Med student!Damian Wayne whoâs absolutely disgusted by the amount of feelings he harbours for a Vet student!reader.
Those feelings are illogical, he was supposed to remain hateful of the reader just because, and yet everything reader does makes him feel nauseous with butterflies and warmth inside. Itâs equal parts adoration and loathing for what reader makes out of him.
It wasnât supposed to happen. Your meeting was a complete consequence when he wasnât in the best state of mind and you got into a fight three minutes into knowing one another. He calls you an irrelevant being, you call him a narcissistic snob. Guilt? What is that? No. There is no guilt. Damian showed you your place, and just because you canât accept it, that is entirely your problem.
He hates that this semester he has to share the department building with veterinary students. Sure, itâs just a few hours per week, and he barely sees them. But the knowledge youâre there? That you sit somewhere in a lecture hall with your stupidly perfect hair, chewing on a pen, having fun? It makes his blood boil for no reason.
It has to be a cruel fate or unfunny coincidence that he bumps into you way more often than heâd like that. Why you? Why not some unimportant student at whom Damian wouldnât even glance at twice? No, it has to be you. With your feisty quips, and love for animals that he shares, but wonât tell you. With your bright eyes that get shinier the more you fight. It keeps him going. Knowing that he can bring out these emotions in you? Itâs satisfying. Even if he has to stifle the same emotions with every encounter you two have.
He has always been so in control of himself and yet you bring out the worst, or best, out of him so easily. He would rather spend 12 hours doing drills or go on a patrol with his brothers than admit to any of that. He would rather burn in a lava than tell you.
But, oh, how all these feelings make him feel alive for the first time ever.
Jason Todd takes care of an overworked!reader quietly, but does it with intent.
You stopped even noticing the hours you spend cramming, forgetting to eat, hydrate or even stand up and go pee. When youâre in the zone? Youâre in the zone. No matter what project, deadline or schedule comes your wayâyou just have to get it done. It doesnât even have to come from being overly ambitious, no. It could easily be the fear of falling behind
And Jason? He notices immediately, feeling concern so intense that it eats him from the inside. But he knows to tread carefully, after allâtelling you to take a break could easily throw you off your hyperfocus and stress you out more. However, he will never let you neglect yourself just because of some shitty project life threw at you again.
Heâll discreetly leave you water on the desk, within your vicinity; prepare food for a couple of days and organise it into containers so you donât have to cook; heâll set up alarms on your phone every couple of hours so you remember to stand up. Heâll buy you those blue screen glasses to protect your eyes and keep the headaches away. Heâll research which desk chairs are the best for long hours. Heâll leave sticky notes everywhere, send you a message every two hours and make sure you take vitamins.
You complain about your neck aching? Special pillow next day at your doorstep. Your pens stopped working? Quick visit to the stationery shop in his free time. The lights are too white and big? Two days later youâre surrounded by warm glow in every corner of your house.
And on weekends? Heâll make sure you two go out for a mandatory walk; phones turned off, just you and him.
When you apologise for being so absent or exhausted? He just shakes his head and kisses your forehead, because he understands. He understands you and he would never be angry. He just wants to keep you healthy, because youâre all heâs ever had and he loves you too much to see your burn out.
Jason Todd is a sweetheart when you're drunk, but a complete mess when he is.
Whenever you decide to let loose a bit, whether to only get tipsy or just get smashed drunk, because the drinks were fruity and tasty--Jason is there. He will pick you up from wherever you went out to, or just help you back home if you attended a party together. He carries your heels for you and has you draped over his shoulder. You never have to worry about waking up with your makeup smudged all over the pillows, because he learned how to take it off for you. He puts you to bed, changes you into the most comfortable pyjamas you own and sits on the edge of the bed with makeup wipes or cotton pads soaked with micellar water. He even puts on some of that moisturiser you love so much. Then he prepares the nightstand for the morning after: fills up your water bottle and adds ice, has painkillers on the go, a big bowl just in case you need it. And then he joins you in bed and cuddles you until you pass out, listening to your mumbles about how perfect he is and how much everything is spinning, and how you're never drinking again. He's absolutely holding your hair back in the bathroom, rubbing your back and carries you around if you're dead on your feet.
Drunk Jason however...
Oh that boy is a mess. He doesn't get drunk often, mind you. He needs to be alert all the time and it's just hard to let go. But if you reassure him hundreds of times that it's okay to have some fun once in a while, you make a mental note to never do it again. Drunk Jason is clingy, messy and absolutely adorable. You can barely bring the big guy home, but once you do, he's sprawled on the bed like a starfish. Groaning about his head, whining that he loves you so much. If you manage to get him ready for bed, which takes much longer than you'd like to admit, he's all over you. His hands are caressing you, his face is smushed between your breasts. Can't forget about the drunken sex. You try to explain to your endearing boyfriend that he's out of it and sex can wait, but he will just whine more. You can't help, but chuckle, before his lips are messily moving against yours and his hips are rutting into you clumsily. For half of it, Jason doesn't even realise he's not inside you. He's just grinding his cock against you like a needy puppy, but you let him. He's a whimpering mess, mumbling I love you's and you're so perfect all the time, until the pressure is too much. He cums so quickly when drunk and it's messy, adding another fifteen minutes to clean him and yourself up. You watch over him when he's passed out, already preparing for his hangover tomorrow morning.
an alternative universe in which there is a local band in Gotham, covering famous songs for the citizens, except they make the songs about the city.
Scarecrow: "Hey, Jokes! What are you listening to?"
Joker: "Found this great song, Something in the Wayne"
Scarecrow: "Wait, wasn't it--"
Joker: shoots on sight, before belting out "SOMETHING IN THE WAYNE"
ââŽïž Dick Grayson with a rival!reader who grew up with him and was a part of the circus
ââŽïž Constantly bickering, messing up each otherâs routines, pushing one another off the mattresses and trapezes, gaining bruises
ââŽïž Rival!reader who is pushed by their parents all the time to be the best which fuels their hatred towards Dick; something he doesnât know about
ââŽïž Dick Grayson who, amidst all this resentment, longs for the reader from afar: sneaking them snacks after practices, making sure theyâre safe during their performances, bringing ice packs to their trailer to soothe down swollen ankles while the reader is asleep
ââŽïž Dick Grayson longing for the reader for twenty years before actually being able to talk to them properly and slowly make his way back into their life
ââŽïž Rival!reader who never wanted to be cruel to him when they were kids, but the parentsâ abuse was too much and Dick was just too perfect at everything he tried
ââŽïž Rival!reader whoâs hesitant to let Dick back into their life, but eventually warming up to the idea and reminiscing about the old times, before the rivalry even started.
ââŽïž Dick Grayson and rival!reader having a heart-to-heart conversation during one night in Gotham, on a rooftop, under the stars and being honest with one another for the first time in two decades
ââŽïž Dick Grayson and rival!reader ending up kissing on the rooftop before they start rebuilding everything that got lost in between anger and jealousy, going out of their way to visit the old circus and perform one last routine together
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne noticing youâve been having hard time lately and feeling drained
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne making a decision to take care of you as best as he can
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne preparing you a whole tray of food himself
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne buying flowers and your favourite wine, no matter the price
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne preparing you a hot bath with essential oils and bath salts, and getting into it with you
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne massaging your shoulders and back, his strong arms enveloping you completely, long fingers washing your hair gently as the steam rises around you
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne kissing every inch of your skin because you deserve to be treated like something precious. To him, you are the most precious thing in the world.
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne humming gently into your ear to soothe you down instead of interrogating what was happening in your life
Û¶à§Â ...he was still going to find out anyways and put an end to it, whether itâs your job, another person or just your brain
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne rinsing you properly and drying your hair for you, smothering your body with kisses and putting a nice lotion onto your skin
۶ৠBruce Wayne tucking in your naked body under fresh sheets and settling in with you, because Gotham can wait one night
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne lulling you to sleep, promising to make your life easier and better, and telling you how much he loves you and how much you mean to him
Û¶à§Â Bruce Wayne watching you sleep to make sure no darkness comes for you
tim drake x reader
summary: pulling another all nighter together brings you to conduct an experiment that includes blindfolded caffeine tasting and perhaps your friend's lips
content warning: friends to loves àčàŁ fluff àčàŁ my years long energy drinks addiction turned science bickering àčàŁ Tim likes to stand by his opinions àčàŁ
The clock in the corner of Timâs third monitor read 3:42 AM, rendered in a cold, electric blue that matched the eerie light reflecting off his pale face. Outside the floor-to-ceiling windows of his downtown Gotham safehouse, rain lashed against the glass in heavy, rhythmic sheets, blurring the glowing neon spires of the city skyline into watery smudges of crimson and gold.
Inside, the only sound was the steady hum of high-end server fans, the soft patter of rain, and the manic, mechanical click-clack of Timâs keyboard as he dragged and dropped encrypted files into neat, hyper-organised folders.
Then came the sharp, unmistakable metallic snap-hiss of an aluminium tab being pulled back.
Timâs fingers froze mid-keystroke. He didn't turn around immediately. He merely closed his eyes, let out a slow, long-suffering exhale that rustled the loose papers scattered across his desk, and rested his forehead against the heel of his hand.
"Tell me that wasn't what I think it was," Tim muttered, his voice raspy from hours of disuse and an alarming lack of hydration.
"Depends," you replied casually, pulling a swivel chair across the hardwood floor with a loud wooden scrape. You took a deliberate, exaggeratedly loud sip from the slim, blue-and-silver tin in your hand. "Does a crisp, legendary drop of celestial energy sound like what you think it was?"
Tim turned his chair around slowly, looking every bit like a mad scientist who had been dragged out of his laboratory by force. Dark, bruised shadows sat beneath his icy blue eyes, his dark hair was a bird's nest from where heâd spent the last six hours running his hands through it, and his oversized black hoodie was zipped straight up to his chin.
He stared with absolute disdain at the iconic slim can resting in your palm.
"Red Bull," Tim said, reciting the name as if he were reading off a hazardous material safety sheet. "You're drinking a tiny, overpriced cylinder of liquid tartness that delivers a pathetic eighty milligrams of caffeine for three times the cost of a standard beverage."
"Itâs the timeless gold standard, Tim," you said smoothly, taking another slow sip and smacking your lips with exaggerated delight. "It gives you wings. It says so right on the tin. Crisp, sharp, perfectly carbonated. Itâs a classic for a reason."
"It tastes like someone carbonated cough syrup and added a dash of crushed Flintstones vitamins," Tim countered instantly, leaning back in his chair and crossing his arms over his chest. "Itâs an insult to volume efficiency. You aren't properly fueling your brain; you're paying a premium for a minor placebo bump wrapped in a glossy silver wrapper."
"Oh, Iâm sorry," you snapped back playfully, leaning forward and resting your elbows on your knees. "I didn't realise I was speaking to the world's foremost authority on beverage snobbery. Remind me, what is that giant, textured white monolith sitting next to your elbow?"
Tim reached over and delicately lifted his own beverage of choice: a heavy, sixteen-ounce matte-white can embossed with a textured claw mark. He held it up like a sacred relic.
"Monster Energy Ultra Zero," Tim declared with the solemn reverence of a man presenting a holy grail. "Zero sugar. A massive hundred and forty milligrams of caffeine coupled with a precise blend of taurine, L-carnitine, and B-vitamins. It delivers maximum fluid volume, sustained alertness, and an optimal caffeine-to-cost ratio. It is superior in every measurable metric."
You stared at him for three full seconds before bursting into laughter.
"It looks like it was brewed in a subterranean toxic waste dump!" you said, sitting back and shaking your head in utter disbelief. "It's giant! Drinking a Monster Ultra feels like you're cracking open a fuel cell for a space shuttle. Where is the refinement, Drake? Where is the subtlety?"
"Energy drinks aren't supposed to be subtle," Tim argued, his voice rising in an adorable, hyper-analytical pitch that only ever came out when he was arguing about things he cared about far too much. "They are tactical rations! They are chemical catalysts designed to delay muscular and cognitive fatigue so I can finish cross-referencing these financial ledgers before Bruce calls me at dawn! I don't drink energy drinks for a delicate palate experience, I drink them for sheer operational volume and cost-effective stamina!"
"You're tragic," you murmured, pointing the top of your slim tin at him. "A tragic, coffee-stained workaholic who wouldn't know real flavour if it bit him on the nose."
"I have a highly refined palate, thank you very much," Tim said stiffly, though the faint pink dusting his cheekbones betrayed how much he was secretly enjoying the distraction.
"You literally ate a cold slice of two-day-old pepperoni pizza off a server rack yesterday because you forgot to buy groceries."
"That was an issue of tactical convenience, not culinary preference, and you know it."
This was your routine. It had been for months now, though neither of you had ever explicitly pointed it out.
You and Tim had started as friendsâdrawn together through a chaotic tangle of shared late-night shifts, mutual contacts in the vigilante scene, and an uncanny ability to tolerate each other's worst habits. You were the person who could wander into his secret off-grid workspaces without triggering his hyper-paranoid security alarms because heâd custom-programmed the sensors to recognise your heartbeat and vocal signature. You were the only one allowed to pull him away from a screen when he was entering hour forty of an unsolved case without getting an icy glare.
And somewhere along the lineâbetween the shared takeout containers, the late-night rooftop breezes, and the gentle, silent way heâd drape a blanket over your shoulders when you fell asleep on his office couchâthe boundaries of "just friends" had begun to fray at the edges.
You loved him. It was a terrifyingly simple fact that had sneaked up on you over months of quiet observation. You loved the way his eyes crinkled when he was genuinely amused, the subtle smirk he gave when he solved a code nobody else could touch, and the way he dropped his brilliant, tactical mastermind persona whenever it was just the two of you in the quiet hours of the morning.
And Tim? Tim was a genius detective capable of predicting the moves of Gotham's most complex criminals six steps in advance, but when it came to his own heart, he was entirely out of his depth. So, he buried his feelings under layers of playful bickering, banter, and endless debates about caffeinated beverages.
"Look at this," Tim said, breaking your train of thought as he dragged a blank notepad across his desk and grabbed a sleek black pen. "I am going to map this out for you objectively because clearly, your sub-optimal caffeine intake is impairing your critical thinking faculties."
You dragged your chair closer to his desk, your shoulder lightly brushing against his arm. Tim tensed for a fraction of a second at the contactâa quick, involuntary hitch in his breathâbefore forcing himself to relax.
"Go on then, Professor," you teased, leaning in so close you could smell the crisp citrus and faint hint of peppermint on his breath. "Show me the math."
"Right," Tim muttered, his pen flying across the paper as he drew a hasty two-axis grid. "On the X-axis, we have Caffeine Yield Per Ounce. On the Y-axis, we have Volumetric Value and Electrolyte Profile. Now, Red Bull..." He drew a tiny, pitiful dot in the bottom-left quadrant. "...sits right here. In the realm of overpriced novelty shots that leave you crash-prone and under-hydrated within ninety minutes."
"Hey!" You shoved his arm lightly. "Red Bull provides instant, razor-sharp focus! Where is psychological clarity on your stupid chart?"
"Psychology is a soft variable," Tim said smoothly, drawing a bold, confident circle in the top-right quadrant. "Monster Ultra Zero, however, sits right here. Optimal peak efficiency. Sixteen ounces of zero-sugar crispness, high bioavailability, superior taurine concentration."
"It's carbonated grapefruit-flavoured battery water," you declared solemnly. "You are running on placebo effect and sheer stubbornness. I bet if you closed your eyes right now, you couldn't even tell the difference between your prized Monster and a generic carbonated citrus soda."
Tim paused, his pen hovering over the paper. He looked up at you through his dark, messy bangs, a dangerous, competitive glint dancing in his blue eyes.
"Is that a challenge?"
"Itâs a factual statement."
"You're suggesting I, Timothy Drake-Wayne, cannot identify the distinct, textured profile of my primary fuel source in a controlled environment?"
"I am suggesting," you said, setting your tin down on his desk with a heavy clack, "that your tastebuds are dead, buried, and completely numb from years of drinking black coffee that tastes like charcoal. You are operating on pure brand bias."
Tim smirkedâa slow, devious little curve of his lips that made your stomach do a completely unhelpful somersault.
"Get two blindfolds," Tim said softly, pushing his chair back. "Or better yet, use two paper cups. A double-blind taste test. Right now. If I win, you admit Monster Ultra is the superior functional beverage and you promise to stop bringing those skimpy little silver cans into my workspace."
"And if I win?" you asked, leaning over his desk, eyes narrowing in mock challenge.
"If you win..." Tim tilted his head, his gaze dropping to your lips for a split second before snapping back up to meet your eyes. "...I will personally drink an entire can of your classic Red Bull. And I will admit, out loud, that you were right."
"Oh, you are so on, Drake."
Five minutes later, the workspace had been transformed into an improvised laboratory.
You had scavenged four identical white ceramic mugs from the tiny kitchen alcove. Tim, taking the task with absurd, obsessive seriousness, had grabbed a sterile liquid dropper and a set of clean plastic spoons to serve as neutral palate cleansers between trials.
"We need a control," Tim muttered, pouring a small amount of plain tap water into a fifth mug. "And we need neutral crackers to cleanse the palate between sips. Otherwise, the residual taurine from your drink will contaminate the baseline."
"Tim, itâs an energy drink test, not a forensic autopsy," you groaned, though you couldn't stop the fond smile pulling at your lips. "Just pour the drinks while I close my eyes."
"Precision is the difference between science and chaos," he noted dryly.
You grabbed a clean black sleep mask from your bagâone you kept handy for those rare occasions you slept over on his couchâand pulled it over your eyes, plunging your world into darkness.
"No peeking," Tim's voice drifted over from the desk. You heard the distinct sound of liquid pouring into ceramics. Glug, glug, splash.
"Iâm not peeking," you said, resting your hands in your lap. "Just make sure you don't poison me with your giant white tin of chemical wash."
"You are about to be humbled by empirical data," he replied.
Footsteps approached. The light scent of Timâcedarwood, faint ozone, and warm cottonâgrew stronger as he stepped closer. You heard the soft rustle of his hoodie as he knelt down right in front of your chair.
Suddenly, the casual, sarcastic energy in the room shifted.
Without the sight of his chaotic monitors or the distraction of the rain, your other senses heightened dramatically. You could feel the warmth radiating off him in the cool air of the room. You heard the slight, uneven rhythm of his breathing.
"Alright," Tim said quietly. His voice sounded lower, softer, stripped of his usual defensive sarcasm. "First sip. Hold out your hand."
You reached out blindly, your fingers brushing against his warm wrist. Timâs hand stilled for a brief moment under your touch before he gently guided your fingers around the handle of a ceramic mug.
"Drink," he whispered.
You lifted the mug to your lips and took a sip.
The sharp, tart, metallic bite of classic Red Bull hit your tongue immediatelyâsweet, sour, and distinctly medicinal. You swallowed, fighting back a triumphant smirk.
"Well?" Tim asked, his voice right next to your ear.
"Mmm," you murmured, playing along. "Complex. Notes of... absolute perfection. Crisp, sharp, iconic. This is obviously the choice of intellectuals."
Tim let out a soft, huffed laugh that warmed your cheek. "You're absurd. That was yours. Try cup number two."
He took the first mug from your hand, his fingers lingering against yours a second longer than necessary, and replaced it with the second mug.
You took a sip.
It was lighter, fiercely carbonated, with a smooth, frost-citrus flavor that tasted like light grapefruit and sweet lemon-lime with zero sugar weight.
You wrinkled your nose playfully. "Ugh. Tastes like a cold fizzy cloud mixed with a chemical plant."
"Hey!" Tim protested, a touch of genuine offense in his voice. "That is the clean, crisp taste of Zero Ultra efficiency!"
"It tastes like a gym locker room in liquid form, Tim."
"It tastes like endurance!" Tim countered, taking the cup back. You heard him set it down on the table. "Alright, my turn. Give me the blindfold."
You reached up and pulled the mask off your face. Tim was sitting back on his heels directly in front of you, looking up with an expression that was half-amused, half-defensive.
You leaned down, holding the black sleep mask in your hands. "Hold still."
Tim didn't move. He kept his eyes locked on yours as you reached out, gently brushing a stray lock of dark hair away from his forehead. His skin was warm, and as your fingers grazed his temple, you felt the subtle pulse beating beneath his skin.
Timâs breath caught. His blue eyes widened slightly, searching your face with an intensity that had nothing to do with energy drinks or late-night banter. For a heartbeat, the whole room went completely silent save for the rain drumming against the glass.
"You're... staring," you whispered, your heart doing a strange, frantic little dance against your ribs.
"So are you," Tim replied softly, his voice barely audible over the hum of the servers.
You swallowed hard, your hands trembling slightly as you carefully slipped the dark band over his head, covering his eyes.
Tim sat there, blindfolded, his sharp jawline defined in the dim fluorescent light, his lips slightly parted. Without his brilliant eyes to focus on, your attention was drawn entirely to the rest of his faceâthe slope of his nose, the soft curve of his mouth, the faint shadow of stubble along his jaw.
"Cup one," you said, your voice a little breathier than you intended. You picked up a mugâfilled with his precious Monster Ultraâand held it out.
Tim reached up blindly. Instead of grabbing the mug, his large, warm hand brushed up your forearm, sliding down your wrist until his fingers gently wrapped around yours.
A sudden jolt of electricity shot up your arm. Tim paused, his thumb gently tracing the sensitive skin of your inner wrist. He didn't pull away. Neither did you.
"Is this... the Ultra?" Tim asked, his voice dropping an octave, losing all its sarcastic edge.
"Drink it and find out, genius," you murmured, guiding the cup to his lips.
Tim took a small sip, swallowing slowly. He tilted his head back slightly, his throat working as he processed the taste.
"Crisp," Tim said softly, though he wasn't looking at the cup. He was still holding your wrist, his thumb making slow, hypnotic circles against your skin. "Zero sugar baseline. Light citrus. It's mine."
"Correct," you whispered. "Cup two."
You picked up the mug containing the Red Bull and held it out. Tim took another sip.
A subtle smirk touched the corners of his mouth. "Tart. Sharp. Overpriced taurine blend. Yours."
"So you admit you can tell the difference?"
"I admit," Tim said slowly, reaching up with his free hand to pull the blindfold down around his neck, "that I know exactly what your drink tastes like."
He opened his eyes. The playfulness was gone, replaced by a deep, terrifyingly intense clarity that made your breath catch in your throat. He was still holding your wrist, his grip warm and steady.
"Why do you know what it tastes like?" you asked softly, unable to look away. "You hate it."
"Because," Tim said, stepping up onto his knees so he was at eye level with you where you sat in the chair, "you drink it every single time you come here. Because half the time you leave half-empty tins on my desk, and when you aren't looking, I sip them just to see if I can understand why you like it so much."
You stared at him, your brain short-circuiting. "You... what?"
Tim let out a soft, self-deprecating laugh, shaking his head. "I'm terrible at this. I can solve an international financial crime syndicate in three hours, but sitting here trying to tell you how I feel without hiding behind stupid arguments about caffeine is making my heart rate hit two hundred."
"Tim..."
"I don't care about the energy drinks," Tim blurted out, the words tumbling out of him in a sudden, vulnerable rush that was so utterly him. "I don't care if you drink Red Bull or liquid neon or battery acid. I just... I like when you're here. I like that you invade my space. I like that you yell at me for working too late, and I like that you make this dark, miserable room feel like somewhere I actually want to be."
He hesitated, his thumb still resting against your pulse point, which was now hammering wildly.
"I think I've been in love with you for months," Tim confessed quietly, his cheeks flushing a brilliant, dark rose. "And I'm pretty sure my cardiovascular system doesn't need Monster or caffeine anymore, because every time you touch me, my heart does something entirely unscientific."
You sat frozen for a second, processing the absolute absurdity and beauty of his confession. The brilliant, calculated, hyper-competent Red Robin had just confessed his feelings using heart rates and chemical efficiency metaphors.
It was the most romantic thing you had ever heard.
"You are such a nerd," you whispered, a massive, helpless smile breaking across your face.
Tim blinked, a sudden look of panic crossing his features. "Wait, was thatâdid I say that wrong? I didn't mean to frame it like a medical conditionâ"
You cut him off by reaching out, grabbing the collar of his oversized hoodie, and pulling him forward into a kiss.
Tim stiffened for a microsecond in shock before melting completely. He let out a soft, shuddering sigh against your lips, his free hand flying up to cup the back of your neck, his fingers tangling into your hair with a desperate, sweet intensity.
The kiss tasted like frosty citrus, tart berries, and late-night rain. It was warm, soft, and long overdueâa sudden release of months of quiet tension, lingering glances, and unspoken words.
When you finally pulled back, resting your forehead against his, both of you were breathing heavily. Timâs eyes were fluttered closed, a look of pure, unadulterated peace settled over his features.
"So," you whispered, running your thumb gently along his cheekbone. "Does this mean I win the argument?"
Tim opened his eyes, a fond, breathtaking smile spreading across his faceâthe kind of smile he only ever saved for you.
"Not a chance," Tim murmured, leaning in to press a soft, lingering kiss to the corner of your mouth. "Red Bull is still a tragic waste of potential volume."
"You're unbelievable."
"I'm consistent," he corrected gently, pulling you out of the chair and down onto the small leather sofa against the wall. He settled back against the cushions, tugging you with him until you were resting securely against his chest, your head tucked under his chin.
"Tim, your workâ"
"The work can wait," Tim said firmly, wrapping both arms securely around your waist and resting his cheek against the top of your head. "Bruce can yell at me tomorrow. Right now, I'm taking a mandatory tactical break."
You smiled, listening to the steady, comforting beat of his heart beneath his hoodie. Outside, the Gotham rain continued to fall, but inside the small, dark room, bathed in the glow of server lights and empty aluminium cans, it felt warmer than it ever had before.
"Hey, Tim?" you mumbled, feeling the heavy pull of sleep finally taking over.
"Yeah?"
"Your Monster still looks like a fuel rod."
Tim chuckled softly, the vibration rumbling pleasantly against your chest as he tightened his hold around you.
You wake up early in the morning and get ready for uni or work. You sit at your desk doing makeup and then hear soft footsteps before he leans against the doorway of your bedroom. His expression is softer than usually, his eyes filled with affection and love, because once in the past he begged for times like this. For warmth and someone to share it with, before life decided otherwise. He wasnât a machine, he swore it⊠he hoped you didnât see him as one either.
He watches you, with sun rays catching his skin and hair, illuminating his beautiful eyes. You always wondered how can a man be so beautiful. Heâs holding two mugs with coffee, before walking over to you and setting one down. Itâs your favouriteâof course it is. He wouldnât make any less than your favourite. You deserved the best and he would tend to your every need, even as simple as this specific coffee.
Now that his hand is free, he caresses your back, plays with your pyjamas, kisses your head and neck and shoulders. Sweet distraction. You swat at his handâIâll be lateâbut he just chuckles and holds you tighter. Your scent fills his nose and itâs like a personal drug, flooding his system with so much undeniable love that scares him. Your presence, however, makes him feel safe enough to jump off that bridge each time and just drown in the feeling he once swore to never feel. Itâs in the way you smile, or look at him with a glimmer in your eyes. Or how you listen to him whenever he needs it. And, oh, how perfectly your body fits with his, and your sweet noises when he makes you feel good, late at night or early in the morning, and, and--
You are late that morning, but heâs not sorry. If he could, heâd keep you away from everyone else just so you could bless him with few more minutes of your time just so he could fall in love with you again and again.
I just imagined Jason upgrading something in his suit without much thought that anybody would notice, because itâs just some detail that would make moving quicker or fighting easier. Maybe different plates, something about his helmet, or boots. And then reader noticing it right away before heâs gone for patrol; commenting on it with approval and excitement, and Jason is not able to think about anything else for the rest of the night, because what do you mean you noticed something so small, and you liked it, and asked what exactly the new upgrade did? patrol could go to hell, because in that moment he wanted to just show you every piece of his equipment if it meant you looked at him with those big and excited, and curious eyes, and asked questions (and made him feel noticed)â
The money Iâd pay to have Jason Todd shirtless, on his stomach with sweatpants hanging low while I straddle his slutty waist and leave hickeys all over his back, and munch on his shoulders like heâs my favourite snack, and mess up his hair with my fingers, and give him neck kisses that would make him groan, and squeeze his biceps because theyâre so bigâ
I woke up today and sadness washed over me right away, because I wasnât playing with wally west's beautiful hair while his head lay on my chest, and I couldn't trace the freckles on his nose, and I couldn't listen to his morning jokes about a pigeon that landed on our windowsill
masterlist + rules ! valko x fem!reader
âą cw: titty fucking, 'pup' petname, nonmc!reader, messy orgasm, swearing, mild praise; very short, no plot just smut. minors DNI
âą this was just a way for me to get the idea out of my head and turn my sadness into anything more pleasant; enjoy!
âAhâ fuck, pup⊠squeeze âem for me, yeah? Just a little more,â he whispered, hands gripping the top of the headboard.
The wood groaned and splintered slightly under his white-knuckled grip, but you couldnât bring yourself to care. You couldnât hear it; you couldnât see. All that existed was the heavy weight pinning your body down, the crushing warmth between your breasts, and the slick, relentless slide of Valkoâs cock, sliding between them. Each desperate thrust brushed the leaking tip right against your parted lips. He straddled your stomach, hovering just enough to control the agonisingly slow pace before driving down hard once more.
Your hands throbbed with a dull ache from squeezing your breasts together, straining to make the channel as narrow and tight as possible. You knew exactly how much he craved the restriction. Precum slicked your skin, painting your chest, pooling at your collarbones, and smearing all the way up to your neck. He was relentless, driven by a desperate edge, his deep grunts mixing with breathless whimpers as his hips thrust roughly against you. The sheer volume of wetness was obscene, making his length slide with effortless ease and causing his eyes to roll back in pleasure. Beads of sweat rolled down his temples, dampening the short crops of his burgundy hair from the intense exertion.
It had started the way it always did, with the two of you tangled on the couch the moment he walked through the door from work. He still had his glasses on when you decided to turn up the heat. Valko was completely powerless against you. It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and youâd been walking around in a tight camisole that pushed your breasts up without any effort at all. He worshipped every single inch of your body, but that specific view? It had him twitching in his trousers instantly.
Which was exactly how youâd ended up here: pinned to the mattress, your boyfriend straddling your torso and fucking your tits. A perfectly ruined, utterly flawless evening.
âValâŠâ you whimpered softly, eyes rolling back.
Your lips parted a little, and the blunt head of his length slid in, stopping right before your teeth. The deep, vibrating moan that tore from his throat made your entire body buzz. You were aching just as intensely, heat dripping down your thighs while your pussy clenched helplessly around empty space.
âA bit more, pup. You can take it,â he rasped, looking down at you. The usual gold of his eyes had burned down to a dark, heavy amber, his pupils completely blown out. âAwh, do your hands hurt? Itâs okay, just a little longer,â he cooed reassuringly, while your whole body shook from the rough, trembling rhythm of his hips.
His tail swooped down, brushing lazily across your bare thighs. You whimpered at the sensation, goosebumps erupting instantly as the soft fur rippled against your sensitised skin. He continued to slide in and out of the tight space you held for him, his balls tightening painfully as the friction pushed him closer to the edge.
âPup⊠fuck⊠ohâ babeâŠâ he groaned desperately, his abdominal muscles locking up. Truth be told, and he really didn't want to fight it anyway, the overwhelming crest of his orgasm completely shattered his control.
A low howl tore from his chest, echoing through the bedroom and probably across all of Linkon, as he shot his load across your chest and face. Thick, burning-hot ropes of cum splattered against your skin. You gasped, squeezing your eyes tightly shut to avoid the risk of another eye infection. The heavy warmth spilled everywhere while he rode out the peak of the high, finally slumping forward until his head rested heavily against the wall above the headboard.
âMy pup⊠look at you,â he whispered a long moment later. His eyes fluttered open, tracking down to look at you with a crooked, exhausted smile as he panted for breath.
His fingers reached down, tracing the contour of your face to smear a few stray drops across your skin. You never minded the mess; you always took it perfectly, entirely content with how completely he used you. Covered in his cum, you looked like a masterpiece. And looking down at you now, he already couldn't wait to stuff you full of it next.
Summary: Sirius waits up in the Gryffindor common room, unable to sleep after hearing you were out with a Ravenclaw guy. Jealousy, miscommunication, and late-night confessions unfold by the firelight-until you finally remind him that you're his, and he's yours.
Warnings/tags: angst â softness âą hurt/comfort âą possessive!Sirius âą established-but-unspoken feelings âą slight miscommunication âą post-argument cuddles âą English is not my first language
It was lateâfar too late for the common room to still be this quiet, save for the soft crackle of the dying fire. The shadows danced lazily along the stone walls, and Sirius sat alone on the worn couch by the fireplace, the dim glow casting sharp lines across his face. He was waiting. He hadnât moved in what felt like hours. Restless, unable to sleep. Not since the boys had mentioned you were outâwith some Ravenclaw bloke, no less.
That single comment had unsettled him more than he wanted to admit. The idea that you'd gone off with someone else, without even telling him, gnawed at his insides like a splinter he couldnât get out. You were... well, whatever you were. Best friends, maybe something more. Titles didnât matter much to him. What mattered was you. And in his mind, you were his.
Eventually, the portrait hole creaked open, the sound echoing in the stillness of the room. You stepped inside, wrapped in the cool night air, not seeming to notice Sirius hunched on the couch in the shadows. Your eyes scanned the common room, searching. Your gaze swept past him at firstâbut then you spotted him. His frame partially illuminated by the firelight, arms folded, gaze unreadable.
You walked closer, a small, familiar smile playing at your lips. The kind you always gave him, like the world beyond the two of you barely existed. You sank down onto the couch beside him, crossing your legs comfortably as if this was just another night. No tension. No questions. Just the two of you.
âThought youâd be asleep by now,â you said softly, propping your head on your elbow against the cushion, eyes gentle as always. âI was on my way to join you.â
Join him. Just like every other time.
But something in the air had shifted, and you could feel it. Subtle, but present. The warmth between you was still there, but under the surface, something pulled tight. Sirius sat up a little straighter, adjusting his position to face you better. His voice came low, barely above a whisper.
âI couldnât sleep.â
Your brows furrowed slightly, a flicker of concern passing through your expression, but you didnât press. Instead, you leaned forward and rested your chin on his knees, your eyes studying his face in the firelight, searching for something unsaid.
âWhere were you?â he asked finally, voice careful but quiet. The question lingered between you like smoke.
âBlack Lake,â you replied, your tone light, nonchalant. You didnât elaborate, didnât offer details. Just that. As if it hadnât been the only thing rattling around in his head since sunset.
Your fingers idly traced the hem of your sleeve, and then you looked up at him again. âWhy couldnât you sleep?â you asked, this time with a bit more weight in your voiceâcuriosity laced with worry. It was usually you who struggled with sleep. Not him.
He leaned back slightly, arms folding across his chest in a way that tried too hard to look casual. But you knew him too well. His jaw was tight. His eyes flickered, avoiding yours.
âJust couldnât,â he shrugged. âHad a lot on my mind, I guess.â
Your chin still rested gently against his knee, but you tilted your head slightly to the side, waiting. Watching. His gaze finally met yours again, this time more steady. âWhy were you at the Black Lake?â he asked, trying to keep the question even, unaffected.
âWas meeting up with a friend,â you answered, just as lightly as before. Shrugged it off like it meant nothing. Maybe to you, it didnât. Maybe it was just a night walk with someone who didnât matter. But to himâit had mattered all evening. The thought of you out there, with someone else. Laughing, talking. It had driven him mad.
And now, here you were. Oblivious to the storm you'd stirred up, more focused on the shift in him than the fact you'd never told him who you were seeing. You looked at him, your smile softening.
âWhatâs going on in that pretty head of yours?â
Sirius clenched his jaw for a moment, teeth pressing together. That wordâfriendâechoed in his mind. Too vague. Too convenient. He hated how casual you were about it. How easy it was for you to leave him behind tonight.
âNothing important,â he lied, brushing it off. He didnât want to say the truth: that the silence of your absence had been louder than the fire, that heâd sat here with your name stuck in his throat for hours.
He shifted on the couch, the ache in his chest still lingering, still pulling. His voice dropped to almost a whisper as he looked at you again, expression unreadable.
âYouâre back late.â
You frowned. Sirius never usually commented when you returned lateânot like this. Most nights, heâd already be in bed by now, half-asleep, waiting for you to sneak into the dorm so you could curl up beside him without a word. Whatever this was⊠it felt off. Not just the tension, but him. The way he avoided your question, the way he pulled awayâit wasnât like him. He never hid from you. Never shut you out. If something was wrong, he just said it. Blunt. Honest. That was part of what you loved about him.
âI got caught up in a conversation,â you said slowly, your voice soft as you tilted your head, trying to read his mood. You reached for his handâyour usual gesture, the one that always grounded both of youâbut he shifted, subtly, just enough that your fingers brushed only fabric. You frowned again, the knot in your stomach tightening.
âWhatâs going on with you?â you asked, brows pulling together, concern spilling into your voice. âAre you sure youâre alright?â
Sirius didnât meet your eyes. Instead, he rubbed the back of his neck, the nervous gesture making your chest ache a little. He looked cornered, like a wild thing trying to escape something it couldnât quite name.
âIâm fine,â he snapped.
The words cracked the air between you like a whip, sharp and unexpected. Even he looked surprised by the force of it. He closed his eyes for a second, then sighed, running a hand through his hair with visible frustration.
âI just⊠I donât like you being out so late, thatâs all.â
His words only deepened your confusion. Not because of the sentimentâyou knew he cared, even worried about you more than heâd ever admitâbut it wasnât just what he said. It was everything around it. The tension in his shoulders. The way he wouldnât let you touch him. The coldness in his voice that didnât match the warmth in his eyes.
You sat up slightly, pulling back just enough to look at him properly, studying his expression.
You were sure you left a note. Told James to give it to him before Quidditch practice, so he wouldnât worry. So he knew not to wait up. Or maybe⊠maybe you hadnât? Maybe you thought you had and forgot in the rush of the day. But stillâit wasnât like Sirius to get this upset about it.
âWell, sorryâŠâ you murmured, your voice quiet but not defensive. âBut Iâm back now. So⊠we can catch up, or go to sleep, like always.â
Sirius exhaled slowly, guilt flickering behind his eyes. He knew he was being unfair, but that possessive streakâthe one he hated and couldnât shakeâhad gotten the better of him tonight.
âNo, you donât have to apologise,â he muttered, dragging a hand through his hair again. âI just⊠I was worried.â
He leaned back against the armrest, finally looking at you without flinching, eyes darker than usual. âWho were you with, anyway? This friend of yours.â
You sighed again, heavier this time. You werenât trying to hide anything. But something in his voice made it clear he didnât believe that. Still, you reached for him againâand this time, you didnât let go. Your fingers closed around his hand and held it, gentle but certain. He hesitated for a second, but didnât pull away.
âA friend from Ravenclaw. My year,â you said simply, your voice calm. âNothing important, really.â
And it wasnât. It was just some harmless conversation, something forgettable. All you wanted now was to slip upstairs, change into something warm, slide beneath the covers next to Sirius, and sleep. Just a few hours of peace. The day had been long enough.
But Sirius didnât relax. He didnât soften. That tightness in his jaw remained, his body tense beneath your touch.
âRight,â he muttered. âJust a friend.â
His voice was taut, too taut, and you could practically feel the knot forming in his chest. You hated how you knew what he was thinking. How he was overanalysing every word. Torturing himself over something that didnât matter.
You let out a frustrated breath, squeezing his hand just a little.
He wasnât being himself. Or maybe⊠maybe he was. This was the part of him that got trapped in his own mind sometimes. The version of Sirius that didnât know how to say âIâm scaredâ without making it sound like an accusation. The version too proud to admit when he felt hurt or left out.
You shifted closer again, your voice soft, but firm this time.
âPads⊠Iâm gonna ask one more timeâwhat on Merlinâs beard is going on with you?â
Sirius fidgeted under your gaze, his posture tense, shoulders tight with the weight of everything unsaid. You could see itâthe way he shifted, trying to look unaffected, but failing miserably. He had always been proud. Vulnerability didnât come easy to him, not even with you. Admitting to insecurities, to feelings that made him feel exposed⊠it was like surrendering a piece of himself.
âNothing,â he said stubbornly, voice tight. âI told you, Iâm fine.â
He tried again to pull his hand from yours, but you held on tighter this time, refusing to let him slip away from you. Not like this.
âOh myâcan you stop trying to pull away?â you snapped, your voice sharper than you intended. âI want to hold your hand, damn it.â
The frustration spilled out before you could reel it back. It stungâhow the boy who used to cling to you like you were the last safe thing in the world now recoiled like your touch burned. He had been your anchor, your constant. The only person you ever truly let in, the only one you let touch you. And now⊠now he was pulling away.
Sirius froze.
Your words hit him like a blow, cutting through the fog of jealousy and defensiveness heâd wrapped himself in all evening. He hadnât meant to hurt you. Merlin, he never meant to hurt you. And yet, here you wereâhurt, confused, and still reaching for him anyway.
His eyes finally lifted to yours, those grey stormy eyes of his locking with yours. The firelight flickered across his face, throwing shifting shadows along the angles of his jaw. For a moment, he looked so young. So unsure.
âI⊠Iâm sorry,â he murmured, the tension draining from his body all at once. âI didnât mean to pull away. I justâŠâ
I just donât like the thought of you being with someone else.
You stared at him, searching his face, your brows knitting together as your heart ached in your chest.
âWhat the hell is going on?â you asked, your voice low, tired. âI come in here ready to go to sleep, happy to finally see you after a long day, because weâve barely seen each otherâand now youâre just⊠youâre pushing me away like I did something wrong.â
His chest tightened at the sound of your voice. You werenât angry, not really. Just hurt. That made it worse. He hadnât meant to make you feel like this. But he had. Heâd let his emotions get the best of him. Again.
He sighed deeply, dragging a hand through his hair in frustration. âI donât know. I just⊠I didnât like the thought of you being out with some other guy. It made meâŠâ
He trailed off for a second, then forced himself to say it. âIt made me jealous.â
You blinked, the word sinking in slowly.
Jealous. Sirius Blackâcocky, unshakable, never-bothered Sirius Blackâwas jealous. Over a guy who didnât matter at all. Over something that wasnât even worth your time.
âJealous?â you echoed, still trying to process it. âWhy would you be jealous? I told you it didnât matter. And I told you I was going to be back lateââ
You stopped mid-sentence.
Wait. Did you tell him?
Suddenly uncertain, you looked at him again, more closely this time. His confusion mirrored yours.
âI told James to give you a note,â you said slowly, frowning. âBefore Quidditch practice. I wrote something like, âIâll be late tonight, go to sleep. Iâm meeting with a friend to do DADA homework. Iâll try to get back to you as soon as possible.ââ
You tilted your head, brow furrowed. âYou didnât get it?â
Siriusâs entire demeanour shifted. He blinked, as if trying to rewind the whole day in his mind.
âNo,â he said, his voice quieter now. âI didnât get any note.â
He sounded genuinely confused, and for a moment, the both of you sat there in silence, the fire popping gently beside you. Siriusâs mind was spinningâhad James forgotten? Had he lost it? Why hadnât he just said something?
You let out a heavy breath, dragging a hand down your face.
âLet me guess,â you muttered. âJames got carried away chasing after Lily and forgot. Merlin knows it wouldnât be the first time. He probably still has the note stuffed somewhere in his robes.â
You leaned back against the couch, exhausted nowânot from the day, but from the sudden emotional whiplash.
You hated this. Miscommunication. The way it could ruin perfectly good moments. The way it could twist feelings and break things that were never meant to be broken.
Sirius stared at you for a long moment, guilt pooling in his chest.
Youâd tried. Youâd left a note. You hadnât kept secrets. You werenât hiding anything.
And still, heâd let his jealousy convince him otherwise.
Sirius let out a long sigh, frustration and guilt pooling in his chest like something heavy. He shouldâve known better. James was brilliant on a broom but hopeless when it came to multitaskingâespecially when Lily Evans was involved.
âYeah,â he muttered, voice resigned. âThat sounds exactly like something heâd do.â
Still holding your hand, he leaned back against the armrest, his grip softer now, more apologetic. His thumb brushed over your knuckles absently.
âIâm sorry I was being a git,â he said quietly. âI let my imagination run wild and turned it into something it wasnât.â
You let out a small exhale and gave him a lookâequal parts tired and affectionateâbefore gently pushing his knees apart. You crawled into the space between his legs without saying a word, letting your body settle against his. Your head found its place beneath his chin, fitting perfectly there like you always did, your weight warm against his chest. The fire crackled gently beside you, painting your skin in gold and amber hues.
âYouâre an idiot,â you mumbled into his shirt, your voice muffled but teasing, the words softened by the affection behind them.
Siriusâs heart stuttered in his chest at the feel of you so close, like the world had finally righted itself. His arm curled protectively around your back, holding you against him like heâd fall apart if he let go.
âYeah, I guess I am,â he murmured with a small laugh, the tension finally bleeding from his body.
With the hand that wasnât holding you close, he reached up and gently tucked a loose strand of your hair behind your ear. His touch lingered, tender, reverent.
âBut Iâm your idiot,â he added with a lopsided smile, the words almost whispered.
You tilted your head just enough to look up at him, your chin resting on his collarbone. The space between you barely existed now, your noses nearly brushing. In the flickering firelight, you could see it clearlyâthe softness in his storm-grey eyes, a look he reserved only for you.
âYou are,â you said quietly, and even you could hear the weight behind those two small words.
His eyes searched yours for a moment, something unspoken passing between you. His arm around your waist tightened instinctively, pulling you closer into him, as if the nearness still wasnât enough.
âI know,â he breathed. âAnd I wouldnât have it any other way.â
His fingers traced the curve of your cheek, slow and gentle, and a smile tugged at the corner of his lipsâsubtle, but full of emotion. âYouâre stuck with me.â
You let out a quiet laugh, the sound warm against his throat. âSounds like a threat,â you teased, but your smile was soft as you leaned in, brushing your nose against his.
âCan we stop bothering with whoâs whose and whether the otherâs going to leave or not?â you whispered, your words threading between your breaths. âYouâre mine. Iâm yours. Iâm tired of pretending like it doesnât mean anything.â
Siriusâs breath caught at your words. His heart thudded in his chest, full and light all at once, like the very sound of your voice had knocked the air out of him.
âYouâre right,â he said, and this time, his voice held no hesitation. âIâm yours. Youâre mine. And weâre not going anywhere.â
He tilted his chin, finally closing the small distance between you, and pressed his lips to yours.
The kiss was softâtender, sureâbut it carried everything that hadnât been said aloud until now. It was a promise. A claim. A surrender.
And as you kissed him back, something settled inside you. Warmth bloomed in your chest, and you smiled against his mouth like you were the happiest girl in the worldâbecause in that moment, you were.
No more guessing. No more doubts.
Just this.
Him.
You.
Maybe you shouldâve thanked the Ravenclaw boy. Or James, for being too distracted by Lily to deliver a single note. Whatever it was, it brought you here.
And thisâthisâwas exactly where you wanted to be.
The floor barely creaks beneath your feet as you pad softly down the hallway, moving from the guest room toward his. The house is quiet, wrapped in the kind of late-night hush that feels almost sacred. Your parents are halfway across the country, visiting your aunt in Florida, and you stayed behind in Boston. Your plan? Spending the weekend at Conradâs. Of course. Susannah had insisted in that warm, unmistakably her wayâlike it was a given, not even something up for discussion. You were staying with them. You always did.
It wasnât unusual. Not in the slightest. Youâve been neighbours since you were seven and nine, and youâve known this houseâand the house in Cousins Beachâlike your own skin. The scent of vanilla clinging to the wood floors, the low hum of the street just outside, the creak in the third stair from the bottomâall of it has wrapped around you for so long it feels like home. Not just the house. Them. Him.
Every version of you seems laced into the fabric of this place. Especially the parts tied to him. To Conrad.
The line between you blurred a long time ago, and by now, itâs dissolved entirely. Itâs official, sure, but labels never really mattered to either of you. You never needed words like "boyfriend" or "girlfriend" to know what you were to each other. Still, thereâs something sweet in the quiet understanding that pulses beneath every glance and touch: Iâm yours, and youâre mine.
Loving Conrad feels like waking up slowly on a Sunday morningâquiet, warm, timeless. And tonight, youâre making your way to his room with the same ease youâve always had, the floor familiar under your bare feet, the soft cotton of his old T-shirt brushing your thighs. Youâre careful not to wake Susannah or alert Jeremiah, though you doubt anyone would care. This wasnât new. Youâve been slipping into Conradâs room long before anything was declared between you. Everyone knows. And when he kissed youâhe did it for the world to see.
At this point, the whole "guest room" charade feels silly. Youâre not kids anymore. Sharing space with him has been the norm for years, even before either of you dared call it what it was.
You reach his door and push it open without a knock. His room is dim, bathed in a soft, honeyed glow from the bedside lamp. Heâs on the bed, propped up against the headboard, his bare chest rising and falling gently beneath the covers. Only a pair of sleeping shorts clings to his hips. The moment your eyes meet his, that familiar smile curves across his lipsâslow, lazy, warm.
You smile back, heart skipping, as he closes his laptop and sets it aside.
âYouâre quite late tonight,â he murmurs, voice low, coaxing, as he lifts the blankets, wordlessly inviting you in.
You shut the door behind you with a soft click and crawl across the bed toward him. His room has always been your favourite place. Itâs a perfect reflection of himâin the acoustic guitar leaning in the corner, the glint of trophies on the shelf, the textbooks stacked like tired soldiers on his desk. Soon, those will be replaced by heavier ones, full of college lectures and serious words. Youâre wearing one of his old shirtsâsoft, slightly oversized, with a faded logo on the chestâand a simple pair of navy lace underwear that rests snugly around your hips. Your hair is braided back, still damp from your evening shower, in hopes of keeping the waves for morning.
âI was on the phone with my mom,â you say, laughter dancing in your voice as you settle against him, your body tucking easily into the curve of his side. âAunt Jenny really wanted to join in.â
âSheâs always been talkative,â he says, voice laced with fondness as his arm curls around you, pulling you closer.
The moment youâre in his arms, you inhaleâand there it is. The scent of him. Itâs always different here. In Cousins, itâs sea salt, sun, and wind. But in Boston, itâs something else. That cologne you gave him for Christmas a few years agoâlemon, pink pepper, a hint of mintâstill clings to his skin. Heâs never changed it. The fact that he still wears it makes your chest ache, in the best way.
His hand finds your hair without hesitation, fingers slipping gently between the strands. He scratches your scalp in slow, steady movements that make your whole body soften. You close your eyes, a quiet groan slipping from your lips, content and half-asleep already.
Nothing beats the feeling of his hands on you. In any way, at any time.
But now, in this moment, thereâs no more distance. Just you and him, curled up in the safety of his room, where everything feels quiet and right and like the world has finally exhaled.
âI missed you today,â you whisper, voice soft against the hum of the quiet room. The words fall from your lips almost shyly, though you mean every syllable. You donât always say it. But tonight, it slips out easilyâlike a secret you no longer want to keep.
His face softens the moment he hears it. That lookâthe one where all the walls drop. He loves when you say things like that. When you admit it out loud. It makes him feel seen, wanted, needed. Loved.
âI missed you too, baby,â he murmurs, his voice a low balm against your skin. His fingers never stop moving through your hair, gently untangling the strands as though heâs grounding himself in the feeling of you. Your hand still rests lightly on his stomach, tracing faint shapes against his skin.
âIâve been a walking ball of stress lately,â he admits, barely louder than a breath. Thereâs something in his toneâtired, raw, honest. You lift your head and look at him properly, eyes searching his with quiet concern.
âYouâre putting too much on yourself,â you say, the words steady but soft. âYou deserve a break just like everyone else. You know that, right?â
He exhales, the sound low and weighted. Youâve seen it beforeâthe way he carries the weight of the world on his shoulders. Conrad has a bad habit of trying to be perfect. Of fixing everything and everyone, even when it leaves him splintered inside. Heâll set himself on fire just to keep others warm, and youâve never let that go on for too long. You canât. Watching him unravel hurts you too deeply.
Because if anyone deserves peace, itâs him. The sun, the moon, the fucking starsâyouâd hand them over if it meant heâd smile a little longer. Hell, youâve painted them for him before. But if he ever asked, youâd give him the real thing.
âLetâs just relax, alright?â he murmurs, his fingers drifting from your hair to your cheek, stroking your skin with the kind of tenderness that makes your breath catch. âI think I need that tonight.â
Your teeth sink into your lower lip as you lean into his palm. You do miss himâmore than usual, more than youâve even let yourself admit. Lately, he's been buried in books, chasing the future, pushing himself past every breaking point. And youâre proud. So unbelievably proud. But you still ache for him. For this. For touch. For the way he can ignite every nerve in your body with just one look.
You hum quietly, shifting closer until your noses brush. That simple touch sends a tremor through both of you. His breath catchesâhe always reacts like that when youâre this closeâand his hand slips down to your waist, his grip tightening just slightly. You feel the heat of him, the simmering tension beneath the exhaustion. That kind of tired that doesnât come from studying or late nights. The kind that says I miss you in ways I donât have words for.
âI think relaxing is a great idea,â you whisper, your lips grazing his. The smallest spark. His eyes darken. You hear the sound he makesâa quiet groan, like heâs already slipping underâand you smile against his mouth.
âI have a few ideas, actually.â
Normally, heâd tease you. Ask what you were going to do. Drag it out just to hear you say it aloud. But not tonight.
Tonight, heâs starved.
His mouth crashes onto yours, all restraint shattered. The kiss is deep, desperateâlike heâs been holding his breath for weeks and youâre the only thing that could fill his lungs. You sigh into him, your hand cradling his cheek, trying to pull him impossibly closer. The heat is immediate, all-consuming. His hand clenches around your waist as he shifts you onto his lap with effortless strength.
You straddle him, the hem of his old t-shirt riding up your thighs. He doesnât hesitateâhis hands move there, gripping your bare flesh like heâs anchoring himself. You feel his fingers tighten, feel the warmth of his skin searing into yours. When he bites your lip, you gasp, your arms winding around his neck, pulling him closer, tighter. You thread your fingers into his hair and tug gently. He groans again, the sound low and wrecked.
âYou have no idea,â he pants against your lips, âhow fucking much Iâve missed having you like this.â
Your breath stutters, and you tug at his hair harder, your body pressing down into his. He growlsâan honest-to-god growlâand his hands slide down, kneading the back of your thighs with a kind of urgency that sends sparks licking up your spine.
His tongue slips between your lips, coaxing yours into a slow, dizzying dance. The kiss turns messy, all teeth and heat and hunger. Your hands move to his shoulders, nails digging into his skin as you try to anchor yourself against the rising tide inside you. The ache between your legs grows unbearable, the damp heat of your lace underwear clinging to you, and all you want is more. All of him.
You whimper into his mouth as his hands wander, teasing the sensitive skin of your inner thighs. The sound you make is involuntary, helpless. Your lungs start to burn, but you donât want to stop. Still, he seems to sense itâlike he always doesâand finally pulls away, both of you gasping for breath.
You rest your forehead against his, the space between you charged and trembling. Your lips are swollen, cheeks flushed, your whole body buzzing with tension and want. Heâs panting too, his eyes blown wide with desire but still locked on yours like youâre the only thing keeping him tethered to the world.
You stay like that for a momentâjust breathing each other in, hearts pounding, skin flushed and electric.
âConnieâŠâ
His name spills from your lips in a breathless rasp, shaky and aching with need. You feel like youâre unraveling alreadyâand he hasnât even properly touched you yet. But the way heâs watching you? Like heâs starving. Like youâre the only thing in the world that could possibly satisfy him. Itâs almost too much.
His eyesâdark, hungry, and completely locked on youâdonât waver as his hand slips between your thighs, pushing the soaked lace of your underwear to the side. The fabric clings to your skin, drenched, and the moment the cool air hits you, you gasp. Then his fingers brush over your clitâjust onceâand your whole body jolts, hips twitching instinctively.
âFuckââ you breathe, barely able to get the word out as his fingers slide through your slick, collecting your arousal, dragging it down your slit. Itâs embarrassing how wet you already are, how just his presenceâhis hands, his voiceâcan make you come undone like this.
You arch your back, chest pressing into his as your head tips back, baring your throat. And he wastes no time. His mouth descends to your neck, his lips hot and soft at firstâthen rougher, hungrier. He sucks bruises into your skin, tiny marks of possession youâll try and fail to hide later. You moan, the sound swallowed by the heat of his mouth, your body grinding against his hand, chasing more friction.
He chuckles against your throat, but itâs not mocking. Itâs low, reverent. His fingers finally slip inside youâone at first, so slowly it feels like a tease. You gasp, your walls fluttering around him in response, welcoming the stretch. You canât help the soft moan that escapes you.
Then he adds a second finger.
Your breath hitches. The sensation is perfectâfull and deep, just enough to make your toes curl but not enough to satisfy the greedy pull in your belly. You clutch at his shoulders, trying to ground yourself.
âOh godâdonât stop,â you whisper, voice barely a thread. Your eyes flutter closed, your lips parted, every muscle in your body focused on the place where heâs inside you.
He watches you with aweâutterly transfixed. You, in his lap, moving on his fingers like you were made for this. Made for him. And maybe you were. His free hand slips beneath your shirt, skimming up your stomach, the warmth of his palm searing into your skin. He grips your hip tightly, holding you steady as you begin to moveâyour hips rolling down, seeking more, chasing your own pleasure with a desperation that borders on frantic.
The pressure builds fast when his thumb finds your clit, circling it with maddening precision. Of course he knows exactly how to touch you. He always has. Itâs a language only the two of you speak.
âConnieâŠâ you whimper, clenching around him. He groans at the feeling, and you feel it echo in your chest.
He adds a third finger.
You cry out, biting your lip hard to stifle the sound. The stretch is sudden, overwhelming, but perfect. You fall forward, arms wrapping around him for support. Your face buries into the crook of his neck as you pant against his skin.
âMissed seeing you like this, sweetheart,â he breathes out, his voice hoarse, reverent. âFuck, you feel so good. So perfect.â
The words make your heart ache and your stomach twist all at once. He always says them like theyâre truths written in scriptureâlike thereâs never been a doubt. You donât even realise how wildly your hips are moving until he tightens his grip on you, guiding you, anchoring you. The wet sound of his fingers working in and out of you fills the room, lewd and intoxicating.
âThatâs it, baby. Just like that,â he murmurs, eyes locked on you like youâre the most breathtaking thing heâs ever seen. âYou look so beautiful.â
Your body trembles, the tension in your core rising with every stroke, every curl of his fingers inside you. Youâre lost. Absolutely drowning in him. His voice, his hands, his scentâeverything is too much and not enough. Your nails dig into his shoulders as your moans grow louder, breath hitching every time his thumb presses just right.
âConnie, babyâfuck, donât stop⊠please,â you whimper into his neck, your voice cracking as the edge draws nearer. His grip bruises your hip now, and you know itâll leave marks come morning. You donât care. You want the marks. Want the reminder that thisâheâis yours.
âShhhâŠâ he soothes, his voice low and velvety against your ear. âIâve got you, sweetheart. Youâre doing so well, riding my hand like this. Feels good, yeah? Câmon, baby, show me how good it feelsâŠâ
You bite his shoulder to keep the cry from tearing out of your throat. His fingers pump faster, deeper, and you can barely breathe.
You need more.
And then he finds itâthat spot deep inside you that makes everything in you snap tight.
Your whole body seizes, a shudder wracking through you. He holds you tightly as your hips buck against his palm, your orgasm crashing into you so hard you swear the air leaves your lungs. Your head falls back and your lips part in a silent cryâbut his hand is there, pressing over your mouth, catching the sounds that surely wouldâve earned you teasing stares and knowing grins over breakfast.
âThere you go,â he whispers, brushing his lips against your cheek, voice thick with pride and something deeper. âShhh⊠gotta be quiet, sweetheart.â
You can barely hear him over the pounding in your chest, the trembling in your limbs.
âLook at you,â he breathes. âSo perfect.â
His fingers slow but donât stop, helping you ride out every last wave of pleasure. Itâs too much, but you donât want it to end. He knows exactly how to prolong it, how to coax your body through every shiver, every aftershock, until you collapse against him, boneless and dazed.
Youâre floating. Warm, weightless, and held so carefully in his arms.
And he never stops looking at you like youâre everything.
Youâre breathless, your chest rising and falling against his, your entire body trembling in the aftermath of your release. Every nerve feels lit from withinâhypersensitive and aching for more. He slows his movements, fingers still inside you but gentler now, coaxing soft pulses from your already spent body. His hand moves from your mouth to the back of your neck, grounding you with his touch before he pulls you into another kiss.
This one is slower. Deeper. But still urgent in its own wayâlike he's trying to speak through it, say everything he's feeling without needing words. And you kiss him back like youâre drowning in him. Like you need his lips to keep breathing. Itâs raw. Devouring. The kind of kiss that says donât ever leave.
His fingers curl just right inside you again, and your body tightens, clenching around him involuntarily. You whimper into his mouth, still buzzing from the orgasm he just gave you, still helpless to the way he knows every part of you so intimately.
âYouâre so beautiful when you come,â he whispers against your lips, his voice husky and reverent.
Your cheeks flush instantly, heat blooming beneath your skin. You look away, but he doesnât let you. His gaze stays locked on yours, pulling you back in.
âDid you know that?â he continues, softer now. âLike a work of art. The kind you create.â His thumb brushes along your cheekbone, and your heart stutters at the way he says itânot lustful, not teasingâjust honest. âI could watch you like this all the time.â
You never understand how he does itâhow he can praise you so shamelessly, make your legs shake and your head spin one moment, and then, in the next breath, turn into this. Gentle. Unshakeably sincere. Soft in a way thatâs more disarming than any dirty word could ever be.
You love that about him.
God, you love him.
Your foreheads rest together, breath mingling in the narrow space between you. You smile, still dizzy, still aching, still trying to catch up with the pace of your own heart.
âI missed that,â you rasp, voice hoarse and shaky from everything he just pulled from you.
His eyes soften immediately, and he kisses you again, lips curling slightly into a smile that you feel more than see. âI missed that too,â he murmurs, like itâs a secret.
His free hand drifts to your braid, fingers expertly loosening it as he slips the tie from your hair and slides it onto his wrist like a promise. Your hair falls around your face in soft waves, and he brushes a few strands aside, tucking them behind your ear. Then his leg shifts beneath you, spreading your thighs wider, and before you can register itâbefore you can breathe or brace or even blinkâhe flips you onto your back, body covering yours like a storm rolling in.
The gasp rips out of your throat as your back hits the mattress, your hands instinctively gripping his shoulders, eyes wide and wild. But heâs already there, already hovering above you, eyes locked on yours with that look. That look. The one that says youâre his entire world and heâs about to worship you like it.
His voice drops to a growl, low and sinful, his fingers now gripping your hips tightly. âAnd weâre far from done, angel.â He leans down, brushing his lips against your jaw, his breath hot and heavy. âBy the time morning comes, the only thing youâll remember is my name.â
His eyes are dark. Darker than before. Hungry. And you know what that look means.
It means youâre not sleeping tonight.
You swallow hard, your body already arching into his, legs falling open as if on instinct. Your underwear is already pulled off you, skin is flushed, your breath shallow, your heart beating too fast and not fast enough.
And the truth is?
You want it.
Every bit of it.
Again and again and again.
A/N: Closer glance into the past of Conrad and reader as an actual couple đ I had to write this since episode 5 aired. This is the part of their life when theyâre already in an established relationship đ«Łđ
Warnings/tags: SMUT (minors dni). Fingering, unprotected sex (wrap it before you tap it), p in v penetration, praising, cursing. Conrad is starved. PART OF THE OCEANS UNIVERSE
Summary: When finally getting your loved one back after four years and going forward with your lives as you move in with himâyou cannot wait any longer to celebrate
The sun sat high over Palo Alto, pouring out every ounce of warmth it had hoarded this past month. California didnât seem to care that the calendar had already surrendered to autumn. The air still shimmered with late-summer heat, leaving most of your jumpers and long jeansâthe ones youâd worn religiously in New Yorkâburied in unopened boxes.
Boxes that marked your new beginning. A small mountain of cardboard and tape, the clearest sign that youâd finally moved in. After that week in Cousins, after finding your way back to the love you thought youâd lost, youâd chosen to stay. To step forward, together. Now you were in California, finishing up the first whirlwind weeks of your Masterâs in Art History. The room smelled faintly of dust and old paper as you crouched over one of the last boxes, peeling away layers of tape and memory.
A song drifted out from the little radio by the window, low and familiar. You didnât notice Conradâs footsteps before you felt him. You never needed to. He was simply thereâan orbit youâd learned to trust, a presence as steady as breath. Warm hands slid around your waist, his nose brushing into the curve of your neck. A smile bloomed on your lips even before his did, even before you felt the soft graze of his mouth on your skin.
âI still canât believe youâre here,â he murmured, voice muffled against your neck.
The words loosened something inside you. You set the mug in your hand down carefully, as though the simple act deserved reverence.
âI know. Me neither. It feels like forever since we spent nights in the same place.â
And it had. Four years without his warmth had been too many. The rare meetings, scattered like compass points across the seasons, never enough to fill the distance. Each one too brief, too sharp with the ache of goodbye.
But thisâthis was different. This was a beginning.
âCome on, take a break,â he whispered, his breath warm against your skin, making you shiver.
He tugged you back, gentle but insistent, and you let yourself yield. Step by step, you moved with him until the couch caught you both, laughter breaking soft between you. Sunlight spilled across his face, gilding his hair, setting his eyes alight. That impossible sea-colorâgreen at the center, deepening toward the edgeâpulled you in, made the world around you blur.
You reached up, brushing his hair back from his forehead. He caught your wrist halfway, turning your hand so he could press a slow kiss to the inside of it. The kind of kiss that didnât just touch skin but sank deeper, grounding you.
Your sigh was quiet, heavy with the weight of everything unsaid.
âIâve missed you so much,â he said, his voice low, stripped of anything but truth.
âIâve missed you too,â you whispered back, your body already leaning closer, legs curling over his lap as though they belonged there.
It had been only a month since the pieces fell back into place, since you finally drew a full breath without the ache of what-if. In that month, you had kissed, laughed, tangled together in the night, stitching time back into the shape it should have been. Almost whole. Almost healed.
And for the first time in years, the future didnât feel like a question mark. It felt like a promise.
You caught the flicker in his eyes again, that hunger he tried to bury under patience. Heâd been careful with you, letting you steer this fragile, rekindled rhythm. For that, youâd been grateful. But nowânow you were done waiting.
A hum slipped from your throat as his lips wandered down your forearm, each brush lighting up your nerves. Your eyes fluttered shut, and the past came rushing inânights tangled up under unfamiliar stars, the smoky crackle of the Cousins bonfire, his touch clumsy but tender because you were both so impossibly young. Children playing at forever. He had been even younger in spirit than you, a boy trying to fit into the shape of a man. And yet, even then, it had felt perfect.
Your eyes opened when his lips stilled. The decision had been in you for a while, curled up and waiting for the right moment. Now, with the last boxes nearly emptied and sunlight painting your bare shoulders in the heat of California, it felt right. Thank god for the sundress. Thank god for the warmth pressing through the windows.
âDonât stop,â you whispered, and the way his pupils darkened in response made your pulse stutter. You meant it. Every syllable.
âAre you sure?â His voice was low, careful, even as his hand found your waist and guided you closer. The question was a tether, his restraint hanging by a thread.
You shifted willingly, settling onto his lap, knees bracketing him as though youâd belonged there all along. Your arms looped around his neck, fingers tangling in the back of his hair.
âIâm sure.â
That was all it took. His mouth claimed yours in a rush, urgent and starved, the sound of your gasp swallowed between you. You clung to him, kissing back with the same desperation, the dam of four years breaking all at once. This past month had been a slow burn of almosts, but the fire finally caught, and it consumed you both.
His hands roamedâyour sides, your back, your hipsâlike he needed to relearn you by touch alone, as though sight wasnât enough. Each caress left you breathless, aching for more. You opened to him, lips parting, and his tongue met yours in a tangle that pulled a moan from your throat.
His grip tightened, palms firm at your hips, rocking you against him. Even through denim, you felt the sharp answer of his body, undeniable and heady. The kiss deepened, fierce and tender all at once, your heart thrumming in your chest like it might break through.
It wasnât just hunger. It was years of missing, of imagining, of longing pressed into skin and bone. Every movement whispered I missed you. Every touch said I canât lose you again.
âFuck, I missed you,â he rasped, the words spilling hot against your lips before his mouth wandered down, grazing your jaw, your throat. You pushed your hair aside with shaky fingers, tilting your head to bare yourself to him.
A sharp whimper broke free when his teeth caught at your skin, pleasure tangled with the faint sting. Your hips jerked instinctively against his, the friction sparking heat low in your stomach. Every second left you wetter, needier, your body begging before your voice could.
âConradââ his name tumbled out in a gasp, fractured by the path of his mouth. His hands were restless, worshipful, claiming every inch of you while his lips found the neckline of your sundress. His tongue traced fire over your collarbone, and you felt your pulse stutter.
âYou have no idea how hard it was to hold back,â he muttered, voice shredded with restraint, even as his fingers slipped beneath the hem of your dress.
He gripped your thighs, thumbs stroking higher and higher, the heat of his touch almost unbearable. âAll this month⊠all I could do was think about this.â
A shiver racked you as his hand finally found the thin lace between your legs. He pressed against your heat and you arched into him, a desperate sound escaping your throat. He smiled against your skin, and thenâslowly, deliberatelyâpushed the fabric aside.
The first touch of his thumb against your clit tore a cry from your lips. He slid lower, gathering the slickness there, and his breath hitched audibly.
âJesus Christ⊠youâre soaked,â he groaned, lifting his gaze to you. Hunger burned in his eyes, but so did something softerâaffection, awe, the weight of every moment youâd both lost.
âPlease,â you whispered, your voice trembling but certain as your eyes met his.
But you didnât need to beg. He gave without hesitation. His fingers pressed into you, stretching you, and the sharp burn of it pulled a moan straight from your chest. Your walls clenched around him, greedy, already aching for more.
His free hand anchored you at the hip as you moved instinctively, grinding down on his hand. Wet sounds filled the space between your moans, the room heavy with the pulse of your need.
âThatâs it,â he whispered, watching you unravel above him. His voice was low, reverent. âLook at you.â
His eyes never left you, drinking in every flicker of pleasure that crossed your face, every desperate roll of your hips. He reeled in it, the sight of you undone in his lap, knowing it was himâalways himâwho could make you feel this way.
âThis is mine,â he murmured, fingers curling deep inside you. âYouâre mine.â
âGod, youâre perfect,â he rasped, the words roughened by desire. âLook at you, sweetheart. Riding my fingers so good. Youâre perfect.â His mouth returned to your neck, teeth grazing the skin as if to prove the point.
Then his fingers curledâjust soâand your breath caught, your body going taut. The coil inside you drew tighter, hips chasing release with frantic precision. You were right there, ready to shatterâuntil a whine slipped free as he pulled his hand away.
Your eyes flew open, chest heaving, frustration painted across your face. Cheeks flushed, lips swollen from his kisses, you stared down at him in disbelief.
âConnieââ the protest broke in your throat, need sharp in your voice.
But you didnât get the chance to finish. With a swift motion, he flipped you, pressing you down against the couch cushions. Your stomach hit the soft fabric, his weight a presence above you.
âAs much as I love touching you like this,â he growled, lips grazing the shell of your ear, âthere is no way in hell Iâm making you come for the first time in four years without being inside you.â
Another needy sound spilled from you, muffled by the couch. Pillows tumbled to the floor as he made room, his hands slipping beneath you, lifting your hips until you were trembling and open for him. Your fingers clutched the armrest, knuckles whitening, your breath uneven.
Thenâthe pause. The rustle of denim. The metallic click of a belt buckle undone, the slow rasp of a zipper lowering. Each sound made your pulse race harder, the anticipation unbearable.
You whimpered as he spread your legs, his body settling behind yours. Heat radiated off him, and thenâsweet, devastating tortureâhis thick length slid between your cheeks, dragging slowly. He was hard, throbbing, every movement sending sparks skittering up your spine.
You could feel how much he ached, how badly he wanted thisâwanted you. His tip pressed at your entrance, teasing, smearing himself with your arousal, and you keened at the sensation.
Words abandoned you. All that was left was sound: gasps, whimpers, the sharp little mewls that betrayed how desperate you were. Your body quivered with the tension of waiting, the edge of it almost painful.
And still, he lingered there, right at the brink, like he needed one more second to take you inâneeded to savor the truth of having you like this again.
âFuck, you already feel so good,â he groaned, voice breaking on the words. One hand anchored on your hip, the other stroked himself a few more times before he pushed in, burying himself inside you in one swift, devastating motion.
Your moan tangled with his, sharp and helpless, as your walls clamped down around him. The stretch was maddening, almost too much after so long, and yet not enough all at once.
He stilled for only a beat, just long enough for you to adjust, before pulling nearly all the way out and slamming back inâhard.
Your cries filled the room, raw and echoing, as he set a brutal rhythm. His grip on your hips was iron, fingers digging deep enough you knew the marks would linger.
Every thrust drove you forward into the couch, the sound of skin on skin reverberating through the quiet apartment, underscored by his ragged grunts.
âFuck,â he rasped, leaning over you now, his chest pressing to your back, his breath hot against your ear.
One of his hands slid forward, trapping yours against the armrest, holding you as though letting go wasnât an option. His hips slammed into you with relentless force, shaking through your bones.
âNo oneââ his voice cracked, fierce and almost brokenââno one will ever have you like this again. You understand?â
You could only moan in answer, too far gone, your body giving him everything without hesitation.
âIâll give you the fucking moon itself,â he growled, each word punctuated with another deep, punishing thrust. âIf thatâs what it takes to keep you here.â
The angle shifted and you shattered against him, toes curling as he hit that spot inside you over and over, your vision blurring with tears. The coil inside your belly tightened mercilessly, pulling you higher and higher. He felt it too, in the desperate way you pushed back onto him, in the way your hand clutched his with near-painful force.
âSo fucking tight,â he groaned, hips driving harder, deeper. âSo fucking wet.â Another thrust, harder still. âAnd so fucking perfect. All mine. Always been mine.â
His free hand snaked down between you, fingers finding your clit without hesitation. He circled it in sync with the punishing pace of his hips, rubbing you exactly how you needed. The sharp clash of pleasure was overwhelmingâtoo much and not enough all at once.
Your back arched, hair sticking to your damp skin, every nerve in your body alight. You were right there, teetering on the edge, your cries unraveling into desperate sobs of pleasure as he pushed you closer, closerâ
âConradâI canâtââ you choked out, your voice breaking, and he groaned low in your ear, the sound vibrating through you.
âThatâs it,â he murmured, voice rough but steady, his lips brushing your temple. âDonât hold back, sweetheart. Donât hold back. Iâve got you.â
Your whines grew louder, climbing higher, until they were almost sobs. His teeth sank into your shoulder, a sharp sting lost beneath the firestorm of pleasure.
His hips snapped against yours, every thrust harder, deeper, more desperate. You could feel him trembling behind you, teetering close to his own edge, but he held himself back with sheer will. He wouldnât let go until you did.
âCâmon, sweetheartâŠâ he rasped, his breath hot against your ear. âBe good for me. Youâre gonna come for me, yeah?â
You cried out in answer, your body begging before your mouth could.
âGo ahead,â he urged, voice wrecked but commanding. âI want you to make a mess all over me.â
That was enough. His words sank deep, mixing with the relentless thrusts of his hips, and suddenly you were breaking apart. His name tore from your throat over and over, each syllable ripped raw as the orgasm crashed through you.
It hit like a tsunamiâsharp, merciless, overwhelming. Your whole body shook under him, your walls clenching and pulsing as release drenched him. The rush left you undone, trembling, your face pressed into the cushions as you sobbed his name.
His grunt followed, guttural and broken, hips slamming in ragged rhythm until the dam inside him burst. He spilled into you with a shudder, his warmth flooding your walls as he groaned your name like a prayer. He thrust a few more times, sloppy and desperate, before finally stilling, buried deep.
The room was filled with the sound of your panting, the heavy crash of your breathing as the world stilled around you. He slumped against your back, pinning you down, but neither of you minded.
His lips pressed soft, reverent kisses over the bite mark heâd left on your shoulder. One of his hands stroked down your arm, the other smoothing over your side as though to soothe the aftershocks quaking through you.
Minutes blurred together, lazy and warm.
âMoving in never seemed this enjoyable before,â you muttered breathlessly, cheek pressed to the couch.
He laughed, the sound husky and alive, vibrating against your skin.
And you realized how much youâd missed that soundâmissed himâmissed the way joy could be so simple. All you wanted, from this moment forward, was to be the reason he laughed like that. Not just today, not just for the next sixteen years, but for every year after. Always.
A/N: New Tide is wrapped up! Thank you to everybody who enjoyed Oceans! We hit over 1k under the chapters, and Iâm beyond words. Now, I do have planned a couple of past chapters just to give you insight into the breakup and the four years between that led to Oceans. Also!!! What the hell was that finaleđ I am SO writing the taxi and staircase smut, just you wait
