⋆.ೃ࿔*:･ who am i? hello, i'm your next-blog sin deliver, ahri. noooo i'm not that cool to share names with an iconic league character :" i just don't want to share my real name and it has all the letters from my real name.
ੈ✩‧₊˚ what do i do? i write skz smut (mostly). i like to weave vast stories around skz as well, but lack of time and poor commitment to them has a chokehold on me (a choking i do not like).
˚ ༘♡ ⋆｡˚ cool, idc, where is the smut? glad you asked, it's right under the cut! :D MINORS DNI I'M SERIOUS
note: TURN ON COMMUNITY LABELS TO SEE MATURE CONTENT HOW TO?
my work contains a lot of swearing and nsfw themes so shield your eyes and walk away if you're under 18
groups i write for: stray kids
what i write: mostly smut, fluff
key: smut - s
fluff - f
angst - a
suggestive - h (as in for h*rny so you don't get confused lolol)
drabble - d
dark fic - ¶
SKZ
when would skz fuck you senseless: hyungline version
Series
Dreamscape
Prologue
BANG CHAN
bang chan hc : when you pay him a visit in the studio [F]
bang chan drabble #1 [H], [D]
if you had a cat named bang chan [F]
punishment ft. seungmin [S]
waiting room ft. lee know and minhyuk from btob [S]
bare back [S]
watch you [H] ¶
bang chan drabble #2 [A]
chan's good morning [S] [D]
Case "Forget your ex for a second" [F]
Chan's obsession with your nails [S] [D]
"Why do you keep looking at my lips?" [A] [D]
LEE KNOW
if you had a cat named lee know [F]
waiting room ft. bang chan and minhyuk from btob [S]
don't fight me ¶
"it starts with kisses on your neck" [H] [F] [D]
untitled drabble [S] [D]
doing it with lee know in the dorms [H] [D]
Series
Non-Dorm Dormmate
"Jeongin-ah!" "Shut up!"
The One Where He Loves You
Dumb and Dumber
SEO CHANGBIN
changbin request: thigh riding [S/H]
untitled drabble ft. felix [S] [D]
HWANG HYUNJIN
morning head [S]
if you had a cat named hyunjin [F]
hyunjin tying you up and pleasuring your body [S] [D]
Heart of woes (and some things more) [A] [F]
Rose Tea [F]
hyunjin overcome with the urge to kiss you [F] [D]
Series
Villain Dies
Sypnosis: When Hyunjin, the saviour of the people, finds you, the notorious villain, beaten and on the brink of death, he takes you in, wondering a good entity was the reason behind your battered condition, or something even worse than you.
Please please please, part three of Deadpool Reader and Damian! I need to see his reaction to her dying and coming back, please! Something like she gets stabbed in the chest during a fight and Damian fucking loses his mind with rage and grief, and then she comes back with a flirt like “I’ve handled bigger” as she gestures to the knife or something! I need it! They are so comedic and I wanna see em smooch! (Not this chapter if you don’t want them to, but I would love it 🥰)
i have a big enough crush on damian that i would never turn down an opportunity to give him a smooch
Wayne Manor had seen broody.
But this was something else.
Damian stalked the hallways like he was waiting for an excuse to punch the drywall. His mouth was tighter than usual. Eyes sharper. Arms crossed so often, it was starting to look like a permanent posture.
It was like living with a thunderstorm pressed into a human shape.
It was making everyone nervous.
“He hasn’t said more than five words to me in three days,” Tim muttered, sprawled across the couch, flipping through schematics. “And one of those words was ‘imbecile.’”
“So...normal?” Jason deadpanned.
“No,” Dick said from where he stood by the window, arms folded. “Not normal.”
Cass raised a brow.
Tim looked up from the stack files in his lap “You know something?”
Dick sighed. “I got an update from Kori. [Y/N] was hit on the last mission. Chest wound—bad enough for her to drop on the spot.”
Jason’s posture changed. “She down for the count?”
“She flatlined for forty seconds,” Dick said quietly. “They stabilized her. She’s out of the woods, but—she hasn’t been cleared to resume Titan duty. Damian’s not handling it well.”
“No shit,” Tim muttered.
“He’s feeling guilty,” Dick added. “Because she got hurt. Because he couldn’t stop it.”
The Gotham skyline flickered around him, but Damian didn’t see it.
Didn’t feel the breeze. Didn’t register the ache in his body from being too still for far too long.
It had been days. Seven, to be exact.
Seven nights of replaying what happened in his mind.
Seven nights of hearing her her gasp when the blade hit home.
He had seen the blood. The blade. The way her body hit the ground.
He’d moved before anyone could stop him—lunging at the attacker like something feral. He would’ve maimed them—injured them just sort of fatal.
But Starfire had held him back.
He hasn’t forgiven her for that.
“God, you look so hot when you're Robin.” came a breathy voice behind him.
He froze.
Turned.
And there she was—hoodie zipped halfway up her chest, smirking like she hadn’t almost died just days ago.
Beautiful as ever.
His eyes scanned every inch of her—the shadows under her eyes, the gauze peeking out from beneath her hoodie, the rise and fall of her chest.
She raised her brows. “Miss me?”
“You shouldn’t be moving around yet.”
“I came to see if you’d missed me.” she insisted, slipping into his space.
“You’re an idiot,” he said. “You could’ve died.”
“But I didn’t.”
She gestured to the center of her chest with two fingers, right over the bandaged spot where she’d been run through.
“I’ve handled bigger.”
The stars above them blinked faintly through the hazy Gotham light, casting a soft, silver sheen across his face. It caught the shift in his expression—the flicker in his eyes, the way his jaw unclenched, the tension bleeding from his shoulders like someone had cut a wire.
His breath left him in a slow, unsteady exhale.
She was here. Warm. Breathing.
“I hate you,” he muttered.
“You really don’t.”
His eyes—emerald and intense, storm-bright even in the low light—met hers, memorizing her. Drinking in every detail.
“You can touch,” she whispered, smile softening. “I’m real.”
He stared at her—alive, reckless, impossibly radiant—and then finally, finally, his hands found her waist. His grip was tight—not rough, just firm. Like anchoring himself to something that had nearly slipped from his grasp.
The kiss was sharp, unsparing—less a meeting of mouths and more a clash of everything he’d refused to let himself feel. Weeks of tension, rage, guilt, grief, all unraveling at once.
It was bruising. Desperate.
Her fingers curled into the collar of his suit. She kissed him back like she’d missed him just as much—like she’d wanted this just as long.
When they finally pulled apart, his forehead still pressed to hers, she let out a shaky breath.
“If this is how you welcome me back, I should die more often.”
His eyes narrowed, thumb brushing her jaw. “Don’t.”
She grinned. “No promises.”
He kissed her again before she could make another joke.
summary | as a tradition, jason gets to meet the farm and your side of the family, because he deserves, because he is your family now: it's totally normal that he just slips into the son-space.
pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic dick grayson x kent!reader, platonic jason todd x kent!reader, platonic superfam x kent!reader
warnings / tags | fluffy, all of this is so so so sweet. we have uncle clark, siblings dick and jason, mama reader, trying dad bruce wayne that is absolutely the best at making the children laugh. and the farm once again!!!!!!!! suggestive moment between bruce and reader years of therapy for the children
word count | 6.3k
authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)
this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 10. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.
THE AIR IN THE MANOR HAD TAKEN ON THAT CURIOUS BLEND OF EARLY AUTUMN—
Cool mornings, warm afternoons, a sharpness in the breeze that slipped in through open windows. You’d always loved September for that. Even Gotham, gray and grim as it often was, couldn’t resist the turning of seasons. The ivy along the east wing was just beginning to rust, its green giving way to red-gold fingers that curled toward the stone.
It had rained the night before, just enough to leave the grass soft beneath your boots as you crossed the back garden. Morning sunlight stretched over the old stone path like gold being poured across the earth, catching in dewdrops and spider webs strung delicately between rose bushes.
Jason sat cross-legged on the Persian rug of the library, half-lost in the cushions of a chair he hadn’t actually sat in. His back leaned against the base, a book cracked open in his lap, brows furrowed in the way only Jason Todd could furrow them—like the world had better not interrupt him unless it wanted a death glare and a five-minute lecture on historical inaccuracies.
“You’ve read that before,” you said gently, brushing your knuckles across a white bloom as you passed. “Twice, if I’m not wrong.”
“Three times,” he corrected without looking up from the page. “But I like the parts I didn’t notice before.”
There was no smugness in his voice, no pretension. Just truth. Jason devoured literature like oxygen—something about Dickens, about injustice and sacrifice, about people who did terrible things for love, had rooted itself deep inside him.
You moved to sit beside him, and he immediately shifted over, making space without needing to be asked. The boy was all elbows and curiosity, but when it came to you, he seemed to instinctively offer gentleness. It made something warm twist in your stomach.
“How was school?” you asked.
“Fine.”
“‘Fine’ like you finished your essay on the Great Fire of London? Or ‘fine’ like you forgot about it and turned in that extra credit on Mesopotamian cuneiform instead?”
He snorted, the sound halfway between amused and caught. “Mesopotamia. But I got an A.”
Jason had started school just a month and a half ago, and in that short time, he’d managed to become something of a marvel.
Seventh grade at Gotham School was no joke, and yet he was gliding through his classes with an ease that startled his teachers. History was where he thrived most—stories of people long gone, revolutions, philosophies. He devoured them. Literature too, where he’d already been moved into a more advanced reading group. You suspected he liked the tragic heroes best, the ones with pasts too dark to shake but who still tried.
Dick, a sophomore now, was busy in all the ways a sixteen-year-old should be. Basketball practice after school, school radio in the mornings, and a never-ending swirl of social events that you tried your best to keep up with. Still, he always made time for Jason. He walked him to his classes when he could, left post-its in his lunchbox with jokes or one-liners, and pretended not to notice when Jason saved one or two of them in the back pocket of his backpack.
Your oldest was growing fast—taller than you now, broader in the shoulders, that Grayson charm blooming in full. And yet, there was still the part of him that kissed your cheek when he got home, that peeked into the kitchen to see what you were cooking and talk about all he could.
Jason didn’t call you “Mom.” Didn’t call Bruce “Dad,” either. Not yet. But there was something deeper than names building itself between you. Jason was yours. Not by blood, but in every other way that mattered.
He had been yours for almost two months now, in that way that was legal and signed on paper, but still felt more than that. He’d met Bruce first, yes—encountered him on the street in Gotham’s East End, bloodied and small and mouthy as hell. But somehow, without trying, without even realizing it, he’d ended up glued to your side.
You didn’t need to patrol rooftops to be part of this strange little family. You were the one who made the manor feel like home. The one who brought warmth to the cold, still rooms. The one who knew how to sit beside silence until it spoke.
Now he followed you everywhere. The garden. The greenhouse. The library. He carried your woven basket when you picked tomatoes or lavender. He liked helping shelve books, though he always shelved them slightly crooked. He’d fall asleep on the fainting couch in the sunroom if you didn’t shoo him to bed, one hand clutching the spine of some old novel he pretended wasn’t that good.
“You packed your sketchbook?”
He nodded. “Yeah. And that history thing I’m doing about the Boston Massacre.”
You smiled. “The one with the journal entries?”
He turned his head, a hint of pride lifting his brows. “Yeah. I’m writing them like they’re real people. Like, what they would’ve been feeling. You know?”
“Very you,” you said, ruffling his hair. He tried to dodge but didn’t commit to it. “We’ll have time at the farm to finish it if you want. I think the quiet might help.”
His mouth quirked a little. “The cows too?”
“Oh, definitely. Cows are excellent muses.”
That got a real smile out of him, wide and dimpled.
“Do you think it’ll be weird?” he asked after a moment. “Going there?”
You paused. “Why do you think it might be weird?”
He shrugged, turning to look at you. “I don’t know. They don't really know me.”
“But they heard about you. I told them about you,” you smiled softly. “Perfect opportunity so they get to know you. I'm sure that my ma already is planning on making that lasagna of hers.”
“Your mom cooks a lot?”
“Believes that the way to enter someone's heart is through the stomach,” you leaned down a bit, lowering your voice. “How do you think I got Bruce's love over all the supermodels?”
He giggled, and you smiled again, pleased with yourself.
You didn’t mention how much this trip meant to you. You didn’t say out loud that being on the farm again, even for a few days, might help settle something inside your chest that had felt a little bruised ever since the miscarriage. You didn’t say that holding Jon again, feeling that small weight of life, might soothe the ache that lingered at the base of your ribs. You didn’t say it, because you didn’t want Jason to see that grief and think he wasn’t enough.
Instead, you brushed his hair back again and smiled. “We should finish packing.”
He leaned into your touch for just a second longer than necessary. And then nodded.
The next morning began in the soft blur of sunrise. You’d made muffins—blueberry and chocolate chip—and Alfred packed them in a basket alongside a thermos of coffee and a sealed tin of cut fruit. Bruce kissed your lips in greeting when he entered the foyer, trench coat still smelling faintly of the airport, exhaustion worn loosely in the curve of his shoulders.
“You look beautiful,” he murmured, low enough for only you to hear.
“I look like I slept three hours.”
“And yet,” he said, brushing a finger under your eye, “you’re still the most radiant thing in this house.”
Jason, trailing behind with his backpack slung haphazardly across one shoulder, made a gagging sound.
Bruce arched an eyebrow. “Is that your way of saying good morning?”
“It’s my way of saying gross.”
Dick appeared right behind him, hair wet from a fast shower, basketball sneakers squeaking on the tile. “I agree with the kid. PDA in the manor should be punishable by law.”
You rolled your eyes. “All right, all right. Everybody in the car.”
They sat in the backseat, each with their own cache of snacks, comics, and travel pillows. Jason had his knees pulled to his chest, book already in hand. Dick had earbuds tangled in one ear, narrating over the sound of a homemade playlist that spanned from Elvis to Queen to current pop hits.
“Alright,” Dick said, popping a gummy into his mouth as he leaned forward. “Jaybird, listen close, 'cause you need the full Kent Farm Orientation.”
Jason looked up from the comic he’d already half-devoured, narrowing his eyes. “You act like they’re aliens.”
“Technically, only one is,” Dick said, pointing upward as if Clark hovered just out of frame.
You snorted, not looking back. “Be nice.”
“Sorry, mom. You’re gonna love the farm,” Dick says, mouth half-full as he waves a cheese puff in the air like a conductor’s baton. “It’s huge. Like, stupid huge. Not like Wayne huge — but country huge. We’re talkin’ barns and tractors and cornfields for days.”
Jason glances up at him, skeptical. “How huge is ‘stupid huge’?”
“Like, you could probably run for twenty minutes and still be in the backyard,” Dick says, nodding solemnly. “I once got chased by a turkey and made it halfway to the next pasture before mom caught it with her bare hands.”
Your lips twitch at that, and you turn in your seat to glance back at the boys. “It was not with my bare hands. I had a rake.”
Jason looks genuinely impressed. “You caught a turkey with a rake?”
You shrug, amused. “It was Thanksgiving. He was running for his life.”
Dick snorts, sending a puff of chip crumbs into the air. “He still talks about it like he has PTSD. Probably joined a turkey support group.”
Jason shifts in his seat, eyes flicking from you to the window, where the scenery is slowly shifting from city outskirts to open farmland. His voice is softer when he speaks again. “So... what are your parents like?”
You smile gently. “They’re kind. Down-to-earth. My ma’s a hugger, so prepare yourself.”
Dick leans over, nudging Jason with an elbow. “Grandma makes the best peach pie in the world. Hands down. Don’t argue — it’s fact.”
Jason hesitates before asking, “So... I should call them ‘Mrs. Kent’ and ‘Mr. Kent,’ right?”
That tugs something in your chest — the way he folds in on himself slightly, polite to the point of uncertainty. He’s still figuring out the shape of this family. Still finding the edges he’s allowed to touch.
Bruce glances at you briefly before speaking up for the first time in a while. “They’d be honored if you called them whatever you’re comfortable with, Jason.”
You turn back in your seat so you can better see him. “Really. They won’t care. They’ll love you either way.”
Jason nods slowly, not quite looking convinced, and Dick fills the space quickly, as he always does, sensing the need for distraction.
“And wait until you meet Uncle Clark and Aunt Lois,” he says, flinging another puff into his mouth. “Clark’s... I mean, he’s Superman, but you already knew that.”
Jason gives a quiet chuckle. “Kinda hard not to.”
Dick grins. “He’s the best. Total nerd. Reads everything, even the cereal box. And Lois? She’s the only person alive who can out-stubborn mom.”
“Hey,” you protest lightly.
“It’s true, my love,” Bruce murmurs, smirking. “I’ve seen it happen.”
Jason’s lips twitch at that. “So... do I call them ‘Mr. Clark’ and ‘Miss Lois’?”
You don’t correct him. Not right away. Instead, you reach a hand back between the seats, resting your fingers lightly on his knee. “Whatever you’re comfortable with, sweetheart. There’s no pressure. Just... be yourself.”
He gives a small nod, and you can see the faintest softening in his shoulders. The boy’s still learning what it feels like to belong. To trust it’ll last.
“I’m not milking a cow,” he says abruptly.
Dick erupts with laughter. “That’s what I said. But I totally did.”
“Of course you did,” Bruce mutters.
Dick leans back, arms stretched behind his head now. “It’s like... part of the Kent initiation or something. One cow, one bale of hay, and at least three chores before Ma Kent gives you pie.”
“She’ll probably have Jason shelling peas by sunset,” you joke.
Jason’s nose wrinkles. “I’ve never shelled peas.”
“You’ll learn.”
Dick jumped back in, mouth full of chips. “Uncle Clark usually gets up with the sun. Not because of the powers or anything, just ‘cause he’s, like, spiritually 90. Aunt Lois drinks coffee like it’s a survival tactic, and Conner—he’s the chill one. And little Jon? That kid’s a menace.”
“Dick,” Bruce warned.
“In a good way!” Dick added quickly. “Like, tiny tornado of joy and sticky fingers. He’s four now, so he’s either napping or climbing your face like a jungle gym.”
The car settled into a rhythm after that. Dick and Jason passed snacks back and forth like cards, inventing increasingly ridiculous names for granola bars and fighting over the superior flavor of chips. You leaned your head against the window and closed your eyes for a while, lulled by the hum of the road and the warmth of Bruce’s hand covering yours.
There were still quiet days when the grief came like a tide, slow and heavy and almost gentle in its persistence. Days where you woke up and reached for a voice that wasn’t there, a presence you couldn’t fly to anymore. But this trip wasn’t about that. This was about gathering. About remembering who you still had, and who still had you.
“Hey,” Bruce said softly, fingers brushing your knuckles. “You okay?”
You turned your hand to hold his. “I am. I really am.”
He didn’t push. Just squeezed once and kept driving.
An hour out from the farm, Dick decided Jason needed to learn farm etiquette.
“Rule one: don’t let the chickens bully you. They can smell fear.”
Jason snorted. “I grew up in Gotham. I’m not scared of birds.”
“Rule two,” Dick went on solemnly, “never challenge Grandma to a baking contest. She will destroy you. And you will like it.”
“Does she make cookies?”
“She makes everything. And it all tastes like love and victory.”
You laughed, eyes misting slightly. “She’s already planning the menu. Said she bought strawberries fresh from the neighbor’s lot yesterday.”
Jason perked up at that. “Wait, so we get pie and strawberries?”
“Welcome to the Kent diet,” Dick said, lounging dramatically across the backseat. “Where food is affection and you gain ten pounds of joy in one weekend.”
“You’re really selling it,” Bruce said dryly.
Dick grinned. “It sells itself.”
When the farmhouse finally came into view, painted white with blue trim and wrapped in soft afternoon light, you felt your chest tighten with a kind of peace you hadn’t known you missed so badly. The porch swing was moving gently in the breeze. A familiar shape—Clark—stood near the barn, Conner beside him, both waving. Krypto sprinting around in fast, happy circles.
Bruce parked, and before the car had fully stopped, Dick launched out like a missile.
“Con!”
Conner caught him in a full hug, both immediately jumping into a chat.
Jason stepped out more carefully. You circled the car to his side, offering him a reassuring glance.
“Come on,” you said. “I’ll introduce you properly.”
Lois met you halfway across the yard, arms open. You folded into her, breathing in the scent of her shampoo and the perfume she never changed.
“There’s my favorite Kent,” she whispered. “God, it’s good to have you home.”
Your throat tightened. “It’s good to be home.”
Jason hovered nearby, unsure, and Lois pulled back with a bright smile.
“You must be Jason. Heard a lot about you.”
He fidgeted but nodded. “Nice to meet you, Miss Lois.”
She beamed. “Well, aren’t you charming. Come on, let’s get you some lemonade.”
Clark clapped a hand on Bruce’s shoulder, pulling him into a one-armed hug, and then came to you with arms wide.
“Hey, sis.”
You held him tight, safe in the hug you’d known since childhood. The one that felt like strength and light and the solid, unwavering love only a big brother could give.
Behind you, Jon barreled out of the house with sticky fingers and strawberry-stained cheeks, yelling, “Auntie Y/N!” before tackling your legs.
You laughed, bending to scoop him up. “There’s my little monster.”
He giggled, wrapping his arms around your neck.
Dick came running back with a piece of pie already in hand. “Grandma says if you don’t eat at least two slices, she’ll cry.”
Jason hesitated, then looked at you. You nodded.
“Come on,” you said. “Let’s go meet her. She’s been dying to give you a hug.”
“But I don’t know what to call her,” Jason whispered.
“Start with Mrs. Kent,” you said gently. “She’ll take care of the rest.”
And suddenly, arms were around you. Your mother’s voice in your ear—soft and trembling and full of love. “My baby,” she whispered, pressing her cheek to yours. “My sweet girl.”
Your father was there next, wrapping you in a strong, earthy hug. “Welcome home, sunshine.”
Your boy hung beside you, a little awkward, a little unsure. But Martha noticed immediately and beckoned him closer.
“Well, who do we have here?” she asked, warm and gentle. “You must be Jason.”
Jason gave a shy nod. “Nice to meet you, Mrs. Kent.”
“Oh, honey,” she said, pulling him into a hug, “call me Grandma.”
He froze for a moment. Then, slowly, smiled.
Dick was already hugging Clark, yelling, “Uncle Clark! Is that an apron? Are you baking again? Can I lick the spoon?”
Bruce trailed behind, standing near the porch with a small, watchful smile. He didn’t speak much. But when you looked at him, he mouthed, “You okay?”
You nodded, smiling widely.
Dinner was noisy, crowded, full of laughter. Lois told stories. Conner teased Clark. Dick taught Jon how to steal extra cookies. Jason fell asleep on the couch next to Grandpa Kent, both snoring by the time the stars came out.
And you?
You sat with Bruce on the porch swing, the night wrapping around you like a warm blanket, the sky above wide and full of promise.
“I want this,” Bruce said quietly.
“This?” you asked.
He nodded, eyes on the stars. “Us. Them. Peace. I want to . . . I want us to have the wedding, my love.”
“We are already engaged, Bruce,” you teased gently, your voice soft with affection. “In case you have forgotten that. If you have, I'll kick you and let Krypto eat you. Slowly.”
“No, no,” he denied, shaking his head hard, and then leaning in with urgency. His hands found yours, warm and grounding, fingers curling around your knuckles like he could tether his entire world to the feeling. Your fiancé looked at you then—not as Gotham’s protector, not as the man shadowed by legacy and expectation, but simply as the man who loved you. “I want us to get married, love. Really married. Church, barn, farm, fucking Pleasantdale Chateau if that’s what you want. I want you. I want this. I want to call you my wife.”
Tears stung your eyes so fast it startled you, your vision turning watery and warm. You blinked once, and then again, and the stars above blurred and swirled in your sight—but all you could see was him. This stubborn, brilliant, brooding man whose entire heart now lived outside his body, cradled between your palms.
“Do you really?” you whispered.
“Yes,” he exhaled, too quickly. “Yes, really.”
You laughed, half-choked by breath and surprise and joy, your mouth breaking into a grin so wide it hurt. You nodded so fast you could’ve been mistaken for a speedster on caffeine, and then you were in his arms, blanket tumbling down your back as you threw yourself at him. “Yes. Yes, of course I want that!”
He held you tightly, fiercely, and you could feel the tension in his chest—his ribs aching with the kind of relief that only came after holding your breath for too long. You stayed there, curled together under the starlight, rocking slightly on the old porch swing like teenagers, like the war was finally over and love had won after all.
And just like that, days later, you were planning a wedding.
But not just one.
Two.
One in Gotham—because the Wayne name demanded it. Because the city needed a fairy tale, even if it came bathed in bulletproof glass and tight security. That one would be glamour and silk, whispered champagne flutes and socialites who knew more about hedge funds than they did about human feelings. That wedding would be pearls and polished marble, custom couture and five-inch heels, cameras flashing behind velvet ropes.
But the other wedding—that one was for your heart.
That one would be in Smallville, under the same sky you’d grown up chasing fireflies beneath, the same air you’d learned to breathe in grief and peace and rebirth. You would walk through the barn doors, your dress brushing straw and your father’s eyes misty. The hens might squawk, the hay might make someone sneeze, and the food would be served out of Martha Kent’s ancient casserole dishes. But that would be the one that mattered.
And, of course, planning all of this meant Selina Kyle—brilliant, dangerous, and unreasonably stylish—was now your partner-in-crime, soulmate of best friends, and Chief Chaos Officer.
She arrived in Gotham the moment she heard the news (from you), swinging onto your balcony like it was just another Tuesday, sipping prosecco at 11 in the morning and tossing a stack of bridal magazines at you like they were weapons.
“Where’s my damn bride?” she called out, brushing invisible lint off her skintight black dress. “I have champagne, three Pinterest boards worth of inspiration, and I’m here to overthrow the monarchy of ugly weddings. Let’s get married, darling!”
You laughed so hard you almost dropped your coffee.
“Hello to you too, Seli.”
She strode over and kissed your cheek with a smirk, then turned and kissed the other side. “Darling, you’re glowing. And I don’t mean ‘in love’ glowing. I mean, Supergirl-level radiation glowing. I could practically see your joy from across rooftops.”
You took her hand. “That’s because I’m happy.”
She narrowed her eyes affectionately. “Well, don’t worry. I’m going to make sure you stay that way. Step one: we give Gotham something to talk about. Step two: we plan your farm wedding like Martha Stewart and Beyoncé had a baby.”
You choked. “Those are very different aesthetics, Selina.”
“That’s why you have me, kitten. Balance.” She winked and flopped down onto the couch, pulling her heels off. “Now. Spill. Every detail. What did the Bat do this time? Did he propose again because he’s a control freak? Did he make you a ring out of some rare Gothamite crystal?”
“Second proposal. Stars. Porch swing. Kind of a lot of emotions,” you said, settling beside her and pulling your knees up. “He told me he wanted peace. And a real wedding. With family. Not just a city hall thing like we talked about before.”
Selina’s grin softened into something warmer, quieter. “He wants to build something real with you. I like that.”
“Me too.”
“And the second wedding in Kansas?” she asked, sipping her champagne.
“That one’s for me. That’s where I can breathe.”
She clinked her glass against yours. “Then we plan both. I’m your wedding general. You, my dazzling little tornado, are going to marry the love of your life and look obscenely good doing it.”
You exhaled slowly, eyes drifting across a page that featured an absurdly decadent floral arrangement shaped like a swan. “I don’t want it to feel fake.”
Selina grew still beside you. “It won’t.”
“It could. Easily. I don’t know, sometimes I feel like they’re all looking at me like I’m this… thing that got added to the Wayne collection. Like a rare painting or a limited edition car.” You gave a small shrug. “Kent isn’t even the right last name to them. It’s Smallville. It’s cow-town. It’s not—”
“They can all go to hell,” Selina said flatly, not a trace of flirtation in her tone now. “You hear me?”
You looked at her. She was deadly serious.
“You’re not something Bruce picked up at a charity auction. You’re his partner. And anyone who knows you—anyone who’s ever met you—knows you’d throw a punch before you’d ever be decorative.” Her mouth curved, slow and fond. “You’re the girl who wrestled me into the Gotham Bay fountain at your birthday party because you said those diamonds were tacky.”
“They were tacky. It was a choker with a pendant the size of my thumb.”
“I stole it off a gala heiress, what do you expect?”
You laughed. “That poor woman.”
“She deserved it. She said something so mean about cats. That bitch.”
You smiled, then reached out and covered her hand with yours. “Thank you, Selina.”
She waved it off but didn’t pull away. “You know I’m throwing your bachelorette party, right?”
You groaned. “I was afraid you’d say that.”
“I already booked the venue.”
“God.”
“Do you want strippers?”
“Selina.”
“Okay, no strippers,” she mused, twirling the stem of her glass. “Unless they dress up as Batman.”
You paused. “That’s genuinely cursed.”
“Oh, now I want to do it.”
You laughed so hard your stomach cramped.
Planning the Gotham wedding was a whirlwind. Every high-society venue in the city offered itself like a willing tribute. There were meetings with caterers, tastings, dress fittings, tux measurements. Bruce insisted on being there for every step, every call, every cake sample—even the ones he said tasted like sugared cardboard.
“Selina thinks we need three different dessert tables,” you said one evening, half-asleep on the couch, legs in Bruce’s lap as he read through floral arrangement proposals.
“We can do five,” he replied without looking up.
You lifted your head. “Do you even like cake?”
“I like that you like eating cake,” he murmured, a little too smoothly. “And I really like eating y—”
You swatted a throw pillow at him, and he caught it midair without even looking.
Of course he did.
Bruce looked up from the stack of papers and silk swatches on his lap with one eyebrow arched in that unamused-but-amused way he’d mastered over the years. He was in his dark pajama pants and a gray shirt you’d definitely stolen once and he’d just silently taken back. There was a thread of silver at his temples now—subtle, distinguished—but his eyes still burned that deep, knowing blue that always, always saw through you.
“You’re not taking this seriously,” you said, trying to sound offended, but mostly failing because your mouth was tugging up at the corners. “These centerpieces are important. This is the visual cohesion of our entire Gotham reception.”
“Mm,” Bruce hummed, flipping to the next page in your planner with a teasing slowness. “Should we match the roses to your death glare or your sarcasm?”
“Keep talking, Wayne. I’ll choose lavender just to spite you.”
“Lavender would make your skin look even warmer under candlelight. That’s a win for me.”
You gave a slow blink. “That was… weirdly smooth.”
“Years of practice.”
“You practice compliments now?”
“I practice you,” he murmured without missing a beat, hand smoothing over the blanket that covered your shin. He was still pretending to read, but his hand drifted up, brushing lightly along your calf. Lazy. Familiar. Possessive in the softest way.
Your breath hitched before you could catch it.
“Say that again.”
“I practice you,” he repeated. Then, finally, he looked at you—really looked—and something shifted in the air. Like gravity had changed angles and the room was slanting toward him. “Every day. I memorize the way you move, the way you think, the sound you make when you laugh like something just surprised you. I study you like it’s the only subject that ever mattered.”
You swallowed hard.
“You’re going to ruin me with words.”
He leaned forward, voice quieter now, lips just a breath from yours. “I plan to ruin you in several ways.”
You smacked his chest, but it was all pretense. You couldn’t stop smiling, and your chest was tightening in that stupid, fluttery way it always did when he turned that intense, undivided focus onto you. Like you were the mission. Like your happiness was a code he was decoding in real time.
“You’re impossible,” you whispered.
“And you’re barefoot in my lap wearing my shirt and trying to plan centerpieces while I think about kissing every inch of your skin,” he said, thumb tracing a slow line along your ankle now. “So who’s really the problem here?”
Your whole body flushed warm, and then you were sitting up, scooting into his lap with a sly, deliberate kind of grace that made his pupils dilate the moment your thighs bracketed his. His hands came to your waist automatically, grounding you against him, fingers digging in like he needed to memorize the shape of you.
“You’ve got a whole office for work talk,” you said, threading your arms around his neck. “But this is my hour. I want kisses.”
Bruce exhaled, long and low, voice a little rough now. “As many as you want.”
And then he kissed you.
There was no ceremony in it. No careful buildup. No slow press of lips or teasing glance. Just heat and mouth and years of knowing you—years of almosts and finallys and I love yous folded between the lines. He kissed you like he was starved. Like this was air. Like he hadn’t just kissed you that morning and still didn’t feel like it was enough.
His hands slid up your sides beneath the hem of your shirt, thumbs stroking the skin just above your waistband. His mouth moved over yours, slow at first, savoring, then deeper—hungry. You moaned softly against him, and he responded with a sound that was practically a growl, one hand tangling in your hair as he tilted your head for better access.
You clutched his shoulders, nails digging into muscle, pulling him closer until your chest was pressed tight against his. You could feel the way his breath stuttered when your hips shifted, the way his fingers flexed at your waist like he was trying not to lose control entirely.
“Bruce,” you murmured, breathless.
“I know,” he rasped, mouth trailing down your jaw, then lower, across the slope of your neck. “Tell me to stop if you want me to.”
“I don’t,” you whispered, voice cracking slightly. “I don’t ever.”
He kissed your collarbone, the edge of your throat, your pulse. You felt it everywhere, deep and dizzying and full. You tugged at his shirt, sliding your hands underneath, the warmth of his skin like fire against your palms. Every part of him responded to your touch—like he’d been waiting, every second, for you to ask for more.
The make-out session escalated without either of you meaning to—your shirt was halfway up, his kisses were messier now, hands trailing up your back and gripping your hips like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to pull you closer or pin you down.
You were both flushed, breathing too hard, entirely lost in each other.
And then—
The door slammed open.
“OH MY GOD—”
You shrieked and yanked the blanket over you so fast it nearly took Bruce’s shirt with it. He let out a low, guttural sigh and leaned back with one hand over his eyes as if he were praying for invisibility.
Standing in the doorway were both boys: Dick holding a juice box, Jason holding an Xbox controller, and both of them looking like they had just walked in on nuclear detonation.
“Are you—what were you—were you even watching the door?! There are children here!” Dick screeched, backing out like he’d walked in on a horror movie.
“I told you to knock!” Jason barked, slapping Dick’s arm as he turned to follow.
“I thought they were still doing wedding planning!” Dick whined. “They had a planner! And color-coded notes!”
“They’re doing each other!” Jason yelled, voice receding as the two of them sprinted back down the hall.
You buried your face into Bruce’s shoulder, shoulders shaking—half mortified, half trying not to laugh so hard you broke a rib.
“I am never showing my face in this house again,” you said flatly.
“Whose house do you think this is?” Bruce muttered.
“I’m moving to the barn.”
He kissed your hair. “I’ll visit.”
You finally peeked up at him. “How many years of therapy did we just cause?”
“At least three.”
“Each?”
He smiled. “They’ll survive.”
“They’re going to tell Alfred.”
That wiped the amusement clean off his face. But then he leaned in, brushed a kiss against your temple, and murmured, “Worth it.”
And you had to admit… yeah.
It kind of was.
The house was unusually quiet for a Thursday afternoon, the kind of quiet that usually meant either someone was asleep, someone was gone, or someone was plotting something very elaborate in a duct. Thankfully, this time, it was just the soft hum of a late Gotham hour wrapping itself around the windows, and the gentle rustle of pages being turned down the hall. No alarms, no crashes, no grappling hook mishaps in the foyer. For once, peace.
You were packed. Sort of. Selina had said not to bother—“What you don’t bring, I’ll buy, kitten”—but you’d still made an effort. A small overnight bag sat by the door, half-full of dresses you might never wear and shoes you already regretted. Your phone was charging, your lipstick was applied, and Bruce had pressed a kiss to your neck twenty minutes ago with a low “Have fun” that sounded suspiciously like try not to let Selina burn the city down.
Now all that was left were the goodbyes.
You padded barefoot down the hallway in a soft white tee and linen pants, already in your traveling clothes, your hair loose. The living room was dim, sunlight bleeding in through the curtains like spilled honey. You found Dick exactly where you knew he’d be—cross-legged on the floor beside the coffee table, surrounded by notebooks, flashcards, and the determined mess of a young man studying for his upcoming chemistry exam.
His glasses—he never wore glasses—were sliding slightly down his nose, and he looked adorably miserable.
You smiled.
“You look like a college kid having a breakdown at midterms.”
“I feel like a college kid having a breakdown at midterms,” Dick groaned, flopping back against the sofa and running both hands through his hair. “Why does covalent bonding hate me?”
“It doesn’t,” you said, kneeling beside him and gently pulling the nearest open textbook away from his stomach. “It just wants you to respect its boundaries.”
He snorted. “I get enough boundary lectures from Bruce, thanks.”
You leaned over and kissed his forehead, then his cheek, brushing his hair gently back. His skin was warm, a little flushed from concentration, and when he sighed, it was like he remembered he could exhale around you.
“I’m heading out,” you said softly. “Selina’s on her way. Which means I have about ten minutes before the honking begins.”
Dick blinked. “You’re going now?”
“Bachelorette weekend, baby. Try not to miss me too much.”
He made a face. “Gross. You’re gonna come back with stories I’m never allowed to hear, aren’t you?”
You smirked. “Correct.”
Dick gave an exaggerated groan, then rolled forward to hug you tight around the middle. You wrapped your arms around his shoulders and held on, letting the weight of his gangly, tall frame press against you in a way that still reminded you of the first time you tucked him under a blanket on the Batplane when he was ten.
He was taller now. Stronger. A little more worn in the eyes. But still your boy.
“Promise me something?” you asked.
“Hmm?”
“Behave.”
He pulled back just enough to look at you. “Define behave.”
“Don’t get arrested. Don’t let Jason set anything on fire. Don’t let Bruce spiral about seating charts. Don’t fight any criminals in your pajamas.”
“You’re asking a lot.”
You smiled, soft and steady. “I know.”
He studied you a moment. “You okay?”
“I’m good,” you said, meaning it. “I’m really good.”
Dick nodded slowly. “Okay. Go have fun. Be wild. Let Selina kidnap you. Just… be safe. And text me if you need an escape helicopter.”
“You’ll be my backup Bat?”
“Always.”
You kissed his cheek, squeezed his shoulder, and then stood with a sigh.
“Jason’s in the library,” he added as you turned to leave. “He’s… kind of quiet today.”
You paused, heart tugging in that familiar, quiet way.
“Thanks, sweetheart.”
You walked toward the kitchen. You moved through the space on instinct alone, reaching for the little kettle Alfred used for hot chocolate, setting it to warm as you pulled the milk —glass bottle, cold and full— and you poured it into the pot.
This ritual wasn’t yours, not exactly. It belonged to Martha Kent. To quiet nights in Smallville, to childhood fevers and scraped knees and bad dreams. She’d make this same milk for you and Clark—warm, not too sweet, a little soothing weight in your stomach that made everything feel like it would be okay.
It wasn’t medicine.
It was love.
And now it was yours to pass on.
You poured the milk into a mug shaped like a pumpkin—Jason’s favorite—and carried it through the hall after adding honey, your bare feet silent on the floor.
And there he was.
Curled up in one of the oversized leather armchairs, one leg tucked beneath him, the other half-covered by a pillow that had likely fallen off the couch hours ago. His oversized hoodie dwarfed him — navy blue with tiny white paint stains along the sleeves from a project Bruce had helped him finish two days ago. His book was large, some vintage edition of The Count of Monte Cristo, the spine frayed from use. You could see the faint twitch of his hand on the page like he was trying to keep reading but his body had already started shutting down.
The room was warm, low-lit, quiet.
You didn’t say anything.
You stepped inside silently, going straight to the blanket draped across the back of the couch — one of the hand-knitted ones Alfred used to insist was for “fireside reading and holiday purposes only.” It was thick, slightly rough with age, and a little too golden to match the furniture, but you’d always liked it.
You walked over and gently draped it over Jason’s legs. He stirred a little, but didn’t wake.
“Thanks, ma,” he mumbled, barely audible.
You froze.
The word landed so gently, so instinctively, it nearly didn’t register. He didn’t flinch. Didn’t correct himself. Just shifted slightly under the blanket, eyes still closed, half-lost to sleep.
You didn’t breathe for a second. Then you leaned down, kissed his forehead, brushed his hair gently from his face, and whispered, “Anytime, baby.”
There was no reply. Only the faint sound of his breathing, slow and steady now, and the tiniest smile curling at the corner of his lips.
But as you turned to go, hand brushing against the doorway, you heard him mumble—quiet, but not too quiet to catch—
“…Love you.”
You stopped, turning around slowly. And you smiled.
“I love you too, Jay.”
Then you stepped out of the room, heart too full for words.
synopsis: only you can make hyunjin's favourite tea. he's about to find that out.
featuring: hwang hyunjin x reader, their moments are very little though
genre: fluff, a little crack
wc: 0.8k words
A couple of restless days was the last thing Hyunjin wanted, especially with end semester evaluation so close.
Nothing felt right; the colours on the canvas didn't seem to satisfy him, the texture didn't work, the strokes weren't perfect. He could come up with a thousand reasons why none of his artworks made the final cut for him.
And for some time, he couldn't figure out what it was. He was sleeping well, eating fine, going on walks every morning, drinking tea every evening. Maybe he had hit a creative block? No, but he had a hundred different wonderful ideas that just hit dead-end when it came to execution.
And it was during this period of perplexity, when he went for his regular cup of tea in his favourite nearby cafe, Tung-Tung, that it hit him.
The tea was different.
The soothing yet senses-lighting tea that he drank from kulhad every evening basking in the ambience of the place was no longer what it was.
Instead, it was just rose tea. It didn't ease the tension in his muscles, cool his insides or being him solace. It didn't even taste the same.
At first, he thought it was just the stress getting to him; he's just finding everything annoying. Cause why is it just now he noticed the difference in the tea?
But it had been quite a hectic week. He doesn't recall sitting for more than 10 minutes in that place either. And it just strengthen his suspicion.
But what, if anything, had changed? So just to confirm his suspicion, Hyunjin downed the tea and ordered another one.
And another one.
And another.
By his fourth additional cup and more than an hour of sitting there, the staff had started to notice his weird expressions and mannerisms as he analysed the taste of the tea.
All four cups tasted the same.
But none like the ones he had.
And before he could grow frantic and jump to a conclusion that maybe his love for the tea was dieing down and now he had nothing else to unwind him during this tough period, one of the staff members approached him.
"Excuse me, sir, but is everything alright?" The girl balanced a weird smile on her face. Miyeon, her nametag read.
It took him a while to process her question, but when he did, he tentatively nodded, pointing to the clay cup.
"Yeah, I am. It's just," inhale, "the tea's different."
Hyunjin couldn't help but notice how she stiffened, looking back at the woman on the counter. Miyeon's actions made her, Shuhua her tag read, eyebrows furrow as she glanced at Hyunjin.
"I'm sorry sir, but what do you mean different? It's the same recipe." She turned back to him, still plastering the weird smile but a sense of worry in her eyes this time.
The truth is, Hyunjin himself wasn't sure how to respond. What made the tea taste different?
However, daring to let her know what he felt, he told exactly what he thought.
"It's just different. It's not awful or bad in any way, but different from what I used to have."
He could see the worry dissipate from her face, confusion clouding instead. And so he elaborated the best way he could.
"It's like, the way two artists don't have the same strokes. It results in the same painting but a completely different feel."
And as realisation dawned on Miyeon, she let out a laugh. "Oh! That's cause this was a different artist."
Hyunjin spent the entire evening and night thinking of the tea.
Well, not just the special rose tea he's been deprived of for days.
The artist of the tea.
You, the person who made the best tea Hyunjin had tasted.
After Miyeon and Shuhua clarified that you were the one who used to make the rose tea they served, and that you had to quit your job for some reason, he was left in a difficult situation.
It's not just the rose tea he wanted, it was the soothing trance it left Hyunjin in everytime he drank it. It fueled his creativity, filled him with big spurts of energy and motivated him to pour his heart and soul into his work, just like the maker of the tea, you, did.
He tried, he really tried, to get back to canvas. He tried different mediums; oil paints, acrylic paints, everything he knew. The stiffness in his body only seemed to weigh him down the more he drew and paint. Frustrated, he dropped the brush and wiped his hand on his apron, settling down on the floor.
Art used to be easy. Expressing himself, letting his hand move to the rhythm of his soul, it used to be easy. He used to paint with ideas, not colours. He made the canvas human, not a composition.
The critisisms, the rules, the perspectives, he guessed it got to him somehow. He started over analysing every stroke, every line even before he put it on paper.
Don't get him wrong, he loves the insight and knowledge he gained. But somehow, he lost the very soul that made him an artist.
And that's where you came in.
More specifically, your tea.
He didn't know what to expect at first; a beverage in a clay cup. The cup was cool, maybe that was his first thought when he first decided to order it. He doesn't remember it all too well, he only remembers his first sip.
The absolute sensory experience it was; the smell, the taste, the texture of the cup, the slow ballads in the background. The way the liquid danced on his taste buds, a beautiful formulation that felt like a sweet hug, or an old lover's embrace. That night, he drew a rose for the first time in a while.
He craved for that sensation again, the one that fuels the artist in him.
So the next day, Sunday, was spent looking at rose tea recipes online and trying to replicate the magic he felt with your tea.
And although he wasn't a big fan of the rose tea made by Shuhua, that he drank the day before, it was loads better than his attempts.
He went as far as to disturb his friend Han Jisung, who cursed him out for disturbing him for "some tea", and Lee Minho, who hung up as soon as he let out the word "tea".
Finally, his last ray of hope agreed to participate in his peculiar rendezvous and came to help him. But as good as Lee Felix was in baking, even he couldn't replicate the essence of the tea, your tea.
Saddened, as he was unable to help his friend, Felix left with 3 bottles of rose tea. And only a few minutes later, in came the hurricane named Han Jisung with a bottle of his own.
"Minho hyung couldn't make it, but he made you some tea as well," he heaved, smiling and shaking the bottle.
And even though it wasn't rose tea, it wasn't your tea, it gave Hyunjin a bit of solace as he and Jisung sipped Minho's creation in the ceramic cups he owned.
After the draining weekend, Hyunjin didn't dare to pick up his brush.
And as he explained to Jisung the day prior, he's not gonna be able to relax and paint until and unless he drinks the same rose tea you make.
It was almost pathetic, how much he relied on it. But it wasn't just the tea, it was everything it stood for. It stood for another artist's love for their art.
And so, to pull their friend out of his misery, Jisung, Minho and Felix dragged his ass back to Tung-Tung Café. They took it upon themselves to track you down, and finally get Hyunjin the rose tea he speaks so highly of.
After all, his end semester evaluations are close. So they need to hurry up, especially when Hyunjin's so adamant that he can't even paint a flower correctly without a sip of your tea.
As the four (minus Hyunjin) placed their orders, Felix led with the questions.
"Along with tha- yes Jisung, she wrote cheesecake- we were wondering, who was the person that used to make the tea?"
Shuhua eyed Hyunjin for a second, recognising him (his antics were, apparantly, unforgettable), but then turned to Felix.
"That was our former employee, as we told your friend. She doesn't work here anymore."
And after countless asking and begging her despite the deadly glares she gave them, Shuhua finally revealed your name and university.
Turns out, you go to the same university they all go to, making things ten times easier.
It also turns out that you're a day-scholar, which meant if they wanted to find you, they had to do it during class hours. And they had to do it tomorrow, the last day of classes before they were given a preparatory leave.
Jisung named the plan "Ultimate Grand Hunt for Tea" or "UGH-T" for short. He was having more fun with this that Hyunjin expected, but he was glad at least they didn't mind helping him. His worries were eased by Felix, and Minho cooked them a delicious dinner to cheer up their spirits.
It was finally time for UGH-T to come into action. The time was fixed, the guys were ready. As soon as the last bell rang, signalling the end of their classes, the four guys ran out at the speed of light.
"I guess the students are more excited for this semester to end than I thought," one of the professors remarked.
You being a literature major meant sprinting to the opposite side of the university midst a sea of students rushing out of their classes. And their plan proved even more futile as it finally hit them that they had no effing idea what you looked like.
So the time was spent shouting your name and looking around, asking people, some who had seen you in class but had no idea where you were then; till the place got empty, void of students.
If there was a rock bottom, Hyunjin has hit it now.
After their countless attempts to resurrect his desire to work, from making the tea to literally hunting you down, it left him feeling even more hollow.
How can he let a simple cup of that stupid, magical concoction render him so useless? He was a great artist, even before he first tasted the tea. That's how he got into college.
How did he let himself get addicted, and worse, rely on physical matter to create good art?
A hundred, no thousand mini Hyunjins cheered him up in his mind as they all headed for a cup of coffee to the same darn café where it all started.
Of course he doesn't need the tea! No matter how relaxing it is, he can relax himself! Yes! Even though it's sweet, earthy smell in the kulhad ignited his senses like no other. He can do that himself! He can feel it happening right now, he can almost smell the exact sweet aroma -
The movement of a hand halted his train of thoughts, as it placed a cup in front of him. He didn't even realize they arrived and sat at his usual spot; his friends even ordered him something.
But wait, did his friends order rose tea for him? Was it a sick joke?
His eyes met Felix in almost a glare, but tyat didn't deter his friend who only urged Hyunjin to drink it. His eyes didn't leave the boy as he picked it up, sipping as his mini Hyunjins cheered him on.
One sip.
Another one. No, it can't be-
Another big gulp that almost burned his throat and caused him to cough, his eyes, widened with surprise, moved to the waitress next to their table.
And as your eyes, as unfamiliar as they were, met his, Hyunjin could almost feel himself tearing up.
"Oh god."
Since that fateful day, a lot changed in Hyunjin's life.
He passed the semester with flying colours, most of which he attributed to you. You, who made not just rose tea but different sorts of tea and coffee for him, the one dedicated to your craft. Even though you kept assuring him it was due to his own merits, he never stopped worshipping the delicacies you made.
His art transformed with you. As you tried various things, different beverages for Hyunjin that he always ended up loving more than the last one, his artworks changed just as fearlessly. He experimented with colours, compositions, mediums. All the critisisms turned into his strengths. The rules that once restricted him? He mastered them, and he broke them, again and again.
And ultimately, you.
After you left your last class early and returned to the café that day at Shuhua's insistence (in her words, an emergency regarding a tea addict eccentric guy who was dieing for rose tea), Hyunjin had definitely amused you.
And whether it was him tearing up the moment he drank your tea, his love and passion for his art or how gentle and caring he was, falling for him happened over several cups of beverages you loved making for him.
And Hyunjin? He never stood a chance but to fall for you.
jason has a dazed expression on his face. you'd been listening to him recount his day as you lay in your shared bed together, while he lays on you, but he's gone quiet. his head is lifted from your chest just enough to stare very intently at the smooth expanse of your cleavage.
he doesn't even pretend to be subtle, just blinks slowly, like he's half-awake. you coo softly, petting his soft black hair to keep him present, even as his gaze remains locked on your breasts. "you okay, jay?" you murmur, smiling gently.
jason doesn't look away. " 'm fine," he mutters, voice low and soft due to the sleepy tone he always gets when he's this close to you and feels safe. "just thinkin'. "
"mm." you hum in response. "right, you're thinking." you keep carding your fingers through his short hair, having an idea what's on his mind. "bout your tits." he says flatly, not even a trace of shame in his voice. "can’t focus at all when they're like this."
he squishes your tits together in his huge hands so they push up together and look even plumper and perkier. "all soft 'n squished up like this," he mumbles, staring at how you gasp and twitch under him when he squeezes you. "you're just layin' there. expectin' me to have anything else goin' on in my head?"
you pant a little, trying to act normal when you get so sensitive from the slightest touch he leaves on you. "you- mnh!- were mid sentence, jay!"
jason grunts and lowers his head again so his mouth slots over your sternum and then travels lower down to kiss at your cleavage, hands curling around your soft tank top to tug down and expose your tits. "doesn't matter. wasn't important."
jason doesn't even try to hide it anymore. once he's got his face buried in your tits, it's over. he's not budging. big, solid body draped over yours, one arm curled under you, the other hand warm and rough where it settles under your shirt. He palms one gently, holding your tit in his huge hand and brushing his thumb over the soft curve like he's trying to memorize the weight, the shape.
"so fuckin' perfect," he murmurs under his breath like he forgot you could hear him. you squirm a little, breath catching, and he sees your chest rising, soft little noises slipping past your lips that you didn't mean to make. he lifts his head again, eyes flitting up to yours. something shifts in his expression like he discovered something new. "that make you whine?" he says, almost to himself. "just that?"
you blink down at him, flustered. "n-no..."
jason huffs a breath through his nose, not believing you for a second, and presses his palm in a little firmer, thumb flicking, causing you to whimper loudly once more, and he reaches to grip your other breast, fondling them in his hands experimentally. he groans softly and dips his head again, nuzzling you. "could touch you all fuckin' day," he mumbles against your skin.
jason's mouth is hot where it meets the swell of your breasts, plush lips trailing slow, claiming kisses over your skin. he takes his time, nosing along the curve reverently. "softest fuckin' thing I've ever felt," he mumbles, dragging his tongue over the underside. His hand keeps palming you, thumb lazily swiping over your nipple. "you got no idea what you do to me like this."
you squirm and gnaw on your lip to muffle your sounds, hips shifting under him like they've got a mind of their own. "jay," you moan weakly, hands tugging at the soft strands of his hair.
" 'm right here, baby," he says, too calm for how hard he's breathing, too fond for the way his hands continue to squeeze greedily. "you need somethin'?" he watches your throat bob as you swallow, sees your fingers clench around his hair. "want more of your mouth, jason," you plead softly.
jason lets out the most obscene groan, and then he's on you again, mouth hot and wet, tongue swirling around one peak while his hand covers the other, teasing, coaxing every reaction out of you. you gasp, arching into his mouth before you can help it. "fuckin' hell," jason growls against your skin. "that's the sound i wanted."
breathless, you press your thighs together to try and get some friction between your legs, your body giving away how in heat you are each time you twitch or clutch him tighter. he switches sides without warning, sucking the other nipple into his mouth with a groan. The wet drag of his tongue makes you cry out again, louder this time.
his lips seal over your areola with a soft suck, but then he switches sides again, giving the other nipple the same slow, adoring treatment, wet, open-mouthed kisses that bring heat right to your pussy. his hands don't stop kneading your soft mounds.
you whimper his name again, so breathy and soft it makes him shudder, but jason's too far gone to respond. he can't believe he didn't worship your tits like this earlier. his mouth returns to your breast with purpose this time, need pulsing through every movement like a current under his skin.
he drags his heavy, thick tongue along your nipple again before wrapping his lips around you once more to greedily suckle and pull at you while he palms your other breast, heavy hand molding over soft flesh.
jason presses in harder, flattening his tongue before curling it again around the tip and sucking, suckling, so hot and slow you can feel the drool slipping from the corners of his mouth. he doesn't wipe it away. all he cares about is the feel and taste of you, but he still wants more. more of you. something seems to be missing. you can feel his desperation in the way he suckles harder, arms tightening around you and dragging you closer so your breast fills his mouth more completely.
jason's nose is buried against the warm swell of your chest, hips pressing against your soft, puffy pussy and rocking slowly and lazily, an unconscious act meant to alleviate some of the pressure built up in his hard cock. you glance down and see him like eyes closed, lashes low against his cheeks, mouth full and suckling, his hand greedily kneading the other breast like it'll coax something out.
your breathing picks up, soft whines leaving your mouth as you busy your hands with petting his short hair, eyes fluttering at the influx of pleasure. you hear faint groans coming from him while he humps you and sucks your tits a little too hard. "please..." you whisper, voice weak. he doesn't stop, messily dragging his mouth over your nipple, sealing his lips and sucking hard enough to make you cry out. "fuck, jay! ge-gentle, please!"
jason anchors you still to restrict you from squirming away, trying to coax sweetness out of you with his mouth alone, face flushed, lips shiny, cheeks hollowing as he suckles hungrily. he hasn't even touched you anywhere else and you're already soaked. "still not enough," he rasps, dragging his tongue over the swollen tip of your nipple again. "wanna keep suckin' 'til you're leakin' for me."
you go still under him with surprise, even though you can't focus long because his tongue licks a broad stripe over the valley of your tits as he pays more attention to your other breast. "w-what do you mean, j-jase?"
he grunts. "you know what i mean. milk, wan' it warm from you. wanna feel it on my tongue."
his mouth returns to your nipple once more, tongue curling before he sucks deeply, clothed cock still rutting between your thighs. his hands squeeze around your breasts as if he can force something out of you just by willing it hard enough.
his hips rut against you, grinding between your spread thighs in lazy rough thrusts, not even inside you, but his cock is heavy and hard under the sweats he never got a chance to take off. you're soaked through your panties and you can feel the heat of his lower half against you, even through layers. "wanna put it in you," he mumbles, eyes dark and hooded.
he lifts his head just enough to look you in the eyes, like it physically hurts him to stop suckling at your tits. his mouth is wet and flushed. "i have to fuck you," he whispers, reverent, thumb brushing your spit-slick nipple. "right now, sweetheart."
you nod a little too fast, body already arching toward him. you don’t even try to pretend to play coy because jason knows how bad you want him. your panties are soaked through and your whole body is buzzing from how he touched you. "then take me," you murmur, breath hitching.
he groans, then he's dragging the covers down just enough to get to what he needs, your soft, leaky little cunt. his mouth finds your jaw, your cheek, the corner of your lips, all sloppy, smearing kisses as his hands bunch your tank top higher until it's tangled under your arms and your tits are fully bare to the warm air of your bedroom.
he presses his forehead to yours, panting, making direct eye contact with you as he tugs his sweats and boxers off, heavy, fat cock slapping against his stomach with a wet sound. he grabs it in his marred fist, lining the dewy, flared tip up at your clothed hole before gently pulling the soaked cotton of your panties to the side so he can grind his cock at your entrance. "y'feel that?" he murmurs, hips rolling into the plush heat of your pussy, just barely, before drawing back. "so fuckin' hard for you it hurts."
"jay, no teasing please," you whine, voice gone needy as you move your arms so they're wrapped around his thick neck. "been wanting…"
"shh," he soothes, kissing the side of your mouth, then your chin. "I know, baby. I know." he coaxes you to calm down, but makes no move to sink inside you yet, still rubbing himself against your swollen folds, barely slipping the tip in. his eyes flit back to the way your breasts jiggle with each rock of his hips. "shit," he mutters, "this all from me suckin' your tits?"
you nod, biting your lip hard, and his eyes flutter. you spread your legs a little in an attempt to coax him to fuck you proper, pussy glistening under his gaze. his cock is leaking steadily now, creamy beads of pre-cum spreading at the tip.
jason fists his cock at the base, eyes returning to the swell of your tits as he lines himself up again. but still, he doesn't push in yet. he grips the base of his thick cock firmly in his hand to keep it positioned between your puffy pussy lips, eyes flicking between your face and tits. "look at you," he murmurs, voice condescending. "why're you squirmin' so much, hm baby? haven't even put it in you yet."
you whine loudly, hips moving upwards and rolling against his to get him to stop teasing, but it doesn't work. he slaps the head of his cock against your clit once, slow and deliberate, and your whole body jolts. "yeah, 's what I though." he grits, voice quiet and mean. he presses the tip inside you once more and rolls his hips just enough to make you mewl and squirm as the head of his cock spears into you. he watches your tits bounce every time you shift your body around, and
he reaches down to squeeze at the pillowy flesh again and tug your nipples. you gasp, arching up into him, and he groans deep in his throat. "please," you whisper, voice cracking from how badly you want it. “jay, please.”
he huffs at your insistence, but finally indulges you, pushing his huge, heavy cock past your hole and deep inside slowly, slowly, and then, when hes halfway in, he slams the rest in hard enough to make you jolt, his huge cock splitting you open and filling up your tummy. "oh fuuuuuuuuuuck," he groans loudly, head thrown back. " 's fuckin' tight, baby." you scream, hands clawing at his shoulders, thighs flying up around his waist, and your back arches as he stretches you out, causing your greedy pussy to ache and throb around him.
"don't move yet. 'm serious, lemme just..." he groans and shudders a little, feeling you clamp down around him. "lemme stay in you for a sec." you nod quickly, whining, and jason exhales slowly, resting his weight more fully on you. he drops his face to your chest again, kissing the swell of your breast.
he pulls out just enough to feel your walls drag along his length, then thrusts back in hard, and the sound it makes is obscene, wet and sloppy, your body bouncing against the mattress under the weight of him. you moan loud, head tipping back, and he snarls through his teeth, biting at your nipple now, just enough to sting. “yeah, you like that, you stupid little thing” he mutters. “you fuckin’ love when I’m rough with you, huh?”
your moans grow louder, and you nod, hands scrabbling to grab something, settling on his broad shoulders. your pussy clenches hard around him, and jason grunts, thrusting hard and sloppy inside you. " 's what i thought."
he keeps fucking into you, your tits bouncing so prettily with his force, but he's mostly holding them still with his body splayed on top of yours, his mouth locked on your tits yet again, hands having shifted to your waist. he drags you a little closer, grinding his hips forward in a lazy, heavy roll that encourages another sharp little moan from your lips. you arch up for him, back bowing and breasts pressing into his chest.
jason starts to fall into a rhythm, his cock sinking into you deeply, before he drags it back slow enough to let your walls grip and squeeze onto him, then he pushes all the way back in again, thick length splitting you open until your cunt is stretched to the edge of pain. your pussy's so wet and swollen, walls fluttering around the fullness of his shaft. "goddamn, baby," he grits out, voice rough in your ear as he watches your pussy stretch around him. "y'feel that? grippin' me like you don't wanna let go."
his chest stays pressed to yours, the heat of his skin sticky where it meets yours, but he doesn’t lift his head, doesn’t even give you space to breathe properly. just fucks you deep, body heavy over yours, mouth attached to your tits like he can’t choose which he wants more. "mmh, jason its so good," you cry out way too loud, hands squeezing at his shoulders, your nails cutting into his skin.
your noises get higher and breathier, little whimpers tumbling out of you with every slow thrust, and jason just groans against your skin, lips wet where they drag over your nipple again. he tongues over it, gentle at first, then lets out a soft hiss when a little more slick coats your cunt from how deep he hits. "so swollen and pretty, baby. stuffed full'a my cock and still beggin' for more." his hand smooths over your tummy, pressing down just a little, eyes flicking to the slight bulge he can feel with every deep thrust. "right there, fuck... y'take me so good."
"jason!"
your pussy clenches tighter around him as he shoves his cock in you deeply, your mouth open on a choked moan that makes jason throb inside you. he sucks at your nipple again like he's desperate for something to come out. he really believes he can pull it from you if he just stays latched on long enough, tongue flicking over the puffy bud before he pulls off with a wet pop, then goes right back in.
"keep thinkin' about you drippin' for me, baby. leakin' into my mouth." he rolls his hips deeper, grinding slow as his cock kisses your gummy womb. "wanna suck 'em til you're cryin'. i'll get you so full you start leakin' without me even touchin' you."
he uses his grip on your waist to fuck you in place, thrusts staying slow but deep, as he drags along every fluttering sweet spot inside you until you're shaking under him, and every time his hips slam forward, your tits bounce up into his mouth. "keep thinkin' about you pregnant, knockin' you up so your tits fill up. they'd be leakin' for me while i fuck you stupid." he fucks his cock into you with another slow, grinding thrust, dragging the fat head of his cock along your walls as your pussy pulses and shudders around him.
his hips rut into you faster, balls slapping heavily against your ass as your body bucks every time his cock pushes deeper. you can feel yourself falling apart, as he keeps sucking your chest and fucking you so deeply that it feels like he's trying to mold his shape into your pussy. he starts to lose his rhythm soon after, his hips stuttering, cock dragging harder through your soaked, pulsing cunt. the pressure in his hips shifts from controlled to reckless, wet slaps echoing louder around the room.
"you're squeezin' me so fuckin' tight, shit...this pussy's so wet, doll, you hear that?" he pounds into you harder and the sound your bodies make together is absolutely obscene, slick, messy and so icky, your pussy squelching wet around him. his cock batters your insides with every thrust, hitting deep, deep, deep until your thighs are shaking around him.
then his hand slips between you, and you cry out when he presses two fingers right to your swollen clit, already throbbing. he circles it fast. you sob for him, breath catching in your throat as your body starts to snap, your muscles tightening all at once around his cock, pleasure spiking so hot and sudden your legs seize up around his waist and your back arches. your cunt squeezes hard around him, as you cum, drenching his cock in another gush of slick.
jason groans, thrusting one more time as his cock twitches inside you, then he's spilling into you. hot cum floods your pussy in thick ropes, his hips jerking again as he fucks into you while he cums. one hand stays gripping your waist, while his other hand toys with and pinches your clit to overstimulate you through your orgasm.
he doesn't pull out, staying buried inside you as his cock pulses deep inside your guts as your walls flutter around him. cum leaks out of you as it overfloods your pussy, but it doesn't stop, his cock still rutting into you. his thumb gently rubs your clit, and he leans down to your face to kiss you deeply. "mmh... love you s'much baby," jason murmurs into your mouth.
-
jason todd taglist: @moonlight-dreamer04 @atanukileaf @tcddszn
summary | after a night of patrol, your fiancee brings another child to your home. jason todd is nothing you have seen before, but you are willing to try it all to make him feel loved
pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic dick grayson x kent!reader, platonic jason todd x kent!reader
warnings / tags | fluffy, jason is a bit sassy but he quickly falls for his mama !!!!!!!!!!!!!!! actually this is so sweet i can't - we have fluffy family, fluffy siblings jason & dick — there are mentions of miscarriage and the aftermath because reader has happened through this and is suffering from it but it turns into a such soft cute moment
word count | 4.9k
authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)
this is part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this can be read as part 9. you'll the other parts on the masterlist.
THE BATCAVE HAD BECOME SOMETHING LIKE A SECOND SKIN TO YOU.
A strange, quiet sanctuary that buzzed softly with hidden life, bathed in cold shadows and humming screens. You’d always imagined you’d end up somewhere simple—on a porch in Smallville, maybe, with warm pie cooling on a window ledge and wheat swaying outside your kitchen. But here you were. Soft plaid pants, Bruce’s oversized Henley, thick socks, and cross-legged in the large chair that you insisted to buy, manually rerouting millions of dollars through encrypted donation nodes under the name "Demeter."
The temperature was the same as always—a little too cold, a little too dry—but you were used to it. Your fingers danced across the keyboard with practiced ease, eyes fixed on the spreadsheet that ticked off your anonymous contributions to Gotham's structural recovery efforts.
You always liked the name. A nod to where you’d come from, to the woman who grew up running barefoot through cornfields in Smallville, who learned the importance of giving before receiving. You remembered what it was to lose the harvest. And now, with what Gotham had taken from so many, the least you could do was try to plant something new in its place. Schools. Emergency clinics. Builders for neighborhoods gutted by supervillain crossfire. And always the families — always the children.
“Food pantries, rebuilding funds, clean water programs, trauma centers...” you murmured aloud, voice soft and absentminded, reading the causes out loud for your own reassurance. “Half a million to rebuilding that shelter in Crime Alley. They’ll need volunteers come winter. Might see if I can drag Clark into a coat and—”
The cursor blinked on your last donation. You were drafting a note to the city housing authority when the Batmobile's distant roar echoed through the metallic veins of the Cave. The noise would’ve startled anyone else — sudden, grating, monstrous. To you, it was just Bruce coming home.
A smile curled against your lips without effort, and you didn’t look up, still typing as you talked.
“I moved some things around today,” you said, eyes on the screen. “Got the third rebuild permit passed for the Narrows apartment complex. I’ve been tagging it under ‘Demeter’ as always, but if the mayor’s office tries to sniff around, Lucius is ready to block them.”
The car hissed to a stop. You could hear his boots hitting the platform, heavy but measured. The click of his gauntlets being unclasped. You continued, voice light with mock exasperation, “And for the record? That tea I went to with Missus Penhollow and the other Gargoyles of Gotham? A complete disaster. They tried to argue that Park Row doesn’t deserve a new rec center because it might lower the ‘historical value’ of the cobblestones. I may have insulted someone’s great-grandfather.”
Still, you didn’t look up.
“Oh, and Dick studied all afternoon. He’s really pushing himself. I’m proud of him. We’ll go over flashcards after breakfast tomorrow. Assuming he passes that exam, I already have the reward picked out — oh, and —”
You turned in your chair to face him finally, fingers still lingering on the keyboard. “—If you’re not too tired, I was thinking maybe we could watch something new tonight. Something not so—”
The thick pause that followed swallowed the rest of your words.
He wasn’t alone.
There was a boy beside him. Barely taller than your desk. Thin, rail-boned, with clothes that didn’t fit—not because he was trying to wear a style but because they genuinely weren’t his. A hoodie torn at the sleeve, jeans too long, frayed at the hem. His sneakers were beat to hell. He wasn’t shivering but he looked like he should be. And dirt clung to his skin like it had soaked into the pores. His eyes—
His eyes weren’t afraid.
They were wary. Observant. Maybe even defiant.
Like he'd survived something. Like he’d survived a lot.
You blinked. Your breath caught somewhere in your chest. And maybe it was because he looked so much like Dick had, once. Small, proud, desperate not to be seen as a kid, not to be pitied.
But he was younger. Rougher. More… hunted. And yet somehow hunting, too.
He reminded you of Harry Potter — if Harry had never received a Hogwarts letter. No owl. No escape hatch. Just the cupboard, and the concrete, and the cold.
You looked at Bruce.
He was calm. That quiet calm he only wore when something big had happened. But his jaw was relaxed, not tight. His body language told you he wasn’t just enduring the situation—he had already decided something. And he wasn’t regretting it.
His jaw flexed faintly, blue eyes scanning your face for the impact. You waited. Waited for the words. Waited for the meaning.
Bruce exhaled through his nose, placed a gloved hand on the boy’s shoulder. Not forceful. Just steady.
“Y/N,” he said quietly, “this is Jason. Jason Todd.”
You blinked once. “Jason,” you repeated.
The boy looked at you squarely.
“Hey,” he said. His voice was rough, scratched at the edges, and there was a challenge in it, like he was daring you to be offended by his existence.
You stared for a long moment.
“Hey,” you said softly, something warm but aching blooming behind your ribs.
Bruce stepped toward you, his shoulders shedding tension. He leaned down, kissed your temple like he always did, and when he pulled back, there was the faintest trace of tired humor in his voice. “He tried to steal the Batmobile.”
You blinked. Then stared again. Then slowly looked at Jason, who smirked ever so faintly.
“Didn’t know it was yours,” he said, a little too proud.
“What did you think it was?” you asked, half-stunned, half-intrigued.
He shrugged. “Cool car. Keys were in.”
You looked at Bruce. “You left the keys in the Batmobile?”
“It was a trap,” Bruce said.
“Of course it was.”
The silence settled again, but this time, it wasn’t empty. It was full of things unsaid, things felt.
You stood slowly, bare feet padding softly over the stone floor until you were in front of the boy. Jason didn’t flinch, didn’t shy away. He met your eyes.
You studied him, and then, smoothly, you crouched a little, still eye level.
You smiled softly. “I’m (Y/N). Bruce’s… better half, depending on who you ask.”
“Fiancée,” Bruce said flatly, like the correction mattered.
You rolled your eyes. “Fiancée, yes. Technically.” You took another slow step forward. “I’m also the one who stocks the fridge, knows the code to the good cookie cabinet, and makes sure Alfred doesn’t drown you in formal dining etiquette.”
Jason blinked.
“Are you hungry?” you asked, gently. “Have you eaten anything today?”
He blinked, like that hadn’t been the question he expected.
“Not in a while,” he said.
“Good thing Alfred made banana bread,” you murmured, with a small smile. “Come upstairs. You can shower, eat, and if you want, you can stay in one of the guest rooms if you want. I could get you some clothes from my kid.”
You smiled — soft, not too wide, not too much. You knew how to read boys like this. How to be gentle.
“Let’s go slow,” you said. “There’s cocoa upstairs with your name on it.”
Jason made a sound that might’ve been halfway to a scoff. “Cocoa.”
“Don’t knock it till you try it. Alfred makes it with shaved dark chocolate, not powder.”
“…That sounds fancy.”
“It is. And it has little marshmallows.”
“…You’re serious.”
“Deadly.”
He narrowed his eyes at you. “This a trap?”
You let out a laugh — soft and warm. “No. But now I kind of want it to be. So if I start asking you riddles mid-sip, blame yourself.”
His mouth twitched. Not a smile — but maybe the ghost of one.
You caught it anyway.
Bruce came to stand beside you as Jason stepped toward the stairs. His fingers brushed against yours, just once, before he peeled off to put the suit away, letting you take the lead.
“Thank you,” he murmured, so low only you could hear.
You didn’t answer him out loud. Just touched his arm and followed Jason into the manor proper.
It was late. The kind of late that made Wayne Manor feel like an abandoned museum. Quiet hallways, soft creaking from old pipes, everything still. Jason walked ahead of you like he wasn’t sure if he was being tested.
The kitchen was warm, filled with a low golden light. Alfred had left a note on the counter — as if he knew. The stew was in the warming drawer. Fresh bread on the side. A slice of cherry pie covered in foil. A single mug left upside down near the kettle.
Jason froze in the doorway.
You tilted your head. “You okay?”
He didn’t answer for a moment. Then, softly: “This place is huge.”
You smiled, stepping past him to plate the food. “It’s a little much, yeah. I used to get lost all the time. Your room is going to be just down the hall from Dick’s. He’s sixteen, and he’ll talk your ear off if you let him.”
Jason’s eyes flicked to the pie. “Dick. He’s Robin?”
You paused. “Is, yes. Kind off on a hiatus right now.”
He looked up.
You raised your brows, expression open. “Needs to pass this semester so he can do the last one next year. School is important, you know? Not everything has to start and end with the mask.”
Jason stared at you. “You really talk like a mom.”
The words struck something unexpected in your chest. Not because they were meant to hurt — but because they didn’t. He’d said them with a level of passive observation, like someone who couldn’t remember what having a mom felt like but still knew how one should sound.
You set the plate in front of him. “That’s ‘cause I am one.”
Jason hesitated, then climbed into the stool at the counter. When he took the first bite, his shoulders stiffened. Like his body didn’t trust food to taste that good anymore. He tried to play it cool — but he ate fast. Not enough to choke, but fast enough to know he wasn’t used to seconds.
You didn’t say a word about it.
Just made him another bowl.
When he finished that too, he finally leaned back, eyes half-lidded from warmth and fullness. And for the first time, he looked... twelve. Not a soldier. Not a street-rat. Just a tired boy with a belly full of stew.
“I’m not gonna stay,” he said, voice small but firm.
You nodded. “Okay.”
“But... maybe for tonight.”
You smiled. “That’s more than fine, sweetheart.”
He blinked at the word. Swallowed. Didn’t argue.
And when you took the empty bowl and started running water, Jason watched you for a long while, silent.
Maybe just making sure you were real.
Maybe, for the first time in a long time, daring to believe you were.
You didn’t need a mirror to know you looked tired. There was a shadow under your eyes that concealer couldn’t hide, a dull pinch in your lower belly that had you subconsciously rubbing your side every so often. It wasn’t sharp — not like it had been a few nights ago — but it lingered, just enough to remind you.
It had been just over a week since the miscarriage.
Not your first. You and Bruce had spoken in hushed voices before about the chances — how the odds could lean cruel, how early loss was so common it had practically become a statistic. But this one had gone past four weeks. Past five. You had started keeping track on your calendar. Whispering to Alfred when you thought Bruce might overhear. Even allowed yourself one foolish glance at baby names. Not aloud. Just a daydream. A soft one.
Long enough to start picturing a future. Long enough to smile when your chest started feeling tight, when your appetite shifted. Long enough to think: Maybe this one’s the one.
So when it ended, quiet and uneventful, in the middle of the night while Bruce was off, you had simply sat on the bathroom floor, palms over your belly, and waited for the pain to catch up to the ache. It had.
You didn’t tell Bruce until the next morning, once your voice had steadied.
Now, in the kitchen, your body still hummed with that dull soreness, a heaviness in your joints, in your heart, in your hope. But today, you told yourself, you’d focus on something else.
Like the fact that Jason Todd had slept under your roof for the first time.
Like the fact that he was sitting at your dinner table, knees pulled up slightly into the chair, both hands wrapped tightly around a glass of orange juice as if it might vanish if he didn’t guard it.
He didn’t talk much this morning, but he didn’t look away from you either. There was something settling behind his eyes — not quite trust, but a kind of testing comfort. He was still wary, but he hadn’t bolted during the night, and for you, that was enough of a beginning.
Across from you, Bruce sat with his own mug in hand, posture relaxed in a way that rarely happened outside these walls. His hair was still damp from the shower, sleeves of his black thermal shirt pushed to his forearms. He looked, for all the world, like a man at peace.
It made something in your chest ache in both directions.
A soft, bounding rhythm of footsteps echoed from the hall.
Dick.
Your head tilted slightly in instinct before he even arrived. He entered with the kind of kinetic energy you could spot from any room — hair still damp, shirt half tucked, school satchel swinging from his shoulder.
“Morning!” he called out as he breezed in.
Jason stiffened, just slightly.
You saw it. So did Bruce.
But then Dick spotted him, and his gait faltered, only for a second. His eyes took in the new face, the hoodie now replaced with one of his old pajamas, the guarded expression, the size of the boy in the chair.
“Hey,” Dick said gently, a little softer now.
Jason paused mid-chew, then gave a small nod — more acknowledgment than greeting.
Bruce sipped his coffee, eyes over the rim as he watched the moment unfold with quiet patience.
You smiled faintly, fingers warming on the ceramic of your mug. “Dick, this is Jason. He stayed with us last night.”
“Cool,” Dick said, lips twitching with his natural ease. He walked over to the counter and dropped his bag onto one of the stools. “You like Alfred’s toast? He hides the cinnamon bottle, but I found it once.”
Jason’s eyes flicked to Bruce, who gave the most subtle of nods. He looked back at Dick. “It’s good.”
Dick grinned. “Yeah, I know. I usually eat five. He tells me that’s why we never have any left.”
The boy blinked at that, almost confused.
But then — then came something like a spark. A tiny curve of his mouth. Not quite a smile, but an echo of one. Like he’d just seen someone slip on ice but didn’t want to admit it was funny.
Bruce leaned back in his chair, arm resting over the back, watching the two of them with a calm that spread like quiet joy across his features. You could see it in the corner of his mouth, the way his eyes crinkled, the soft line of his brow. For all his intensity on the streets of Gotham, mornings like this were what allowed Bruce Wayne to breathe again.
You reached under the counter for a folded napkin and wiped some of the steam from your coffee mug before lifting it toward your lips.
The pain came before the sip reached your mouth.
A dull throb. Low, deep, familiar.
You hesitated, pressing the mug to your lips and not drinking. Your eyes fluttered briefly, blinking past the sting, and you inhaled slowly through your nose.
It passed. It always did.
But it left a shadow behind it, curled deep in your lower belly like a reminder. Not of something lost — not only that — but of something you had dared to hope for.
That was what made it harder than the others.
Not the pain. You could handle pain.
It was the pieces of nursery ideas you had tucked away in your phone. The image of how Dick had smiled when you told him — how you’d wondered what kind of big brother he’d be again. The way Bruce had held you that first night after, with his whole body curled around yours, whispering that it wasn’t your fault, over and over and over.
You placed the mug back on the counter without sipping. Your hand brushed lightly against your side.
Bruce caught the movement. He didn’t say anything right away. Just met your eyes.
You smiled faintly, soft around the corners.
“I think,” you said gently, brushing some hair behind your ear, “I might stay home today.”
His gaze darkened slightly. “You hurting?”
“Not much,” you lied.
Bruce wasn’t fooled. His hand found yours over the table, his thumb brushing the back of your knuckles. “You could stay in bed all day if you wanted. Alfred can bring you anything.”
“I know.”
“You could let me cancel my meetings.”
“I know.”
“Y/N,” he said, voice firmer now. “You don’t have to do anything right now. Not until you feel better.”
Your throat tightened, but you gave him a small smile. “I know that as well, my love.”
“Do you want to call Leslie?”
“No. No, she said this might happen for a few days. It’s manageable.”
Across the table, Dick watched the two of you with something like quiet reverence. He’d been with you long enough to understand that sometimes you and Bruce spoke a language only grief could teach. He leaned forward slightly.
“Do you want me to stay?” he asked, his voice gentle, teenage bravado softened into real concern. “I could skip school today. It’s just the exam.”
You shook your head instantly, reaching to smooth back his hair. “Absolutely not. That exam is important. And you’ve studied so hard.”
He hesitated. “But if you need—”
“I need you to do well,” you interrupted, tapping his nose lightly. “I already convinced the principal to let you retake it. You promised me a B or better. You know how hard it is to talk that man down from his ivory tower?”
Dick let out a small laugh. “Harder than taking on Two-Face?”
“Worse,” you muttered. “Two-Face doesn’t call people ‘my dear’ in that patronizing tone.”
Jason snorted into his juice.
You turned to him, giving him the same warm smile you’d given Dick.
“And you, mister,” you said with mock gravity, “get to spend the day with me. Just us. We can do anything you like.”
Jason, mid-sip of juice, froze and slowly looked over at you, orange liquid still on his lip.
You grinned. “We’ll eat leftover muffins, maybe watch a few movies, and I’ll show you the one place in the house where Alfred actually hides the good cookies.”
Jason squinted. “There’s a hiding place?”
“There are five.”
Bruce coughed discreetly. “Six.”
You smirked.
Dick looked between the three of you and rolled his eyes. “You’re forming an alliance without me.”
“Of course we are,” you said. “Can’t be trusted with the cookie stash.”
“I am literally the most trustworthy person here.”
“Exactly why you can’t be trusted. You’d give them away to someone in need.”
Jason blinked. “That’s… bad?”
“No,” you and Bruce said in unison.
Dick leaned over and ruffled Jason’s hair—casual, quick. Jason flinched a little at first, not expecting the contact, but didn’t pull away.
“I’ll be back by three,” Dick said, pointing at him. “Don’t let her con you into yard work.”
Jason narrowed his eyes. “What’s yard work?”
“You’ll find out,” Bruce muttered, sipping his coffee.
You rested a hand on your belly again, this time more out of habit than pain. Bruce stood, kissing your cheek softly, and both of them left. This time, he would take him to school and then go directly to Wayne Enterprises.
The boy hadn’t said much about the house yet, but you saw the way he looked at it. Like it was a dream someone else was having. Not envy—just quiet disbelief. You were familiar with that look. You’d seen it on Dick when he first arrived too.
“So… what now?” he asked, voice cautious.
You smiled and stretched your arms over your head with a small groan. “Now? Now I’m going to show you around.”
“I’ve already seen the cave.”
You gave him a playful look as you rose from your chair. “You think the cave is the coolest part of this house?”
He tilted his head. “Isn’t it?”
You tilted your head. “We’ll skip the east wing. That place still scares me.”
“…You live here and you’re scared of it?”
“Alfred won’t even dust it after dark,” you replied solemnly. “There’s a vase that whispers.”
Jason squinted at you.
You raised an eyebrow, deadpan. “And a chair that moves.”
A pause. Then, after a beat: “You’re lying.”
“Am I?”
Jason snorted. “You’re weird.”
You beamed. “You’re observant.”
The morning sun slanted in through tall windows as you passed a series of family portraits—centuries-old paintings of Waynes long since buried, all looking equally unimpressed. Jason stared at them with narrowed eyes.
“They all look mad.”
“Most of them were,” you replied. “Luckily, the current Wayne in charge has a much better smile.”
Jason snorted, but you didn’t miss the twitch at the corner of his mouth.
The first stop—of course—was the library.
You led him in through the west entrance, and like always, the moment the doors swung open, the scent of old pages and polished mahogany hit like a comforting wave. Sunlight slanted through the tall arched windows, dust motes drifting lazily in the beams, soft golden puddles pooling across the antique carpet.
Jason didn’t speak for a long time.
You just watched him.
His head tilted back, eyes scanning the ceiling as if he was trying to understand how the shelves could possibly go that high. The silence wasn’t heavy—it was full of awe, of a stillness you didn’t dare disturb.
Then he walked forward, slow and wide-eyed, fingers trailing just an inch above the rows of hardcovers. His lips parted like he might say something, but didn’t.
You joined him quietly. “You like reading?”
He shrugged. “Sometimes. When I can find stuff.”
“There’s a whole section in here with first editions. And a smaller one for comics. Bruce keeps those in the far back corner. Says it’s for Dick, but I’ve caught him back there too.”
Jason looked at you then, eyes flicking upward. “Batman reads comics?”
“Batman reads everything.”
“…Even trashy romance?”
You smirked. “Especially trashy romance.”
Jason blinked. Then—finally, finally—he laughed. It wasn’t big, but it was real. Short and sharp, like he hadn’t meant to let it out, and a little startled when he did.
It made your heart ache in the softest, most beautiful way.
“I can help you pick something later,” you offered. “You’ve got time to explore. You don’t have to rush into anything.”
He shrugged again, but this one wasn’t so closed off. “Maybe.”
“Well,” you said with a little smile, stepping beside him, “everything in here is yours to read. No time limit. No late fees. Just don’t dog-ear the pages or Alfred will make you reorganize the whole fiction wall.”
You sat down on one of the cushions, pressing your hand against your belly again as the nausea flickered. This one was mild. Manageable. You took a breath, then another, and let yourself enjoy the quiet.
He stayed there longer than you expected. And when he finally looked up, his face was different. Not wide-eyed, not grinning, but softer.
“This room’s cool.”
You grinned. “Told you.”
“Still think the cave’s cooler.”
“Give it a week.”
After a little while, you nudged him toward the hallway with a soft promise of something even cooler, and he followed with only a minimal amount of grumbling. (You suspected it was for show.)
Outdoors, the garden was still damp from the morning dew, the stone paths glistening in the sun. You handed Jason a pair of boots that probably once belonged to Dick and rolled up the sleeves of your cardigan. The air was thick with the scent of flowers, soil, and the faint sweetness of lilacs drifting in from the far end of the orchard.
“This is my favorite part of the whole manor,” you said, unlocking the gate with an old iron key. “Clark used to joke I’d end up moving a whole cornfield to Gotham just to feel at home.”
Jason raised a brow. “Did you?”
“Tempting,” you said with a grin. “But no. I like flowers more. Crops are for feeding. This—” you gestured wide “—is for healing.”
He stood at the threshold a moment longer, uncertain. Then stepped in behind you.
The garden was large, sectioned into neat rows and patches—herbs on one side, blooms on the other, with a small vegetable section near the back. White trellises framed the path, crawling with jasmine vines, and the peonies were just starting to bloom.
“You ever garden before?”
Jason wrinkled his nose. “Not really. I used to dig up worms in the alley behind the shelter. That count?”
You laughed. “You’re halfway there, then.”
You handed him a small trowel and showed him where to kneel beside you. “We’re transplanting some herbs today. Basil and thyme, mostly. You just gotta be gentle. Like this.”
You demonstrated, slowly loosening a seedling from its nursery pot, cradling the rootball in your palm. Jason watched, silent but focused.
“Now you try.”
He did. A bit rough at first—yanked a stem too hard, sent dirt spilling across the mulch.
“Easy,” you said, gently guiding his wrist. “The roots are sensitive. Like nerves.”
Jason tried again. Slower. This time, the plant came out whole.
“There,” you said. “See? You’ve got a steady hand.”
He glanced at you, a bit skeptical. “So what’s the point of this?”
“Gardening?”
“Yeah. You just grow stuff?”
“Well,” you mused, settling into the dirt beside him, “you plant something. You give it time. Water. Care. And then—one day—it blooms. Or it doesn’t. Sometimes it dies. But even then, you learn something.”
He frowned slightly. “That sounds kinda… sad.”
“It can be.” You reached over and wiped a smudge of dirt from his cheek. “But it’s also really beautiful.”
He didn’t reply. Just looked down at the seedling in his palm and began to dig a small hole for it.
You showed him how to loosen the earth with the trowel, how not to dig too deep, how to make room for the roots without choking them. He was clumsy at first—hands too hard, gestures too fast—but you corrected him with gentle touches, soft nudges, a quiet laugh when he messed up.
“You’re not mad?” he asked once, after uprooting an entire seedling by mistake.
“Why would I be mad?” you replied.
“‘Cause I screwed it up.”
You met his eyes. “It’s just dirt, Jason. It grows back.”
He stared at you like you’d said something profound.
After that, he got quieter. More focused. Still a little sassy—he called the worms “nasty bastards” and asked if he could name one Bruce—but his hands got steadier. He followed your instructions. He listened.
Your nausea came back in waves. You paused now and then, pressed a hand to your stomach. Jason noticed once, tilted his head.
“You okay?”
You smiled faintly. “Just a little sick. It’ll pass.”
He didn’t press. Just went back to patting down the dirt around the roots, lips pursed like he was trying very hard not to destroy the basil entirely.
You lost track of time. The sun climbed higher.
Eventually, after you’d rinsed your hands and tucked your hair behind your ears, Jason stopped near the edge of a narrower path lined with wildflower hedges.
“What’s that?” he asked, pointing.
You stepped up beside him and followed his gaze.
At the far corner of the garden—nestled between two flowering trees and framed by white stone—was a narrow path. The flowers along its edge were all pale white: lilies, hydrangeas, baby’s breath. The soil was turned carefully. The edges trimmed with care.
Jason tilted his head. “Looks important.”
“It is,” you said softly.
He looked at you. You kept your eyes on the path.
“It’s for the . . little ones,” you said, voice quiet. “The ones I lost.”
Jason frowned. “What do you mean?”
You paused. Swallowed. Your hands were still damp from the soil. You rubbed them together slowly.
“I was pregnant,” you said. “A few times.”
He blinked, confused. “You don’t have a baby.”
You smiled, tired. “No. I don’t.”
He stood still, trying to work it out. The idea was clearly strange to him—this kind of grief. The kind with no picture frame. No face.
“They weren’t here long,” you said, crouching to touch the petals of a nearby bloom. “But they existed. Enough to be loved. Enough to be missed.”
Jason didn’t speak for a long while. Then, finally: “This garden’s really nice.”
You looked up at him. “Thanks.”
He looked back at the path. “Do you think they know? That you made this?”
“I hope so.”
Jason shuffled his feet. “My mom wasn't really nice much of the time. She got too many things. But I love her still. I think, wherever they are, they must love you too. You're nice.”
You smiled softly, eyes slightly glassy. “Well, thank you, mister. And I’m sorry for your mom.”
He shrugged. “S’whatever. I don’t even remember her that much anyway.”
“That doesn’t mean it doesn’t matter.”
He stared at the white flowers a little longer. Then turned to you. “Can I… plant something here too?”
Your breath caught.
You had never shared that space before. Dick wasn't much into gardening and Bruce never asked too much, just tended to admire it, kiss your temple, keep you close to him to never let you break too much.
But how much that idea of sharing something so special with a child your fiancee had already decided would stay — something you were in desperate need to agree —, with someone you would, one day, call a son, made your heart beat with a bit too much tenderness.
You nodded slowly. “Of course.”
“I mean… not for me,” he added quickly, his cheeks blushing. “Just… to help.”
You smiled through the tightness in your throat. “I’d like that very much.”
So you handed him the trowel again. And the two of you—hands dirty, hearts a little softer—began to dig.
summary | there are many versions of you, surely, but this one doesn't have your heart, despite having your face. they quickly learn it.
pairing | bruce wayne x kent!reader. platonic batboys & cass x batmom!reader
warnings / tags | ANGSTY, this is hurt/little comfort. involves travelling to another universe. au!reader is heavily depressed and her life was not the nicest. happy ending :D
word count | 7.4k
authors note | hi there!! english is not my first languaje so there might be some mistakes, or not, it can depend :)
this is NOT part of the kent!batmom!reader series. this is an alternative universe that still has kent!batmom!reader. part 2 and final of this.
People think you do, because you’re quiet sometimes. Because you get lost in thoughts and hang upside down from buildings for hours, playing with your own webbing like a freak.
But that’s not silence. That’s just... insulation.
Real silence—like the one that had wrapped itself around that Watchtower room earlier—it scratches against the inside of your skull. It’s like walking into a space vacuum where nothing moves, and suddenly, every sound in your head is you. Every echo is yours.
It leaves too much space to think. And you really don’t like thinking.
You’re not the nicest person on the team. Not the one they send in to negotiate. Not the one they trust with civilians or press conferences or calming down scared kids. You’re quick and clever, maybe even funny, if you push hard enough. You can charm a room for five minutes, maybe ten—but then your mouth runs too sharp, or your stare lingers too long, or someone gets a good look at what’s behind the mask.
That’s when people pull away.
You've survived. That's got to count for something. You eat, you breathe, you punch the bad guys, and you come home at the end of the day. Not everyone gets to do that. Especially not with this many scars.
But somewhere along the line—between the blood in your mouth and the blood on your hands—you stopped being someone easy to love. You don't even blame them for that either. Not anymore.
You get it.
You've never been the soft one. The kind one. You've been the one who laughs a little too hard when things explode, who makes jokes in the middle of a hostage crisis, who disappears from rooftop conversations the second the talk gets too personal. You've been the one with too much energy and too little patience, whose emotions get tangled in webs and tightened until they snap.
You've always known you weren't the best of the bunch. Lately, it feels like you're not much of anything at all.
You really can’t blame them. You’d pull away too, if you could.
Clark doesn’t. Clark never has. Lois neither. And Jon… God, Jon. He’s the only bright thing that doesn’t hurt when you look at it. He still likes climbing on your back when you’re upside down on the roof, still laughs like he’s never seen you cry, still believes you’re cool and not cursed. He’s got the same eyes your dad had.
You hate that you can’t look at them for long.
It started with your dad.
It was a sunny day.
That’s the part you remember most. Not the way your knees ached from kneeling on the porch steps. Not the weight of him against you. Not even your own voice screaming for your mother. No. The part that never fades is the sunlight.
Your father was laughing.
He always laughed loud. It made the birds scatter from the cornfields. That morning he’d pulled you into a clumsy, playful hug and said, “You're gonna knock 'em dead at school, bug.”
He fell less than two hours later. The front lawn. Holding his chest.
You were twelve. You screamed so loud Clark broke the barn door getting to you.
You never forgot that.
Or the way your mother’s hands trembled when she ran toward you, or the way her face crumpled like paper. Or the way you held her, too, years later, when it was her turn.
You’d already been Spiderdevil by then.
Already cursed. Already marked.
She smiled through the pain, brushed your cheek with fingers already going cold. She told you to be good. To do good. As if she’d seen the future already. As if she knew what you’d become.
You never liked hospitals after that. Or blood.
But blood followed you anyway.
The bite hadn’t just changed your body—it changed your everything. Heightened senses, strength, regeneration. But also the hunger. The shakes. The anger. The confusion. The constant twitch under your skin. The grief that never left.
You were made to move. To run. To jump and fall and swing through the city like gravity meant nothing.
You were not made to rest.
You weren’t made to be super-anything. You weren’t made for constant vibrations under your skin, the way your nerves never really shut off now. You weren’t made to shoot web from your own veins—literally from you, slick and metallic and alive. You weren’t made to leap off buildings and crawl across glass.
But you did.
You do. Because what else are you going to do with a curse like this?
You used to think it was a gift. Back when you were still naïve enough to believe you could save people.
The air in the Watchtower is too clean. It smells like steel and ozone and bleach. The glass panels overlooking Earth should be beautiful—should inspire awe or gratitude or at least something—but you feel nothing when you look at it.
Maybe a little nausea.
The wall behind you still vibrated with the ghost of what had just happened. The five kids. Their stares. That heavy, suffocating grief in their eyes.
They looked at you like you were God, and a ghost, and a betrayal all wrapped in one.
You weren’t any of those things.
You were just tired.
So goddamn tired.
You’ve never really liked eye contact. Never for too long.
People tend to see too much. Especially when you’re trying to be funny. Especially when you’re already cracking down the middle. But those kids—those five kids—don’t stop staring.
You don’t know them, and yet you feel like you’ve failed them. And that’s insane, right? Because you don’t fail people you’ve never met. Still, there’s something about their faces. Their eyes, perhaps.
You’re not her.
You’re not anyone’s mother.
You’re not even sure you’d know how to hold a kid right anymore.
You don’t do kids. You don’t do families. You don’t do soft.
Which is why today broke something inside you.
Because those five—
Those five—
You saw it in their eyes. You saw the life you could have lived. A version of you that somehow stayed warm enough to raise them, to love them, to hold them and not break them with your anger, your silence, your too-sharp hands and too-wired nerves.
A version of you that chose Bruce Wayne.
You leaned your head back against the wall, eyes slipping shut. Your webbing twitched under your skin—your nerves buzzing like static. It always did that when you were overclocked. When the weight inside you pressed too close to your ribs.
You hated how often that happened.
Funny, isn’t it? Everyone called you the happy one. The spider girl. The quick-talking acrobat with a caffeine addiction and a punchline for every bruise. You let them think that. It was easier.
You’re not fine. You haven’t been fine in over a decade. But you’re funny. People like funny.
You stick to Gotham, mostly. Even though Batman hates metahumans. You’re not sure why he never kicked you out. Maybe because you never crossed his lines. You never made demands. You weren’t like the others.
You kept to the shadows. Spoke when spoken to. Fought and disappeared.
And Bruce Wayne let you be.
You never needed him to like you. You watched his war, and you never made it your own, even if it called to you.
You never understood how any version of yourself could’ve been close to him. Bruce 'Batman' Wayne? Rigid as hell. A nightmare come to life in the form of a vigilante. You could barely be in the same room for ten minutes without needing to web yourself to the ceiling just to escape the tension.
Maybe that’s why you lasted so long in that city.
Because you knew how to play the spider to his bat. Same shadows. Different masks.
It just makes your skin crawl worse. Because in some other world… you raised them?
You?
You don’t even keep plants alive.
You don’t even return phone calls unless it’s Clark.
You can’t imagine tucking someone into bed. Reading bedtime stories. Helping with algebra or nightmares. You can’t imagine being that version of you. The warm one. The sweet one.
What happened to her, you wonder?
Did she have the curse too? Did she web herself to rooftops when the grief got too loud? Did she lose her parents? Did she cry when no one was looking? Or was she soft? Gentle? Normal?
Does she sleep?
You don’t. Not really. Not without pills or exhaustion so thick it drowns you.
They looked at you like you had died. Or maybe worse—like you had forgotten them.
And in a way, you had. Because you had never known them. Not here. Not in this universe. Not in your life.
You don’t say anything about the way the smallest one keeps staring at you like he wants to cry and throw up and run all at once. You don’t ask why one of them has your name half-formed on his lips, like it physically hurts to swallow it. You don’t try to comfort the girl who stares through you, not at you.
You’re not good at kindness.
Not anymore.
You were, once. You remember that. A little girl in Smallville who picked ladybugs off the window frame and fed stray dogs behind the general store.
You buried her somewhere under the concrete of Metropolis when the spider crawled into your bloodstream.
You wrap a web-line around your hand now, spiraling it between your fingers as you hang upside down. Blood rushes to your head. Your vision swims.
You like it.
It makes everything quiet.
From this angle, Earth looks less like home and more like a marble spinning too fast. Too many people. Too many chances to get things wrong.
You stay like that for a while. Letting the tension drain out of you one drop at a time.
Does she have Clark?
You have Clark. Thank God, you have Clark. The only person you know who sees all of you and doesn’t flinch. The spider and the girl. The grief and the grin. He sees it all and still holds your hand when you spiral. He checks your fridge when you forget to eat. He makes you sleep. Sometimes he makes you laugh.
You have Lois, too. And Jon.
But that’s it. That’s all.
You are not a mother. You don’t know how to be a mother. You wouldn’t know what to do with a child who looked at you with love and expectation.
The only thing you could compare yourself to was a feral dog—desperate to be loved and still refusing, barking, biting at the hand that wants to treat you right. You don’t deserve it. That’s what you always come back to.
You’ve lashed out before. Too many times. You’ve told Clark to go to hell more times than you can count, have spit out awful words in the middle of a panic spiral because your own reflection disgusted you. He never flinched. He always came back. And you always hated yourself for that.
You know what you are.
You are someone broken. Someone wounded. You are sharp around the edges and too soft in the middle and you hate both halves equally. You’re not a villain. But you don’t think you’re a hero, either.
And now?
Now you’re the woman who looks like five kids’ missing mother. And you can’t even pretend to offer what they need.
Which is why you end up working in the private office of Batman, the only place they seem to evade being too close, almost out of respect for this form of man; you are pretty sure they must not be like that with their own father.
You hate working with him. Not because he’s rude. You’ve met rude. Hell, you’ve been rude.
No, you hate working with him because he looks at you like he knows you. As if, somewhere beneath the layers of your skin, the real you is buried—just waiting to be dug out by a man who wears grief like a cape and pretends it's armor.
He’s quiet the way a predator is. You’ve always known how to read that kind of silence. Gotham taught you that. You know what waiting looks like. You know what holding back feels like.
You are a walking example of it.
But Batman doesn’t know you. And you don’t know him, not in any way that matters.
Still, the League says you’re the best bet for cracking the multiverse path. You’re good with interdimensional anomalies. You’ve studied with Clark and J’onn and dabbled in enough quantum spider-webbing to chart rips in the veil between worlds.
So you work and he watches.
You stretch out across the holographic display of the Watchtower’s dimensional tracking system like it’s your own personal couch, your wrist slung over the control panel, your hair wild around your ears, black suit shining faintly in the sterile light.
“Do you have to do that all folded up?” he asks flatly.
“Yes,” you answer without looking up. “It helps my brain.”
He doesn’t reply. Doesn’t scoff. Doesn’t sigh. Just returns to his usual looming. Classic.
“I don’t understand how any version of me ends up with you,” you mutter after a while, still upside down, fingers dancing across the display. “No offense.”
He looks at you without blinking. “None taken.”
You peer at him sideways. “Really? ‘Cause you’re looking at me like I just kicked your dog.”
“I don’t have a dog.”
“Figures.”
There’s a long beat of silence. And then—
Bruce moves beside you, silent and deliberate, watching the same readings. “If you can stabilize the residual quantum signature, I can cross-reference their genetic markers with alternate dimensional paths.”
“Yeah, yeah. Tech jargon. Got it.”
You do your job. Not because you care, but because you’re good at it.
The room is too quiet for your liking.
Not in the way space usually is—empty and vast, humming in the vacuum of orbit. This silence is thick. Watching. Full of breath you don’t want to hear, full of eyes you don’t know how to meet.
The kids are actually not that far away. Smeared on the other side of the office. Dick is stiff, Tim is fidgeting with something you assume he didn’t ask permission to borrow, and Jason is doing that dangerous thing people do when they have too much pain and not enough words to burn it off. Cass watches you without blinking. Damian’s face is closed like a door that used to be cracked open once, long ago.
You tap the screen with your bare finger. The webbing retracts automatically from your fingertips, folding into your skin. The console chirps. Data floods the screen. You hate it, but you know how to read it. You’ve had to learn more than you wanted about multiversal shifts, energy pockets, planar ripples.
All this because some kid—your kid, not your kid—wished you never existed.
You can’t blame him.
You stare at the code on the screen like it might offer answers. Something about cosmic radiation. You don’t care. You just need it to work. You just need to send them home before they start to expect anything from you.
“Try searching the archive’s 98-D sweep,” Bruce says.
You scoff without looking up. “You think I didn’t already?”
“I’m just saying—”
“You always are.”
The air between you sharpens. Tension so thick it could slice a diamond. You feel your back lock up, your fingers twitch, and that spider-itch dances up your spine.
Bruce says nothing for a beat.
And the silence is almost louder than his voice.
You can feel the five of them behind you. Watching. Listening. Breathing too carefully, too afraid to interrupt. Their presence weighs heavy in the corner of your awareness, like eyes in the dark. You hate it. You hate how obvious their emotions are. How open.
It’s… too much.
“Do you two always fight like this?” Jason asks, dry.
You glance over your shoulder. He’s leaning back in one of the chairs near the lab wall, arms crossed. His mouth curves in a way that’s almost a smirk, but not quite. It’s part amusement, part bitterness. A defense mechanism, probably. You know the type.
You give him a half-smile that doesn’t reach anywhere real. “This isn’t fighting. This is us at our best.”
Bruce doesn’t argue. Just types something silently into the control pad.
Of course he doesn’t argue.
“Seriously?” Tim mutters. “This is your best?”
Cass doesn’t speak. But she tilts her head at you, like she’s trying to decode something that shouldn’t be a cipher. Her expression is calm. Careful.
Dick’s voice is quieter. “How did you end up working with him?”
“Don’t push it,” Bruce says before you can answer.
You do anyway.
“Gotham,” you say, still watching the screen. “I started operating around the Bowery and the Narrows about five years back. Didn’t realize it was his turf at first. Figured the city could use another pair of eyes, and I didn’t really care if he liked it or not. He didn’t tell me to leave, so I didn’t.”
“You respected boundaries?” Jason asks, mock-shocked.
You shoot him a look. “I tolerated boundaries. That’s not the same thing.”
Dick chuckles under his breath. The sound is too fragile, like he’s not sure he should let it out.
You turn your attention back to the data. The planar signature is stabilizing around a potential reentry point—but it’s messy. Dangerous. The kind of cosmic door that doesn’t open twice without consequences.
Bruce moves beside you, scans the same data, his brow tight. “They can make it back through this.”
“Assuming we can hold the fissure stable for more than thirty seconds,” you mutter.
He types something on the secondary panel. “I’ll recalibrate the external dampeners. That should give us at least forty-five.”
“Oh, sure. Great. Let’s just hope the multiverse doesn’t hiccup and spit them into a timeline where humanity evolved into birds.”
Tim flinches. “That’s a possibility?”
You grin over your shoulder. “Everything’s a possibility, Bird Boy.”
“Not helping,” Bruce mutters.
You grin wider. “Not trying to.”
The tension between you and him sizzles again. It’s not hostility—it’s something older. Worn-in. Like boots that never quite fit right but you keep wearing anyway.
Maybe it’s a little like familiarity.
You hate the idea.
It’s how the two of you talk. Always has been.
You don’t hate him. You don’t like him either.
He’s efficient. You’re adaptable.
He’s paranoid. You’re unstable.
“Wait,” Dick says, brow furrowing. “You two never dated here? At all?”
You and Bruce both speak at the same time.
“No.”
“God, no.”
And then you glance at each other. That brief, involuntary flicker of silent agreement. It doesn’t linger.
“Wait—go back,” Tim murmurs from behind you, stepping toward the screen. He’s the only one brave—or foolish—enough to break the stalemate.
You arch an eyebrow. “To the quantum tail?”
“To the interstitial layer analysis. There—” He taps a sector. “This pressure anomaly. It’s echoed in their arrival trace. If we track the frequency back through the original detonation curve—”
“—we might be able to piggyback off the initial rupture,” you finish.
He nods.
You turn to look at him, really look.
Still a kid. Too tired, too thin, too sharp-eyed. A little like Clark when he hasn’t slept for days. A lot like Bruce when he’s trying not to care too much.
You hate that you see it. You hate how easy it is.
But you tilt your head and look back at the screen.
“You see that cross-fragmentation right there?” you point. “That’s interference. The Stone didn’t just punch a hole—it dragged you all through something else first.”
Tim frowns. “That explains the temporal drag.”
Bruce leans closer. “Which could complicate realignment. We might not be able to pinpoint the exact universe without their emotional tether.”
You snort. “Wow, Brucie. Did you just admit emotions are useful?”
He doesn’t answer.
You glance back again. “You five feeling tether-y?”
Jason shrugs. “I feel like punching something. That count?”
“Only if it punches back.”
The hours stretch. You and Bruce bicker over data interpretation. He thinks the energy ripples indicate a direct fracture. You argue it’s a spiral. He says your equations are missing constants. You tell him he’s missing a personality.
“You’re not as smart as you think you are,” he mutters as you override one of his calibrations.
You grin without teeth. “And you’re as charming as a colonoscopy.”
“Is that the best you’ve got?”
“I’m saving my A-material for the next multiversal disaster.”
You hate how easy it is to fall into this rhythm with him. Hate how your brains align even as your mouths war.
Because what if the other version of you fell for this?
What if she loved this? The arguments, the sparring, the respect buried under the exasperation?
You can’t imagine it.
And yet…
You glance at him. He’s frowning at the screen like it owes him money. His jaw tight. His shoulders squared. He hasn’t looked at the kids once. Not really.
You wonder what he’s thinking.
You hope it’s not you.
You secretly wish it is.
BACK AT THE ORIGINAL TIMELINE
The Watchtower is buzzing.
Green Lanterns are rotating shifts around the planet, scanning for unusual fluctuations in gravitational or metaphysical fields. Flash is running data from satellite footage, security camera glitches, and electromagnetic spikes. Zatanna is already working spells with Constantine, tracing residual magic signatures. Arthur offered to comb the oceans, though no one thinks the kids are underwater.
You stand in the middle of the central room like a ghost. Out of place. Useless.
You’re not a fighter. Not a metahuman. You don’t have heat vision or a power ring or arcane mastery. You are just—
A mom.
Their mom.
And that has to be enough.
“Y/N,” Diana says gently, stepping beside you. She holds out a thermos. “Water. You haven’t had any.”
You take it and nod your thanks. You sip, barely tasting it. It’s warm, fresh.
Lois arrives next. Her arms wrap tight around your body, anchoring you in place. “I’m so sorry,” she whispers into your hair. “We’ll get them back. No matter what. We’ll get them back.”
You grip her shirt like it’ll keep you from flying apart.
Jon peeks out from behind her coat. “Are my cousins okay?” he asks in a small voice. “Are they coming back?”
Your heart breaks for the millionth time.
You bend down, crouching to meet your nephew’s eyes. “They’re okay. I promise. We just have to find them.”
“Can I help?”
“You’re helping just by asking.”
He smiles a little. You kiss his forehead and try not to fall apart.
They were gone.
All five of them. Vanished like air.
You kept replaying the last few moments over and over again. The words. Damian’s voice raised in that rare way it got when he didn’t know what else to do with his anger. And then—
Light. Pressure. A crack in the air like thunder. The air warped and folded in on itself. You’d seen it happen. They’d been standing there. And then they weren’t.
No explosion. No sign of damage. Just… absence.
It made no sense. And that, more than anything else, was driving you mad.
One full day passed. Night falls and rises again, though you don’t remember it. Everything blurs. Your eyes hurt. Your throat is raw from overusing it and from not speaking at all.
You and Bruce barely sleep. He doesn’t let go of your hand for more than five minutes at a time. Alfred checks in hourly.
There are no leads.
The League was working nonstop. You could see it in their exhaustion. Clark had barely looked at you since it happened. You didn’t know if it was guilt or grief. Maybe both. Diana had tried to talk to you, but you didn’t have words for her. Barry paced constantly, snapping in and out of the Watchtower like a lightning storm. Even Hal had been quiet.
J’onn was the only one who could look at you for longer than a few seconds.
Bruce’s hand touched yours. He didn’t pull, didn’t pressure. He just waited. You stared at his fingers laced between your own. He was cold too. You didn’t think he’d slept either. Merely put on his suit again. Hadn’t shaved.
Your lips trembled, and that was all it took.
The tears came back.
The sob slipped from your mouth so suddenly it shocked you. You gasped in a breath like someone drowning and let yourself fold into him. Bruce caught you with both arms, holding you to his chest, one hand buried in your hair, the other firm across your back. You weren’t even sure you were breathing right. Your whole body hurt, and you hadn’t even been injured. It was grief. Raw, wild, searing.
“They’re just kids,” you whispered hoarsely. “They’re just—just kids. They’re my babies, Bruce—”
“I know,” he murmured. “I know.”
You felt his jaw tighten against your temple. He was shaking too.
“Damian told me he hated me.”
You felt him go still.
You swallowed, clinging tighter. “He said he wished I wasn’t with you. That he wished I wasn’t their mom.”
Bruce pulled back slightly to look you in the face. “Y/N—”
“And then they disappeared,” you said, voice cracking. “And I can’t—I can’t stop thinking about it, Bruce, what if—what if he made a wish and something took him seriously?”
His hands cradled your face gently, thumbs wiping uselessly at tears that wouldn’t stop coming. “Baby. We don’t know that. We don’t know anything yet. And we’re not going to jump to—”
“We always jump to worst-case scenarios,” you said, voice shaking. “You taught me that. Be prepared. Assume the worst. You think I’m not assuming it now?”
His eyes—God, those eyes—were so painfully familiar. Haunted and tired and aching. “I’m telling you the truth. We don’t have answers yet. But we will find them. We will find the kids. I swear to you.”
You closed your eyes, but you didn’t believe in promises anymore.
Not really.
You only believed in him. In the man who had never broken when the world begged him to, who still stood here beside you, even if his soul looked as bruised as yours.
And he believed in them. Your kids. His kids. Your family.
You weren’t sure you could stand on your own anymore, but if Bruce believed they were out there… then maybe you could breathe a little longer.
Maybe.
You found yourself in the kids’ wing of the manor three nights in a row.
You didn’t remember walking there.
Dick’s room was tidy—he always cleaned when stressed. Cass’s was organized chaos, shelves of books and delicate weapons. Jason’s had a blanket half-thrown on the floor, and a photo of you and him on the desk. Tim’s computer chair was still spinning from the fan, the screen blinking in standby. Damian’s room smelled like pencil shavings and mint and shampoo.
You sat on his bed for a long time.
There were tears soaking the collar of your shirt again before you even realized you were crying.
Bruce found you there, eventually. He didn’t speak. He just walked over, knelt in front of you, and wrapped his arms around your knees.
Your fingers carded into his hair before you could stop yourself.
“I keep thinking I’m gonna hear them,” you said quietly. “Someone running down the hall. Tim calling me for coffee. Jason yelling about Alfred’s old books. Cass asking for more paper. Dick leaving his socks everywhere. Damian complaining I touch his things.”
“I hear it too,” he said. His voice cracked.
You kissed the top of his head.
It was so silent you could hear the grandfather clock ticking four rooms away.
Clark took you aside the next morning. Gently. His eyes full of something you hadn’t seen on him in years: helplessness.
“We’re getting closer,” he promised, voice barely above a whisper. “Y/N. We found multiversal feedback. A signal pattern. J’onn thinks it might be a trace from the Wishing Stone.”
You blinked. “So it was a wish.”
“We don’t know yet. But if it was—if there’s a thread—then we can find them. And we’re going to. I swear.”
You nodded, but it was numb.
“Have you been sleeping?” he asked.
You laughed bitterly.
He didn’t push.
The sun rose over Gotham like a pale echo of warmth. You watched it from the roof of the manor, arms around your own frame, listening to the faint sounds of the League's work in the distance.
Somewhere across the veil of reality—your children were alive.
You didn’t know how. You didn’t know where. But you knew they had to be. Because if they weren’t—if they weren’t coming back—you didn’t know how to keep breathing. And you weren’t sure Bruce did either.
But for now, you had each other, and that would have to be enough. Until they came home.
ONCE AGAIN . . .
The algorithm bleeds across the screen in flickering pulses of light. Cosmic radiation values. Harmonic signatures. Planar frequencies. The Watchtower’s systems groan under the weight of interdimensional diagnostics that were never meant to be routine—but here you are. Still hunched over, still running endless simulations with Bruce looming at your side like a brooding gargoyle with control issues.
You're tired.
Not the kind of tired sleep fixes. You’re tired in the marrow of your bones, tired in the sockets behind your eyes, tired in the line of your jaw and the coil of tension at the base of your neck. The kids are somewhere they don’t belong, and maybe—maybe it wasn’t your fault, not directly, but the guilt still burns like acid through your stomach.
Some part of you knows it’s not your job to care so much. These aren’t your children. They’re just anomalies to correct. Guests passing through.
But your body doesn’t listen.
Dick helps where he can, talking softly to Diana, fetching tools, decoding things with Tim. Cass hovers, sharp and silent, eyes flicking from you to Bruce like she’s watching a play she already knows the ending to. Jason keeps his distance but never leaves. He watches you too closely, like he’s trying to figure out whether he should trust the way your hands tremble when you think no one’s looking. Tim’s been piecing the multiversal data faster than you thought a seventeen-year-old could.
And Damian… Damian is the only one who looks like he’s shrinking.
He hasn’t spoken much. Not to you. Not to Bruce. Not to anyone, really.
You catch him staring sometimes, and every time he does, you feel like he’s trying to apologize with his eyes. Like he’s afraid of what you’ll say back.
You don’t say anything. You’re not their mother. You’re just the ghost of who she might’ve been.
You flex your fingers without meaning to. The webbing slips from your pores in thin, shimmering threads before retracting again, obedient and automatic. Sometimes, when the nerves are too much, your powers act on their own. Your skin is too hot, senses too sharp. You hear the buzz of fluorescent lighting, the soft rasp of Bruce’s coat sleeve as he shifts beside you.
The silence between you has grown strange again. Not hostile. Not tense. Just full.
You swallow, bracing yourself.
“So,” you murmur without looking up, “we agree 87-D is the most stable window?”
Bruce nods. “As long as we calibrate the coordinates with the League’s transporter in sync with the gravitational matrix.”
“Right. Because why make it easy.”
“You’re the one who said you already ran the 98-D sweep,” he reminds you with something like dry sarcasm, which is as close to a joke as he ever gets.
You huff a breath. “You’re not exactly sunshine either, Batman.”
He says nothing. You hate that he never flinches when you call him that—like the cowl is fused to his personality even without it.
“System’s holding,” you announce, just to say something. “87-D is stable for another… six minutes. If we’re gonna do this, we better do it fast.”
Bruce turns to the console and presses something only he can access. You let him. You’re good with code and bad with ego. He’s the opposite . . . except he's good with code as well.
You hate him a little bit more for that.
“We need a pulse anchor,” he mutters, mostly to himself. “Something to fix the coordinates across the drift.”
“Already on it.”
You toss him a silver ring from your belt—a molecular stabilizer modified from your last mission with Hal. It lands in his hand with a soft slap. He blinks, barely registering surprise.
He slides it onto the console and connects it to the signal. “That might work.”
“I know it’ll work.”
He glances sideways at you. “You’re sure about this?”
You nod once. “Get those kids to their home.”
That’s what this is. That’s what it has to be.
They never asked for this—none of you did. Whatever hurt Damian had carried with him, whatever words were said in anger, you can feel the weight of it in him now. He didn’t mean to tear a hole through space. He didn’t mean to make a wish that the universe took seriously.
But the universe doesn’t care about intention.
It just breaks, and spins, and lets people fall through the cracks.
You watch the final calibration complete with a subtle hum, and then the portal field shimmers to life in the center of the room. A swirling mirror, soft purple edges, like the air has peeled back to show its veins.
Dick stands first. “That’s it?”
You nod. “That’s it.”
Cass is next, eyes sweeping across the Watchtower one more time. You wonder what she thinks of this world—of you. If she’s disappointed.
Tim adjusts his comm piece, looking more pensive than worried. “Back to square one, huh?”
Jason doesn’t move yet. “And what if it doesn’t work?”
Bruce meets his eyes. “It will.”
The confidence surprises you. You’ve never heard him use that tone—not for anything uncertain. Not for things outside his control. And yet here he is, trusting something that came from your hands.
Jason doesn’t argue. Just shrugs. “If I die, I’m blaming you.”
You give him a crooked smile. “That’s fair.”
Then, finally, Damian. The smallest of them. The last to stand. His eyes don’t move from you. For a second—just a flicker—you think he’s going to say something.
But he doesn’t.
He turns and walks toward the portal like the rest, only pausing when the edge of the shimmer touches his boots.
And just before he steps through, he looks back. Not at Bruce. At you.
“Thank you,” he says softly.
It doesn’t sound forced. It doesn’t sound like a child thanking a stranger. It sounds like something real, pulled from somewhere deeper.
You say nothing. You just nod.
They disappear through the portal in sequence, like reverse falling stars—small lights returning to their sky. The room quiets.
Just you. Just Bruce.
You exhale. “Well.”
Bruce doesn’t speak.
The portal collapses with a sigh of static. You stare at the empty space it leaves behind and feel something cold slip into your chest.
“They’re lucky,” you say after a moment.
Bruce glances at you. “They’re lucky to have you. Somewhere.”
You let out a small, bitter laugh. “Don’t get soft on me, Bats. It’s unnerving.”
A long pause. And then—
“You ever think about it?” you ask. “What it would’ve been like?”
He’s quiet.
You don’t press him. You just keep talking, voice quieter now.
“I don’t even mean kids, not really. I just mean—something else. Something other than this. Than us. Fighting wars in the sky. Pulling spiderwebs out of skin and getting shot at and stitched up and doing it again.”
Still no answer. You glance at him. “Do you?”
He meets your gaze. “All the time.”
It doesn’t make you feel better, but it makes you feel… something.
You’re left alone after that, when he leaves to check in with Diana and the rest of the League. You sit at the edge of the platform, legs hanging off the side. Your hands curl loosely around the steel. You flex your fingers.
The threads come out slow, soft.
You watch them shimmer in the pale light of the station. They look like silk. Like veins. Like something human and inhuman all at once.
Like a hand.
You used to think these powers would mean something. That being bitten, mutated, changed, would turn you into someone worth remembering. That saving people would bring meaning.
But now you know better.
All it’s ever brought you is pain. Bodies you couldn’t save. Names you forget on long nights when the sirens don’t stop. Parents you buried before you hit eighteen. A city that only half tolerates you. A brother who worries too much, and a little boy who doesn’t understand why Aunt Y/N never smiles anymore when the camera’s off.
You could’ve had it all.
Not money, not glory. But peace.
A family. A real one.
You could’ve had a son who looked up at you like any of those boys did. A daughter who knew like Cass. A partner who trusted you with his world.
You could’ve had it all. You have it, somewhere.
But not here. Not in this life.
So you sit in the Watchtower’s cold, humming silence, watching your own web dissolve between your fingers.
And you wonder if you’ll ever stop feeling hollow.
BACK HOME
The Watchtower was quiet, but only on the surface.
Below the silence, there was a tremor—an anticipation rippling through steel floors and solar-powered conduits. You stood behind the thick glass of the observation deck, heart pounding beneath the blue blouse Clark had folded for you that morning with trembling hands. He was somewhere behind you, along with Bruce and the rest of the League, but none of them mattered right now. All that mattered was the platform in the center of the room—the circle of glowing purple etched into the ground like a sigil, humming softly with energy as the portal engine counted down its last few minutes.
Six. That’s how long the breach would remain stable. Six minutes. Three hundred and sixty seconds. And you were ready for every last one of them.
“ETA?” Bruce’s voice broke through the comms, cool and grounded even now, but you knew the tick in his jaw, the way his arms were folded just a bit too tight across his chest. You didn’t need to look at him to know it. He was just as scared as you were. Maybe more.
J’onn’s voice came through next. “Stabilization complete. Five minutes until collapse.”
You inhaled. Long. Deep. It didn’t help.
You hadn’t seen them in a week. A week. It might as well have been a lifetime. Your house had felt like a mausoleum—quiet, haunted, echoing with laughter that wasn’t there anymore. Damian’s shoes still by the door. Cass’s jacket still on the hook. Tim’s half-drunk coffee on the kitchen counter. Jason’s book still open on the living room armrest. And Dick’s text on your phone still unopened because you couldn’t bear to see the last message he sent before everything changed: love u. see u tmrw.
You had barely slept. Barely eaten. You would walk around the manor at night and check their rooms like it would somehow fix something. And Bruce had been the same—tethered to the edge of his own grief, barely holding it together, not as the Batman, but as the man you loved, the father you’d watched break in slow-motion.
But now—now there was this.
The portal began to glow brighter, a ring of light slicing through the metal, fracturing the space in front of you like glass under pressure. You didn’t move. You couldn’t. You kept your eyes trained on it like you were afraid it would vanish if you blinked.
“Beginning temporal sync,” Cyborg announced, his hands flying over the controls like a concert pianist. “We're close.”
Your fingers gripped the edge of the glass.
Four minutes.
You whispered it to yourself like a prayer. Four minutes. You could do that. You had already survived the hardest part—now all you had to do was stand.
Then it started.
A ripple in the light. A flicker.
And then—
Cass came through first. Feet landing with grace, body low in a ready crouch, already looking for you. Her black suit was torn in places, the shoulder ripped, knuckles raw, hair tied hastily behind her head. But still your Cass.
Then Jason. Tumbling out right behind her, boots scraping the floor, that red helmet clutched under one arm and his face flushed with sweat. He looked around wildly, eyes wide, then spotted the League behind the glass. His whole body sank with relief.
Tim fell through next, coughing hard, his hood down, bangs sticking to his forehead. He stumbled but didn’t fall, and his gaze darted to Cass and Jason as if needing confirmation that they were real.
Then Dick. A mess of dark curls, his suit scuffed and stained, that grin of his already forming the moment he saw the light. You saw it burst across his face like the sun coming up all at once. He grabbed Tim’s shoulder and pulled him close in a one-armed hug.
But there was one missing.
You waited. You counted.
One minute.
And then—
Damian.
He came flying through the rift with a kind of desperate speed, stumbling and falling to his knees before catching himself. His sword clattered behind him. He looked around, panting, furious and afraid and barely holding it in. Eleven years old. Your littlest. Your baby. Still so small, even after everything.
And he screamed.
“Where is she?”
His voice cracked. The glass between you and the others shattered open with the override Bruce had slammed a fist against. You didn’t wait.
You ran.
Feet pounding against the metal, hallway after hallway blurring around you as you tore through the Watchtower like gravity didn’t apply. People called your name—Clark, Diana, J’onn, even Bruce—but none of it mattered. You ran through security, past the command deck, down the corridor of lights flickering from the dimensional breach. Your legs ached. You didn't care. You’d crawl if you had to.
And then—
You turned the corner, and they were there. All five of them. Bruised. Dirty.
Alive.
The scream left your lungs before you even knew it.
“DICK!”
He turned first. His head whipped around, and the moment he saw you, his face broke. That grin gave way to something rawer, something wet and overwhelmed. He didn’t say a word. He just ran to you and caught you in his arms with the kind of force that sent you stumbling back into the wall behind you.
“Mom,” he breathed. “Oh my God, Mom—”
You laughed through your sobs and cupped his face, pressed your lips to his forehead and held him so tight you were sure neither of you could breathe. “You’re here, you’re here, you’re here—”
Then Cass. She was on your other side, silent as ever, but her hands gripped your shoulders so tightly, and her face was buried in your neck before you could even get a look at her.
You kissed her temple. “You did so good,” you whispered, again and again. “You came back, sweetheart.”
Jason. Taller than you now, built like a tank, but still crumbling as he wrapped his arms around the three of you like he was going to come apart if he didn’t touch you. “Never leaving again,” he muttered, head pressed to your shoulder. “You hear me? Never. I’m not—I’m not doing that again—”
You reached for him, held him close with one hand and reached the other for Tim, who was already crying.
“Oh, baby,” you breathed. “Come here.”
He didn’t hesitate. Just folded into you like the scared seventeen-year-old he was, fingers digging into your sleeve, his chest hitching against your ribs. “We thought we were stuck,” he said. “I thought—thought we’d never see you again—”
You kissed his hair. “I know. I know. But you’re here now. You made it.”
You press kisses to their temples, to their cheeks, over and over again.
“I love you. I love you. I love you—”
But there was still one missing from your arms.
You turned.
Damian hadn’t moved.
He stood five feet away, trembling, staring at you like you were a dream too fragile to touch. His mouth opened, but nothing came out.
You stepped toward him. He took a step back.
“Damian,” you said gently, voice shaking. “Come here, sweetling.”
His lips trembled. He doesn’t run. He just looks up at you like he doesn’t deserve you.
“I… I didn’t meant it,” he whispered. “I’m sorry—I didn't, Mama—I—”
You were already on your knees.
You reached for him and cradled his face between your hands, eyes glassy and full of everything you hadn’t said in days. “Stop,” you told him. “Stop right now.”
He crumpled. Damian crashed into your arms with a cry that broke something in the room. He held you like a lifeline, arms locked around your neck so tightly you could barely breathe.
You hold his face between your palms. His tears fall into your skin. You kiss them away, forehead, cheeks, nose. “You have nothing to be sorry for, baby. You’re safe. You’re home. My sweet, brave boy.”
He kept repeating it like a loop: “I’m sorry—I missed you—I thought I was never gonna see you again—”
You just held him tighter. “I’m here. I’m here. I’ll always be here.”
And then the rest of them collapsed around you again, this time on their knees too—Dick holding your back, Cass gripping your hand, Jason’s forehead pressed to your shoulder, Tim clinging to Damian’s side.
You sat there on the floor, surrounded by them, heart thundering so loud you thought the Tower might shake with it.
Then Bruce knelt down beside you, silently, his hand brushing your back. You looked up at him through the tears.
“They’re back,” you whispered. “They brought each other home.”
Six minutes. That’s all the universe gave you to close a chasm between worlds, but it was enough. More than enough. Because you had them. You had your children. And not even time itself could take them from you again.
Part One
Pairings: PornStar!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
Themes: Sexual Innuendo/humour,Guy next door, situational comedy? Sexual Themes 18+ ONLY: fingering, cunnilingus, Bucky loves tiddies, dirty talk.
Summary: Though you've become oddly close to SergeantBarnes, it's still difficult to act normal around him.
A/N: I didn't think many would ask for a part two but here you go. divider by @cafekitsune
It was a peaceful evening in the apartment gym—or, at least, it was supposed to be. You had your plan: thirty minutes on the stair climber, some stretches, and you’d be out of there before any awkwardness could find you.
But then you heard it—the unmistakable sound of weights clanging, followed by a deep, low grunt that made your entire body freeze.
You glanced up, hoping against hope that it wasn’t who you thought it was. But, of course, there he was: Bucky, over at the hip thrust machine, setting up his weights directly in front of you. Perfect, you thought. Of all the machines in here, he has to pick the most… suggestive one.
Your eyes flicked back to the tiny screen on your machine. Stay focused, you told yourself. Don’t look. Just ignore him.
But the moment he started his set, you heard it—a low, powerful grunt that practically reverberated through the gym. You immediately bit down on your lip, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead, pretending you weren’t having flashbacks to his other kind of workouts.
Another deep grunt.
Your hands clenched the stair climber’s handles like a lifeline. Do NOT look, you told yourself, the mantra echoing in your mind. But your treacherous eyes slid sideways, just for a second, and you caught a glimpse of him, face focused, breaths heavy as he powered through each hip thrust. The guy was practically a one-man gym commercial.
You looked away, focusing on your steps—your very uneven, slightly panicked steps. It’s just a hip thrust, for crying out loud! Nothing unusual here, you told yourself, trying to stomp out the heat creeping up your cheeks. But every time he exhaled, your mind filled with images of… well, his other performances.
Then, in the middle of one of his reps, Bucky let out a particularly deep, guttural grunt that nearly threw you off balance. Your foot slipped, your rhythm stuttered, and in a moment of pure panic, you clutched the handles and stumbled forward, practically throwing yourself onto the machine.
“Shit!” you yelped, fumbling to regain your balance as your legs moved faster than your brain, desperately trying not to faceplant.
You heard Bucky chuckle, that low, infuriatingly amused laugh, and felt your cheeks practically ignite. You looked up, heart pounding, only to find him smirking in your direction, eyes dancing with mischief.
“Careful there, Y/N,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Stair climbers are brutal.”
“Oh, yeah, totally!” you squeaked, straightening up, trying to look like you meant to almost eat it. “Just… keeping things interesting. Got to keep the cardio exciting, you know?”
“Looks like it’s working,” he replied, wiping his forehead with a towel, his grin widening as he noticed your death grip on the machine. “You sure you’re good over there?”
“Oh, I’m… I’m great,” you lied, your face flaming as you tried to regain your composure. But he wasn’t done with you yet.
“Glad to hear it,” he said, voice way too smooth. He paused, then tilted his head, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gotta admit, though… this machine setup does feel a bit familiar.”
Your brain nearly exploded. Did he just—? He couldn’t mean… But his eyes sparkled with that infuriating, knowing look, and you knew exactly what he was hinting at. Your face went beet red as your foot slipped again, but this time you managed to catch yourself, narrowly avoiding another disaster.
“Uh-huh,” you said, laughing nervously, desperately trying to hold it together. “Well, enjoy your… uh, workout!”
“Oh, I am,” he said, chuckling softly. “Especially with the view.” He winked, setting up for another set while you tried not to spontaneously combust.
With one final, mortified glance, you turned your attention back to the stair climber, mentally swearing you’d never step foot in this gym again after this.
Since you survived the stair climber ordeal without faceplanting (barely), you decided it was time to move on. Somewhere—anywhere—that didn’t involve Bucky’s hip thrusts or his incessant, maddening smirk.
You zeroed in on the bench press. Safe, you thought, relieved. Just a standard exercise. Nothing suggestive, no chance of stumbling, tripping, or looking like a klutz. You grabbed the bar, took a deep breath, and mentally prepped yourself. Easy-peasy.
And then—because the universe simply refused to give you a break—you heard that all-too-familiar voice right beside you.
“Need a spot?”
You looked up and almost swallowed your tongue. There was Bucky, looming over you with that same damn smirk, wiping his hands on a towel like he was gearing up for some personal training session from your worst/best nightmares.
“Oh, uh… I—” you stammered, already feeling the heat creep up your neck. You’ve got this, you told yourself. Just let him help you. No big deal. You’re a mature, fully-functioning adult.
“Yeah, sure!” you squeaked, trying to sound normal as he stepped closer, positioning himself behind the bench. You laid back, gripping the bar, and immediately realized what a horrible, terrible mistake this was. You were now lying flat on your back, Bucky leaning over you, his face far too close as he focused on making sure you could lift the weight.
“You ready?” he asked, his face all business, but his lips still had that mischievous curve.
“Ready,” you mumbled, eyes darting anywhere but up at him, trying to ignore how absolutely awkwardly intimate this felt. You started your set, breathing steadily as you lifted the bar, determined to act as if this were a completely normal workout.
But then, midway through the reps, he leaned down a little closer. “By the way, did you check out my new video?”
Your hands nearly slipped. You fumbled the bar, barely catching it as your brain short-circuited.
“W-What?” you managed, voice strangled, heart racing.
“My new video,” he repeated, casually reaching out to help guide the bar back into place as you struggled not to lose it. “Thought you might’ve seen it by now.”
Your cheeks flamed, but you somehow managed to choke out, “N-No! I… I haven’t seen it!”
Bucky chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow as he straightened up, his voice taking on a teasing, almost disappointed tone.
“Oh. That’s a shame,” he said, smirk lingering. “Didn’t have a costar this time—just me, actually. First time I’ve ever done that.”
Your mouth dropped open. Just him? Your brain skidded to a halt. Suddenly, you were far too interested in a video you’d just denied seeing.
“Oh, um… interesting?” you squeaked, trying to keep your face neutral but definitely failing.
“Yeah,” he replied with a shrug, looking at you with twinkling eyes. “Guess you’ll have to let me know what you think… whenever you get around to it.”
“Actually, I… uh… I kind of stopped watching… since we, you know… know each other. Just… feels awkward.”
Bucky’s grin widened, his eyes lighting up with amusement.
“Oh, so you’re telling me we’re too close for you to watch my work now?” He raised an eyebrow, looking mockingly offended. “I thought we were supporting local artists.”
Your cheeks practically combusted as he said it, and you fumbled with the bar, desperately trying to pretend you hadn’t heard him. Supporting local artists? Was he serious right now?
“Oh my god,” you mumbled, absolutely mortified. “This is not— You’re not— I mean…!”
But he just looked down at you, that smug grin firmly in place as he leaned in, clearly enjoying every second of your flustered state.
“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Don’t you believe in supporting the arts?”
Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, words completely failing you. “This… this is not the same!” you finally blurted, clutching the bar like it was your only lifeline.
“Oh really?” he replied, chuckling. “Because it sounds like you’re saying we’re too close for me to keep doing what I do. You know, my passion.”
You practically choked, waving your hands around in frantic denial. “No! No! That’s not— I’m not stopping you! I’m just— I don’t know, maybe supporting from a… distant, supportive spiritual place?”
He laughed outright, shaking his head. “So, what—you’re like cheering me on… but from across the street?”
You nodded vigorously, still trying to save face. “Exactly! Just… supportive… but in a non-participatory kind of way.”
“Got it,” he said, smirking. “So, I’m officially your guilty pleasure now.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands as he chuckled, clearly far too pleased with himself.
Note to self: Avoid all future conversations with Bucky Barnes for the rest of eternity.
× × × ×
That evening, you were finally settled at your dining table, a bowl of pasta in front of you, determined to put the entire gym disaster behind you. You’d survived another encounter with Bucky—barely—and now all you wanted was some quiet, non-embarrassing time with carbs.
But as you twirled your fork in the noodles, your brain betrayed you, replaying his words from earlier.
“Did you check out my new video?”
You paused mid-bite, the fork hovering near your mouth as you stared blankly at the wall, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and dread bubbling up. What could he have meant by “just me”? You tried to shake it off, forcing another forkful of pasta into your mouth. Nope, not going there.
But the thought lingered, nudging you, until you found yourself setting down the fork, fingers hovering over your phone. Just one quick search, you reasoned, glancing around your empty apartment as if someone might catch you.
You typed in the familiar site, thumbs hesitating above the search bar, nearly typing “SergeantBarnes new video” before you snapped back to reality, dropping the phone like it burned.
“Oh, no,” you muttered to yourself, horrified at how close you’d come. “Absolutely not. What am I, insane?”
You shoved another forkful of pasta into your mouth, shaking your head furiously. “I am not doing this.”
But as you continued eating, your eyes kept darting back to the phone, the curiosity gnawing at you, leaving you torn between common sense and the very persuasive power of nosiness.
You took a deep breath, clenching your fists. “Get a grip, Y/N. You are absolutely not watching that video.”
...But maybe just a preview?
You groaned, stuffing your face with more pasta, determined to win this internal battle.
× × × ×
The next morning, just as you were heading out the door for work, you spotted something bright and obnoxiously neon-colored taped to the wall near the mailboxes. Curiosity got the better of you, and you stepped closer, squinting at the bold, glittery letters.
POOL PARTY THIS WEEKEND! it proclaimed. Food, drinks, music, fun! Don’t miss it!
You raised an eyebrow, debating if you’d actually brave a building-wide party when suddenly, the quiet hallway was shattered by a loud, unmistakably ecstatic moan. The kind that could only mean one thing.
From none other than Bucky’s apartment.
You froze, eyes widening in disbelief. Is that—? Is he—?
A second moan, even louder than the first, confirmed it. This wasn’t just any moan; this was the sound of someone—some woman—having the time of her life. At what had to be eight o’clock in the morning.
“Oh, seriously?!” you hissed under your breath, glancing down the hallway as if there might be witnesses to this auditory ambush. Just then, the woman’s voice hit a pitch so high it practically reverberated off the walls.
You winced, clutching your bag like it could somehow shield you from this. Who even has that much energy in the morning? You took a step back, hoping to escape the sonic nightmare, but the moans only got louder, each sound more animated than the last.
You threw your hands over your ears, eyes squeezed shut as you muttered furiously to yourself.
“Nope, nope, absolutely not. Not today, not right now.” You spun on your heel, practically power-walking down the hall, doing your best to drown out the soundtrack blaring from his apartment.
“YES, SERGEANT! OH MY GOD!”
You practically stumbled, muttering an alarmed, “Oh my god, stop!” as you picked up the pace, pressing your hands even harder against your ears. It was like some kind of cruel game—the closer you got to the elevator, the louder it seemed to get, echoing in your ears like a siren you couldn’t escape.
You winced, feeling your face burn as you all but sprinted down the hall, chanting, “Nope, nope, NOPE!” under your breath like a mantra. It was as if your feet couldn’t carry you fast enough, each step a desperate attempt to put some distance between you and… whatever was happening in that apartment.
Finally, you made it to the elevator, slamming your finger against the button with more force than necessary, glancing nervously over your shoulder as if the sounds might follow you. The doors mercifully slid open, and you dove inside, leaning back against the wall and pressing your hands over your ears one last time, breathing a sigh of relief.
But just as the doors began to close, one last triumphant shout echoed down the hallway, loud and clear, like the universe had decided you hadn’t suffered enough.
You groaned, staring up at the ceiling as the doors shut, wondering if this building had any quiet hours, or if you were doomed to start every morning with a full-blown soundscape of… Bucky’s extracurricular activities.
Note to self: Invest in earplugs. Maybe some noise-canceling headphones. Or a new apartment altogether.
× × × ×
You arrived at work looking like you’d barely survived a natural disaster. Traumatized, sleep-deprived, and still hearing the morning’s very loud soundtrack echoing in your mind, you slumped into your chair, hoping to quietly blend into the office scenery and get through the day in peace.
Naturally, that was too much to ask.
“Whoa,” Trish said, swiveling in her chair to eye you like you were a science experiment gone wrong. “You look like you just spent a night in a haunted house.”
“Or… like you had a wild morning,” Amy added, raising her eyebrows. “You okay there, Y/N?”
“Fine,” you muttered, barely making eye contact as you set your bag down, trying to erase the vivid flashbacks of Bucky’s… extremely enthusiastic co-worker.
Before you could even recover, Trish leaned in, her grin spreading like wildfire. “Sooo… did you finally get around to watching Sergeant Barnes’ new video?”
Your head snapped up, heart stopping in your chest. “Wha—no! Why would I… I mean… I—”
“Oh, come on,” Amy said, nudging you like she’d just caught you in a guilty pleasure. “You don’t know what you’re missing. He’s alone in this one.” She leaned closer, adding in a stage whisper, “The man has talent.”
“Uh-huh,” Trish agreed, nodding like a sage. “No costars this time. Just him, going all in. It’s… impressive.”
You clutched the edge of your desk, mentally scrambling for any kind of response that would shut them down without revealing the secret you swore you’d take to the grave: that Sergeant Barnes was actually your neighbor.
You swallowed, managing to squeak out, “You know we’re in an office, right? As in, the place we do work?”
“Oh please, don’t act like you’re all professional now!” Trish smirked, crossing her arms as she gave you a knowing look. “You were all too eager to do some ‘research’ when we told you about him the first time.”
“Yeah!” Amy joined in, her grin absolutely diabolical. “You should be thanking us! The way you’re looking right now, I’d bet you already took a look this morning.”
You spluttered, mortified. “No! I mean, of course not! It’s just—this is… inappropriate.”
Amy snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh, sure. And here I thought you had a little curiosity.”
You glared, fully prepared to tell them off, but Amy cut in first, smirking as she leaned over your desk.
“C’mon, Y/N, it’s just us girls. Tell me you don’t have some curiosity about what the man can do when it’s just him and the camera.”
You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, struggling to keep your cool. “No, I’m not curious! Not at all. And maybe you two shouldn’t be either, because, oh, I don’t know… WE ARE AT WORK!”
They both cracked up, sharing a delighted high-five as you buried your face in your hands, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you.
“Oh, we’re just messing with you,” Trish said, barely holding back laughter. “But seriously, girl… you look like you need to unwind. Maybe with a drink or… you know… a little quality screen time?”
“Or maybe someone live and in-person?” Amy chimed in, waggling her eyebrows.
You groaned, face down on your desk, cursing the fact that they would never, ever know the full story.
× × × ×
You stepped into the lobby, utterly drained from the day, just as the elevator doors began to slide shut. Without a second thought, you bolted, slipping in right before they closed. Only then did you realize the universe was playing tricks on you.
Because standing right there, with a half-smirk on his face and way too much knowing mischief in his eyes, was Bucky. Alone.
You froze, instantly regretting every choice that had led to this moment. But it was too late now, so you plastered on a polite smile and tried not to look like a deer caught in headlights.
Bucky’s eyes twinkled as he took you in, leaning casually against the side of the elevator as he said, “Tired?”
You laughed, and before you could stop it, the laugh turned into a borderline deranged chuckle.
“Oh, yes, thank you very much,” you replied, sarcasm slipping out before you could rein it in. Then, muttering under your breath but clearly audible, you added, “Maybe keep it down too… in the morning.”
He chuckled, looking way too amused. “Sorry about that. Work, you know? She, uh… went home right after, don’t worry.”
Your face went flaming hot, and you whipped your head to look straight ahead, pressing your lips together like that would somehow save you from this horror.
“Oh, you don’t… you don’t have to explain it to me,” you stammered, feeling like your cheeks were practically on fire. “I’m not worried.”
The smirk only widened. “Good to know.” He leaned in just a little, adding, “I wouldn’t want to keep you up… unintentionally.”
You choked, your hand flying up to cover your mouth as you let out a mortified laugh that you could barely stop from turning into a squeak. Just get to your floor, just get to your floor… you chanted internally, keeping your gaze laser-focused on the elevator doors.
But you could feel him watching you, could practically feel the amusement radiating off him as you tried to pretend that your life hadn’t just devolved into a rom-com nightmare.
Finally—finally—the elevator dinged at your floor. You stepped out, sighing with relief, only for Bucky to step out right behind you.
“Hey,” he called, making you pause and turn reluctantly. He was smiling, hands casually shoved into his pockets as he looked you over. “Are you coming to the rooftop pool party this weekend?”
“No,” you replied flatly, the answer escaping before you could even pretend to think about it.
He laughed, clearly not deterred. “Aw, come on. You sure? It’ll be fun.”
You shook your head vigorously, waving him off. “No, no, I’m good. I’m… not much of a party person.”
“Really?” he replied, stepping a little closer, his smile turning into something dangerously persuasive. “It’s just neighbors hanging out, not some crazy nightclub thing. Good music, food… probably no loud… work, either.”
You glared, suppressing an eye roll as he gave you a wink. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, still grinning. “If you don’t show up, who am I going to talk to about all the ‘work’ complaints?”
You stifled a laugh, trying to maintain your resolve. “Pretty sure there are other people you can bother with that.”
“But none of them have your… constructive feedback,” he replied, his gaze dropping to the floor as he pretended to look shy. “And honestly, I need someone to keep me in check. I’m a handful at parties. Who else is going to stop me from climbing onto tables?”
You snorted, crossing your arms as you tried not to crack a smile. “I highly doubt you’re a handful at a pool party.”
He raised an eyebrow, challenging you. “Come and find out.”
You looked away, shaking your head but feeling the corners of your mouth tug upward. “Bucky, I’m not going.”
“So, you’re saying you’ll leave me up there with all these people who… don’t know me as well as you do?” He tilted his head, giving you a mock-pout.
Your face turned red, and you sputtered, “I don’t know you! I barely know you!”
“Oh, so all those research sessions weren’t exactly getting to know me?” he replied, grinning as he watched you turn an even deeper shade of crimson.
“You—ugh, you’re impossible,” you muttered, finally laughing despite yourself.
“That’s what everyone says,” he said, his voice softening just a little as he held your gaze. “Come on, Y/N. I promise, no loud work. I’ll even save you a spot.”
You sighed, feeling the last bit of resistance crumble. “Fine. But only for an hour.”
He beamed, triumphant. “Deal. And who knows? Maybe we’ll find something to actually talk about… outside of work.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart did a little flip. This is going to be a disaster, you thought. But somehow, you didn’t mind as much as you thought you would.
× × × ×
The weekend took forever to arrive, but somehow, you survived it—mostly by avoiding Bucky and doing your best not to think about that ridiculously intriguing video he’d hinted at. Nope, not even a peek. It was your own personal victory, though it took every ounce of willpower you had.
And now, here you were, standing at the rooftop entrance, mentally psyching yourself up. You’d put on a two-piece swimsuit under a white sheer cover-up, feeling only slightly self-conscious as you stepped out. Only because you hated drawing attention to your body.
The party was already in full swing, a mix of upbeat music and laughter filling the air. You scanned the crowd for a certain troublemaking neighbor, but no sign of him. Great, you thought, rolling your eyes. Bucky drags me up here, then vanishes like an ass. Typical.
You made a beeline for an empty lounge chair, setting down your bag and towel, hoping you’d have a chance to relax before anyone else noticed you. But just as you were about to sit, a deep voice called out.
“Hey there!”
You turned to see an equally impressive figure—a tall, muscular guy with a sun-kissed smile, striding over with a confident swagger.
“I’m Johnny,” he said, flashing a grin as he handed you a cold glass of beer. “Welcome to the party.”
“Oh! Thanks,” you said, taking the glass, feeling only slightly overwhelmed by all the testosterone on this rooftop. “Nice to meet you, Johnny.”
“Likewise,” he said, eyes flicking over you with the appreciation of someone who knew exactly what he was looking at. “Didn’t expect to see a new face up here. I know most of the regulars.”
“Yeah, I… usually keep to myself,” you admitted, suddenly feeling awkward under his gaze.
“Well, glad you’re here,” he said smoothly, gesturing to a chair beside yours. “Mind if I join you?”
Before you could answer, another familiar voice cut through the air, low and unmistakably amused. “Johnny.”
You turned slowly, bracing yourself for whatever cocky look Bucky had in store, but when you finally laid eyes on him, your brain just… stopped. No thoughts, head empty, because the second he strolled into view, you swore you heard the sultry opening saxophone of Careless Whisper start playing, echoing dramatically in your head like some corny, slow-motion rom-com entrance.
He moved in perfect sync to the imaginary music in your head, each step more absurdly cinematic than the last. This can’t be happening, you thought, but somehow, there he was—tan skin, swim trunks slung just right, and that damn casual shirt hanging open over his shoulders. The man looked like a vacation ad, except he was bringing you dangerously close to a heatstroke.
As he got closer, the sax solo in your mind reached ridiculous, life-altering levels of intensity. Why do you have to look like this? you thought, nearly choking on the vision before you. Bucky’s smirk turned into something almost smug, like he knew exactly what effect he was having, as if he, too, could hear the George Michael anthem of seduction playing in your head. You half-expected him to whip out an actual saxophone and start serenading you right there.
You swallowed, barely keeping yourself from drooling, and willed yourself to stay composed. Get a grip, you told yourself, though you were about 98% certain your jaw was on the verge of dropping.
“Sorry, Johnny,” he said smoothly, not even glancing at the other guy. “I think she already has company.”
You quickly tried to compose yourself, forcing a neutral expression as you willed your face not to betray the sheer catastrophe your brain was going through.
“Oh, hey, Bucky,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t sound as strangled as you felt. Inside, you were practically screaming. Why do you have to look like a freaking Greek god, Barnes? It’s rude, honestly.
Johnny raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking between the two of you, clearly picking up on the tension. “You two know each other?”
Bucky leaned casually against the lounge chair next to yours, flashing a grin that practically oozed mischief.
“You could say that. She’s my neighbor,” he said, his tone implying… well, all sorts of things. You immediately knew that everyone within earshot was definitely getting the wrong idea. “And I’ve been trying to get her to come out of her shell for a while now.”
Come out of her shell? You wanted to throttle him. But before you could retort, Johnny, ever the gentleman, just gave you a knowing wink and clapped Bucky on the shoulder.
“Well, guess I’ll let you take over, then,” he said, sauntering off with an amused smile.
You sighed, turning to face Bucky, who looked all too pleased with himself as he settled in beside you, stretching out like he owned the place.
“So, you made it,” he said, taking a leisurely sip of his drink as his eyes did a once-over that was a little too thorough.
“Yep,” you replied, your voice barely concealing your exasperation. “I showed up, just like I said I would. Where were you?”
He shrugged, that stupid smirk still plastered on his face. “Was just giving you a chance to make some new friends,” he said, his tone way too casual.
You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of the beer Johnny had given you. “Please. You just love making an entrance.”
He chuckled, clinking his glass with yours. “Can’t say you’re wrong about that.”
As he leaned back, his gaze lingered a little too long, making your cheeks heat up.
“Nice cover-up, by the way,” he commented, smirk widening. “It’s… modest.”
You shot him a look, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the sheer fabric draped over your swimsuit. “Why, thank you. That was kind of the point.”
“Yeah?” he replied, his voice dropping just a notch. “Shame, though. Bet that swimsuit’s got a whole lot of personality under there.”
You practically choked on your drink, coughing as you glared at him. “You’re such a flirt, Barnes.”
He chuckled, clearly unbothered by your reaction. “Hey, just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
You settled back in your chair, determined not to let him get the upper hand. But as you sat there, pretending to ignore him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite everything, you were enjoying this game just as much as he was.
You took a deep breath, narrowing your eyes at Bucky, who was looking far too pleased with himself.
“Like I said, just one hour,” you told him firmly, crossing your arms as if that would somehow fortify your resolve against whatever mischievous plans he undoubtedly had.
He raised an eyebrow, his smirk turning even more devilish. “Oh, I’m sure an hour will be more than enough.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “For what? So you can drive me insane and then sit back and enjoy the show?”
He chuckled, leaning a little closer, and you felt your heart rate spike. “Maybe. But I was thinking more along the lines of just… keeping you entertained.”
“Oh, I’m plenty entertained, thanks,” you shot back, trying to sound unimpressed despite the heat creeping up your neck.
He shrugged, unfazed, and settled back into his lounge chair.
“Good. Then let’s make it the best hour of your week,” he said, flashing you a wink that sent a new wave of exasperation—and, annoyingly, a bit of excitement—through you.
You huffed, shaking your head as you took a sip of your drink, determined not to let him see just how much that smirk was affecting you. Just one hour, you reminded yourself. What could possibly happen in one hour?
As you and Bucky settled into a strange, almost comfortable silence, you heard a booming voice from across the pool.
“CHICKEN FIGHT!” Johnny’s voice rang out, loud and enthusiastic, immediately grabbing everyone’s attention.
You whipped your head around, eyes widening. Johnny was wading into the pool, rallying everyone like some kind of pool party commander. “Come on! Everyone in! We need two teams!”
“Oh, no,” you muttered under your breath, instinctively shrinking into your lounge chair, hoping you’d be overlooked in the shuffle. Absolutely not happening, you thought, clutching your drink like a lifeline.
But Bucky, of course, was already grinning ear to ear. He turned to you, his eyes gleaming with excitement and mischief.
“You heard him,” he said, patting your shoulder like this was some team-building exercise. “We’re going in.”
“What? No!” you hissed, clutching your drink tighter as if that would save you. “I didn’t sign up for a chicken fight. I’m just here for moral support.”
Bucky laughed, standing up and stretching in that way that only he could pull off without looking ridiculous.
“Oh, come on,” he said, flashing you that smug, challenging grin. “Afraid of a little friendly competition?”
You shook your head, digging your heels in. “Nope. Not happening. And it’s not friendly—it’s dangerous!”
“Oh, don’t be such a chicken.” His smirk widened, and then, with a theatrical sigh, he added, “Guess I’ll just have to find someone braver.”
Your jaw dropped. “Oh, you’re really going to play that card?”
He shrugged, glancing around with feigned disappointment. “Guess so. Shame though. I thought you could handle it.”
It was the final straw. With an exasperated groan, you threw down your drink and stood up.
“Fine! I’ll do it.” The second the words left your mouth, you instantly regretted them, especially as you saw Bucky’s smirk morph into full-blown satisfaction.
“Perfect,” he said, clearly thrilled with himself.
You sighed, slipping off your sheer cover-up, feeling a sudden self-consciousness as you stood there in just your swimsuit. Bucky’s gaze flicked over you with open admiration, his grin widening just a bit. You forced yourself to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, rolling your eyes at his blatant staring.
“Enjoying the view?” you deadpanned.
“Oh, absolutely,” he replied without missing a beat, his eyes twinkling. “But we’ve got a fight to win.”
Before you could second-guess your decision, he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the pool. Johnny spotted the two of you and cheered, pumping his fist in the air. “Yes! We got a team! Bucky and… Y/N, right?”
You forced a smile, giving him a thumbs-up while silently planning your escape route. But before you knew it, you were waist-deep in the water, Bucky hoisting you up with surprising ease, positioning you on his shoulders.
“Oh my god, this is insane,” you muttered, gripping onto his head for balance as he adjusted to your weight. “I feel like a five-year-old at a theme park.”
“Just hold on,” he chuckled, steadying himself under you. “I’ve got you.”
Your heart skipped a beat as his hands firmly held your thighs, and suddenly, this was a whole new level of intense. Focus on the fight, not the incredibly attractive man holding you in the pool, you told yourself, cheeks flaming.
Johnny waded over with his partner—a muscular, tattooed guy named Jake who was definitely taking this way too seriously.
“Ready to lose, Barnes?” Jake taunted, grinning up at you.
Bucky chuckled, his hands tightening on your legs just slightly. “Not a chance.”
“Alright, you’re up top!” Johnny yelled, clapping his hands. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”
You barely had time to brace yourself before Jake and his partner charged at you, water splashing everywhere as they made their move. Instinctively, you shrieked, grabbing onto Bucky’s hair for dear life as the force of the impact sent you both wobbling.
“Easy on the hair!” Bucky grunted, though he was laughing, his shoulders steadying beneath you as he held his ground.
“Oh, sorry!” you gasped, adjusting your grip. But before you could even catch your breath, Jake’s partner was lunging at you again, arms flailing as he tried to knock you off balance.
“Oh, no you don’t!” you muttered, your competitive spirit kicking in. You threw your hands out, grabbing his wrists and pushing back with everything you had, determined to hold your ground.
“Yeah, that’s it!” Bucky cheered from below, his laughter bubbling up as he shifted to help keep you steady. “Show ‘em what you’ve got!”
Fueled by his encouragement—and a surprising amount of adrenaline—you leaned forward, pushing against Jake’s partner with all your strength. The guy’s face twisted in concentration, but with one final shove, you managed to throw him off balance. He teetered, arms flailing, before finally toppling backward into the water with a massive splash.
“Yes!” you shouted, punching the air triumphantly as Johnny and Jake went down in a flurry of water and defeat. “Suck on that!”
The words had barely left your mouth when reality crashed back in. You blinked, suddenly realizing that maybe—just maybe—you’d gotten a little too carried away. Oh god, did I really just shout that? you thought, the heat rushing to your cheeks as your triumphant grin quickly turned into a sheepish smile.
“Well, look at you,” Bucky chuckled from below, clearly amused by your victory-induced outburst. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Yeah, well… neither did I,” you muttered, feeling the embarrassment settling in as you tried to slide off his shoulders, desperate to save whatever shred of dignity you had left. But as you started to wriggle down, you realized Bucky’s hands were still firmly gripping your thighs, holding you in place.
You froze, looking down at him. “Uh, Bucky… you can, you know… let go now.”
He glanced up, smirking. “Oh, but you’re comfortable up there. Why rush it?”
You huffed, your face going a deeper shade of red. “Because I’m very much done being the human flagpole, thank you very much.”
Bucky’s grin only widened as he kept his hold, clearly enjoying the situation far more than he should. “Nah, I think I like you right where you are. Adds a bit of… height to my reputation.”
“Oh my god,” you groaned, feeling your mortification level spike. “If you don’t let me down, I swear I’ll—”
“Fine, fine,” he laughed, finally loosening his grip, letting you slide back into the water. But just as your feet touched down, he didn’t back away—instead, he shifted closer, his hands still lingering on your waist, his gaze locking onto yours with a look that sent your pulse racing.
You took a half-step back, but there was no real room to escape, not with the edge of the pool just behind you and Bucky’s broad frame in front, all mischief and steady, unbreakable eye contact.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice low, “you could stay longer.”
Your breath hitched as Bucky leaned just the slightest bit closer, his hands still warm and steady on your waist, his smirk turning softer yet somehow more intense. Every nerve in your body seemed to jolt to life as he held your gaze.
You cleared your throat, attempting to find your voice amid the chaos of your thoughts.
“Uh… stay longer? For what?” you managed, trying to sound casual, though your pulse was anything but.
His smirk grew, the corners of his mouth lifting in that way that was dangerously charming.
“For the victory lap, of course,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper. “After all, we did just crush the competition. Wouldn’t want you running off too fast.”
“Oh, right, a victory lap,” you muttered, trying to regain your composure but finding it difficult with his hands still lingering on your waist. “But I think the whole pool just watched that ‘lap’…”
“Then they got a good show,” he chuckled, his voice warm with that teasing tone you were starting to know all too well. “But the best part of winning is savoring it… right here.”
Your face went hot as his fingers brushed slightly against your sides, sending a little spark of energy straight up your spine.
“Bucky,” you said, the word barely a whisper. “You’re… awfully close.”
“Oh, am I?” He didn’t back away; instead, he raised a brow, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. “Didn’t hear you complaining when you were up there, champ.”
Your cheeks went impossibly warmer. “That was different. That was, you know… competitive. Strategic.”
“Competitive and strategic?” he echoed, his grin turning almost wicked. “Well, in that case…” He shifted his hands slightly, bringing you even closer as he leaned in. “Let’s see if you’re still competitive outside the game.”
He hovered just a breath away, his gaze flickering to your lips for a moment that felt like an eternity. You felt yourself leaning in almost on instinct, your pulse racing, and for one wild, heart-stopping second, it seemed like he might actually kiss you.
But then, as if on cue, someone nearby let out a loud, obnoxious cheer, snapping both of you out of the moment. The sound jolted you, and you quickly took a step back, breaking the tension as reality crashed in.
Bucky chuckled softly, looking slightly too smug as he let his hands fall from your waist.
“Guess that victory lap will have to wait,” he murmured, giving you one last look that promised he wasn’t quite finished with his teasing yet.
You swallowed, desperately trying to get your heart rate back to normal. “Yeah, guess so.”
As the night went on, you’d lost count of how many concoction drinks had been handed to you, and at this point, your usual sense of caution was practically nonexistent. The rooftop was a haze of laughter, lights, and music, and the whole place felt like it was buzzing with energy. Any embarrassment from earlier had dissolved into pure, uninhibited confidence, each drink making you feel bolder than the last.
One minute, you were in a drinking game, cheering Bucky on as he took down a round of shots like it was nothing. The next, you found yourself in a game of truth or dare that had somehow escalated into body shots. You’d laughed, nearly choking on your drink, when you saw Bucky sprawled out on a table, daring you with that infuriating grin to take your turn.
“Oh, come on, that's not fair,” you slurred, trying to wave off the dare as he raised an eyebrow, that smug look firmly in place.
“Back out now if you can’t handle it,” he teased, lying back and folding his arms behind his head, acting like he hadn’t a care in the world.
The crowd cheered you on, and fueled by liquid courage, you rolled your eyes and leaned down, pressing your lips to his abs, feeling his warm skin under your touch as you took the shot in a quick, heated moment. His laughter mingled with the cheers around you, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush from the attention, from his gaze, from the heat spreading across your face.
Before you knew it, you were in a round of flip cup with Bucky as your teammate, and he downed his drink, slamming his cup down with a victorious shout. He grabbed you by the waist, lifting you up and spinning you around, both of you laughing so hard you could barely stand straight when he finally set you down.
Somehow, you ended up on the makeshift dance floor, music thumping as the party around you roared on, the lights around the rooftop pool casting a glow over everyone. You’d danced with other people throughout the night, but Bucky seemed to have a way of drawing you back, his energy magnetic, his laughter contagious. It was like he was everywhere you turned, keeping pace with you, matching every laugh and smirk with one of his own.
The music thumped, lights flashed, and the DJ’s voice blared over the speakers, “Alright, party people! Here’s the deal—find someone you want to… get close to tonight and give them a kiss, a hug, heck, even a lick if you’re feeling bold!”
Everyone around you burst into cheers and laughter, the party’s energy wild and reckless. By now, you were buzzing on so much liquid courage that everything felt like the best idea ever, including the fact that you were swaying against Bucky, who’d somehow stayed by your side all night.
He leaned in, his smirk way too mischievous, and the alcohol made it feel impossibly close.
“Did you hear that?” he slurred, barely keeping the laughter out of his voice. “I think it’d be a shame if we ignore the DJ’s request don’t you?”
You rolled your eyes, trying to brush it off, but he just grinned wider, leaning in until his cheek was practically pressed against yours.
“Hold still,” he whispered, a laugh lurking in his voice.
Then, in a move so outrageous you could barely comprehend it, he dragged his tongue slowly from your chin up to your forehead.
“Bucky!” you shrieked, stumbling back and half falling over yourself, laughter bubbling out of you as you clutched your face in shock. “Oh my god, you did not just—”
He stepped back, looking beyond pleased with himself, the grin on his face pure, unfiltered pride.
“What? I’m just being… obedient,” he slurred, raising his hands in mock innocence.
“You are the worst!” you squealed, laughing so hard you could barely keep it together, grabbing his arm as you steadied yourself, still half in disbelief. He just chuckled, clearly reveling in your reaction as he pulled you right back into the rhythm, your laughter mixing with the cheers around you as the dance floor pulsed with music.
They cranked up the music, and suddenly, the beat was all around you, pulsing through the crowd, as if daring everyone to let loose. The energy was infectious, and you found yourself moving in sync with him, laughing as you danced together, every touch and sway between you crackling with a chemistry that had been simmering all night.
Without thinking, you stepped closer, your hands drifting to his chest, letting your fingers splay against the warm, solid muscle. Your movements grew slower, more deliberate, and his hands instinctively found your waist, pulling you against him until there was barely any space left between you. His gaze dropped, glued on your lips, and you felt a shiver run through you, your breath hitching as he leaned in, his face just inches from yours. His nose brushed yours, and you looked up to meet his gaze, seeing the same surprised intensity reflected in his eyes.
Bucky held your gaze, his breath mingling with yours, and you could feel the tension building, electric and undeniable. He was waiting—leaving the next move up to you. If you wanted him, you knew he’d let you take him.
🎶Just let me know, can you be the one to hold and not let me go?🎶
Heart pounding, you somehow managed to press yourself even closer, feeling the swell of your chest against him, igniting a flush across his cheeks. But it wasn’t embarrassment you saw in his eyes—it was heat, a look that sent a thrill down your spine. His hand shifted, his fingers tracing along the curve of your hip, and you could feel the strength of his grip as he held you.
🎶I need to know, could you be the one to call when I lose control?🎶
The tension was unbearable, and as you tilted your face up, your lips brushed his in the softest, most hesitant caress—a question, an invitation. His resolve crumbled instantly. His hand slid to your waist, gripping the flesh there as his other hand threaded into your hair, guiding your head back so he could kiss you deeper, tasting you with an intensity that left you breathless. You let out a startled, breathless sound, and he responded by pulling you closer, cradling your face as if you were something precious, something he couldn’t bear to let go of.
Your lips parted for him, and he kissed you with a hunger that had been building for some time. His tongue traced yours, swallowing your quiet moans, anchoring you to him as his hand kept you steady. It wasn’t forceful, just… tender, like he was holding something priceless.
Your breaths came heavy, your cheeks flushed, but you barely noticed; all you could feel was him, his touch, his heartbeat pounding against yours, and the fire in his veins matching your own. In that moment, propriety, the crowd around you, everything else faded into oblivion. If he wanted you to take him right there, you couldn’t even think of saying no.
Every nerve in your body was alive, tingling with an incredible sense of lust and need as his arms held you close. His lips pressed harder, deepening the kiss, his passion and intensity only spurring you to match it. You melted against him, completely consumed by the heat and need between you, and for those moments, it was as if nothing else existed. Oxygen became secondary; the only thing that mattered was the connection between you, growing more fervent with each second.
Finally, when the need for air became overwhelming, you both broke apart, gasping, your faces inches from each other, breaths mingling as you took each other in. His lips tingled, mirroring your own, and every beat of your heart seemed to urge you back into his embrace.
“Let’s get out of here… yours or mine?” Bucky stammered between breaths, his voice husky, his eyes still filled with fire. His body radiated heat, and he looked like he’d dive into the pool at any second just to cool down.
“Mine,” you whispered, your voice breathless, cheeks flushed, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you held his gaze.
× × × ×
You both barely made it down the hallway before the urgency hit, the tension that had been building all night finally snapping. Bucky’s hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, pulling you against him as you fumbled for your keys, the both of you practically tripping over each other in your haste. As soon as you managed to unlock the door, you pushed it open, stumbling inside, his mouth crashing into yours before it even closed behind you.
Wetness pooled inside you, the need for him overwhelming as you pressed back against the door, his body meeting yours in a frenzy of heat and desperation. His stubble scraped against your skin, rough and deliciously manly, a reminder that he was all raw power and intensity. You loved it, the way it scratched against your cheek, adding to the thrill and making your skin tingle wherever he touched.
His lips found the side of your neck, warm and insistent as he kissed his way down, nipping softly, each touch leaving you breathless. You tilted your head back, giving him more access, exposing the full length of your neck to his hungry mouth. His hands slid up your sides, his fingers pressing in firmly, possessively, as his teeth grazed your skin, sending a jolt of electricity through you.
“God,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with desire. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
You could only gasp, clutching onto him as his mouth moved up to your jaw, his hands never stilling, gripping you as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Bucky reached a hand up and placed it on your left breast, over the bikini top, and then brought his hand up to the back of your neck to pull you in closer to him. You undid the straps of your top, and down fell the top, exposing your naked breasts to him.
Holy shit—this can’t be real. Am I hallucinating? Is this actually happening? Wait—oh god, is he about to put my boobs in his mouth?!
Like a hungry child desperate for milk Bucky suckled on your nipple, squeezing the bottom of your breast passionately with one hand, and holding the other breast in his other hand. You looked down at him, licking, sucking, rubbing, and he looked as though he was transported to paradise.
He worked himself into a frenzy playing with your breast, until he wanted more. He lifted you up under your thighs, off the floor, and pressed your back against the wall.
Oh shit!
He kissed you again, his hand sliding down to press against you over your bikini bottom. With a quick, desperate motion, he tugged the fabric to the side, his fingers brushing bare skin, making your breath hitch.
As his hand cupped you, he began to move slowly, his fingers exploring, teasing. “Damn,” he murmured, his voice thick with surprise and satisfaction. “You’re so wet. Is this what happens every time you watch my videos?”
“M-maybe…” you stammered, cheeks heating, barely able to meet his eyes as a grin spread across his face.
His fingers slid inside you, moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each motion sending sparks through your entire body. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he asked, “How many times have you touched yourself thinking about me?”
You bit your lip, trying to hold back a moan as he continued, each movement intensifying the heat pooling inside you.
“Mmmh—why would I tell you that?” you managed, trying to sound teasing but barely able to keep your voice steady.
His grin widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes as his fingers pressed deeper, his thumb brushing against you just right. “Because I want to hear every filthy detail.”
He kissed your other nipple, the one he missed when before. Bucky always gave equal time to the breasts. Suckling on one nipple, fingering you harder and harder, you were getting more and more excited for the moment he would penetrate you.
“Oh my god—” You swallowed, feeling your face heat up and you could feel yourself slightly sobering up. With a nervous laugh, you finally gave in, your voice soft but steady.
“Fine… sometimes, late at night—ah—I’d imagine you between my legs, devouring me like your life depended on it,” you whispered, feeling your cheeks burn. “I’d—fuck—I’d think about your hands, the way they’d feel inside me, moving exactly like this…mmmh,” you gasped as his fingers pressed deeper, your own words sparking the desire between you.
His fingers never stopped their steady, torturous rhythm, each movement deliberate, coaxing you toward the edge with a patience that was as maddening as it was intoxicating.
“And? That’s it?” he asked, his tone thick with amusement, daring you to reveal more. His thumb brushed against you in just the right way, as if encouraging you to keep talking, to give him every last detail he was craving.
“And—hah—I’d picture you… spitting in my mouth while you’re turning me on, you’d put your hand on my neck while I beg you to i dunno? reorganize my guts—because you’re so big Bucky. . . I don’t think you’ll fit inside me.”
“Oh the innocent looking ones are always the dirtiest.” Bucky’s smirk turned darker, his fingers pressing into you with a newfound intensity, his digits hooking and pressing into your most sensitive spot, causing your hips to jerk against his palm.
“And was I just as good in your imagination as I am now?” he murmured, voice low and rough, sending shivers straight down your spine.
“Yes… yes…” The words left your lips almost involuntarily, your hands gripping his shoulders as your nails dug in, grounding yourself against the overwhelming sensation. Your face twisted with pleasure, each stroke of his digits making it harder to catch your breath.
Bucky’s eyes darkened with a fierce satisfaction as he watched you, his smirk deepening. “Better than you imagined?”
"Mhhm," you tried to respond, but it came out more like a needy moan, your voice barely a whisper under the intensity of his touch.
Bucky's smirk grew at the sound, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he took in every reaction, every tremble. "That’s what I thought," he murmured, his voice dark and teasing.
Bucky carried you through the open door of your bedroom, his movements purposeful, every touch sending sparks across your skin. When he reached the edge of the bed, he lowered you onto the mattress, but before letting you go, he bent down to capture your lips in a kiss—a kiss that felt as intimate as it did electrifying.
You couldn’t help but notice the difference; this was something he never did in his videos. Bucky never kissed anyone on the lips on screen. But here, he kissed you slowly, deeply.
His hands moved to your shoulders, firm but gentle as he guided you back into the soft downy mattress. “There you go, baby,” he murmured, his voice warm and low. “Lean back.”
He knelt down at the side of the bed. He pulled off your panties, the final barrier to your sex. He pushed your legs apart and back, and gazed at your pussy, already wet for him.
He stared at your exposed pussy for ten seconds, admiring it like it was the greatest work of art he had ever seen.
"Your pussy," he said, his lips nearly brushing your sex. "It's beautiful.”
You lifted your head up and looked at him. Your jaw was dropped and you were already starting to feel tingles up your body, even though he hadn't licked you yet. You heard his breathing get heavier and heavier, he was so excited to put his lips on your pussy.
Two large fingers of his left hand spread your lips. Two large fingers of his right hand rubbed your clit in strong circles. Each circle sends a shock wave through your body.
"You smell fantastic," he declared, and he dove his mouth right on top of your wet and stimulated clit. Up and down he licked. Up and down, his mouth clasped tight against your pussy.
"Oh," you moaned, as your eyes rolled up to the back of your head. Your arms—with a mind of their own—grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted them back, presenting yourself to this man who used to be on the screen and was now bringing you to ecstasy. He'd only just started to lick you, but even so you felt ready for him to enter you and never leave.
As Bucky continued to eat you like you’re his last meal, each suction sending thrills through you, a sudden wave of doubt crashed over you, freezing you in place. Images flooded your mind—women he’d been with, all effortlessly beautiful, the kind who exuded confidence and allure. How could you compare? This had to be nothing more than another fleeting thing for him, a “friendship” that would end the moment the night was over.
You tensed, your hands moving to gently push him back. “Bucky… wait,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.
He looked up from between your legs, his expression softening instantly as he met your gaze.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle, concerned.
“I… I just…” You stammered, the words getting caught in your throat before you finally managed, “I don’t want to be… one of your girls.”
Bucky blinked, taken aback, his expression shifting as if the words had struck something unexpected, almost offended.
“One of my girls?”
You nodded, biting your lip as you searched for the right way to explain. “I… I don’t do one-night stands,” you admitted, feeling vulnerable.
Bucky nodded slowly, his tongue pressing into his cheek as he rose to his feet. "Mhm—no, I get it... it's because of my job," he said, his tone carrying a hint of defensiveness.
You sat up, noticing the shift in his demeanor. "Are you mad?" you asked softly, uncertainty creeping into your voice.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not mad," he replied, though his clenched jaw suggested otherwise. "I just didn't think you'd see me that way."
"See you what way?" you pressed gently.
He met your gaze, his eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and vulnerability. "Like I'm some guy who just goes around collecting flings," he explained. "I thought you knew me better than that."
You swallowed, choosing your words carefully. “It's not that I think poorly of you,” you said. “It's just... your work makes things complicated for me. I don't want to be another notch on anyone's belt.”
He took a deep breath, his expression softening. “I understand where you're coming from,” he admitted. “But believe me when I say that this—” he gestured between the two of you “—is different for me.”
“How do I know that?” you asked quietly.
He stepped closer, his eyes sincere. “Because I don't share moments like this with just anyone,” he said. “You think I go around kissing people like that? Off-camera, in my real life?”
Bucky’s expression shifted, his brows knitting together as he crossed his arms, clearly growing more frustrated. “I thought you knew the difference between who I am on-camera and who I am off it,” he replied, his tone clipped.
You sighed, trying to hold your ground. “Bucky, you’re the one who kept teasing me to watch your videos, practically encouraging me to make it my new hobby—how am I supposed to ignore what you do?”
He scoffed, running a hand through his hair in irritation. “Because those videos aren’t me,” he said, voice rising. “You’re acting like everything I do there is just some extension of my personal life, but it’s a job, Y/N. I don’t go around living like that off-set.”
You crossed your arms, not caring that the blanket had slipped off, leaving you bare before him.
“And I’m supposed to just... pretend that all of it doesn’t mean anything?” you shot back, feeling a twinge of vulnerability but refusing to let it show. “You kept making those jokes, those comments—you have to see how confusing it is for me.”
He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “And you think I just do that with everyone? That every person who walks into my life gets these... moments with me?” His gaze softened slightly as he gestured between the two of you. “If that were the case, do you think I’d be here, right now, trying to convince you?”
You opened your mouth to reply, but the words caught in your throat. His intensity was throwing you off balance, forcing you to question your assumptions. You’d expected him to brush this off or laugh, not take it to heart.
He shook his head, a frustrated laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it, do you?” He looked at you, his eyes full of something you couldn’t quite name. “I don’t have to be here, fighting for this. I could have walked away and yet here I am.”
You swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in your throat as the weight of his words settled heavily between you. The intensity of his gaze, the raw honesty in his voice—it was all too much, too fast, and yet it tugged at something deep inside you, making it impossible to brush off. But your heart was pounding, confusion and vulnerability swirling together, and you weren’t ready to face everything his words were unearthing.
“I… I think we should call it a night,” you said quietly, barely able to meet his gaze, the words coming out softer than you intended.
For a moment, he looked at you, his expression unreadable, and you could see him processing your response. Then, with a quiet sigh, he nodded, stepping back to give you space.
“Alright,” he replied, his voice subdued. “If that’s what you want.”
The room felt suddenly colder, the tension between you now tinged with a quiet ache. You could tell he was holding back more that he wanted to say, but he respected your decision, his expression guarded as he looked away.
You bit your lip, your mind racing with things you couldn’t bring yourself to say, with emotions you weren’t quite ready to admit.
“Thank you… for understanding,” you managed, feeling the weight of your choice settle over you.
He gave a small nod, his jaw tight, before he turned toward the door.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said softly, pausing for a moment as if hoping you might change your mind, before finally leaving your apartment, the main door shutting made you flinch even though Bucky closed it softly.
The silence that followed felt heavier than you expected. The tension that had filled the room moments ago lingered, and a wave of frustration washed over you, mixing with regret and uncertainty. You took a shaky breath, running a hand through your hair before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
Without thinking, you grabbed the nearest pillow, buried your face into it, and let out a muffled scream, releasing all the emotions you couldn’t quite put into words. The pillow absorbed the sound, but it did nothing to ease the twist of emotions churning inside you. Finally, you pulled the pillow away, feeling just as conflicted as before, wondering if you’d made the right choice… or a terrible mistake.
Part One
Pairings: PornStar!Bucky Barnes x f!Reader
Themes: Sexual Innuendo/humour,Guy next door, situational comedy? Sexual Themes 18+ ONLY: fingering, cunnilingus, Bucky loves tiddies, dirty talk.
Summary: Though you've become oddly close to SergeantBarnes, it's still difficult to act normal around him.
A/N: I didn't think many would ask for a part two but here you go. divider by @cafekitsune
It was a peaceful evening in the apartment gym—or, at least, it was supposed to be. You had your plan: thirty minutes on the stair climber, some stretches, and you’d be out of there before any awkwardness could find you.
But then you heard it—the unmistakable sound of weights clanging, followed by a deep, low grunt that made your entire body freeze.
You glanced up, hoping against hope that it wasn’t who you thought it was. But, of course, there he was: Bucky, over at the hip thrust machine, setting up his weights directly in front of you. Perfect, you thought. Of all the machines in here, he has to pick the most… suggestive one.
Your eyes flicked back to the tiny screen on your machine. Stay focused, you told yourself. Don’t look. Just ignore him.
But the moment he started his set, you heard it—a low, powerful grunt that practically reverberated through the gym. You immediately bit down on your lip, forcing yourself to stare straight ahead, pretending you weren’t having flashbacks to his other kind of workouts.
Another deep grunt.
Your hands clenched the stair climber’s handles like a lifeline. Do NOT look, you told yourself, the mantra echoing in your mind. But your treacherous eyes slid sideways, just for a second, and you caught a glimpse of him, face focused, breaths heavy as he powered through each hip thrust. The guy was practically a one-man gym commercial.
You looked away, focusing on your steps—your very uneven, slightly panicked steps. It’s just a hip thrust, for crying out loud! Nothing unusual here, you told yourself, trying to stomp out the heat creeping up your cheeks. But every time he exhaled, your mind filled with images of… well, his other performances.
Then, in the middle of one of his reps, Bucky let out a particularly deep, guttural grunt that nearly threw you off balance. Your foot slipped, your rhythm stuttered, and in a moment of pure panic, you clutched the handles and stumbled forward, practically throwing yourself onto the machine.
“Shit!” you yelped, fumbling to regain your balance as your legs moved faster than your brain, desperately trying not to faceplant.
You heard Bucky chuckle, that low, infuriatingly amused laugh, and felt your cheeks practically ignite. You looked up, heart pounding, only to find him smirking in your direction, eyes dancing with mischief.
“Careful there, Y/N,” he said, raising an eyebrow. “Stair climbers are brutal.”
“Oh, yeah, totally!” you squeaked, straightening up, trying to look like you meant to almost eat it. “Just… keeping things interesting. Got to keep the cardio exciting, you know?”
“Looks like it’s working,” he replied, wiping his forehead with a towel, his grin widening as he noticed your death grip on the machine. “You sure you’re good over there?”
“Oh, I’m… I’m great,” you lied, your face flaming as you tried to regain your composure. But he wasn’t done with you yet.
“Glad to hear it,” he said, voice way too smooth. He paused, then tilted his head, a playful smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Gotta admit, though… this machine setup does feel a bit familiar.”
Your brain nearly exploded. Did he just—? He couldn’t mean… But his eyes sparkled with that infuriating, knowing look, and you knew exactly what he was hinting at. Your face went beet red as your foot slipped again, but this time you managed to catch yourself, narrowly avoiding another disaster.
“Uh-huh,” you said, laughing nervously, desperately trying to hold it together. “Well, enjoy your… uh, workout!”
“Oh, I am,” he said, chuckling softly. “Especially with the view.” He winked, setting up for another set while you tried not to spontaneously combust.
With one final, mortified glance, you turned your attention back to the stair climber, mentally swearing you’d never step foot in this gym again after this.
Since you survived the stair climber ordeal without faceplanting (barely), you decided it was time to move on. Somewhere—anywhere—that didn’t involve Bucky’s hip thrusts or his incessant, maddening smirk.
You zeroed in on the bench press. Safe, you thought, relieved. Just a standard exercise. Nothing suggestive, no chance of stumbling, tripping, or looking like a klutz. You grabbed the bar, took a deep breath, and mentally prepped yourself. Easy-peasy.
And then—because the universe simply refused to give you a break—you heard that all-too-familiar voice right beside you.
“Need a spot?”
You looked up and almost swallowed your tongue. There was Bucky, looming over you with that same damn smirk, wiping his hands on a towel like he was gearing up for some personal training session from your worst/best nightmares.
“Oh, uh… I—” you stammered, already feeling the heat creep up your neck. You’ve got this, you told yourself. Just let him help you. No big deal. You’re a mature, fully-functioning adult.
“Yeah, sure!” you squeaked, trying to sound normal as he stepped closer, positioning himself behind the bench. You laid back, gripping the bar, and immediately realized what a horrible, terrible mistake this was. You were now lying flat on your back, Bucky leaning over you, his face far too close as he focused on making sure you could lift the weight.
“You ready?” he asked, his face all business, but his lips still had that mischievous curve.
“Ready,” you mumbled, eyes darting anywhere but up at him, trying to ignore how absolutely awkwardly intimate this felt. You started your set, breathing steadily as you lifted the bar, determined to act as if this were a completely normal workout.
But then, midway through the reps, he leaned down a little closer. “By the way, did you check out my new video?”
Your hands nearly slipped. You fumbled the bar, barely catching it as your brain short-circuited.
“W-What?” you managed, voice strangled, heart racing.
“My new video,” he repeated, casually reaching out to help guide the bar back into place as you struggled not to lose it. “Thought you might’ve seen it by now.”
Your cheeks flamed, but you somehow managed to choke out, “N-No! I… I haven’t seen it!”
Bucky chuckled softly, raising an eyebrow as he straightened up, his voice taking on a teasing, almost disappointed tone.
“Oh. That’s a shame,” he said, smirk lingering. “Didn’t have a costar this time—just me, actually. First time I’ve ever done that.”
Your mouth dropped open. Just him? Your brain skidded to a halt. Suddenly, you were far too interested in a video you’d just denied seeing.
“Oh, um… interesting?” you squeaked, trying to keep your face neutral but definitely failing.
“Yeah,” he replied with a shrug, looking at you with twinkling eyes. “Guess you’ll have to let me know what you think… whenever you get around to it.”
“Actually, I… uh… I kind of stopped watching… since we, you know… know each other. Just… feels awkward.”
Bucky’s grin widened, his eyes lighting up with amusement.
“Oh, so you’re telling me we’re too close for you to watch my work now?” He raised an eyebrow, looking mockingly offended. “I thought we were supporting local artists.”
Your cheeks practically combusted as he said it, and you fumbled with the bar, desperately trying to pretend you hadn’t heard him. Supporting local artists? Was he serious right now?
“Oh my god,” you mumbled, absolutely mortified. “This is not— You’re not— I mean…!”
But he just looked down at you, that smug grin firmly in place as he leaned in, clearly enjoying every second of your flustered state.
“What?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Don’t you believe in supporting the arts?”
Your mouth opened and closed like a fish, words completely failing you. “This… this is not the same!” you finally blurted, clutching the bar like it was your only lifeline.
“Oh really?” he replied, chuckling. “Because it sounds like you’re saying we’re too close for me to keep doing what I do. You know, my passion.”
You practically choked, waving your hands around in frantic denial. “No! No! That’s not— I’m not stopping you! I’m just— I don’t know, maybe supporting from a… distant, supportive spiritual place?”
He laughed outright, shaking his head. “So, what—you’re like cheering me on… but from across the street?”
You nodded vigorously, still trying to save face. “Exactly! Just… supportive… but in a non-participatory kind of way.”
“Got it,” he said, smirking. “So, I’m officially your guilty pleasure now.”
You groaned, covering your face with your hands as he chuckled, clearly far too pleased with himself.
Note to self: Avoid all future conversations with Bucky Barnes for the rest of eternity.
× × × ×
That evening, you were finally settled at your dining table, a bowl of pasta in front of you, determined to put the entire gym disaster behind you. You’d survived another encounter with Bucky—barely—and now all you wanted was some quiet, non-embarrassing time with carbs.
But as you twirled your fork in the noodles, your brain betrayed you, replaying his words from earlier.
“Did you check out my new video?”
You paused mid-bite, the fork hovering near your mouth as you stared blankly at the wall, feeling a strange mix of curiosity and dread bubbling up. What could he have meant by “just me”? You tried to shake it off, forcing another forkful of pasta into your mouth. Nope, not going there.
But the thought lingered, nudging you, until you found yourself setting down the fork, fingers hovering over your phone. Just one quick search, you reasoned, glancing around your empty apartment as if someone might catch you.
You typed in the familiar site, thumbs hesitating above the search bar, nearly typing “SergeantBarnes new video” before you snapped back to reality, dropping the phone like it burned.
“Oh, no,” you muttered to yourself, horrified at how close you’d come. “Absolutely not. What am I, insane?”
You shoved another forkful of pasta into your mouth, shaking your head furiously. “I am not doing this.”
But as you continued eating, your eyes kept darting back to the phone, the curiosity gnawing at you, leaving you torn between common sense and the very persuasive power of nosiness.
You took a deep breath, clenching your fists. “Get a grip, Y/N. You are absolutely not watching that video.”
...But maybe just a preview?
You groaned, stuffing your face with more pasta, determined to win this internal battle.
× × × ×
The next morning, just as you were heading out the door for work, you spotted something bright and obnoxiously neon-colored taped to the wall near the mailboxes. Curiosity got the better of you, and you stepped closer, squinting at the bold, glittery letters.
POOL PARTY THIS WEEKEND! it proclaimed. Food, drinks, music, fun! Don’t miss it!
You raised an eyebrow, debating if you’d actually brave a building-wide party when suddenly, the quiet hallway was shattered by a loud, unmistakably ecstatic moan. The kind that could only mean one thing.
From none other than Bucky’s apartment.
You froze, eyes widening in disbelief. Is that—? Is he—?
A second moan, even louder than the first, confirmed it. This wasn’t just any moan; this was the sound of someone—some woman—having the time of her life. At what had to be eight o’clock in the morning.
“Oh, seriously?!” you hissed under your breath, glancing down the hallway as if there might be witnesses to this auditory ambush. Just then, the woman’s voice hit a pitch so high it practically reverberated off the walls.
You winced, clutching your bag like it could somehow shield you from this. Who even has that much energy in the morning? You took a step back, hoping to escape the sonic nightmare, but the moans only got louder, each sound more animated than the last.
You threw your hands over your ears, eyes squeezed shut as you muttered furiously to yourself.
“Nope, nope, absolutely not. Not today, not right now.” You spun on your heel, practically power-walking down the hall, doing your best to drown out the soundtrack blaring from his apartment.
“YES, SERGEANT! OH MY GOD!”
You practically stumbled, muttering an alarmed, “Oh my god, stop!” as you picked up the pace, pressing your hands even harder against your ears. It was like some kind of cruel game—the closer you got to the elevator, the louder it seemed to get, echoing in your ears like a siren you couldn’t escape.
You winced, feeling your face burn as you all but sprinted down the hall, chanting, “Nope, nope, NOPE!” under your breath like a mantra. It was as if your feet couldn’t carry you fast enough, each step a desperate attempt to put some distance between you and… whatever was happening in that apartment.
Finally, you made it to the elevator, slamming your finger against the button with more force than necessary, glancing nervously over your shoulder as if the sounds might follow you. The doors mercifully slid open, and you dove inside, leaning back against the wall and pressing your hands over your ears one last time, breathing a sigh of relief.
But just as the doors began to close, one last triumphant shout echoed down the hallway, loud and clear, like the universe had decided you hadn’t suffered enough.
You groaned, staring up at the ceiling as the doors shut, wondering if this building had any quiet hours, or if you were doomed to start every morning with a full-blown soundscape of… Bucky’s extracurricular activities.
Note to self: Invest in earplugs. Maybe some noise-canceling headphones. Or a new apartment altogether.
× × × ×
You arrived at work looking like you’d barely survived a natural disaster. Traumatized, sleep-deprived, and still hearing the morning’s very loud soundtrack echoing in your mind, you slumped into your chair, hoping to quietly blend into the office scenery and get through the day in peace.
Naturally, that was too much to ask.
“Whoa,” Trish said, swiveling in her chair to eye you like you were a science experiment gone wrong. “You look like you just spent a night in a haunted house.”
“Or… like you had a wild morning,” Amy added, raising her eyebrows. “You okay there, Y/N?”
“Fine,” you muttered, barely making eye contact as you set your bag down, trying to erase the vivid flashbacks of Bucky’s… extremely enthusiastic co-worker.
Before you could even recover, Trish leaned in, her grin spreading like wildfire. “Sooo… did you finally get around to watching Sergeant Barnes’ new video?”
Your head snapped up, heart stopping in your chest. “Wha—no! Why would I… I mean… I—”
“Oh, come on,” Amy said, nudging you like she’d just caught you in a guilty pleasure. “You don’t know what you’re missing. He’s alone in this one.” She leaned closer, adding in a stage whisper, “The man has talent.”
“Uh-huh,” Trish agreed, nodding like a sage. “No costars this time. Just him, going all in. It’s… impressive.”
You clutched the edge of your desk, mentally scrambling for any kind of response that would shut them down without revealing the secret you swore you’d take to the grave: that Sergeant Barnes was actually your neighbor.
You swallowed, managing to squeak out, “You know we’re in an office, right? As in, the place we do work?”
“Oh please, don’t act like you’re all professional now!” Trish smirked, crossing her arms as she gave you a knowing look. “You were all too eager to do some ‘research’ when we told you about him the first time.”
“Yeah!” Amy joined in, her grin absolutely diabolical. “You should be thanking us! The way you’re looking right now, I’d bet you already took a look this morning.”
You spluttered, mortified. “No! I mean, of course not! It’s just—this is… inappropriate.”
Amy snorted, clearly unconvinced. “Uh-huh, sure. And here I thought you had a little curiosity.”
You glared, fully prepared to tell them off, but Amy cut in first, smirking as she leaned over your desk.
“C’mon, Y/N, it’s just us girls. Tell me you don’t have some curiosity about what the man can do when it’s just him and the camera.”
You felt the heat rise in your cheeks, struggling to keep your cool. “No, I’m not curious! Not at all. And maybe you two shouldn’t be either, because, oh, I don’t know… WE ARE AT WORK!”
They both cracked up, sharing a delighted high-five as you buried your face in your hands, praying for the ground to open up and swallow you.
“Oh, we’re just messing with you,” Trish said, barely holding back laughter. “But seriously, girl… you look like you need to unwind. Maybe with a drink or… you know… a little quality screen time?”
“Or maybe someone live and in-person?” Amy chimed in, waggling her eyebrows.
You groaned, face down on your desk, cursing the fact that they would never, ever know the full story.
× × × ×
You stepped into the lobby, utterly drained from the day, just as the elevator doors began to slide shut. Without a second thought, you bolted, slipping in right before they closed. Only then did you realize the universe was playing tricks on you.
Because standing right there, with a half-smirk on his face and way too much knowing mischief in his eyes, was Bucky. Alone.
You froze, instantly regretting every choice that had led to this moment. But it was too late now, so you plastered on a polite smile and tried not to look like a deer caught in headlights.
Bucky’s eyes twinkled as he took you in, leaning casually against the side of the elevator as he said, “Tired?”
You laughed, and before you could stop it, the laugh turned into a borderline deranged chuckle.
“Oh, yes, thank you very much,” you replied, sarcasm slipping out before you could rein it in. Then, muttering under your breath but clearly audible, you added, “Maybe keep it down too… in the morning.”
He chuckled, looking way too amused. “Sorry about that. Work, you know? She, uh… went home right after, don’t worry.”
Your face went flaming hot, and you whipped your head to look straight ahead, pressing your lips together like that would somehow save you from this horror.
“Oh, you don’t… you don’t have to explain it to me,” you stammered, feeling like your cheeks were practically on fire. “I’m not worried.”
The smirk only widened. “Good to know.” He leaned in just a little, adding, “I wouldn’t want to keep you up… unintentionally.”
You choked, your hand flying up to cover your mouth as you let out a mortified laugh that you could barely stop from turning into a squeak. Just get to your floor, just get to your floor… you chanted internally, keeping your gaze laser-focused on the elevator doors.
But you could feel him watching you, could practically feel the amusement radiating off him as you tried to pretend that your life hadn’t just devolved into a rom-com nightmare.
Finally—finally—the elevator dinged at your floor. You stepped out, sighing with relief, only for Bucky to step out right behind you.
“Hey,” he called, making you pause and turn reluctantly. He was smiling, hands casually shoved into his pockets as he looked you over. “Are you coming to the rooftop pool party this weekend?”
“No,” you replied flatly, the answer escaping before you could even pretend to think about it.
He laughed, clearly not deterred. “Aw, come on. You sure? It’ll be fun.”
You shook your head vigorously, waving him off. “No, no, I’m good. I’m… not much of a party person.”
“Really?” he replied, stepping a little closer, his smile turning into something dangerously persuasive. “It’s just neighbors hanging out, not some crazy nightclub thing. Good music, food… probably no loud… work, either.”
You glared, suppressing an eye roll as he gave you a wink. “I’ll pass, thanks.”
“Oh, come on,” he said, still grinning. “If you don’t show up, who am I going to talk to about all the ‘work’ complaints?”
You stifled a laugh, trying to maintain your resolve. “Pretty sure there are other people you can bother with that.”
“But none of them have your… constructive feedback,” he replied, his gaze dropping to the floor as he pretended to look shy. “And honestly, I need someone to keep me in check. I’m a handful at parties. Who else is going to stop me from climbing onto tables?”
You snorted, crossing your arms as you tried not to crack a smile. “I highly doubt you’re a handful at a pool party.”
He raised an eyebrow, challenging you. “Come and find out.”
You looked away, shaking your head but feeling the corners of your mouth tug upward. “Bucky, I’m not going.”
“So, you’re saying you’ll leave me up there with all these people who… don’t know me as well as you do?” He tilted his head, giving you a mock-pout.
Your face turned red, and you sputtered, “I don’t know you! I barely know you!”
“Oh, so all those research sessions weren’t exactly getting to know me?” he replied, grinning as he watched you turn an even deeper shade of crimson.
“You—ugh, you’re impossible,” you muttered, finally laughing despite yourself.
“That’s what everyone says,” he said, his voice softening just a little as he held your gaze. “Come on, Y/N. I promise, no loud work. I’ll even save you a spot.”
You sighed, feeling the last bit of resistance crumble. “Fine. But only for an hour.”
He beamed, triumphant. “Deal. And who knows? Maybe we’ll find something to actually talk about… outside of work.”
You rolled your eyes, trying to ignore the way your heart did a little flip. This is going to be a disaster, you thought. But somehow, you didn’t mind as much as you thought you would.
× × × ×
The weekend took forever to arrive, but somehow, you survived it—mostly by avoiding Bucky and doing your best not to think about that ridiculously intriguing video he’d hinted at. Nope, not even a peek. It was your own personal victory, though it took every ounce of willpower you had.
And now, here you were, standing at the rooftop entrance, mentally psyching yourself up. You’d put on a two-piece swimsuit under a white sheer cover-up, feeling only slightly self-conscious as you stepped out. Only because you hated drawing attention to your body.
The party was already in full swing, a mix of upbeat music and laughter filling the air. You scanned the crowd for a certain troublemaking neighbor, but no sign of him. Great, you thought, rolling your eyes. Bucky drags me up here, then vanishes like an ass. Typical.
You made a beeline for an empty lounge chair, setting down your bag and towel, hoping you’d have a chance to relax before anyone else noticed you. But just as you were about to sit, a deep voice called out.
“Hey there!”
You turned to see an equally impressive figure—a tall, muscular guy with a sun-kissed smile, striding over with a confident swagger.
“I’m Johnny,” he said, flashing a grin as he handed you a cold glass of beer. “Welcome to the party.”
“Oh! Thanks,” you said, taking the glass, feeling only slightly overwhelmed by all the testosterone on this rooftop. “Nice to meet you, Johnny.”
“Likewise,” he said, eyes flicking over you with the appreciation of someone who knew exactly what he was looking at. “Didn’t expect to see a new face up here. I know most of the regulars.”
“Yeah, I… usually keep to myself,” you admitted, suddenly feeling awkward under his gaze.
“Well, glad you’re here,” he said smoothly, gesturing to a chair beside yours. “Mind if I join you?”
Before you could answer, another familiar voice cut through the air, low and unmistakably amused. “Johnny.”
You turned slowly, bracing yourself for whatever cocky look Bucky had in store, but when you finally laid eyes on him, your brain just… stopped. No thoughts, head empty, because the second he strolled into view, you swore you heard the sultry opening saxophone of Careless Whisper start playing, echoing dramatically in your head like some corny, slow-motion rom-com entrance.
He moved in perfect sync to the imaginary music in your head, each step more absurdly cinematic than the last. This can’t be happening, you thought, but somehow, there he was—tan skin, swim trunks slung just right, and that damn casual shirt hanging open over his shoulders. The man looked like a vacation ad, except he was bringing you dangerously close to a heatstroke.
As he got closer, the sax solo in your mind reached ridiculous, life-altering levels of intensity. Why do you have to look like this? you thought, nearly choking on the vision before you. Bucky’s smirk turned into something almost smug, like he knew exactly what effect he was having, as if he, too, could hear the George Michael anthem of seduction playing in your head. You half-expected him to whip out an actual saxophone and start serenading you right there.
You swallowed, barely keeping yourself from drooling, and willed yourself to stay composed. Get a grip, you told yourself, though you were about 98% certain your jaw was on the verge of dropping.
“Sorry, Johnny,” he said smoothly, not even glancing at the other guy. “I think she already has company.”
You quickly tried to compose yourself, forcing a neutral expression as you willed your face not to betray the sheer catastrophe your brain was going through.
“Oh, hey, Bucky,” you said, hoping your voice didn’t sound as strangled as you felt. Inside, you were practically screaming. Why do you have to look like a freaking Greek god, Barnes? It’s rude, honestly.
Johnny raised an eyebrow, his eyes flicking between the two of you, clearly picking up on the tension. “You two know each other?”
Bucky leaned casually against the lounge chair next to yours, flashing a grin that practically oozed mischief.
“You could say that. She’s my neighbor,” he said, his tone implying… well, all sorts of things. You immediately knew that everyone within earshot was definitely getting the wrong idea. “And I’ve been trying to get her to come out of her shell for a while now.”
Come out of her shell? You wanted to throttle him. But before you could retort, Johnny, ever the gentleman, just gave you a knowing wink and clapped Bucky on the shoulder.
“Well, guess I’ll let you take over, then,” he said, sauntering off with an amused smile.
You sighed, turning to face Bucky, who looked all too pleased with himself as he settled in beside you, stretching out like he owned the place.
“So, you made it,” he said, taking a leisurely sip of his drink as his eyes did a once-over that was a little too thorough.
“Yep,” you replied, your voice barely concealing your exasperation. “I showed up, just like I said I would. Where were you?”
He shrugged, that stupid smirk still plastered on his face. “Was just giving you a chance to make some new friends,” he said, his tone way too casual.
You rolled your eyes, taking a sip of the beer Johnny had given you. “Please. You just love making an entrance.”
He chuckled, clinking his glass with yours. “Can’t say you’re wrong about that.”
As he leaned back, his gaze lingered a little too long, making your cheeks heat up.
“Nice cover-up, by the way,” he commented, smirk widening. “It’s… modest.”
You shot him a look, feeling suddenly self-conscious about the sheer fabric draped over your swimsuit. “Why, thank you. That was kind of the point.”
“Yeah?” he replied, his voice dropping just a notch. “Shame, though. Bet that swimsuit’s got a whole lot of personality under there.”
You practically choked on your drink, coughing as you glared at him. “You’re such a flirt, Barnes.”
He chuckled, clearly unbothered by your reaction. “Hey, just saying what everyone’s thinking.”
You settled back in your chair, determined not to let him get the upper hand. But as you sat there, pretending to ignore him, you couldn’t shake the feeling that, despite everything, you were enjoying this game just as much as he was.
You took a deep breath, narrowing your eyes at Bucky, who was looking far too pleased with himself.
“Like I said, just one hour,” you told him firmly, crossing your arms as if that would somehow fortify your resolve against whatever mischievous plans he undoubtedly had.
He raised an eyebrow, his smirk turning even more devilish. “Oh, I’m sure an hour will be more than enough.”
You scoffed, rolling your eyes. “For what? So you can drive me insane and then sit back and enjoy the show?”
He chuckled, leaning a little closer, and you felt your heart rate spike. “Maybe. But I was thinking more along the lines of just… keeping you entertained.”
“Oh, I’m plenty entertained, thanks,” you shot back, trying to sound unimpressed despite the heat creeping up your neck.
He shrugged, unfazed, and settled back into his lounge chair.
“Good. Then let’s make it the best hour of your week,” he said, flashing you a wink that sent a new wave of exasperation—and, annoyingly, a bit of excitement—through you.
You huffed, shaking your head as you took a sip of your drink, determined not to let him see just how much that smirk was affecting you. Just one hour, you reminded yourself. What could possibly happen in one hour?
As you and Bucky settled into a strange, almost comfortable silence, you heard a booming voice from across the pool.
“CHICKEN FIGHT!” Johnny’s voice rang out, loud and enthusiastic, immediately grabbing everyone’s attention.
You whipped your head around, eyes widening. Johnny was wading into the pool, rallying everyone like some kind of pool party commander. “Come on! Everyone in! We need two teams!”
“Oh, no,” you muttered under your breath, instinctively shrinking into your lounge chair, hoping you’d be overlooked in the shuffle. Absolutely not happening, you thought, clutching your drink like a lifeline.
But Bucky, of course, was already grinning ear to ear. He turned to you, his eyes gleaming with excitement and mischief.
“You heard him,” he said, patting your shoulder like this was some team-building exercise. “We’re going in.”
“What? No!” you hissed, clutching your drink tighter as if that would save you. “I didn’t sign up for a chicken fight. I’m just here for moral support.”
Bucky laughed, standing up and stretching in that way that only he could pull off without looking ridiculous.
“Oh, come on,” he said, flashing you that smug, challenging grin. “Afraid of a little friendly competition?”
You shook your head, digging your heels in. “Nope. Not happening. And it’s not friendly—it’s dangerous!”
“Oh, don’t be such a chicken.” His smirk widened, and then, with a theatrical sigh, he added, “Guess I’ll just have to find someone braver.”
Your jaw dropped. “Oh, you’re really going to play that card?”
He shrugged, glancing around with feigned disappointment. “Guess so. Shame though. I thought you could handle it.”
It was the final straw. With an exasperated groan, you threw down your drink and stood up.
“Fine! I’ll do it.” The second the words left your mouth, you instantly regretted them, especially as you saw Bucky’s smirk morph into full-blown satisfaction.
“Perfect,” he said, clearly thrilled with himself.
You sighed, slipping off your sheer cover-up, feeling a sudden self-consciousness as you stood there in just your swimsuit. Bucky’s gaze flicked over you with open admiration, his grin widening just a bit. You forced yourself to ignore the butterflies in your stomach, rolling your eyes at his blatant staring.
“Enjoying the view?” you deadpanned.
“Oh, absolutely,” he replied without missing a beat, his eyes twinkling. “But we’ve got a fight to win.”
Before you could second-guess your decision, he grabbed your hand and pulled you toward the pool. Johnny spotted the two of you and cheered, pumping his fist in the air. “Yes! We got a team! Bucky and… Y/N, right?”
You forced a smile, giving him a thumbs-up while silently planning your escape route. But before you knew it, you were waist-deep in the water, Bucky hoisting you up with surprising ease, positioning you on his shoulders.
“Oh my god, this is insane,” you muttered, gripping onto his head for balance as he adjusted to your weight. “I feel like a five-year-old at a theme park.”
“Just hold on,” he chuckled, steadying himself under you. “I’ve got you.”
Your heart skipped a beat as his hands firmly held your thighs, and suddenly, this was a whole new level of intense. Focus on the fight, not the incredibly attractive man holding you in the pool, you told yourself, cheeks flaming.
Johnny waded over with his partner—a muscular, tattooed guy named Jake who was definitely taking this way too seriously.
“Ready to lose, Barnes?” Jake taunted, grinning up at you.
Bucky chuckled, his hands tightening on your legs just slightly. “Not a chance.”
“Alright, you’re up top!” Johnny yelled, clapping his hands. “Let’s see what you’ve got!”
You barely had time to brace yourself before Jake and his partner charged at you, water splashing everywhere as they made their move. Instinctively, you shrieked, grabbing onto Bucky’s hair for dear life as the force of the impact sent you both wobbling.
“Easy on the hair!” Bucky grunted, though he was laughing, his shoulders steadying beneath you as he held his ground.
“Oh, sorry!” you gasped, adjusting your grip. But before you could even catch your breath, Jake’s partner was lunging at you again, arms flailing as he tried to knock you off balance.
“Oh, no you don’t!” you muttered, your competitive spirit kicking in. You threw your hands out, grabbing his wrists and pushing back with everything you had, determined to hold your ground.
“Yeah, that’s it!” Bucky cheered from below, his laughter bubbling up as he shifted to help keep you steady. “Show ‘em what you’ve got!”
Fueled by his encouragement—and a surprising amount of adrenaline—you leaned forward, pushing against Jake’s partner with all your strength. The guy’s face twisted in concentration, but with one final shove, you managed to throw him off balance. He teetered, arms flailing, before finally toppling backward into the water with a massive splash.
“Yes!” you shouted, punching the air triumphantly as Johnny and Jake went down in a flurry of water and defeat. “Suck on that!”
The words had barely left your mouth when reality crashed back in. You blinked, suddenly realizing that maybe—just maybe—you’d gotten a little too carried away. Oh god, did I really just shout that? you thought, the heat rushing to your cheeks as your triumphant grin quickly turned into a sheepish smile.
“Well, look at you,” Bucky chuckled from below, clearly amused by your victory-induced outburst. “Didn’t know you had it in you.”
“Yeah, well… neither did I,” you muttered, feeling the embarrassment settling in as you tried to slide off his shoulders, desperate to save whatever shred of dignity you had left. But as you started to wriggle down, you realized Bucky’s hands were still firmly gripping your thighs, holding you in place.
You froze, looking down at him. “Uh, Bucky… you can, you know… let go now.”
He glanced up, smirking. “Oh, but you’re comfortable up there. Why rush it?”
You huffed, your face going a deeper shade of red. “Because I’m very much done being the human flagpole, thank you very much.”
Bucky’s grin only widened as he kept his hold, clearly enjoying the situation far more than he should. “Nah, I think I like you right where you are. Adds a bit of… height to my reputation.”
“Oh my god,” you groaned, feeling your mortification level spike. “If you don’t let me down, I swear I’ll—”
“Fine, fine,” he laughed, finally loosening his grip, letting you slide back into the water. But just as your feet touched down, he didn’t back away—instead, he shifted closer, his hands still lingering on your waist, his gaze locking onto yours with a look that sent your pulse racing.
You took a half-step back, but there was no real room to escape, not with the edge of the pool just behind you and Bucky’s broad frame in front, all mischief and steady, unbreakable eye contact.
“You know,” he murmured, his voice low, “you could stay longer.”
Your breath hitched as Bucky leaned just the slightest bit closer, his hands still warm and steady on your waist, his smirk turning softer yet somehow more intense. Every nerve in your body seemed to jolt to life as he held your gaze.
You cleared your throat, attempting to find your voice amid the chaos of your thoughts.
“Uh… stay longer? For what?” you managed, trying to sound casual, though your pulse was anything but.
His smirk grew, the corners of his mouth lifting in that way that was dangerously charming.
“For the victory lap, of course,” he murmured, his voice just above a whisper. “After all, we did just crush the competition. Wouldn’t want you running off too fast.”
“Oh, right, a victory lap,” you muttered, trying to regain your composure but finding it difficult with his hands still lingering on your waist. “But I think the whole pool just watched that ‘lap’…”
“Then they got a good show,” he chuckled, his voice warm with that teasing tone you were starting to know all too well. “But the best part of winning is savoring it… right here.”
Your face went hot as his fingers brushed slightly against your sides, sending a little spark of energy straight up your spine.
“Bucky,” you said, the word barely a whisper. “You’re… awfully close.”
“Oh, am I?” He didn’t back away; instead, he raised a brow, clearly enjoying your flustered reaction. “Didn’t hear you complaining when you were up there, champ.”
Your cheeks went impossibly warmer. “That was different. That was, you know… competitive. Strategic.”
“Competitive and strategic?” he echoed, his grin turning almost wicked. “Well, in that case…” He shifted his hands slightly, bringing you even closer as he leaned in. “Let’s see if you’re still competitive outside the game.”
He hovered just a breath away, his gaze flickering to your lips for a moment that felt like an eternity. You felt yourself leaning in almost on instinct, your pulse racing, and for one wild, heart-stopping second, it seemed like he might actually kiss you.
But then, as if on cue, someone nearby let out a loud, obnoxious cheer, snapping both of you out of the moment. The sound jolted you, and you quickly took a step back, breaking the tension as reality crashed in.
Bucky chuckled softly, looking slightly too smug as he let his hands fall from your waist.
“Guess that victory lap will have to wait,” he murmured, giving you one last look that promised he wasn’t quite finished with his teasing yet.
You swallowed, desperately trying to get your heart rate back to normal. “Yeah, guess so.”
As the night went on, you’d lost count of how many concoction drinks had been handed to you, and at this point, your usual sense of caution was practically nonexistent. The rooftop was a haze of laughter, lights, and music, and the whole place felt like it was buzzing with energy. Any embarrassment from earlier had dissolved into pure, uninhibited confidence, each drink making you feel bolder than the last.
One minute, you were in a drinking game, cheering Bucky on as he took down a round of shots like it was nothing. The next, you found yourself in a game of truth or dare that had somehow escalated into body shots. You’d laughed, nearly choking on your drink, when you saw Bucky sprawled out on a table, daring you with that infuriating grin to take your turn.
“Oh, come on, that's not fair,” you slurred, trying to wave off the dare as he raised an eyebrow, that smug look firmly in place.
“Back out now if you can’t handle it,” he teased, lying back and folding his arms behind his head, acting like he hadn’t a care in the world.
The crowd cheered you on, and fueled by liquid courage, you rolled your eyes and leaned down, pressing your lips to his abs, feeling his warm skin under your touch as you took the shot in a quick, heated moment. His laughter mingled with the cheers around you, and you couldn’t help but feel a rush from the attention, from his gaze, from the heat spreading across your face.
Before you knew it, you were in a round of flip cup with Bucky as your teammate, and he downed his drink, slamming his cup down with a victorious shout. He grabbed you by the waist, lifting you up and spinning you around, both of you laughing so hard you could barely stand straight when he finally set you down.
Somehow, you ended up on the makeshift dance floor, music thumping as the party around you roared on, the lights around the rooftop pool casting a glow over everyone. You’d danced with other people throughout the night, but Bucky seemed to have a way of drawing you back, his energy magnetic, his laughter contagious. It was like he was everywhere you turned, keeping pace with you, matching every laugh and smirk with one of his own.
The music thumped, lights flashed, and the DJ’s voice blared over the speakers, “Alright, party people! Here’s the deal—find someone you want to… get close to tonight and give them a kiss, a hug, heck, even a lick if you’re feeling bold!”
Everyone around you burst into cheers and laughter, the party’s energy wild and reckless. By now, you were buzzing on so much liquid courage that everything felt like the best idea ever, including the fact that you were swaying against Bucky, who’d somehow stayed by your side all night.
He leaned in, his smirk way too mischievous, and the alcohol made it feel impossibly close.
“Did you hear that?” he slurred, barely keeping the laughter out of his voice. “I think it’d be a shame if we ignore the DJ’s request don’t you?”
You rolled your eyes, trying to brush it off, but he just grinned wider, leaning in until his cheek was practically pressed against yours.
“Hold still,” he whispered, a laugh lurking in his voice.
Then, in a move so outrageous you could barely comprehend it, he dragged his tongue slowly from your chin up to your forehead.
“Bucky!” you shrieked, stumbling back and half falling over yourself, laughter bubbling out of you as you clutched your face in shock. “Oh my god, you did not just—”
He stepped back, looking beyond pleased with himself, the grin on his face pure, unfiltered pride.
“What? I’m just being… obedient,” he slurred, raising his hands in mock innocence.
“You are the worst!” you squealed, laughing so hard you could barely keep it together, grabbing his arm as you steadied yourself, still half in disbelief. He just chuckled, clearly reveling in your reaction as he pulled you right back into the rhythm, your laughter mixing with the cheers around you as the dance floor pulsed with music.
They cranked up the music, and suddenly, the beat was all around you, pulsing through the crowd, as if daring everyone to let loose. The energy was infectious, and you found yourself moving in sync with him, laughing as you danced together, every touch and sway between you crackling with a chemistry that had been simmering all night.
Without thinking, you stepped closer, your hands drifting to his chest, letting your fingers splay against the warm, solid muscle. Your movements grew slower, more deliberate, and his hands instinctively found your waist, pulling you against him until there was barely any space left between you. His gaze dropped, glued on your lips, and you felt a shiver run through you, your breath hitching as he leaned in, his face just inches from yours. His nose brushed yours, and you looked up to meet his gaze, seeing the same surprised intensity reflected in his eyes.
Bucky held your gaze, his breath mingling with yours, and you could feel the tension building, electric and undeniable. He was waiting—leaving the next move up to you. If you wanted him, you knew he’d let you take him.
🎶Just let me know, can you be the one to hold and not let me go?🎶
Heart pounding, you somehow managed to press yourself even closer, feeling the swell of your chest against him, igniting a flush across his cheeks. But it wasn’t embarrassment you saw in his eyes—it was heat, a look that sent a thrill down your spine. His hand shifted, his fingers tracing along the curve of your hip, and you could feel the strength of his grip as he held you.
🎶I need to know, could you be the one to call when I lose control?🎶
The tension was unbearable, and as you tilted your face up, your lips brushed his in the softest, most hesitant caress—a question, an invitation. His resolve crumbled instantly. His hand slid to your waist, gripping the flesh there as his other hand threaded into your hair, guiding your head back so he could kiss you deeper, tasting you with an intensity that left you breathless. You let out a startled, breathless sound, and he responded by pulling you closer, cradling your face as if you were something precious, something he couldn’t bear to let go of.
Your lips parted for him, and he kissed you with a hunger that had been building for some time. His tongue traced yours, swallowing your quiet moans, anchoring you to him as his hand kept you steady. It wasn’t forceful, just… tender, like he was holding something priceless.
Your breaths came heavy, your cheeks flushed, but you barely noticed; all you could feel was him, his touch, his heartbeat pounding against yours, and the fire in his veins matching your own. In that moment, propriety, the crowd around you, everything else faded into oblivion. If he wanted you to take him right there, you couldn’t even think of saying no.
Every nerve in your body was alive, tingling with an incredible sense of lust and need as his arms held you close. His lips pressed harder, deepening the kiss, his passion and intensity only spurring you to match it. You melted against him, completely consumed by the heat and need between you, and for those moments, it was as if nothing else existed. Oxygen became secondary; the only thing that mattered was the connection between you, growing more fervent with each second.
Finally, when the need for air became overwhelming, you both broke apart, gasping, your faces inches from each other, breaths mingling as you took each other in. His lips tingled, mirroring your own, and every beat of your heart seemed to urge you back into his embrace.
“Let’s get out of here… yours or mine?” Bucky stammered between breaths, his voice husky, his eyes still filled with fire. His body radiated heat, and he looked like he’d dive into the pool at any second just to cool down.
“Mine,” you whispered, your voice breathless, cheeks flushed, a shy smile tugging at your lips as you held his gaze.
× × × ×
You both barely made it down the hallway before the urgency hit, the tension that had been building all night finally snapping. Bucky’s hands were everywhere—gripping your waist, pulling you against him as you fumbled for your keys, the both of you practically tripping over each other in your haste. As soon as you managed to unlock the door, you pushed it open, stumbling inside, his mouth crashing into yours before it even closed behind you.
Wetness pooled inside you, the need for him overwhelming as you pressed back against the door, his body meeting yours in a frenzy of heat and desperation. His stubble scraped against your skin, rough and deliciously manly, a reminder that he was all raw power and intensity. You loved it, the way it scratched against your cheek, adding to the thrill and making your skin tingle wherever he touched.
His lips found the side of your neck, warm and insistent as he kissed his way down, nipping softly, each touch leaving you breathless. You tilted your head back, giving him more access, exposing the full length of your neck to his hungry mouth. His hands slid up your sides, his fingers pressing in firmly, possessively, as his teeth grazed your skin, sending a jolt of electricity through you.
“God,” he murmured against your skin, his voice rough with desire. “You have no idea how long I’ve wanted this.”
You could only gasp, clutching onto him as his mouth moved up to your jaw, his hands never stilling, gripping you as if he couldn’t bear to let go. Bucky reached a hand up and placed it on your left breast, over the bikini top, and then brought his hand up to the back of your neck to pull you in closer to him. You undid the straps of your top, and down fell the top, exposing your naked breasts to him.
Holy shit—this can’t be real. Am I hallucinating? Is this actually happening? Wait—oh god, is he about to put my boobs in his mouth?!
Like a hungry child desperate for milk Bucky suckled on your nipple, squeezing the bottom of your breast passionately with one hand, and holding the other breast in his other hand. You looked down at him, licking, sucking, rubbing, and he looked as though he was transported to paradise.
He worked himself into a frenzy playing with your breast, until he wanted more. He lifted you up under your thighs, off the floor, and pressed your back against the wall.
Oh shit!
He kissed you again, his hand sliding down to press against you over your bikini bottom. With a quick, desperate motion, he tugged the fabric to the side, his fingers brushing bare skin, making your breath hitch.
As his hand cupped you, he began to move slowly, his fingers exploring, teasing. “Damn,” he murmured, his voice thick with surprise and satisfaction. “You’re so wet. Is this what happens every time you watch my videos?”
“M-maybe…” you stammered, cheeks heating, barely able to meet his eyes as a grin spread across his face.
His fingers slid inside you, moving with a slow, deliberate rhythm, each motion sending sparks through your entire body. He leaned in, his breath hot against your ear as he asked, “How many times have you touched yourself thinking about me?”
You bit your lip, trying to hold back a moan as he continued, each movement intensifying the heat pooling inside you.
“Mmmh—why would I tell you that?” you managed, trying to sound teasing but barely able to keep your voice steady.
His grin widened, a mischievous glint in his eyes as his fingers pressed deeper, his thumb brushing against you just right. “Because I want to hear every filthy detail.”
He kissed your other nipple, the one he missed when before. Bucky always gave equal time to the breasts. Suckling on one nipple, fingering you harder and harder, you were getting more and more excited for the moment he would penetrate you.
“Oh my god—” You swallowed, feeling your face heat up and you could feel yourself slightly sobering up. With a nervous laugh, you finally gave in, your voice soft but steady.
“Fine… sometimes, late at night—ah—I’d imagine you between my legs, devouring me like your life depended on it,” you whispered, feeling your cheeks burn. “I’d—fuck—I’d think about your hands, the way they’d feel inside me, moving exactly like this…mmmh,” you gasped as his fingers pressed deeper, your own words sparking the desire between you.
His fingers never stopped their steady, torturous rhythm, each movement deliberate, coaxing you toward the edge with a patience that was as maddening as it was intoxicating.
“And? That’s it?” he asked, his tone thick with amusement, daring you to reveal more. His thumb brushed against you in just the right way, as if encouraging you to keep talking, to give him every last detail he was craving.
“And—hah—I’d picture you… spitting in my mouth while you’re turning me on, you’d put your hand on my neck while I beg you to i dunno? reorganize my guts—because you’re so big Bucky. . . I don’t think you’ll fit inside me.”
“Oh the innocent looking ones are always the dirtiest.” Bucky’s smirk turned darker, his fingers pressing into you with a newfound intensity, his digits hooking and pressing into your most sensitive spot, causing your hips to jerk against his palm.
“And was I just as good in your imagination as I am now?” he murmured, voice low and rough, sending shivers straight down your spine.
“Yes… yes…” The words left your lips almost involuntarily, your hands gripping his shoulders as your nails dug in, grounding yourself against the overwhelming sensation. Your face twisted with pleasure, each stroke of his digits making it harder to catch your breath.
Bucky’s eyes darkened with a fierce satisfaction as he watched you, his smirk deepening. “Better than you imagined?”
"Mhhm," you tried to respond, but it came out more like a needy moan, your voice barely a whisper under the intensity of his touch.
Bucky's smirk grew at the sound, his eyes gleaming with satisfaction as he took in every reaction, every tremble. "That’s what I thought," he murmured, his voice dark and teasing.
Bucky carried you through the open door of your bedroom, his movements purposeful, every touch sending sparks across your skin. When he reached the edge of the bed, he lowered you onto the mattress, but before letting you go, he bent down to capture your lips in a kiss—a kiss that felt as intimate as it did electrifying.
You couldn’t help but notice the difference; this was something he never did in his videos. Bucky never kissed anyone on the lips on screen. But here, he kissed you slowly, deeply.
His hands moved to your shoulders, firm but gentle as he guided you back into the soft downy mattress. “There you go, baby,” he murmured, his voice warm and low. “Lean back.”
He knelt down at the side of the bed. He pulled off your panties, the final barrier to your sex. He pushed your legs apart and back, and gazed at your pussy, already wet for him.
He stared at your exposed pussy for ten seconds, admiring it like it was the greatest work of art he had ever seen.
"Your pussy," he said, his lips nearly brushing your sex. "It's beautiful.”
You lifted your head up and looked at him. Your jaw was dropped and you were already starting to feel tingles up your body, even though he hadn't licked you yet. You heard his breathing get heavier and heavier, he was so excited to put his lips on your pussy.
Two large fingers of his left hand spread your lips. Two large fingers of his right hand rubbed your clit in strong circles. Each circle sends a shock wave through your body.
"You smell fantastic," he declared, and he dove his mouth right on top of your wet and stimulated clit. Up and down he licked. Up and down, his mouth clasped tight against your pussy.
"Oh," you moaned, as your eyes rolled up to the back of your head. Your arms—with a mind of their own—grabbed the back of your thighs and lifted them back, presenting yourself to this man who used to be on the screen and was now bringing you to ecstasy. He'd only just started to lick you, but even so you felt ready for him to enter you and never leave.
As Bucky continued to eat you like you’re his last meal, each suction sending thrills through you, a sudden wave of doubt crashed over you, freezing you in place. Images flooded your mind—women he’d been with, all effortlessly beautiful, the kind who exuded confidence and allure. How could you compare? This had to be nothing more than another fleeting thing for him, a “friendship” that would end the moment the night was over.
You tensed, your hands moving to gently push him back. “Bucky… wait,” you managed, your voice barely above a whisper.
He looked up from between your legs, his expression softening instantly as he met your gaze.
“What’s wrong?” he asked, his voice gentle, concerned.
“I… I just…” You stammered, the words getting caught in your throat before you finally managed, “I don’t want to be… one of your girls.”
Bucky blinked, taken aback, his expression shifting as if the words had struck something unexpected, almost offended.
“One of my girls?”
You nodded, biting your lip as you searched for the right way to explain. “I… I don’t do one-night stands,” you admitted, feeling vulnerable.
Bucky nodded slowly, his tongue pressing into his cheek as he rose to his feet. "Mhm—no, I get it... it's because of my job," he said, his tone carrying a hint of defensiveness.
You sat up, noticing the shift in his demeanor. "Are you mad?" you asked softly, uncertainty creeping into your voice.
He sighed, running a hand through his hair. "I'm not mad," he replied, though his clenched jaw suggested otherwise. "I just didn't think you'd see me that way."
"See you what way?" you pressed gently.
He met your gaze, his eyes reflecting a mix of frustration and vulnerability. "Like I'm some guy who just goes around collecting flings," he explained. "I thought you knew me better than that."
You swallowed, choosing your words carefully. “It's not that I think poorly of you,” you said. “It's just... your work makes things complicated for me. I don't want to be another notch on anyone's belt.”
He took a deep breath, his expression softening. “I understand where you're coming from,” he admitted. “But believe me when I say that this—” he gestured between the two of you “—is different for me.”
“How do I know that?” you asked quietly.
He stepped closer, his eyes sincere. “Because I don't share moments like this with just anyone,” he said. “You think I go around kissing people like that? Off-camera, in my real life?”
Bucky’s expression shifted, his brows knitting together as he crossed his arms, clearly growing more frustrated. “I thought you knew the difference between who I am on-camera and who I am off it,” he replied, his tone clipped.
You sighed, trying to hold your ground. “Bucky, you’re the one who kept teasing me to watch your videos, practically encouraging me to make it my new hobby—how am I supposed to ignore what you do?”
He scoffed, running a hand through his hair in irritation. “Because those videos aren’t me,” he said, voice rising. “You’re acting like everything I do there is just some extension of my personal life, but it’s a job, Y/N. I don’t go around living like that off-set.”
You crossed your arms, not caring that the blanket had slipped off, leaving you bare before him.
“And I’m supposed to just... pretend that all of it doesn’t mean anything?” you shot back, feeling a twinge of vulnerability but refusing to let it show. “You kept making those jokes, those comments—you have to see how confusing it is for me.”
He took a step closer, his eyes narrowing. “And you think I just do that with everyone? That every person who walks into my life gets these... moments with me?” His gaze softened slightly as he gestured between the two of you. “If that were the case, do you think I’d be here, right now, trying to convince you?”
You opened your mouth to reply, but the words caught in your throat. His intensity was throwing you off balance, forcing you to question your assumptions. You’d expected him to brush this off or laugh, not take it to heart.
He shook his head, a frustrated laugh escaping him. “You don’t get it, do you?” He looked at you, his eyes full of something you couldn’t quite name. “I don’t have to be here, fighting for this. I could have walked away and yet here I am.”
You swallowed hard, feeling a lump form in your throat as the weight of his words settled heavily between you. The intensity of his gaze, the raw honesty in his voice—it was all too much, too fast, and yet it tugged at something deep inside you, making it impossible to brush off. But your heart was pounding, confusion and vulnerability swirling together, and you weren’t ready to face everything his words were unearthing.
“I… I think we should call it a night,” you said quietly, barely able to meet his gaze, the words coming out softer than you intended.
For a moment, he looked at you, his expression unreadable, and you could see him processing your response. Then, with a quiet sigh, he nodded, stepping back to give you space.
“Alright,” he replied, his voice subdued. “If that’s what you want.”
The room felt suddenly colder, the tension between you now tinged with a quiet ache. You could tell he was holding back more that he wanted to say, but he respected your decision, his expression guarded as he looked away.
You bit your lip, your mind racing with things you couldn’t bring yourself to say, with emotions you weren’t quite ready to admit.
“Thank you… for understanding,” you managed, feeling the weight of your choice settle over you.
He gave a small nod, his jaw tight, before he turned toward the door.
“Goodnight, Y/N,” he said softly, pausing for a moment as if hoping you might change your mind, before finally leaving your apartment, the main door shutting made you flinch even though Bucky closed it softly.
The silence that followed felt heavier than you expected. The tension that had filled the room moments ago lingered, and a wave of frustration washed over you, mixing with regret and uncertainty. You took a shaky breath, running a hand through your hair before letting out a long, exhausted sigh.
Without thinking, you grabbed the nearest pillow, buried your face into it, and let out a muffled scream, releasing all the emotions you couldn’t quite put into words. The pillow absorbed the sound, but it did nothing to ease the twist of emotions churning inside you. Finally, you pulled the pillow away, feeling just as conflicted as before, wondering if you’d made the right choice… or a terrible mistake.
it’s an appalling oversight on my part to not realise this sooner, but consort!reader & minho are very “miss americana and the heartbreak prince”-coded
doggy style butterfly countertop spooning hands behind the knees missionary bondage reverse cowgirl 69 wheelbarrow in the shower in his bed all over the house on the couch in the backseat on the beach in the elevator under the stage during his concert until the room REEKS of sex
SYNOPSIS
Your ordinary college life takes a very oddinary turn when you meet Hwang Hyunjin, the literal life of the party wherever he goes. He most definitely didn’t bargain for being this hung up on you when he first saw you, and you sure as hell couldn't predict he would turn your life upside down like this.
*Originally written July '22
📓Explicit, Complete
📜45k
🖤Hyunjin x Reader · Lee Know x Reader (feat. Bang Chan & Changbin)
🪐FWB AU: Drama, Mutual pining
🚨General themes explored & warnings: Heavy angst, dysfunctional relationships (negging, gaslighting, heavy manipulation, invasion of privacy...), emotional turmoil, infidelity, hedonistic practices (overindulgence in sex, recreational drug and alcohol use), polygamy, the Bermuda triangle of love (everybody's messed up, choose your fighter), explicit sexual content, strong language.
📖CONTENT
· Chapter 1: Have We Met Before? (One, Two, Three)
· Chapter 2: Madhouse
· Chapter 3: Happy Fucking Birthday
· Chapter 4: The Zone
· Chapter 5: Something Blue
· Chapter 6: Have We Met Before? (Reprise)
· Appendix: Ti Voglio Bene
📬THINGS YOU WERE CURIOUS ABOUT
Analysis talk: Reader questions that I answered about the characters/plot points etc. (asks from my old blog)
· What Hyunjin sees in mc according to Minho
· Hyunjin's letter to Yeji
· The Fire in Paraguay
«GENERAL M.LIST» · «ABOUT/FAQ» · «ASK» · «TREAT ME TO PUDDING?🍮»
imagine having sex with minho in his room, at the boys' dorm. it had been a while since you both met and spent time together; his schedule has just been so busy lately. so the first thing he suggests when they come back to south korea is you over at their dorms and have a lazy day.
he could come to your place for more privacy, but it's better to sneak you in rather than going out and accidentally revealing your place. but it doesn't matter where you are as long as you're both together, right?
well, it doesn't matter to minho, at least. and it shows in the way he doesn't hesitate to take you while the others are home. the first round was sweet, slow and sensual, nothing more than whines and low moans escaping you both while you kiss and whispers soft words to each other.
but minho is insatiable, more so when it comes to you. and so for the second round (and the ones after), minho has you screaming with pleasure. and he doesn't care if others listen; frankly, it's even better if they do. and that shows in the way he smirks while driving hard into you, pressed against the bed, close to god knows which orgasm.
there's something exciting about the fact that everyone in the dorm could possibly hear you right now, it has his adrenaline pumping and hips moving even faster. it turns him feral, your moans letting everyone know how good he is, how well he can pleasure you, how he's the only one who can have you screaming on his cock and still take more.
and more he gives, until he has mercy on you and the others. he walks out of his room in just his boxers, a loose white shirt with most of it's buttons undone, hair messy with how pulled on it, neck and chest littered with hickies. he enters the kitchen to get some water, only to find felix, seungmin and innie sitting there, awkwardly smiling at him. and he makes no attempt to cover himself up or fix his appearance; after all it stands to present just how much you pleasure him in return.
