."

This time, Cat sounded more serious.

More understanding.

You couldn't answer.

There weren't any words capable of describing what you felt.

"It's okay. Get some rest. Just... remember how beautiful you are. He isn't the only man in the world. Someone will come along who truly sees you."

Her words lingered in the air after she said them.

A comfort that somehow never quite reached you.

"See you tomorrow," you said before ending the call.

You turned your phone off without reading the messages Cat, Jimmy, and Clark had already sent you.

You didn't want to see them.

You didn't want to read the apologies.

You didn't want to face the reality that everything had changed.

You simply sat there, your phone still in your hand, feeling as though the world kept moving forward while you had been left behind.

Tuesday arrived, and it was as though you had decided to erase everything that had happened.

You were the first to fly toward the sun, letting its rays wrap around you and replenish your body as you floated weightlessly through space, doing nothing except absorbing the energy you'd drained over the weekend.

It had become a ritual.

A moment that belonged only to you.

A chance to feel whole again without thinking about anything else.

But that morning, even the sun felt different.

Its warmth couldn't quite reach the hollow that had formed inside your chest.

The moment you returned to your apartment, you hurried to get dressed.

Nothing had changed.

Nothing made you feel any different.

You arrived at the Daily Planet and followed your usual routine, but something inside you had hardened.

You ignored Clark all day.

Whenever he walked toward your desk, you found an excuse to leave, pretending you needed to print something.

Whenever he tried to talk to you, you quietly changed directions, as though the two of you had become magnets that now pushed each other away.

Even when you had coffee with Jimmy, you always made sure more people joined you so you wouldn't have to be alone with Clark.

You smiled.

You pretended everything was fine.

Inside, though, every smile cost you a little more energy than the last.

When work was over, you would barely make it to the restroom before waiting a few minutes and using your super speed to race home in the blink of an eye, locking yourself inside your apartment.

That became your routine for weeks.

A routine built on avoidance.

On eyes that never met.

On conversations that never happened.

Clark kept trying to get close to you.

You had already built a wall between the two of you.

One that seemed impossible to tear down.

Then Perry called for you.

"My office," he said, pointing at you with his index finger.

You walked over slowly, already convinced something bad was about to happen.

The moment you stepped inside, you saw him.

Clark was already there, sitting in one of the chairs with the same expression he always wore whenever he wanted to fix something.

Apparently, not even superpowers could help you escape your boss's orders.

You sat in the chair farthest from him.

Clark looked at you and offered a small smile.

You never saw it.

You were too busy staring down at your fingernails as though they were the most fascinating thing in the world.

"Finally, everyone's here," Perry said.

You looked up just as Lois, Cat, and Jimmy walked in, greeting everyone with cheerful smiles.

You looked back at Perry, waiting for him to explain why he'd called all of you in.

"The annual Journalists and Photographers Convention is here again," he announced. "I want all of you there. It'll be held near the Metropolis History Museum. They gave us six passes, and I thought the six of you should represent the Planet."

You couldn't refuse.

You had already missed a day of work.

Even though you wanted to decline, you knew accepting was the least you could do for Perry.

So you nodded, gathered your things, and left the office first, hoping Clark wouldn't follow you.

He did.

"Can we talk?" he asked as he walked beside you with that steady confidence he always carried.

"No," you answered without looking at him.

He gently caught your arm, forcing you to stop.

You looked at him.

His blue eyes searched yours, and for just a moment you felt your resolve begin to waver.

"I'm sorry," Clark said, his voice softer than you'd expected. "You're the only person who understands what it's like to be born the way we were. I don't want to lose you."

You remained silent, feeling his words trying to force their way back into your heart.

"I was wrong. I said too much, and... I didn't realize how terrible of a friend I was being. I really... you have no idea how much I miss you."

For a split second...

You almost believed him.

Instead, you pulled your arm free, brushing his hand away with more force than you'd intended.

"My secrets are now shared with someone who isn't even my friend," you said, your voice colder than you meant it to be.

You glanced toward Lois, who was laughing with Cat as though nothing had happened.

"How am I supposed to trust you again when I know you'll tell her everything?" you asked.

Without waiting for an answer, you walked away.

"Want to grab lunch?" Cat called after you.

You turned and found her smiling at you with that warm smile that always managed to make you feel a little better.

"Sure," you replied.

This time, your smile was genuine.

Cat looped her arm through yours, and the two of you walked toward the exit together, leaving Clark behind.

The day of the convention arrived sooner than you'd expected.

Everyone traveled together in a company van.

You sat in the front passenger seat beside Jimmy.

As the van drove through the streets of Metropolis, you found yourself laughing at one of Jimmy's stories.

For a moment...

You almost forgot everything.

"It's not funny. I mean... how did I forget?" Jimmy said, shaking his head without taking his eyes off the road. "I planned two dates at the same restaurant. I felt like such a jerk, but I honestly don't remember agreeing to go out with the other girl."

The embarrassment in his voice only made you laugh harder.

"Well, Jimmy, that red mark on your cheek speaks for itself," you teased, laughing again as the lightness of the moment settled around you.

"You'll learn eventually, Jimmy," Cat said from the back.

"You will. And if you don't, start protecting your cheeks," Lois added.

Everyone laughed.

You smiled as you looked out the windshield.

For just a moment...

Everything felt like it used to.

When they arrived, you grabbed your purse and closed the van door behind you.

You could feel Clark's eyes on you.

Heavy.

Persistent.

You looked at him for only a second.

He tried to smile.

You immediately looked away, as though meeting his eyes would burn you.

"Come on, Jimmy," you called as you walked over to Cat.

Together, everyone made their way toward the auditorium, admiring the banners and digital displays announcing the convention.

You occasionally scribbled notes into your notebook, trying to keep your attention focused on work.

Everyone settled into their seats in silence, waiting for the presentation to begin.

When you looked up, you noticed that several university students had also been invited, most likely the winners of the annual journalism competition.

Your attention drifted toward two students sitting a few rows ahead.

A red-haired girl.

A blond boy wearing glasses.

They were speaking quietly, but every word reached your ears with perfect clarity.

"See? This is our world," the boy said.

A small, bittersweet smile appeared on your face before you even realized it.

"I know, Jack, but this world feels way too big for me," the girl admitted.

The insecurity in her voice felt painfully familiar.

"As long as it's the two of us, it'll feel small enough. We'll figure it out together," the boy replied as he adjusted his glasses with a gesture that somehow reminded you of Clark.

You lowered your gaze.

His words echoed inside you long after he'd finished speaking.

Then your phone vibrated.

Your chest tightened before you could stop it.

"Last time we came here as college students, and now we're journalists :)"

It was a text from Clark.

You locked the screen without replying and slipped your phone back into your purse.

Then you looked toward the stage again, your expression unreadable as you listened to the presentation and continued taking notes.

You weren't angry because he'd fallen in love with someone else.

As much as it hurt, you could understand that.

No one chooses who they fall in love with.

If Clark had found Lois, you were willing to accept it.

What you couldn't forgive was the betrayal.

The way he'd shattered your trust by revealing your secrets.

Those secrets had been your safe place.

The parts of yourself you'd shared only with him.

Now they belonged to someone else.

More than anything else, that was what broke you.

It wasn't unrequited love.

It was knowing he'd told someone else everything you were without ever asking for your permission.

You felt something before it happened.

It was like an electric current racing down your spine, a chill that had nothing to do with the cold and everything to do with imminent danger. You lifted your gaze, searching through the crowd, trying to identify the source of that feeling. But everything seemed normal. People were listening attentively to the talk, students were taking notes, and camera flashes lit up the stage every now and then. You sighed, thinking maybe it was just your imagination, and turned your attention back to what the speaker was saying.

Then you felt it.

A vibration, deep and powerful, shook the ground beneath your feet. A massive explosion rocked the entire place, making the walls tremble and people scream as they grabbed onto whatever they could. The lights flickered, and for one second, everything became chaos. The main door burst open, and a man ran in, his face twisted with panic.

"They're attacking the place!" he shouted, his voice swallowed by the screams of the crowd.

You looked around, assessing the situation with the speed your years of training had given you. You spotted the emergency exit at the lower level, and you knew it was the only safe way out.

"Move!" you shouted, helping people to their feet and gently pushing them toward the exit.

Then you saw the two students in front of you, the blond boy and his red-haired friend. He was holding her by the arm, shielding her with his body while she trembled with fear.

"They're going to attack the emergency exits," you said, your voice sounding steadier than you expected.

Without thinking, you ran, leaping between the seats and moving with an agility you couldn't explain. You arrived just in time to stop them from opening the door. One second was enough for you to throw yourself over them, covering them with your body as the emergency door exploded in a rain of fragments. The students stared at you with wide, terrified eyes, unable to understand how you had gotten there so quickly.

"There," you whispered, pointing to the side as you stood up.

A sharp pain shot through your leg, and you looked down to see a shard of glass from a table embedded in your calf. Without hesitation, you pulled it out in one swift motion, and the wound began closing almost immediately. No one was looking at you. Everyone was too busy running.

Clark looked at you from across the room, and in his eyes, you saw a mixture of worry and gratitude. He used the explosion of one of the walls to slip away, and within seconds, he was dressed as Superman, ready to act. He got Cat and the others out, including Lois, then returned to face the attackers.

Meanwhile, you protected the two college students, guiding them toward the stairs.

"This way," you said, running toward the main exit.

When you reached the outside, the cold evening air struck your face, and you saw Clark fighting two strange figures. One of them was a woman whose body seemed to be made of silver nanobots, shifting and glowing like a swarm of fireflies. The other was a man completely covered in black, even his face, with strength that matched Superman's. You turned your head and saw strange soldiers aiming unfamiliar weapons at civilians. You knew they needed Superman. He was the only one who could stop them.

Taking advantage of the soldiers rushing toward the building, you aimed your heat vision at the roof. The beam of energy struck the structure, and the ceiling began collapsing in pieces, creating a curtain of smoke and debris. Superman flew out immediately, and his eyes met yours.

It lasted only an instant, barely a second, but something passed between you.

As though the broken trust still hung by a thread.

As though that wordless communication you had always shared still existed.

He understood.

You had used your powers so he could save the people.

But then the man in black lunged at you. His arms closed around your body with brutal strength, and before you could react, he was already dragging you backward, pulling you away from where you stood. The screams of the crowd multiplied, and you heard Cat shouting your name in desperation.

Clark tried to throw himself toward you, but the woman made of nanobots stepped into his path, striking him with enough force to send him flying several meters back.

"No!" you heard Clark shout, but his voice began fading as the man in black carried you farther and farther away, bursting through the roof of the building and out into the open air.

Everyone left below thought a human had been taken, an ordinary journalist.

They didn't know you weren't like them.

And maybe it was better that way.

The wind struck your face as you flew in your captor's arms. You clenched your fists, feeling rage gather in your chest. You weren't going to stay still. You weren't going to let him take you without a fight. Once you were far enough from the building, once you knew no one could see you anymore, you acted.

You broke free from his grip with a violent movement, using your strength to push yourself away from him. The man in black flew back several meters, surprised, and in that brief hesitation, you took your chance to hit him. Your fist slammed into his chest, and you felt the force of the impact travel up your arm.

But he didn't fall.

He stumbled, yes, but he recovered quickly.

He launched himself at you again, and you moved with agility, dodging his outstretched hands as he tried to grab you. An aerial dance began, with you retreating and him chasing you, both of you moving through the clouds as though the sky itself had become your battlefield. You found one moment of advantage, a single second where he lost his balance, and you struck him hard, feeling his body shift from the impact.

But he was fast.

Faster than you expected.

He recovered almost immediately and, instead of attacking you, changed his strategy. Instead of striking you, he grabbed you as though he wanted to shove you toward something.

Then both of you began to fall.

The wind whistled in your ears as you plummeted. The ground rushed closer and closer, and you couldn't stop the force he was using against you. Within seconds, the sky became a green blanket of trees, and the impact with the ground was brutal.

You landed in a forest, the crack of branches and dry leaves accompanying the heavy thud of your fall. You rolled several meters, feeling dirt cling to your clothes and hair. You lifted your head quickly, searching for your attacker among the undergrowth.

The man in black rose slowly.

So did you.

The two of you stood there, facing each other in the middle of the forest, surrounded by silence and the breeze moving through the treetops. There was no more movement, only your uneven breathing and the sound of leaves crunching beneath your feet.

You shifted into a defensive stance, ready for whatever came next.

You were no longer in the city.

You no longer had to hide who you were.

Here, in the middle of nature, you could use all your strength, all your powers.

You were breathless, your body still tense and your fists clenched, ready to charge at him again.

But the man in black didn't move.

He only stood there in the middle of the forest, his mask covering his face and his hands falling to his sides. The crunch of leaves beneath his feet was the only sound that broke the silence.

Then something small fell from his chest.

A metallic device that clinked when it hit the ground and rolled a few centimeters.

And from it, a voice came through. Human. Of course it was human, as though the device connected him to another place.

"There are malfunctions. He's... losing it."

Then, with one hand, he crushed it and looked at you.

Even though you couldn't see his face beneath the mask, you knew he was looking at you.

You blinked several times, confused, and he, the man in black, tilted his head like a curious animal watching you from a distance, analyzing you.

Then he spoke.

His voice was strange, broken, as though he wasn't used to using it. Every word seemed to cost him an immense effort, as though he had to remember how sounds were formed.

"You... here... better," he said.

What kind of joke was this?

This man had kidnapped you, dragged you through the sky, and slammed you into the middle of a forest, and now he was telling you that you would be better here. You let out a bitter laugh, one made more of disbelief than amusement.

"I don't have time for games," you said.

With one powerful impulse, you tried to fly.

But he was faster.

He grabbed your arm with a strength that startled you, and both of you crashed to the ground among branches and dirt. You rolled several meters before standing up, furious, feeling earth cling to your clothes while anger burned in your chest like a flame you couldn't put out.

"Who are you?" you shouted, your voice echoing through the trees, bouncing off the trunks like a sound that refused to disappear. "Tell me who you are and what you want from me!"

He stood slowly, in no hurry, as if he had all the time in the world. He said nothing. He only shook his head when you tried to move away again.

"You... not go," he said.

His voice sounded firmer this time, though it still carried that broken quality, like someone who hadn't spoken in a very long time, as though the words got stuck in his throat before they could come out.

"Why not?" you asked, your heart beating fast, so fast it felt like it might tear out of your chest. "What do you want? Why did you bring me here?"

He didn't answer right away.

Instead, he slowly lifted his hands and touched the edge of his mask. Without rushing, with movements that seemed calculated, as though every gesture had a purpose, he removed it completely.

And then you saw him.

Your breath caught in your throat.

It was Clark.

No.

It wasn't Clark.

He was identical to him, but different.

He was an imposing, rough, imperfect version of Superman, with rigid muscles that seemed carved out of stone instead of flesh. The difference was minimal, but it was enough for you to know it wasn't him. His features were slightly misaligned, as though someone had tried to copy a perfect face but failed to finish the final details. Unlike Clark's impeccable hairstyle, his dark hair was noticeably longer and unkempt, lacking the careful order Clark always maintained. His face was the same, but there was a hardness in his expression that Clark had never had, a cold and empty look that sent a chill down your spine.

"Ultraman," he said, pointing at himself with his thumb before gesturing to the U on his suit.

His voice was still broken, but now it carried a weight you hadn't noticed before.

"Kill... Superman."

You blinked, trying to process what you had just heard.

Ultraman.

The name was unfamiliar, but the intention behind it was clear.

This man, this twisted version of Clark, had come to kill Superman.

To kill Clark.

The same Clark who had broken your heart, yet you still couldn't fully hate. Despite everything, despite the lies and the secrets, he was still important to you.

You stood there in silence for a moment.

Then, without thinking, you moved closer to him.

His eyes followed you with that empty stare, without expression, without emotion, as if he were looking through you instead of at you.

You stopped a few steps away from him, your chest tight and your head full of questions you didn't know how to ask.

"Are you going to kill me too?" you asked, your voice softer than you intended, almost a whisper lost among the leaves.

He shook his head, and his fingers pointed toward the broken device on the ground.

"People... from here," he said, clumsily touching his chest where the device had been removed, the one that had seemed to give him orders. "Not know... about you."

He repeated the words as though he wanted to make sure you understood, as if every syllable were a brick building an explanation that could barely stand.

"Why did you bring me here? I'm Superman's friend, the man you're planning to kill," you said, still unable to believe what your eyes were seeing. "I don't understand."

He tilted his head like a dog hearing a new sound, and his forehead furrowed slightly, as though he were trying to process your words.

You assumed he didn't understand, because he seemed to want to speak but kept stopping, as if the words slipped away from him just as he was about to say them.

Then he sighed.

A deep sound that seemed to come from somewhere far inside him.

"Energy... yours... draw me... protect you," he said, each word sounding like an effort, as though he were pulling strength from some dark place within himself.

Then he flew away with force, moving so fast you could barely see him.

You rose into the air with super speed and, using your vision, realized he had left with the other soldiers and the woman who had attacked.

But you didn't know who they were.

You didn't know where they came from or what they truly wanted.

You descended carefully, touching the ground as your legs trembled slightly, and sighed, releasing all the air you had been holding.

You took out your phone.

Clark was calling.

You answered.

"Where are you? I'm still in the suit. I can attack him and..." Clark said, his voice worried and rushed, as though he were about to fly straight to you.

"I'm fine. I'll fly back to the apartment. Just act like Superman rescued me," you said sharply, feeling the words leave your mouth with an edge you couldn't soften.

Before hanging up, you added, "Clark, do you have any idea who they were?"

You swallowed, feeling the knot in your throat.

"I have no idea," he admitted, then sighed, the sound heavy with exhaustion. "But I feel like Luthor is involved."

You nodded, even though he couldn't see you, feeling the name resonate inside you like the toll of a bell.

"Fine," you said, and hung up without another word.

You stayed there in the middle of the forest, phone in hand and your head full of questions with no answers.

Ultraman.

Luthor.

The broken device.

The energy that had drawn him to you.

None of it made sense.

You flew back, feeling the cold night air cling to your skin as you approached your apartment.

When you arrived, you called back everyone who had been trying to reach you, making sure they knew Superman had saved you and brought you home, that you were fine and only wanted to rest.

But the truth was, you couldn't rest.

You paced back and forth across the living room, arms crossed, your mind spinning like a carousel that refused to stop.

The face of that man, that Ultraman, made you go pale every time you remembered it.

He was identical to Clark, and yet so different at the same time.

Had they made a clone of Clark?

Or was it something else?

Questions piled up in your head like a storm you couldn't calm.

And then another question arose.

Why was he interested in you?

What reason did he have to pull you away from the area he seemed to consider dangerous?

General tags: @hecticspice @garci7 @luftmenzch @rubixgsworld @sullyosully @purple-soldier @bulkanim @mangowhim @tvgirllover7 @jarnesbames108 @iangelofmusic @thychuvaluswife @justnori @aileen1237@sullyosully@3-smi @thebumbqueen @oceansstone @patroclusindeath @lockedlongings @wuluhwuhmaster @clarks-honey @mayflwrz@lunaryoongie@hikari-michiko @sunlightkent

[iamreadynoimnot]

[sweetjellytea]

all i need

benjamin poindexter x fem!reader

synopsis you're too tired to cook and sick of ordering out. dex has a solution for both of those problems.

notes based on my hc that hes a good cook. i took many liberties here with the ddba timeline just go with it.

tags fluff, humor, stalkerish behavior again not to be taken too seriously, getting winedrunk, happens to the best of us, more music headcanons

wc 2.7k

series masterlist • previous part • next part

The week was going by torturously slow at work. You were going home every night only wanting to collapse in bed rather than worry about what to cook.

You saw the icon of your food delivery app more than your own face in the mirror by the time Friday came around.

“I’m actually starting to get sick of my favorite fast food place,” you complained, as if it was the worst possible reality for you to live in.

Dex sat across from you at the diner, drinking his coffee, listening to you rant before you’d be off for another mind-numbing day.

It had become routine for you both for the past month, starting one day and neither of you yet breaking the newfound tradition.

“I could cook for you,” he said. 

Of course, his invitation was accompanied by undertones you couldn’t see. He was more eager to have an excuse to see you in his space than he was to help you break your fast food habit you were concerned about.

But you agreed in an instant. You were dying to eat a home cooked meal that you didn’t have to make, and admittedly, you had been curious about how he lived. 

While he did tend to drop the occasional detail about himself in conversations, you had trouble prying much out of him with direct questions.

You sensed that being in public was what made him hesitant to share things, so an invitation to his apartment was an added bonus to the promised meal.

Maybe you were too trusting to agree to meet him behind closed doors when it felt like you still knew so little about him.

But it was a bit late for those thoughts now that you were literally in the stairwell of his apartment building with a tote of cheap wine. The scent of cigarettes, damp wood, and old hallway carpets invaded your senses as you climbed the steps.

It still smelled better than your building.

As you were walking down the hall towards his door, you were met with the sight of Dex already speaking with someone. He was standing in his doorway, trapped in a conversation with whom you assumed was a neighbor. 

She was speaking to him in a rather affectionate tone, holding a tray of saran-wrapped sweets.

You stood idly by, not wanting to disrupt their interaction just yet. It was kind of a relief to see he was at least friendly with his neighbors. 

Now you felt better about coming to the apartment of a man you barely saw outside of the diner. 

He thanked her, taking the tray from her hands and she patted his cheek with an almost maternal fondness. 

The woman was saying her goodbyes to him when she turned and spotted you in the hall. Her eyebrows raised and she looked between you and Dex almost knowingly. 

“Oh, you invited a girl over?” She asked him adoringly in her heavy slavic accent. “Why did you never bring her around before?” 

Your lips quirked in amusement. Nosy neighbor. 

“She’s a friend of mine, Ms. Smithers,” he explained to her with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

Ms. Smithers then walked up to you, speaking in a lower tone only you could hear. 

“You let me know if he gives you trouble,” she advised lightheartedly, “But my Tony is a nice boy.” 

Tony? Your eyebrows knit together for a moment as Ms. Smithers left back to her own apartment.

Before you could ask any questions about the strange name, though, you made eye contact with Dex. He opened the door wider, gently flicking his head to the side in a gesture silently asking you to come in. No—telling you.

You had no legitimate reason not to listen. It briefly occurred to you that you’d probably be easy to kidnap.

The inside of his apartment was, in one word: neat.

The soft, yellow tinted lighting emitting from the sconces on the wall gave his studio an air of comfort, safety. It drew you in closer as you removed the wine tote from your arms which he then took from you. 

You thanked him, hearing him carry the wine bottle and the tray from his neighbor into the kitchen behind you. You took the opportunity to continue shamelessly ogling his living space. 

In your brief survey of the apartment, you came to a conclusion you’d suspected since you first met him.

The rather eclectic style kitchen, the CRT television in the small living room that bled into his bedroom. The CD collection stacked beside a stereo. The headphones and MP3 player he used on the plane. How his music taste rarely seemed to breach the 2000s…

“You’re really into the vintage scene, aren’t you?” You turned to him. 

He tilted his head in a silent question.

You gestured vaguely to the television in the corner of the living room. 

“I guess I am,” he chuckled under his breath, like your observation caught him off guard. 

“Are you a collector, then?” 

“No, I just prefer it over the newer stuff. I use a cellphone for work, but the ‘vintage’ stuff is…” He trailed off. “I’m used to it.” 

In your brief time knowing him, you’d picked up that he was a bit different. Then again, you were too. 

You made a mental note of the quirk triumphantly. You wanted to keep pressing him for details.

But dinner had to be cooked by someone.

When you suggested helping him cook, you thought you were imagining the flicker of distress in his eyes. Now you knew it was definitely real.

He was a little bit of a control freak in the kitchen apparently, because he had you chopping vegetables you were pretty sure didn’t even go to the recipe he was making. 

You watched him expertly mincing herbs on a cutting board across from you on the other side of the counter, eyebrows knit together in concentration as he did. He was pretty handy with that knife of his. 

“So,” you started, and saw how his expression briefly relaxed to attention when he heard your voice. “Tony?”

His knife paused for a moment. You took mental note of that.

“Yeah, Mrs. Smithers misheard me and I never corrected her,” he explained, like what he said just made any sense at all. “Sweet old lady.”

“How the hell did she get Tony from Dex?” You laughed at the absurdity.

“She’s hard of hearing, I guess.” 

You accepted his answer, even if you didn’t think he was being completely honest. What reason would he have to lie to other people about his identity, anyway?

“What is it that you do, by the way?” Your gaze fell to how each vegetable in the bowl was cut at precisely the same length and width. “You’re not a cook, are you? ‘Cuz I would totally believe that.”

“No,” he turned towards the stove and you didn’t miss the slight smile on his lips. “Contract work mostly.”

“That’s pretty vague,” you pointed out, but your comment was soon drowned out by the sizzling of the pan on the stove.

Could have been intentional on his end. Or, could mean nothing.

So he was a mysterious guy–but lots of people are! You even considered yourself to be mysterious.

Even though you were the same person who shared photos of you and your friends on vacation to a man you met once. And then agreed to go to his apartment and let him cook for you. Found out he gave his neighbor a fake name, then showed off crazy knife tricks in front of your eyes…

All of the above could maybe raise an eyebrow, but it wasn’t enough for you to go take up Ms. Smithers on her earlier offer to rescue you or anything.

Dinner was also delicious enough for you to forget about all of that pretty quickly. He opened the wine you brought too, and once it was in your system you couldn’t care less about anything but how relaxed you were after such a terrible week.

And Dex had made that happen for you. He once again turned a distressing situation into a fond memory, and all of your doubts and questions from earlier melted into gratitude. 

“You are definitely a better cook than you gave yourself credit for,” you laughed, putting your glass back down on the table.

He gave you a nod of appreciation that only encouraged you to sing his praises. 

“Seriously, don’t be so modest, Dex.” 

The man was practically blushing, avoiding your gaze by staring at the crimson wine still pooled in your glass. It was endearing how easily some simple praise could penetrate the cooler exterior he seemed to maintain. 

You remembered the CD collection you spotted earlier and strode over to it, grabbing your wine glass with you on the way over. 

“What do you have here?”

As you flipped through each jewel case, you barely registered him in the corner of your vision, still at the table. He was watching you, having gone completely still.

“Let’s see…” You took another sip of your cheap wine. “How about this one?”

The album you held up was by Radiohead’s In Rainbows. It contained one of the songs you listened to together on the plane, and in your nearly winedrunk state you thought it would be cute to reminisce on that moment. 

But the second you showed it to him, he was shooting up from his chair. 

It almost startled you, and you turned to look at him with raised eyebrows.

His hand clasped around your wrist, the other taking the case from your hand. You gasped. Not out of fear, but confusion.

He was still holding your wrist, chest rising and falling in even breaths. You noticed how delicate his grip was compared to the urgent seizing of the item that was just in your hand.

You wondered if he could feel how warm your skin was becoming under his hand.

“Just–leave it. The disc’s already in the stereo.” He lowered his tone as he released you, and placed the jewel case back into the stack of CD’s. 

You laughed bashfully, not thinking anything of it. You were too focused on the contact you'd just had. “Oh, alright.”

With your finger pressing into the console’s buttons, you kept fast forwarding until it reached the track you had in mind.

It was sort of melancholy for the current atmosphere, but you hadn’t really recalled that fact until you heard the slow hum of the distorted bass fill the apartment.

He still seemed on edge as he remained standing beside you, and you felt a little bad for the slip-up. Maybe you shouldn’t have been touching things without permission.

“Sorry, I didn't mean to kill the mood.” You put your wine glass down on the coffee table. 

“Don’t apologize,” he muttered, looking at you again finally with his jaw barely clenched. 

You noticed how close he was standing at that moment. How little space was between your bodies.

Your pulse throbbed beneath your skin, your brain muddled from the wine. He was gazing down at you with something unreadable in his eyes.

Not affection. Not lust.

Your breath hitched.

The stark vibration of his phone on the kitchen table made you both draw back. 

Dex cursed under his breath as he went to retrieve his phone. “I have to take this.”

You watched as he put the device to his ear and stepped out the door into the hall, leaving you alone in his apartment.

The crescendoing of the piano flowing from the stereo broke you out of your daze, and you felt the sudden urge to change the CD. 

That song clearly hadn’t done the both of you any favors. 

Your hands fumbled for the jewel case, knocking a few from the stack in the process. You clicked it open and something slipped from the inside when you did. 

You thought it was the insert booklet at first. But when you looked at the ground you saw it was actually a smaller paper folded into a small square. 

As you knelt to pick it up, you felt a dull pang in your head from the alcohol. You stood back up, unfolding the square without thinking.

Your breath caught.

There you were, staring back at yourself with a gleeful smile. Completely unaware of what the present version of yourself had just discovered.

He had the missing photo this entire time. Judging by how strictly he insisted you didn’t touch this jewel case, he didn’t want you to know he had it, either. 

Why had he chosen this one to take home, you wondered, instead of the dozens of other ones on the table?

If you never noticed his hand reaching to swipe one of your photographs, then you knew he didn’t just grab the first one he saw. He could have picked any of them. Multiple, potentially.

Out of the other photos of you smiling, posing–or the one of you suggestively laid out on the beach–he deliberately chose the one of you in the aquarium. 

More importantly, why the hell did he take it in the first place?

You quickly stood up, looking around for the one thing that could get you out of this.

Out in the hallway, Dex was hanging up his phone with an exasperated sigh. They told him they wouldn’t need him tonight, but now he had to find a way to cut the night short.

Things were going a little differently than planned anyway. While you were impressed by his cooking and the unexpected praise was nice, you were behaving very unpredictably.

Asking him too many questions about his work, and his neighbor certainly didn’t help by showing up right when you arrived, revealing his false identity to you.

Then there was you snooping around and nearly finding the photograph he took from you. He knew he should have hidden it better but he thought plain sight would have worked well enough. Not well enough for you, apparently. 

That definitely didn't mean he wanted you to go, though.

When he returned to the apartment, he saw you sitting at the kitchen table again. The music was playing in a lower volume now, and he was relieved to hear you didn’t try to change the CD while he was gone. 

“I don’t want to end the night like this,” he began, which was the truth, “but something came up and I have to take care of it.”

Your lips stretched into an easy smile, “that’s alright. It’s getting late, anyway.”

To anyone else, your smile and words would have seemed natural. The typical response to what he led with.

But to Dex, who’d spent ample time memorizing every way your lips moved and learned your mannerisms down to the subtlest quirk of your eyebrows knew that something was off.

Your speech was practiced. Performed.

You had found it. That was the only explanation for your behavior shifting so suddenly after he left. 

“Let me drive you home.” He said, already reaching for his keys.

“No,  I’ll hail a cab,” you insisted, securing your tote over your shoulder as you walked to the door. “Thank you again for inviting me over.”

He could feel you slipping away like sand between his fingertips. For a moment, he wondered if he could blow off work and try again to convince you to stay. To not leave.

Don't leave me.

But you were out the door before he could act on it.

He went straight for the CD case. 

He popped it open and the photograph was still there, though, folded into a small square. 

Had you really not found it after all?

Dex plucked the folded photograph from the case and unraveled it. When he held it up, it looked the same as it always did when he admired it. 

But with the light from the living room beaming down on it he noticed markings shining through, like there was something on the back.

He flipped it over. Red ink.

'Not cool, Tony. 

Find a way to make it up to me.'

Your first initial was signed beside the message, just as he did the first time he left you a note.

Even in the midst of his crisis, you got a chuckle out of him. Okay, maybe you did find out. But you weren't freaked out by what he did, clearly.

If you took the time to write out a joke for him to find, maybe what he interpreted as fear was...smugness?

The thought amused him as he was slinging his holster around his hips. 

Oh yeah, he'd definitely make it up to you.

a/n and i pull from my hat...another misleading ending.

[iamreadynoimnot]

[sweetjellytea]

keep your picture on the wall

benjamin poindexter x reader

synopsis dex makes good on his word and finds you at the diner. and god, do you really want to stop hearing that song over and over.

notes a part two to this but can be read as standalone! i had a lot of fun writing this one.

tags fluff, humor, slight stalkerish/possessive behavior from dex but not too serious, mention of suggestive photos, brief description of hairstyle, dex works for mr. charles, count the number of times the word photo appears

wc 2.0k

series masterlist • previous part • next part

There were three things commonplace in your Saturday morning routine.

The earthy aroma of your foamy latte, the shuffling newspaper of the man in the booth behind you, and the fizzling melody emitting from the jukebox that was threatening to give out any moment in the corner of the diner. 

You were organizing printed out photographs taken during your recent trip. They were spread out on the table in front of you like cards on a casino table, your lips curved into a smile as you reminisced on each memory. 

Your best friend with her arm around you, the sun basking on your grinning faces. It was taken in the morning just as dawn was breaking on the beach. Another taken in the darkness at a foreign club, your skin illuminated by pink and red neon lights. You were so plastered that you pulled some of your friends onto the tiny karaoke stage for an impromptu concert. 

A small laugh shakes your shoulders. One that’s immediately interrupted when you hear the jukebox begin to stutter in the middle of its current song. 

Not again. You groan as the familiar guitar strums filter into the diner. The one that looped and looped and never stopped. Now you know it was futile to hope that it would have been fixed while you were away. 

“Maybe it’ll only play once this time.” Yeah right.

You rubbed your temples, at your wits end with this damn song.

Unbeknownst to you, a few tables down, someone had been observing your every move since you entered the diner. He had been seated at the counter, anticipating your arrival for your morning cup. 

Dex hadn’t even needed to turn around to know it was you walking through the door this morning. Just the hands of the clock on the walls pointing to the right numbers, recognizing the exact cadence of your favorite pair of shoes on the vinyl floors when the glass doors opened.

It had been about two weeks since he returned from handling some dirty work for Mr. Charles. Since touching back down in New York, he had swapped out his noon diner visits for morning ones, effectively syncing his routine with what you had mentioned yours to be on the plane. 

He still remembers the surprise in your eyes when he revealed you’d been in the same place everyday, only missing each other by a few hours apart. It was a coincidence, but certainly not an unwelcome one in his opinion. 

Your nervousness seemed to melt away the more you spoke to him and he was so used to the opposite reaction. Years of being in the military, then FBI, before ending up as Bullseye gave him that effect on people even when he tried to make them feel at ease with practiced speech and small talk.

You, on the other hand, didn’t seem to mind it much. 

It took you about one week after him to start coming back into the diner once you returned from your trip.

Dex didn’t want to show himself to you right away; he just wanted to see you as you were. Catalogue your coffee and complicated breakfast order to memory. Watch your reaction to the broken jukebox you ranted to him about. Try to understand how someone like you took comfort in him. 

He could still feel the weight of you on his shoulder. How your hair tickled his skin. The rhythm of your breathing as you slept, even over the sounds of his music and the plane’s engine.

Dex’s body tensed when he saw you stand from your table, the quarter he was shuffling in his hands pausing too.

You trudged to the corner of the diner to the jukebox, jamming a coin into the slot and pressing a combination of letters and numbers on the keypad.

Instead of the godforsaken song actually changing like you requested it to though, it looped. Again.

You gave the thing a light frustrated kick but straightened up when you saw the newspaper man lean over his booth and give you a judgmental stare.

Instead of letting you return to your booth defeated, though, Dex found himself standing from the counter seat and making his way over to you.

You hadn’t noticed him until he held the quarter in his hand out to you, and it glinted at you.

“Need another quarter?” He said it like he was coming to your rescue–which he was.

“Oh, it’s you–Dex, right?” Your expressive eyes lit up in surprise like he knew they would when you saw him again. Your gaze then fell to the quarter pinched between his fingers. “Uh, yeah, the machine ate mine.”

You moved to tuck your hair behind your ear before remembering you had tied it back this morning, and your hand fell to your side instead.

Oops.

You bit your lip trying to conceal a bashful smile. Maybe he didn't notice your nervousness.

Dex inserted the quarter to the machine and pressed the keypad again, the same combination he had seen you enter from afar. 

“Let’s see if it actually works this time.” He mirrored your smile. 

“I hope it does. I really don’t want to hear that song anymore.” You chuckled and pointed behind you towards your booth where you left your items unsupervised. “Did you want to join me?” 

He thought you’d never ask. He followed you back to your booth and slid in across from you. 

“Oh, sorry, I’ll gather these up.” You seemed flustered as your hands quickly swept up the prints, “I just got these printed and I was looking through them.”

Dex was a little surprised you just left them unattended. Anyone could have walked by and swiped one without you noticing.

“No, don’t worry about it. Are these from your trip?” He pointed to one that showcased you standing in front of a popular monument.

“Oh, yeah,” you laughed, looking down at the photo. “I was hungover in this one, actually.”

“I thought you said you weren’t going there to party,” he said with the ghost of a smile on his lips.

You hated that he seemed to remember your conversation on the plane better than you did. Then again, at least you were saving yourself the embarrassment of recalling what you said to him when you were nervous about the flight.

“I was trying to save face in front of a stranger. So what, everyone parties.” You held up the photo of you in the club with a smirk on your face. “It was a bachelorette trip, anyway. Or did you forget that detail conveniently?”

Of course he hadn’t forgotten. He remembered everything you said down to the tone of your voice when you said it. He was looking down at the rest of your photos, trying to memorize every single one of them that had you in it. 

You posing in a flower garden with a bouquet of daffodils in your hands. You in an aquarium holding a plush shark from the gift shop. You…scantily clad on the beach.

His blood ran hot under his skin.

Before he could get another look at that one, your hand had smacked down onto it, palm covering it. 

“Oh god, I forgot that one was here.” The words tumbled from your lips in a hurry, voice thin as you tucked it underneath another photo, hiding it from his view. 

Dex cleared his throat awkwardly, “right. Seems like you did a little bit of everything on your trip.”

You were still avoiding his eyes. The photo wasn’t just a regular bikini picture or something. You weren’t nude but it had definitely been taken for…artistic reasons. 

He instead focused on that aquarium photo again.

You were grinning wide in front of a giant fish tank, carrying the plush in your arms like it was a stray cat or something. He wondered if you put it in your bedroom when you returned from your trip.

Before either of you could break the stretch of silence, there was a sudden resounding quiet in the diner. No strumming of that same guitar you’ve heard for the past hour, no lyrics that were ingrained on the insides of your brains…

Just silence.

You both shared a confused glance, and then, the mesmerizing tune of synths instead flooded in through the speakers. It was the song you requested. Or at least, the one Dex requested after the poor excuse for a jukebox ate your quarter.

Your lips stretched into a grin. “Hear that?”

“I hear it.” Dex was just as amused as you were. Even he thought the jukebox was a lost cause.

When you began flipping through your photos again, he wondered how long he could keep you talking about your trip. Would he be able to stall you here the whole morning? Maybe stretch it out until lunch? 

But his plans were ruined once his phone vibrated in his pocket. It was ‘work’ which he couldn’t just ignore to his dismay. If they did send someone after him for bailing, he could easily deal with them but he didn’t want to risk the little structure he finally rekindled in his life.

Especially now that he had decided to add you into his routine.

“I have to get going,” he said with an air of reluctance as he stood from the booth. It’d have been easier to leave if you didn’t pull your lips into that adorable pout when he did.

“That’s a shame,” you sighed, slightly disappointed. “But I’ll see you around, right?”

His lips slanted into an easygoing smile. “You definitely will.”

When you returned to your apartment that night, you were on the phone with your best friend. You were discussing your trip together, a glass of wine in one hand and the collection of printed photos in the other. 

“Did you print out that one of us when we went to dinner altogether?” Your best friend's voice crinkled jubilantly on the other line.

“I printed all of them out. They had a deal to print 20 for dirt cheap.” You shuffled through the collection of photos and frowned. “Hold on.”

“What is it?” She asked.

You looked down at the rows of five you spread out on your dining table. One of the rows only had four photos.

“There’s one missing.” 

You knew you shouldn’t have been so careless at the diner. Spreading photos of yourself out all over the table and then leaving them unsupervised to change the music in the jukebox.

Or it could have slid off the table, slipped between the booth seats–it could be anywhere, for anyone to find. It made you feel exposed.

“Which one is missing?” She asked on the line.

Hopefully the missing photo isn’t…oh no. Your beach photo.

Meanwhile, on the opposite side of the city in the evening glow of street lights and aroma of cigarette smoke, Dex was climbing the fire escape to his apartment balcony after a tough job.

He removed his mask, stepped inside, and then pulled a folded photograph from the pocket of his pants.

He took a pin and stuck the photo onto the wall beside his front door, smiling at it. It had ended up in his pocket as he was leaving the diner. It was his favorite in the bunch you showed him, even if he couldn’t quite pin down why. 

There was just something about the way you were smiling in front of the fish tank, illuminated by the glowing blue behind you as you held tightly onto that chubby shark plush that made him want to have it for himself.

You breathed a sigh of relief when you spotted your racy beach photo among the collection on your table. At least it wasn’t that one that went missing. Although, you did look exceptionally amazing in it if you do say so yourself.

Warmth rushed to your face remembering how you accidentally let Dex get a peak at it. You probably wouldn't mind it if that photo somehow ended up with him...

“No idea.” You said into the phone, sitting on your bed beside your new shark plush you bought during your trip. “I’ll cross reference it with my camera roll later.”

Dex was sure you wouldn’t miss it too much.

a/n i imagine the song requested together is i'm not in love by 10cc.

[iamreadynoimnot]

[paigepie213]

His Protégé - Dr. Robby x Female Reader

Request - Hilliii amazing author <3 Ok an idea for you. Maybe reader and robby are keeping their relationship a secret in the ed and she is basically his prodigy and everyone calls her mini robby and after a while all that is getting to her because robby is even harder on her because he knows she's good but doesn't see her struggles until she basically breaks. An angsty kind of thing 1 wrote it really bad it's honestly up to you how the story goes 😂

hi there - hope you enjoy 🫶

Masterlist

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The apartment was quiet in the way only very late nights could be. The city beyond Robby’s windows had settled into a distant hum, softened by rain against the glass, and the only sound inside was the uneven rhythm of two people slowly remembering how to breathe. The sheets were tangled somewhere around your legs, one corner hanging halfway off the mattress, and the room smelled faintly of cedar from the old dresser mixed with the clean scent of laundry and the sharp trace of hospital soap that neither of you ever seemed able to wash away completely.

Robby hadn’t moved. He was still leaning over you, forearms planted on either side of your shoulders, his forehead resting lightly against yours as he caught his breath. The weight of him wasn’t crushing. It never was. It was grounding. Safe. His hair had fallen loose over his forehead, damp from exertion, and there was something heartbreakingly human about seeing the man every resident in Pittsburgh Trauma Medical Center feared looking so completely unguarded. His thumb drifted lazily across your hip beneath the blanket, absentminded circles against warm skin as though reassuring himself you were still there.

“You okay?” he asked quietly.

You smiled before opening your eyes. “I’m more than okay.”

“You’d tell me if you weren’t.”

“I would.”

He studied your face for another second anyway, never entirely convinced by words when he could search for the truth himself.

“You’ve got that look,” you murmured with a sleepy smile.

“What look?”

“The one where you’re analyzing me like I’m a CT scan.”

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

“Fucking liar.”

One corner of his mouth lifted.

“There it is,” you whispered.

“What?”

“The smile.”

“I smile.”

“You almost smile.”

“It counts.”

“It does not, you old man.”

His laugh escaped before he could stop it, low and rough in the quiet bedroom, and you felt it more than heard it where your chest still rested against his. That laugh was becoming your favorite sound because it happened so rarely. Most people knew Dr. Michael Robinavich as brilliant. Difficult. Demanding. Exhausting. A legend in emergency medicine with impossible standards and an uncanny ability to diagnose patients before the labs came back.

You knew the man who woke from nightmares. The one who sometimes stood in front of his refrigerator for ten minutes because he couldn’t remember whether he’d eaten dinner. The one who apologized after snapping at residents long after everyone else had forgotten the interaction. The one who carried every patient he couldn’t save like another brick inside his chest. The one who liked to snuggle with you naked under sheets.

You reached up, brushing damp hair back from his forehead.

“You’ve been thinking.”

“I’ve always been thinking.”

“Different thinking.”

He sighed. “You mean the kind that gets expensive? ”

“You make your therapist earn every dollar.”

“I pay her enough.”

“You do.”

His eyes searched yours again.

“I don’t deserve this.”

You rolled your eyes, pushing gently against his chest.

“What?”

“You always say that after you’re happy.”

He looked away.

“You notice too much.”

“I notice you.”

Silence settled between you again, comfortable this time. His beard brushed your jaw as he leaned down, pressing a slow kiss just beneath your ear. Not desperate. Not hurried. Just lingering enough that it sent warmth through your entire body. His hand traveled carefully along your thigh beneath the blanket before settling around your waist, holding you closer.

“You’ve had a rough week,” he murmured.

“So have you.”

“Tell me about it…” Robby grazed his teeth against your skin making you shiver.

“How about you?” You laughed.

“I asked first.”

You smiled against his shoulder. Your lips pressed into his skin.

“The Henderson case.”

He nodded immediately.

“I keep replaying it.”

“I know you do.”

“I should’ve intubated sooner.”

“You know that’s bullshit.”

“I know.”

“You still believe it.”

“I do.”

You brushed your fingers through the hair at the back of his neck. Robby had taken lead, you assisted. While you were trying to save one of the kids, Robby lost the father. But his quick thinking saved the rest.

“You saved three other people that shift.” You reminded him.

“I lost one.”

“You were always going to remember the one.”

“I always do.”

His voice cracked just enough for you to hear it. There it was again. The man no one else ever saw. The emergency department believed Robby was carved from granite. They didn’t see him standing barefoot in his own bedroom wondering if every impossible decision he’d made over twenty-five years had somehow added up to one giant failure.

“You know…” you whispered, “you’re allowed to let someone carry part of it.”

“I’ve carried it this long.”

“And you’re tired.”

“I’m fifty.”

“You say that like you’re ninety.”

He snorted softly.

“I am tired.”

“I know.”

His eyes closed as your fingers continued tracing slow circles against the back of his neck.

“I don’t know how you do that.”

“What?”

“Make everything quieter.”

“I’m not making it quieter.”

“You are for me.”

“I’m just reminding you that you’re home.”

Home. The word lingered between you. Neither of you had planned for this. A respected chief attending and one of his senior residents. It had started with conversations after shifts. Coffee that became dinners. Dinners that became long walks. Long walks that somehow turned into this apartment becoming as familiar to you as your own.

It had been months now. Months of pretending. Months of careful distance in hospital hallways. Months of calling each other “Doctor” within those emergency department walls while everyone else joked that you were simply becoming a younger version of him.

Mini Robby.

The nickname followed you everywhere. It had started as a compliment. Now it felt more like an expectation. You pushed the thought away. Tomorrow wasn’t here yet. Tonight belonged to neither the attending nor the resident.

Just Michael. Just you.

You shifted carefully, intending to sit up.

“I should go.”

His hand tightened instinctively around your waist.

“You don’t have to.”

You laughed softly.

“It’s after midnight.”

“So?”

“I have clinic in five hours.”

“So?”

“You have rounds.”

“I’ve had rounds before.”

“Michael.”

“No.”

You blinked.

“No?”

“Stay.”

He almost never asked for anything. You turned enough to really look at him. There was no arrogance in his expression. No charm. No teasing confidence. Just quiet honesty.

“I don’t want to wake up alone.”

The sentence landed somewhere deep inside your chest. You reached up and cupped his face.

“You could’ve just said that.”

“I just did.”

“You usually hide it behind sarcasm.”

“I know.”

“So this is growth.”

He made a face.

“It physically pains me.”

You laughed again, unable to stop yourself. His thumb brushed your cheek.

“I like being the reason you laugh.”

Your heart squeezed painfully.

“You make it really difficult to leave.”

“Good.”

“You planned that.”

“I absolutely planned that.”

“You manipulative old man.”

“I’m only fifteen years older.”

“You said fifty earlier.”

“I was using dramatic effect.”

“You use dramatic effect constantly.”

“It’s part of being an attending.”

“You abuse your power.”

“I do.”

You rolled your eyes with exaggerated annoyance before pulling the comforter up around both of you again.

“There.”

“There?”

“I’m staying.”

His shoulders visibly relaxed. It happened so subtly that most people would’ve missed it. You didn’t. He settled back against the headboard, opening one arm without saying anything. An invitation. You slipped into his side naturally, your head resting against his chest while his arm wrapped securely around your shoulders. His heartbeat had finally slowed beneath your ear. His fingers wandered lazily through your hair while the rain continued tapping gently against the windows.

“You know,” he murmured into the darkness, “you’re going to be better than me someday.”

You looked up immediately.

“I don’t want to be better than you.”

“I do.”

“I want to be the best version of myself.”

“Exactly.”

“I still have a lot to learn.”

“You do.”

“You could’ve lied.”

“I’m physically incapable.”

You smiled.

“But you’re learning.”

He looked down at you.

“So are you.”

His lips found your forehead this time, lingering there for several quiet seconds before he spoke again.

“I’m hard on you because I know what you’re capable of.”

“I know.”

“I never want anyone to say you got somewhere because of me.”

“I know.”

“I want them to say they survived residency because of you.”

Your eyes closed.

“And someday…” he whispered, his voice already growing heavy with sleep, “…they’ll forget they ever called you Mini Robby.”

His hand settled against your back.

“They’ll just call you Doctor.”

The room grew quiet again. Outside, the rain kept falling. Inside, wrapped beneath one blanket with your breathing slowly finding the same rhythm, the broken parts of two exhausted physicians finally allowed themselves one night without alarms, without trauma bays, without expectations. For a few precious hours, the emergency department could wait. Tomorrow would ask everything from both of you again. Tonight, neither of you had anything left to prove.

******

By seven-thirty that morning, whatever peace the night had offered had been burned away beneath fluorescent lights, ambulance sirens, and the relentless rhythm of the emergency department. It was as though the apartment had belonged to two entirely different people. Dr. Michael Robinavich walked through the ambulance bay doors with a travel mug in one hand and a chart in the other, offering nothing more than a curt nod in your direction before launching into sign-out with the night attending. His voice was clipped, analytical, already dissecting overnight decisions before the coffee had a chance to cool.

No lingering glance. No private smile. No trace of the man who had kissed your forehead only six hours earlier. You expected that. You always expected that. Still…It stung every single time.

“Morning, Mini Robby.”

You didn’t even have to look up. Whitaker was grinning from the nurses’ station, balancing two coffees.

“You and the boss ready to terrorize us today?”

“I think he can handle terrorizing everyone by himself.”

Whitaker laughed.

“Nah. You scare us too now.”

Across the room, Santos overheard.

“It’s true.”

Javadi looked up from her workstation.

“I watched you diagnose ischemic bowel yesterday before the CT even came back.”

Whitaker pointed dramatically.

“Exactly! You’re becoming him.”

Mini Robby. The words landed heavier than they had a month ago. You forced a smile.

“I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“You should,” Whitaker said. “Hell, he’s basically molding you into his successor.”

Your stomach twisted.

Successor.

Protégé.

Mini Robby.

Every compliment somehow erased another piece of yourself. Before you could answer, Robby’s voice cut across the department.

“Good morning.”

Everyone instinctively turned. He wasn’t looking at anyone else. He was looking directly at you.

“Trauma Two.”

You followed him without hesitation. The patient was fifty-eight. Septic. Hypotensive. History of liver disease. Possible perforated bowel. Blood pressure was crashing despite fluids. The room moved with controlled chaos.

“What’s your differential?” Robby asked.

You answered immediately.

“Perforated viscus, mesenteric ischemia, spontaneous bacterial peritonitis—”

“What labs are missing?”

“Lactate repeat.”

“Why?”

“Trend.”

“Trend tells you what?”

“Response to resuscitation.”

“And if it doubles?”

“Worse perfusion.”

“So why haven’t you ordered it?”

“I—”

“You hesitated.”

“I was looking at—”

“You were looking at the monitor instead of the patient.”

Your jaw tightened.

“I have the patient.”

“Do you?”

“I do.”

“What are you missing?”

“I—”

“What are you missing?”

The question cracked through the room. Everyone had gone quiet. The nurses kept moving. Respiratory kept working. But every resident nearby was listening. You swallowed.

“The abdomen.”

“Exactly.” He stepped back. “Continue.”

No reassurance. No acknowledgment that you’d answered everything else correctly. Just pressure. Constant pressure. The patient stabilized enough to head toward CT. You barely had time to breathe before another ambulance rolled through the bay. Then another. Then another. By eleven o’clock you’d seen four critical patients without sitting down once.

By noon your head hurt. By one your stomach was empty. By two you couldn’t remember the last sip of water you’d taken. And every single time Robby appeared…Another question. Another correction. Another challenge.

“What are you waiting for?”

“That’s not good enough.”

“Think.”

“Don’t guess.”

“You know this.”

“You can do better.”

It never stopped.

******

The stairwell door slammed shut behind you. For the first time all shift…Silence. Cool concrete walls. The faint hum of ventilation. You leaned against the railing and closed your eyes. Your hands wouldn’t stop shaking.

“You hiding?”

Whitaker’s voice was gentle this time. You laughed once.

“It wasn’t a very good hiding place.”

He walked over, handing you a bottle of water.

“You look awful.”

“Thanks.”

“You know what I mean.”

“I do.”

You twisted the cap open.

“You okay?”

“I’m fine.”

“Bullshit.”

You looked at the floor. Whitaker had known you for three years. He wasn’t easily fooled.

“I don’t understand him today.”

“Robby?”

You nodded.

“He won’t let me breathe.”

Whitaker shrugged.

“He rides people.”

“Not like this.”

“No?”

“He keeps…” You searched for the words. “…finding every single thing I do wrong.”

Whitaker leaned beside you against the railing.

“You know what I think?”

“What?”

“I think he’s harder on you because he thinks you can take it.”

“I don’t want to take it today.”

“No?”

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

“It feels like…” Your voice cracked unexpectedly. “…it feels like nothing I do is enough.”

Whitaker’s expression softened.

“You ever notice he only does this with people he believes in?”

“I know that’s what everyone says.”

“It’s true.”

“It still sucks.”

“It does.”

You laughed weakly through the sting in your eyes.

“I don’t think I’ve slept more than five hours all week.”

“You look like it.”

“Thanks again.”

“You keep thanking me like I’m complimenting you. You need a day off.”

“I need about three.”

Whitaker smiled.

“You’ll survive.”

“I know.”

The stairwell door opened. Both of you looked up. Robby froze halfway through stepping inside. His eyes landed on Whitaker. Then on you. Your eyes were suspiciously bright. Whitaker still standing beside you. Water bottle in your trembling hand.

For one fleeting second…something crossed Robby’s face. Not anger. Not jealousy. Something much quieter. Concern. Regret. It disappeared so quickly you almost wondered if you’d imagined it.

“There you are,” he said evenly. “Trauma incoming.”

You nodded.

“Be right there.”

His gaze lingered on you one heartbeat longer before he turned and disappeared through the door. Whitaker watched it close.

“…Well.”

“What?”

“I’ve never seen that look.”

“What look?”

“He looked worried.”

You laughed bitterly.

“I think you’re imagining things.”

The trauma arrived coding. Thirty-two-year-old male. Industrial accident. Massive abdominal injury. Blood everywhere. The room exploded into motion. You intubated flawlessly. Chest tube. Massive transfusion. FAST exam. Surgery was called. For twenty-three straight minutes the team fought.

Then the pressure dropped. Heart rhythm deteriorated. Someone yelled for another unit of blood. The monitor screamed. You reached for another medication. Your gloved hand hesitated for one fatal second. Robby’s voice cut through the room.

“No.”

You looked up.

“What?”

“You almost pushed the wrong dose.”

Your stomach dropped. Everything suddenly felt very, very quiet. He took the syringe from your hand. Held it up.

“Everyone stop.”

No. Please don’t. Whitaker shifted uncomfortably. Santos looked at the floor. Even Javadi looked uneasy. Robby held the medication between two fingers.

“This.” His voice remained calm. “This is why exhaustion kills patients.”

No one moved.

“If Doctor Y/L/N administers this dosage…” He looked around the room. “…what happens?”

Whitaker answered quietly.

“Profound hypotension.”

“Correct.”

Santos spoke next.

“Potential cardiac arrest.”

“Correct.”

Javadi swallowed.

“And we’d be the reason.”

Robby nodded once.

“Exactly.”

He wasn’t yelling. Somehow that made it worse. He looked at all three residents.

“You do not earn confidence by pretending you’re not tired.” Then…His eyes landed on yours. “And you don’t earn trust by refusing to slow down.”

The lesson lasted less than two minutes. It felt like two hours. When surgery finally rolled the patient upstairs alive…No one said much. Whitaker squeezed your shoulder once as he walked past. Santos avoided eye contact. Javadi quietly handed you a fresh pair of gloves without saying a word. You thanked her. Then kept working. You didn’t let yourself think.

The shift finally ended after dark. You changed quietly. Collected your bag. Walked out into the humid evening air. Your body felt hollow.

“Hey.”

You didn’t stop walking. Footsteps caught up beside you.

“I’ll drive you home.”

“I’m good.”

“You walked.”

“I’ll call an Uber.”

“You don’t need to.”

“I said I’m good.”

He frowned.

“You’ve barely spoken since the trauma.”

“I’m tired.”

“I can see that.”

“So let me go home.”

“You don’t have to do this.”

You stopped walking.

“Do what?”

“This.”

“I’m literally trying to leave work.”

“No.” He lowered his voice. “This.” He gestured vaguely between you. “The distance.”

You laughed once.

“Distance?”

“Talk to me.”

“You’ve been talking to me all day.”

“I know something’s wrong.”

“You think?”

His jaw tightened.

“Look—”

You flinched before he could finish your name. Both of you looked around instinctively. The parking lot was empty. He corrected himself.

“…Doctor.”

You laughed again. This one hurt.

“There it is.”

“What?”

“The correction. We’re outside the hospital.”

“We’re still at work.”

“We’re in the damn parking lot.”

His frustration flashed.

“You’re acting like a kid.”

The words hit harder than he intended. You stared at him. Then something inside you finally snapped. Your voice shook.

“I’m acting like someone whose feelings haven’t hardened after twenty-five years of watching people die.”

Silence.

“You don’t get to tell me to grow thicker skin just because yours turned into emotionless armor.”

His expression changed instantly. You’d gone too far. You knew it. He knew it. But neither of you could take it back. For several long seconds, neither of you spoke. Finally, Robby exhaled slowly.

“Cool off.” His voice was flat now. “We’ll talk later.”

He turned. Walked to his truck. And drove away without looking back. You stood alone beneath the yellow parking lot lights, exhausted enough that you couldn’t even cry anymore. For the first time since your relationship had begun, going home didn’t feel like going home at all.

******

The next shift arrived with the kind of brittle professionalism that only existed after a fight neither person had apologized for. You became exceptionally good at being somewhere else. If Robby was in Trauma One, you volunteered for Fast Track. If he rounded through the pod, you disappeared into radiology with a patient. If he was teaching at the central workstation, you somehow found a chart to finish in another hallway.

No one noticed. Why would they? To everyone else, it looked like another attending and another senior resident moving independently through a busy emergency department. Only the two of you knew every carefully avoided glance was deliberate.

Whitaker noticed you were quieter. Santos asked if you were getting sick. Javadi simply watched, her observant eyes lingering a little longer than usual, though she never said a word.

By midafternoon, you still hadn’t spoken to Robby outside of patient care. Then the pediatric charge phone rang.

“Seven-year-old male. Fall from monkey bars. Obvious forearm deformity.”

Five minutes later the little boy was crying into his mother’s shoulder, clutching an arm that bent in a direction arms weren’t supposed to bend. You were already pulling gloves on when Robby’s voice came from behind you.

“You’re with me.”

It wasn’t a question. You nodded once.

“Okay.”

The room settled into a rhythm that felt almost… familiar. The little boy’s name was Noah. Between sobs, he proudly informed both of you that he’d almost made it across the monkey bars “all by himself.”

“You know,” Robby said, kneeling until he was eye level with him, “I tried those once.”

“You did?”

“I fell off.”

“You did?.”

“I absolutely did.”

The boy looked suspicious.

“My mom laughed.”

“She laughed?”

“Right in front of everyone.”

Noah giggled despite himself. You smiled.

“Lucky for you,” you said, “Dr. Robby became a doctor instead of a gymnast.”

“I think that’s for the best,” Robby admitted solemnly.

Noah nodded.

“I think so too.”

The tears eased. You started the IV while Robby kept Noah distracted with increasingly ridiculous stories about growing up, carefully avoiding every needle until the medication began working. When it came time to reduce the fracture, the room transformed.

“Sedation’s good,” you said.

Robby looked at you.

“Walk me through it.”

“Distal pulse intact.”

He nodded.

“Cap refill. Less than two seconds.”

“Sensation?”

“Unable to fully assess under sedation, but intact before medication.”

He gave one approving nod.

“Go.”

You stabilized the elbow. He applied traction. You anticipated every movement before he asked.

“Gentle rotation.”

You were already there.

“Perfect.”

A soft clunk. The bone slid back into alignment. The entire maneuver took less than thirty seconds. You immediately checked circulation again.

“Pulse is strong.”

“Good.”

“Cap refill unchanged.”

“Excellent.”

He looked over at Jesse.

“Post-reduction films.” Then he looked back at you. “Nice work.”

Just two words. Quiet. Professional. But genuine. Something inside your chest loosened. For the first time in days, you weren’t fighting each other. You were simply two physicians doing what you both loved. It reminded you why you’d fallen for him in the first place.

Not because he was brilliant. Though he was. Not because he commanded every room. Though he did. Because when it mattered most, every ounce of that brilliance was spent making frightened people feel safe.

******

An hour later, the department finally slowed enough for you to escape to the vending machine tucked into one of the quieter hallways. The fluorescent lights buzzed overhead. You pressed the button for a bottle of water. The machine whirred reluctantly before dropping it with a loud thunk.

“You always pick the healthy option.”

You didn’t jump. Mostly because you already knew whose voice it was. Robby stood beside you, hands tucked into the pockets of his white coat.

“You always want coffee,” you said without looking at him.

“I do.”

“You’re here though.”

“I am.”

You eyed him.

“You’ve already had three, haven’t you.”

“I’ve had four.”

You finally looked over.

“I stand corrected.”

For a moment neither of you spoke. The hallway remained blissfully empty. No residents. No nurses. No patients. Just enough privacy for honesty.

“I was thinking…” he said quietly.

“That’s dangerous.”

“Sometimes.”

You smiled despite yourself. His expression softened.

“Come home with me tonight.”

Your eyes met his. The words settled warmly in your chest. Not come over. Not stay the night. Home. He’d said it the same way before. Like there was no question where you belonged after a difficult shift.

You looked down at the bottle in your hands, unable to stop the small smile tugging at your lips.

“…Are you still going to be a dick to me?”

One dark eyebrow lifted.

“That’s your first question?”

“It’s an important one.”

“I’m your attending inside these walls.”

“You’ve been more than my attending lately.”

“I’ve been your teacher.”

“I know.”

“And?”

You leaned lightly against the vending machine.

“That’s okay in here.”

You gestured toward the emergency department.

“You push me. You make me think. You call me out when I need it.”

He waited.

“But…” Your voice softened. “If I’m coming home with you…” You held his gaze. “…I can’t still feel like I’m answering oral boards every time we’re alone.”

The silence stretched between you. Then Robby took one slow step closer. Not enough to touch you. Just enough that only you could hear him. His voice dropped to the quiet register that always made your heart beat a little faster.

“You know…” The corner of his mouth lifted. “I seem to remember someone thanking me not too long ago.”

You narrowed your eyes.

“For what?”

“For teaching you how a pillow under your ass helps me hit a place inside you that makes you go crazy.”

His smile became unmistakably mischievous. Heat rushed into your cheeks despite yourself.

“Oh, absolutely not.”

“You were very appreciative of my teaching then.”

You gave him an incredulous look.

“I don’t recall any of that.”

“No?”

“I think your memory’s failing with age.”

“My memory is excellent.”

“It is selective.”

“It remembers compliments perfectly.”

You laughed under your breath and gave his shoulder a light shove.

“You’re impossible.”

“So I’ve been told.”

“You enjoy embarrassing me.”

“Only because I like to see you blush.”

“I do not blush.”

He looked pointedly at your face.

“You absolutely do.”

You rolled your eyes, trying—and failing—to hide your smile.

“I hate you.”

“No,” he said softly, warmth replacing the teasing for just a moment. “You really don’t.”

The words hung there between you. Simple. Certain. Before you could answer, voices echoed from around the corner. Robby stepped back immediately, the attending once again. His expression settled into composed professionalism.

“Trauma bay in two minutes, Doctor.”

Your heartbeat was still a little faster than usual.

“Yes, Doctor Robby.”

A hint of a smirk crossed his face before he turned and walked away. You watched him disappear around the corner, shaking your head to yourself. He had an infuriating talent for getting the last word. And somehow…you were already looking forward to going home.

******

The patient was twenty-six. Cardiac arrest. Witnessed collapse at a construction site. No significant medical history. By the time EMS rolled through the ambulance bay doors, they’d already been performing CPR for nearly twenty minutes. You knew the statistics before you ever placed your hands on the stretcher.

You fought anyway. Because that’s what emergency physicians did. Robby stood across from you directing the room with the calm authority that had become synonymous with his name.

“Epinephrine.”

“Given.”

“Rhythm.”

“PEA.”

“Continue compressions.”

You switched in without being asked, your shoulders already burning as you drove hard and fast through another cycle. Sweat collected beneath your collar despite the cold trauma room. Around you, nurses moved with practiced precision, respiratory managed the airway, and Whitaker quietly called out the clock every two minutes.

Twenty-eight minutes. Thirty-two. Thirty-six.

The monitor remained mercilessly unchanged.

“Let’s check.”

Everyone paused. Silence. No pulse. No electrical activity worth chasing. Robby stared at the monitor for another long moment before looking slowly around the room.

“Time of death…”

He gave the time. No one spoke. You stepped away first. Your gloves hit the trash can harder than you intended.

The patient’s wedding band caught your eye as one of the nurses folded his hands across his chest. Twenty-six. There would be parents. Maybe a wife. Friends who expected him home tonight. You swallowed hard and walked toward the sink. You scrubbed your hands until they were red.

“You okay?”

Whitaker’s voice came quietly behind you. You nodded without looking up.

“I’m fine.”

“You don’t sound fine.”

“I’m fine.”

You knew you weren’t convincing anyone. The room slowly emptied as everyone returned to the department. Robby remained behind. He looked around at the handful of residents still lingering nearby.

“Before everyone scatters…”

No. Not now. He folded his arms.

“What could we have done differently?”

Whitaker answered first.

“Faster ultrasound?”

“Good.”

Santos spoke next.

“Earlier reversible causes.”

“Correct.”

Javadi nodded thoughtfully.

“We might’ve recognized…”

Their voices blurred together. Your ears started ringing. Robby continued.

“The important thing to understand is—”

“I can’t.”

Every head turned. You looked directly at him for the first time since the code ended.

“I can’t do this right now.”

Without waiting for permission…Without waiting for his response…You walked out.

******

The rain had started sometime during the code. Heavy. Cold. The kind that soaked through scrubs within seconds. You barely noticed.

The ambulance bay was mostly empty, save for one idle unit waiting to be restocked. You leaned against the concrete wall beneath the overhang for exactly three seconds before stepping out into the rain anyway. You deserved the rain. It felt honest. Water plastered your hair to your forehead and soaked through your scrub top almost immediately.

You wrapped your arms around yourself. Then…You broke. Not dramatically. Not loudly. Just quietly. Your forehead rested against the cool brick wall while tears mixed indistinguishably with the rainwater running down your face.

“I was too late…”

You whispered it to no one.

“I was too fucking late.”

The patient had been dying before he reached you. You knew that. Logic didn’t matter. It never mattered after your first loss. Or your tenth. Or your hundredth. Your chest tightened until breathing itself felt like work.

It wasn’t just today. It wasn’t just the patient. It was everything. The endless expectations. The nickname.

Mini Robby.

Trying to prove you belonged. Trying to prove you weren’t succeeding because someone believed in you. Trying to separate the man who had you in his bed from the attending who dismantled every mistake before lunch. Trying to remember which version of him you’d be getting each day.

You were so tired. The ambulance bay door opened behind you. You didn’t turn around. Footsteps stopped a few feet away. Then came warmth. A warm hand settled carefully on your shoulder. You flinched.

“I’m okay.”

“No, you’re not.”

“I’m fine.”

“Look at me.”

You shook your head.

“I can’t.”

His voice softened.

“Please.”

Slowly…You turned. The second he saw your face something inside him visibly gave way. Your cheeks were streaked with rain and tears. Your eyes were swollen. Your shoulders trembled from exhaustion more than the cold.

He didn’t say a word. He simply stepped forward and wrapped both arms around you. Firm. Protective. Certain. You collapsed against his chest almost immediately. The sob that escaped you was muffled entirely by his jacket. One of his hands slid to the back of your head while the other rubbed slow circles between your shoulder blades.

“It’s okay.”

“It isn’t.”

You cried harder. Not because he’d fixed anything. Because he’d stopped trying to. After several long minutes, he gently guided you farther beneath the overhang where the rain couldn’t reach. You stayed pressed against him. Unable to let go.

“I can’t do this.”

Your voice was barely audible. He frowned.

“…Do what?”

“This.”

You gestured weakly between the two of you.

“I can’t separate us anymore.”

He stayed quiet.

“I spend all day trying to prove myself to you.”

Your voice cracked.

“Then I spend all night remembering you’re the man I...”

The words slipped out before you could stop them. You’d never said them aloud before. Neither of you acknowledged it.

“I don’t know which version I’m supposed to respond to.”

Your hands gripped the front of his rain-soaked jacket.

“It’s not fair.”

His brow furrowed.

“I want both.” You looked up at him through wet lashes. “Why don’t you?”

For a long moment Robby simply stared at you. Then he laughed. Not because it was funny. Because he couldn’t quite believe what he’d just heard. His hand came up, carefully brushing damp strands of hair back from your face.

“How could I not want both?”

You blinked.

“What?”

“I want every version of you.”

His thumb lingered gently against your temple.

“The doctor.” Another brush through your hair. “The woman who steals my blankets.” The corner of his mouth lifted. “The one who laughs at my terrible jokes.”

“They’re objectively terrible.”

“They’re excellent.”

“They’re awful.”

“They’re sophisticated.”

You almost smiled. Almost. He sighed.

“I’m trying.”

“I know.”

“No.” His expression became serious again. “I don’t think you do.”

He searched your face.

“I’m trying to find the line.”

“The line?”

“Between making you the physician you’re capable of becoming…” His jaw tightened. “…and remembering that when the shift ends, you’re the woman I can’t wait to come home to.”

Your eyes softened.

“I’ve done a lousy job of that.” He gave a self-deprecating shake of his head. “I’ve been a dick.”

A tiny laugh escaped you despite everything.

“You said it.”

“I did.”

“I wasn’t expecting that.”

“I’m capable of growth.”

“Barely.”

“Barely.”

His smile faded into something quieter.

“You are already a damn good doctor.”

The words settled heavily between you.

“But…” He exhaled. “…if someday people look at you and say you’re one of the best physicians they’ve ever worked with…” His grin returned, crooked and almost embarrassed. “…and I get to know I had something to do with that?”

He shrugged.

“Fuck.” He laughed softly at himself. “That’s one hell of an ego boost.”

You stared at him.

“I’m still a man underneath all of this.”

There was something so disarmingly honest about the admission that you couldn’t help smiling through the remnants of your tears. His thumb drifted lightly across your cheek before pausing at the corner of your mouth.

“I’m sorry.”

He said it simply. No excuses. No qualifications. Your breath caught.

“Come on.” He gently squeezed your hand. “Let’s get you inside.”

He looked down at your soaked scrubs.

“We’re finding you some dry clothes.”

“And tomorrow?”

He met your eyes.

“I’ll back off.”

He started to turn. You reached instinctively for the sleeve of his jacket. He stopped. Looked back.

“What?”

You tugged him toward you. Not hard. Just enough.

“I have one condition.”

He stepped closer.

“What condition?”

You rose onto your toes and kissed him. It wasn’t hurried. It wasn’t desperate. It was warm. Familiar. Home. For a moment he stood perfectly still in surprise before his hand found your jaw, returning the kiss with quiet tenderness, his forehead coming to rest lightly against yours when you finally pulled away. You smiled for the first time all day.

“…Don’t back off in bed.”

For one stunned heartbeat, he simply looked at you. Then he laughed. A real laugh. Deep enough that it echoed against the ambulance bay walls. He shook his head, still smiling, and nudged you gently toward the hospital doors.

“Come on.” His hand settled against the middle of your back. “Let’s get you warm before you decide to flirt your way into hypothermia.”

You rolled your eyes.

“I make one joke.”

“It was a good one.”

“It was.”

“And for the record…” He opened the door for you, his grin lingering. “…that version of me isn’t going anywhere.”

******

The call came just after noon.

“Mass casualty incident. Eight incoming. Multi-vehicle collision. Two pediatric. Multiple entrapments.”

Within seconds, the emergency department transformed. The controlled rhythm of a normal shift vanished beneath the practiced chaos that every Level One Trauma Center knew too well. Overhead pages echoed through the hallways. Additional blood products were ordered. Operating rooms were placed on standby. Every available physician, resident, nurse, respiratory therapist, radiology technician, and trauma surgeon converged toward the ambulance bay.

You clipped your trauma shears to your waistband before grabbing a fresh pair of gloves. Across the department, Robby caught your eye for only a second. No smile. No secret. Just one sharp nod. Go.

The ambulances arrived almost together. Sirens. Stretchers. Shouting. The smell of gasoline clinging to clothes. Blood. Crying. Controlled panic.

The first patient was yours before anyone had time to think. Thirty-eight-year-old female. Hypotensive. Steering wheel deformity. Possible splenic injury. You started barking orders before anyone else could.

“Two large-bore IVs.”

“Type and cross.”

“FAST exam.”

“Get surgery down here now.”

Whitaker appeared beside you.

“What do you need?”

“You’re running blood.”

He nodded once. Already moving. Another ambulance rolled in. Then another. A nurse hurried toward Robby.

“Doctor Robinavich, Trauma One is crashing.”

“I’m there.”

He disappeared through double doors without another glance. For the next forty-five minutes…You didn’t see him.

“Doctor?” Javadi’s voice cut through the noise.

You looked up.

“What?”

“We’re out of monitored rooms.”

You scanned the department. Every bed was full. Hallway stretchers. Families crying. EMS stacked outside waiting for space. Think. Slow down. What did he always say?

The loudest room isn’t always the sickest patient.

You looked again. Room Twelve. The elderly woman waiting on admission. Stable.

“Move Twelve upstairs.”

“But transport—”

“I’ll call the floor attending myself.”

She blinked.

“Go.”

She ran. Santos appeared from behind another curtain.

“I’ve got a teenager with unequal pupils.”

You turned instantly.

“What mechanism?”

“Side impact.”

“CT now.”

“They’re backed up.”

“Call radiology.”

“They said thirty—”

“No.” Your voice stayed calm. “Tell them I said now.”

Whitaker looked over.

“They’ll push back.”

“They won’t.”

He studied your face for half a second before grabbing the phone. You kept moving. No hesitation. No waiting. No looking around for permission.

Twenty minutes later…

A nurse handed you another ECG. You glanced at it while walking. Then stopped. Something felt wrong. Not dramatic. Subtle. You looked closer. Tiny changes. Easy to miss. Inferior leads.

The patient was fifty-two. Complaining mostly of shoulder pain after the accident. Everyone had assumed orthopedic injuries. Your stomach tightened.

“Where’s Bed Six?”

Santos pointed.

“Why?”

You were already walking. The patient smiled weakly.

“My shoulder’s killing me.”

You leaned over the bed.

“When did the chest pain start?”

His smile faded.

“…About fifteen minutes ago.”

You looked at the monitor again. Then the ECG. Then back to him.

“Get cardiology.”

Whitaker looked confused.

“Seriously?”

“He’s infarcting.”

“He was in a wreck.”

“I know.”

“You think—”

“I don’t think.” You held up the ECG. “I know.”

Within minutes…Cardiology confirmed it. An acute coronary occlusion likely triggered by the stress of the collision. A diagnosis that could easily have been buried beneath fractured ribs and bruises. Instead…he was in the cath lab before the hour ended. Alive.

By early evening…

The department finally breathed again. Stretchers emptied. Families reunited. Operating rooms quieted.

Coffee appeared from somewhere. Someone laughed for the first time all day. You leaned against the central workstation, exhaustion settling into your bones all at once. Whitaker walked over first.

“I owe you.”

“For what?”

“I was about to send that guy upstairs. He would’ve coded.”

“I know.”

He shook his head.

“…Nice catch.”

“Thanks.”

Santos joined him.

“I’ve never seen someone run an MCI like that.”

“I’ve never run one.”

“You could’ve fooled me.”

You laughed quietly.

“I was terrified.”

“No kidding?”

“I thought I was making everything worse.”

“You weren’t.”

Javadi walked up carrying a chart. She smiled.

“I kept waiting for Dr. Robby.”

You blinked.

“So did I.”

Javadi looked toward Trauma One where Robby was finishing notes. Then back at you.

“He never stepped in.”

Whitaker folded his arms.

“He didn’t have to.”

Silence settled over the little group. Then Javadi laughed softly.

“I guess we can’t call you Mini Robby anymore.”

Whitaker immediately shook his head.

“No.”

He looked directly at you.

“We never should’ve.”

Santos nodded.

“You’re different.”

“Better?”

Whitaker grinned.

“No.”

He smiled warmly.

“Just… you.”

The words hit somewhere so deep inside your chest that for a second you couldn’t answer. Across the department Robby looked up from his chart. His eyes found yours. He hadn’t heard every word. But he’d heard enough. And judging by the small, almost imperceptible smile tugging at one corner of his mouth…It was enough.

******

The parking lot was painted gold by the setting sun. This time neither of you spoke until you reached his truck. He unlocked the passenger door without a word. You climbed inside. The silence wasn’t uncomfortable anymore. It was earned.

The drive home passed with the radio low, one of your favorite old songs playing quietly beneath the rumble of the engine. Halfway there, you looked out the window.

“I think they finally stopped seeing me as your shadow.”

Robby kept his eyes on the road.

“I know.”

You looked over.

“How?”

His smile appeared before his answer did.

“Because today…” He glanced at you for just a second. “…every single person in that department looked to you.”

Not your attending. Not your boyfriend. You.

“And…” His fingers tapped lightly against the steering wheel. “…I never once wondered if you’d figure it out.”

Your throat tightened.

“You trusted me.”

“I have for a long time.”

“Then why—”

“I was trying to speed up a process that couldn’t be rushed.”

He shook his head.

“I forgot confidence can’t be taught by criticism alone.”

You reached across the center console and quietly took his hand. Neither of you said anything else. You didn’t need to.

Later that night you stood barefoot in his kitchen wearing one of his old Pittsburgh Penguins T-shirts that swallowed you whole. A pot of pasta simmered on the stove. Robby was pretending to focus very seriously on stirring the sauce. You stole a piece of garlic bread from the cutting board.

“I saw that.”

“You saw nothing.”

“I absolutely saw it.”

“I was quality testing.”

“You’ve quality tested four pieces.”

“They’ve all passed.”

“They’re all the same loaf.”

“I’m incredibly thorough.”

He rolled his eyes.

“You are impossible.”

“You weren’t saying that in the shower earlier when I was on my knees…” You stole another bite.

He sighed dramatically.

“I’ve made terrible decisions.”

“You’ve made one.”

“I have.”

“It was me.”

“It absolutely was.”

You laughed. A real laugh. The kind that came from somewhere untouched by grief or exhaustion. When you looked back up he was simply watching you. Not analyzing. Not teaching. Just… watching.

“What?”

He set the wooden spoon down.

“I was wrong.”

You tilted your head.

“About what?”

He walked around the kitchen island until he was standing in front of you. Close enough that your toes almost touched his.

“I spent months trying to make you into another version of me.” His hands settled gently around your waist. “I thought that was how I was helping.”

You looked up into familiar brown eyes that somehow looked softer than they had the day you met him.

“The best doctor you’re ever going to become…” He leaned forward and kissed your forehead. “…looks absolutely nothing like me.”

Silence lingered. Then you smiled.

“Good.”

“Good?”

“The beard would’ve looked terrible on me.”

For one heartbeat he simply stared. Then he laughed. Really laughed. Head tipping back. Shoulders shaking. The deep, unguarded laugh you loved because so few people ever got to hear it.

“You are unbelievable.”

“Now that’s what you said in the shower…”

He pulled you against his chest, one arm wrapping securely around your back. You tucked yourself beneath his chin, smiling as you listened to the steady beat of his heart. No masks. No titles. No attending. No resident.

Just Michael. Just you.

Outside, another ambulance siren echoed faintly somewhere across Pittsburgh. Tomorrow, there would be more impossible decisions. More patients. More lessons. More lives balanced on impossibly thin lines.

But tonight the emergency department had finally learned something too. There had never been another Mini Robby. There was only one Dr. Robinavich. And now there was you.

And somehow, that was exactly what both of you had been fighting for all along.

[iamreadynoimnot]

[sweetjellytea]

don't dream its over

benjamin poindexter x fem!reader

synopsis you hate flying. something seems to go wrong every time you get the courage to get on a plane. but the stranger you were seated next to makes your trip a little more tolerable.

notes this one's for my nervous ramblers (looks in the mirror)

tags humor, fluff, fear of flying, awkwardness

wc 1.7k

series masterlist • next part

No amount of preparation ever seemed to relax you before a flight. Whether it was the long grueling hours spent in the airport or the anticipation of taking off, stuck in an uncomfortable seat with your elbows rubbing against a total strangers’, you absolutely loathed flying.

There were times when your determination won out, though. Fear of flying be damned, you had places you wanted to see before you died. 

Now was one of those times.

You were sitting stiffly in your seat, trying to even your breathing and calm the hell down now that the plane was actually in the sky. But there was a pressure in your head from the elevation making you feel like your ears were full of cotton and the loud, continuous hum of the engine wasn’t doing you any favors.

You were glad your seatmate had the window shade pulled down. The sight of being over the clouds would surely take you out in your current state. He wore a pair of vintage style headphones over his ears, minding his own business with his head rested back against the seat.

He had the right idea.

With trembling hands, you unzipped your carry on to pull out your own headphones. Drowning out the sound of the roaring engine with your top songs of the month would help clear your head and provide a nice distraction to calm your nerves.

Your bag was well-organized when you left the house. But by now you’d dug through it so many times it was a mix of tangled wires, chapstick, loose credit and ID cards, your worn half-read book you slid a receipt into as a makeshift bookmark…

No headphones. But you hadn’t forgotten them at home or packed them in the wrong bag; no, you had used them in the airport. Which means they were now sitting abandoned, waiting to be claimed by someone lucky enough to spot them.

At least they weren't your expensive ones...

You covered your face and groaned as quietly as you could. You still caught the attention of the man beside you. He had only glanced at you. No judgment in his eyes, but no sympathy either. He was just watching you, like, ‘oh. this is the person I have to ask to move if I need to use the bathroom.’

Heat climbed up your neck and you swiped your book out of your bag bitterly, opening it to your bookmarked page and staring at the words rather than reading them. They melded together in front of your eyes, letters blending and turning into inky blobs in the wake of your pounding headache. 

No headphones, no ibuprofen. You were lying to yourself if you thought you were well-prepared. Maybe this is why flying was always miserable for you. 

You squeezed your eyes shut, leaning your head back against the seat. The darkness behind your eyelids helped you focus on clearing your mind, singling out that loud engine hum and trying to force it to fade into the background. It became more and more distant and…

Was that music?

At first you thought you were wishfully imagining it in your head, still broken over your lost headphones. But then you focused on the sound a bit more, and yeah, that was definitely someone shredding on guitar.

You opened your eyes and looked beside you at your seat neighbor where the sound was coming from. His headphones were leaking his music, just loud enough for you to hear. It was barely audible, but you could make out what he was listening to.

His eyes were shut, so you took the opportunity to shamelessly catalogue his features to memory. Particularly the long scar running across his cheek. The dimple on his chin. The wrinkle between his eyebrows. 

You sat back against your seat, straining your ears to listen along. You were desperate enough to make a game out of it, too, guessing every track. Radiohead, the Smiths, Chevelle…

But the next song gave you pause. It immediately struck you with recognition, a song you’d heard maybe a hundred times over your morning coffee. It was almost comforting hearing it now, over 30,000 feet in the air.

So, being as subtle as possible, you leaned your head to the side of your seat, trying to hear a little better…

Okay, clearly not subtle enough. The music paused. When you looked over to investigate why, he was looking right at you. 

You sat up straight, turning your head away as if you hadn’t just been listening to music from a stranger's headphones. Totally cool, totally normal, you’re sure he didn’t notice.

He slid his headphones down to his shoulders, and you knew it was over for you.

“Were you listening?” He asked, pointing to his headphones. 

You laughed sheepishly. “Uh, yeah. Sorry. I sort of forgot my headphones.”

Instead of being weirded out by you–or if he was, he didn’t show it on his face–he just nodded, unbothered. 

For some reason, you decided to fill his silence.

“I’m a nervous flyer and music calms me down.” You explained.  You were like a running tap, not able to close your mouth the moment his headphones were off apparently. “Your volume was pretty loud so I could hear it through your headphones.”

Based on his lack of responses, you expected him to ask you to stop being a weirdo, and that he’s not a free radio station service. 

“The music calms me down, too.” He admitted it and then turned back to glance at the covered window, like he wasn’t expecting to open up to a stranger today.

Granted, neither were you. But you weren’t going to stop now. If you didn’t have the music anymore, you were going to get your nervous energy out by rambling to this admittedly handsome man sitting beside you.

“My best friend’s getting married,” you said, “I’m meeting her and some of our other friends for a kind of bachelorette trip. You?”

“Work.” He said simply, “not as interesting as partying.”

The scar on his cheek hinted otherwise. But you weren’t going to say that to him–you still had some semblance of a filter.

“We’re not really going to party, per se. Just…sightseeing.” You explained, looking down at the book still left in your lap. “She’s always wanted to go and her life’s so busy this is her only chance to do it before the wedding planning chaos.”

“What about you?” He asked, to your surprise. “Do you like traveling?”

You laughed nervously. “The being there part is great. Getting there, not so much…”

The slight shaking in your hands and bees nest in your stomach was proof enough. 

“That song that was just playing–I recognized it because, well,” you bit the inside of your cheek, “this is going to sound strange, but the jukebox at this diner I go to for breakfast every morning always gets stuck playing it on a loop, and–”

“The jukebox at the Bel Aire Diner.” He finished for you. “I know the one.”

Your eyebrows raised. “You’re from Hell’s Kitchen, too? I’ve never seen you in the diner, though. We must be there at different times of day.”

“Must be.” He repeated after you, and you caught the corners of his lips raising in a smile.

His gaze fell to your still quivering hands. He reached into his pocket and pulled out the MP3 player his headphones were connected to.

You watched him press play again, music filtering in through the headphones that were still resting on his shoulders. The music was now just loud enough for you and him to hear. 

“Go ahead and listen.” He offered. “If it helps.”

The gesture surprised you. But certainly wasn’t unwelcome. The buzzing in your stomach calmed to a soft fluttering.

“Thank you.” You smiled, leaning back in your seat again. “What was your name, by the way?”

He smiled, lips pulled to one side. “It’s Dex.”

You gave him your name, and watched him mouth it once before the music caught your attention again.

It was a slower song now, the chords progressing in a gentle melody. You recognized it, too, the lyrics repeating themselves in your head as you followed along.

You hadn’t even realized you drifted off until you woke later from the high-pitched whistle of the plane descending. The first thing you registered was how warm your body was, eyes fluttering open. It was then you felt the gentle pressure of your head resting against something hard.

Oh god. Your stomach flipped when you realized you had ended up with your head on his shoulder at some point. He didn’t seem to mind. He had the window shade pulled up now, staring out at the evening skyline. 

Your face heated up and you sat up straight in your seat, rubbing your eyes. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to fall asleep on you there…”

He turned to look at you and shrugged. “Didn’t even notice.”

If he was trying to rescue your dignity, he was doing a great job at it. 

His music was still playing until the plane had finished landing. You had moved out of the aisle to let him through, holding onto your book that had stayed in your lap the entire flight. In a distracted haste to grab your bag, you noticed he had left the plane before you got a chance to say anything more to him.

It made your heart sink. You were sure there was a little something there, even if it was just him being friendly… 

But once you too were out of the plane, smelling the fresh air of the new city you had traveled to, you were overcome with the excitement of being somewhere new.

You could be grateful to him for making it the least agonizing flight of your career, even if the two of you were ships in the night.

Your friends promised to pick you up after you landed, but you had made it about a half hour early. Sitting at the nearest bench, you flipped your book open to the receipt-marked page.

Oh. 

There was a note scribbled onto the empty space underneath the final paragraph of the page. 

See you in Bel Air Diner.

- D

Your lips pulled into a smile, your finger tracing over the blue ink.

You still didn't have headphones for your flight home, but now you had something a little better.

a/n some of the songs i imagine being played: the red by chevelle, back to the old house by the smiths, all i need by radiohead. the song looping on the jukebox is dont dream its over by crowded house. these are probably not very accurate hcs but i digress.

[iamreadynoimnot]

[semper-nox]

The Long Game

Summary: Steve Rogers spent three years becoming the safest place in your world. He never told you he was in love with you. He never told you he was quietly, patiently shaping every path so that when you finally said yes, there would be no one else left in the room.

Wordcount: 20.9k (fml)

Pairing: Steve Rogers x Female Reader (no use of y/n)

Warnings: MDNI, mutual pining, slow burn, best friends to lovers, unresolved sexual tension, emotional constipation, Steve Rogers is bad at feelings, soft dom! Steve Rogers, possessive Steve Rogers, protective Steve Rogers, jealous Steve Rogers, emotional / soft manipulation, consent is explicit but the path was carefully engineered, first time, virgin! Reader, loss of virginity, gentle sex, intense sex, prolonged sex edging, orgasm denial (brief), mutliple orgasms, fingering, oral sex is teased, p in v, cockwarming (brief), use of sex toys, vibrator Captain America rubber duck, mirror sex, hand on throat (non-choking), praise kink, possessiveness, aftercare morning, yearning, little plot and lot of smut, happy ending

A/N: someone begged me to make this post happen with Steve, and I had already been thinking about it so I wrote it. It went through 2 versions, one was less smutty (but still) and then I went and shot myself in the foot and added 2k of pure smut. You're welcome.

Masterlist

You were the one who taught him how to be alive in the wrong century.

Steve remembered it in pieces, the early days – the way you remember an illness once you're well. The apartment they'd put him in, all clean lines and hostile silence. The list of things he was supposed to catch up on, as if a man could read his way back into belonging. The way the world had gone loud and bright and merciless while he'd slept, and everyone he spoke to treated him like an artifact, careful, reverent, a little afraid.

Everyone but you.

You'd been assigned to him, more or less. Some liaison arrangement, a name on a form. You were supposed to help him with the practical things – the phone, the money, the hundred small humiliations of a world that assumed he already knew. And on the first day you'd taken one look at the list they'd given you, the tidy little curriculum for reassembling Captain America, and you'd folded it in half and dropped it in the trash and said, “Okay. Forget all that. What do you actually want to know?”

He'd stared at you.

Nobody had asked him that.

Not once.

Not what do you need to be able to do but what do you want.

He hadn't had an answer ready. So you'd made him one. You'd started small – coffee, the good kind, from the place on the corner that you swore by and he came to swear by too. Music, but not the important music, not the canon they kept trying to hand him; you played him ridiculous things, songs about nothing, and laughed when he frowned, and slowly, slowly, the frown had learned to be a smile again.

You were the one who made the century small enough to hold.

And here was the thing Steve knew about himself, the thing he did not say out loud, the thing that lived underneath his gratitude like rebar under concrete: he had studied you.

He didn't think of it that way, not usually. But it was what he'd done. In those first raw months, when the whole world was noise, you had been the one clear signal, and he had turned the full force of his attention on you the way he'd once turned it on a map before a drop. He'd learned you. Your moods, your tells, the particular quality your silence took on when you were happy versus when you were hiding something. The way you took your coffee. The two friends you'd cut out of your life and the reasons. The exact register of your laugh when it was real and the slightly higher one you used when you were being polite.

He told himself it was love. Attention like that – surely that was love.

He didn't examine, too closely, the part of him that had always been most at peace when he knew a thing well enough to move it.

Two years. Then three. Somewhere in there the assignment had quietly dissolved and left behind the realest thing in his life. You were his best friend. That word was true and he leaned on it. Best friend. He said it to himself like a boundary. Like a wall he was keeping up.

He was very good at keeping up walls right until the moment he decided to take one down.

Here was the thing Steve did not know, in all his careful study, for all his reconnaissance.

You were in love with him.

You had been for longer than you'd admit to yourself, and much longer than you'd ever admit to him. It had come on the way these things do – not a lightning strike but a slow tide, a rising, until one day you'd looked at him laughing in your kitchen over some song you'd played to torment him and realized the water was already at your throat.

You never told him. Of course you never told him.

You had your reasons, and they were the mirror image of his, though neither of you would ever know it. You were his best friend. You were the person who'd caught him when he fell out of the sky and into the wrong life, and you were not going to be the one who made it weird, who wanted more, who looked at Captain America – at Steve, your Steve, who left his socks on your radiator and argued with you about films – and dared to think mine.

So you held it.

You got good at holding it.

You dated other people, sometimes, in a distracted half-hearted way, and none of it took, and you told yourself that was just how it was for you, that you were picky, that you'd never met the right anyone.

You had. That was the joke of it. You'd met him and made his coffee for three years and never told him and never would.

Steve missed all of it.

He missed it because he wasn't looking for it – because in his model of you, the one he'd built so carefully, you were the sun and he was the man grateful for the warmth, and the sun didn't want, the sun just shone. He had never once let himself imagine that the way you touched his arm when you laughed might be the same thing that lived in him, held just as still, just as hidden.

But here was where the missing got complicated. Here was where a decent man's blindness started to shade into something else.

Because Steve, not knowing you loved him, still could not stand the men who tried to love you.

There'd been a few, over the years. A colleague of yours who'd asked you to dinner. A man from your building. Someone you'd met at a wedding and lit up about for a week. And every single time, without ever once raising his voice, without ever doing a single thing you could point to, Steve had found himself in the middle of it.

Nothing so crude as forbidding. He'd never. He was your friend; he only wanted you happy – he told himself this constantly, and the telling had the slightly overworked quality of a man reinforcing a floor he suspects won't hold weight.

But he'd ask questions. Gentle ones.

The colleague – did he seem like he really listened to you, or did he just wait for his turn to talk? The man from the building – didn't it seem a little convenient, how fast he was moving? The wedding one – and here Steve had been at his best, his most careful – Steve had simply been around, more than usual, that whole week. Present. Attentive. Making your apartment the warmest place you could be, so that the pull of somewhere colder and newer never quite caught.

He'd tell himself he was protecting you. Looking out for you. That was what a friend did.

He never let himself finish the other sentence. The one that went: and if I keep you close enough, keep the warmth turned up high enough, no one else ever gets a real hold on you.

He never finished it. But he ran the strategy all the same, the way a body breathes without being told. A man who had spent a war learning that you don't win by attacking – you win by controlling the ground, by patience, by making sure that when the moment comes, it comes on terrain you've already shaped.

He was playing a long game. He'd have been horrified to hear it called that. He'd have believed, sincerely, hand on heart, that he was just being a good friend.

That was what made it work. On you. On himself.

It came out on a night that was like a hundred other nights, which was why it caught you both off guard.

Rain. Your apartment. The second bottle of wine, opened with the specific recklessness of two people who have nowhere to be in the morning. Some film playing that neither of you was watching. You were sprawled on the couch with your feet tucked under his thigh, the way you'd been sitting for years, a closeness so worn-in that neither of you flinched at it anymore.

He was watching your profile in the blue light of the screen. He did that more than you knew.

You'd been talking about a man. A recent one – a date, two dates, a third that had ended at your door with a question you'd answered by saying goodnight and stepping inside alone. You were telling it as a funny story. You were good at that, turning the ache of your own life into something you could laugh at from a safe distance.

“–and I could tell he thought that was it, you know,” you were saying.

“Like, third date, obviously. He had the whole face on. And I just–”

You made a small helpless gesture with your wine glass.

"I couldn't.”

“Because you didn't want to,” Steve said. Carefully. Reading you.

“Because I never do.”

You said it lightly, but something had shifted under it, some floor giving way, and you'd had exactly enough wine to keep walking out onto it.

“That's the– okay. Don't make it a thing.”

“I won't make it a thing.”

“I mean it, Steve.”

“I know you mean it.”

You looked at him for a long moment, and he held very still, the way he'd learned to, and then you laughed – the higher laugh, the covering one – and said it.

“I've never actually had sex. With anyone. Full stop.”

You waved the glass again, a whole life dismissed in a gesture.

“There. The world's oldest– whatever. It just never happened. And now it's this whole–”

“You're not old,” he said, automatically, and it came out rougher than he meant.

“–thing in my head,” you finished, ignoring him, because you needed to get to the end of it now that you'd started. “And I don't want you to think it's because I'm– God, some blushing innocent girl. I'm not. I know what I like. I've had a lot of time to figure out what I like.”

You said it with a flash of something almost defiant, and he watched your mouth make the words and felt the room tilt.

“I just never let anyone– that far. That's all. It stopped being about the thing and started being about who gets to–”

You stopped.

You looked into your wine.

“Who gets to be the one,” you finished, quiet now. “And nobody ever was.”

Steve did not move.

Outside, the rain kept on. The film murmured to itself, unwatched. Your feet were still tucked warm under his thigh and he was aware of every point of contact between you like a man aware of a live wire.

He should have said something kind and friendly and safe. He had a whole vocabulary for that. That's nothing to be embarrassed about. The right person will come along. You deserve someone who understands what a gift that is.

He didn't say any of it.

Because something had happened in him in the space of your last three sentences, something fast and total and quiet as a door closing, and it had rearranged him from the inside, and when he opened his mouth he honestly did not know what was going to come out.

Who gets to be the one.

And nobody ever was.

Here was what happened inside Steve Rogers in that moment, and this was the truth of him, the part he'd spend a long time not admitting even after he'd admitted everything else.

His first feeling was not tenderness.

Tenderness came. It came a half-second later and it was real, an ache at the thought of you carrying this, at the flash of defiance you'd needed to defend yourself against a hurt no one had even landed yet.

But the first thing – the very first thing, the thing that arrived before he could dress it in anything better – was mine.

Not a word.

Faster than a word.

A kind of heat that went through his whole body and closed a fist around something at the base of him.

The knowledge, sudden and absolute, that there was a first, still, out there in your future – a man, some man, some faceless deserving man who'd get to be the one – and that Steve wanted, with a violence that frightened him, for that man not to exist.

He didn't want you to have a first who wasn't him.

He examined the thought, in the fractional silence, the way you'd turn a strange coin in your fingers. He was good at examining his own thoughts; the war had made him honest, at least in the privacy of his skull.

And what he found, under the tenderness, under the years of best-friend and the sun doesn't want, was this: he didn't just want to be your first.

He wanted to be your last.

That was the shape of it.

Not a night.

Not a favor.

Not some noble one-time kindness to spare you a lesser man.

He wanted to be the one and stay the one, wanted to close the door behind him and have there be no more afters, wanted – the word came to him plainly, and he didn't flinch from it the way he should have – to keep you.

A quieter man might have been ashamed.

Steve was ashamed, distantly, the way you register weather through a window.

But mostly, God help him, mostly he was clear. Clearer than he'd been in three years. All that careful holding-still, all those walls, all the times he'd told himself the sun didn't want – it fell away, and what was left was appetite with a strategy attached, and the strategy came to him already half-built, because some part of him had been building it for a long, long time.

He couldn't just tell you. He knew that in the same breath. If he told you now – best friend, wine, rain, your feet warm under his thigh – you'd panic. You'd rebuild the wall between you before he finished the sentence. He knew you. He knew you the way he knew the load of a shield in his hand, and he knew that the direct assault would lose.

So he wouldn't make the direct assault.

He'd do what he was good at. He'd shape the ground.

He looked at you, and he let none of it show – not the heat, not the mine, not the plan already assembling itself behind his steady friendly eyes – and when he spoke his voice was gentle, and warm, and exactly, precisely the voice of a man who wanted nothing for himself.

“Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

You did.

“You didn't do anything wrong,” he told you. “Waiting for someone who's the one. That's not a thing that's wrong with you.”

He let a beat pass.

Let it land.

Then, easy, almost offhand, planting the first seed so lightly you'd never feel the soil move, “Honestly? I think it says you've got better sense than everyone I know. You held out for it to matter. Most people would kill to have done that.”

Something eased in your face. He watched it ease. He'd known it would.

“You think?” you said.

“I know,” he said.

And he smiled at you – the good smile, the one you'd rebuilt out of a broken century, the one you trusted absolutely – and he tucked the blanket a little more snugly over your feet where they rested against him, a small warm gesture of a man taking care of his friend, and inside the calm cathedral of himself Steve Rogers began, quietly and without any hurry at all, to plan how he was going to become the one.

He had time.

That was the beauty of it.

He was patient; the war had taught him patience, and love had taught him more.

He'd move slow. He'd move so slow you'd never see it as moving. He'd make himself the warmest place in your whole cold new world, warmer than any man who ever asked you to dinner, so that when the moment came – and he'd know the moment, he'd make the moment – it would feel to you like the most natural thing in the world.

Like your own idea.

Like coming home.

He'd give you a first you didn't have to be brave for.

And once he was your first – once you'd let him that far, further than you'd ever let anyone – well…

He didn't let himself finish that one either. But the shape of it sat warm and certain in his chest as the rain came down, and your feet were tucked against him, and the film played on, unwatched, telling its little story to no one.

First, he thought, watching your profile in the blue light.

And last.

You had no idea. You leaned your head back against the arm of the couch and let his kindness settle over you like the blanket, grateful, unguarded, feeling – for the first time all night – completely safe.

You were, of course, exactly the opposite of safe.

You'd never been more thoroughly in someone's sights in your life.

But it felt like being loved. It felt, from the inside, precisely like being loved.

That was the whole trouble with Steve Rogers.

It always did.

He didn't move for three weeks.

That was the part no one would have believed of him, if anyone had been watching – and no one was, that was rather the point.

Three weeks of nothing.

Three weeks of being, in every visible particular, exactly the friend he'd always been.

But underneath, he was watering what he'd planted.

He did it so gently you'd never have called it anything. He simply returned to the thing, now and then, from oblique angles.

A film you watched together where a couple waited years for each other, and Steve, offhand, eyes on the screen, “See, that's the thing people don't get. Waiting for the right one isn't weakness. It's the opposite.”

He didn't look at you when he said it.

He didn't have to.

He felt you go still beside him, felt the words go in and find the soil he'd already turned.

A week later, a friend of yours got engaged, and you were happy for her and a little raw underneath, and Steve was there for that too – present, warm, and somewhere in the evening he said, easy as anything,

“You know what I've always thought about you? You're not waiting because you're scared. You're waiting because you know what it should feel like. That's rare. Most people just settle.”

You know what it should feel like.

He watched the sentence do its work over the following days.

He was patient.

He'd learned in a war that the ground does most of the fighting for you, if you shape it right and wait.

And you – you didn't know you were being shaped.

You only knew that lately, when the old ache came, the one about being the last of your friends to have never, Steve's voice was there in your head to meet it. Not making you feel broken. Making you feel chosen by your own restraint.

Turning the wound into something almost like pride.

You didn't notice that the voice comforting you and the ache it comforted had started coming from the same place.

That was the craft of it. He didn't just want to be your first. He wanted you to arrive at him feeling like it was the wisest thing you'd ever done.

He chose the night the way he'd once chosen drop zones.

He didn't force it.

He waited for the conditions and let them assemble, and when they did – a Friday, rain again because the rain was on his side, a week where you'd been tired and worn thin and had said, twice, that you just wanted to be somewhere that felt safe – he simply made sure the somewhere was him.

He cooked.

He didn't usually cook; he made a point of it now, and made a point of it looking effortless, so that you'd arrive at his door and be met with warmth and food and low light and the particular gravity of a room that has been made ready for you without ever announcing that it has.

You didn't notice the candle.

You noticed you felt better the second you were through the door, and you didn't ask why, because that was what his apartment always did to you, and you'd never once wondered whether that was an accident.

It was not an accident. It had never been an accident.

You ate. You drank a little – not much; he watched that too, careful, because he did not want a version of this you could tell yourself later hadn't been real.

He wanted you clear.

He wanted you to choose it. The choosing was the whole prize.

And he let the evening soften into the shape it always took, you curled into the corner of his couch, him near, the rain, the low light, the safety he'd built for you brick by brick over three years and you'd never once seen the trowel.

He waited until you brought it up yourself.

He'd known you would. He'd shaped the whole night so you would. And you did – sideways, the way you always came at the tender things, some joke about the engaged friend, about being the last one standing, and the laugh you used to armor it.

He didn't laugh with you this time.

He let a silence open instead. And into the silence, gently, like setting something down that he'd been carrying a long way, Steve said:

“Can I tell you something I've been thinking?”

He'd rehearsed it.

Of course he'd rehearsed it.

He'd rehearsed it in the shower and on his runs and lying awake, editing, the way he'd rehearsed the last one, except this time he'd learned from watching you for three weeks exactly which words would land and which would spook you, and he'd built the speech to your specifications without you ever knowing you'd given them.

But he delivered it like a man thinking out loud.

That was the art.

Nothing rehearsed.

Just a friend, arriving in real time at a hard, honest thing.

He started with you. Always start with them; make it about them.

He said he hated that you carried this like a weight. That someone had made it a wound. That you were the least broken person he knew and it killed him a little that you didn't see it.

He watched your face soften and open.

Then he moved – one careful step, so smooth it didn't feel like a step at all.

He said the thing he was about to say, he was only saying because he was your friend. That he needed you to hear it that way. No expectations. Nothing owed. Nothing changed. He needed to say that part first, he said, because otherwise he'd lose his nerve.

Nothing changed.

The oldest lie in his arsenal, and he laid it down first, deliberately, because a lie told up front lowers the guard against everything after it.

And then – gentle, reluctant, a man dragging the words up against his own modesty, a performance so good he half-believed it himself – he offered.

He said he didn't want your first to be someone who'd be careless with it. Someone who'd take a thing that mattered and not understand that it mattered.

He said the word he'd built the whole campaign on, the one he'd planted in you three weeks ago and watered ever since – someone who makes it matter – and he watched it land in the exact soil he'd prepared, watched you recognize your own comfort in his mouth, watched it feel to you like being understood.

He said, if you ever wanted – if it would take the weight off – it could be him.

Because he was your friend.

Because he'd be gentle.

Because he'd take care of you, and make it good, and never once make you feel like the thing that man had made you feel.

He ran the whole thing so warm, so selfless, so entirely about you, that the want underneath it never showed – the mine, the first and last, the fist that had closed at the base of him three weeks ago and never once let go.

He kept all of that behind his steady friendly eyes, where he kept everything, and he let you see only the kindness.

And then he stopped.

And he let the silence do the last of the work.

He'd learned, in a war, that you don't take the ground. You make the ground so untenable that the other side walks into your arms believing it was their idea.

He watched your face. He read every flicker of it. He'd been reading it for three years.

He saw the moment you decided.

He saw it before you knew it yourself.

“Okay,” you said.

Quiet. Barely more than breath.

But he heard it land in the room like a struck bell, and something in his chest surged so hard he had to hold his face still against it.

“Yeah?” he said.

Soft.

Careful.

Give it back to them gently, let them feel it was freely given.

“Yeah.”

You laughed a little, shaky, and it wasn't the armored laugh, it was a real one, undefended, and it went through him like sunlight through the wrong century.

“God. Yeah. I– with you. It should be– of course it should be you. Who else would I–”

Who else.

He'd built that, too.

The whole architecture of who else. Three years of being the warmest place in your world so that when the question came there'd be no other answer in the room.

It had worked. It had all worked. He should have felt like a man who'd won.

He did feel that. He felt it low and hot and certain.

But he felt, too – and this surprised him, this he hadn't planned for – a swell of something enormous and unbearably tender, because you'd said of course it should be you with your whole open face, and for one vertiginous second he forgot the campaign entirely and was just a man in love who'd been told yes.

That was the strange thing about Steve Rogers.

Even the manipulation ran on something real.

Especially the manipulation.

He reached over.

He took your hand – didn't pull you, didn't move toward the bedroom, didn't do a single thing to break the spell by making it suddenly, crudely, about the act.

He'd thought about this part, too.

He was not going to rush you. Rushing you was for lesser men, the careless ones, the ones he'd spent three years defining himself against.

He was going to hold you right here, on this threshold, in the warm ruin of your yes, and he was going to let it be enormous.

Because if the first thing after your yes was a scramble toward a bedroom, some part of you might flinch, might feel it become transactional, might wake up.

He wasn't going to let you wake up.

So he just held your hand.

And looked at you.

And let the moment stretch until it was almost too much to bear, until the whole air of the room had changed, gone thick and slow and charged, until you could feel your own heartbeat in your throat.

“We don't have to do anything right now,” he said, low.

And you'd have sworn – you did swear, to yourself, in that moment – that it was the kindest thing anyone had ever said to you.

You didn't hear the other thing in it.

The patience of a man who'd waited three weeks and could wait one more hour, because he knew that making you wait now, holding you here trembling on the edge of it, was going to make everything after so much more completely his.

“I know,” you said. “I just– can we just–”

“Yeah,” he said. “We can.”

And he settled back, and drew you in against his side, and you let yourself be drawn, your yes still ringing in the air between you like the note after a bell, unspent, everything still ahead of you, nothing crossed yet.

His heart was slamming.

Yours was too.

Neither of you moved toward the door that both of you were now, unmistakably, going to walk through.

He looked down at the top of your head, tucked against him, trusting, chosen, caught.

First, he thought, and this time he let himself finish it, slow, savoring it, the whole long game folding shut around you like a hand.

And last.

The rain came down. The candle he was sure you hadn't noticed burned lower. And Steve Rogers held you on the threshold he'd spent three weeks building you toward, and did not, for one more perfect suspended minute, move.

It wasn't that night. That was the first thing that surprised you.

You'd said yes on his couch, in the warm ruin of the rain, and some part of you had braced for the rest of it to happen then and there – for him to lead you to his bed while the yes was still ringing.

He didn't.

He held you on the threshold and let it be enormous and then, when the candle had burned low and the hour had gone soft, he'd walked you to the door and kissed your forehead and said goodnight.

You'd lain awake most of that night not knowing whether to be relieved or bereft.

What you didn't understand – what you wouldn't understand for a long time – was that the waiting was also his.

That a man who has spent three weeks and one careful evening bringing you exactly here does not squander it on a single unplanned night.

He wanted it chosen.

He wanted you to walk toward it in daylight, awake, sober, with days to change your mind and no wine to blame – because a yes you could take back and didn't was worth infinitely more to him than a yes he'd caught you in.

So the days passed.

Four of them.

And they were strange, luminous, unbearable days.

Because now it was between you.

He'd hand you a coffee and your fingers would brush and you'd both go quiet a half-second too long.

He'd text you something stupid and you'd read it eleven times.

The whole architecture of your friendship, three years of it, had been picked up and set down one degree to the left, and everything looked the same and nothing was.

Now it lived in every ordinary thing.

He'd hand you a coffee and your fingers would brush and you'd both go quiet a half-second too long. He'd text you something stupid and you'd read it eleven times. The whole architecture of your friendship, three years of it, had been picked up and set down one degree to the left, and everything looked the same and nothing was.

And this was the part that undid you – he talked to you about it. Like it was ordinary. Like it was allowed.

“I don't want it to be weird,” he said, on the phone, on the second night, his voice low in your ear in the dark.

“I want you to actually think about it. What you want. How you want it. If you change your mind at any point, even walking in the door, even after– you tell me and it stops. I mean that.”

“I know you mean it” you said, and you did, and that was somehow the most dangerous part of all.

“And if you don't change your mind,” he went on, careful, “then– Friday? Your place?”

Your place.

He'd chosen that too, though you didn't clock it.

Your bed. Your room. Somewhere you'd feel safe, somewhere that was yours – so that when he took it, it would feel like being kept rather than taken.

“Friday,” you said. “My place.”

You heard him breathe out, slow, on the other end of the line. You thought it was nerves.

It was a man watching the last piece of a very long game slide quietly into place.

“Friday,” he agreed. “I'll bring dinner. We don't have to rush anything. We've got all the time in the world.”

He said that a lot, that week. All the time in the world. You thought it was reassurance.

It was a promise.

You just didn't know yet what he was promising.

On Thursday, you were off all evening, and he clocked it inside four minutes.

That was the trouble with being known by Steve Rogers. Three years of a man studying your face the way other people study scripture, and there was nowhere left in you to hide a mood. You'd arrived at his door on the third day with takeout and a smile that didn't reach anywhere, and you'd been fine, determinedly fine, aggressively fine, all through dinner.

He let you be fine for an hour and a half. He was patient like that.

Then he put down his fork and said, “Okay. What is it.”

“What's what?”

“You've laughed at three things tonight and you didn't mean any of them.”

You looked at him. He looked back, unmoving, with that terrible mild patience of his, the one that had gotten more out of you over three years than any interrogation ever could.

“It's nothing.”

“It's not nothing. You've been chewing on something since you got here.” He tilted his head. “Is it Friday?”

And there it was, said out loud, in his kitchen, over cold noodles. Friday. The word had been sitting between you for three days like a lit fuse and neither of you had touched it.

“No,” you said.

Then, “Sort of.”

Then, because his eyebrows had gone up a quarter inch and that was somehow worse than any question, “It's stupid. Steve, it's genuinely stupid, can we not–”

“You're allowed to change your mind.” He said it fast, and something in his voice had gone very slightly wrong at the edges. “I meant that. Any point. You don't have to have a reason, you just say the word and it's–”

“That's not it either.”

He waited.

God, he was good at waiting.

He'd sit there all night.

He'd sit there for a week.

And the silence he made was never cold or expectant, it was warm and patient and completely unbearable, and it pulled things out of you the way heat pulls water.

You cracked in about nine seconds.

“How many people have you slept with?”

Steve blinked.

Whatever he'd been braced for, it hadn't been that. You watched him actually recalibrate – watched the careful machine of him stop, reverse, and start again in an entirely different direction.

“...Why?”

“Forget it–”

“No. Hey.” He leaned forward. “No, I'm not– I'm not dodging. I'm asking why, because I want to answer the actual question and I don't know what it is yet.”

You put your hands over your face.

“Because you've done this,” you said, into your palms. “That's the– okay, look. You've had women. Obviously you've had women, you're–” a helpless gesture at all of him, “–that, and it's been three years, and you're not a monk, and I never asked because it wasn't my business, and now it's Friday and it is my business, sort of, and I keep–”

You stopped.

“You keep what,” he said quietly.

“I keep thinking about them.” Your voice had gone small. “Whoever they were. That they knew what they were doing. That they were– that you have something to compare me to and I've got nothing, I've got nothing, I don't know how to do a single part of this and you're going to be so–”

“Don't say bored.”

“I was going to say disappointed.”

Something crossed his face that you couldn't read.

He got up. Came around the table. Crouched down beside your chair so that he was lower than you, looking up, which was a thing he did sometimes and which you'd never once been able to withstand.

“Okay,” he said. “Ask me properly. I'll answer anything. Straight.”

So you did, because you'd already humiliated yourself and there was nothing left to protect.

“How many?”

“Few.” He said it without flinching. “Since the ice– three. One that lasted about eight months, back at the start. Two that didn't last at all.” A pause. “Before the ice, none. For the record. I was a hundred and ten pounds and nobody was interested, and then there was a war on.”

“Eight months.”

“Eight months.”

“Did you love her?”

He considered it. He didn't rush to say no, which somehow you respected and hated in equal measure.

“I wanted to,” he said finally.

“I tried pretty hard. She was kind, and she deserved better than a man who was – ” He stopped. Restarted. “I wasn't really there. She said that, actually. At the end. She said it was like living with someone who was waiting for a phone call.”

You didn't understand, then, what he was telling you.

You would, later. On a grey morning, in the clear light, with all the pieces laid out. You'd count backwards and realize that the eight months had ended about two years ago, right about the time a man had looked up in this kitchen and noticed the shape of your hands, and you'd understand exactly what phone call he'd been waiting for.

But that was later. Right then you just sat there feeling worse.

“Great,” you said. “So there's an eight-month person. Who presumably knew how to–”

“Hey.”

“–and I'm going to be lying there like a–”

“Hey.” His hands closed over yours in your lap. “Look at me. You want the straight answer? Here's the straight answer. I can't remember her face without trying.”

You went quiet.

“That's not me being cruel about her,” he said. “She was a good person and she didn't do anything wrong. It's just true. I've had three, and I couldn't tell you one specific thing about a single one of those nights, and I've been sitting in this apartment for three days now unable to think about anything except–”

He stopped.

Very suddenly. Like a man who has walked to the exact edge of a cliff at speed and put his heel down just in time.

The kitchen was very quiet.

“Except what?” you asked.

Here was what was happening inside Steve Rogers at that moment, and it was not what you thought.

He was cornered. Genuinely cornered, for the first time in three years of careful navigation – and by his own hand, which was the galling part.

Because he'd built this whole thing on a lie of omission.

I'm doing this for you. No expectations. Nothing changes.

He'd told you it was a kindness, and the trouble with telling someone it's a kindness is that it makes them the charity case, and now you were sitting in his kitchen with your hands shaking under his, believing you were a favor he was doing, believing there were better women in his past that you'd be measured against.

And he could fix it.

Instantly.

One sentence would fix it, and the sentence was I have wanted you for two years and there has never been anyone else in the room, not once, not ever, they were all just places I was standing while I waited for you.

He couldn't say it.

Not yet.

Not three days out, not with the whole thing balanced this delicately, not when saying it now might spook you into calling Friday off – because he knew you, he knew what you did when something got too big, you ran, you laughed it off and rebuilt the wall and he'd have to spend another year getting back to here.

So he did the thing he was best at.

He told you the truth – as much of it as he could afford, and not one word more. He gave you the edge of it and let you believe the edge was the whole.

“Except you,” he said.

Your breath caught.

“That's– Steve–”

“Three days,” he said, low. “I haven't slept much. I keep–”

He shook his head, and the frustration in it was completely real, which was what made it work.

“You think you've got nothing to offer. You think you're gonna disappoint me. I'm sitting here trying to figure out how to tell you that I've been half out of my mind since Friday got put on the table and it's got nothing to do with being helpful.”

“But you said–”

“I know what I said.”

You stared at him.

He held your gaze and let you look, and he let just enough of it show – not all of it, never all of it, but enough. Enough that something in your chest turned over hard.

“I don't understand,” you said.

“I know.” He squeezed your hands. “You don't have to yet.”

And then he moved you off it – deftly, warmly, the way he moved you off everything.

“Here's the part I do want you to hear,” he said, “because it's the part that's actually true and I need you to stop carrying it. Ready?”

You nodded.

“There's nothing to be good at.”

“That's not–”

“There isn't.” He said it with total conviction.

“That's a thing people made up to sell you something. Nobody's grading it. There's no technique that matters more than–” he searched for it, “– than the person actually wanting to be there. That's it. That's the whole thing. And the idea that you'd need to perform for me, that you'd be lying there worried you're not–”

He broke off, and something flashed across his face that you'd never seen before, something with a great deal of heat in it.

“That's not going to be a problem,” he said. “I promise you that's not going to be a problem.”

“You can't know that.”

“I can,” he said. “I do.”

And there was such flat, absolute, unarguable certainty in it – the certainty of a man who has run this scenario in his head several hundred times and knows precisely how it goes – that you felt the ground shift under you.

“Okay,” you said faintly.

“And for what it's worth.” He got up, sat back down in his own chair, and reached over to steal a piece of your food, so casual, so ordinary, so completely deliberate. “The comparison thing works both ways.”

“What does that mean?”

He shrugged, eyes on his plate.

“Means they're not the ones who spent three years learning what your face does,” he said. “So I'd say I'm at something of an advantage.”

You laughed. It surprised you, coming out.

He smiled at his plate, and let you laugh, and did not look up – because if you'd seen his face in that moment, all the careful work would have been for nothing.

Three years learning what your face does.

He'd told you the truth. He kept doing that, all week, in small unbearable increments – offering you the actual shape of it in pieces you weren't yet able to assemble, so that later, when you finally could, you would understand that he had never once lied.

Only ever waited for you to catch up.

“Friday,” you said.

“Friday,” he agreed.

And he thought, watching you go back to your food with your shoulders finally loose and every day after that, if I've done this right.

Friday came the way you'd been half-dreading and half-dying for it to come.

He arrived with food and you barely ate it. You both knew you wouldn't, really; the dinner was a courtesy, a soft place to land the first hour, a way to let your nerves burn down to embers before anything else.

He was good at that.

He was good at making you feel like there was no clock, even as he watched the evening move exactly where he'd meant it to.

He kissed you standing, in the middle of your living room, with the rain going on the windows and the dinner neither of you had eaten gone cold behind you.

He took your face in both hands to do it.

That was the thing that undid you first – not the kiss, the hands.

The way he framed your jaw between them, thumbs along your cheekbones, tilting you up like something he'd been given permission to hold at last.

Careful.

Almost formal.

As if after three years of not being allowed, he intended to do this properly.

The kiss was soft.

Softer than you'd expected from a man that size. He kissed you like he had all night – because he did, because he'd made sure of it – slow closed-mouth presses that asked and asked and never once pushed. His breath was warm on your upper lip. His thumb moved once against your cheek.

You'd waited three years for this. Three years of standing in kitchens and doorways and not letting yourself, and now it was happening and it was gentle, and something in you went molten and impatient all at once.

So you bit him.

Not hard. Just caught his lower lip between your teeth and pulled, a small deliberate provocation, more instinct than plan.

Steve made a sound like he'd been struck.

And the careful thing broke.

It happened fast. His hands left your face and found you properly – one at your waist, one at the small of your back – and he moved you, three steps, no effort at all, until your shoulders met the wall.

Not hard.

He'd never put you into a wall hard. But the ease of it, the sheer thoughtless strength of being relocated by a man who could do it without straining, punched a moan straight out of you before you'd decided to make one.

Because you felt him then. All of him, all at once. The whole solid front of him pressed flush against you from chest to hip, and it was so much – so much more real than anything you’d ever conjured alone in the dark – that your knees genuinely went. You could feel the thick, heavy line of his cock already hard against your stomach, straining against his jeans, and the heat of it made your mouth go dry.

“Fuck,” he breathed against your mouth, voice rough. “‘M sorry. Been waiting three years to feel you like this. Sorry, too much?”

“Don't you dare apologize.”

He laughed, wrecked, and kissed you again, and this time it wasn't soft at all.

It went hot in the space of a breath.

His mouth opened over yours and yours opened under his and it stopped being careful entirely – teeth catching, tongues sliding, the graceless wet urgency of two people who have waited far too long for a thing and have suddenly stopped being polite about it

He kissed you like he was trying to get through you. You kissed him back like you'd been drowning.

His hands didn’t stay still. One kept its grip at your waist, fingers spanning half your ribcage, holding you exactly where he wanted you against the wall. The other went into your hair and held – cradling your skull, tilting your head where he needed it, giving him the angle he wanted so he could fuck his tongue into your mouth deeper.

You couldn't breathe properly.

Neither could he.

Between kisses there were these ragged half-seconds where you both just gasped into each other's mouths, foreheads pressed, and then one of you would go back in like it hurt not to.

And then he slid his thigh between yours.

You didn’t even register it happening. One second there was space and the next there was the hard, thick muscle of his leg pressed up tight between your thighs, taking your weight, holding you up when your legs had stopped bothering. The seam of your jeans dragged right against your clit with every tiny shift, and you were already so wet the fabric felt soaked through.

You made a sound into his mouth. He swallowed it.

“There it is,” he murmured, rough, dragging his mouth along your jaw. “There’s that sound. God, you have no idea– three years I’ve wondered what you’d sound like when you finally stopped holding back. Three years I’ve thought about getting my hands on you and finding out.”

He didn't finish it. He bit the side of your throat instead, open-mouthed and greedy, and you keened.

He’d meant it to be slower.

That was the thing. He’d planned this – of course he’d planned this, he’d been planning it for months, every careful conversation, every soft offer to “make sure it was someone who actually gave a damn” – and in the plan this part was fifteen minutes of taking the edge off your nerves before he moved you toward the bedroom and began, slowly, methodically, the careful hours of work he’d mapped out in his head.

He was managing it. Just about. His control was fraying but it was holding.

And then he felt you move.

He went absolutely still.

Not stopped-kissing still.

Something deeper.

A stillness that started somewhere behind his sternum and spread outward, because his body had just registered a piece of information his mind was three full seconds behind on.

You were rocking against his thigh.

Small. Slow. An unhurried little roll of your hips, back and forward, grinding your cunt against the hard muscle of his leg, seeking the pressure of him, entirely without instruction – and when he made himself pull back an inch to look at you, he understood in one glance that you had no idea you were doing it.

None. Not a shred of awareness.

Your eyes were half open and gone somewhere far away. Your mouth was red and swollen and slack from him, still parted, still chasing. Both your hands were buried in his hair, fisted tight enough to sting. And your hips just kept going, small helpless movements, riding the muscle of his thigh with the unthinking single-mindedness of a body that had stopped consulting anybody about what it wanted.

You weren't performing. You weren't trying to be anything. You weren't even present enough to be embarrassed.

Steve stared at you.

Something enormous turned over in his chest.

Because here was the thing he had never allowed himself to properly imagine, not in three years, not in a single one of the shameful careful fantasies he'd built and dismantled in the dark: that you might want him like this.

Not sweetly. Not gratefully. Not as a favor accepted from a good friend.

Like an appetite. Like a woman with a body that knew exactly what it was after and had gotten tired of waiting.

She's not innocent, he thought, dazed. God help me. She’s just never been touched. And she wants it. She wants me.

And he almost let it happen.

He came so close. Every animal part of him wanted to press his thigh up harder and hold you there and watch you come apart against him in your own hallway – and for one long second his hand actually moved to your hip to help, fingers digging in, guiding the roll of your body so the seam of your jeans dragged tighter over your clit.

Then he stopped.

Because he'd promised himself something four days ago, lying awake, rehearsing.

Not against a wall. Not in a hallway with her shoes still on.

Not the first time.

He had spent three years getting here and he was not going to spend the first thing you ever felt from another person on a rushed ten minutes in a corridor. He wanted you on a bed. He wanted hours. He wanted to watch your face when he finally pushed inside you.

So he took his thigh away.

The sound you made was awful.

A high, thin, wrecked little whine, muffled against his throat, so entirely undone and so completely unlike anything you’d ever let him hear that it nearly finished him where he stood. Your hips kept moving anyway, chasing the pressure that was no longer there, cunt clenching around nothing.

“I know,” he breathed. “I know. I know, sweetheart– you were right there, weren’t you? I felt it. You were gonna come on my leg like that.”

“Steve–” You were shaking. Your hips were still moving, mindless. “Please, I was– I was almost–”

“I know you were.” His voice was barely holding together. His hands slid down, gripped the backs of your thighs hard enough to leave marks. “That’s exactly why I’m not letting you. Not here. Not like this. I’ve waited too fucking long to take you against a wall for the first time.”

And he picked you up.

Just lifted you, straight off the floor, as effortlessly as picking up a coat – and your legs went around him on pure instinct and your arms went around his neck and the sound you made this time was different, because the position had put you flush against him, directly against the thick, hard length of his cock, nothing between you now but two layers of ruined clothing.

You ground down on him without deciding to. Hard. The ridge of him dragged right against your clit through the fabric and a broken sound punched out of both of you at the same time.

He staggered half a step.

“Baby.”

“I can't– I can't stop–”

“Then don’t.” He got his mouth back on yours, kissing you as he walked, taking the whole weight of you on one forearm so the other hand could hold your face. “Don’t stop. Rub yourself on me all you want. Just don’t come. Not yet. Give me one more minute, that’s all I’m asking–”

You whimpered into his mouth and rolled your hips anyway, shameless, grinding your soaked cunt against the hard line of him with every step, and he laughed, breathless and ruined, and kept walking.

The hallway was three metres long. It took a while.

Your shirt went first – he’d got it halfway off you against the wall and you finished it, dragging it over your head, throwing it somewhere that turned out to be the kitchen. His went next, and it was you who did that too, both hands under the hem and shoving, desperate for skin. He had to set you down for two seconds to get it over his head and you both made frustrated noises about the two seconds of separation.

One of your shoes came off in the corridor. The other one you kicked at the bedroom door and it hit the frame and bounced.

He got you up again. You got your legs back around him. He walked you the last few feet with your mouth on his throat and his hands full of your ass and his belt half undone by fingers that had no business being that clumsy. You could feel how hard he was, the thick shape of him trapped against your stomach, and every step made you grind harder against it.

By the time you made it to the bed, most of it was gone. The rest went in a graceless heap somewhere between the door and the mattress – jeans, underwear, the last of your clothes – neither of you looking, neither of you caring, both of you making sounds into each other’s mouths that would have mortified you in daylight.

And then there was nothing left, and he was carrying you bare against him, skin on skin down the whole length of you. You felt the heavy, hot weight of his cock trapped between your bodies, the head of it already slick against your stomach, and you both stopped dead at the shock of it.

He held you there. Breathing hard. Forehead against yours. His hands were shaking where they gripped the backs of your thighs.

“Okay,” he managed, voice wrecked. “Okay. Look at me.”

“Okay,” you agreed. Neither of you moved. You could feel how wet you were against him, the slick heat of your cunt pressed right against the underside of his cock.

He turned to lay you down on the bed.

And stopped.

You felt it happen – felt the whole enormous frame of him go rigid, felt the change in his breathing – and you lifted your head from his shoulder to see what he was looking at.

Oh, God.

The nightstand. Half-tucked behind the lamp, where you'd meant it to live out of sight and had entirely, catastrophically forgotten it would be visible from this angle, held in these arms, naked, tonight of all nights.

Small. Yellow. Absurd.

A little rubber duck, except for the shield painted on its chest, and the tiny painted mask, and the unmistakable, ridiculous, unmissable A on its forehead.

“Oh my God.” You said it into his shoulder. “Oh my God. Steve. That's not– okay, that is not–”

“Whose is that.” Quiet. Not cold. Quiet.

“A friend gave it to me.” The words came out in a rush, muffled, desperate. “As a joke, it was a birthday thing, everyone laughed, she thought it was hilarious– because of you, obviously, because I never shut up about–”

You stopped.

You’d said too much and not nearly enough, and you were naked, wrapped around him, held off the ground by a man whose bare skin was pressed to every inch of yours – the thick, hot length of his cock trapped between your bodies, the head of it already slick against your stomach – and the horror of it and the heat of it hit you at the exact same moment and came out of you as a sound that was not a word at all.

Because you were still at the very edge. He’d taken you to the brink in your own hallway and left you there, and your whole body was still humming and furious about it, cunt still throbbing and empty, and now this – his arms, his chest, the shameful little yellow thing on the nightstand, the sheer overload of it…

You moaned. Right against his throat. Helpless. Your hips rolled once, involuntary, dragging your wetness along the underside of his cock.

He felt it. Every part of him felt it.

“A joke,” he said.

“Steve–”

“And you used it?”

The question dropped into the dark and stopped everything.

You could have lied. He felt you decide not to. He felt the truth come up through you, hot and honest, and you lifted your chin the smallest fraction – that flash of defiance that told him you were not, whatever else, some blushing innocent – and you said it.

“Yes.”

One word.

It went through him like a struck match through paper.

Because there it was – the thing he’d told himself he was too decent to feel. You’d taken him – this ridiculous painted duck-version of him, this joke, this stand-in – and in the privacy of this room, alone, in the dark, you’d spread your legs and pressed that little yellow body between them and come with his face in your head. Every other man who’d ever asked you to dinner had been turned away at the door, and the only version of anyone you had ever let into this bed had been him.

Even as a joke. Even in rubber. It had been him.

The possessiveness that took him then wasn’t a thought. It was tidal. It closed over the last of his careful decency and pulled it under without a sound.

He didn’t touch the duck. He’d get to it. He’d get to it in his own time, and the knowledge of that sat in him warm and patient and certain.

“Okay,” he said, very softly, and you heard the change in him – the way his voice dropped into something darker, rougher, almost hungry – and your breath caught. “Okay, baby. So you’ve been using me to get yourself off. For how long?”

You didn’t answer. You couldn’t.

He laid you down.

And then he stopped, and looked at you, and didn't touch you at all.

You’d have squirmed under it if you’d had the coordination left. He was kneeling over you, braced on one arm, completely naked, cock heavy and flushed against his stomach, and he was just… looking. Taking his time about it. His eyes moving over you slowly, thoroughly, from your face down the length of your body and back up again, lingering on your breasts, the soft curve of your stomach, the wet shine between your thighs, like a man reading something he’d been told about for years and had never been allowed to see.

“Steve–”

“Give me a second.” His voice was unrecognisable – low, rough, almost reverent. “Three years I’ve imagined what you’d look like under me. Give me one second to actually see it.”

So you lay there and let him look, and watched what it did to his face, and it was almost worse than being touched. His cock twitched visibly against his stomach. A bead of precome welled at the tip and slid down the underside.

Then he took his time – which, after the hallway, after being carried, after being left shaking on the very edge of it, was almost cruel.

He touched you like a man with nowhere else in the world to be. Slow palms up the outsides of your thighs, spreading them wider. Along your ribs, thumbs spread wide so they brushed the undersides of your breasts. His mouth at your throat, your collarbone, the soft give beneath – unhurried, methodical, learning you by hand and by inches while you writhed underneath him and made sounds you’d have been mortified by in daylight. Every time his fingers drifted close to where you needed them most he pulled them away again, stroking the crease of your thigh instead, feeling how wet you’d already gotten just from being looked at.

You told him, at least three times, that you were going to lose your mind.

“I know,” he murmured, into your skin, entirely unmoved. “I know. Almost. I’ve waited three years to get my hands on you. I’m not rushing the first time I get to touch you like this.”

“You left me–”

“I did.” Not sorry. Not remotely sorry. His mouth moved lower, open and wet against the soft skin just above your navel. “I wanted the first time you came for me to be right here. In this bed. With my fingers inside you and my mouth on you so I could watch every second of it.”

“That’s–” You had to stop and breathe when his tongue dipped into your navel. “That’s a horrible thing to do to someone.”

You felt it more than heard it – the warm huff of air, the curve of his mouth.

“Probably,” he agreed. “But I’ve been hard for you since the second I walked through your door, and I’ve been thinking about this exact moment for months. You’re going to have to live with it.”

And you understood, dimly, through the fog – the way you understand a thing you won't be able to name until much later – that he was enjoying this. Not the way a man enjoys being generous. The way a man enjoys having something exactly where he wants it, after a very long wait.

And then he touched you properly, and you stopped being able to form sentences.

The first thing was the shock of how different it was.

That was what nobody had ever told you. You knew your own body – you’d had years alone in this room with nothing but time and a joke made of rubber, you weren’t some blank page – but you had never once considered that another person’s hand would feel like an entirely different category of thing.

You couldn’t predict it. That was the difference. You didn’t know what was coming next, or how long it would last, or when it would change, and your body couldn’t brace for any of it – so every single thing he did landed unguarded, straight through, nothing between you and the sensation at all.

His fingers slid through the soaking folds of you, parting them, and the sound was obscenely wet. You made a noise like you’d been hurt. His head came up instantly.

“Okay?”

“Don't stop. Don't you dare stop–”

“Not stopping.” His mouth came back to your jaw, voice rough against your skin. “Not stopping, sweetheart. Just checking. Fuck, you’re soaked. Is this all for me? Or is some of it left over from thinking about that little yellow duck while you touched yourself?”

It didn't take long. It couldn't have.

You’d been strung tight since the hallway, since before the hallway, since a Tuesday in his kitchen four days ago – and he knew it, and he used it. He read every twitch of you, every hitch of your breath, adjusting to each one, cataloguing in that ruthless observant way of his exactly what made you shake and exactly what made you sob.

Three years of watching your face for the smallest tells, put to this.

Two thick fingers circled your entrance, gathering slick, then pressed inside you in one slow, steady push. The stretch made your back arch off the bed. He curled them immediately, searching, and when he found the spot that made your whole body jolt he made a low, satisfied sound against your throat that you would think about for weeks afterward.

“There,” he said, voice dark with triumph. “There it is. That’s the place you’ve been rubbing that little duck against, isn’t it? Right here.”

“Steve–”

“I know. I’ve got it now.” Something had come into his voice that hadn’t been there before. Something certain. Something almost proprietary. “I’ve got you. I’m not going to lose it again.”

He didn’t. He held that exact angle, merciless, and worked his fingers inside you in slow, deep strokes while his thumb found your clit and rubbed firm, steady circles. It built in you fast and hot and impossible, and you had a moment of genuine panic – of I can’t, it’s too much, this is too much with someone watching – and he felt even that, because of course he did.

“Yes you can.” His forehead against your temple. His breath ragged now too; he wasn’t unaffected at all, he was breathing like he’d been running, hips shifting restlessly against the mattress so his cock dragged against your thigh. “Yes, you can. You’re going to come on my fingers exactly like this. Let me see it. Please– sweetheart, let me see what you look like when you finally let go for me–”

Then he kissed you.

And that was what finished you: his mouth over yours, swallowing every sound you made, taking them straight out of you as they came – as if he’d decided that if he couldn’t have the rest of you yet, he’d have those.

You broke apart underneath him.

He watched every second of it.

Your cunt clenched hard around his fingers in rhythmic pulses, so tight he groaned into your mouth. Slick flooded his hand. Your thighs shook violently on either side of his wrist. He kept working you through it, slower now but relentless, dragging every last tremor out of you while he watched.

He’d kept his face inches from yours the whole time for exactly that reason. He wanted the front-row seat and he took it, and he watched you come apart under his hand with an expression you had never seen on him in three years and would not be able to describe afterward – something between reverence and hunger and a kind of naked disbelief.

Three years, he was thinking. Three years and it looks like that.

It was better than the fantasy. It was so much better than the fantasy that the fantasy seemed insulting in hindsight – thin, polite, invented by a man who hadn't known anything.

When it finally released you, you were boneless. Shaking. Your hand had fisted so hard in the sheet that it took a moment to unclench. You could feel how wet his fingers still were inside you, the slow, filthy slide of them as he gently eased the intensity.

He pressed his mouth to your temple and held you through the aftershocks, murmuring things against your skin.

“There,” he said. There was wonder in it. And something much darker underneath. “There you are. That’s what you look like when you come for me. Fuck, baby. I’ve been imagining that for so long and it still wasn’t enough.”

You couldn’t speak. You couldn’t do anything but breathe.

“Okay?” he asked, voice softer now, though his fingers were still buried inside you, still moving in the slowest, laziest strokes, like he couldn’t bring himself to pull them out yet.

You managed a nod.

He kissed you again – softly this time, almost sweetly, at odds with everything – and when he drew back his eyes had gone very dark. He slowly withdrew his fingers, watched the way your body tried to clench around the emptiness, then brought them up between you so you could both see how they glistened.

“That’s one,” he murmured, and licked them clean without looking away from your face.

Something in the way he said it made your stomach drop.

He moved to shift you – hands at your hips, turning you, guiding you up onto your knees to face the mirror in the corner, beginning the thing he'd been building toward for three years–

And you caught his wrist.

He stopped instantly. Every part of him stopped. His eyes came to yours in the dark, alert, already scanning your face for the thing he'd promised he'd watch for. “Hey. Hey– we can stop, if you want to stop–”

“No.” Your fingers stayed closed around his wrist. You could barely get all the way around it. “No, I just–”

You were steadier now. That was the thing. The edge had come off; the desperate humming urgency that had run you since the hallway had finally, mercifully quieted, and in its place was something calmer and far more dangerous: you could think again. You could look at him.

And you had been wanting to touch him for three years.

You had to make yourself say it. It came out smaller than you'd meant.

“Can I touch you first?”

Steve went completely still.

And here was what you did not know, and could not have known, and would not understand until much later.

That question was not in the plan.

He'd planned everything. Every hour of the last four days, every word of the three weeks before them, three years of shaped ground and patient warmth and doors quietly closed on other men. He had run this night in his head so many times he could have recited it. He knew what he'd do, and how slowly, and in what order, and what he'd say when you got frightened, and how he'd make it painless, and exactly how he intended to ruin you for anyone who ever came after.

In none of it – not once, not in a single version – had it occurred to him that you might want to touch him.

He'd never imagined being on the receiving end. That wasn't a thing that happened to him. He was the one who gave; that was the whole architecture of him, the shield, the plan, the man who takes care of it. Nobody took care of Steve Rogers. Nobody had reached for him in seventy years and meant it.

“You–” His voice came out strange. “You want to?”

“Is that okay?”

He made a sound. It wasn't a word. He nodded, once, jerkily, like a man agreeing to something whose terms he hadn't understood.

So you touched him.

You weren’t an expert. You had no idea what you were doing and you didn’t pretend otherwise – you just put your hands on him, at last, after three years of not, after three years of that constant low ache of proximity, and you let yourself learn him.

His chest first. Flat palms, spread wide, the ridiculous solidity of him under your hands. The heat of his skin. The way the muscle jumped the second you made contact. You felt his breath go wrong immediately – a sharp, broken inhale that he tried and failed to hide.

Then slower. The line of his collarbone. The old pale seam of a scar under his ribs that you’d never seen and had no story for. The heavy shift of muscle in his shoulder when he swallowed. You mapped him the way you’d wanted to for years and never once let yourself, and every place you touched, something in him jumped. His cock, still hard and heavy between you, twitched against your stomach when your thumbs brushed over his nipples.

“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay– fuck–”

He was trembling. This enormous man, trembling under your hands like it hurt.

You put your mouth on him – his sternum, the hollow at the base of his throat, the place where his pulse was going wild – and he made a low broken sound and his hand came up to the back of your head. Not guiding. Just holding on, the way you hold onto something in weather. His fingers flexed in your hair every time your tongue dragged over his skin.

“You’re allowed,” you murmured against his throat, because you could feel how still he was making himself, how hard he was working to simply let this happen. “Steve. You’re allowed to want it. You’re allowed to feel it.”

“I don’t–” He stopped. Started again, wrecked. “I’m not used to– nobody’s– it’s been so fucking long since anyone–”

“I know.”

You didn’t, entirely.

But you felt it: the way a man goes rigid when someone is kind to him in a way he has no defense against. You’d spent three years watching him take care of everyone in his orbit. It had never once occurred to you either, until this moment, how long it had been since anyone had touched Steve Rogers just because they wanted to.

You went lower.

Your mouth traced the center line of his chest, then the hard ridges of his stomach. Your hands followed, sliding down the deep V of muscle that led straight to where he was thick and flushed and leaking against his own skin. When your fingers finally wrapped around him – tentative, learning the weight and the heat and the way he pulsed in your grip – he made a sound that was almost a sob.

He let you. For a while, he let you – and he was so unguarded about it, so vocal, so entirely undone by having hands on him after seventy years of nobody, that it went to your head like wine. Every sound he made was involuntary. Every one of them was because of you. His hips gave tiny, aborted thrusts into your fist, like he couldn’t stop them. Precome slicked your fingers. His thighs were shaking.

For now you weren’t the one being managed. He was in your hands, and he was coming apart, and you were the one doing it.

Then his hand closed around your wrist, hard.

“Stop.” Ragged. Urgent. “Stop, you have to– sweetheart, stop.”

You froze. “Did I–”

“No. God, no.” He was breathing like he’d run somewhere. His eyes were shut, his jaw locked, his whole body strung tight as a wire. His cock throbbed hot and heavy in your grip, so hard it looked almost painful. “You didn’t do anything wrong. That’s the– that’s exactly the problem. You keep going and I’m going to come in your hand like a fucking teenager and that is not how tonight is supposed to go.”

It took him a moment to get himself back. You watched him do it: the long haul of a man dragging his own control into place by main force, one breath at a time. His hand was still locked around your wrist, keeping you from stroking him again.

When he opened his eyes they were black.

“Not like that,” he said, low. “Not tonight. Tonight you get all of it. Every inch. I’m not finishing anywhere except inside you.”

“Steve–”

“Do you have any idea,” he said, and his voice had gone rough and strange, almost shaking, “how many times I’ve thought about this? How many times I’ve jerked off thinking about finally getting to push inside you and feel you take me? How many times I’ve had to stop myself from just showing up at your door and begging?”

He stopped himself. Visibly. The end of that sentence sat between you, enormous, unsaid – but the damage was already done. You could see it in his face: the raw, hungry truth he hadn’t meant to let out.

He exhaled hard through his nose, then reached up and cupped your face with both hands, thumbs stroking your cheekbones like he needed the contact to stay grounded.

“Later,” he said, quieter, but no less intense. “You can touch me as much as you want later. You can take me apart if that’s what you need. But not tonight. Tonight I need to be the one who does it. I need to be the one who takes care of you. Can you give me that?”

Later.

You'd think about it a great deal, afterward – about how many things that man had put in the box marked later, and how long the box had been full, and what it must have cost him to carry it around for three years, smiling at you over coffee.

He kissed you then, hard, and turned you.

Gentle hands on your hips, guiding, until you were kneeling up on the bed facing the tall mirror in the corner – the full-length one, the one you saw yourself in every ordinary morning, that had never once seen anything like this.

You saw yourself in it. Bare, kneeling, undone. Cheeks flushed, mouth swollen, thighs already shiny with how wet you still were.

And then you saw him rise up behind you, broad and solid, and settle in close, chest to your back, and meet your eyes in the glass.

His breath was still short. You could hear it – could feel it uneven against your shoulder, not yet recovered from what your hands had done to him – and there was something enormously satisfying about that. About having put it there. His cock, still hard and heavy, rested against the small of your back, leaving a wet smear of precome on your skin every time either of you shifted.

“I want you to see,” he murmured, low, against your ear. “I want you watching. I want you to see who’s finally touching you. Who’s going to be the first one inside you.”

He didn’t finish the thought out loud. He didn’t have to. It was already the truest thing in the room.

Then he reached over to the nightstand.

You knew what he was doing before his hand closed on it. You’d known since the way he’d looked at the little yellow duck and set it down and made you wait – and knowing didn’t help at all.

“Steve.” Your voice came out thin. “Steve, no, that’s– that’s not–”

“Mmmh-hmm.”

He picked it up.

It sat in his palm, small and yellow and absolutely ridiculous, and he turned it over once with his thumb the way he had the first time, and the sound you made was half a laugh and half a sob and entirely disbelief.

He pressed a slow, open-mouthed kiss to the side of your throat.

“No,” he said, warm and wrecked and almost amused. “No, we’re not wasting this. You used me. You put this little thing between your legs in the dark and thought about my hands, my mouth, my cock. Now I get to use it on you while you watch.”

“That’s not– it’s not the same thing–”

“It’s exactly the same thing.” His mouth moved to the shell of your ear, voice dropping even lower. “You were in this bed, in this room, in the dark, with this. Thinking about me. Coming with my name in your head.”

A pause, deliberate, cruel.

“Weren’t you?”

You didn’t answer. Your reflection in the mirror looked wrecked already – eyes wide, lips parted, chest rising too fast.

“Sweetheart.” Softer. Absolutely relentless. “Were you thinking about me when you used it?”

“…Yes.”

“Yeah,” he breathed, and there was something in it that was not amusement at all – something dark and hungry and deeply satisfied. “Yeah. Well. Now you don’t have to pretend. Now it’s actually me.”

“Steve, I can’t– I just– I just came, I can’t–”

“You can.”

Total certainty. No room in it anywhere. He was already settling the little yellow duck into place, low and sure, pressing the curved head of it right against your still-swollen clit, exactly where you’d set it yourself all those nights – and the sheer indignity of that, of him knowing precisely where, of him being right, burned through you hot and shameful and somehow made everything tighter.

“You will,” he said against your ear. “Trust me.”

And he thumbed it to life.

The sound was absurd. A small ridiculous hum in the dark, comic, the sort of noise that should have made you both laugh – and for exactly half a second it did, you felt the laugh start in your chest–

And then it landed.

On nerves still raw and singing from what he’d done to you ten minutes ago. Everything oversensitised, everything already wrung out, and your whole body went rigid and then bowed backward against his chest with a sound that had nothing funny in it at all. The vibration was sharp, focused, merciless against your clit. Your thighs jerked. A fresh rush of wetness slicked the insides of them.

The comedy burned clean out of the room.

“Steve–”

“I know.” Rough, against your nape. “Too much?”

“I don’t– I don’t know–”

“Then we’ll find out.”

His other hand came up to your throat.

Not squeezing. Never that – he’d have died first. Just there: a warm broad span across the front of your neck, no real pressure at all, only enough to keep your head level and your chin up and your eyes forward.

Only enough to keep you facing the glass.

That was the whole purpose of it, and you understood the purpose about a second after it was too late to object. You couldn’t look away. You couldn’t drop your head, couldn’t turn into his shoulder, couldn’t hide your face the way every instinct in you was screaming to – because that hand was there, patient and immovable, and it held you exactly where he wanted you.

“Watch,” he said against your nape, voice low and rough. “Look at yourself. Look at what you look like when I’ve got you like this.”

“I can’t–”

“You can.” His mouth moved down: the curve of your neck, the point of your shoulder, unhurried, worshipful, taking his time about it while the little yellow vibrator kept humming steadily against your clit. “You can, and you’re going to. That’s the whole point of tonight. I want you to see every second of it. I want you to watch yourself come apart for me.”

So you watched.

And that was the thing that undid you – not the hum, not his hands, not even the shameful little object he was holding against you. It was the mirror.

You saw your own face, flushed and open-mouthed. You saw the way your breasts moved with every shaky breath. You saw his big hand spanning your throat, his other hand working the vibrator in slow, deliberate circles that made your hips twitch helplessly. You saw how wet you were, the shine of it on your inner thighs, the way your body kept trying to rock into the vibration even though it was already too much.

You watched yourself.

Kneeling up, bare, held. Flushed all the way down to your chest. Your mouth open, your eyes glassy, your whole face wearing an expression you had never once seen on it – not in all the years of getting ready in front of this exact mirror, not ever.

You didn’t recognise her. That was the vertigo of it. There was a woman in your bedroom mirror who wanted things and was getting them, and you’d never met her.

Then you looked past her, at him.

Steve, over your shoulder. Eyes half-shut, jaw tight, the muscle in it working hard. And on his face – plain as anything in the low grey light – years of discipline coming apart in real time.

You had never seen him without it. Not once. Not in three years of coffee and films and rain on the windows. He was the most controlled human being you’d ever met and you were watching the control fail, live, in your own bedroom, because of you.

He caught you looking. His eyes came up and met yours in the glass and held.

“There,” he said quietly, voice rough. “Now you see.”

“Steve–”

“That’s what you do to me.” His hand shifted at your throat, the barest adjustment, keeping your chin up so you couldn’t look away. “Three years of that. Every time you laughed at me. Every time you sat on my couch with your feet under my leg. Every time you leaned in too close and I had to pretend I wasn’t hard. You want to know what it looked like underneath?” His mouth found your shoulder, open and hot. “That’s what it looked like. That’s what I’ve been holding back.”

You made a sound you couldn’t control – high, broken, helpless.

“There she is,” he murmured, watching it happen in the mirror with dark, hungry eyes. “Look. Look at her. Look at what you look like when I’ve got a vibrator on your clit and my cock against your ass.”

And you watched him hold you like something he’d won and couldn’t quite believe he’d won.

That was the other thing in his face – under the hunger, under the fraying discipline – a kind of stunned disbelief, as though some part of him were still standing in a kitchen three years ago watching your hands around a mug, certain this would never in a hundred lifetimes be his.

It made your chest hurt. It made everything worse. It made you want to give him absolutely anything.

Time did something strange after that.

You lost the thread of it entirely. There was only the relentless little hum of the duck against your oversensitive clit, and the rain on the windows, and his mouth moving over your shoulder, and the two of you in the glass – and every so often his voice at your ear, low and steady and coming apart at the edges, telling you exactly what he could see.

“You’re dripping. Look at that. You’re making a mess of my cock and I haven’t even been inside you yet.”

Your moans were small and helpless and you couldn’t stop them and he drank each one like it was owed to him.

Then he moved.

Not into you. Not yet. He shifted his hips and settled the thick, heavy length of himself against you instead – flush, close, unbearably present – sliding the whole of him between your slick folds without pushing in. The sound that came out of both of you at the contact was the same sound, torn from two throats at once.

He’d meant it to be a moment. Just a moment, just a taste, just enough to take the edge off the pressure that had been building in him for three weeks and three years.

It was not a moment. It went on and on.

Because the first slow drag of him against you told him something he hadn’t been prepared for, and it undid what was left of his composure in one clean stroke.

You were soaked.

Wet through, slick and hot and ready, everything he’d done to you gathered there waiting for him – and he felt it coat him as he moved, felt himself glide through the thick evidence of exactly how much you wanted this. His forehead dropped hard to your shoulder and he made a sound like he’d been punched in the gut.

“Oh– fuck, sweetheart.”

Wrecked. Barely a voice at all.

“You feel that?” He rocked again, slow, deliberate, dragging the entire thick length of his cock through the heat of you, the head of him catching on your clit with every pass, the underside of him sliding through your folds until he was shiny with you. “You feel what you’re doing to me? God. God, you’re so wet. I didn’t know you’d be this wet. I didn’t know you’d feel like this.”

He couldn’t finish the thought. His breath had gone to pieces.

He’d imagined this. That was the thing that was killing him. He had imagined this, in the dark, for years, in a shame he’d never confessed to anyone – and every single version he’d built had been a pale, polite, dishonest little thing next to the reality of you slick and shaking and arching back into him.

Because you were. That was the other thing. You weren’t just letting it happen.

You were meeting him.

He felt it the second time he moved – your hips tilting back, chasing the thick drag of him, your body seeking the friction on its own without any instruction from the wreck of your mind. Small greedy movements. Rolling up into him so that every slow thrust of his hips dragged the head of his cock right over your clit and the vibrator at the same time.

“There you go,” he breathed, and there was something dangerously close to awe in it. “There you go. Look at you. You’re– fuck, you’re riding it. You’re actually fucking yourself on my cock and you haven’t even taken me yet.”

“Steve–”

“Say it.” His voice cracked. “Say it while you watch yourself do it.”

“I want–” Your voice broke on it. The hum was still going, still relentless against your clit, and the thick slide of him through your folds was making everything tighten again already, and you could barely get the words out. “I want it. Please. Please, I want you inside me–”

The sound he made then was not a word.

And you felt him.

That was what none of your quiet nights alone had ever, ever come close to – the fact of another body, alive and undone, reacting to you.

You felt him shiver.

You felt the great controlled bulk of him – this man built to withstand things that killed other men – actually shudder against your back when you rolled your hips a certain way. You felt his arms tighten convulsively around you. You felt the tremor run the whole length of him like something coming loose.

You felt his breath, hot and broken and far too fast at your ear, catching every time you moved.

You felt his heart going like a hammer against your shoulder blade.

And you felt him twitch against you — an involuntary jerk of his cock, hard and hot and slick where he was pressed to you, a thing his body did entirely without his permission — and that was the moment it stopped being something being done to you and became something you were doing to him.

The power of it went through you like a drug.

“Oh,” you breathed, stunned, watching his face in the mirror as another full-body shiver ran through him. “Oh, you–”

“Don’t.” His voice was barely holding. “Don’t say it. If you say it I’m gonna come all over your back before I even get inside you–”

You said it anyway. You leaned back into him and turned your face and said it right against his jaw, eyes still locked on his reflection.

“You’re shaking.”

He swore.

Actually swore, a low ruined syllable against your throat, and his hips snapped forward once, hard, uncontrolled – dragging the entire thick length of his cock through your soaked folds, right over the exact place the little humming duck was working your clit – and you both cried out.

He caught himself instantly. Went still. Breathed hard against your neck.

“Fuck– sorry, I didn’t mean–”

“Do it again.”

He froze.

“Do it again,” you said, voice shaking but clear.

And the sound he made – half a groan, half a broken laugh, entirely destroyed – was the sound of the last strut going out of a structure that had held for three years.

He did it again.

He moved against you slow and deep and endless, the thick, heavy length of him gliding through the slick heat of you, the head of his cock catching on your clit with every pass, the underside of him coated in how wet you were. Neither of you could keep quiet anymore. His breath came ragged and open-mouthed against your neck, punctuated by low, helpless grunts he wasn’t managing to swallow – small sounds of effort, of restraint, of a man holding back something that badly wanted to be let go. Your own noises had stopped being anything you could control: high and broken and continuous, rising every time the thick drag of him lined up just right with the vibrator.

The slide of it had gone effortless. Slick and hot and perfect. Every pass of him gathered more of your wetness until the sound of it was unmistakable under the hum – the wet, filthy noise of his cock sliding through you – and it made you burn scarlet and it made you want it more.

“Listen to that,” he said hoarsely against your ear. “Listen. That’s you. That’s how fucking wet you are for me.”

“I know–”

“That’s how much you want me.” His arms had gone tight, all of him strung, the muscle standing out in his forearm where it braced across your chest. “Three years and I never– I didn’t know. I didn’t know you’d feel this good. I didn’t know you’d be this ready.”

He broke off. Rocked into you again, harder, the thick head of him catching deliberately on your entrance this time without pushing in.

“Steve.” You were shaking. “Steve, I can’t– you have to–”

“I know.”

“Please– inside me, please–”

“I know, baby.” He was panting now, openly, past hiding it. “I know. Me too. Look at me– look at me in the glass– Christ, look at us–”

You looked.

And what you saw in the mirror finished you: the two of you moving together in the low grey light, his eyes wild and blown and locked on yours in the reflection, his jaw clenched, his whole enormous frame trembling with the effort of holding at the edge for you – and you understood, with a lurch, that he was as far gone as you were. That the patient man, the careful man, the man who had planned every second of this, was hanging on by a thread thinner than yours.

“Steve,” you whispered. “Now.”

His breath stopped.

“You’re sure–”

“Now. I want you inside me. Now.”

And then–

Both of you gasped at once. The same breath, torn out of two throats. That first give, that first fraction, that first impossible inch of him finding you – the blunt, thick head of his cock pressing against your entrance and then slowly, carefully, beginning to stretch you open. The surprise of it, the sheer overwhelming fact of it after all this waiting, after three years, after four days, after a joke made of rubber that had somehow led here–

You froze. He felt you freeze.

He went utterly still behind you, buried his groan in your shoulder, and got his mouth to your ear.

“Just the tip, baby.” Rough. Ragged. Barely holding. The words slurred as if he were drunk. “'S just the tip. 'S okay. 'S okay, I've got you, look– look at us– 's just the tip, we've got all the time in the world.”

He kept you there a long time.

That was the thing you’d remember, after – not the ache, because there was almost no ache, only a deep, stretching fullness that bordered on too much – but the patience. The way he held the two of you suspended at that first impossible fraction and refused, absolutely refused, to hurry through it. A lesser man would have taken the yes and pushed deeper. Steve held it in his hands like something that might break if he breathed wrong, and he breathed carefully, and he waited.

Every time your body tensed around the newness of him – that instinctive clench, the ancient bracing of a self that had guarded this for years – he stilled. Completely. Went to stone behind you, his whole enormous frame locked around the effort of not moving another millimetre, and got his mouth to your ear, and gave you something else to feel instead.

The hum, low and shameless, where his hand held the little yellow duck tight against your clit.

The mirror, and the two of you inside it, lit silver-grey by the rain-light: your face flushed and open, his face wrecked and focused, the place where his body disappeared into yours.

His other hand at your throat – no pressure, never pressure, only warmth, only the wordless instruction of it: watch. Turning your face gently back to the glass whenever your head tried to fall, whenever your eyes threatened to close and hide from how much you were feeling.

He had redirected everything. That was the craft of it and the tenderness of it, and by now the two were the same thing. He had taken every scrap of your attention and moved it somewhere else – to the absurd little song of the toy, to the sight of yourselves, to the slow worshipful drag of his mouth along the top of your shoulder – so that when he pressed a fraction deeper, the smallest rock of his hips, the barest give of another thick inch, there was no room left anywhere in you for fear. Only more.

You never felt the stretch as anything but more.

He worked you open by inches and the inches took forever and forever was the whole point, the whole gift. Tiny movements. A rock forward, a pause held so long you thought you’d die of it, his groan buried hot in your nape, another fraction of him sinking into the tight heat of you, another pause, another. He read your breath the way he’d once read a battlefield – every catch of it, every shiver, every place your body softened or resisted – and he answered each one, adjusting, coaxing, never taking more than you’d give and always, somehow, making you want to give more.

“There you are,” he breathed once, when a long slow press drew a sound out of you that you’d never made before – high, broken, almost disbelieving. “There. Just like that. Feel how you’re taking me. I’ve got you.”

And he did. That was the thing. However this had begun – however carefully he’d shaped the ground beneath your feet for three years to bring you exactly here – right now, in the dark, with the rain on the glass, you had never in your life felt so completely, so unbearably held.

Somewhere in that endless slow undoing you felt it start to build.

You felt it gather at the base of you, low and hot and coiling – the relentless hum against your clit and the thick, stretching fullness of him and the sight of his face behind you in the mirror all winding tighter and tighter, a tension with nowhere to go, climbing past anything you’d ever managed alone in this room with a joke made of rubber. Because it had never been like this alone. Alone there had been sensation. This was him. This was three years of wanting given a body and a weight and a mouth at your ear, and it was too much, and it was not enough, and it kept climbing.

“That’s it.” His voice had gone thick, watching your face come apart in the mirror, drinking the sight of it. “That’s it– look at you– look at us– don’t look away, stay with me, let it happen–”

You came like that.

Held on the very threshold of him, the little humming thing pressed hard against your clit and only the first thick inches of his cock inside you, and it broke – it broke over you in a long bright wave that took the room with it. Your body clenched sweet and helpless and rhythmic around him, and the tight, pulsing heat of your orgasm dragged him the rest of the way home while you were still shaking, still gone, still lost in it.

So that by the time you surfaced, gasping, boneless, blinking at the two of you in the glass, he was fully seated. All of him. Buried to the hilt, his hips flush against your ass, exactly where an hour ago you’d have sworn you couldn’t take him – and you hadn’t felt a single second of the final stretch as anything but coming apart.

He held still inside you then. Every thick inch. Both of you trembling, his chest heaving against your back, his heart slamming so hard you could feel it through your own spine. You could feel the heavy pulse of him deep inside you, the way your body kept fluttering and clenching around the new fullness.

“There,” he said, wrecked, against your ear. His arms had come around you, holding you upright, holding you together. “There. All of me. See? Told you.” A rough, reverent kiss pressed to your temple, your cheekbone, the corner of your jaw. “Didn’t hurt at all. Not for a second. I wouldn’t let it. You’re perfect. You’re taking me so fucking perfectly.”

It hadn’t hurt. He’d made certain of that. He’d redirected every ounce of you so thoroughly, so deliberately, that the thing you’d carried for years as a kind of wound had passed while you were looking somewhere else entirely – and now it was simply done, gone, dissolved, replaced by the impossible fullness of him and the singing wreck of your own body, and you understood dimly that he had planned even this, this mercy, this sleight of hand, and could not for the life of you find it in yourself to mind.

Then he drew back – slow, so slow, dragging every nerve in you awake as the thick length of him slid almost all the way out – and gave you the first real stroke.

And the world went white at the edges.

Because this was different. This wasn’t the careful inching-open, the patient claiming of ground. This was him – the whole heavy length and deliberate drag and deep certainty of him filling you completely – and the sound you made didn’t even sound like your own voice, some low broken thing torn up from a part of you that had never spoken before.

He did it again. Still slow, but full now, complete, unhurried and total, burying himself to the hilt with every stroke. His forehead dropped hard to your shoulder at the feel of it, his breath shuddering out of him in broken bursts. You felt his control fraying with every deep unhurried pull, felt the discipline of three years coming loose thread by thread, and it was the single most intoxicating thing you’d ever witnessed – this vast, contained, careful man beginning, at last, to lose himself inside you.

And then, with a low rough sound of decision, he threw the duck away.

You barely registered the small absurd clatter of it hitting the floor somewhere across the room – because his hand, the one that had held it, came straight back to you, bare now, his own thick fingers finding exactly where the toy had been. And it was so much better. So much warmer, so much surer, so much more him. He rubbed firm, knowing circles over your swollen clit while he fucked you in long, deep strokes, and the dual sensation made you sob aloud and sag back against his chest.

“Don’t need it,” he muttered, half to you and half to himself, hips rolling, fingers working you with a knowledge of your body he had no right to and had somehow earned anyway. “Don’t need the fucking toy. It’s me. It’s just me now. Just us. Only ever gonna be me inside you after this–”

And you shattered again.

Just from that. Just from him – his hand and his mouth and the deep, slow, relentless certainty of his cock filling you over and over – a third orgasm, harder than the two firsts, folding you forward over the strong braced line of his arm while he held you up through all of it and worked you through every wave. He watched every last second of it in the glass with dark, greedy, disbelieving eyes, like a man who could not quite believe the thing he was seeing was real and was his.

And in the middle of it – past the roar of your own blood, past the last shred of anything guarding you, barely conscious of your own mouth moving…

“I love you,” you whispered.

It just fell out of you. You weren’t even certain you’d said it aloud. It slipped free the way breath slips free, involuntary, unbidden, the truest thing in you rising to the surface in the one moment every wall you owned was down at once.

Steve went absolutely still.

You felt it – the whole of him, stopping. His fingers on your clit. His hips. His breath. For one endless suspended second the only sound in the entire world was the rain against the glass and the ragged double-time of your own heart, and the thick pulse of him buried deep inside you.

And then something broke in him that had never broken before.

Not the strategist – that was already gone, dissolved somewhere back at the nightstand the moment you’d said yes. This was deeper. This was the last thing, the thing underneath all the other things, the belief he had quietly built his entire careful campaign on top of and never once examined in the light: the sun does not want. The sun simply shines. I am the man who gets to stand in the warmth, and I will ask for nothing, and reach for nothing, because reaching was never something I was allowed.

And you had just whispered, half-gone, not even meaning to, that the sun wanted him back.

Three years of holding still. Three years of a man convinced that the very best he could ever hope for was to live near your light and never dare to touch it. Three years of loving you in a silence so complete he’d nearly mistaken it for peace. And you’d said I love you into the dark with your whole body wrapped around his – without deciding to, without performing it, without any reason to say it but that it was simply, helplessly true – which meant it was real. Which meant it had been real for longer than tonight. Which meant that all this time, in some room of your own, behind some wall of your own, you had been holding your breath exactly the way he’d been holding his.

He lost it.

Every last thread of the control he’d carried into this room like armor – gone.

His hand left your throat – gently, gently, always gently, even now – and cupped your jaw instead, and turned you, up and back over your shoulder, until your mouth found his. And he kissed you like a man surfacing from under ice. Deep and desperate and endless. All of it at once, everything, nothing held back. He kissed you like he was trying to breathe you in, like the three years had all been leading to precisely this and he could not bear to have waited even one second longer. His hips started moving again while he kissed you, deeper, less careful, the thick length of him sliding in and out of your still-fluttering cunt with a wet, rhythmic sound that filled the room.

“Say it again,” he breathed against your mouth when he broke for air. Ragged. Wrecked. Not commanding – begging. This man who had strategized his way to your bed, reduced now to a plea. “Please. Say it again. I need– please, sweetheart, say it again.”

Your eyes came open. Wide. You heard it land in the air a full beat too late – heard your own voice replaying I love you into the quiet – and felt the panic surge up hot in your chest, the instinct to snatch it back, to laugh it off, to rebuild in a single second the wall it had taken you three years to hold…

He didn’t let you.

“No,” he murmured, and kissed it away, kissed the fear right off your open face, his hips moving harder now, deeper, the last of his restraint gone and something helpless and overflowing rising in its place. “No, no. Don’t. Don’t take it back. Don’t you dare take it back, I’ve got you–”

“Steve–” your voice cracked, “–I didn’t mean to–”

“Love.” The word broke out of him like it had been waiting three years for permission to exist. “Sweetheart. Look at me– no, not the mirror, not the glass– me. Look at me.” And he turned your face fully to his and held it there, forehead pressed to forehead, both of you coming apart in the dark, his eyes so close they were the only thing in the world. “I’ve got you. I’ve got you. You hear me?”

His voice cracked clean down the middle.

“I’m never letting you go. Not ever. Not after this. You don’t get away from me now– I won’t let you. I’m keeping you.”

And it wasn’t a cage, the way he said it. It wasn’t the possession that had roared through him an hour ago at the sight of a painted rubber duck. That was gone too – burned off, transfigured, remade into something rawer and simpler and completely undefended. It was a man who had lost everything once – every friend, every anchor, an entire world, a whole century swallowed by the ice – waking one more time into a life that finally, impossibly fit, and finding you at the center of it, and refusing, this time, with everything left in him, to let the cold take the thing he loved.

Keeping. Not caging. Not owning. Keeping – the way you keep the one thing you’d walk back into the freezing dark to save. The way you hold on to the single warm thing in a life that has taught you, over and over, how easily warmth is lost.

“Okay,” you gasped, past tears you didn’t fully understand, past the very last of your own unraveling, your hands scrabbling back to find his and lacing tight through his fingers, holding on like the whole world had tilted and he was the only fixed point left. “Okay. I love you. I do– I said it, I meant it, I’ve meant it for so long, I love–”

He kissed the rest of the words out of your mouth.

And the two of you went over the edge together – finally, completely, no threshold left to hold at, no careful inch left to preserve, nothing between you anymore. Not the years. Not the silence. Not the strategy or the shaped ground or the walls you’d each built so high and held so long. All of it gone at once, and only this left standing: him, and you, and the rain on the glass, and the two of you in the mirror moving like a single thing breathing.

He came with a broken, helpless sound against your mouth, burying himself as deep as he could go, pulsing hot and thick inside you while your body clenched around him in long, rhythmic waves. Your fingers stayed locked. Your foreheads stayed pressed together. Both your hearts hammered the same impossible rhythm.

And a ridiculous little yellow duck lay forgotten on the floor across the room, having done, in the end, exactly what it was always secretly for.

Afterward he held you against his chest and would not loosen his arms, and you let him – boneless, wrung clean through, wearing the heavy steady slam of his heart under your cheek like something you had been given and meant to keep.

For a long while neither of you spoke. There was only the rain, and your breathing slowly finding each other's rhythm, and the warmth of him around you like a wall built to keep out cold instead of to keep you in.

“I meant it,” he said at last, into your hair. Quiet now. Sure. No campaign left in his voice, no strategy – just the plain flat truth of a man who has stopped, finally, being careful. “All of it. Every word. The keeping part especially.”

“I know,” you murmured.

You didn't, yet. Not the whole of it – not the three years and the three weeks and the four days, not the film chosen on purpose, not the seeds planted and quietly watered, not the drop zones and the shaped terrain and the long patient war he had waged to bring you to this exact bed. That would come later. Some of it. As much of it as he would ever bring himself to tell you.

But you knew the part that mattered. You had felt it break wide open in him in the precise instant you stopped guarding your own heart – felt the whole vast careful machine of him come apart the second you said three words he'd never once let himself believe he might hear – and you knew, with the certainty of a thing felt rather than reasoned, that whatever else was true about how you'd arrived here, you had not been the only one holding your breath for three long years.

“Stay,” he said. Not a question.

“I live here,” you pointed out, muffled, smiling helplessly against his skin.

You felt his laugh move through his whole chest – low and startled and completely undone, the laugh of a man who has spent so long braced for loss that joy still catches him off guard.

“Then I'm staying,” he said, and pulled the blanket up over the both of you, and drew you in closer against him, and did not, for the rest of that long rain-soft night, let go of you even once.

The rain came down. The duck lay where it had fallen.

And Steve Rogers – who had planned everything, shaped everything, won everything he'd set out to win, and been utterly, helplessly undone anyway by the one thing he had never dared to plan for – fell asleep at last with your heartbeat beneath his hand. Kept, and keeping. And, for the first time since the ice closed over him a lifetime ago, entirely, dangerously, finally home.

You woke before he did, which never happened.

In three years you had never once beaten Steve Rogers awake – he ran at dawn, he'd been built to need less sleep than the rest of the species, he was always up and moving and quietly making coffee by the time you surfaced. But this morning you swam up out of sleep into grey light and rain-washed quiet and found him still under you, still around you, his arm heavy across your waist, his face slack and open and years younger in sleep than you'd ever seen it awake.

You lay very still and looked at him.

And in the clear unhurried light of morning, with your body pleasantly wrecked and your head finally quiet, you started – slowly, the way you turn something over that's been sitting in your hand all along – to think.

About last night. About the four days before it. About the phone call where he'd been so careful, so patient, so ready. About the candle at his place you were fairly sure you hadn't imagined. About the film, weeks ago, and the thing he'd said about waiting not being weakness. About the engaged friend and you know what it should feel like. About how, every single time you'd tried to fall for someone else in three years, you'd somehow ended up back on his couch instead, warm, safe, home, the pull of anywhere colder never quite catching.

About how the only version of anyone you'd ever let into this bed had been a joke made of rubber wearing his face.

The pieces sat there in the morning light. You looked at them.

And here is the thing you understood about yourself, in that moment, that you would maybe never say out loud: you weren't afraid.

You should have been. Some sensible part of you noted, distantly, that a wiser woman might feel a chill right now – might look at the sheer duration of it, the patience, the shaped ground, and feel like something had been done to her rather than with her. That part of you spoke up, dutifully, and then fell silent, because the rest of you had already gone somewhere else entirely.

The rest of you was on fire.

Because three years. Because he'd wanted you for three years and said nothing and built a whole quiet world to keep you in and you'd never seen it, never once, and the not-seeing didn't feel like violation this morning – it felt like being wanted on a scale you had never in your life been wanted. Steve Rogers, who did everything deliberately, who had planned wars, who never in three years did a careless thing – had spent all of it, patiently, deliberately, on you.

The thought went through you low and hot and you had to press your face into his chest to hide what it did to you.

He woke to that. To your mouth against his sternum and your heart going too fast.

“Hey,” he murmured, rough with sleep, his arm tightening. “You're up first. That's new.”

“Steve.” You didn't lift your head. You weren't sure your face could be trusted. “Can I ask you something?”

You felt him go still. Not tense, exactly – alert. The particular stillness of a man who has just registered a change in the weather.

“Yeah,” he said. Carefully.

You lifted your head then and looked at him. And you asked it plainly, watching his eyes, because you already half-knew and you wanted to see him not be able to lie to you.

“Last night. And the four days. And– all of it.” You held his gaze. “How long?”

He didn't pretend not to understand. That was the thing about him; he could shape the ground under you for three years, but he couldn't, when you looked at him straight, actually lie to your face. It was the one thing his whole careful arsenal had no answer for.

Something moved behind his eyes. A long, complicated something.

“...A while,” he said finally.

"Steve."

“A long while.” He looked away, then made himself look back, jaw tight. “Longer than I should've– longer than was fair to you, probably.”

“How long,” you said again. Softer.

And he gave you the truth, but only at the edges, the way a man confesses when confessing fully would cost more than he can pay. “Since about the second year,” he said. “Maybe before. I stopped keeping track on purpose, because keeping track felt like–” He stopped. His hand moved on your hip, absent, restless. “I told myself I didn't want anything. I got real good at telling myself that.”

“And the candle,” you said. “At your place. The other night.”

A pause.

“Yeah,” he admitted, low.

“And the film. The one about the couple who waited.”

His eyes came back to yours, and there was something almost helpless in them now, something caught. “...Yeah.”

“And you told me waiting made me smarter than everyone you knew. Right after my friend got engaged and I was – right when I was feeling it most.” You watched his face. “You knew exactly when to say that.”

He didn't answer. He didn't have to. The not-answering was its own answer, and he let it be, and he watched you take it in with an expression you'd never seen on him before – braced, unguarded, ready for the exact moment your face would change into something that would end this.

Because he thought you were going to be afraid.

He'd shown you the shape of it – half of it, the demandable half – and now he was waiting, the way a man waits under fire, for you to understand what had been done and pull away from him and be right to.

Your face did change.

Just not the way he'd braced for.

“Steve,” you breathed – and he heard it, the thing in your voice, and his eyes sharpened, because it wasn't fear at all, it was the opposite, it was low and warm and stunned and it went straight through him. “You wanted me for two years and never said anything.”

“I–”

“You planned all of it.” You'd come up onto your elbow now, over him, and there was color high in your face and your voice had dropped somewhere new. “Every part. The candle. The film. Last night. You've been – God, you've been steering me, this whole time, for years, and I never–”

“Hey.” He caught your face in his hand, alarmed now, his careful control scrambling back into place, mistaking your voice for the beginning of hurt. “Hey, listen to me, I never– I'd never make you do anything you didn't– you always could've said no, every single time, I'd have stopped, I swear to God I'd have–”

“I know,” you said.

And then you told him the truth, the one that undid him more thoroughly than any of his own confessions, the one that turned the whole morning over on its head.

“That's not– Steve. I'm not upset.”

He went still.

“I should be.” You said it wonderingly, half to yourself, watching your own reaction like it surprised you too. “I know I should be. Some part of me is standing way back there being very sensible about it.” Your hand flattened on his chest, over the hard fast slam of his heart. “But the rest of me just found out that the man I was in love with for three years spent two years quietly rearranging his entire life around keeping me, and never asked me for one single thing, and–”

Your voice caught.

“–and it doesn't scare me,” you said. “It does the opposite. It does completely the opposite.”

You watched it land in him. You watched him understand.

You watched Steve Rogers realize that the thing he'd been most afraid of – that you'd see the whole careful machine of his wanting and be repelled by it – was not going to happen. That you'd seen it, or enough of it, and that it hadn't cooled you at all. That it had lit you up.

His breath went ragged. His hand slid from your jaw into your hair.

“Say that again,” he said – the same words as last night, the same helpless plea, except now there was something dangerous waking under the wonder in his voice, something that had spent three years leashed and had just been told it never needed the leash at all.

“It doesn't scare me,” you whispered, leaning into him, your mouth almost on his. “Knowing you did all that. Knowing how long. Knowing you'd– Steve, knowing you're not going to stop–” You felt the shiver go through you at your own words. “It should. And it doesn't. It just makes me–”

He kissed you before you could finish. Hard, this time. No careful patience in it now, no ground being shaped, no strategy – just a man who had been handed permission for the one thing he'd never let himself have, which was to want you out loud, in daylight, without dressing it as kindness.

“You don't know what you're saying,” he murmured against your mouth, and it was half a warning and half a prayer, his hands already moving, already sure. “Sweetheart. You don't– if I stop pretending it was ever about being good–”

“Then stop pretending,” you said.

And felt the last of the careful, decent, three-years-holding-still Steve Rogers come apart in your hands – not into cruelty, never that, but into something honest and hungry and finally, completely unhidden – and understood, with a thrill that curled all the way down your spine, that you had just told the most patient man alive that he never had to be patient with you again.

Outside, the rain had stopped.

Somewhere on the floor, a small painted duck lay on its side, watching the ceiling, entirely redundant now.

Neither of you got up for a long, long time.

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[iamreadynoimnot]

[slutdier]

Hi! I've been craving some dad figure Bucky x reader. I imagine he's always there for reader like reading bedtime stories, soothing reader after nightmares and fucking reader when she needs it.

. ୨୧ ݁ ꒰  𝐃𝐀𝐃𝐃𝐘’𝐒 𝐆𝐎𝐎𝐃 𝐆𝐈𝐑𝐋   ⊹ . bucky x fem!reader. minors are prohibited from interacting.

𝔀arnings 18+ : daddy kink, significant age gap, explicit smut, fingering, creampie, post-nightmare comfort sex, possessive/protective bucky, dddne, dirty talk, praise kink, mild somnophilia vibes, caregiving kink, no use of y/n

𝓪uthor’s 𝓷ote : writing this one felt sooo dirty but SOOOO good 🤤🤤🤤 if this is your thing, pls lmk because I would absolutely LOOOVE to write more of it <33

The city lights flickered softly through the half-drawn curtains of the apartment, casting a gentle glow over the king-sized bed. Bucky had you tucked against his side the moment you’d woken up gasping from the nightmare, your heart still hammering. His metal arm was a cool anchor around your waist, while his flesh hand rubbed slow, soothing circles between your shoulder blades.

“Easy, sweetheart,” he murmured, voice low and gravelly from sleep. “I’ve got you. Breathe with me. In… and out. That’s my good girl.” He pressed a lingering kiss to your forehead, then another to the tip of your nose, until your trembling eased. “Nightmare again?”

You nodded, curling tighter into his bare chest. “Yeah. Can you… read to me? Like always?”

Bucky’s lips curved into that soft, protective smile reserved only for you. “Course I can. C’mere.” He shifted you both so you were nestled perfectly against him, your head on his shoulder, one leg draped over his thigh. The worn paperback was already in his hand, the fantasy novel you’d been working through together. He opened it to the bookmark and started reading in that deep, rumbling timbre that always melted the fear away.

“‘The knight pulled her close under the stars, his hand steady on her back as the shadows fled…’”

His voice wrapped around you like a blanket. For a few minutes it was pure comfort, his heartbeat steady under your cheek, the familiar scent of him grounding you completely. Then, without breaking rhythm, his free hand drifted lower. It slipped under the hem of the oversized shirt you wore (his shirt), fingertips tracing lazy patterns along your inner thigh. Higher. Until his palm cupped you gently between your legs, warm and possessive over your panties.

You let out a soft, surprised whimper, hips twitching instinctively.

“Dad-” The word slipped out before you could stop it, breathy and needy. Your face burned. “I mean- fuck, Bucky.”

He paused mid-sentence, the book still open in his metal hand. The silence stretched for half a second before a low, dark chuckle vibrated through his chest. “Dad?” His voice dropped even lower, laced with heat. Those blue eyes darkened as he looked down at you, thumb now slowly stroking along the damp fabric between your thighs. “You called me Dad, babygirl. That what you need tonight?”

You squirmed, embarrassed but undeniably wetter under his touch. “It just… came out. I didn’t-”

“Shh.” He set the book aside completely and rolled you onto your back, hovering over you. His hand never left its place between your legs, now pressing more firmly, rubbing slow circles over your clit through the thin cotton. “Don’t take it back. I like hearing it. Been taking care of you like a dad should for a long time now… reading you stories, chasing away the bad dreams, making sure my little girl feels safe.” His thumb dipped under the edge of your panties, brushing bare skin. “But we both know I do a lot more than that, don’t we?”

“Bucky…” you breathed, but the protest was weak, turning into a moan as he pushed one thick finger inside you.

“Say it again,” he coaxed, voice husky. He crooked his finger just right, stroking that spot that made your toes curl. “Call me what you really want to call me while I’m touching this pretty pussy.”

Your head fell back against the pillow, thighs parting wider for him. “Dad… fuck, Dad, please-”

“That’s it,” he growled approvingly, adding a second finger and pumping them slowly, deliberately. “Such a good girl for Daddy. You know I’ll always give you what you need. Nightmares, stories, this…” He leaned down, capturing your mouth in a deep, hungry kiss, tongue sliding against yours as his fingers curled and thrust. When he pulled back, his lips brushed your ear. “You get so wet when I read to you. Been thinking about this the whole time, haven’t you? My sweet babygirl getting needy while Daddy’s voice takes care of her.”

“Yes,” you gasped, rocking against his hand. “Need you… need more.”

Bucky kissed down your neck, sucking a mark just below your ear. “Tell Daddy exactly what you need. Use your words, princess.”

“I need you inside me,” you whimpered, fingers digging into his shoulders. “Want you to fuck me, Daddy. Please.”

He groaned, pulling his fingers free only to strip your shirt off and shove his sweatpants down. His cock was hard and heavy, the tip already glistening as he settled between your spread thighs. “Gonna fill you up nice and deep. Make all the bad dreams go away.”

He pushed in slowly, inch by thick inch, stretching you open until he bottomed out with a shared moan. “Fuck, so tight for Daddy… always perfect.” He started moving in long, rolling thrusts, one hand braced beside your head while the other gripped your hip, holding you exactly where he wanted you.

“Talk to me,” he murmured between kisses, picking up the pace. “Tell Daddy how it feels.”

“So good,” you moaned, legs wrapped tight around his waist. “Feels so full… love when you take care of me like this.”

“Yeah? Love when Daddy fucks you better than anyone else ever could?” His thrusts grew harder, deeper, the sound of skin meeting skin filling the room. “That’s right, baby. No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to read you bedtime stories and then bury their cock in this sweet little cunt.”

You were getting close already, the combination of his words, his weight pinning you down, and the relentless drag of his cock pushing you toward the edge. “Daddy- gonna come-”

“Come for me,” he commanded, voice rough. “Come on Daddy’s cock like a good girl.”

The orgasm crashed over you hard, walls clenching around him as you cried out. Bucky followed right after, groaning your name mixed with “mine” and “good girl” as he spilled deep inside you, hips grinding through every pulse.

Afterward, he stayed buried inside you, rolling onto his back so you lay draped over his chest. His hand returned to your hair, stroking gently, while the other rested possessively on your ass.

“Better?” he asked softly, pressing a kiss to your temple.

“Mhm.” You nuzzled closer, already sleepy and sated. “Can you… finish the chapter, Daddy?”

Bucky chuckled warmly, reaching for the book again. “Anything for my girl. But keep those pretty thighs open. Daddy might need to read with his hand between them again.”

He started reading once more, voice low and soothing, fingers idly tracing through the mess he’d left between your legs. Safe. Cherished. And completely his.

— yours truly, ѕℓυtdιεr.

masterlist

[iamreadynoimnot]

[lottsoccasionallywrites]

wallflower!reader

you hadn't expected spencer to be so clingy.

before you started dating, you'd noticed the little hints of his germaphobia; the way he refused to shake hands, how he wouldn't sip from someone else's drink, how he kept his desk meticulously clean.

so, when you started dating, you had assumed spencer would keep to himself for the most part. and whilst you were partly correct, seeing as he wasn't particularly big on pda, you were yet to be introduced to post-case spencer.

as you were only a secretary, you weren't required to go on cases. so whilst spence would jet off to god knows where, you would keep your regular hours behind your desk.

it was the first time since the pair of you started dating that he'd had to go away, and whilst you missed him greatly, you hadn't expected him to miss you so much.

it started small, with texts.

I saw a dianthus plumarius today.

what's that?

oh sorry, garden pinks. they

made me think of you. :-)

well thats very sweet, dr reid :)

he'd message you things like this almost daily. small trinkets he saw that reminded him of you, random facts in the middle of the night when he couldn't sleep on the uncomfortable hotel mattress.

you'd found it a little odd, the sudden influx of texts. whilst spencer usually had some random anecdote or fact to tell you, it had never been so much as this week. he even scolded you over text when you replied during your work hours, despite the fact that he spent most of the case texting you underneath the table like a highschooler.

you thought that he was being clingy over text; you weren't prepared for what he'd be like when he got home.

he'd gotten home at about half ten that night, the sound of keys jangling in the lock notifying you of his arrival. perking up from the couch, you scamper over to the door, just in time to see him toe off his shoes and shrug off his coat. it was a warming sight, seeing the spaces that had felt so empty for so long (a week) be refilled.

he notices you then, head tilting towards you like a curious puppy. despite the tiredness in his eyes, you see that familiar flicker of affection ignite. dragging his feet, he closes the short distance between you two, wrapping you up in his arms. "hi, honey."

his voice is so warm, so full of sleepy tenderness, and you feel butterflies fill your stomach, burying your head into his shoulder. his shoulders are tense for just a second, before they deflate with the aid of your hug.

he doesn't leave your side for the rest of the evening.

or the rest of the weekend.

saturday morning, you decide to bake for your bookclub that afternoon. he spends the entirety of it with his arms looped around your waist, head resting on your head the entire time, pressing kisses every two seconds.

when you try to move to the fridge for the eggs, spencer weighs you down. "spence- i can't move."

he flusters a little, blushing as he hesitantly removes his arms from around you. "oh. sorry." he flexes his hand, scratching the back of his neck bashfully.

he's basically a wreck when you have to leave. he's seconds away from begging you to let him come with you, but he has some dignity.

staying home, for that dreadfully long hour, is like hell. he's restless, he cant stay still for a second. he tries to watch doctor who, but he cant seem to pay attention. he tries teaching your cat to do tricks, but juno is uncooperative and he keeps getting frustrated.

so he sits on the couch, bouncing knees, and stares at the door until he sees you walk through.

sunday is a similar affair. you both decide to stay in, and spencer spends it with his head in your lap, or braiding your hair. he even goes to far as to sitting next to the tub whilst you have a bath, reading to you from whatever obscure russian novel he'd reading.

laying in bed that night, with spencer's arms wrapping around you from behind, cheek pressed against you back, you realise. you realise that spencer is just as clingy as you, just as needy for affection, he just needs an opening.

and so you grant him that opening, here and there. you lay your legs over his when sat on the couch, you link your pinky with his on walks, you borrow his sweaters without asking.

these actions, as small as they seem, that you thought only made you anxious, you realise, make him just as nervous too. so you take one for the team, being brave in the small moments to make the concept of big moments possible.

[iamreadynoimnot]

[lottsoccasionallywrites]

wallflower!reader in...

unravelling thread

pairing: spencer reid x reader

genre: fluff

tw: alcohol, reader being awkward (who could've guessed), use of 'y/n' (im so sorry)

word count: 1689

if you were to have one fatal flaw, it would be this; the somewhat obsessive, borderline concerning need to keep yourself to yourself. 

it had been a running theme throughout your childhood, into your youth and now into your adulthood. you just couldn’t seem to get yourself to put yourself out there and try to make friends. it wasn’t for lack of desire, no. in fact, you spent most nights pacing your apartment, wondering what it was that made you so scared to just walk up to someone and say hi. you actually cried over it, often. you really, really wanted friends, but somehow you couldn’t pluck up the courage to try, and when you did, it typically resulted in you embarrassing yourself or accidently insulting someone.

a few months had passed since you joined the bau, and whilst you had started getting comfortable in the office (you’d finally allowed yourself to take a handful of sylvanian families to decorate your desk with, along with a framed picture of juno), it was the conversing thing that you couldn’t quite wrap your head around.

when it came to cases, you could comfortably make an assessment about an unsub or discuss theories with the team, but when it came to the jet back from whatever city you’d been sent to? it’s like you lost the ability to speak entirely. 

“y/n!” you hear a cheery voice that can only belong to one penelope garcia, the sound of her kitten heels clicking against the floor as she practically skips to catch up with you. if anyone, its garcia who you’ve gotten closest too, mostly because she won’t stop until you have matching tattoos (at least, you assume from how persistent she’s been). you bonded on your mutual love of trinkets and cardigans. “are you coming out with us? pretty please! i’ll buy you a pina colada.”

you almost say yes. you want to say yes. but something in your mind is screaming, ‘go home, where its comfortable, where its safe. nothing can go wrong at home’. the ache in your chest that appears every time you reject someones kindness and regret it is already blooming, even before the words leave your mouth. “y…es.” 

the words leave you before you can even comprehend what you’re saying. ‘i said yes?’. it’s like the first day again, when your mouth worked without consulting your brain and just gave whatever answer seemed acceptable. 

okay, you can work with this. it doesn’t matter that juno is at home, probably wondering where you are, and you have a book you’re itching to continue reading on your nightstand, because apparently, you’re being social tonight. you’re going to drink a fruity drink with a little cocktail umbrella and laugh at jokes that aren’t funny and it will be wonderful. hopefully.

everything blurs around you to the point where you don’t know who said what or what you’re drinking, and it has become your natural response to just laugh absently, everyone else having too good a time to notice. 

the bar is too full, someone apparently forgot to wear deodorant today, and spencer reid is far too charming, especially when he explains the scientific reason alcohol makes you warm (because it causes vasodilation, a process where blood vessels near the skins surface expand until and fill with warm blood, stimulating heat-sensitive nerves, giving a sensation of warmth), which you won’t remember in the morning. you’re not even drunk; you’d ordered the virgin pina colada because the idea of getting drunk and embarrassing yourself in front of a group of people you hardly knew wasn’t exactly appealing. 

it’s just spencer, and you know it. seeing someone so enthusiastic and nerdy and endearing is making your body react in ways you hadn’t before. you’d never really had a crush before. the guys you went to school with weren’t exactly the kindest and it’s not like you’d ever really put yourself out there before. it’s probably like that baby duck things, where they open their eyes for the first time and attach themselves to the first person they see.

but spencer’s not talking to you anymore, he’s talking animatedly to a group of girls about, i don’t know, quantum physics or something, and you’re staring like a big creep from your perch in the booth, that had since been abandoned by the rest of the team in lieu of dancing to bad music or playing darts. 

“you should just talk to him, you know.” garcia slurs, sliding into the booth next to you, her drink sloshing over the side of the glass and onto your jeans, but you don’t say anything. “he’s, like, the sweetest ever and you’re totally his type.”

“i don’t know what you’re talking about.” you mumble, head ducked and hair falling down Infront of your face like a shield, a loose thread on your sleeve is suddenly very interesting.

“you always stare at him when you’re supposed to be going over files, and your feet are always pointing towards him.” she continues, ignoring your words. “apparently that’s a sign you like someone.”

again, you stay quiet, whilst that loose thread unravels. “he stares at you too, you know.” the peeks your attention, but you train your expression to remain neutral, beside from the blush increasing on the apples of your cheeks. “he thinks you’re angry with him, for some reason.”

you think back to that day in the break room, the way you’d been so unresponsive and defensive for no reason, nerves getting the better of you. that day is seared into your memory, and you wish it would just disappear. just then, you picture how he offered you a smile later in the day, and rather than just returning the gesture like a normal human, you looked down and continued to write down nonsense into your file. 

the cold air is a welcome change to the sweaty warmth of the bar. you take deep breaths, rubbing your eyes as you try and wake yourself up some more. it doesn’t seem like the team plan on leaving anytime soon, and since you’d just finished a case and now have a few days off work, they have no real reason too. garcia, jj, and emily seem determined to tackle the entire cocktail menu. 

your peace is interrupted when you hear the squeak of the door, and the drag of steps that abruptly stop when you lift your head and meant the mystery humans eyes. oh, of course, spencer reid. for some reason, just the sight of him causes your face to flush. guess that’s just the way it’s going to be from now on.

“oh. I didn’t see you leave.” he says, voice sleepy and soft, not slurred and shouty like the rest of the team. it’s an instant balm to the tension in your back from contending with unfamiliar drunk people for the last two hours. is that seriously all its been?

“it was getting a bit hot in there. needed some fresh air.” you shrug, fiddling with your fingers to distract from the intensity of being forced to make eye contact with what might be the world’s most beautiful man. 

“are you leaving?”

“i think so.” you nod, eyes uncertain and searching his as if you’re looking for permission.

“you came in with garcia, right? do you have a ride home?” he asks, looking at you so intently that it seems as if he has known you for years rather than just a few weeks.

“i was just planning on getting the subway back.” you nod, trying to smile, but it comes out as awkward as you feel. 

his eyebrows furrow in concern, agent hat right back on. “what? no. its late, that’s unsafe.” he says with a tone of such finality that you can’t find yourself to argue. “i can give you a ride home, if youd like?”

always the gentleman. god, spencer reid, i can’t handle this.

“you weren’t drinking?”

“i had an arnold palmer.” for some reason, the thought of him drinking an arnold palmer was adorable to you, because apparently everything this man did was endearing. 

and so, that’s how you ended up in spencer reid’s car. the radio is set to the classical section, and you can’t help but notice the way his fingers tap on the steering wheel along to the beat. other than that, the ride is quiet, and the air is thick. rather than trying to fill that silence with conversation, even if it was (god forbid) small talk, you make yourself as small as possible in the passenger seat and stare into the sky (well, at first you stared at the delightful curve of his nose, but he titled his head and you wanted to curl up and die at the realisation that you’d been caught staring).

once you arrive at your apartment, spencer insists on walking you up, despite your assurances that you’ll be fine on your own. you feel like you’re walking home from a first date, with how awkward you both are. you’re still playing with your fingers with your head bowed, watching as your feet go up the steps one by one, whilst spencer hunches his shoulders in what seems to be an attempt to make himself smaller. each creek of the steps makes the silence even louder.

“thank you…for walking me home.” you manage to say. well done me, you think, you can converse like a normal person on occasion. point to me.

“no problem, it was nice seeing you. tonight. out. you don’t usually come.” 

it takes everything in you not to be defensive, to fight your cause. you know nothing good will come from it, so you just nod. “yeah, i know. maybe i’ll come more often.” and by ‘often’ you mean ‘maybe annually’.

you both nod, and you fumble with your keys, awkward eye contact maintained until you enter your apartment and close the door, which you then slump against, your curious cat tilting her head not only at your late arrival but the flush on your cheeks. 

“i don’t know either, juno.”

[iamreadynoimnot]

[poinandshoot]

Dex who tries to be dominant and headlocks you but ended up getting dumb on your pussy that his headlock turned into hugging you

first of all, holy fuck.

benjamin poindexter who swears he’s gonna use you. he tries so hard to dominate you and wants to make you feel small. he knows he can! he is a big man and he can do whatever he wants with you! that’s what he thinks... at least. but as he pounds and pounds your pussy, he slowly melts into it.

ends up sobbing in your neck while trying to keep up with fucking you. it feels too good for him. :( his arm, the one that was hugging your neck and cutting your airways, slowly loosens while his other arm scoops under your stomach to hold you still. he still thinks it’s because he can control and pin you down better like this. but really, he looks so dumb and pathetic on you. he’s just pulling you into his chest. hugging you with his face buried in your neck!

he keeps trying to whisper degradation into your ear but it immediately turns into stupid mumbling. he’s just clinging to you at this point while trying to pound his cock fast and hard like moments ago but he keeps stopping because he gets too close to cumming. >_<

[iamreadynoimnot]