summary: the moral of the story is don’t let ben poindexter talk himself in or out of anything. the second moral is don’t let him figure out what you actually want. the thing is? you let him do both, and more.
warnings: 18 / Explicit NSFW. morally gray reader (i mean it), brief canon-typical violence, references to attempted murder (fisk had her shot, it comes up), smut: dirty talk, restraints/handcuffs, handjob, edging, orgasm denial, teasing, unprotected sex, situational power dynamic, dex being an unsettling smug bastard about all of it + a little subby.
wc: 4.1K | read it on ao3!
When you’d told Matt to call you if anything came up, you imagined anything but this: keeping an eye on Bullseye.
It turns out, as Matt puts it, that Karen wants the man gone, and by ‘gone’ it doesn’t mean gone from the safe house, it means gone from planet earth. Dead.
Which was conflicting to hear, because the Karen you know wouldn’t want to kill anyone, not with the way Wesley still haunts her, but also? Karen would absolutely want to avenge Foggy, so that’s the crossroad. And according to Matt, that isn’t the only conflict, because he had explicitly said
“I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever, but I also don’t want him free and roaming, I don’t want him killing Fisk and turning him into a fucking martyr.”
So here you are, keeping an eye on him.
And so far it’s been easy, because he went back to sleep. Or well, Matt knocked him out—to be honest— but the point remains, he’s not being an issue. All you have to do is keep things like this until Matt and Karen come back.
Shouldn’t be too hard.
You looked at him again, he laid shirtless in bed, cuffed to the sides. Fresh gauze, alcohol, cotton, a medical stapler and tape sat on the crate beside you, just in case you needed them, which was very likely. They had patched the worst of the wounds before leaving, but the bandages on his side were already seeping again.
You didn’t want to be here. Matt had asked you because he trusted you, an old friend who’d survived Fisk’s wrath once before.—The bald bastard had tried to get you killed, after all— and because Karen had tried to put a bullet in Pointdexter’s head the moment they dragged him in.
To be honest, a part of you, a dark, whispering part, wanted Dex awake and mobile. Wanted him to walk out of here and finish the job Matt refused to fucking do.
But it’s not a matter of what you want.
With a sigh, you made your way to him with the gauze, cotton, alcohol and tape in hand, kneeling next to him on the bed. Your eyes flickered to him, making sure he was still out before daring to touch him. You peeled back the old dressing on his side as carefully as you could. His skin was fever-warm, muscles sculpted even in unconsciousness, marred by fresh bruises and the ugly gunshot wound. You used the cotton and alcohol to wipe him clean again, and then pressed clean gauze over the wound, securing it with tape, trying not to think about how still he was. You tried very hard not to think about how dangerous even this version of him felt, the man could kill people with anything, literally anything.
His hand snapped up without warning.
Fingers locked around your wrist, yanking your hand up against his chest. His eyes flew open, sharp, pale, instantly focused despite the pain. It was an intense stare that pinned you where you knelt beside the bed, it was scary. He didn’t squeeze hard enough to bruise, but there was no escaping his grip.
“You’re not Karen,” he rasped, voice rough from disuse and pain. A faint, crooked smile tugged at the corner of his mouth, it was honestly a little unsettling. “Good. She’d have finished the job by now.”
Your heart slammed against your ribs. You didn’t pull away immediately. “Let go.”
He didn’t, of course. His thumb brushed once over the inside of your wrist, almost curious, feeling your pulse racing under his fingers. “You’re playing nurse for the man who killed your friends’ buddy.” His eyes flicked over your face, reading you. “Matt’s idea?”
“Yeah.” Your voice stayed steady even as heat crawled up your neck. “He had to take Karen somewhere else, you know, before she actually shot you.”
“Smart. She’s got fire. You’re different.” He tilted his head against the thin pillow, still looking up at you like you were the only thing in the room worth focusing on, not that there was much else. The cuffs clinked softly as he tested them without real effort. “And you’ve got that look. You've got your own deal. I’m sure you’ve got a motive of your own to keep me alive.”
You swallowed. The temptation was there again, thick and ugly. All it took was one set of keys to unlock the cuffs. He could slip out, disappear into the city, and do what Matt won’t: end Fisk.
Fisk who sent men to drag you into an alley and put two bullets in your torso because you asked the wrong questions.
You’re tempted to reach for the keys, but Matt’s words echoed right after: killing Fisk now would only make him a martyr. Create ten more Fisk’s in his place.
You hated how reasonable it sounded. You hated how much you still wanted the other, less morally correct option.
“I’m here to keep you alive until Matt gets back,” you said quietly. “That’s the plan.”
His smile widened by degrees until it was a quiet, knowing thing. He loosened his hold on your wrist, though his hand remained heavy against your skin. He sat up with a stifled groan, the movement stiff and careful, you watched his expression tighten, knowing exactly how much those staples must be pulling at his side.
“You’re lying. I can see it in your eyes. Part of you wants me walking out that door, part of you is wondering what I’d do to Fisk if I did.” He licked his dry lips, gaze dropping briefly to your mouth before returning. “I’m good at finishing things. Ask Foggy.”
The name hit you like a slap. You twisted your wrist free from his grip, standing up fast. Your hand hovered near the gun at your hip. “Don’t.”
“You know I could take him out.”
“You won’t.”
Dex watched you, calm as ever, even while restrained, bleeding, unarmed and in a clear disadvantage. “Why not? You know what he is. What he almost did to you.” His voice softened, almost gentle. It was fucking eerie coming from someone who holds no regard for feelings. “I’m still balancing the scales. You could help tip them.”
“Who told you about that?”
“I know Fisk tried to get you killed in an alley like a dog that needed to be put down, and I know you’re not happy about that.” He kept talking, and you’re not sure if he’s trying to taunt you or if he’s acknowledging what you went through when no one else seemed to be able to.
“You don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“I do,” he debated, rightfully so. “I know he sent his men to kill you, your friends know this too, and yet, the man responsible for it is walking around still, free and as the mayor. And… What are your friends doing? Nothing”.
“Don’t.” You tried interrupting him, but he kept going. The gift that keeps on giving.
“They won’t deal with him themselves, and they won’t let me deal with him either—“
“Stop it,” You said, more firmly this time. Without realizing it, your body leaned forward, one knee bending onto the edge of the mattress as you hovered over him, drawn in by his words despite yourself.
“—Which means that your friends are doing nothing to avenge you, you almost got killed and they did nothing.”
“Shut up!” You finally gave in to his provocations and had a reaction, which is what he probably wanted. Your voice came out sharper than intended, breathier, the space between you now dangerously small.
The air felt too thick. You could hear your own breathing, could see the way his chest rose and fell right beneath you, the hard line of muscle leading down to his v line, covered by his sweatpants.
He noticed where your eyes went and tilted his head, shifting his hips deliberately.
That made you draw the gun at him.
“Enough.” The barrel leveled at his chest. “Not another word.”
Dex’s eyes flicked up to yours again. That slow, crooked smile returned, the bastard was having fun despite everything. “You’re not gonna shoot me,”
You kept the gun steady, still leaning over him, hovering close enough that the heat of his body rose up to meet you. You had no intention of pulling the trigger, this is not the way you did things, but the weight of the gun felt necessary.
You held his gaze. He looked up at you from the bed, that intense, unblinking stare locking onto yours, with slightly parted lips, eyes dark and focused only on you. The silence stretched, thick and dangerous.
One twist of the key… Let him go. Let him finish it. The thought slithered back in, hot and treacherous, twisting right alongside the sharp awareness of how close you were to him, with your knee planted on the mattress, body leaning over his, gun steady between you. His warmth radiated up through the thin space that remained. You could smell the faint copper of blood, sweat, and something darker underneath.
Your eyes betrayed you. They dropped.
He was hard. Painfully, obviously hard beneath the thin gray sweats, the thick outline straining against the fabric as he sat upright on the bed, using his strong arms to steady himself, legs slightly spread.
You scoffed, half-shocked. “Seriously?”
Dex followed your gaze. For two full seconds his face flickered, genuine mortification flashing across those sharp, blood-crusted features. His ears went pink.
“You’re very close, and I’m still a man,” he said, voice low and rough, almost apologetic for that split second before the smugness crept back in.
You let out a sharp, disbelieving laugh. “A weird man, yes. Who gets hard when someone points a gun at him?”
He tilted his head, that unsettling little smile returning even as his breathing grew heavier. Oh.
“Guess so.” His tongue slowly wet his lower lip. “Yet I’m not getting slapped… So what does that say about you?”
“Shut up.”
Oh, that got him smirking.
The gun stayed pointed at his chest, your finger nowhere near the trigger. Your eyes kept flicking down despite yourself. You kept noticing how the thin gray sweats tented obscenely, how the thick, heavy line of his cock strained against the fabric, a small wet spot already darkening the material right at the head.
Dex didn’t look away from your face. His breathing had deepened, each inhale pulling at the fresh bandages you’d just taped down. The cuffs rattled faintly as he tested them again, not hard enough to break free, but enough that the metal bit into his wrists. His gaze dropped to your mouth for a long second, then back up, pupils blown wide and dark.
“You’re not gonna shoot me,” he said again, quieter this time. “And you’re not gonna walk away either. Not with the way you’re looking at me.”
Your free hand moved before you could stop it. You fisted your fingers in his short hair at the nape of his neck and yanked his head back sharply, exposing the long line of his throat. A low, involuntary sound escaped him— not quite a groan, but close— his Adam’s apple bobbed. His eyes stayed locked on yours, pupils flaring even wider at the rough treatment. He didn’t fight it. If anything, his hips shifted forward a fraction, cock twitching visibly in the sweats.
“Tell me to stop,” you said, voice low and steady, searching his face.
The moral storm still raged in your chest: Matt’s trust, Karen’s grief, Fisk’s smug face while his men dragged you. But right now, with Dex’s pulse hammering under your grip and the way he was staring at you,, it all felt distant.
Dex’s tongue darted out, wetting his lower lip again. His stare never wavered. “Don’t stop.”
The words were simple. No hesitation.
You leaned in and crushed your mouth to his, he was already meeting you halfway.
The kiss was messy, desperate, teeth clashing because he surged up to meet you as much as the cuffs and his injuries allowed. His lips were a little dry from dehydration and blood, but he kissed like he was starving, open-mouthed, tongue sliding against yours with surprising heat. The kiss tasted like the metallic taste of blood mixed with salt and something unmistakably him. He groaned into your mouth, the sound vibrating against your tongue as he instinctively tried to raise his hands to touch you. The cuffs clinked hard against the sides of the bed frame, metal biting into skin, but he didn’t stop pulling, didn’t stop chasing your mouth.
You tugged his hair harder, tilting his head exactly how you wanted, and he let you, melted into it with another low, hungry noise. His cock jumped against the fabric, hips rolling up in a helpless little thrust that made the sweats stretch obscenely.
When you finally broke the kiss for air, a thin string of spit connected your lips for a second before breaking. His eyes were half-lidded, lips shiny and swollen, that unsettling little smile gone, replaced by raw want.
“Fuck,” he rasped, voice wrecked. His gaze flicked down to where your knee was still planted on the mattress between his spread thighs, then back up to your mouth. “Do that again.”
You didn’t answer with words. Instead, you holstered the gun—not trusting yourself with it anymore— and climbed fully onto the bed, straddling his lap. The moment your weight settled over his hips, his cock pressed hot and rigid against your core through the layers of clothing. He hissed through his teeth, head staying upright as his hips bucked up once, grinding into you with surprising force for someone cuffed and bleeding.
You shoved his sweats down just enough to free his cock. It slapped heavy and thick against his lower belly, flushed dark, the head already slick with pre-cum that beaded at the slit and dripped down the shaft. He was big, longer than you expected, with a slight upward curve and a thick vein running along the underside.
Your hand wrapped around him without preamble, but you didn’t stroke him properly. Not yet. You kept your grip loose and torturously slow, sliding your palm from root to tip in long, dragging pulls, thumb barely grazing the sensitive head each time. Every time his hips twitched up chasing more friction, you eased off just enough to deny him the pleasure.
Dex’s breath hitched, eyes fluttering but staying locked on your face. His pupils were huge, dark, and when you gave one particularly slow twist around the head, smearing pre-cum everywhere before pulling your hand almost all the way off, a low, wrecked sound escaped him. He loved it. The denial, the suffering. You could see it in the way his abs clenched, in the desperate little jerks of his hips that he couldn’t fully control.
You leaned in close, lips brushing his ear as you edged him again, stroking just fast enough to make his cock throb in your fist before slowing to a crawl. “This is what you get for taunting me,” you whispered, voice rough. “For knowing exactly what I want and dangling it in front of me.”
He didn’t beg. He just stared at your lips, hungry and unblinking, chest heaving. When you squeezed tighter on the upstroke and then stopped completely, letting his cock twitch uselessly in the air, his wrists yanked hard at the cuffs on either side of him. The metal rattled violently against the bed frame, but he couldn’t reach you. He couldn’t touch your thighs, couldn’t grab your hips. All he could do was take it, sitting upright, muscles straining, cock leaking steadily over your fingers.
“Fuck… yeah,” he rasped, voice low and rough, almost reverent. His gaze never left your mouth. “Keep going. Just like that.”
You stroked him again, faster this time, fist gliding slick and tight until his thighs started to tremble and his breathing turned ragged, and then you stopped, pulling your hand away entirely. His cock bobbed angrily against his stomach, flushed and dripping, and Dex let out a shaky exhale, head tilting back slightly before snapping forward again to watch you.
The moral battle roared back louder than ever while you tortured him like this. Matt had asked you to keep Dex alive— locked up, controlled— so he wouldn’t kill Fisk and turn the bastard into a martyr. Karen wanted him dead for Foggy, her hands already stained enough by Wesley. And you… you wanted Fisk gone more than almost anything. The alley, the bullets tearing through you, the fear… it still woke you up some nights. Dex would do it. You knew it in your bones. If you uncuffed him right now and whispered the words, he’d walk out of here and end Wilson Fisk without a second thought.
He’d love it. He’d do it for the sport, for the balance, and maybe— just maybe—a little for you.
But Matt’s voice echoed in your head: I cannot let her kill him and do something that will haunt her forever. And you knew he was right. Killing Fisk now would only create ten more monsters in his place.
Still, with Dex sitting there cuffed to the sides of the bed, cock throbbing in your hand, eyes dark with want and that eerie calm acceptance… The temptation to just let him go afterward was thicker than ever.
You gave him one more slow, punishing stroke—tight, twisting, dragging your thumb hard over the leaking slit— then stopped again, watching his face twist with frustrated pleasure.
“Enough,” you finally growled, voice breaking with your own need. You stripped your pants and underwear off in one rough motion, kicking them aside. Then you climbed back over him properly, lining his cock up with your entrance. You were soaked, already embarrassingly wet from the power, the wrongness, the sheer intensity of edging him while he sat there helpless and loving every second of it.
You sank down onto him in one slow, relentless slide.
The stretch burned in the best way, his thick cock splitting you open as you took every inch. Dex’s head stayed upright, eyes rolling back for a second as a guttural groan ripped from his chest. “So fucking tight— Jesus Christ.”
You bottomed out with a moan, hips flush against his. For a moment you just sat there, letting yourself adjust, feeling him throb deep inside you while he remained sitting, cuffed hands useless at his sides. Then, when it stopped being too much, you started moving, slow, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged his cock against every sensitive spot inside you.
His hands were useless, cuffed tight to the sides of the bed, so all he could do was take it. Take every roll of your hips, every clench of your pussy around him. His abs flexed with every thrust, the bandages on his side darkening further, but he didn’t care. He just stared up at you with raw hunger, lips parted, occasionally bucking up to meet you when he could, the cuffs rattling with each desperate pull.
You braced one hand on his sweat-slick chest, the other fisting his short hair again as you started riding him in earnest. Slow at first, then faster with deep, grinding rolls of your hips that dragged every thick inch of his cock along your walls, the wet squelch of your soaked pussy swallowing him obscenely loud in the quiet room.
That should’ve sobered you up, it didn’t.
Dex stayed sitting upright, cuffed hands useless at his sides, but he didn’t stay passive. Every time you leaned closer, chasing the friction on your clit against his pelvis, he craned his neck forward with a low, hungry sound. His lips found your throat, hot and open-mouthed, sucking messy marks into the skin just below your jaw while his tongue dragged greedily along your pulse point. When you slammed down taking him to the hilt, he groaned against your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive spot hard enough to sting before soothing it with his tongue.
“Fuck- so wet,” he rasped between kisses, voice wrecked and rough, lips brushing your collarbone as you rode him faster. “Can feel you dripping down… squeezing me so fucking tight every time you sink down.”
His hips bucked up to meet your downward strokes as much as the pain and cuffs allowed, the motion limited but forceful, driving his cock deeper with every thrust. The cuffs rattled violently against the sides of the bed with each desperate yank, metal biting into his wrists, veins standing out along his forearms as he strained uselessly to touch you. He wanted to grab your hips, to pull you down harder, to feel your skin under his palms so badly that his fingers curled into tight fists, tugging harder every time your pussy clenched around him.
You ground down in tight circles, the head of his cock dragging against that perfect spot inside you with every roll, your clit rubbing slick and insistent against the base of his shaft. Dex’s head tilted, lips latching onto the side of your neck again, sucking hard as a broken grunt vibrated against your skin. His breath came in hot, ragged pants between each messy kiss, tongue flicking out to taste the salt of your sweat.
“Harder,” he muttered against your throat, the word half-command, half-plea, but he didn’t beg, just kept staring up at you with those blown pupils whenever you pulled back enough to meet his gaze. Another violent tug at the cuffs made the bed frame creak as you bounced on his cock, the wet slap of your ass meeting his thighs growing louder, filthier.
Your walls fluttered around his thick length, the stretch burning so good as you took him deeper, feeling every vein and ridge as you rode him without mercy. Dex’s abs clenched visibly under your palm, and he groaned louder when you traced them with your fingers, mouth chasing your neck again, licking a broad stripe up the column of your throat before biting down lightly, hips stuttering up to fuck into you from below.
The pleasure coiled tighter, your pussy gripping him like a vice with every downstroke, slick sounds echoing as you slammed yourself onto his cock over and over. Dex’s breathing turned into shallow, desperate grunts against your skin, his cock twitching and pulsing hot inside you, the head nudging your cervix with every brutal grind.
When you came, it hit like a freight train. A good one. Your pussy clamping down rhythmically around his throbbing cock, a sharp cry tearing from your throat as you ground down hard, riding out every pulsing wave while your nails dug into his chest.
Dex followed right after with a low, “Fuck—”, his hips jerking up as much as he could, cock pulsing deep inside you as he spilled thick, hot ropes of cum, flooding your pussy while he stayed sitting upright, lips pressed open-mouthed against your neck through the whole thing.
The room fell quiet except for your shared, ragged breathing.
You stayed there for a long moment, still impaled on his softening cock, both of you slick with sweat and cum and a little blood from his reopened wounds. Your fingers loosened in his hair, stroking through the short strands almost gently now.
Dex’s eyes were half-closed, but he was still watching you, only that now that intense, pale stare had softened just a fraction by the afterglow. His voice, when it came, was rough and quiet.
“…You still gonna keep me locked up?”
You didn’t answer right away. The moral storm was already creeping back in, quieter now, but still there. Matt’s request. Karen’s rage. Fisk still breathing.
But the way Dex had looked at you when he said “don’t stop,” the way he’d yanked at those cuffs like he’d die if he couldn’t touch you… you knew one thing for certain.
He would do it if you asked, he’d walk out of here and put a bullet in Fisk’s head without blinking.
And a dark, treacherous part of you was starting to wonder how long you could keep pretending you didn’t want that, too.
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aerion targaryen x daeron's wife!reader, daeron targaryen x wife!reader
aerion overhears you and daeron having sex and becomes obsessed with his brother's wife.
1.2k+ words.
cw: fem!reader, no y/n, dom!reader, sub!daeron, aerion doesn't think he's a sub but realizes he is for you, aerion's creepy pervert behaviour, aerion's misogyny, edging, mentions of bondage, one 'good boy', mildly incestuous connotations
the targaryen retinue is travelling and the walls in this castle are less thick than those of the red keep. aerion's lying in bed when he starts to hear a noticeable thud thud thud coming from his brother's room. soon he can hearing groaning and whimpering and little 'uh uh uh'. it's muffled, but obvious enough what's going on. aerion smirks and starts stroking his cock without even a hint of shame.
***
the next morning at breakfast, aerion sees daeron and is ready to start shit. slyly asks his brother how his evening ride was. makes all sorts of crude remarks, asks if the mare was an easy enough ride. if she struggled to bear his weight. if his mount was all worn out now. but daeron is just confused and it's no fun if his food doesn't realize it's being played with. so aerion outright says "could hear you and your ride last night. didn't think you had it in you, but it sounded like your wife thoroughly enjoyed herself."
and daeron is so annoyed with his little shit of a brother, mostly for the disrespect towards you. and he probably should keep his mouth shut but he doesn't. "you're the one obsessed with our family's history. you should know dragons don't ride. they're ridden."
and daeron leaves to return to his wife's side. aerion watches the two of you and notices for the first time that it's daeron who nuzzles into and is utterly devoted to you.
***
aerion's never deemed you worthy of much attention, but now he can't stop thinking about you and wondering what exactly you do to his brother.
aerion doesn't have many opportunities to speak with you without another's presence. but when he does he probes with devious questions, testing you. compliments your horsemanship. asks how you manage to tame a stallion. plays at being the good brother by commenting on how happy daeron seemed with you. how much he had improved under your...influence. is so bold as to acknowledge that his brother had given up whoring for you, a sure sign of his...happiness in the marriage.
if you understand his meanings, you don't let on, and aerion may be bold but he is also intentional. he can't be too direct lest he ruin the game.
***
because the family is travelling, he has the opportunity to sneak into your things. aerion goes into your room and takes one of your dresses, the lowest cut one, and uses it to fist his cock until he cums thinking about you riding him. he leaves it in a bunch on the floor. he assumes the servants must have found it and if they recognized what the residue was, they didn't raise the alarm. he also stole your perfume before he left.
he listens every night but he doesn't hear you fucking his brother again. he groans in frustration.
he finds a whore that looks a little like you, if he squints. he makes her wear your perfume. aerion gets her to ride him, but it's not right, she's too careful about it. she's not making him feel whatever you made daeron feel. he flips the whore over and fucks her, but ultimately finds the experience disappointing.
he tries to linger outside the bathing house the party stops at so he can sneak a glimpse at you, but the ladies are too well guarded and he spots his father and has to make himself scarce.
***
the weeks that drag on are torturous. finally, the retinue returns to king's landing and aerion has his chance. that night he uses the secret passages in the red keep, one of which fortuitously leads to daeron's room. he peers in through a crack in the wall and, just as he hoped, finds you taking advantage of having your husband all to yourself.
daeron's laid out on the floor while you ride him, both naked. his mouth's hanging open and he's whimpering. his hands grasp at the rug and it's obvious to aerion that you've told daeron he's not allowed to touch you.
"please please please" daeron moans.
"what do you want, dear husband?" you smirk down at him.
"w-want to suck on your tits."
you grip his hair and pull daeron to sit up. daeron's practically drooling, dipping his head down towards your pretty breasts, when you shove him back down on the rug again. daeron whines.
you lean down, tits bouncing near his face but not close enough.
"do i need to tie you down?"
"n-no," he stammers.
"is my husband going to be good for me?" you purr.
"s-so good!"
aerion's cock is out and he's touching himself, matching your rhythm so he can pretend it's his cock you're riding. he speeds up as you do. you're both going faster and aerion can feel himself getting closer and see that daeron's the same.
then, you stop.
daeron cries and grasps at the rug. and, though aerion had no intention of stopping, no desire to stop, he found his hand no longer moving. aerion's face presses against the wall and he pants, hard.
you pull daeron up into a sitting position and your legs wrap around his back. both you and daeron moan, the position evidently pushing him even deeper inside you. you begin moving again and aerion can see you're riding for your pleasure, not your husband's, though the sounds daeron is making make it obvious he's still very much enjoying it. aerion began stroking his cock again.
you stick your fingers in daeron's open mouth and he obediently begins sucking on them. you ride your husband again faster and faster until you suddenly stop short again. daeron is distraught and aerion only manages to remain quiet by biting his fist as he also stops touching himself, though he keeps a tight grip on the base of his cock.
daeron's actually crying and aerion wonders if his brother is this pathetic (hypocrite, he's hardly any better) or if you'd edged him before this. maybe even denied him for days.
"you're going to cum if i keep going, aren't you, sweetheart?" you cooed.
daeron nodded and whimpered.
"well, i can't have that. you look too perfect like this. my good boy." you cooed.
aerion's hips jerked forward.
"but it's not fair i don't get to keep having fun just because you can't control yourself, is it?"
daeron shook his head.
aerion never understood the stories of men who brought kingdoms to war and ruin over desire for a woman. seemed too much trouble for some cunt. aerion had assumed it was romantic nonsense, the work of storytellers, but it's now obvious to aerion his brother would agree to anything you said in that moment. give you anything you asked for. anything at all. daeron was completely pathetic and miserable and utterly weak for you, it was embarassing.
gods, aerion envies him.
you untangle yourself from daeron, your bodies separating with a wet sound that has aerion's hips thrusting again. he can't help it. he can't deny himself. he keeps pumping as you drape yourself across yours' and your husband's bed.
you spread your legs wide. aerion can see every inch of you. his hips buck uncontrollably as daeron crawls towards your exposed pussy.
daeron presses his face between your legs and licks a stripe up your cunt. you moan, and that does it for aerion.
aerion cums, hard, biting his fist until he tastes blood.
he's shaking all over as his body comes down. aerion feels he could topple over, but he braces himself against the wall. he can't rest now.
not when he's about to enjoy watching his brother eat your pretty cunt.
secret!perv Dunk & a not-secret-at-all perv!fem reader
Seperate, but could be read as part of this —> universe.
a/n: This was supposed to be short and smutty bc that’s just where I am right now. It’s fucking 4k words. I have a problem, her name is plot.
mdni! this is 18+ for the following: fem! receiving oral, extremely lustful thoughts over dunk the hunk, semi-exhibitionism for half a sec, and p in v
(absolutely ZERO physical descriptions of the reader. That’s one of my gripes with GoT fics: a house name always comes with house features. NOT HERE, baby!)
wc: 4k
It’s entirely possible that he’s catching on to you. But that might be giving Dunk too much credit.
It doesn’t matter how many times you remind him you’re bastard born. You're not a proper lady. You’re not some virtuous maid.
He still treats you as such.
You suppose it’s sweet. A gentlemanly behavior you’re nought like to get from any other knight you might travel with. But it is driving you wild.
Dunk is a big man, large and thick with muscles you want to sink your teeth into. But he’ll only kiss you, tug your hair a bit and then be on his way. He doesn’t push you against a tree, ruck up your skirts and take you right there. He never accepts your invitations to bed you at the inns you stay at.
He’s just good.
Too good.
You’re a well-traveled woman. You’ve grown to have hungry tastes. And maybe you’re spoiled, but you’re used to having that hunger sated when you want.
Dunk isn’t like to simply hand you what you want. No, this torture of his is slow and tiring. You’ve never begged a man for anything. But you’re this close to mounting his thigh and pleading he just allow you one night with him.
Gods, perhaps your father's perversions do run in your veins.
“Gods above, I can no longer handle the stench of us,” you bemoan. You bring your horse up beside Dunk’s. “Ser, you must find me a stream. Something to clean myself in.”
Dunk purses his lips. He ought to say no. It’d be better to travel another day before stopping for something so frivolous. But then you’re tugging at the collar of your dress, letting out a groan of discomfort as your breasts become dangerously more exposed.
He clears his throat, ripping his eyes away, missing the disappointed scowl you wear. “Alright,” he croaks, not at all because he knows you’ll ask him to guard you while you bathe. And not at all because he knows there’ll be a split second where he might actually be able to see something.
Because he is a knight. A hedge knight, but an honorable one nonetheless. And an honorable man does not sneak glances at women he’s sworn to protect while they’re vulnerable.
And naked.
And dripping-
No.
It’s not too much time later that you all come upon a stream deep within the woods. Egg runs off first, off to hunt something for dinner. He knows to avoid the water until you’ve finished, but Dunk doesn’t have much of a choice.
Because of course, you need your big, strong knight to aid you. Nevermind the fact that your father had you trained by a Braavosi Water Dancer. You need Dunk.
For reasons.
“Come along,” you call and Dunk clears his throat, tugging on his pants as he follows. He feels no better than a hound, trained to salivate at the sound of rushing water.
You cast a look over your shoulder, spinning your finger and he nods, turning away. But he misses how you watch him, slipping off your dress and hoping to catch him steal a look.
When he doesn’t, you try not to let your disappointment show, reaching down to tug your dress off the rest of the way. Dunk glances over his shoulder, nearly choking as his eyes drag along the curve of your skin, the slight arch in your lower back as you walk into the stream.
He shakes his head, forcing himself to turn away, hand on the hilt of his sword. He's a horrible man. All he can think of is how he wished you had turned around.
“Here, m’lady,” he takes your hand and helps you onto your horse. One large palm cups the curve of your rear as you swing your leg over the saddle. You’ve learned to ignore that touch as nothing more than a helping hand. Dunk has no such luck, the feel of you burned into his skin.
He gets up behind you. Your own horse had to be sold to afford some more rations for the road. Until you can scrounge enough coppers, you’re stuck with Dunk.
Honestly, he probably should have let you ride with Egg. He’s already big enough for his own mount; Thunder don’t need another weight to carry. But, selfishly, he enjoys the feel of you pressed up against his chest, your soft curves rubbing against his arms as he holds the reins.
And you, you certainly wouldn’t complain at whatever rare form of contact he’ll allow you. Especially not when he bucks his hips, urging Thunder on. But you know you’ve reached a fresh hell in your life when he whispers praise to the creature and you’re jealous of the damnable thing.
The group of you stops off at a local village market. The place seems familiar to you, somehow, but you can’t place it. Dunk goes off to ask after some work around the area, to see if he can make some spare change.
Egg doesn’t wish to join him and listen to the boring pleasantries. Dunk permits his leave only if he swears that he won’t leave your side. Egg promises, of course, none of you realize that Dunk’s just damned you all.
You probably would have been able to get out of this if it weren’t for Egg’s big mouth.
You stand before a fruit vendor, eyeing the apples and checking for any wormholes. The man behind the stall is casting you an odd look that is beginning to make your skin crawl.
“I know you?” He suddenly snaps and you jump at the volume of his voice.
“Er, no, I don’t think you do.” You cast him a wary glare as you debate abandoning your search for a half-decent taste besides salt beef.
Before you can leave, his hand snaps out, clammy hold wrenching up your wrist. “Sir!”
“I do know you. You stole my favorite mount!”
Your eyes widen as you suddenly realize who this man is. A year past, when you first began traveling with Egg. You’d passed through this village on the way from Storm’s End. Daeron, drunk and testing the true boldness of a Baratheon bastard, had promised one hundred gold stags if you stole this man’s horse.
There was nothing against this man in particular. But it was quite possibly one of the most gorgeous mounts you’d ever seen. A Dornish steed, you were sure, with a coat like fire and sand. Of course, you’d done it. You just hadn’t thought that anyone had seen you.
“I’m afraid you’re confused-“
A shocked gasp cuts you off. “It’s him!”
You whip around and see Egg staring up at the man. You rip your wrist from the vendor’s hold and slap your hand around Egg’s mouth.
“What was that, boy?” He barks out, leaning over the table.
“Nothing, sir, please. My boy- he was knocked in the head by a mule, that's why he’s bald as he is, truly.” Egg rips from your hold and stomps down on your foot.
You jump back with a gasp, hands swiping out at him. “Unhand me,” he snaps. “I was not kicked in the head!”
Your eyes clench shut as the vendor growls,” Guards!” He shouts. “Guards!”
“Oh,” Egg’s face drops as he realizes his blunder. You let out a groan and snatch up his wrist, racing through the stalls. The fruit merchant calls after you but you keep going, ignoring the clash of armor as the guards follow close behind.
“Next time I silence you, stay quiet.” You growl down at Egg. He’s too busy looking over his shoulder to nod. Eyes wide with panic as he follows alongside you.
Through some blessed mercy, you manage to find Dunk. You grab his arm, turning him away from the barkeep he’d been speaking to. “Oi,” he trails off as he takes in your face. “What’d ya do?”
“Problem,” you pant out. A loud shout catches your attention and you all turn to see the guards just behind you. “Big problem!”
You’re cut off by your own yelp as Dunk squats down. He presses his shoulder to your stomach, lifting you as easy as he would a sack of potatoes. You let out a little squeal as he straightens, hauling Egg up in his other arm.
Your hands scramble for grip along his back as he hightails out of the market. You can’t believe his stamina as he runs with you all.
It’s actually all you can think about now. Wondering how this translates to other aspects of his life as he gets back to the horses.
He sets you down with a huff and eases Egg onto his horse before returning to you. You don’t get to enjoy the feel of his hand around you for long before the guards catch up.
“Hiyah,” his hips buck against yours and you let out a low, frustrated groan as he urges the horses on.
Dunk lays a heavy hand around your waist as he helps you down from your horse. You rest your weight against him, pretending not to notice how he stares down your dress as you push your chest up.
“Are you coming?” Egg shouts and then Dunk’s releasing you. Your fists clench at your sides as you let out a belligerent curse. You love the prince, but you’ll have to find a way to get rid of the boy for a night.
With a low grumble, you follow behind the pair, plotting to yourself all the while. You’re fine enough admitting that you’re perverted as you watch Dunk’s nicely shaped rear as he walks. But you wish you could say the same about him.
You’ve seen glimpses of his true hunger. Moments where he’s shoved a knee between your legs and hauled you up his body. Or squeezed a little harshly at your backside while his tongue explored your mouth.
But he always drifts away just before you really get to taste it. There must be a way to tempt a virtuous man. You’ve broken monks before, Gods above. A simple hedge knight should not be proving such a challenge.
“Are you gonna be alright here?” Dunk asks you, standing amid a camp of other traveling knights. You’re somewhere in the Reach, growing ever closer to Egg’s destination of the Red Lake.
It’s happenstance that you found yourself in the company of so many rugged men just as your patience snapped. Not to say you would lie with any of them. No, your lusts are solely for the knight beside you. But they could prove incredibly helpful to your plan.
“I have you, don’t I?” You ask, glancing up at Dunk with wide eyes and a coy smile. He flushes slightly before backing off with a stiff nod.
“Of course, m’lady.”
“I’m not a lady, Dunk,” you remind him. “Far from it,” you mutter, dragging your hand along his waist as you pass by. Dunk jolts under your touch, posture going stiff straight. It’s almost laughable if you weren’t so frustrated.
You wander off to help Egg set up the tents and smile when you see him chatting eagerly with the other squires. You don’t feel the stare burning into your back. Or catch how Dunk’s head tilts, catching the curve of your hips as you walk.
He shakes his head, cursing himself, and wanders off toward the other knights. He’s damned straight to the hells, he’s sure of it. Being tempted by a kind woman such as yourself. You cannot help that you’re beautiful. It ain’t your fault he’s so easily tempted by you.
Except it is.
Later, sitting around the fire, you realize the knights really don’t have any proper accommodations for a lady. No seat to rest on, only the hard earth or flaking logs. Well, that simply won’t do.
You trail your hand across Dunk’s shoulders, grinning at the way he shudders. You come to a stop by his side and he glances up at you with eager-to-please eyes. “Do you mind, Ser?” You whisper.
He frowns but then you’re uncrossing his arms and making room for yourself as you drop on his lap. Dunk immediately goes stiff, mind racing as his hands hover at your sides.
You simply hum, taking his hands in yours and wrapping them around your waist. Warmth emanates from you, the soft curve of your breasts rests atop his arm and it’s the only thing he can feel.
He knows he’d been speaking to another knight before this. Gods only know what he’d been saying. You laugh as you continue the conversation for him, conversing as if your mind isn’t as disturbed as his. Must not be.
Dunk lets out a low grunt, shifting his thighs so you can’t feel the steadily growing bulge in his pants. Your nails dig into his thighs as he readjusts, shooting him an odd look. Dunk can only offer a tense smile, trying to tilt his hips so you don’t brush against him.
He lets his hand rest along your thigh, thumb moving restlessly against you. You shift at that, thighs clenching as you push back against him. His breath hitches as you finally catch what he’s been trying to hide. He waits for you to storm off, to curse him for being so perverted. But you don’t, if anything, you seem to move closer, a low sigh slipping from your lips as you shift further against him.
All Dunk can think about is lifting your skirts and taking you there. Pushing you into the grass and leaves and mounting you like an animal.
You let out a sharp gasp, and he glances down, having pushed you from his lap without realizing it. “Oh, m’lady,” he reaches for you but you slap his hands away. “‘M sorry.”
“Enough,” you shake your head and let out a tired sigh. “Enough,” you mutter, stepping away from the fire. Dunk watches you go, something tight twisting his chest.
“Oi,” one of the knights slaps him. “How much does she cost?”
Dunk’s brow furrows and he shakes his head. “My lady isn’t a whore.”
The man backs off with his hands raised. “Sorry, lad, didn’t realize she was your woman.”
“No,” Dunk shakes his head, ready to correct the other man. But he doesn’t want any of them thinking that you’re up for grabs. That any part of you might be open to them. It’s not his place to make that decision. And he’s sure he’s doing you a disservice, but Dunk can’t care about that right now.
He gets to his feet, checks that Egg is still with the other squires, and goes traipsing after you. He follows your trail all the way to a stream. You’re kneeling by it, hand lazily dipping through the water.
His boot snaps against a branch and you leap to your feet. “It’s just me,” he assuages. You turn with a small smile. “I’m sorry-“
“No,” you cut him off and he huffs. “I’m sorry, Ser. I’m afraid I’ve been unfair.”
“Unfair?”
“I am not a lady, Dunk. I have needs. Needs as bad as any man. But I’m afraid I’ve been blinded by lust. Forcing my affections on you when you haven’t wanted them. I’ve shamed myself, I’m sorry.”
Dunk’s jaw drops as he stares at you. “Affections- Needs?” He rakes a hand through his hair and shakes his head. “You haven’t forced anything, woman, what the hell are you talking about?”
You’re frowning now. “By the fire when you… well you were-“
“Hard,” Dunk finishes and your eyes blow wide.
“Gods, I hadn’t thought you capable of such crass language.”
“I’m a knight, not a lady,” he chides you and that drags a laugh from you. “Are you saying, all this time, you’ve known what you’re doing?” Dunk stalks closer and he catches a gleam in your eye that he can’t believe he hadn’t noticed before.
“Well,” you take a step closer to him. “Yes,” you laugh under your breath. It cuts off as he reaches out, snagging your waist in his hands and pulling you closer.
“All this-“
“Enough talking,” you groan, pushing onto your toes and grabbing his cheeks. You pull him down, lips crashing against his as you back him up. He lets out a low groan as his back hits a tree, hands roaming greedily along your body.
You can’t believe how stupid you’ve both been. Well, you can believe him. But Gods, how blinded by lust have you been that you haven’t seen such obvious signs from him?
Perhaps he’s far more discreet than you’d given him credit for. Or, you’re losing your touch.
Dunk’s hand cups your jaw, finger squeezing lightly at your cheeks as your lips part. His tongue wastes no time, dipping between your parted lips as you let out a low moan. He flips you both around, pushing you up against the tree as he lowers himself.
You catch your breath as he breaks away from you. Hands greedy as they sweep along the hem of your dress, hiking it up above your hips. You almost question him, but the sight of his broad shoulders parting your thighs shuts you up.
“May I?” He asks, fingers coasting the edge of your undergarments. Your hand smooths along his cheek, up to his hair as you nod. He wastes little time in ripping the flimsy fabric apart, nose dipping low and brushing against you.
“Oh,” you let out a shaky moan, head falling back against the rough bark as his tongue darts out, a tentative taste of you. It’s alarming how quick he is to flatten his tongue and drag it along the length of you. How quick he is to grow greedy. Large hands pinching at your thighs as he hikes one over his shoulder, practically drowning in you as he buries his face deep.
“Gods above,” you hiss, biting down on your palm so you don’t alert the entire forest to your perversions. You feel Dunk’s smug smirk as he lifts you, tilting his head to allow his tongue a deeper angle inside you.
You’ve lain with plenty of men before. But you don’t think you’ve ever met one so eager, so hungry for your release on his tongue. A sharp cry leaves you as your hands tighten in his hair, hips bucking against his large nose as he sucks on your small bundle of nerves.
“Dunk,” you gasp out, core pulsing near painfully as your pleasure mounts. He doesn’t stop, if anything you seem to be encouraging him. Rapid, bucking hips grow desperate as you chase your release.
“Come on,” he urges, eyes eager as he spares you a brief glance. That look in his eyes seems to be enough as you cry out his name, chasing your release. He reaches up, large hand smothering the bottom half of your face as your pleasure crashes over you. Your moans go muffled against his palm, eyes burning with unshed tears as he slowly lifts himself.
He waits for you to calm down, thumbs rubbing circles into your hips as he presses soft kisses along the curve of your neck.
When you finally catch your breath, you only have one question. “Where the bloody hell did a hedge knight learn that?”
Dunk snorts and leans back. “I’m not a blushing maid,” he admonishes.
“Could’ve fooled me,” you tease.
Dunk shakes his head, dipping down for another hungry kiss. You can taste your release on his tongue and it only stokes the fires of your lust. “Please,” you beg, reaching for his breeches.
His hand stills yours and he leans back, looking shamefully at the ground. “I’m quite… big,” he warns you.
You pull back with a huff. “You say that like it’s a problem. Not a maiden, need I remind you?” You scold him.
“Yes, well-“
“Dunk, do you wish to lay with me?”
His eyes go wide as he nods eagerly. “Then relax, love.” It doesn’t seem to sate him much, but it’s enough for you. You work on the laces of his breeches while his own hand clumsily undoes the ties of your dress.
He pulls it down just enough for your breasts to spill out, palms greedily cupping them as he dips his head to kiss you once more. You don’t get a chance to see what’s between his legs. But you feel the weight of it in your palm. The length, the girth.
Lords above, he might be right.
But you’re a Stormborn. You don’t back away from danger. You run to it. Or, in this case, allow it to split you in two.
“Are you sure?”
“Please, Dunk,” you encourage, wrapping one leg around his hip while he pushes your skirts back up. He spares you one last look before nodding. His hands cup your thighs and you let out a small moan as he lifts you easily, pressing you higher against the tree.
It’s been a while since you’ve lain with a man. But not so long that it feels like losing your maidenhead again. Dunk’s slow as he guides himself inside you, and you’ve been wanting him so long, you hardly feel the sting of his size.
The only thing your lustful body can think of is how deeply you want him to bury himself. Your nails drag through his hair, scratching at his scalp as you press hungry kisses along his jaw, his neck, before sinking your teeth into his shoulder.
He lets out a low hiss, grip turning bruising around your legs as he buries himself completely. The moan you let out is sinful, the pressure inside you feels close to exploding as he rests there for a moment.
“Gods,” he lets out a low noise that has pleasurable shivers running up your spine.
You pull back from him, tilting his chin down. “Please, move.” He gives you a shaky nod, one arm bracing against the tree as he uses the other to adjust you. Even that small movement is enough to have you keening.
The first roll of his hips is slow, tentative. Like he still worries he might hurt you. But then, you’re tugging in his hair, begging for more, and he’s snapping his hips against yours eagerly. Each movement jolts you further up the tree, the bark snagging at the lace off your dress.
You hardly care, legs clenching around him as you bite your tongue. Each thrust knocks the breath from you, feels so good it hurts as you try not to make a noise.
Dunk hardly even needs the tree; he’s so tall, so strong, he keeps you upright all on his own. That only serves to further your desire, your nails dragging along his back as he nearly kisses your cervix.
His thrusts begin to fasten as you clench around him. Your pleasure begins mounting once more. Either from your previous release or simply having what you’ve coveted for so long. It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t take much more for you to be squeezing tight around him while his warmth spills in you.
“Gods,” you mutter, arms limp along his shoulders as he shifts to hold all of your weight. You’re not eager for him to set you down. You doubt your legs will be working right now. The tips of your toes still tingled with the numb pleasure of your release.
“Are you alright?” He asks, slowly helping you down. Your legs tremble as you stand straight and you can only nod, tongue too loose to attempt conversation right now.
He pulls up his breeches while you work on fixing the laces of your dress. After a minute, when the fog has begun to clear from your mind, you admire his form. The thick arms that held you so easily, bigger legs that you still had yet to ride. Not to mention what rests between his legs. The gods surely had favorites. And you had to be one of them for them to have sent you such a man.
“Next time you wish to do that, do not hide behind the guise of honor,” you scold him but he can only grin at you. A boyish, incredibly self-satisfied look about him. “You only punish us both.”
Dunk nods, kneeling to pick up his sword. You’re not even sure when he dropped that. “Yes, m’lady.”
You take his chin between your fingers, pinching it and tilting his face toward your own. “I’m no lady.”
“No,” he laughs. “You’re not.” You scoff, reaching to swat at him. But he snatches your hand in his and hauls you easily over his shoulder.
“You brute,” you accuse, grinning at his chuckle. And more than grateful. There was no way in the seven hells you were walking back to camp.
Now, you only had to find a way to excuse those noises the others had heard. Perhaps you could lie, say it’s mating season for elk.
It’s certainly just become mating season for one beast, and you’re currently tossed over his shoulder. The poor thing has no idea what he’s just done.
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𐔌 ⠀⠀𓂃 ࣪ ִ⠀⠀aerion targaryen x spoiled princess reader !
contains ᦸ smut? finger sucking he cums in his pants sub! aerion he’s all bloody & pathetic he’s actively bleeding out but doesn’t care could be targcest? he cries mean reader? ٫٫ 1.9k
ᦸ dedicated to @maekarpilled from our comments that gave me the inspo for this!
❛❛ if I shall die tonight…I want to die with the taste of you on my lips
You scrunch your nose up in disgust at the thick stench of Aerion’s metallic blood and the rotten smell of mud and whatever else he was covered in, filling the room as he weakly hobbled closer to you. His first demand wasn’t for a healer, no, it was to see you.
The sight of you looking away from him with such disgust and disappointment pulled a weak and desperate whimper from the back of his throat. He tried to move closer, but the look you gave him had him falling to his knees, the sound of his armor clanking, and his sounds of pain filled the silence.
“Please,” he begged, voice cracking and hoarse as he tried to hold his head up. Please, look at me. Please, tell me I did well. Please, let me touch you.
“And have you ruin my dress?” you scoffed with a roll of your eyes. It was beneath you to even be in the presence of such a weak-minded and bodied man. He couldn’t defeat a fucking hedge knight, and yet he dared to be on his knees before you, begging.
“If I shall die tonight…” he trailed off into a pained mixture of a gasp and wheeze as he fully lifted his head to look up at you. His breathing was labored, but the pain he felt was nothing compared to the desire and yearning he felt for you. “I want to die with the taste of you on my lips.”
“The same lips you used to yield?” you dramatically pouted with a tilt of your head, looking down at him with faux sympathy. And for a very brief moment aerion believed the gods answered his prayers and you’d give him what he’s always desired, even if that meant his death.
But the gods were cruel, as were you.
You slammed your goblet down on the table, the sound echoing loudly through the chamber. He couldn’t help but flinch, pain surging all through his body. Tears well in his eyes at the look of pure disgust you give him, your tone cruel and mocking, “you’re filth aerion, you don’t deserve to taste me.”
“Maybe I should go to see Ser Duncan, tend to his wounds,” you taunted, a sickly sweet smile on your lips as you took a slow step closer to him. Your fingers played with your rings, a feeling of pride washing over you at the sight of tears in his eyes.
Another sound of pain left the Prince's mouth as he shook his head weakly at your words. Hearing such things coming from you made him feel even more sick. That Hedge Knight didn’t deserve to have his eyes blessed at the sight of you, let alone be in the same presence as you, breathe the same air as you.
He’d rather take another touch of a blade than have that cunt ever feel yours.
“I deserve a man that doesn’t yield, don’t I?” You whispered with a click of your tongue. Your eyes were sparkling with amusement at the pained cries leaving Aerion’s bloody and busted lips. His body shook with helpless sobs.
All of his pride thrown away as he bowed his head, his shoulders sagged, and his gloved hands brushed against the stone before he placed them flat, willing to crawl towards you. He cared very little for the blood loss or his reputation as he knelt there in front of you.
“please princess,” he got out between his sobs, more blood pooling from his mouth and down his neck. He looked so pretty when he cried, so pathetic and small. He looked like how he liked to make people feel.
You took a step closer, scrunching your nose in annoyance at the cries and pleading leaving his lips. You’d enjoy it much more if he weren’t making such a mess and smelled so badly. You licked your wine-stained lips as you looked down at him, stopping in front of him. Far enough that his blood wouldn’t touch your dress.
You wouldn’t give him what he truly desired, not after that embarrassing performance he gave for all of Ashford to see. By nightfall, the truth of the weakness of the prince would spread across the realm, no doubt. And like you said, you weren’t going to let his filth ruin your pretty dress.
He looked like he was dying, and he smelt of it too, you weren’t that cruel (you truly were) to not answer the ‘dying' prince's plea.
“Two, and that is all.” Your tone gave him no room for discussion or disagreement. You outstretched your hand in front of his bloodied face; your fingers would have to do.
Dark spots clouded his vision, and he could hear his heartbeat pounding in his ears as he quickly lifted his head. A desperate whimper left his lips as he eagerly opened his mouth, his bloody tongue slipping past his lips.
Your fingers softly grazed his bottom lip, pressing hard into the cut on his lip, causing him to let out a strangled moan. The pad of your index and middle finger pressed against his tongue.
The corner of your mouth twitched into a pleased smirk as the prince looked up at you with dazed eyes, waiting for your permission. When he does get the small nod of permission, he’s quick to close his mouth around them.
A loud moan filled the room as he immediately started lapping at your soft fingers. His eyes never left yours as he sucked them deeper into his mouth, coating them in his spit and blood.
He could taste the lavish oils you would get from Dorne and have your body covered in them with the help of your handmaidens. To many nights he spent imagining himself rubbing the oil into your body himself.
You sigh boredly, clicking your tongue in disappointment, “can’t you do better than that?”
Aerion whined around your fingers, more tears rolling down his face and mixing beautifully with his blood. The pain his body felt was nothing compared to the pain he felt when he disappointed you.
You lean down a little, his eyes nearly rolling back as he gets a better whiff of your addictive scent. You pouted dramatically as you watched him drool around your fingers, such a bloody mess. “and to think you thought I’d let you taste my cunt”
He shook his head weakly, nearly gagging on your fingers as he tried to do better. He wasn’t going to fail you too, not again, but you never gave second chances.
You pulled your wet fingers from his mouth, a string of his mixed saliva and blood following. A desperate whine left him at the loss of your fingers. He’d chase after your fingers, but he wouldn’t be able to handle the sting of your slap, no matter how much he craved it in his current state.
You looked down at your fingers that were covered in his blood and spit, and then back to him. He looked up at you with those pathetic eyes. If you really focused, you could hear his blood drip into the stone. You grip his face, spreading the blood and spit all over his mouth, scoffing at the pathetic noises he lets out.
“You deserve nothing but to lick the bottom of my boots,” you hissed as you pressed into the cut on his cheek. Aerion moans and leans into your touch, pitiful cries filling the room. And that’s when you noticed the way his hips subtly jerked forward.
A big and twisted grin spreads across your face at the realization that he was turned on. Your laugh was amused and airy. “You’re such a nasty whore.”
You slipped your fingers back into his mouth, knuckles deep as he sucks and swirls his tongue around them. Your words were sharp and cruel as you belittled him, tearing him down word by word, but all he did was moan around your fingers, his hips jerking desperately.
The fatigue from the blood loss, mixed with the pain and the pleasure he felt from you, was sickening. He felt like he was drunk. His body didn’t feel like his, your voice sounded distant, his heartbeat getting too loud to hear your beautifully twisted words.
His jaw was going slack, too exhausted to do any more. But you didn’t care, thrusting your fingers into his mouth as he gagged and whined. Blood and drool making lewd wet noises.
“Such filthy, pathetic lips, only good for one thing, aren’t they?” You cooed tauntingly, your eyes never leaving his. He nodded weakly around your fingers, the movement causing him to gag. You watched him closely, how his tears pooled out of his eyes. You wanted to watch him fall apart.
And fall apart he did…
“Nngh!” He let out a choked and pained moan around your fingers, his eyes rolling back and his hips stuttering as he filled his breeches with his seed, mixing with the blood.
You kept your fingers in his throat until he tried to pull away, desperate for air as he felt his body slowly and uncontrollably jerk. For a split second, you thought of what your life would be if he were dead…but there was a sick part of you that wanted to keep him around. To see him look at you with those pitiful eyes full of tears. You did enjoy how he sounded when he begged…
You pull away your fingers, a thick string of blood and saliva connecting the two of you. Aerion’s chest burned as he tried to catch his breath, barely able to keep his eyes fully open. A cough leaves his throat, blood splattering all over the front of your dress.
You shrieked and took a step back, nearly tripping over the skirt of your dress. The sound of your shriek snaps him back from fully surrendering to the pain, his half-lidded eyes looking up at you. Your face was twisted in a look of pure anger.
Panic surged through his beaten body; the tears were quick to come back as he realized what he had done; he failed you. “Princess, I’m sorry—“
“You truly are pathetic,” you were quick to cut off his pathetic attempt at an apology. Your tone was scarily calm as you turned your lip up in disgust. Your jaw clenched as you looked down at the kneeling prince, a disgrace, “And a waste of Valyrian blood.”
A broken and agonized sob left his body from your words. Watching as you lifted the skirt of your dress with your clean hand as you turned away from him and moved towards the wooden doors. He tried to move his body, but all he could do was helplessly watch as you opened the chamber doors.
He fell from his knees and forward onto his hands, begging between his cries, “Please don’t leave me.”
You paused, looking over your shoulder at him. There was no emotion in your eyes, no anger, nothing for him. Your words were sharp and effective at breaking everything in him, “I bet that Hedge Knight would have listened.”
You stepped out of the room and out of his sight. The last of his strength going with you. He felt his body sway before crumpling down onto the stone floor with a pained gasp. He lay there on the cold and blood-stained stone floor.
The last thing he tasted was your body oil mixed with the metallic taste of his blood, and the last thing he heard was you shouting at your handmaiden to bring you a new dress, before his eyes fluttered closed as he succumbed to the darkness.
┊࿐ ❛❛ continue on to my…. 𝙢𝙖𝙞𝙣 𝙢𝙖𝙨𝙩𝙚𝙧𝙡𝙞𝙨𝙩 ❜❜
Ი𐑼 I’m sorry if none of that made sense I wrote most of it in a delirious state at 4 am in the morning. I rlly don’t know what this is , but I hoped you enjoyed it !! pls tell me all of your thoughts ,, naughty and good !! 😁
choso's cheeks are flushed such a pretty pink that anyone would think you've already slapped him. he's a blushing mess, though you aren't sure if it's because he's embarrassed, or because you're milking him for the little release he has left in him.
what is this... his third orgasm? he's sweating—your hands are splayed over damp, heaving planes of his chest as he looks up at you with pretty pleading eyes and makes his request.
"i want..." he starts again, just in case you didn't hear him the first time, "i'dlikeyoutoslapmeplease."
you adjust your position so that you're seated more comfortably on his cock, and narrow your eyes at your boyfriend. "is this a sex thing or am i punishing you for stealing my panties again?"
he tries to look disgruntled at that comment, but the way his spent cock twitches inside of you betrays him in vile ways. "sex thing," he mumbles, leaning forward and pressing his face into your tits to then deliver a muffled "you already punished me for that."
"yeah," you bite your tongue to try (and fail) to stifle your laughter. "your ass looked great in my pink set. ooh, i should set that photo i took as my lockscreen."
"stop," choso groans against a nipple, sucking it into his mouth for comfort... or to try and shut you up. one of his hands paws at your other boob, and his other one grabs your wrist and guides it to his hair, which is down and aching for fingers to card through.
"naw," you hum, scratching your nails against his scalp and reaping the rewards of his subsequent moan against your nipple. "you're embarrassed. i'm sorry, cho."
he releases your nipple and presses his cheek against your chest, still avoiding your gaze. "are you really?"
you tug at his hair a little to get him to look at you. meeting his gaze with a softened one of your own, you offer your choso the sweetest smile you can muster. "not even a little bit."
another groan from choso, and you're sure he'd hide his face in your tits again if not for your hands now holding each side of his jaw. "why do you want me to slap you? is everything okay at home?"
"yes. it's just, the other week, when i... you know..."
"spanked me?" you offer.
choso nods. "yeah. i liked that... a lot. but i think i like the thought of you hurting me more than the thought of me hurting you."
"well," you shift a little to alleviate the stretch of his cock inside of you, which makes choso gasp. "it's not about hurting each other. it's about feeling each other... hurting each other... huh."
choso smiles as your analysis falls flat, which draws a smile of your own onto your face. though no matter how much you love your boyfriends sweet smile, a gross urge to wipe it clean off his face drives your open palm across his cheek with a loud smack!
you gasp louder than he does. choso's head turns with the force of your strike, and the hand that had been kneading your boob like a stress ball flies up to touch his cheek.
and then you feel it. the sudden jolt of his hips upward into you, the release of his fourth orgasm of the night spurting hot inside of you. he just came.
and so, you lean into the sadism now pooling in your heart. your legs are pushing you up off his only half-hard cock and dropping it back down before he can even find his breath to ask you to slow down.
"wait, wait," he chokes, a loud gasp sounding as he grabs at your hips to try and control your mean pace, just to be slapped again.
you watch his eyes roll back a little, and something sick and twisted indie of you spurs you on. "count."
"...huh?"
"count. you know how," you repeat, lifting up on his cock and slapping him across the face again as you drop down and take him to the base. "come on, count or i'll stop."
that gets him going. "god... three."
you ride him like you aren't exhausted, reaching out to take choso's chin between your fingers and guide his gaze to yours. he flinches as you do so, which tightens both your heart and pussy, because apparently you're one of societies sickest.
"now thank me," you lean forward, manoeuvring his head so that you can lick up the side of his cheek. the skin you've slapped is hot on your tongue and makes choso's entire body squirm.
"please," he uses his manners, though not the ones you asked of him. grabbing at your hips, digging fingers into flesh so hard it hurts enough to spur you on. "please, thank you. more, thank you... please."
well—you've gone and broken him.
he takes the fourth nicely, with a choked thank-you and a few tears now cradled in his lash line. a part of you wants to hold him close and wipe his tears dry, but the poor soul is bucking up into you to meet your pace and clenching every muscle in his body preceding his fifth orgasm of the night.
and before you can even raise your hand to slap him a fifth time, he's looking up at you with these huge eyes and your spit on his face and sweat sticking his pretty hair to his forehead. "five," he's counting before-the-fact. so eager for you. "five, five, please."
god, you love him.
the fifth slap sends him nicely into his fifth orgasm. his whole body shakes, spurting nothing inside of you because he's been milked dry as it is. still, the absolute mess of a man that he's become beneath you is enough to tip you over that same fine edge.
you don't have half the mind to consider the ethics behind orgasming this hard after striking your sweet boyfriend across the face. if you're this dazed—struggling to catch your breath as you lean forward and press a relentless assault of kisses to the face you've just slapped senseless—you can't imagine was kind of sludge you've turned choso's brain into.
"still alive in there?" you manage, checking his eyes like you're observing a head trauma victim. "too much?"
despite a face wet with tears and an apparent inability to find his words, choso shakes his head. he looks dumb with overstimulation, but still manages to grip your hips and start lifting you up on his cock again.
"what are you—" you look down to where his shaky arms are guiding you to start riding him again. "i think i might have damaged your brain, baby."
eddie and volt selfcest but also not quite but definitely codependent and also now they are in a throuple with me hahahaha yes yesss s sickos.jpg fandom is back
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Han’s Late Night Thoughts: Date Everything Edition (NSFW)
I feel like Volt fucks you in missionary. He’s so charming and effortless with the way he speaks but I bet he doesn’t actually have that much sexual experience. Not because he couldn’t bag anyone he wants but because he’s intentional about who he’s with. And when he’s intimate with you, all he wants to do is face you. He wants to worship you and watch you respond to his worship. He doesn’t mind going slow, taking his time. He wants to find every inch of you that will squirm for him. He wants to lavish his love on you. I bet he murmurs sweet nothings to you, telling you how good you’re doing, how wonderful you feel, how perfect you are.
Eddie, on the other hand, is more impatient. He’s spent so much time holding back and repressing his emotions, that the second he’s sure you’re his, he’s got you bent in every position imaginable. He fucks desperately. He fucks like the world is ending if he doesn’t bury himself into your cervix. Every thrust engraves his need into your clenching walls. You feel so perfect to him too, but unlike Volt, he only manages to gasp out a few curse words before plunging himself deeper inside you. He doesn’t have to tell you how good you feel to him. You already know by the way he buries his head into your shoulder as he pounds you from behind, kissing your shoulder blade reverently, incessantly, hands wrapped tightly around your hips, holding on for dear life like he might lose his chance at heaven if he let you go.
Could you plz write a sub!glenn rhee x fem reader fic?
Were glenn is like dry humping the readers leg and cums and he feels like really embarrassed but he can’t stop because it feels so good, and the reader is teasing him and low-key making fun of him but not like actually if that makes sense
i’ve had a flow of inspiration babe and i hope you enjoy because i did
☆彡༄
s1! glenn rhee x grimes daughter! reader
(i think this is technically gn reader i don’t think readers genitals are described)
(i know i said i don’t write age gaps… just pretend lori had her when she was like 16 guys idk 😔 - both characters are 18+)
also it’s not specified but the events of this take place in an RV, not just out in the open… thought i’d clarify
cw: (kinda) enemies to lovers, hinted that the reader is taller than him or same height (he’s 5’9 and so am i… i did that purely for me however, it can be ignored so my short queens can still read), dry humping (obvi), cumming in pants, there’s no definite consent but it’s obviously consensual (if that makes sense), shane slander (deserved), reader is like low-key mean… reference to masturbation, he cums twice (so like overstimulation?), they don’t get caught as such but people know what they did after
1826 words
☆彡༄
It was a chilly Friday evening, most people were gathered around the campfire but, you weren’t. You were told by Shane to make dinner for yourself, him, Lori and Carl and this pissed you off relentlessly. Who the fuck did he think he was? Him banging your mum didn’t make him your dad so, why on earth did he think it did? So of course, an argument ensued which ended up with Lori siding with Shane and just telling you to stop making a scene and to just make the dinner. Obviously, it wasn’t a big deal… you just don’t like Shane.
You were so enveloped in anger that you didn’t notice the footsteps approaching you. “Hey…” a voice spoke from behind you, practically making you jump out of your skin. “Jesus, fuck!” you shout, “don’t fucking sneak up on me! What the hell?” You don’t mean to come off so aggressive, you’re just so angry already that this was like pulling a block from an already falling jenga tower.
“Shit… my bad I thought you heard me come in…” he mumbles, eyes widened from the unexpected reaction. You only roll your eyes and turn back around to keep making the nasty pasta salad that Shane wanted. “Um… Can we talk?” he says cautiously, noticing that this probably isn’t the time but, continuing with his point anyway. All you do is grunt, he assumes in agreement as you looked a bit less aggressive than before.
“Why… do you hate me? Did I do something to you that I don’t know? It just seems like you get on with mostly everyone else but not me. Like, what did I do?” he questions you, seemingly genuine. You roll your eyes, “my God, not everything is deep. I don’t hate you, just don’t exactly like you” you mumble, “you just kinda annoy me sometimes.”
“And, you’re annoying me because you won’t give me a proper explanation! Can you just give me a real answer?” he exasperates, raising his tone slightly. “Fine, you want an answer? You’re literally perfect and it’s really fucking annoying. Also, not everybody had to like you all the time. Grow a backbone, man.” you explain.
His eyebrows are furrowed and he wears a confused expression, “wait… what? You think I’m… perfect?”
“I’m glad that’s the only thing you listened to.” You state sarcastically, rolling your eyes at him. “Of course it is! You just said I’m perfect! I thought you hated me!” he reciprocates the same sarcastic tone that you used.
Suddenly, you turn around to him and shove him against the wall and walk over to him menacingly, taking a silent note of his adam’s apple bobbing up and down. “Did you come here just to annoy me?” you raise you eyebrow at him as you tilt your head.
He puts in a fake angry face, trying to badly mask the flustered feeling that’s creeping up inside of him. “Maybe I did” he smirks, basking in the attention you’re giving him right now.
See, the thing is, he’s had a crush on you since he’d first seen you at the beginning of the apocalypse. It’d been a few months now and his feelings had just been getting stronger and stronger. It was so obvious. I mean, you pretended to be oblivious because the more people you loved, the more people you had to lose. It was the best for both of you. You tried so desperately to try and make him dislike you because the truth is, you’d begun to get feelings for the man too but, his feelings were relentless and nothing seemed to work.
“Yeah, I knew you fucking did. What else do you do but annoy me? Huh?” you start to raise your voice, adjacent to the heat raising within you. “You don’t know me as much as you think you do.” he grumbles, looking at the floor to avoid your piercing gaze. “Don’t underestimate me.” you bark bluntly, “I know a lot about you, more than I need to.”
He glances up at you in confusion and fear. Did you… know? “Like what?” he questions suspiciously. You slam your foot against the wall in between his legs, placing your thigh awfully close to his groin, he sure hopes you don’t notice his-
“I can read you like a book, Glenn. You’re a people pleaser, even though you pretend you’re not. You like to pretend that you know more than you do because it makes you feel better about your wasted potential. Oh, and you’re hard as a rock right now” his eyes widen at the last sentence. It had left your mouth so casually, making him question every experience he’d had with you over the last few months. Had you known this whole time? What had you seen? Had you seen him touching himself? Heard him moan your name under his breath? He shakes the thoughts out of his head, of course you hadn’t, you’d of brought it up by now, made fun of him, teased him mercilessly. After all, you hated him… right?
“I’m not a people pleaser!” his grumbles out, “a-and… I’m not hard!” he continues, sounding less and less convinced as he carries on the sentence. “Come on, you do whatever people tell you to do! Oh and-“ you cut yourself off before taking your leg that was placed between his and pulling yourself so that you’re closer to him, your thigh now pressed against his attentive crotch. “Not hard, huh?” You push your thigh against him, creating a grinding motion.
“S-shit…” he groans out, his head falling into the wall behind him. He scrunches his face, as if bracing himself, before lifting his head back up, “I… I don’t do everything I’m told! Shut… ugh- up” he grunts out in between weak mewls. You grab his face by the cheeks, your nails digging into him and you were sure there’d be little crescents etched into his skin once you let go. You pull his face towards you, going nose to nose with the man that you were looming over, “do me a favour, Glenn. Stop talking and do what you’re told, okay?” you sneer at him as he looks up at you, his expression conveying anger but his eyes twinkled with lust.
His heart pounding in his chest, he could feel your warm breath on his lips, the lips that he so desperately wanted to lock onto yours. He feels dizzy from the dull stimulation your thigh was giving him. It simultaneously felt like too much and not enough and it made the poor boy feel his knees weaken. He nods his head, acknowledging that your question was rhetorical but deciding to answer anyway, “okay… I’ll do what you tell me to” he whispers out, silently cussing at himself for how easily he gave in but also, how easily his pride was bruised.
You chuckle at how quickly you seemed to have wrecked the man, scoffing under your breath “don’t do what you’re told, my ass.” All he could do is look down to the ground, ashamed at the links of moans that he was producing from the increased pressure that you were putting on him.
Finally kissing the man, you hear his muffled whimpers; his desperate hands clawing at your shoulders, trying to stabilise himself as he feels his orgasm approaching. You stop moving your thigh, hoping he’ll take the initiative to keep going and, he does. His head falls back as he ruts against you needily.
You take advantage of his exposed neck, kissing and nipping down it until you find the spot that makes him moan especially loud, giving that spot special attention - licking, kissing, biting. You can tell he’s enjoying himself from the erotic noises he was making. As much as you loved to hear it, the walls of the RV were thin and your little brother was outside. You placed your hand over his mouth and your other hand on his hip, supporting his movements.
“You’re so hot” you mumble in his ear, “keep going for me, cum in your pants, pretty boy.” The mixture of your commanding tone and the adrenaline he was feeling at the risk of being heard/ caught tips him over the edge. He cusses under his breath, body shaking and spasming under your touch.
He looks up at you, eyes half closed as if he was tired. Still breathing heavily, he leans his forehead on your shoulder to stabilise himself.
You chuckle at his fucked out state before realising something. He was still humping you, you look up at him with your eyebrow raised, feeling a wave of surprise course through you. His eyes are glossed over, starting to feel the effects of overstimulation. “Jesus, pretty boy, still horny?” you tease. “C-can’t stop, feels too good” he whines out, sending a pool of heat to your lower regions.
“Shit shit shit shit- ah.. ah” he starts to whine loudly from his extreme sensitivity. You place your hand over his mouth as you hear him release high pitched moans that people could DEFINITELY hear outside. He starts shaking and you can tell that he’s quickly approaching his 2nd orgasm, coming to the finish line much quicker than he did last time.
He shivers as he feels the pleasure rush through him, as if it was coursing through his veins, his legs become weak and his knees give in. He falls to his knees on the floor and rests his forehead by your knee. You take his face in your hands as you bend down to him, “shit, are you okay?” you worry that you’ve pushed him too far. “How did you do that? It’s like I was under a spell… I didn’t know I could feel that good…” he looks up at you with half lidded eyes and you see that light tears decorate the inner corners of his eyes. You swipe them away with your thumbs and whisper to him, “told you I can read you like a book, darlin’. You believe me now?” you smirk at him as he nods weakly.
You stand up once more, helping him stand up too as he regains his strength. “Would you like to stay for dinner? It’s almost done and you’re here anyway…” you offer and he smiles at you, “that’d be nice.”
He stands up to help you serve up the food before looking down, noticing that he has a large wet patch on his pants, “I may need to change these though…” he murmured, mildly embarrassed of his actions.
You couldn’t help but chuckle when you looked down before nodding over to your mum’s bedroom, “take some of Shane’s jeans, he has enough anyway, he won’t notice” you roll your eyes, thinking back to the annoying man that was trying to take your father’s place. He nods and giggles slightly, “anything to piss off Shane!”
summary: You take a job as a live-in nurse for the town’s most infamous recluse—Remmick, the strange, soft-spoken man hidden away in a rotting Victorian farmhouse no one dares approach. Locals warn you not to touch him. Not to linger after dark. But when you meet him, he’s all big eyes and broken manners, trembling hands and gold chain glinting at his throat. Touch-starved, tender, and ruinously ancient. He flinches when you reach for him—and sobs when you don’t. You drop to your knees, and he forgets the taste of blood. He’s already yours before you ever put your mouth on him.
wc: 8.5k
a/n: holy 2k followers batman!! I wanna thank everyone for the outpouring of love and support my work has gotten over the last month, truly insane, still processing, gonna release something soon as a massive thank you <333 based off this post, I'm sure I'm not the first but I haven't come across any fic of reader going down on Remmick yet and I have a great need to suck that man's dick until his stomach caves in like a Capri-sun (someone revoke my internet access) so here we are. Thank you to @ddlydevotion for finding my photo refs. Dedicated to Sam @matrixfangs for not only beta reading this but also requesting I incorporate Jack's cross tattoo into one of my fics!! title from the song too sweet by hozier.
warnings: vampirism, oral sex (m!receiving), d/s dynamic, begging, spit kink, hair pulling, praise kink, humiliation kink (soft), drool, overstimulation, ruined man behavior, touch starvation, religious imagery, cross kink?, control kink, sub!remmick, somniloquy, emotional degradation (tender), slight dacryphilia, mildly unhinged reader, dark romance, southern gothic atmosphere, implied violence, implied murder (offscreen)
I am doing away with my tag list because it's getting a little long so I recommend turning on notifications if you don't wanna miss when I post c:
likes, comments, and reblogs always appreciated, enjoy!!
The bus wheezed like it was exhaling its last breath, sputtering to a stop in the middle of nowhere. Dust kicked up around its wheels as the brakes hissed and the door creaked open with a reluctant sigh.
You stepped off into the heat—that heavy, wet Southern heat that sticks to your skin like tacky glue, curling into your clothes and dragging its teeth across the back of your neck.
The sun hung fat and merciless in a sky bleached bone-white, cicadas crying loud enough to shake the treetops. Sweat bloomed across your collarbone before your boots even hit the dirt.
It wasn’t real pavement, not out here. Just cracked-red earth, dry and crumbling, veined with weeds and the roots of things too stubborn to die. The main road—if you could call it that—was lined with rusted fence posts, bowed under the weight of creeping kudzu and wire that hadn’t held anything in years.
The town itself looked like it had been forgotten in a drawer: sun-wilted storefronts with paint peeling off in strips, glass windows clouded with grime, and a gas station that hadn’t changed its prices since Prohibition.
A man with no teeth watched you from a bench outside a bait shop. A girl gnawed a peach in the shade of a feed store awning, juice dripping down her wrist as she stared without blinking.
No one smiled. No one welcomed you. Just silence and the shrill, electric whine of summer bugs, loud as a curse.
You adjusted your grip on the suitcase handle—leather, secondhand, the clasp a little loose—and stepped forward, your boots crunching on gravel as the bus hissed again and pulled away behind you. The sudden stillness in its absence made your ears ring. Somewhere down the road, a dog barked once, then went quiet.
The driver who’d agreed to take you the last few miles was late. Or not coming. You checked the watch on your wrist—scratched crystal, the hour hand a little jittery—and waited. The skin on your shoulders prickled. Not from the heat. From the eyes.
They were still staring.
A woman in a gingham dress crossed herself. Didn’t stop walking. Didn’t look at you twice.
Then a voice—cracked with age and smoke, coming from just over your shoulder—broke the thick, humid quiet: “That house got ghosts in it.”
You turned. It was the man from the bench, leaning forward now, elbows on his knees, eyes milky with cataracts. He spat to the side, aimed like he’d done it a thousand times before.
“He don’t come to town. Don’t let him touch you, honey.”
Before you could ask what the hell that meant, the groan of old suspension and rattling chains cut through the air.
A pickup truck, wheezing like the bus, pulled up in a cloud of red dust. Faded forest green with rust eating away the sides and a crooked license plate hanging on by one bolt. The man driving it looked as old as the truck—tan leather skin, yellowed shirt, a straw hat pulled low.
He didn’t say your name. Just nodded once. Like he already knew.
You climbed in beside him, the vinyl seat burning hot through your skirt. Neither of you spoke. The ride out of town was long and winding, lined with cypress trees and fields that had gone to seed. Every now and then, the man would spit out the window. You watched the land unravel into nothing—just swaying grass, rusted scarecrows, and buzzards perched on telephone wires.
Then, after what felt like forever, the truck crested a hill.
And there it was.
The house.
Aging Victorian farmhouse, two stories tall, white paint weathered to the color of bone. Porch bowed in the middle like a snapped spine. Shutters hanging off their hinges. The front door was so dark it looked like a hole punched through the front of the house. Vines crept up the sides like veins, crawling toward the chimneys and windows like they wanted to choke it. Or hold it down.
The iron gates at the front were rusted and tall, still latched shut. You could make out glass-paned windows that looked hollow, staring out at the road like eyes that hadn’t blinked in years.
The man parked, killed the engine, and didn’t move. You stepped out. Shut the door behind you. He didn’t offer to help with the suitcase. Just lit a cigarette, slow and deliberate.
“He sleeps durin’ the day. House is yours ‘til sundown. Don’t linger on the porch.”
You waited for more.
He didn’t offer it.
He put the truck in gear and reversed down the dirt road without another word, vanishing behind the veil of oak and kudzu until there was nothing but eerie birdsong and your own breath.
The wind kicked up. Dry. Hot. Mean. The house creaked—just once. Like it had been holding its breath too.
And then…the front door groaned open.
The open door breathed out a draft of air—cool and heavy, smelling of cedarwood, old paper, and something vaguely sweet, like dried flowers pressed between book pages. It curled around your ankles like mist.
You stepped forward. The porch groaned beneath your feet, boards soft with age, and for one heart-pounding moment you thought the whole thing might give. But it held. Just barely. The screen door had been ripped clean off its hinges long ago. The wooden door itself was open wide now, dark as pitch inside.
You crossed the threshold. The world behind you dropped away like a curtain falling shut.
The house swallowed sound. Swallowed light. It was dim and old in the way caves are old—cooler than it had any right to be, shadows pooling like ink in the corners. Lace curtains yellowed with age hung limp at the windows. The wallpaper had peeled back in strips, revealing ribs of rotting wood beneath. A hallway stretched long ahead of you, lined with crooked picture frames and closed doors.
Your hand skimmed the wall, trying to find your balance. The place felt like it was holding its breath.
Then you saw him.
He stepped out of the parlor like he wasn’t used to being seen, like he expected to vanish the moment your eyes landed on him.
Remmick.
And he was…nothing like you expected.
Not some grizzled recluse with wild hair and yellow teeth, not a hissing, skeletal shut-in like the townsfolk seemed to imagine. No. He was—
Broad.
His shoulders were built like a man who used to work with his hands, chest thick under the open collar of a blue-and-white pinstriped button-up, the sleeves messily rolled to his elbows. Beneath it, a threadbare white wife-beater clung to his torso like second skin. His jeans were dark, faded, worn at the knees, and he was barefoot—toes pale, dust smudged across the tops of his feet, like he hadn’t stepped outside in years.
His hair was short and messy, soft-looking, brown with uneven bangs that fell just above his brows in a way that felt almost boyish, almost accidental. Not styled. Just…unbothered. Untamed. Like he’d dragged his fingers through it and given up halfway.
And then his eyes.
Blue. Too blue. Not sky-blue. Not ocean-blue. The blue of cracked porcelain. The kind of blue that shouldn’t exist in nature. They looked almost glassy, as if someone had painted them on too carefully.
You didn’t know that they were artificial, not yet, like a predator blending in with its surroundings to fool the naive prey. That the real eyes were red as flame and waiting underneath.
But even so, you felt it.
Something inhuman. Something primordial.
You didn’t know what you were seeing. But you knew it wasn’t just a man and yet—you weren’t scared.
He froze when he saw you. Like he’d walked into a memory.
His mouth parted slightly. His hands hung at his sides, rough-knuckled, long-fingered. One of them twitched, just once, like he meant to lift it—and then stopped. Like the very thought of touching was…too much.
His voice came slow, thick. Raspy from disuse. “Evenin’.”
You blinked. “Hi.”
That same hand moved to scratch the back of his neck—awkward, almost boyish. He ducked his head slightly, eyes flitting away from yours. His lips pressed together like he wasn’t sure whether or not to smile, and then decided against it.
“I, uh…I didn’t expect you so soon.”
There was a tremble in his voice, barely there beneath the deep drawl. But it was there. Not nervous. Not quite. Just…unused. He sounded like someone who didn’t speak unless he had to. Someone who had been silent for too long.
You stepped forward, instinctive. He flinched.
It was subtle—just a twitch of his shoulder, the stiffening of his posture, a faint shift backward—but your body caught it. Your eyes caught it. His eyes never left you.
“I’m your nurse,” you said softly, giving your name, your voice feather-light.
He nodded. Still didn’t move closer.
There was a thin gold chain around his neck, peeking out from beneath his collar. It caught the faint light from the window and glinted, just for a second, brushing against the pale hollow of his throat when he leaned forward slightly. Like it had weight. Like it mattered.
You took a breath, trying to read him. He was watching you the way a starving man watches a feast. Not greedy. Not desperate.
Haunted.
Like he was talking to someone who no longer walked this mortal coil.
“Where should I…?” you asked, fingers curling slightly around the strap of your bag.
He startled. “Oh. Right. Room’s upstairs. I, uh—” he hesitated, scratched at his forearm where the button-up had slipped back just far enough to reveal the edge of a vein that looked darker than it should—“I ain’t had company in a while.”
“How long?” you asked.
He blinked at you. Like the question hadn’t occurred to him before.
Then, just as softly, with a note of old sorrow so quiet you nearly missed it, he answered:
“Too long.”
He turned, shoulders shifting beneath the thin cotton of his shirt, and motioned for you to follow. He didn’t offer to carry your bag. Not out of rudeness—it was something else. A hesitation that clung to him like sweat in the air.
The hallway creaked under your steps, your boots heavy against the worn floorboards. His bare feet moved near-silent, just the soft pad of skin on old wood. Dust stirred where he passed, curling like smoke in his wake. You watched the muscles move beneath his shirt—the way the thin material clung to his back, the curve of his shoulders, the faint outline of his spine shifting when he turned a corner. You could almost imagine him once being a laborer, maybe a carpenter, with those thick forearms and that sunken posture—like he hadn’t stood tall in years.
He didn’t look back at you until he reached the stairs.
“They’re steep,” he warned, voice low, accent thickening just a touch like the words were sticking to his tongue. “House wasn’t built for comfort. Not anymore.”
You followed him anyway.
The staircase was narrow and curved, wood darkened by age and use. The banister wobbled when you touched it. His hand hovered near the wall as he climbed, but he didn’t steady himself on anything—as if he was afraid to touch the house too long.
The landing opened into a hallway lit only by a single cracked window. Dust motes danced in the beam of sunlight, and Remmick avoided it completely, skirting the edge like a shadow. You didn’t think much of it. Just heat, maybe. Or habit.
He stopped in front of a door at the far end. It was plain—faded green paint, iron handle gone dull with rust. He opened it for you but didn’t step inside.
“Room’s clean,” he said, still not meeting your eyes. “Did it myself this mornin’.”
You peered in.
Small, but tidy. The bed was old but made, white sheets tucked tight. There was a vanity with a tarnished mirror, a small closet door that hung slightly crooked, and a bedside table with a worn oil lamp and what looked like a book left behind years ago. A hand towel had been folded and left on the pillow.
“You didn’t have to do that,” you murmured.
“I did,” he said simply. Then, quieter: “Didn’t want you thinkin’ I’d leave it…unfit.”
He stood there, barefoot and awkward, hands half-curled at his sides like he didn’t know what to do with them. His bangs had fallen deeper over his eyes, hiding them. But you saw the shape of them behind the strands—wide, almost deer-like.
He looked like he didn’t know whether to apologize for being alive or thank you for showing up.
You stepped inside. Set your bag down. When you turned to speak again, he was already halfway down the hall.
He hadn’t made a sound.
Later, after you’d unpacked and washed your face in the cracked porcelain basin, you made your way down to the kitchen, following the faint clatter of dishware. You paused at the doorway.
He stood at the sink, back to you, sleeves rolled higher now—his forearms dusted in pale hair, thick with muscle, the veins just barely raised under the skin. The gold chain shifted at his throat as he rinsed out an old tin mug. He didn’t seem to notice you.
The light from the window cut across the floor, a bright bar of late-afternoon sun. It stopped just inches from where he stood, and he didn’t cross it. His toes curled against the edge like it was a line he couldn’t breach.
You finally spoke. “Do you want any help?”
He jumped.
Not violently—just a twitch. His shoulders drew in, spine straightening, as if your voice had reached into him and plucked something loose.
Then he slowly turned. His eyes—still too blue—met yours, and for a second you thought he looked guilty. Like he’d been caught doing something shameful.
“No,” he said, swallowing. “But…thank you.”
You stepped forward anyway.
He froze. Again.
“I’m just getting a glass,” you said, brushing past him, your fingers grazing the inside of his forearm by accident—just a whisper of skin against skin.
He flinched. Actually flinched. Not hard. Not violently. But enough to feel like a blow. You pulled back, brows furrowing.
“I didn’t mean to—”
“It’s fine,” he said quickly, voice hushed and low and cracking like dry wood underfoot. “You ain’t done nothin’ wrong.”
You turned your head, studied him.
“Do you not like to be touched?”
A pause.
He looked down at the floor. His hands opened and closed once.
“I just…ain’t used to it, is all.”
Not used to it. Not anymore. Not in a long, long time.
You felt something tighten in your chest then, strange and aching. A tether drawing taut. You didn’t know what had happened to him. Why the town feared him. Why the sunlight seemed to singe the air around him. Why his voice trembled when you spoke too softly.
But you did know this:
He was alone.
And he had been alone for a very, very long time.
The glass was cloudy. Not dirty—just old, like everything else in this house. When you turned the tap, the pipes groaned in protest before surrendering a stream of lukewarm water. You sipped, then leaned against the counter, your eyes sliding back to him.
Remmick hadn’t moved.
Still by the sink, shoulder just shy of that stripe of sunlight, arms stiff at his sides like he didn’t know how to stand. The water dripped from the mug he held. A single droplet clung to the edge of his knuckle and then slid down, curling over his wrist.
He stared at the floor. At your boots. At anything except you.
“You live here alone?” you asked.
His head tilted slightly, as though the question had startled him. He nodded.
“For how long?”
A beat.
“…Long.”
He didn’t elaborate. Just that one syllable, spoken like a stone dropped into a well. No echo. No follow-up.
You took another sip. “Locals said you don’t like company.”
His lip twitched—almost a smile, but not quite. It was more like…a ghost of a smirk, something he might’ve worn naturally once, long ago, before it fell out of practice.
“I reckon they said worse’n that.”
“They said not to let you touch me.”
That made him flinch for real.
A sharp intake of breath, his spine straightening, knuckles whitening around the tin cup. He didn’t look at you. Didn’t speak. But the shame bled off him like heat, pouring into the space between you until the air turned too thick to breathe.
You waited.
And when he still didn’t say anything, you set your glass down with a quiet clink and asked gently:
“Why would they say that?”
He looked at you then.
Really looked.
Eyes wide. Blue. Too blue. Glassy in the way that porcelain is glassy—shiny and fragile and false. A color that didn’t feel real, not on a living thing. His brow was furrowed like the question pained him.
“…They scared,” he said softly. “Always been. But fear makes folks say things that ain’t...whole.”
“Is it not true?”
His throat bobbed. That thin gold chain moved with the motion, catching what little light the room offered. His jaw tensed, a tick pulsing just beneath the skin. When he finally spoke, it was so quiet you almost missed it.
“I don’t hurt people who don’t deserve it.”
He said it like it was a rule, not a defense. Something sacred. Something self-imposed and unshakable.
“I didn’t think you did,” you murmured.
That made him pause. Head tilted again. Studying you like you were a puzzle with too many pieces.
“Then why’d you come?”
You gave a small shrug. “They said you needed help.”
“And you believed ‘em?”
“I believe you now.”
That silenced him.
He set the tin mug down gently, almost reverently. The sound was soft. Barely there. Like he’d learned to be careful with his strength. Or maybe he was just scared of breaking things.
“I ain’t had a nurse before,” he said. “Didn’t think I needed one.”
“Well,” you said, tone light, “I’m here now.”
Another pause.
He nodded, still not smiling. Just…accepting. Resigned. Like he’d already decided you were temporary.
A flicker of something passed behind his eyes then. Regret. Fear. Hunger. You couldn’t tell. But it made you step closer. And again—he moved back. Just a step. Not far. Not fast. But enough.
Like your nearness singed. You didn’t take it personally. You were starting to understand: it wasn’t you he didn’t trust. It was himself.
“Can I ask your name?” you said, after a beat.
He blinked. Then, slowly, he answered:
“…Remmick.”
You repeated it once, soft. Let it settle. His breath hitched. And just for a second—less than a breath, less than a blink—his eyes flashed red.
Bright. Brief. Burning.
Gone just as fast.
You didn’t say anything. You weren’t even sure you’d seen it. But he turned away like he had something to hide.
“I’ll, uh…be out on the porch. If you need me.” His voice cracked again. “Dinner’s in the oven.”
“Remmick.”
He stilled.
“Thank you.”
His hand touched the doorframe. Just the tips of his fingers. Then he left without looking back, the gold chain glinting once over the curve of his collarbone as he slipped into the shadows again.
You didn’t know what you’d just seen. But you knew you weren’t afraid. Not of him. And not of whatever was buried beneath those woeful eyes.
The dining room was crooked.
The long table—mahogany once, now dulled and water-stained—sat slightly uneven, legs warped from heat and time. One chair at the end had been worn smooth with use. The others were still draped in white sheets, untouched, forgotten. The chandelier above was dust-choked, only one bulb flickering faintly. Shadows wavered across the ceiling like they were alive.
Remmick was already seated when you stepped in, spine stiff, hands folded neatly in his lap. Not touching the silverware. Not even looking at the plate in front of him. A modest meal—roasted potatoes, black-eyed peas, cornbread—steamed in a careful arrangement across two plates, though yours was a little fuller.
He’d set it out like it was a ritual. Like it mattered. His eyes jumped to yours the moment you crossed the threshold. That same stare—wide, dark in the low light, too big for his face—gave him the look of something puppyish, soft in a way that didn’t match the rest of him.
“I hope it’s alright,” he said quickly, words too fast, too eager. “I cooked it this mornin’. Tried to keep it warm without dryin’ it out.”
You slid into the chair across from him. “It smells good.”
His shoulders relaxed a fraction, like a wire had gone slack. “Ain’t had much reason to cook for two.”
You took a bite, slowly. It was simple—salt, butter, heat. No herbs. No flair. But it was made with care. You could taste that.
Across from you, Remmick didn’t eat. He watched you instead.
You didn’t comment on it at first, but when you finally glanced up, fork paused midair, he looked away too quickly. A flicker of red threatened behind his lashes—gone before you could be sure.
“You’re not hungry?” you asked gently.
He hesitated. “Not for that.”
You blinked.
He flinched. “I mean—nothin’ wrong with it. I just—I don’t eat much. Not lately.”
You let it go. For now.
The silence that followed wasn’t hostile, but it wasn’t easy either. It strained under its own weight. Not tension between you, but the kind that comes when someone’s forgotten how to be in a room with another person. He kept shifting in his seat—shoulders tight, hands flexing slightly in his lap, like he had to remind himself to stay still.
You tried again.
“So…you’ve lived here a long time?”
He nodded. “Since before the war.”
“Which one?”
His lips twitched. “Exactly.”
You huffed a soft laugh. “Do you ever leave?”
Another long pause. He looked down at the table, fingers tracing the edge of a scratch in the wood.
“I used to,” he said. “Town was smaller then. Or maybe it just felt that way.”
“You don’t go anymore?”
“I scare folks.” He said it plainly. No self-pity. Just fact. “And I don’t…do well in the sun.”
You watched the way he said it—carefully. Intentionally vague. Like he was testing how much he could say without scaring you off.
“I noticed,” you murmured.
His eyes lifted again. In the dim lighting, they looked almost black, shadows swallowing all the unnatural blue. The wide shape of them gave him a look so innocent it was disarming—a big-eyed, vulnerable softness, like a boy too shy to ask for what he needed.
“I’m not scared of you,” you added.
He swallowed hard. The gold chain at his collarbone shifted.
“You should be,” he said softly. “But I’m glad you’re not.”
The food sat cooling between you.
You noticed he kept glancing at your hands—how they moved, how they curled around your fork, how they pressed briefly to your chest when you swallowed water. He didn’t leer. Didn’t ogle. But he watched with the intensity of someone who’d gone without touch so long, he’d forgotten what warmth looked like.
“Do you miss it?” you asked.
He looked up sharply. “Miss what?”
“Conversation. Company.”
He blinked like you’d hit him.
“Yes,” he said. Just that. No hesitation. Voice cracking around the edge.
Then, quieter:
“I try not to. But yes.”
You sat with that for a beat.
“I could talk more,” you offered, a faint smile tugging at your mouth. “Or less. If you’d rather quiet.”
He shook his head, too fast. “No—no, I like it. I…I like your voice.”
You blinked. Your cheeks went warm.
He blinked too, startled at himself. “Shit—I mean—not like that. Just. It’s nice. I ain’t heard anything like it in…”
He trailed off. His ears had gone pink.
You laughed gently. “You’re a little out of practice, huh?”
“I’m fuckin’ terrible,” he muttered, half to himself. Then, with a glance at you: “Sorry.”
“Don’t be,” you said. “It’s nice. You’re…nice.”
He stared at you like he didn’t know what to do with that word. And then, without warning, a loud creak echoed from somewhere deeper in the house. The pipes moaned. The lights flickered.
You jumped.
Remmick didn’t move. But the red flashed again in his eyes—just for a blink, just enough to raise the hairs on your arms.
“Old house,” he murmured.
“Right.”
But he was staring down the hallway now, like he heard something you couldn’t. His jaw clenched. One hand curled tight against his knee, as if fighting the urge to stand.
“Is it safe?” you asked, your voice dipping instinctively into something wary.
His eyes cut to yours.
And something about the way he looked at you then—those big, dark, wide eyes still soft as a dog’s, still scared to ask too much—made your breath catch.
“With me?” he said.
A beat.
Then, softer:
“Always.”
The house changed at night.
It didn’t creak. It breathed—slow and hollow, like the walls had lungs of their own. The old wood carried footsteps in strange directions. Voices turned inward. Time unspooled.
You lay in bed, still dressed, still wired, the heat slick on the back of your neck. The lamp on your bedside table cast a low, amber glow across the ceiling. Somewhere outside, a whippoorwill called once and went quiet.
The room smelled like lavender soap and old cotton. The fan in the corner ticked every fifth rotation. You hadn’t seen Remmick since dinner.
He hadn’t said goodnight. Not that you blamed him.
He’d looked like he wanted to linger. Like his legs didn’t quite want to carry him away. But something in him—something knotted deep—had yanked him back into the dark, like a leash.
Still, you thought of him as you lay there. The way his eyes kept dropping to your hands. The way his voice cracked when he spoke too kindly. The way he watched you like he hadn’t watched another soul in decades—and didn’t know if he was allowed to.
You didn’t mean to doze. But the silence folded over you like a sheet.
And then—
You heard it.
Low. Fragile. Muffled.
A sound curling up through the floorboards.
You blinked awake, heart ticking faster, every hair on your arms rising before your mind even caught up. You sat up slowly. The fan ticked again.
And again, that sound.
A moan.
Male. Soft. Throaty.
Followed by something rougher. Shaped by a tongue and a mouth. Words.
You slid from the bed, bare feet ghosting over the cool floor. Pressed your palm to the wall. Leaned close.
The voice—Remmick’s voice—was speaking. But not English. Something old. It came in broken fragments. Whispered. Half-strangled. And aching.
“A chuisle…mo chuisle, mo chroí…”
(My pulse…my pulse, my heart…)
The wood under your fingers thrummed.
“Táid mo lámha ag crith…Dia, tá brón orm…”
(My hands are shaking…God, I’m sorry…)
A sound followed—wet. Guttural. Like he’d tried to breathe through a sob and swallowed it.
You stepped back, heart rabbiting, heat pooling low in your belly—not from fear, but from something else.
The need in that voice. The loneliness. The way the words clung to his throat like they hurt coming out.
And then—
A moan. Sharp. Broken open.
“Lig dom é a mhothú… lig dom tú a mhothú…”
(Let me feel it…let me feel you…)
You were rooted to the floor, bare toes curling against the wood as something bloomed low in your abdomen—hot and needy and shameful in its intensity. Your thighs pressed together before you even realized you’d done it.
He sounded desperate. Not sexual—not entirely. But starved. Ragged.
Destroyed.
Like he was begging for something he didn’t think he deserved to have, not even in sleep.
“Tá tú anseo…tá tú fíor…ná fág mé…”
(You’re here…you’re real…don’t leave me…)
The words were choked now. Slurred. Drenched in a broken kind of longing. You didn’t mean to press your palm flat against the wall. Didn’t mean to close your eyes.
Didn’t mean to whisper: “I’m here.”
But you did.
And somehow, the sounds stopped. Not abruptly. Just…slowed. Faded.
As if he'd heard you.
As if, wherever he was in that dream, the presence of you at the wall soothed something raw and ancient inside him.
The air stilled. No more moaning. No more whispers. Only quiet. You stood there for a moment longer, breath shallow, chest tight. Then turned back to the bed.
And as you crawled beneath the covers, something inside you whispered—
He wasn’t dreaming of just anyone. He was dreaming of you.
You didn’t sleep long.
When you woke again, the air was different. Thicker.
Your body was heavy with it, sunk into the mattress, heart drumming in your ears like you were already in motion. The fan had stopped ticking. The lamp had gone out. A soft glow slanted in through the hallway—a light left on downstairs, maybe. Or—
No.
Someone had turned it on.
You sat up slowly. The floorboards creaked outside your door. Once. Twice. A pause. Then a knock. Soft. Barely there.
Your stomach flipped.
“Yeah?” you called, voice still sleep-rough, soft enough that he could ignore it if he needed to.
But he didn’t. The door opened a crack. And there he was.
Remmick.
Still barefoot.
Still dressed the same—pinstriped button-up wrinkled from sleep, sleeves rolled to the elbows, suspenders hanging loose at his sides. His hair was mussed now, falling harder into his face, and his chest rose and fell beneath the thin white wife-beater like he’d climbed stairs too fast. Or hadn’t been breathing right since sundown.
He didn’t cross the threshold. Not at first.
He stood there like a man unsure of his place in the world—a broad shadow outlined in gold from the hallway light, wide-eyed and fidgeting, arms at his sides like he didn’t trust himself to lift them.
“Sorry,” he said, voice raw. “Didn’t mean to wake you.”
“You didn’t.”
He hesitated.
Then: “Can I…?”
He didn’t finish the sentence. But his eyes flicked toward the inside of the room—dark and private and unthreatening—and you understood.
You nodded once. “Yeah.”
He stepped in.
Carefully. Like the floor might bite him.
The door shut behind him with a click that echoed louder than it should have. He stood near the dresser, eyes darting—not in panic, but like he was looking for something to anchor himself to. His fingers worried the hem of his sleeve. His shoulders were hunched, defensive, vulnerable despite the width of them.
His eyes—dark in this light, wide and glassy—looked almost wet. Puppyish. Devastating.
“I heard you,” you said quietly. “Last night.”
He stiffened.
“I didn’t mean to,” you added. “I just…couldn’t sleep.”
His jaw flexed. His throat bobbed. He didn’t look at you.
“You were speaking in another language.”
“Gaelic,” he muttered, almost like he was ashamed of it. “From…before.”
“Before what?”
He didn’t answer. Instead, he stepped closer. His hand twitched at his side.
“I didn’t know I was talkin’,” he said. “I don’t—usually.”
“You sounded upset.”
“I was.”
You waited.
Then, just above a whisper:
“I was dreamin’ of you.”
The room tilted. Your breath caught.
He raised his eyes then—still that soft, drowning dark, still wide like he wasn’t sure if he was allowed to say your name, let alone admit this.
“I know it ain’t right,” he murmured, voice hoarse, almost breaking. “But I’ve been here so long. Been quiet so long. And then you—” His breath hitched. “You come in here like you’re made of light. Like you belong. And I don’t know what to do with that.”
You stood slowly.
He didn’t move. He watched you with that same broken hunger, like he’d already decided you were too good for him, but couldn’t stop himself from needing you anyway.
“You’re shaking,” you said.
He glanced down. His hands were trembling. You stepped closer. He didn’t flinch this time.
But he didn’t touch you either. Just stood there—shoulders tight, breath shallow, like if he touched you, you’d vanish.
“I ain’t touched anyone in so long,” he whispered. “And I keep thinkin’ about what they said. About me. About my hands. That I ruin things.”
You reached up, slowly, brushing your fingertips just above his collarbone—where the thin gold chain clung to his skin.
He gasped like it burned. You didn’t pull away.
“You didn’t ruin this.”
His eyes fluttered shut. His lip trembled. A sound caught in his throat—half a sob, half a moan—as he leaned forward, forehead just barely grazing yours.
“Tell me not to,” he whispered. “Tell me to leave, and I will. But if you don’t—if you don’t say it—I swear to God, I’m gonna fall to my knees.”
The air between you crackled.
And his voice dropped, Irish blooming up from the roots of him like something ancient and helpless:
“Cuir do lámha orm…ná tabhair uaim thú…”
(Put your hands on me…don’t take yourself away from me…)
You didn’t speak at first. Didn’t move either.
Just breathed—slow and even, like you were the calm center of a storm, and he was every desperate gust of wind trying to press against your skin.
Remmick stood there, trembling. Not from fear. From need. It curled off him like steam, thick and desperate, clinging to the air between you. His pupils were wide, swallowing the color of his irises until they looked nearly black, and his lips parted like he wanted to say more, to beg, to confess—but didn’t know how to start.
You reached for him.
He gasped—actually gasped—when your fingers slid up the open placket of his button-up, brushing the edge of his white ribbed wife-beater. You felt the tremor through him, all the way down. His chest was warm and solid, rising and falling like he was trying not to pant.
Your hands smoothed over his shoulders, palms splaying against the thick muscle hidden beneath soft cotton. And then, softly—gently, like it was a kindness—you pushed him.
He let you.
Without resistance, without question, he backed up until the backs of his knees hit the edge of the bed, and then he sank down like he didn’t know how to carry his own weight anymore. He sat there, breath shallow, eyes wide and wet and locked on you like you were the moon and he hadn’t seen the sky in a hundred years.
You stood between his knees. Tilted his chin up with just two fingers under his jaw.
“Hands to yourself,” you ordered, soft yet firm.
His breath hitched. His fingers dug into the comforter on either side of him, white-knuckled and obedient.
You watched the way he fought his own instinct—fought it like it pained him. He wanted to touch you. God, did he want to. It rolled off him in waves. His thighs were tense, knees spread wide, shirt wrinkled where your hands had touched him. He looked wrecked already.
“Y-you sure?” he asked, voice cracking like shaky glass under the burgeoning weight of desperation.
“I didn’t ask for your hands,” you said. “Not yet.”
His throat bobbed. The gold chain swayed at the base of his throat as he nodded—once, sharp, frantic.
“Okay,” he breathed. “Okay, I—yeah, I can do that. I’ll be good.”
You smiled, slow and soft and wicked.
“I know you will.”
He whimpered. Actually whimpered. A soft, strangled sound pulled from the depths of him, one he didn’t seem prepared for.
His hair had fallen over his brow again, mussed and curling faintly with sweat at his temples. You brushed it back, deliberately slow. He didn’t lean into the touch—he melted under it. His lashes fluttered. His lips parted.
“You’ve really gone this long?” you murmured, thumb stroking the sharp line of his trembling cheekbone.
His voice was barely audible.
“Thirteen hundred years.”
You blinked. He looked away, ashamed.
“I feed when I have to,” he said, “but touch? Mouths? Skin? That kinda closeness?” He shook his head, jaw tight. “Not since—fuck. Before the plague hit London.”
You stared at him, stunned.
“You’re starved.”
He looked back at you with those wide, dark, pleading eyes, red bleeding into his pupils like a fresh laceration, like a man who's learned to lick his wounds clean in silence finally cracking open wide and letting you see the most vulnerable parts of him.
“I’m starvin’.”
You nodded, slow and understanding, letting your hand fall away from his face.
“Then sit still, Remmick,” you murmured, hushed, like you were afraid to shatter the silence. “And let me feed you.”
His breath shuddered out of him like you’d punched it from his lungs. His hands curled tighter in the sheets. His voice was hoarse, shaking, with the faintest Irish crack as he whispered:
“A ghrá…táim i do lámha…”
(My love…I’m in your hands…)
You stayed standing between his knees, just looking at him, because even if you didn't know what those words meant, you could feel them carve into your soul like a brand.
And Remmick—God help him—let you. Didn’t dare breathe too deep, didn’t dare move a single muscle. He was shaking with it. With restraint. With want. With that terrible, ancient hunger not just for blood, but for closeness, for skin-on-skin, for the obscene luxury of being touched.
Your fingers reached for him. He twitched.
Not in fear. In anticipation. His lips parted, a fine strand of spit hanging off one corner, catching in the gold glow of the hallway light behind you. It glistened, trailing down toward his chin before pooling at the dip beneath his lower lip—thick, warm, a little foamy, and wholly instinctual. His breath came in short, shallow bursts now, as if his body was preparing for something it didn’t fully understand.
You slid his suspenders off the broad slope of his shoulders first, snapping one against his pec, feeling arousal pool into your cunt like molten hot lava when he whimpers at the pleasant sting of it, letting the thin scraps of fabric fall down beside his hips.
Then you undid the first button of his shirt. Then the next. And the next. Slow. Deliberate. Never breaking eye contact.
Remmick’s eyes were huge in the dark—dark and shiny, wide like a dog waiting to be called forward, like he’d sink his teeth into the floor just for a word from you. Sweat pearled at his temples. His thighs spread slightly wider beneath you as the shirt parted open.
His chest was beautiful. Scarred, but beautiful—pale muscle threaded with faint blue veins, the sort that spoke of long nights and longer hunger. His skin was cool beneath your fingertips, though you could feel the heat roiling beneath it, just under the surface.
But what drew your eye—what made you pause—was the tattoo.
On his left ribcage, inked into him like a brand, was a budded cross—old, faded, the lines a little blurred from age but unmistakable. A Christian cross, yes—but older, rougher, like it had been carved into him by a trembling hand in candlelight.
You stared.
He followed your gaze, and his throat worked, the motion making his chain jump slightly against his collarbones.
“I got that when I still thought it’d save me,” he whispered, voice tight.
You dropped to your knees. He whimpered.
No contact yet—just the sound of your body lowering between his thighs, the shift in the room, the weight of your presence pressing into the cradle of his hips. He tipped his head back against the edge of the bed, more thick drool sliding from the corner of his mouth, breath now shallow, frantic, like he was trying not to choke on his own spit.
You leaned forward. Pressed your mouth to the edge of the cross.
He hissed.
You kissed it. Then licked—tongue flattening over the cool ink, tracing it reverently, slowly. He trembled beneath you like a man being sanctified and defiled all at once.
The irony rolled off your tongue with every stroke.
A man like this—older than gunpowder, older than the books that tried to define him—wearing a cross close to his heart like it still meant salvation.
You dragged your lips lower.
Down his ribs. Over the ridges of muscle. To the soft trail of hair starting just below his navel—a dark, fine line that disappeared beneath the waistband of his jeans.
You licked that too. Just once. Teasing.
Following the path slowly, like you were on your knees at an altar, taking your time with worship. His happy trail twitched under your tongue.
Above you, Remmick made a noise that wasn’t a moan or a sob but something shattered between the two.
More drool slipped from his lips now—foamy, thick, sliding down his chin, catching on the curve of his neck and the edge of that trembling gold chain. He didn’t wipe it. Couldn’t. You’d told him not to touch.
His voice broke apart.
“I c-can’t take it,” he choked. “I swear to God, I’m gonna come just from you lookin’ at me like that—just from that tongue—fuck, darlin’, please.”
You looked up at him.
Still on your knees. Still reverent. And said, with quiet finality, “Good.”
You reached for his belt.
His breath caught—sharply, like the sound a deer makes when it hears the snap of a twig too close behind it. But he didn’t move. Didn’t flinch. Just stared down at you with those wide, wet eyes, black in the low light, pupils blown to the edge. His chest rose and fell like he was sprinting through mud.
The leather was worn, soft from age and use, the buckle cool in your fingers.
You took your time.
Slowly, purposefully, you undid the clasp, the soft clink of metal loud in the hush of the room. He whimpered, his thighs tensing beneath you, and more drool spilled from the corner of his mouth—thick, glistening, sliding down his chin
“Stay still,” you reminded him, voice silk-wrapped steel.
He nodded, a jerky, miserable little movement, and you swore his lower lip quivered. You dragged the zipper down, each tooth catching slightly, the sound sharp and intimate.
And then—finally—you pulled him free.
Your breath hitched.
He was hard. Painfully so. Flushed deep red at the tip, already leaking, the slit glossy and wet. He twitched in your hand, a thick vein pulsing along the underside, and his thighs quivered like he could barely keep himself grounded.
“Jesus,” you whispered.
Remmick gave a breathless, broken laugh, chin tilted back as he struggled not to move. His hands were fists in the sheets now, white-knuckled, his gold chain trembling across his throat with every shallow breath.
“I—fuck, I’m sorry,” he gasped. “I can’t stop—fuck, it’s so much—”
You looked up at him as you gave him the first stroke.
Just one.
Slow.
Base to tip, twisting your palm, watching his mouth fall open wider—thick drool spilling freely now, down his neck, dampening the edge of his shirt. He looked utterly destroyed already.
“Does it feel good?” you asked, your voice soft, cruel with how gently you said it.
He nodded frantically.
“Use your words.”
His head lolled forward. His voice was wrecked. “Feels like heaven,” he groaned. “Oh God, sugar, I cain’t—I cain’t believe—”
You didn’t let him finish.
You leaned forward, licking up the length of him, tongue flat, slow, letting his taste settle warm and heavy on your tongue—salt and skin and something a little coppery, something distinctly him, something old. He sobbed. Actually sobbed, chest hiccuping, thighs jerking just slightly before he caught himself and moaned through clenched teeth.
Your mouth wrapped around the head. He cried out.
No words now. Just a strangled sound ripped from his throat, and more drool frothed at the corners of his lips. He looked dazed—eyes rolling back, lashes fluttering. His hips bucked once—a reflex—and immediately stilled like he was terrified to move again without permission.
You pulled back just enough to speak, saliva stringing between your lips and his flushed cock.
“I told you,” you whispered. “Hands to yourself.”
His voice came out wrecked, breathless.
“Yes, ma’am.”
Then your mouth was back on him.
You took him deeper this time—slow, tight suction, twisting your wrist around what you couldn’t take yet—and the way he howled, you’d have thought he’d been starved in every way a man could be. Which, of course, he had. Thirteen hundred years of this. Denied. Suppressed. Begged away.
His thighs trembled. His belly tensed. And still he didn’t move. Didn’t touch. Didn’t dare.
You sucked harder.
He broke.
“Fuck—fuck, I’m gonna—darlin’, I—I can’t—oh, please, please, I’m so sorry—”
He was crying.
Not just drool now—actual tears, shining in his lashes, streaking down his flushed face as you sucked him through it, as he jerked and shook and whimpered out your name like it was a hymn.
He came with a sob, hips barely stuttering forward as his whole body went taut, his cock pulsing against your tongue, spilling hot down your throat in waves, thick and heavy and so much you almost gagged on it.
He was loud.
Pathetic.
Perfect.
When you finally pulled off, he was slumped forward—a wrecked, shivering mess, his lips bitten red and his chain soaked through with spit and sweat. His chest heaved. His thighs twitched.
You sat back on your heels, wiped your mouth slowly.
“Still with me?” you asked.
He nodded, weakly. “I ain’t ever lettin’ you leave.”
He collapsed.
Not fell—melted. Like every bone in him had turned to syrup and grief, his body slumping forward, catching on the edge of the bed before slipping down to the floor.
Boneless.
His cheek pressed to the old wood, hair clinging to his forehead, the buttons of his half-undone shirt twisted beneath him. He was drenched—sweat slicked across his chest and ribs, his pale skin kissed pink from effort, a shine of drool still slicking his chin, clinging to the corners of his mouth like foam. His gold chain was crooked now, stuck against the sweat-damp hollow of his throat.
You rose slowly to your knees, then leaned forward—not to comfort him, not yet—but to press your lips to that chain.
Right at the dip of his collarbones. He gasped. Like it burned. Like your mouth was fire and he’d been craving the flame.
His eyes fluttered open—glass-wet, dazed, the whites shot red, his lips trembling from overstimulation. He looked wrecked. Used. Holy.
And still. Still, he tried.
One shaking hand rose, dragging along the edge of your thigh—hesitant, aching, reverent. His fingers brushed your hip like he was praying through it.
“Lemme touch you,” he breathed. “Please. Let me—wanna make you feel good—want your taste on my tongue, sugar, please—”
You caught his wrist mid-rise. Firm. Final. His breath hitched. His mouth parted. But he didn’t resist. Didn’t fight. You leaned in close, until your mouth was at his ear, and whispered—
“You don’t get to yet.”
His eyes fluttered. His breath caught.
“You’re gonna learn to wait.”
A tremble rolled through him, from head to toe. His hand fell away, limp at his side. And then he nodded.
Small. Shaky. Utterly obedient.
“Yes, ma’am,” he breathed. “I’ll wait. I’ll wait, I swear.”
You ran your fingers through his hair, gently now, and he whimpered at the touch.
“Look at you,” you murmured.
He did. Glassy-eyed. Pathetic. So fucking into it.
His tongue darted out across his lower lip, catching more of the drool clinging there, and he looked at you like he’d fall on his knees all over again if you so much as told him to.
“Did I do good?” he asked, voice so small, so needy it nearly broke something open in your chest.
You smiled.
And whispered, “You were perfect.”
He didn’t get up. Didn’t even try.
Just curled in beside your legs like a dog, bare chest heaving, forehead pressed to your knee, as if your body alone could tether him to the earth. His arms folded in at his chest, drawn tight like he didn’t trust them not to reach for you again.
You stayed still. Let him have it. Let him exist in the aftermath—his breath still catching, his sweat-soaked hair plastered to his brow, drool drying tacky at the corners of his mouth, his jeans half undone around his hips, completely forgotten. He looked small down there, despite the size of him. Small and wrecked.
He murmured against your thigh—words so soft you almost missed them, lips brushing the fabric of your skirt like a confession:
“Didn’t know it could feel like that…”
You glanced down.
His eyes were closed, lashes wet. His lips parted as he pressed the side of his face closer to your leg, as if nearness was the only thing keeping him from coming apart again.
“Didn’t know I could feel like that.”
You stroked his hair gently. He shivered.
“I ain’t been held like this since…” He swallowed. “Since before.”
You waited. Then, with a sigh that hitched in his throat, he said:
“Before I stopped bein’ a man and started bein’ a thing.”
Your fingers paused at his temple.
But he nuzzled into your knee like he hadn’t said something awful. Like he hadn’t peeled that truth out of himself and bled it onto your lap.
“I remember what it was like,” he whispered. “Before I turned. Before the hunger. Before all that silence got in me and stayed.”
Another pause.
“I used to think about what it’d be like, y’know? Fallin’ apart for someone. Just crackin’ open. Bein’ touched like I was human.”
He sighed again.
“Didn’t think it’d ever happen.”
Your hand returned to his hair, soft strokes over the messy bangs sticking to his forehead.
He let out a low, contented whine.
“Felt you on my tongue before I ever tasted you,” he breathed, voice thick and syrup-slow. “In my dreams. In my fuckin’ bones.”
His fingers brushed the floor. Not reaching. Just hovering.
“Tell me you won’t go,” he whispered.
You didn’t say anything. But you didn’t move. And that was enough.
He breathed deep then, nose brushing your thigh, the gold chain glinting dully in the light. His body slackened further, weight pooling against you like he meant to stay right there forever—a crumpled thing collared in sweat, salt, and shame, held together only by the sound of your breath and the soft drag of your fingers through his hair.
“I’m ruined now,” he said sleepily. “You know that, don’t you?”
You smiled faintly.
“Good.”
He whimpered again. A sound so low and lovely it curled down your spine and planted itself deep in your stomach.
And then he sighed—the sound of someone finally coming home—and nuzzled in deeper at your thigh.
robert reynolds never thought of himself as having an affinity for having his hair pulled. in fact, he never even thought about it at all. any trysts between the sheets that he’d had before were rushed and impersonal. they were merely a way to try and fill the void he felt within himself, and to find a quick release and have someone warm his bed, if only for a few hours. but in the end, they’d leave, and he’d remain unfulfilled. there was no time to explore new kinks or desires. no time to establish the comfort required to do so.
but things were different now. he was in a good place. he had a roof over his head. a comfortable place to sleep. food in his belly. more books than he could ever dream of reading. and most importantly, he had a good support system. the team had taken him in as one of their own, forming a mismatched little family that wasn’t perfect by any means. but it was just what he needed. along with that, he’d developed a strong bond with each of them. but most importantly, he’d connected with you.
your romance hadn’t started right away. in the beginning, bob was in too fragile of a state to even entertain the idea of falling in love with someone. you, as well, weren’t ready for such a thing. instead, a friendship blossomed between you. something sweet and delicate, soft and light, like the petals of a rose. you spent time together as you adapted to life in the recently renovated avengers tower. at first, the place had felt cold and sterile, but together, the team had made it into a home. nicknacks and various odds and ends littered each surface. different posters decorated the walls. special touches left by each person. and along with that, came the feeling of home. a comfortable sort of warmth that settled upon your shoulders like a cozy blanket.
you weren’t sure when you started falling for robert. but it happened. gradually. as the tower started to feel more like home, so did he. you began spending more time together. enjoying little moments of peace. reading books together. sitting beside each other at dinner. exchanging shy glances in passing in the halls. and then came the movie nights. in which you would often find yourself curled against his side, warm and content. over time, this turned into shy touches. quiet whispers of “is this okay?” as you slid your hand into his own. and he would nod and smile, and say “it’s perfect.” because it was. you were the only one whose hand he could hold, without being transported into your darkest moment. perhaps it was because, in your presence, the darkness hid. it was still there, to some extent, because it would always be part of him. but it seemed that the light you brought into his life was enough to keep it at bay, if only for a little while.
and because you were the only one who could touch him fully, without fear of reliving unspeakable trauma, he found himself seeking it out more. linking your pinkies beneath the dinner table. sitting knee to knee on the floor as you built lego sets or worked on puzzles together. bumping shoulders as you walked side by side. those touches soon turned into something more deliberate. and as your love for one another progressed, so did your need. shy hand holding gave way to kissing. kissing gave way to lazily making out on the couch after everyone else had gone to bed. making out gave way to a sudden, desperate grinding against each other, fully clothed. things escalated until neither of you could resist stumbling into bed together for a session of tender, shy, giggly lovemaking. and that lit an insatiable fire in bob. he wanted more, more, more.
and you gave it to him. exploring each other’s bodies by the light of the moon shining in through your window. tasting, moaning, moving together as one. learning how the other ticked. what elicited the prettiest sounds, and delicious shivers, and quite pleas for more. and along with that came discovering what kinks you shared. including that of hair pulling. it was an accident at first. an action taken in the heat of the moment, as you straddled him in bed, hurriedly rolling your hips against his, cock seated deeply inside you. your mouths moved lazily against each other, whines and gasps mingling. your hands were tangled in his curls, and as you neared your peak, you involuntarily tugged on the roots. and to your utter amazement, bob squealed in surprise against your mouth, eyes rolling back in his head, and seconds later, you felt it. sticky warmth seeped into the deepest part of you, his cock pulsing as he pumped you full.
he buried his face against the side of your neck as he fell apart, and as he came down, he tensed beneath you. “oh…oh my god,” he whispered hoarsely. “oh no. i-i didn’t mean to do that, i—” but you knew he was seconds from rambling on, so you captured his mouth in a sweet kiss. “don’t you apologize. that was the hottest thing i’ve ever seen,” you admitted. his cheeks flushed red as he blinked up at you. “r-really?” as if he couldn’t believe you’d think such a thing. little did either of you know what you had just awakened. that moment led to many more, in which you would tug on his hair, just to test how he’d react. you’d do it when his head was between your legs, when he was on top of you, when you were riding him, so on and so forth. and he couldn’t get enough.
that was what led you to this very moment. this beautiful man kneeling reverently on the floor of your bedroom, eyes wide and earnest, gazing up at you as if you’d hung the moon and stars. you liked him like this. so willing to do anything you asked. so eager to please. “you’re my sweet boy, aren’t you?” you cooed, as you stroked your fingers down the slope of his button nose. “uh-huh,” he breathed, wishing you’d hurry things along. he was achingly hard, cock heavy and pulsing between his legs. but you wanted a verbal response, so you reached out, fingers curling into his roots, before you roughly (but not enough to hurt him) tugged his head back. he gasped sharply, eyes immediately glazing over, mouth parting. you gasped softly when you realized drool had begun to drip down the side of his mouth. “say it,” you instructed. he swallowed, trying to gather his wits about him, though his brain felt as if it was melting. “i-i’m your sweet boy.”
you couldn’t help but smile as you leaned down to kiss his wet lips. “that you are. and do you know what i do to sweet boys? i ruin them.” the moment you said those words, he nodded his head, as best he could with you holding onto his hair. “please. ruin me, i need it.” he craved it. lovingly, you bumped your forehead against his. “don’t worry, angel. when i’m finished with you, you won’t even remember your own name.” and you’d make good on that promise, that was for certain.
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Summary: Your gift makes sleep difficult. Luckily, Bob is there to guide you through it.
Warnings: 18+, smut, Thunderbolts* spoilers, kissing, handjob, hurt/comfort, nightmares, reader has power of feeling other's emotions, friends to lovers, sexual innuendos, talk of sex, Bob is kind of a sub but not entirely, pet name (pretty boy)
Word count: 6.8k
A/N: Lewis Pullman, my love, you have charmed me with another character of yours named Bob. We knew this was coming.
One thing that the New Avengers had in common was nightmares. You all had them. It was worse for some than others. But it was terrible for you most of all. Being able to feel other people's emotions meant that the feelings everybody experienced during their nightmares would rocket through you as well.
This caused a lot of sleepless nights for you. Laying awake in bed, sweating from the shared anxiety that would travel through the other members of your team and land in you as their final destination. At least when you were awake you could find something to distract yourself from the emotion. It pained you to know that your friends went through it every night but when you managed to sleep through it, all it would do is influence your own nightmares. You'd find yourself dreaming up your own worst fears with the horrors of your friends' lives mixed in.
It was a particularly bad night, all of them having bad dreams which only filled your body with sadness and anxiety. You stuck headphones over your ears, music turned up loud to blast through your head in an attempt to block out some of the feelings. It only helped a little. You stared at the wall opposite your bed, trying to think of better things and trying to latch onto any sort of feeling. You were getting nothing. Either everybody was having a bad night or no positive emotions were strong enough to reach you in the moment. It sucked.
A few hours went by, your eyes blurring with exhaustion as you continued to stare. The emotions weren't dying down, only going through fluctuations where everybody's sleep cycles would circle around. There was a tugging at the side of your head, like something else was trying to get in but you couldn't quite manage to get a latch on it. You sighed and squeezed your eyes shut, only opening them when the tugging got stronger.
You squinted at your door, trying to figure out whether it was your tired brain making you see things or whether there actually was a shadow moving underneath your door. Taking a deep breath in a bid to relax, you used your gift to reach out. Then you felt it. A different type of anxiety, it was more like a quiet concern rather than fear and nerves.
You ripped the headphones from your head and sat up straighter, surprised when there was a tentative knock on your door. "Hello?"
"Hi." The voice was timid. "It's- it's Bob."
You let out a soft sigh of relief. It was only Bob. You clambered out of bed and padded towards your door, opening it with a tired smile. "Hey, Bob. What can I help you with?"
He blinked back at you, his hair mussed up and clothes crinkled from sleep. "Your light was on."
You frowned. "Uh, yes."
"It's the middle of the night." He added on, hands twisting together into the hem of his shirt.
You realised he was worried about you and wondering why you were awake in the middle of the night. "Yeah, uh, the team dream rather restlessly. And- and I can feel it."
"Oh." He nodded, suddenly remembering what your gift entailed. "That's horrible."
You shrugged. "I'm used to it. But thank you for checking on me. That's sweet of you."
The apples of his cheeks bloomed pink, blood rushing to his face. "No- no problem. Just wanted to see if you were okay."
It was then that you realised you suddenly felt better. Bob's concern was a nicer feeling than the nightmares everyone else was going through. And when he'd blushed you felt another emotion, a warmer emotion.
"I appreciate that, Bob. Thank you." You smiled at him, pleased when he offered a small smile back. That also improved your mood. "You're making me feel a lot better actually."
"I am?" He seemed surprised, hands dropping to his sides.
"Yes, you're a lot calmer than everyone else right now and it feels good." You paused, looking him up and down. "Can you- could you maybe stay with me for a little while?"
"Oh! Yes. Yes, of course." He shifted from foot to foot, glancing over your shoulder at your room. "Um, why?"
"Because I'm tired of feeling anxious from everyone else. We can just sit for a few minutes and then you can go back to your room. If that's okay?"
He nodded and took a step towards you. "Sure, for as long as you want."
Bob really was sweet, his awkward demeanour only the surface of how lovely he really was. It was difficult to believe that he was technically the same guy who had killed half of New York only a couple of months ago. He really wasn't that person, and never had been. Since then, he'd quickly become one of your favourite people and you didn't see that changing any time soon. He was just the kind of person you wanted to keep around, so worthy of love and protection.
You tilted your head backwards and opened your door slightly wider. "Come on in then. We can sit on my bed."
His blue eyes widened for a moment before shuffling towards you, bare feet sliding against the floor. You shut the door behind him, gesturing towards your bed to offer him a seat when he hesitated in the middle of your room.
"It won't bite." You snorted, stopping next to him. "You can just sit on the edge if it makes you uncomfortable."
"No, it's not that. I just don't want to intrude into your space." He glanced at you from from the corner of his eye.
"I wouldn't have invited you in if you could do that." You replied, walking around the side of your bed to sit back down in the spot you had been before. You pointed at the space next to you. "I don't bite either."
A small smile graced his face as he went to the other side of the bed to sit next to you. Bob rested against the headboard, staring at the same wall you had been before he'd arrived.
"So... do we chat? Or something?" He asked, head flopping to look at you.
You resisted the urge to push his hair out of his face so you could see his sweet face in all of its glory. He really did make you feel better with his mere presence. You'd never experienced that with someone before.
"We can, if you want. Or we can just sit quietly."
He pushed his own hair out of his eyes, revealing the baby blues to you again. "What were you doing before I knocked?"
"I was listening to music. To try- to try and block it out."
"Was it working?"
"No." You shook your head. "But you're working."
He looked away from you and you panicked, scared that that had been too much. It often freaked people out when you reminded them you could feel all of their emotions. But then you felt it. Bob was happy.
You inched slightly closer to him. "Feels nice when you're happy. It's warm."
He looked back at you. "Warm?"
"And soft. Most people feel harsher when they're happy, in an excitable way. But not you. It's difficult to explain." You closed your eyes, a pleased smile on your lips. "I like the way it feels."
Bob's breathing grew heavier, his voice cracking as he spoke. "I'm glad."
You hummed lowly, your heart rate slowing the more you relaxed. You hadn't realised it had been thundering against your rib cage for the majority of the night. As you calmed down, you grew more and more fatigued. Bob's effect on you was quick and he could only watch as you started to fall asleep. He didn't want to disturb you, it was clear how exhausted you were. He'd seen the way you would move sluggishly on the days when you hadn't slept very well. It hadn't quite clicked in his head why you'd been like that but it was all adding up now. You had always been so kind to him that he hated to see you struggle. You didn't deserve that. So if all he could do to help was sit by your side so you could sleep peacefully, then he was all too happy to do that.
When you awoke the next morning, you were startled by what greeted you when you opened your eyes. Bob was laying down beside you, mouth slightly agape and quiet snores leaving him. He really was rather lovely to look at. He had a delicate face, his features rather soft. And that was only increased by the peace that radiated off of him during his slumber.
The feeling that was trickling through you was new, and difficult to comprehend. You'd always been surrounded by people with big characters, their lives usually motivated by some sort of misery. You couldn't complain, you were the same. But it meant that the emotions that you received in response would be equally as agonising. They had their high moments, of course. Evenings the team spent together in the tower when you ate dinner, played games and watched movies were usually far more pleasant. But those were only fleeting moments.
Bob was a breath of fresh air. He certainly wasn't the happiest person you'd ever known, especially when you first met. But because he was rather easy to please, the simplest of compliments making him practically glow, it meant that you often found yourself also feeling good around him. You tried not to take advantage of that but because he was also just kind of wonderful you found yourself enchanted by him.
You watched him sleep, trying not to move so as not to disturb him. But he probably sensed your gaze in his slumber as it didn't take long before he stirred. He murmured something lowly as he opened his eyes, squinting against the sunlight streaming in through your windows, and stretched. When his eyes landed on you he offered a timid smile.
"Good morning." You whispered, propping your chin on your hand as you looked down at him.
"G'morning." His voice was gruff, even lower than it usually was.
"Did you stay all night?" You asked, suddenly realising that he was underneath the blankets.
"Yeah, I hope that's okay." He turned on his side. "You fell asleep and I didn't want to disturb you if I left. Especially since everyone's emotions were getting to you."
You grinned at him. "You really are rather sweet, Bob."
He rolled away from you, groaning into the pillow beneath him. "Thank you."
You laughed and sat up as he did. "No, thank you. I appreciate this. It was nice of you."
"You don't need to thank me." He stood up and turned to look at you. "Do you want to go have breakfast? I hide the good cereal behind the pots and pans."
Affection spiralled through you, he was a great friend and you were so thankful to have him.
"Is that why I can never find it? You keep it hidden?" You started following him out of your room, grabbing your robe as you walked.
"Yeah..." He let out a short giggle. "Alexei keeps finding it though so I have to keep changing the hiding spot."
You smiled at the back of his head as you followed him to the kitchen, ready to start your day feeling more well rested than you had in years.
After a busy day spent with Bob doing chores around the tower and just hanging out, you were ready to go to bed. You were tired from the day's activities and needed some rest. But Bob could tell something was off. As each member of the team headed off to bed one by one, he watched as you slowly curled in on yourself where you were sat on the couch. It didn't take him long to realise what was wrong.
"Is it bad again?" He asked you, voice hushed to keep it between the two of you. He wasn't entirely sure how the super soldier serum worked on the three members of the team who had it, but if it was anything like what he'd experienced then he didn't want to risk their enhanced senses hearing him.
"Mhmm." You nodded weakly, your head collapsing against the back of the couch.
Bob moved to sit next to you, debating whether his next offer would be too forward. But the pain on your face was unbearable for him to witness. You'd been so happy all day, the change around was horrible to see. "Would you like me to come to your room again?"
You looked up at him through your lashes, using the little energy you had to cling on to his emotions. "Yes, please."
"Okay." Bob nodded and stood up, angling his head in the direction of your room. "Let's go then."
It didn't take long for that to become the routine between you and Bob. Free days spent in the tower you'd stay by each other's sides and nights would consist of the two of you sharing your bed in order to sleep peacefully. Practically every second you spent in the tower would be with Bob. As well as being a soothing presence, he was also very funny and considerate. It took you about two days of hanging out one on one for you to decide that he was perfect in basically every way. You only hoped he enjoyed your company as much as you enjoyed his. If the emotions that radiated off of him were any indication, then he did like you. A lot.
A new feeling had started pouring out of him, you'd noticed. One that made the back of your neck tingle and your brain feel fuzzy behind the eyes. You just couldn't quite figure out exactly what it was yet.
The rest of the team didn't fail to notice how you and Bob seemed closer. Stolen glances became a regular thing, the two of you acting as if you shared a secret. They could only watch on in somewhat confused amusement as Bob would look at you first whenever someone told a joke, to see if you were laughing, and how you had started singling out Bob by name whenever you offered to make anyone else a snack or a drink, like he was suddenly your priority. The two of you would also sit next to each other during every evening the team spent together.
They all assumed something had happened between the two of you. Just what, they didn't know. You weren't exactly acting like a couple, neither of you being flirty or touching the other anymore than usual. But the dynamic had certainly changed and was clearly developing more everyday. Whatever it was, it was clearly having a positive effect on you both. Bob seemed happier, smiling more often when you were around, and his emotions directly influenced yours, you were now a lot calmer and seemed less tense. So they just continued to observe in silence, curious to see where it would lead.
When Yelena had attempted to question Bob on it he had stuttered out that it was nothing, a clear give away that it was something. And when she'd asked you, all you had done was give her a coy smile accompanied by a shrug. She just decided to be happy for the two of you.
The thing between you and Bob was going steady for a few weeks, he'd started to open up to you more and more and you clung on to every word he decided to tell you. It was nice. But things quickly changed one night.
You'd been sleeping peacefully next to each other when you'd suddenly woken up. No clear negative emotion was travelling through you and Bob was still asleep so you assumed something else had woken you up. You listened out and heard nothing so sighed and closed your eyes in an attempt to go back to sleep. But you couldn't.
There was a tug at your lower stomach, a sudden ache further down. You shifted yourself, wondering if your position had you pressing on your organs strangely. But it didn't let up, and started getting more intense instead. And then you realised what it was. It was arousal. You were turned on. Puzzled, you flattened yourself on your back with a huff. What could possibly have you feeling like this? It was a normal night, sharing a bed with Bob with no disturbances other than the soft soundtrack of his breathing. Ever since you had started sharing a bed with him at night, you hadn't found yourself disrupted by the anxious feelings of the rest of your team. Bob's presence had been enough to soothe away the nerves and the fear and replaced it all with comfort and relaxation.
You glanced at Bob through the darkness, nothing seemed different with him. And then he made a noise. It was halfway between a content hum and a needy whimper. Your eyes widened in the dark as the pull in your tummy increased. It hit you all at once. Bob was having a sex dream and it was having an effect on you.
You scrunched your eyes shut, willing it to go away. Not entirely sure why you were even bothering, it had never been possible to just push the feelings away, you took a shaky breath as Bob let out another sound. This one was louder, more of a whine than anything else. Your brain felt misty, you weren't convinced whether what you were feeling was all of Bob or if it was also a combination of your own arousal at the noises he was making.
Bob was cute, you'd always thought it, but due to the circumstances through which you'd met you hadn't thought it appropriate to ever try to pursue anything. So the idea had died down and you hadn't even considered it in months. As the two of you had steadily gotten closer, you started to treasure him as a friend and nothing else. Bob was sweet, that was undeniable, and you had grown rather fond of him. And now here he was in your bed having a sex dream that was making you wet between your thighs.
The final straw was the desperate moan that rumbled from Bob's chest and out of his mouth. You shot up in bed, switching the bedside lamp on and tapped him on the shoulder.
He didn't stir. You envied how deeply he slept.
You poked his arm, surprised when you hit solid bicep. "Bob."
He grumbled and turned his face into the pillow.
"Bob." You sighed, shaking him gently.
"Mm?" The sound was questioning but had an undertone to it that reminded you of the sounds he'd previously been making.
"Bob, wake up." You said, louder than before. You were hoping that the feeling of being turned on would fade away as he came to but you were wrong.
As Bob's eyes slowly blinked open and landed on your face, the feeling in your core pulsed for a moment as his face turned a rosy shade of pink.
He shuffled around until he managed to sit up next to you, looking around the room to see if there was some sort of problem. "Is something wrong?"
The sincerity in his eyes was infuriating. But only because it made your breathing go ragged as you took in his messy hair and sleepy eyes. His flushed complexion wasn't helping and you didn't fail to notice how he cautiously tugged the blanket over his lap.
You decided to be blunt with it, not being able to concentrate on anything else other than the ocean between your legs. You hadn't even known it was possible to experience the physical things the people around you were going through. You had only ever felt the emotions of others. The closest you had ever gotten to this was being able to tell when people were injured or sick - people had very distinct emotions when they were in pain. But this was a whole new thing.
"You were having a sex dream."
Bob looked away from you. "H-how... how do you know that? Did I- did I say something?"
He looked nervous, more nervous than you'd seen him in weeks, and you could feel it burning underneath the state of arousal he was still in.
"No." You rasped, hands gripping the sheets beneath you. "I can feel it."
His head snapped in your direction, eyes going wide. "You what?"
Your chest was heaving. "I can feel it."
"What do you mean?"
You laughed lowly, unsure of how you could explain it. "I'm turned on right now because you are."
"Oh." The flush spread to his ears, his voice barely a squeak. "Sorry?"
There was a momentary ache in your chest at his apology, it was phrased like a question but his body language gave away how genuine it was. He was timid, that was for certain, and always feared he was going to do the wrong thing. Bob was scared of rejection and being abandoned. It was why he so often would tell people when he'd completed a chore or done something helpful like the laundry or the dishes. He felt the need to prove why you should all keep him around. He seemed unaware that you kept him around because you all loved him, and it wasn't conditional based on how useful he was.
You shifted towards him, hands reaching out for a second before awkwardly hovering in front of him. Maybe it wasn't the best time to be touching him. "No, no. You don't need to be sorry. At all. I just..."
Bob stared at you, waiting for you to finish your sentence.
"It's just an unusual situation. I've never felt this before."
He swallowed thickly. "You haven't? But I thought you felt everything other people felt."
You nodded. "I do. But emotions. Not physical things."
His eyes flickered up and down your body quickly. "So you're- you're more than feeling it?"
"I assume I'm experiencing the equivalent of whatever you are." You glanced at the tent in the blanket covering his lap. "Which is a physical reaction in the body."
"What you're saying is..." He didn't seem to know how to word it, fidgeting with the sleeves of his shirt.
"Yes, that's what I'm saying." You clenched your thighs together, being careful with your words since you didn't want to freak him out. "I woke you up so it wouldn't be awkward."
He seemed to deflate slightly, nodding in acceptance. "Awkward."
You smiled softly at him, dipping your head down to meet his eyes. "Not because of you. But because me being awake and horny next to you when you're asleep is... odd."
"No more odd than me having a sex dream in your bed." He mumbled, a small smile turning the corners of his mouth up.
A gentle giggle escaped you, glad he was easing up enough to joke. "It's not like you can choose when you have a sex dream. It's okay."
"I know. But I'm still sorry." He leaned towards you. "I'm sorry if I've made you uncomfortable."
"Bob, you could never." You mirrored him, leaning in. "I'm just wondering how we're going to solve this."
He blinked and sat up straighter. "What do you mean?"
You took a deep breath. "Well, considering I seem to be feeling whatever you are then there's a possibility that if you decide to go and... sort yourself out-" You sent a meaningful look towards his lap. "-then I will also feel it."
His eyes widened. "Oh."
"Yeah, oh." You repeated. "But I also don't want to leave either of us sexually frustrated. That's never fun. So..."
"So..." He seemed to think for a moment. "Are you suggesting that...?"
You shrugged. "Some variation."
"Variation?" Bob was full of questions, finding himself doing nothing but being confused.
"If you don't want to actually do anything then mutual masturbation is always good."
Bob spluttered, taken aback by that answer.
"Or not." You added in, trying to determine what his real reaction was. His outward appearance seemed reluctant but your body throbbed at the prospect, which you knew reflected his feelings. That meant nothing though. If he said no then that was all that mattered.
"No, it's-" He cut himself off, a quiet whine leaving his mouth.
You shifted, thighs clenching. "Bob, I beg of you not to make that noise."
"Sorry." He mumbled.
"If you're unsure then we can start with something slower." You suggested, easing into it.
"Like what?"
You shrugged. "Kissing."
He turned bright pink again. Affection blossomed through your chest, he was so sweet. As shy as he was, you could see the sudden sparkle in his eyes at the idea of kissing you. It made you curious about something, something you'd been suspecting since he had first woken up.
"Bob? Who were you dreaming about?" You asked and watched him grapple for an answer that seemed to evade him. "Was it about me?"
He paused his search for reasoning, turning to look at you slowly before nodding. "Yeah."
You smiled. "I'm flattered."
He rolled his eyes, almost self deprecatingly. "Yeah, okay."
You frowned. "If I wasn't flattered then I'd kick you out of this room for being a creep. But I'm not doing that, am I? No. I'm waiting for you to make a decision. Either you stay and we make out. Or you leave and I hump a pillow."
His jaw dropped open, drawing your eyes to his lips.
"Up to you, Bob." You scooted closer to him, dropping your voice down low. "I'm waiting."
Before he could respond, you flinched. Your body recoiled from the door and towards the headboard.
"What's wrong?" Bob sounded panicked.
"Someone's having a nightmare. A bad one." You groaned. "It's a weird sensation feeling their anxiety whilst also being turned on."
Bob only looked at you for a second. "Will I make it better?"
You smiled at him, thankful he'd finally seemed to have caught on to the fact that he was the only thing that managed to soothe you. "You always make me better."
He softened, whole body relaxing as his face turned red with a different emotion. That's when he seemed to make up his mind, shuffling down so he was laying down again next to you and patting the spot directly in front of him. "Turn the light off."
"You sure?" You asked, already reaching for the lamp.
He nodded, sucking in a sharp breath as you settled down in front of him. You were suddenly face to face, but only for a moment as the next second the light was off and you were plunged into darkness again.
"Bob?"
"Yeah?"
"You're cute when you blush." You eased out a hand, gently cupping his cheek.
His own hand inched towards you under the blankets, fingertips grazing the fabric of your shirt. "I think you're the only person who thinks that."
"I find that unlikely. But if so then I'm happy to keep telling you."
"You're only saying that because you're turned on." He chuckled breathlessly. "Trying to get into my pants."
"Do I have to try?"
"No." His nose nudged against yours, steadily get closer and closer but not quite closing the gap.
You realised you were going to have to take that step. "Can I kiss you?"
"Yes."
Bob was breathless before your lips met his, so when the collision finally happened it felt as if all oxygen had left him. But that didn't matter. He didn't need oxygen. All he needed was you.
You were gentle at first, testing the waters. But it only took about two seconds before Bob whined, the sound pulsing through you, so your mouth opened up like you'd lost control and your tongue swiped across his lips, teasing him. Bob's hands knotted into the front of your shirt, pulling you closer to him. His tongue curled against yours, a whimper leaving him.
You smiled into the kiss, thumb swiping over his cheek to keep it soft. You were overcome with lust but wanted the same mood that had floated between you and Bob up until this point. It didn't need to turn aggressive in any way now that you were taking it a step further.
The hem of your shirt cut into your back as Bob's grip on it tightened, his feet pressing into yours so the two of you started playing footsie as you kissed. Bob tasted sweet, you noted, probably about as sweet as he was in general. You suckled his bottom lip into your mouth, revelling in the moan he let out. You pushed yourself closer to him, nose cramming against his cheek as his hair tickled your forehead.
You pulled away from him to catch your breath, planting a quick kiss on his lips as he chased you. "Hm, slow down. We have time."
"Wanted this for so long." He admitted in the haze of passion that was swimming around the two of you.
The confession surprised you. "Oh, yeah?"
He backed up a little to look at you in the darkness as he gave an affirmative hum. That's when you felt it. The tingle on the back of your neck and the fuzziness behind your eyes.
"What is that?" You asked, moving your face closer to him to get a better feel for it.
"What's what?" He sounded genuinely confused, voice kind as he asked.
"This new thing you keep feeling? Like a tingle on the back of the neck and a fuzz behind the eyes. What is it? I've never felt it before."
The intensity you were looking at him with was amusing to Bob, how you seemed so unaware when usually it would be the other way around with the two of you. He knew exactly what you were referring to.
So he only smiled as he told you. "It's the feeling I get when I'm close to you."
Your breath got caught in your throat, eyes searching his in the dark to see how genuine he was being. When you detected nothing but honesty in his face, you dove forward and kissed him again. Despite your initial desire to keep it as relaxed as possible, you couldn't help the sudden craving you had for him. It was raw and primal, a yearning feeling.
Bob's pelvis rutted into yours, a reminder of the thing that got you into this position to begin with. He was still painfully hard and, based on the way you were feeling, that wasn't going to change any time soon. Your teeth and tongues clashed over and over, Bob making happy little noises at every press of your lips. He was insatiable, chasing you every time you decided the two of you needed to breathe. But he didn't seem to have the confidence to touch you anymore, not going any further than the vise like grip he still had on your shirt.
So you decided to make the move again. "Can I touch you?"
He nodded rapidly, his voice desperate. "Please."
The mewl of his voice was intoxicating, giving you permission to let your hand drift down the front of his torso. His abdomen was solid underneath his shirt but, as tempting as it was, you had another destination in mind. When you hit the waistband of his pants you paused, fingers toying with the strings that kept them fastened.
"Are you sure?" You asked, double checking that he was positive he wanted to take it this far.
He barely pulled away from your lips to answer. "Yes, I'm sure."
That was all you needed. You pulled on the string, undoing it, and let your hand slide into the front of his pants. You didn't have the patience to start with any over the clothes touching. Bob's size was somewhat surprising, he was big, which meant that your hand met the velvety skin of his cock pretty much as soon as you'd breached the waistline of his pants. He whimpered into your mouth at the feeling of the silky skin of your palm.
He was keen, his body reacting immediately with a buck of his hips into your fist. You started with a slow pace, moving your hand up and down carefully to get a rhythm going. His precum worked well as a natural lubricant, making both your skin and his slick. It was only a reminder of the wetness between your own legs. But that thought escaped you pretty quickly when Bob continued to make pretty little sounds into your mouth. He throbbed in your hand, pace of his thrusts increasing when you tightened your grip.
You kept kissing him, shivering as the feeling of his arousal travelled through you as well. An overwhelming curiosity was plaguing you as you wondered whether you'd feel it when he eventually came. That became less important when Bob's hands finally untangled from your shirt and one of them crept up the plains of your torso to start groping your chest through your shirt. You moaned into his mouth, hand momentarily stilling in place. That didn't last long when he whined into your mouth, a mumble begging for more leaving him.
Your fist pumped his cock harder and faster, drawing him closer and closer to orgasm.
"Come on, pretty boy. I know you're close."
He whimpered at the name you'd given him, the fact that he liked praise was something you quickly noted in your head. Bob kissed you harder, the desperation for closeness evident.
It didn't take much longer before he started twitching in your hand, hot ropes of cum spurting out of him and landing on the sheets between you. You pumped him a few more times, milking him for everything he was worth. A train of whimpers and moans tumbled out of mouth, filling the space between you, as his eyes scrunched shut with pleasure. You kissed him through it, wanting to keep him close as you were feeling his orgasm yourself. The feeling rocketed through you, a sense of ecstasy as it poured out of Bob and into you. Your prediction was right, you did indeed feel it when he did. This was a new development to your gift that had you curious.
Once he'd calmed down from the high, Bob's eyes blinked open again as he looked at you. "I'm- I'm sorry."
You frowned. "Why are you sorry?"
"Because I- and you didn't-" He cut himself off, distressed. "I thought we were going to-"
You eyed the mess on the sheets between you. "Believe me, what just happened is not an issue."
"Are you still... feeling it?"
"Kind of. Less so now that you've come. But I'm still horny. Especially after that." You sighed. "Can we keep kissing?"
Bob wasn't sure why you'd even asked. It wasn't like there was any scenario where he'd say no to that. So he nodded at you, assuming that your eyes had adjusted enough to the dark to see him. He was right. You manoeuvred yourself over the mess on the sheets and hovered yourself over him.
He looked up at you, the sparkle from before twinkling in his eyes. He finally allowed himself to touch you, not realising that he'd groped you in the heat of the moment before, and placed his hands on your hips before letting them skate up your waist, then your rib cage, before going over your shoulders and letting them land on either side of your face. Then he pulled you down to kiss him.
You weren't sure how long that went on for exactly, only really aware of anything other than Bob existing when he'd asked whether you wanted to change your bed sheets. You'd only told him it could wait until the morning and that the two of you would just have to stick to his side of the bed. At some point his hands had drifted below your waistline, drawing your own orgasm from you. It surprised you how adept he was at it, but you figured he had a past long before you'd even met him.
What surprised you both was Bob had moaned as you did, blinking in shock as you came.
"I felt that." He stated, mouth hanging open.
"What do you mean?" You asked, still breathless from the orgasm.
"I felt that." He repeated.
A frown wrinkled your brows. "You mean... like how I feel things?"
"I think so."
That was another thing that had never happened until Bob.
"I didn't know that was possible." You thought about it for a second before shrugging. "Another thing for tomorrow."
And then you kept kissing him. That went on for a while until the two of you grew sleepy, eventually drifting off in each other's arms.
When you woke up the next morning you found yourself intertwined with Bob, limbs tangled together. You hummed happily and snuggled closer to him.
"G'morning." He grumbled into your ear.
You smiled at the sound of his voice and turned your head to look at him. "Good morning. You're awake before me."
"Shocking, I know." He huffed, hand stroking up and down the length of your arm.
"What's the time?"
"A little after nine."
Your eyes widened and you shot out of bed, scrambling to find your robe. "Shit, it's late."
Bob followed you out of bed, feeling bad that he'd let you sleep in. But you had just looked so peaceful. "Sorry, I should've woken you."
"No, don't apologise." You beamed at him. "Shouldn't apologise for the way I slept."
He watched you slide a pair of socks on. "How'd you sleep?"
"Good." You grinned. "The best. You?"
"Good too."
You huffed. "You always sleep good."
There was a moment of silence before Bob seemed to decide what he was going to say.
"Do you want to know why I sleep so easily?"
You nodded, always just figuring the amnesia that came with what happened to him meant that he just didn't have bad dreams.
"Because I dream about you." He confessed quietly. "Even when I'm not having sex dreams."
Your shoulders hunched as your skin prickled with the burn of self-consciousness. There was no way he was telling the truth. "Really?"
"I spend my days thinking about you and my nights dreaming about you." He chuckled shakily. "Even though we spend every second of every day together, I can think of nothing but you. It consumes me. You consume me."
Tears welled in your eyes. "For how long?"
"For as long as I've known you pretty much." He shrugged. "It's been very difficult sleeping next to you for these past few weeks and not telling you."
"Why didn't you say anything?"
"Because you needed me to sleep. And I was scared that you didn't feel the same way so you'd- you'd push me away and go back to restless nights." His hands started wringing together, a telltale sign of his nerves.
You choked out a teary laugh. "How could you ever think I didn't feel the same? Why do you think I spend so much time with you? Why I can't sleep unless I'm next to you?"
"My emotions calm you."
You shook your head. "You make me calm. There's something about you. There always has been. You make me feel things that nobody else ever has. I've experienced new emotions with you. As well as more feelings."
He smiled at the reference to what the two of you had done the night before. "So, what now?"
"What now?" You chortled as you repeated his words back to him. "Now you kiss me and we never stop."
Bob didn't need to be told twice.
The team noticed the moment the switch in yours and Bob's relationship flipped. All it took was one simple gesture. The group of you had been in the kitchen together, chatting about nothing in particular and Bob had been looking at you with a gooey look in his eyes as usual. But then you'd reached up, brushing a lock of hair away from his eyes.
They all knew then that you'd finally taken the step towards being officially more than friends. None of them pointed it out, exchanging nothing but pleased looks with each other and enjoying the fact that neither you nor Bob seemed to be aware that the rest of them now all knew about the two of you. They weren't entirely sure that either of you cared if they knew.
And when later that evening you rested your head on Bob's shoulder during movie night, and he not very subtly grabbed your hand, they realised that the two of you definitely didn't care if they knew. You only seemed to care about each other in that moment.
