#it's-tober

He was already sitting at the table when you entered, cuffs clamped around his wrists and linked to a bolted chain that allowed him just enough movement to rest his forearms on the scarred wood. His hair fell in uneven strands that framed his face, his jaw dark with stubble. He didn’t look up when the orderly shut the door behind you and left, but you felt his awareness all the same—like the air itself had shifted to acknowledge your presence.

“Sergeant Barnes,” you began, your voice steady but quieter than you intended. The metal chair scraped as you sat down across from him. His head lifted at last, and blue eyes fixed on yours. They didn’t blink often.

He smiled faintly, the kind of expression that wasn’t warm but deliberate. “Doctor.” The word stretched out, like he was tasting it.

You nodded, keeping your hands folded neatly on the folder so he couldn’t see the slight tremor in your fingers. “I’ll be meeting with you regularly. Our goal is to understand what you’ve been experiencing, and to see what steps might help.”

“Steps,” he repeated, his voice low, threaded with an accent buried under decades. “Steps where? Out of here?”

“Steps toward treatment,” you clarified. Neutral, professional.

That was when he leaned forward, the chains clinking softly. He didn’t break eye contact. “You smell like lilacs.”

The clinical script in your head faltered. It was an odd observation, inappropriate, but his tone wasn’t mocking—it was almost contemplative. “That’s not relevant,” you said, sharper than you meant.

He smirked, leaning back just enough to make the chair creak. “It’s relevant to me.”

You took a slow breath and flipped open the file. “Your previous psychiatrist noted that you refused to engage in structured conversation. You spoke in fragments, and at times refused to answer questions. I’d like to try again, if you’ll allow it.”

His eyes flicked to the open folder, then back to you. “She wore red lipstick. Thought it made her look older. More serious. She stopped wearing it after I told her it made her look like she was trying too hard.”

Your chest tightened. There was no note about that in the file. “How do you know that would be important to her?”

His smile widened just slightly, but it wasn’t pleasant. “People tell you who they are when they think you aren’t listening. I listen.” His gaze dropped to your hands, still folded neatly. “You bite your nails. Not lately. You’ve been trying to stop. Two weeks now?”

You curled your fingers in against the folder without thinking. The urge to defend yourself warred with the instinct to redirect the session, keep the upper hand. He hadn’t seen you outside of this room—he couldn’t have. Was he guessing, or was it some uncanny perception? “You notice small things,” you said, trying to bring control back into your tone. “That can be a strength.”

“Or a weapon,” he countered, his voice quiet again. He tilted his head slightly, like a predator measuring the reach of its prey. “I know more about you already than you know about me. That makes you nervous.”

Your pen tapped once against the paper before you forced it still. “What makes me nervous is when a patient avoids direct questions.” You looked up at him firmly. “Would you like to tell me why you’re here?”

He chuckled, the sound low and humorless. “You tell me. You’ve got the file. The doctors who came before you decided what I am.” He leaned forward again, closer than before. The chain pulled taut. “What do you think I am?”

For a moment, the room felt too small, the walls too close. You remembered the orderly’s warning glance before the door closed. Dangerous. Manipulative. He was trying to unsettle you. Still, you met his stare. “That’s what I’m here to find out.”

His smile thinned, sharp as glass. “Then I look forward to our sessions, Doctor. I think you’ll enjoy them more than you expect.”

The clock on the wall ticked loud in the silence that followed. Somewhere down the hall, a door slammed. His eyes never left you, not even as you stood, signaled for the guard, and the lock turned again. And even as you left, you felt it—the sense of being studied, catalogued, remembered.

The second time you saw him, the asylum felt heavier. It wasn’t just the damp chill of stone walls or the flickering bulbs in the hallways—it was the knowledge of him waiting, somewhere behind a door, replaying the way he’d looked at you the first time.

You’d told yourself not to think about it afterward. You’d gone home, poured a glass of wine you barely touched, sat on your sofa with a book that you never opened. But even then, it had felt like his eyes were still on you, cataloguing every flick of your fingers against the page, every sigh, every unfinished swallow. The thought had burrowed under your skin: He shouldn’t know. He couldn’t know. So how did he?

Your colleagues had noticed something. You caught the sideways glances in the break room, the muttered “brave” and “reckless” when your name was paired with his on the assignment list. One older psychiatrist had cornered you, his hand heavy on your arm. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He gets under your skin. That’s his game. Don’t play it.” You’d nodded, thanked him, and promised you knew the boundaries. But even then, part of you had bristled at the warning, as if he was questioning your competence instead of his danger.

Now, walking the long corridor toward the interview room, the sound of your heels echoed louder than usual. Two orderlies flanked the door, and when you nodded, they opened it with a glance that said everything they didn’t say aloud: good luck.

Bucky was waiting. He always seemed to be waiting. His posture was deceptively casual, chair angled back slightly, chains pooled loose around his wrists. He raised his head the moment you entered. No smile this time. Just that relentless stare. “Doctor,” he greeted, voice low.

You shut the door behind you, nodded at the guard who lingered just a moment longer than necessary, then took your seat. “Sergeant Barnes.”

“You didn’t sleep well,” he said, almost immediately.

You froze with your pen halfway out of your pocket. “Excuse me?”

His lips curved, faint, deliberate. “Your eyes. Tired. Coffee before you came here—two sugars, no cream. You only do that when you need the caffeine more than the taste. Means you didn’t sleep.”

It was nothing he could have witnessed. You felt a prickle race up the back of your neck. “You can’t know that.”

He tilted his head, studying you. “I notice things. It’s what kept me alive. Noticing. You’d be surprised what people give away.” His gaze lowered to your hands again. “Even you.”

Your fingers curled around the pen too tightly. “This session is about you,” you said firmly.

“Everything is about me now,” he countered, quiet but assured. He leaned forward, the chain taut. “You’ve been thinking about me.” The denial rose on your tongue, sharp, professional. But he kept talking, his words a blade sliding between your ribs. “You went home after last time. Poured yourself a drink, tried to read something, couldn’t focus. You replayed what I said about the lilacs, didn’t you? Wondered how I knew. Wondered if I’d been near you without you noticing.” His eyes gleamed, satisfaction curving his mouth. “You wondered if I could be right outside your door.”

The pen snapped against the paper as you slammed it down, voice tight. “That’s enough.”

His laugh was soft, humorless, echoing in the small room. “Touched a nerve.”

You forced yourself to breathe, to sit straighter, to let the silence linger long enough for control to return. “Tell me about the night terrors,” you said finally, forcing the conversation back to the file in front of you. “Your previous doctor noted you reported vivid dreams.”

He didn’t answer right away. He let the silence stretch until you looked up, and then he said, “Dreams aren’t the problem. Waking up is.”

“Explain.”

“You wake, and for a moment you don’t know where you are. You reach for something—someone—that isn’t there. Your chest feels like it’s being crushed, your lungs burn, your body begs you to believe it’s all real. Then you realize it’s not. And you’re alone.” His voice dropped, barely above a whisper. “You know what that feels like, don’t you?”

The words slid under your skin like ice water. “This isn’t about me,” you said, more brittle than you intended.

He smiled again, slow, certain. “But it could be.”

The orderly outside coughed, the faint sound of movement reminding you there were other people within shouting distance. That reminder steadied you. “That’s all for today,” you said, closing the file with finality.

He didn’t protest. Didn’t move. Just watched you stand, watched the guard unlock the door, watched you leave. But just before it shut, his voice followed, curling after you like smoke, “sweet dreams, Doctor.”

You kept walking, even though your pulse hammered in your ears. And all through the rest of the day, no matter how many files you reviewed, how many colleagues you nodded to in the hall, the words stayed with you.

Sweet dreams.

---

The rain had been relentless all morning. The kind of storm that rattled the barred windows of the asylum and left the halls reeking faintly of damp stone. You sat at your desk with his file open, the pages already softening at the edges from the number of times you’d turned them. There was a note from administration at the top in neat, block handwriting, consider termination of sessions if patient continues to escalate.

You traced your thumb along the margin where you’d written observations after your last meeting. He knew too much. Not just about his environment, but about you. That wasn’t in the manuals, wasn’t covered in your training. The textbooks didn’t explain how to handle a patient who seemed to look through you like glass.

Still, you signed your name on the attendance sheet, and when the orderly opened the door, you walked in. Bucky was already there. He always was. He sat with his chair angled slightly away from the table this time, his cuffed wrists loose in his lap. The posture was a show—you could tell. It was carefully chosen to look unguarded, almost lazy, but the line of his shoulders was taut. He turned his head toward you when you entered, eyes catching the weak fluorescent light. “Doctor,” he said softly.

You set the file down. “Good morning.”

He chuckled under his breath, leaning forward until the chain rattled against the table. “Is it?”

“Do you want to tell me why it isn’t?”

For a long moment, he just stared at you. Then his voice dropped into something almost conversational, intimate, as though you were two people speaking in confidence instead of psychiatrist and patient. “I dream about blood,” he said. “The weight of it. Not nightmares, not really. More like… memories with teeth.” He looked down at his hands, flexing the one still covered in faint scars. “I remember their faces. Not all of them. Just enough. Screaming, choking, going limp. And I liked it.”

The air left the room. You were careful not to move, not to flinch. “You liked it.”

He lifted his gaze back to yours, unblinking. “You’re supposed to say I didn’t. You’re supposed to tell me it was conditioning, that I wasn’t in control. But I was. At least part of me. You can’t take that away from me.”

You inhaled slowly. The words were deliberate, crafted to provoke. “Why do you want me to take it away from you?”

A sharp laugh burst from him, humorless and low. “Because if you say I wasn’t in control, then I get to walk around thinking I’m not a monster. And if you don’t…” His smile spread, thin and sharp. “Then I know exactly what I am.”

“Which do you want to be?” you asked, steadying your voice.

His eyes narrowed, the smile lingering. “Which would you rather I be?”

The question caught you like barbed wire. It was manipulative, designed to entangle, but some part of you felt the trap tighten around your ribs anyway. You forced your gaze down to the notes in the file. “This isn’t about me.”

“It’s always about you.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You come here, sit across from me, ask your questions with that careful tone. But you’re listening. Really listening. The others—they just want to put me in a box, shove me full of pills until I drool. You want to understand.”

“That’s my job,” you said.

He leaned forward, closer, the chain pulling taut. “No. It’s more than that. You need to understand me. You want to know how deep the rot goes. You want to know if you can fix me.”

The silence stretched. The rain battered harder against the windows. Finally, you asked, “and can I?”

His mouth curved, slow, deliberate, like a knife sliding free from its sheath. “No one fixes me, Doctor. But you… you might be the one I let try.”

Your pen dug into the paper, the ink pooling in a sharp dot before you forced yourself to keep writing. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, redirecting before the weight of his words could sink too far. “Tell me about what they made you do.”

His smile didn’t fade, but his eyes changed. Darkened. “They stripped me down. Took away my name, my memories, my choices. Left the shell. You want to know what it feels like to stop being a man and start being a weapon?”

“Yes,” you said.

His stare burned into you, unflinching. “It feels like being fucked by ghosts. Every time you blink, there’s another one inside you, another command, another hand on the trigger. You don’t even know where you end and they begin. And then they’re gone, and it’s just you. With blood under your nails and no excuses.” The words made your throat tighten, the pen nearly slipping in your hand. And then, softer, more insidious, “sometimes I wonder what command I’d follow if it came from you.”

Your pulse jumped hard enough that you prayed it didn’t show in your face. “That’s not appropriate,” you managed.

He smiled, wolfish now, tilting his head. “That’s not a denial.”

The orderly’s knock on the door broke the moment, sharp and sudden. You blinked, tearing your gaze away, closing the file too quickly. “That’s all for today.”

But as the guards came in to unchain him, he didn’t move his eyes from yours. His voice followed you out, low and almost gentle, “you could tell me to do anything. Anything at all. And I would.”

The door shut behind you, and for a long time, you just stood in the hall, the storm hammering against the building as though it wanted in.

---

The lights buzzed overhead with their usual sickly hum, the pale fluorescence tinting everything in the asylum to the same washed-out shade of grey. You’d grown used to it, but sitting across from him it was suddenly oppressive, like the bulbs themselves bent lower, dimming the air between you.

He was quiet when you entered this time. No greeting, no smirk. Just a steady gaze as you set the folder on the table and sat down. His posture was too still, his hands folded neatly in his lap—an imitation of calm, you realized, rather than the thing itself.

You clicked your pen and began, “I’d like to continue where we left off. You said Hydra took away your choices. That you felt like a weapon.”

His eyes flicked down to your hands, then back up. “That bother you? Hearing me say that?”

“Why would it bother me?”

“Because you want to believe you can talk me into being human again. You want to believe your voice is enough to overwrite years of programming.” His mouth twitched in a humorless smile. “Like a magic spell.”

You let the silence hang, writing a note you didn’t need to. He leaned forward. The chains rattled, but the sound was soft, almost intimate. “You ever think about control?” he asked.

Your pen stilled. “Control?”

“Yeah.” His voice was low now, coaxing. “How much of it you really have. Over yourself. Over the people in this place. Over me.” He tilted his head, and the fluorescent lights caught on his eyes, making them gleam faintly. “Do you think you control this room?”

“Yes,” you said carefully.

He smirked, leaning back, the chair creaking under him. “Then tell me to do something.”

Your chest tightened. “This isn’t—”

“Tell me.” His voice was firm now, almost a command. “Tell me to do something simple. Anything. Say it.”

You hesitated, pulse spiking against your throat. Every professional instinct screamed that you should redirect, shut the suggestion down. But your mouth betrayed you before you could stop it. “Sit up straighter.”

For a moment, his expression didn’t change. Then, deliberately, he slid his shoulders back and straightened, spine rigid, chin lifting. The movement was slow, measured, exaggerated just enough to show that it was no real obedience—it was a performance. “See?” His voice was a near whisper. “You could tell me to do worse than that. You could tell me to get on my knees, to beg. You could tell me to wrap these chains around your wrist and drag you across the table. And I would.”

The room shrank, air pressing tight against your lungs. “That’s not appropriate,” you said, your voice sharper than intended.

He laughed, quiet and dark. “But it’s true. You don’t believe in control, Doctor. You believe in power. Difference is, power doesn’t ask permission.”

You gripped the pen tighter, fingers aching. “You said before you dream about blood. Do you dream about power, too?”

His eyes narrowed, studying you, and then he spoke with a soft kind of certainty that felt worse than shouting. “I dream about you.”

Your heart stopped.

“In the dark,” he went on. “Your face at the edge of the light. The sound of your voice when you try to keep it steady. I see your hands—always your hands. Holding the pen, the folder, the little twitch of your fingers when you’re nervous. And I dream about what else those hands could do.”

Your throat worked, but no words came out. He smiled, sharp and slow.

“You think I don’t notice how you avoid touching this table? Like it’s dirty. Like if you keep your hands on the file you’ll stay safe. But I see it. I see the way you sit straighter when I get close, the way you hold your breath.” He leaned forward again, the chain taut. “I see you, Doctor. Better than you see yourself.”

The silence was unbearable. Your pulse thundered in your ears, the rain from outside pattering against the window like a metronome. Finally, you forced your voice into the space between you. “Do you think these confessions help you?”

His smile dropped into something flat, colder. “They help me remind you who I am. And who you could be.”

The orderly knocked at the door. The sound made you jump. He saw it. Of course he did. “That’s enough for today,” you said quickly, snapping the folder shut.

The guards entered, stepping behind him to unchain his cuffs. He didn’t resist. Didn’t even move his gaze from you. As the door swung shut, his voice followed, quiet enough that it felt meant only for you. “Next time, tell me something you’ve never told anyone. Fair’s fair.”

The door locked, the bolts sliding into place. But you walked the corridor with the weight of him pressing against your back, his words burrowing under your skin where no lock could reach.

---

The storm had passed, leaving the asylum damp and eerily quiet. The hall smelled of bleach and wet concrete, the kind of sterile rot that never quite left the walls. You sat at the table first this time, file open, pen ready, spine held deliberately straight. You told yourself the posture was for control.

When the door opened, he entered with the guards, his cuffs already fastened. He didn’t look at them. He looked only at you, eyes locking the moment the threshold was crossed. A faint curl of a smile touched his mouth as he sat down, the chain scraping against the table. “You came back,” he said softly.

“It’s my job,” you replied.

He tilted his head, studying you. “That’s what you tell yourself.”

You wrote the date at the top of your notes page, ignoring him. The scratch of the pen was loud in the silence. “Did you think about what I asked you?” His voice cut through the quiet. “About telling me something you’ve never told anyone.”

You didn’t look up. “This is not about me.”

“It is now.”

His certainty pressed against your ribs. You inhaled slowly, kept your eyes on the file. “We’re here to talk about your experiences. Your memories. You’ve mentioned dreams, nightmares, memories with blood. Today, I’d like you to tell me what you feel when you wake.”

He leaned back, smirk widening. “Cold. Alone. And hard.”

Your gaze flicked up despite yourself, and the deliberate spark in his eyes told you he’d been waiting for it. “That’s not appropriate,” you said evenly.

“But it’s true.” His voice softened, coaxing. “You want truth, don’t you? Isn’t that why you keep coming back, no matter what the others say? You want me to bleed the truth out for you.”

“Truth is not the same as provocation,” you countered.

“Provocation is just truth with teeth.” He leaned forward, chain rattling. “You want me to bare mine? I’ll do it. But you’ll owe me.”

“Owe you what?”

“A piece of yourself.”

The silence stretched, taut. His stare didn’t waver, didn’t soften. Finally, you said, “what do you want me to tell you?”

He smiled faintly, victorious. “Something small. Something soft. Something human. Not your resume, not your degrees. Something real.”

You shifted in your chair, the file heavy in your lap. “Why?”

“Because it’s the only way you’ll ever understand me. You can’t stand behind that glass forever. You want me to confess? Then you confess too.” His voice dropped lower, intimate. “You show me your pulse, I’ll show you my knife.” Your throat tightened, words caught behind your teeth. He saw it, of course. His smirk deepened. “You’ve never been married,” he said suddenly.

You blinked. “That’s not—”

“You don’t wear a ring. No tan line. You don’t talk about anyone waiting for you at home. You go back to an empty apartment, don’t you? One glass of wine, sometimes two, maybe a book you don’t finish. You fall asleep with the TV still on so you don’t have to hear how quiet it is.”

Your chest went tight, your hand gripping the pen too hard. “That’s enough.”

But he leaned closer, the chain taut, his voice low and certain. “You hate being alone. That’s why you’re here. That’s why you keep walking back into this room, even when you should run. Because you’d rather sit across from me than your empty walls.”

The pen tip dug into the page, bleeding ink into a black dot. Your mouth was dry. “And what do you get out of this?”

He smiled, sharp as a blade. “Everything. Every look, every twitch of your hands, every word you won’t say. That’s my confession. I want you, Doctor. Not the way they think, not as some project to fix. I want to get inside your head the way you’re trying to get inside mine.”

Your pulse thudded, loud enough you swore he could hear it. “That’s not therapy,” you said.

He leaned back finally, but his eyes stayed on you, gleaming. “Who said I wanted therapy?” The orderly knocked on the door, the sound like a gunshot in the silence. You closed the file too quickly, stood too fast. The guards entered, unshackling him. As they pulled him to his feet, he bent his head closer, voice pitched just for you. “Bring me something next time. Not a file. Not questions. Something of you.”

The guards led him away, but his words lingered like smoke in your lungs, burning long after he was gone.

---

The room felt warmer than usual when you stepped inside, though the air vents hummed the same dull current overhead. You told yourself it was in your head. You told yourself a lot of things these days.

Bucky sat where he always did, cuffed at the wrists, but he looked different this time—slouched in a posture almost lazy, legs spread, chin tilted slightly as though he’d been waiting not just minutes but hours for you. His mouth curved faintly when he saw you, as though he’d been expecting you to arrive exactly like this. “Doctor,” he drawled.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“You look tired again.”

You set the file down, deliberately not acknowledging the comment. “We’ll begin with your last statement. You said you wanted to get inside my head. Tell me what that means.”

His gaze slid slowly down your figure, then back up, unhurried, deliberate. “Exactly what it sounds like. You think you’re the only one who gets to dig? You think I don’t notice how you cross your legs when you sit, like you’re making a barrier? Or how you keep your hands folded on the folder, like it’s a shield? You think I don’t see the pulse in your throat when I lean forward?”

Your jaw tightened, but you didn’t look away. “That’s not what this is about.”

“Then what is it about?” he murmured. “Because it doesn’t feel like therapy anymore. Feels like foreplay.”

The word hit the air like a slap. You froze, pen halfway between your fingers. “That’s inappropriate.”

He smiled, slow, dangerous. “So you keep saying. But you never walk out.”

You forced the pen to move, scratching a note you didn’t even read. “You said Hydra made you into a weapon. Did they also make you into this?”

His eyes darkened, the smile fading. “No. This is mine. This is the part they couldn’t take. The hunger. The way I look at you and imagine—” He broke off with a low laugh, shaking his head. “No. You don’t want to hear that.”

“Tell me,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

He leaned forward, the chain clinking as it pulled taut. His voice dropped with it, dark and intimate. “I imagine what you’d sound like if you stopped pretending. If you let go of that polished doctor’s voice and just… gasped. Moaned. Begged.”

Your fingers clenched around the pen hard enough to ache. “That’s not—”

“Appropriate?” he finished for you, smirk curving again. “You’re going to keep saying that until you believe it. But you don’t believe it now. Not really. You’re picturing it. You can’t stop.”

You inhaled sharply, tried to redirect. “You said you want me to confess something. What would you want me to confess?”

“That when you leave this place, you don’t think about the other patients. You think about me. About the way I talk, the way I look at you, the things I could do if these chains weren’t here. You go home and you sit in your quiet little apartment, and you wonder if I’m right. If I’d make you scream or if I’d make you whisper.” The pen slipped, clattered against the folder. His eyes flicked down to the movement, then back up, satisfaction sharp in his expression. “Do you know what my nightmares really are?” he asked softly.

“What?” you managed.

“They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.” He leaned closer still, so close the chain strained. “They’re about you deciding not to come back. That’s worse than anything they ever did to me.”

Your chest tightened. “You don’t know me.”

“I know enough.” His voice was velvet and steel, quiet but unyielding. “I know you’re the only one who sees me, not the weapon, not the file. I know you’re the only one who makes me feel alive. And I know that if you told me to get down on my knees right now, I would.”

The silence stretched, your pulse loud in your ears. You swallowed hard, forced the file closed. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move, didn’t look at the guards when they entered. His eyes stayed locked on you, his smile faint and chilling. “You’ll think about it tonight,” he said, his voice so soft it barely reached. “And when you do, it won’t feel inappropriate. It’ll feel inevitable.”

The door locked behind you, but the echo of his words followed like breath on the back of your neck.

---

The air in the room felt heavier every time you came back. You noticed it before you even sat down: a thickness in the silence, like someone had turned the oxygen down a notch. You told yourself you were imagining it. That it was just your own heart rate, your own anticipation.

Bucky was already there, as always, hands cuffed, posture deceptively loose. He didn’t smile this time, didn’t even greet you. He just watched you as you closed the door behind you, eyes following the movement of your fingers on the knob, the sweep of your coat as you sat down. “You’re late,” he said quietly.

“By two minutes,” you answered, opening the file.

He tilted his head. “Two minutes is a long time in here.”

You ignored the comment, wrote the date at the top of your notes. “We’ll continue where we left off. You said your nightmares were about me walking away.”

“They still are,” he said. His voice was flat, but underneath it was a tremor of something else—anger, or need, or both. “I wake up and I can’t breathe. Feels like you’ve been ripped out of me. I sit in this cell and I think about what I’d do if you stopped coming.”

“That’s not a healthy attachment,” you said evenly.

His lips curved faintly. “You think this is about health?” He leaned forward, the chain sliding across the table. “Do you think I’d let anyone else see what I tell you? You’re not just a doctor anymore. You’re a confession booth. You’re a church.”

“I’m not your priest,” you said, though your voice came out lower than intended.

“No,” he murmured. “You’re something else.”

The silence stretched, taut. You made yourself ask, “tell me what you dream about besides me walking away.”

His eyes darkened. “You really want to know?”

“Yes.”

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper that filled the space between you. “I dream about you walking in. Only this time you lock the door behind you. Only this time you put the key on the table and slide it toward me.”

Your fingers tightened on the pen. “That’s not reality.”

“It could be,” he said softly. “You keep telling yourself it couldn’t, but you’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel. My hands on you. My mouth at your ear. You’d still be telling yourself you’re in control even when you’re on your knees.”

“Stop,” you said, your voice sharp.

He smiled faintly. “Why? You’re shaking.”

“I’m not.”

“You are.” His eyes flicked to your hands, your throat. “You always do when you’re turned on.”

Your heart lurched, heat flooding your face before you could stop it. “This is inappropriate.”

He chuckled, low, dark. “We’re past that word. You don’t come back here for appropriateness. You come back here because you like the edge. You like sitting across from the thing you’re supposed to be controlling and wondering if you could survive it.”

You forced the pen to move, wrote something—anything—on the paper. “Tell me about Hydra,” you said, grasping at the clinical like a life raft.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice softened. “They taught me a lot about pain. About power. About taking what you want. They taught me how to read people, how to find the cracks. You’ve got cracks, Doctor. Beautiful little cracks all over you. I think about sliding my fingers into them.”

Your breath caught. “Enough.”

“You keep saying that,” he murmured. “But you never leave.”

He leaned closer, so close the chain went tight with a metallic snap. His voice was a whisper against the hum of the lights. “Do you know what I think about when I’m in my cell at night? I think about your voice. The sound it would make if I pressed you against a wall. The way you’d gasp if I put my hand around your throat. I think about how long it would take before you stopped telling me to stop.”

The air felt thin, your lungs too small. “You don’t get to fantasize about hurting me,” you said, but your voice wasn’t steady.

He smiled, wolfish now. “It’s not about hurting. It’s about showing you what you want. You want someone who sees you. Someone who doesn’t flinch. You want someone who can take all the darkness you hide and swallow it whole. That’s why you’re here.”

“That’s not why I’m here.”

“Then why are you?” You opened your mouth, but nothing came out. He sat back slowly, the chain relaxing, his gaze still locked on you. “Tell me something true,” he said. “Tell me something no one else knows. You don’t have to say it out loud. Just think it. I’ll see it in your face.”

You swallowed hard, gripped the pen until your knuckles whitened. “This session is over,” you said.

He didn’t resist when the guards came in, but his eyes stayed on yours. His voice followed, soft and sure, “you’ll think about me tonight. You’ll touch yourself, and you’ll hate yourself for it. And then you’ll come back.” The door closed behind you, but you still felt him, like a shadow pressed against your back.

---

The room felt different today, and not just because you’d decided it would. You had prepared for this session differently—grounding exercises before entering, controlled breathing, and a plan to shift the power dynamic. You’d even changed your seating; instead of sitting directly opposite him, you’d placed your chair at a slight angle, an old tactic meant to reduce confrontational energy and reclaim some control. When the door opened, Bucky’s eyes went first to the new position of the chair. He smiled without teeth. “Clever.”

You kept your tone even. “Take your seat.”

He obeyed, though the way he did it made it feel like he was humoring you. He sat with his legs slightly apart, the cuffs slack but still present, metal glinting under the fluorescent lights. His gaze stayed on you as you opened the file.

“Today we’re going to use a new approach,” you said. “You’ll answer questions. Directly. Yes or no.”

He tilted his head, amused. “A game of truth.”

“A structured session,” you corrected.

“Truth,” he repeated softly, as though savoring the word.

You held his gaze. “Do you understand?”

“Yes,” he said, a little too easily.

“Do you want treatment?”

He smiled faintly. “No.”

“Do you want to get better?”

“No.”

“Do you want to hurt me?”

The smile widened, slow and deliberate. “Yes.”

Your pulse thudded once, hard, but you kept your voice even. “Why?”

“Because it would make you look at me the way you should.”

You noted it, pen moving steadily. “Do you want to kill me?”

He paused, eyes narrowing slightly. “No.”

“Do you want to control me?”

“Yes.”

“Do you think about sex with me?”

His expression shifted—his head tilted, eyes darkening, the faintest curve of his lips. “All the time.”

“Describe it,” you said flatly.

For a moment he just watched you, the silence thick. Then his voice dropped low. “I think about you on your knees in this room. Not dressed like you are now. Nothing between my hands and your skin. I think about your hair in my fist. Your breath against my thigh. The sound you’d make when I—”

“That’s enough,” you cut in sharply, but your voice wasn’t as sharp as you’d hoped.

He smiled slowly. “You wanted me to say it. You’re writing it down, but you’re picturing it too.”

You inhaled through your nose, forced the pen to keep moving. “Do you understand that this behavior reinforces your confinement?”

He chuckled softly. “Do you understand that you’re blushing?”

“I’m not,” you said automatically.

“You are.” His eyes flicked down, back up. “Your throat, your cheeks. Every time I talk about you in my mouth, you color up like a candle.”

You shifted the angle of the questioning. “When you imagine control over me, what do you actually want? Physical domination? Emotional submission?”

“Yes,” he said simply.

“That’s not an answer,” you said.

“It’s the only answer,” he murmured. “I want you bent. Not broken. Bent. I want to see you stop pretending you’re untouchable.”

You straightened your spine, flipped to a clean page. “Do you imagine me consenting?”

His eyes stayed on yours. “Sometimes.”

“Do you imagine me resisting?”

A small pause. “Sometimes.”

“What’s the difference?”

He smiled faintly, leaned forward until the chain went taut. “How you sound.”

Your stomach clenched. “You’re projecting.”

“I’m confessing,” he said, voice velvet and steel. “You wanted confession, Doctor. Here it is.”

You set your pen down deliberately. “I want to try something else. A visualization exercise. Close your eyes.”

He raised an eyebrow but obeyed, lids lowering. “Alright.”

“Imagine yourself in a safe place,” you instructed. “Describe it.”

His lips curved faintly. “You’re there.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

“That’s what’s there,” he murmured. “A room. Small. Concrete walls. No cuffs. You standing over me, keys in your hand. You tell me what to do. I obey. And then…” He chuckled low. “Then you stop telling me what to do.”

You clenched your fingers against the folder. “Do you ever imagine hurting yourself?”

“No.”

“Do you ever imagine hurting others?”

“Yes.”

“Who?”

His eyes opened again, sharp, unblinking. “Anyone who touches you.”

Your throat worked, but you forced the next question out. “Do you think that’s normal?”

He smiled faintly. “I think it’s inevitable.”

The silence stretched. The pen trembled faintly in your hand. Finally you closed the file. “This session is over.”

He leaned back slowly, the chain relaxing, but his eyes never left yours. His voice followed as the guards came in. “You’re getting good at the games,” he murmured. “But games end. You’ll come back. And one day, you’ll stop asking questions and start answering.” The door shut behind you with a heavy clang, but you walked down the corridor feeling his voice still against your ear, like a promise you hadn’t agreed to but couldn’t shake.

---

The corridor to the interview room was quieter than usual. The storm had cleared overnight, leaving a grey morning behind. The wet smell of the concrete mixed with disinfectant, and every footstep echoed back at you like a countdown.

You’d spent most of the night building a plan. The techniques you’d used so far had kept you above water but hadn’t changed the current. He was always setting the tempo; you were reacting. Today would be different. Today you’d try something new. When you entered the room, the chair was already in place for you. You didn’t sit right away. You stood for a moment, file in hand, looking at him.

Bucky sat at the table in his usual posture—but not slouched. Upright. His wrists cuffed but resting loosely on the table. He didn’t greet you this time. He just watched, like a predator clocking a shift in the wind.

You set the file down, drew the chair out, and sat at an angle again. “Good morning.”

“Morning,” he said softly.

You opened the file, but you didn’t look at it. “I want to try something new today.”

He tilted his head, eyes narrowing slightly. “New how?”

“Less clinical.” You made your voice steady. “More human. You’ve told me a lot of things. Violent things. Fantasies. But I don’t really know you. Not as a person. I’d like to.”

Something flickered in his expression—surprise, maybe, or amusement. “You want to know me?”

“Yes.”

His smile was small, slow. “Finally, a real question.”

You nodded. “Tell me about something before Hydra. Before all this. Something real. Not blood. Not training. Something you miss.”

For a moment he didn’t answer. Then he leaned back, eyes going distant. “Brooklyn,” he said quietly. “Summers on the stoop. Smell of hot asphalt and cheap beer. Steve’s laugh when he still had a voice. The sound of a ball game on a radio from somebody’s window.”

Your pen moved automatically, but your gaze stayed on him. “That’s good. Keep going.”

He looked at you again, eyes sharp now. “You like that? You like me soft?”

“I like you human,” you said simply.

He chuckled low. “You’re good.”

You shifted in your chair, kept your tone calm. “This is how we move forward. This is how treatment works. If you want me to help you, you have to let me see the man, not the weapon.”

That was when his expression changed. The faint smile flattened, his eyes hardening. “Treatment,” he repeated.

“Yes,” you said. “We can discuss options—”

The chair screeched against the floor as he surged forward, the chain clanging taut between his wrists and the table. It happened so fast you barely saw it—one moment you were speaking, the next his body was lunging across the narrow space, the chain snapping like a leash at full stretch.

Your chair tipped back a fraction as you scrambled to move, your file sliding to the floor. His metal fingers slammed down on the table hard enough to leave dents, his face inches from yours. The guards outside banged on the door but hadn’t yet come in. His voice was low, raw. “Don’t say that word to me.”

“Treatment?” you managed.

“Like I’m sick,” he growled. “Like you’re going to fix me. You’re not. You’re mine.”

You forced yourself to stay seated, to breathe evenly, though your heart thundered against your ribs. “Sit back, Sergeant Barnes.”

He didn’t move. The chain rattled as his hands flexed. For a moment you thought he’d pull the whole table toward you. “You think you’re in control,” he said, voice dark. “You sit there with your little notes, your soft voice, like you’re safe. But I’ve been planning every second you’ve been in this room. Every inch between us. Every breath you take.”

The door clanged as the guards burst in, shouting. Bucky’s head turned slightly at the noise, just enough for one of them to grab his shoulder. Another moved for his arms. He didn’t resist, not really—but he didn’t step back either, not until he’d said what he wanted to say. “You’re not going to fix me,” he said, voice dropping to a whisper meant only for you. “You’re going to break first.”

The guards dragged him back, forcing him upright. He let them, a faint smile curving his mouth again, like the whole outburst had been a rehearsal. As they pulled him toward the door, he looked back at you once more. His eyes had gone cold again, but his mouth moved around words you almost didn’t catch. “You wanted to know me,” he murmured. “Now you do.”

Then he was gone, the door slamming shut behind him.

You sat alone at the table, your pen on the floor, your notes scattered, the dents in the wood glinting under the harsh light. And in the ringing silence, you could still feel the heat of his body leaning over you, the metallic snap of the chain, the whisper of his voice like a bruise under your skin.

The corridors of the asylum felt longer on the walk back from the interview room. The guards didn’t speak; they just watched you from the corners of their eyes. Everyone always did after a breach. It was a ritual here: an incident, a debrief, a whisper network.

You forced yourself to keep your steps even, even though your hands still trembled. The pen was still on the interview table; you’d left it behind without realizing it.

Dr. Milton was waiting at your office door, a heavyset man with thinning hair and the permanent expression of someone who’d seen too many things. He shut the door behind you as soon as you stepped in. “Sit down,” he said. You did, setting the file on your desk with hands that didn’t feel like your own. “You were warned,” Milton said quietly. “Barnes isn’t like the others. He’s not an ordinary sociopath. He’s disciplined. Strategic. And you’ve been feeding him.”

“I haven’t—” you started.

He cut you off with a raised hand. “You have. You’ve given him attention, proximity, stimulation. And now he’s testing the perimeter. You saw what he did today? That wasn’t him losing control. That was him demonstrating it.”

You pressed your palms against your knees, forcing them still. “He’s a patient.”

“He’s a predator,” Milton said, his voice hard now. “You’re not here to rehabilitate him. You’re here to contain him. Don’t forget that.”

He left before you could answer, the door clicking shut behind him.

For a long time you sat at your desk, staring at the empty space where the file sat. Your heartbeat still hadn’t settled. You thought about his eyes inches from yours, the heat of his body across the table, the dents in the wood. Don’t say that word to me. His voice had been low, almost a growl, but there’d been something else under it, too—something almost like hurt.

You didn’t remember walking to your car. You didn’t remember the drive. But when you blinked you were home, key in the door, apartment dark and silent around you. You turned on the lamp by the couch and stood in the living room, still wearing your coat, staring at nothing.

The apartment felt smaller tonight. The walls closer. The hum of the refrigerator too loud. You dropped your bag on the counter and went to the bathroom, gripping the sink. Your reflection in the mirror was pale, eyes rimmed with fatigue.

You thought about what Milton had said. Predator. Containment. You thought about the way Bucky had leaned across the table, how his face had been inches from yours, how he’d said you’re mine like it was a simple fact.

And then, before you could stop yourself, you thought about his other words. His promises. His fantasies. The way his voice had dropped when he described what he’d do if you stopped pretending. You closed your eyes, pressed your palms against the cool porcelain of the sink.

You’re picturing it right now. You’re picturing how it would feel.

The memory of his voice curled through you like smoke. Your stomach flipped. Heat pooled low, shame mixing with something you didn’t want to name. You forced yourself away from the mirror, back into the living room. You poured a glass of wine but didn’t drink it. You sat on the edge of the couch, staring at the clock on the wall. The second hand ticked loud, loud enough that you could imagine it was footsteps in the hall.

In your head, you heard him again.

They’re not about Hydra. Not about blood. They’re about you walking away.

Your phone buzzed on the coffee table. A text from an unknown number: Sweet dreams, Doctor.

Your chest tightened. No one outside the asylum had that nickname for you. You stared at the message, waiting for it to disappear, for it to turn out to be a wrong number. It didn’t.

You locked the phone, set it down. Your hands shook. You told yourself it was a coincidence. A prank. But when you looked toward the window, you swore you felt eyes on you from the street below.

Later, when you finally lay down, you left the light on. Sleep came in fragments. Dreams came in flashes: his voice at your ear, his hands at your throat, the snap of the chain going taut. You woke at 3:17 a.m. with your heart racing, the sound of rain against the glass, and the faint smell of metal on your skin that shouldn’t have been there.

You sat up, hugged your knees, stared into the dark. And you thought, not for the first time, that maybe Milton was right—maybe you weren’t containing him. Maybe he was already here.

---

The interview room had changed. The chair you usually used was bolted now, a subtle but unmistakable shift. The guards who escorted you didn’t speak but their eyes said everything: this was containment, not treatment.

You walked in with the file tucked under your arm, the pen already between your fingers like a weapon. Bucky sat at the table with both wrists cuffed and chained lower, the links shorter than before so he couldn’t lean too far forward. He still looked relaxed, but the set of his shoulders told you he hated the new restrictions.

He raised his eyes when you entered. This time, there was no smile. Just that steady, deliberate gaze that felt like fingers on your skin. “Doctor,” he said quietly.

“Sergeant Barnes.”

“They’ve tightened the leash,” he murmured, glancing at the chain. “Does that make you feel safer?”

“It makes everyone safer,” you replied.

“Not you.”

You sat down across from him, your posture deliberately straight, the file opening with a crisp snap. “We’re continuing our sessions. But with new parameters.”

He tilted his head, almost amused. “Parameters.”

“You’ll answer my questions. Directly. No provocation.”

“And if I don’t?”

“Then the session ends.”

He smiled faintly, slow and deliberate. “You’re learning to threaten me. I like that.”

You wrote the date at the top of the notes, forced your hand to stay steady. “Let’s start with last week. The outburst. Why did the mention of treatment trigger you?”

He leaned back slightly, the chain rattling softly. “Because you said it like you could fix me.”

“I want to help you.”

His gaze sharpened, his voice dropping low. “You want to understand me. That’s not the same thing.” You tried a new tactic: silence. You let it stretch, pen poised but unmoving, eyes steady on his. People hated silence. They filled it. Bucky didn’t fill it. He stared back, expression unreadable. Then slowly, deliberately, he leaned forward until the chain stopped him, eyes still on yours. “You missed me,” he said softly.

“I’m your psychiatrist,” you said evenly.

He smirked. “You’re my obsession.”

“That’s not healthy,” you countered.

He chuckled low. “Stop talking like a textbook. You don’t sound like that when you’re home.”

Your pen twitched. “And how would you know how I sound at home?”

His eyes glinted. “You hum. You don’t even realize it. Little broken bits of songs. You did it Tuesday night while making tea.” You froze. He smiled faintly. “You left your blinds half-open. I know your kitchen light now. I know the way you tilt your head when you’re reading. I know which window is your bedroom.”

“Stop,” you said sharply.

“Why?” His voice was quiet but relentless. “You like being seen.”

“That’s a violation.”

“That’s a confession,” he said.

Your heart pounded, but you forced the pen to move. “Tell me what you want from me,” you said, trying another new tactic: direct confrontation.

His expression didn’t change, but his voice did—softer now, darker. “I want to watch you unravel.”

“That’s not going to happen,” you said firmly.

He smiled faintly. “It already is.”

You shifted, crossing your legs, pen scratching furiously on the paper. “Do you fantasize about harming me?”

“No.”

“Do you fantasize about controlling me?”

“Yes.”

“Explain.”

His eyes gleamed. “You walk in here wrapped in rules, in coats, in professionalism. I want to take each layer off. Slowly. Until there’s nothing left but you.”

“That’s not reality.”

“That’s inevitability,” he murmured.

You set the pen down, trying a final tactic: empathy. “I think you’re lonely,” you said softly. “I think all of this—the threats, the fantasies—is about connection. You’ve been hurt. You’ve been used. You don’t know how to want someone without trying to own them.”

For a moment, something flickered in his expression. A crack. A shadow of something softer. But then it was gone, replaced by that slow smile. “You’re good,” he said quietly. “But you’re not safe.”

The guards shifted at the door. The tension in the room was palpable.

You stood, closing the file. “That’s all for today.”

He didn’t move. He just watched you, eyes following you to the door. His voice followed, soft, low, like a promise, “soon, you won’t leave until I tell you.”

The door shut, but you walked the corridor with the sense of him pressed against your back, as if his words had weight and hands and were already on your skin.

---

It started quietly that night, the way most bad dreams do—with something ordinary. You were in your apartment, lights dim, rain whispering at the windows. The clock on the wall ticked softly. You were making tea, humming without realizing it.

Except it wasn’t quite right. The air was heavier than it should have been. The light from the lamp flickered. The hum of the refrigerator slowed down, like someone dragging a fingernail across a record.

You turned, mug in hand. The kitchen was empty, but the apartment felt occupied. That sensation—of being watched—pressed against your back like a hand. You set the mug down on the counter and looked toward the hallway. It was dark there. Darker than it should have been. A heavy kind of dark, the kind that eats the edges of things. “Hello?” you said softly.

Nothing.

You stepped toward the hall. The boards under your feet creaked like they were further away than they actually were. When you reached the hall, the apartment was gone. The walls were concrete now, damp and grey, lined with pipes. The hum of the refrigerator had become the hum of fluorescent lights. Somewhere in the distance, a chain rattled.

You looked back over your shoulder. The kitchen was gone too. Just a long corridor, doors on either side, closed and numbered but without handles. A shadow moved at the far end of the hall. You told yourself to wake up. You even tried to move your fingers the way you’d practiced in college when you’d read about lucid dreaming. But your fingers felt heavy, like they weren’t yours.

The shadow moved closer. A man’s silhouette. Broad shoulders, dark hair falling across his forehead. “Where are you going, Doctor?” His voice echoed, low, dark, familiar.

Your stomach lurched. “This is a dream,” you whispered.

He laughed softly. “Is it?”

You started to run, but the hallway stretched as you moved, every step landing in slow motion. The doors on either side began to rattle, as though something inside them wanted out. You reached the end of the hall and found a single door ajar. Dim light spilled through the crack. You pushed it open and stepped inside. It was his cell.

The bed was there, the table bolted to the floor, the single high window. The air smelled like metal and damp concrete. But the cuffs were empty on the table. You turned to leave but the door slammed shut behind you.

You spun back, heart hammering, and found him there. Not the chained version from your sessions. This Bucky was unbound, standing in the center of the room. His hair was damp, clinging to his temples, his blue eyes fixed on you. “You keep coming here,” he murmured. “Even in your sleep.”

“This isn’t real,” you said, though your voice was shaking.

He stepped closer. “You think you can study me, write your notes, go home to your quiet little apartment. But I’m already there.”

You backed up until your spine hit the cold wall. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself. “Wake up.”

He kept moving, slow and deliberate. “I told you I dream about you. Did you think you wouldn’t dream about me?” When he reached you, he lifted his metal hand and placed it against the wall beside your head. The cold radiated through the concrete. His body was a breath away from yours. “Say my name,” he said softly. You shook your head. His smile was faint, dark. “Say it.”

You forced your mouth open. “Bucky.”

He leaned closer, his breath brushing your ear. “That’s better.” His flesh hand came up, fingers curling around your chin, tilting your head up. “You’ve been thinking about this,” he murmured. “The edge. The danger. Me.”

“No,” you said, but it sounded like a lie.

He chuckled low. “Liar.” You tried to push him away, but your arms wouldn’t move. They felt like they were encased in concrete. His hand slid from your chin to your throat, not squeezing but resting there, his thumb brushing over your pulse. “You feel that?” he asked. “That’s what control sounds like.”

“Stop,” you whispered.

“You don’t want me to,” he said. He bent his head closer, his lips almost touching your ear. “Soon, you won’t wake up.”

Your heart thundered. “Wake up,” you whispered to yourself again.

“Wake up,” he echoed, his mouth curving. “Or don’t.”

He pressed closer, the weight of his body pinning you lightly against the wall. His hand at your throat wasn’t squeezing but you could feel the strength there, the threat of it. His mouth brushed your jaw, not a kiss but a promise.

You jerked awake with a strangled gasp, sitting bolt upright in bed. The room was dark, the rain whispering against the window. Your heart was hammering. For a long time you sat in the dark, your palm pressed to your throat where his thumb had been in the dream. The skin there was warm, but you swore you could still feel the cold edge of metal.

On the nightstand, your phone lit up with a new text from the same unknown number. No words this time. Just an image: a concrete wall, grey and damp, with a handprint pressed into it.

---

The asylum was humming with its usual unease when you arrived the next morning. The air smelled faintly of bleach and damp fabric, like it always did after a storm. Staff moved through the halls with their clipped steps, clipboards clutched close, their eyes sliding over you but not quite meeting yours. Word of the incident had traveled. It always did.

You went through security as you always did—bag checked, coat hung, file folder pressed against your ribs like armor. The guards didn’t say anything, but one of them, a younger man with a shaved head, gave you a glance that lasted too long. A warning, or pity.

By the time you reached your office, you were already tightening your shoulders against it. You opened the door, flicked on the light, set the folder down on your desk.

And froze.

There was something on your chair. A folded piece of paper. Crisp, clean, resting directly where you would have sat. Your hand hovered before you picked it up. No one was supposed to have access to your office without keys. Security was strict. Files were checked out and logged. But the paper was there, simple as breath.

You unfolded it with slow, careful fingers. Inside was a single line, written in neat block letters: You hum when you’re scared. I like that one the most.

Your chest tightened. You folded the paper again, shoved it into the desk drawer, locked it. You didn’t tell anyone. You should have. You knew you should have. But the thought of handing it over to Milton or the guards made something inside you coil tighter. If you gave it up, you’d be admitting he’d gotten past the locks. Past the rules. Past you.

When you saw him later that day, he didn’t say a word about it. He sat with his hands folded, cuffs gleaming, eyes calm and steady. But when the silence stretched and you forced yourself to meet his gaze, the corner of his mouth lifted, just slightly. Like he knew you were carrying his words in your pocket.

The gifts didn’t stop. The next came at home. You walked into your apartment after a long day, dropped your keys on the counter, and there it was: a book lying on the table. You knew you hadn’t left it there. An old copy of Dracula, worn at the edges, the spine cracked. Inside, a bookmark pressed between two pages—a scene where Mina writes about feeling watched. In the margin, a neat, sharp hand had written: She wanted it too.

You slammed the book shut, your stomach flipping. Your locks were intact. No windows broken. No sign of forced entry. But the book was there, solid and undeniable. That night you called maintenance, asked for new locks. The man who came the next day installed them without comment, but you swore you saw the faintest smirk tug at his mouth when you asked if they were “secure.”

By the third gift, you couldn’t keep it to yourself. You came into your office one morning and found a single lily lying on your desk. White, perfect, dew still clinging to the petals as though it had just been cut. No note this time. Just the flower. Your stomach clenched. Lilacs, he’d said once. He’d smelled lilacs on you that first session. Now it was a lily—stark, pure, funereal.

Milton walked past your office just as you were staring at it. He stopped, frowned. “What’s that?”

You swallowed. “A flower. Someone must have—”

“No one should be in here,” Milton said sharply. He stepped inside, looked at the lily, then back at you. “Barnes?”

“I don’t know,” you said quickly.

He studied you for a long moment, then his voice dropped. “He’s gotten into your head.”

You looked down at the lily, at the pure white of it, at the way it seemed almost obscene against the stack of sterile files. “Maybe he always was.”

Milton picked up the flower, snapped the stem, and tossed it in the trash. “You need distance. Or you’re going to drown in him.” When he left, you sat alone, staring at the trash bin. The lily lay bent, crushed, but still beautiful.

That night, you dreamed again. Only this time there was no corridor, no doors, no transition. You were just in your apartment. The lights flickered. And Bucky was there, sitting in your chair like he belonged in it, metal fingers tapping against the armrest. “I told you,” he said softly, “I’ll always bring you something.”

When you woke, there was nothing in the room. But on the nightstand, where you were certain there had been only your lamp and your phone, there was a small piece of folded paper. You opened it with shaking fingers. Soon you won’t have to wake up alone.

---

The asylum corridors had always been sterile, humming with fluorescent light and faint bleach, but lately they felt hostile. You noticed it in the way the guards lingered longer outside your office. In the way staff lowered their voices when you passed. In the way Milton’s eyes followed you like he was waiting for you to collapse.

But it wasn’t them you noticed most. It was him. Every time you entered the interview room now, he was already watching. Sometimes with that faint half-smile, sometimes with nothing at all, but always steady, like he had been waiting for you specifically. “Morning, Doctor,” he said one day, his voice low, conversational, as though the chains didn’t exist. “Blue dress today. You haven’t worn that one in a while.”

You glanced down before you could stop yourself. He was right. You hadn’t worn it in months. You made your voice firm. “We’re not here to discuss my clothing.”

He smirked. “You put it on for me, though. Didn’t you?” You ignored him and wrote the date, your handwriting tighter than usual.

At home, the intrusion became subtler—or maybe you were simply starting to notice what had been there all along. One evening you came back late, coat damp from the rain, and found your apartment exactly as you’d left it. Almost. The lamp by the couch was turned an inch to the left. A book you’d left on the coffee table was open, spine cracked to a random page. You told yourself you might have done it, might have forgotten. But when you closed the book, a note slipped out.

It was short, written in the same neat block letters as before: You should eat more. Skipping breakfast isn’t good for you.

Your stomach dropped. You hadn’t eaten that morning. You hadn’t told anyone. You crumpled the paper and shoved it in the trash, then immediately dug it back out, smoothed it flat, and locked it in your desk drawer at home. You told yourself you’d bring it to Milton. But you didn’t.

By the third week, you were jumpy. Every knock on your door, every footstep in the hall, every shadow under the streetlamp outside your apartment window—you flinched at all of it. At the asylum, you tried new tactics: grounding exercises, silence, even simple rapport-building techniques. One day you tried to take control by leaning forward first. “You said you wanted me to know you,” you said. “Tell me something real. Not fantasy. Not control. Something from your childhood.”

Bucky studied you for a long moment. Then his mouth curved. “Your aunt’s maiden name is Carroll. Your father worked in insurance. You moved to the city when you were eight.”

Your pen froze on the page. “That’s not about you,” you said, though your voice wasn’t steady.

“No,” he said softly. “It’s about how much I already know about you. More than you know about me.” He leaned forward until the chain tightened, his voice low. “Tell me something real, Doctor. Or I’ll keep leaving pieces of you on your desk until you admit you’re mine.”

That night, the gift wasn’t in your apartment. It was in your car. You slid into the driver’s seat after leaving the asylum, file clutched tight in your hand, and saw it immediately: a single Polaroid lying on the passenger seat. Your chest tightened as you picked it up. The picture was grainy, dim. It was your building. The window to your bedroom, lit from within. On the back, written in those same block letters: I like the way you look when you read in bed.

Your throat closed. You dropped the Polaroid like it burned.

Sleep stopped coming easy. When it did, the dreams came back. Always the same walls. Always the same corridor. Always him. Sometimes cuffed, sometimes not, but always moving toward you with the kind of certainty that made you feel like running was pointless. One night you dreamed of being back in the interview room. You sat at the table with your pen and file, and when you looked up, the cuffs were gone. He was across from you, leaning forward, his hand sliding the file away from you like it was a toy. “Stop pretending you want to save me,” he murmured. “Say what you want.”

In the dream, you did. You told him you wanted him. And he smiled like he had been waiting for it all along. You woke up sweating, your sheets twisted around you, the echo of his laugh still in your ears. On the nightstand, where there had been nothing when you went to bed, there was another note. You’re almost ready.

By the time you arrived at the asylum the next morning, you were trembling with exhaustion. Milton stopped you in the hall, his face hard. “You need to step back,” he said. “Barnes is escalating. He’s not safe. And you’re compromised.”

You swallowed. “I’m fine.”

“You’re not.” Milton’s voice dropped. “He’s in your head. Everyone can see it.”

You tried to protest, but the words tangled. Milton shook his head. “One more incident, and I’ll pull you off his case. Permanently.”

You walked away before he could see the way your hands shook. But in the interview room, when you sat down and opened the file, Bucky looked at you with that slow, knowing smile, and you understood something you hadn’t wanted to admit: You were already his case.

---

The storm came back with a vengeance that night. You could hear it even inside the asylum—rain slashing the walls, wind clawing at the windows, thunder rolling so low it rattled the pipes in the floor. The lights flickered once, twice, and then the entire building went black.

The sudden silence was worse than the storm. The hum of the fluorescents gone. The steady drone of the security fans cut off. For a moment, the only sound was the rain hammering against the concrete and the faint, too-close sound of your own breath.

The emergency lights didn’t come on. They should have. But they didn’t. Staff voices called in the halls, radios sputtered static. You caught one guard saying “generator’s down” before the words blurred into noise. Someone shouted for flashlights, someone else cursed.

You were already moving down the corridor toward the patient wing. Your pulse was hammering, but you told yourself it was procedure—make sure high-risk inmates were secure, check doors, and confirm locks.

Bucky’s cell was halfway down the block. The hall was pitch-dark. You used your own small flashlight, the beam thin, bouncing off concrete, throwing long shadows. Every door looked the same, steel reinforced with narrow viewing slots. When you reached his cell, you lifted the flashlight, shining it inside. Empty. The bed was there. The table. The chains bolted to the wall. But no Bucky.

Your throat went dry. You flicked the light across the room again, heart hammering. Empty. Absolutely empty. “Shit,” you whispered. You spun, hand fumbling for the radio clipped to your belt. Static only. No voices. No signal. “Shit,” you said again, louder this time.

That was when you felt it.

A breath against the back of your neck. You froze. The flashlight trembled in your hand. You didn’t want to turn. Every part of you screamed not to. But you did.

Too late.

An arm snaked around your waist, the other clamping over your mouth, pulling you back into a body that radiated heat and strength. The flashlight clattered to the floor, beam spinning uselessly across the concrete.

“Miss me?” Bucky’s voice was low, right against your ear. Calm. Almost amused.

You thrashed immediately, shoving at his arms, twisting, trying to stomp back at his shin, but his grip only tightened. His flesh arm crushed your torso against him; the metal hand at your face was unyielding, cold against your skin.

“Easy,” he murmured. “Stop fighting.” You shoved again, desperate, nails digging at the band of muscle around your ribs. He grunted but didn’t loosen. “I said stop.” His voice sharpened, the steel underneath flashing through.

You tried to scream into his palm, but it came out muffled, pathetic. He laughed softly, the sound curling hot in your ear. “That’s cute.”

You twisted harder, nearly broke free for a breath, but he caught you by the wrists, spun you, and slammed you against the wall. Not hard enough to knock you out—but hard enough that your breath left you in a gasp.

Your wrists were pinned above your head in his metal grip, his body close enough that you could feel every line of him against your back. “You think you can run?” he murmured, breath rough now, chest rising against you. “You’ve been running since the first day. But you came back. You always come back.”

“Let me go!” you hissed, voice ragged.

He chuckled, low and dark. “No.”

You tried to kick backward, catch his shin, but he only laughed again, dragging you away from the wall. His grip didn’t falter. You fought every inch, heels digging into the floor, but he was relentless.

He pulled you toward his cell. The door was open. The locks that had been shut when you’d looked in were now unlatched, hanging uselessly from the frame.

Your heart thundered. “No—”

“Yes.”

He hauled you inside, the shadows swallowing both of you. You clawed at his hands, your voice breaking as you tried to scream again, but his body dwarfed yours, his strength absolute.

When you saw where he was dragging you, your stomach dropped. The bed. The cuffs bolted into the frame. “No—stop—”

He shoved you down onto the mattress, the metal frame groaning under the weight. His flesh hand pressed your chest down as he snapped one cuff around your wrist with the other. The sound of it closing was deafening in the dark.

You twisted violently, tried to pull free, but the restraint held fast. “Stop fighting,” he said again, firmer now. “You’re mine. You’ve always been mine.”

You snarled, kicking up at him, but he caught your ankle easily, pinning it against the mattress. His body loomed over yours, his breath ragged now, matching yours. The second cuff closed around your other wrist. Cold, unyielding, locking you to his bed.

For a moment, he just stood there above you, breathing hard, staring down. The shadows cut across his face, eyes gleaming with something raw and hungry. Then he leaned close, his lips brushing your ear. “Now,” he whispered, voice a promise and a threat all at once, “you’re not going anywhere.”

The frame of his bed was cold beneath your back, the thin mattress no buffer at all against the steel. Your chest rose and fell fast, breath shaking, your arms stretched above you and tethered wide.

Bucky was still standing over you, his shoulders rising and falling with his own breath. His hair clung to his forehead in damp strands, a mix of sweat and rain. The storm outside pounded against the barred window, thunder rolling in low and long like a warning drum.

“Stop fighting,” he said again, voice lower now, roughened from exertion. He braced a hand on the bed by your hip, leaning down until his face was a few inches from yours. The smell of him—sweat, metal, the faint tang of something darker—filled your head. “I told you what would happen if you kept running.”

You yanked at the cuffs, twisting your wrists hard enough that the metal bit into your skin. “Let me go!”

He chuckled, soft but dangerous, his eyes flicking down your body and back up to your face. “You still don’t get it. You’re not here because I let you be. You’re here because you came back. Over and over. And now—” he dragged a knuckle slowly down your sternum, not hard enough to hurt but enough to make you shudder “—now I’m done waiting.”

You thrashed again, trying to get a knee up, but his hand slid to your thigh, pressing it back down against the mattress. The metal arm shifted, catching your other leg when you tried to kick, pinning you open. “Stop,” he said again, this time a growl against your ear. “Stop fighting.”

“No—”

His metal fingers wrapped gently but unyieldingly around your jaw, tilting your face up to his. The cold of the vibranium contrasted with the heat of his flesh thumb brushing over your pulse. “You think I don’t like it?” he murmured. “You think I don’t like watching you try?” He leaned closer, until his lips were at your ear, his breath warm against your skin. “But we’re past trying now. You know it. I know it.”

He shifted, his body coming over yours, caging you without even needing the cuffs. His weight was held just enough to keep you pinned without crushing. One of his knees slid between your thighs, prying you open by inches.

You bucked against him, wrists straining against the cuffs, but it only made the metal creak and your skin burn. He caught your chin again, made you look at him. His eyes were dark, but not wild—steady, intense, like a tide pulling you out. “Look at me,” he ordered quietly. “Look at me while you fight.” You did, even though your heart was hammering, your breath ragged. “That’s it,” he murmured. “That’s the look. That’s what I’ve been waiting for.”

His hand left your chin and trailed down, slow, deliberate, fingertips skimming the collar of your blouse, tracing the line of fabric as though mapping it. His metal hand stayed braced above your head, gripping the bedframe, anchoring him.

Outside, thunder cracked. The emergency lights flickered once, then died completely, plunging the cell into a dim blue darkness from the storm beyond the bars. The only illumination came in flashes, lightning strobes that cut across his face and the gleam of his metal arm.

He bent closer, his mouth a breath away from yours, voice a low growl threaded with something like a promise, “now stop running.” His palm flattened against your stomach, sliding upward a fraction, the heat of it stark against your skin. “Or don’t,” he whispered. “It just makes it better.”

You yanked at the cuffs again, wrists aching, chest rising and falling fast. You felt the mattress shift under you as he settled his weight more fully, knees braced on either side of your hips, caging you completely. The sound of the rain on the window and the thunder outside blurred with the sound of your own pulse.

“Say my name,” he murmured, lips brushing your jaw. “Say it while you’re still fighting.” His mouth descended, aiming for yours, but you jerked your head aside, jaw clenching. Your heart hammered. His lips brushed your cheek instead, hot and insistent, stubble scraping your skin as he murmured, “still fighting? Even now?”

You twisted away again, baring your teeth, refusing the kiss. A dark, pleased sound rumbled in his chest. The metal hand slid from the bedframe and caught your chin, steel fingers unyielding as they guided your face back to him, thumb pressing against your lower lip, prying it open. “Look at me,” he ordered again, voice molten and low. “I said look at me.”

You glared up, jaw aching, breath coming fast—but he only grinned, leaning in so close you could taste the heat of him. His mouth crashed onto yours, not gentle or coaxing, but hungry, claiming. You tried to twist free but he held you there, tongue sliding past your lips, swallowing the start of a protest. Your defiance was fuel to him; he devoured it, teeth scraping your lower lip until you gasped, the sound muffled against his mouth.

His flesh hand moved to your throat, palm warm as it circled the column of your neck. He squeezed—not enough to cut off breath, but enough to claim, to hold you steady. “Keep fighting,” he whispered against your mouth, breath hot. “Let me see how much you want to lose.”

He kissed you again, deeper this time, the weight of his body shifting, chest pressing yours into the thin mattress. His hips slotted against you, the hard line of his cock a promise through the thin fabric. Your legs kicked uselessly beneath him, but he only rocked his hips, grinding down until you felt the heat of him, thick and aching, through both your clothes.

He dragged his mouth from yours to your jaw, then lower—lips and teeth marking a trail along your neck, finding the place where your pulse pounded wild. He nipped there, sucking until you whimpered, the sound escaping before you could choke it back.

“Mine,” he said, lips brushing the new bruise as his hand slid down, gripping the buttons of your blouse. You tried to buck him off, arching your back in defiance, but he pinned your hips, the metal hand slipping to your jaw again to hold you steady.

One by one, he popped the buttons open, slow and deliberate, baring your chest to the cold air and the heat of his gaze. Lightning flickered again, and you saw his eyes devour you—greedy, wild, possessive.

He bent to your collarbone, kissing, then biting, leaving marks in his wake. His teeth grazed your skin, followed by the slick heat of his tongue, soothing the sting. You writhed, wrists aching, and he just growled softly, his hands everywhere—stroking, gripping, exploring every inch of newly revealed flesh.

His mouth closed around your nipple, tongue circling, sucking until it peaked and you gasped, arching into the touch despite yourself. He lifted his head, breath ragged, lips glossy with spit. “You taste fucking perfect,” he growled, then bit down just hard enough to make you whimper again, pain blooming bright and hot under his mouth.

You turned your head away, panting, refusing to look at him. He grabbed your throat again, turning your face back, eyes burning. “No hiding,” he snarled. “You want to fight? Fight. But I’m not letting you go.”

His metal hand slid lower, cold against your ribs, slipping beneath your skirt, pushing it up inch by inch. His palm cupped your thigh, squeezing hard, thumb pressing bruises into your skin as his mouth claimed your lips again, bruising and relentless.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held you wide, the bed unyielding beneath you, his body a cage. He kissed you harder, tongue invading, swallowing every protest, every moan. When he finally broke away, your breath was ragged, lips swollen and tingling from his rough attention.

He stared down at you, his hair shadowing his eyes, chest heaving. “You don’t get to hide from me,” he said softly, a threat and a promise both. His hands moved lower, peeling the rest of your blouse off, exposing you to the dark and to him.

“Keep fighting,” he whispered, voice thick with hunger, “and I’ll just mark you up more.”

His mouth returned to your skin—biting, kissing, licking, each mark a declaration. Your body arched, torn between defiance and a pulse of want that you tried, desperately, to deny. Lightning flashed, painting the room in stark relief, the silver of his arm gleaming where it pressed between your thighs, cold and merciless as he spread you open. “You’re not going anywhere,” he repeated, his lips dragging lower, mouth hot and hungry as he tasted his way down your body. “You’re mine now.”

He pressed your skirt higher, bunching it around your hips, then slid his hands—flesh and metal—down to your knees. His palms urged your legs wider, baring you to the chill air and the heat of his gaze. You bucked in the cuffs, wrists aching, but he only smiled, holding you open, drinking in every involuntary shudder and the flash of anger that lingered behind your eyes.

His mouth descended, tracing a path from your knee up your inner thigh, pausing to nip at the sensitive skin there until you jerked, a choked sound tearing from your throat. “That’s it,” he murmured, lips pressed to the softest part of you. “Let me hear you.” His stubble scraped rough, tongue soothing the sting in a pattern that left your skin tingling and raw.

He mouthed up, his nose nuzzling the edge of your panties, breathing deep, the warmth of his breath making you squirm. You turned your head away, refusing to look, but the hand at your thigh squeezed, metal thumb digging a warning into the soft flesh. “Eyes on me.” You ignored him, breath coming in short, angry bursts, but when you didn’t obey, he hooked his thumb under the thin cotton, dragging the fabric aside with a single, patient motion.

Cool air licked over you. Then his mouth was there, hot and wet, tongue flat against your folds as he licked a broad stripe up the length of your pussy, groaning low and hungry against your skin. “Fuck, you taste—” his words cut off as he buried his face deeper, tongue circling your clit, lips sealing around it as he sucked, slow at first, then with building pressure.

You twisted in the cuffs, a desperate little gasp ripping from your lips. He didn’t let up, the metal hand pinning your thigh, his flesh fingers spreading you wider, holding you perfectly open for him. His tongue was relentless, lapping through your slick, tracing every line and dip until your hips bucked against his mouth, searching for escape or for more, you didn’t even know anymore.

He groaned again, the sound vibrating against your clit, and you felt the deep answering throb all through your body. His mouth was hot and possessive, his teeth grazing just enough to make you shiver, then soothing the spot with soft, slow licks that threatened to undo you completely. Every time you tried to pull away, he followed, locking you down tighter, eating you like a man starving.

“Let me hear you, doc,” he growled, lifting his head just enough that his breath teased across your soaked skin. “Let them all know who you belong to.” Then he dove back in, tongue swirling, two fingers sliding inside you without warning—thick, relentless, curling to hit that spot that made your whole body arch off the mattress, a ragged, involuntary moan bursting from your chest.

“N—ah, f-fuck—!” Your thighs trembled, legs trying to close, but the grip of his hands and the cuffs at your wrists left you nowhere to go, nothing to do but take every hungry, punishing lick he gave you. His tongue flicked and circled, his fingers thrusting slow and deep, drawing out every wet sound from your cunt, every tremor from your core.

He watched you with hooded eyes, lips slick with you, drinking in every shiver, every gasp, every filthy, unguarded noise. “Look at you,” he murmured, voice wrecked and triumphant. “You can fight all you want, but your body already knows who owns you.”

He leaned in, mouth sealing over your clit as he sucked, fingers pressing up, unrelenting, until the tension coiled so tight in your belly it felt like breaking. “Come for me,” he growled into your skin. “Now.”

And when the pleasure finally broke, crashing through you—hot, unstoppable, loud—you screamed, the sound echoing off concrete and steel, your body thrashing under him as he held you pinned and open, feasting on every shudder and sob that ripped free.

He licked you through every aftershock, savoring the taste, then finally lifted his head, lips swollen, eyes wild and greedy. He crawled up your body, pressing a filthy, possessive kiss to your mouth, making you taste yourself on his tongue.

He didn’t bother undressing himself; his clothes stayed on, rough fabric scraping against your bare thighs as he braced over you, knees spread between yours. His cock strained the front of his pants, pressing hot and thick right where you ached for friction. He dragged the head of it through your slick folds, coating himself with you, grunting in pleasure at the way you whimpered and tried to close your legs—even though he had you pinned, nowhere to go.

“Look at you, fuck,” he rasped, grabbing your jaw in one callused hand, forcing your head back so you couldn’t look away. His other hand slid between your bodies, pulling his cock free just enough to push the head against your entrance, stretching you as he thrust in slow and unyielding. “So fucking wet for me. Don’t pretend you didn’t want it.”

You writhed beneath him, every inch a live wire, wrists aching in the cuffs. He held you pinned, his cock forcing you open, inch by thick inch. The first thrust burned, made you gasp, but he didn’t pause; he bottomed out, groaning as he filled you to the hilt, hips grinding down, pelvis pressed to yours.

You twisted, fighting against the grip he kept on your face, your voice breaking, “N—let go—!”

He just smirked, rolling his hips, grinding deeper. “Why would I let you go when you sound like that?” His metal hand slid down, bracing your thigh wide open, thumb digging into the soft flesh. He drew back and fucked you hard—slow at first, making you feel every ridge, every stretch, every time your cunt gripped and fluttered helplessly around him.

His mouth dropped to your throat, biting hard, leaving fresh marks beside the others. “You hear that?” he growled, voice muffled by your skin. “That’s you. That’s what you sound like when you’re mine.”

The rhythm picked up—harder now, desperate, each thrust shoving you up the bed, making the cuffs rattle and the mattress squeal under your hips. Your skirt bunched higher, the thin cotton soaking up your slick, panties stretched and useless where he’d pushed them aside. Every time you tried to twist away he just fucked you harder, pinning you down, chest pressed to yours, breath hot at your ear.

You clenched around him, every thrust driving a whimper or gasp from your lips, but he shushed you with a kiss, tongue forcing your mouth open, stealing the sounds right out of your throat. “Keep fighting,” he panted, biting your lower lip, “keep fucking fighting. Feels better when you try—ngh—” His cock slammed deep, grinding, the head rubbing right where you needed it, drawing a sharp, broken moan from your chest.

He shifted, angling his hips, one hand slipping down to rub circles against your clit, merciless and fast. The pleasure punched through your body, white-hot, shattering the last of your control.

You came with a strangled cry—legs shaking, cunt pulsing tight around his cock as he kept fucking you through it, hips snapping, fingers never stopping on your clit. The pleasure was overwhelming, sharp and endless, making you sob and gasp, every nerve lit up.

He didn’t stop, didn’t let up, riding your orgasm out with brutal precision, hips never faltering. When you tried to squirm away, he just pressed you down, fucking you until you were shaking and soaked, the cuffs creaking with every helpless jerk of your arms.

And through it all, he never came—just kept you pinned and open, marking you with every thrust, every bite, every growl of your name in your ear. His cock throbbed deep inside you, thick and hot, but he denied himself the release, focused only on wringing every last cry and tremor from your body.

When you finally collapsed beneath him, raw and trembling, he leaned down, pressing a filthy kiss to your jaw, lips curling in a satisfied smirk.

He didn’t release you. Instead, he leaned over, eyes dark and sharp, hands spreading over your chest and belly, holding you down as he rutted slow against your thigh. “Not done,” he growled, voice low, lips brushing your ear and jaw. “Want your mouth on me.”

Before you could answer, he moved—kneeling over your head, knees braced on either side of your shoulders, his bulk and presence blocking out everything but him. His cock was swollen and leaking, the tip flushed, slick with your arousal. He gripped the base and tapped it against your lips, smearing a line of salty precome. “Open,” he ordered.

You clenched your jaw, turned away, but his metal hand slid under your chin, fingers cold and strong as they forced your face up. “Don’t make me ask twice.” He pressed forward, cock sliding along your lips, and when you tried to bite, he just laughed—a deep, savage sound—and wedged his thumb between your teeth, prying your jaw open. “That’s it. Wide.”

He guided himself into your mouth, thick and insistent, groaning as your lips stretched around him, the taste of him filling you. His hips rocked slowly, pushing deeper, the head of his cock hitting the back of your throat. “Fuck, that’s good. Take it.” His flesh hand tangled in your hair, holding your head steady, as he fucked your mouth with slow, unhurried thrusts, dragging out the slick wet sounds, the choke and swallow of your throat.

You tried to twist away, but the cuffs held your arms above your head, body pinned under his weight. His metal hand slid down, tracing your cheek, thumb stroking the corner of your mouth as he watched himself disappear between your lips. “Such a pretty mouth, doc. Bet you never thought you’d be here.” He pulled back, letting you gasp for breath, spit slicking your chin, then thrust in deeper, making you gag, drool sliding down your neck. “That’s it. Take it. Let me feel you fight.”

While he rocked into your throat, his other hand drifted down between your legs, fingers finding you slick and sensitive. He stroked your folds, teasing your clit, then shoved two fingers inside you, curling and thrusting in rhythm with his cock, forcing you to moan around him, every sound vibrating up his shaft. “Gonna make you come again like this,” he snarled, hips snapping harder. “Wanna feel you choke and shudder, wanna fuck your throat while you come on my hand.”

You squeezed your thighs around his arm, trying to squirm away, but he only fingered you harder, the heel of his hand grinding your clit, his cock filling your mouth, choking you with every thrust. The air was thick with the sounds and the desperate, helpless whimpers that spilled out as you lost the rhythm of your breathing, your body betraying you, hips rolling up into his hand.

“Look at you, fuck,” he grunted, pulling back just long enough for you to gasp, air and spit flooding your lips, then slamming forward again, cock hot and heavy and unforgiving. “Such a mess for me. You like being used, don’t you? Say it—ah, fuck—say you’re mine.”

You tried to speak, but he kept you full, only more muffled sounds escaping. The pleasure built fast, shame and need tangled as his fingers drove you wild, his thumb never leaving your clit, his cock stretching your throat until tears prickled in your eyes.

The orgasm hit hard—tight and sudden—your body shuddering around his hand, pulse racing, cunt gripping his fingers as your mouth and throat fluttered helplessly around his cock. He fucked you through it, not letting up, his own breath ragged, hips slowing only when you finally collapsed, spent and gasping, drool and spit slicking your lips and chin.

He pulled out, cock glistening, one hand stroking your cheek. He pressed his forehead to yours, voice still hungry but gentle now, his thumb tracing your lip. “Not finished with you, doc,” he whispered, “but you take me so fucking well.”

He pulled back from you, your legs sprawled and trembling from the last brutal wave he’d forced from you. He knelt between your thighs, palms pressed possessively to your inner knees, spreading you wider—your skirt bunched around your waist, panties still only dragged to the side, the cuffs at your wrists tight enough you felt their bite in every throb of your pulse.

His cock was still out, hard and flushed, glistening from being buried in your mouth and from the mess he’d made of you. The air was thick with sweat and storm, a low thrumming energy in the dark.

He dragged you a few inches down the bed, grip strong and certain, until your thighs bracketed him perfectly. He held your legs wide, savoring the sight—his jaw flexing, lips parted, eyes locked on your face. “Look at you. All fucked out and still trying to glare at me.” He spat in his hand and stroked himself, slow and deliberate, the thick head of his cock nudging the inside of your trembling thigh.

The rough fabric of his pants scratched your sensitive skin as he settled between your legs, pressing your thighs together around him. “Hold still,” he growled, guiding his cock into the slick heat of your thighs, sliding the shaft along your soaked folds, the head catching on your clit with each drag. “Gonna use you just like this.”

His metal hand slid up, cold and firm, clamping over your knee to keep your thighs squeezed tight around him. The pressure forced every pulse of your cunt against his cock, slicking him up, every thrust making obscene, wet sounds as he fucked the soft flesh between your legs. Your breathing stuttered, your body betraying you with another sharp pulse of pleasure as his cock ground just right, the head nudging your swollen clit again and again.

Bucky grinned down at you, breath hot and ragged. “You feel that? That’s how wet you are for me. You wanted this—you wanted every fucking inch.” He pushed harder, rutting between your thighs, the roughness of his uniform scraping your skin, his cock sliding faster, wetter, hotter every second.

The hand not pinning your leg moved between your bodies, two fingers shoving back inside you, curling mercilessly as he fucked your thighs, stretching you wide while he worked your body in rhythm. The pressure, the friction, the slick grind of his cock against your clit—all of it coiled tight, so tight you couldn’t hold back another desperate moan.

He leaned in, lips brushing your ear, voice raw: “Come again. Right now. Squeeze my fingers, let me feel it.”

He worked your cunt, fingers pressing and stroking, the head of his cock gliding up and down, every thrust bumping your clit. You sobbed, shaking, your body spasming as another orgasm ripped through you, thighs clamping hard around him, cunt clenching on his fingers as you cried out, the cuffs rattling above your head.

Bucky didn’t stop—he growled, his own pleasure cresting as he fucked harder between your slick thighs, squeezing your legs around him until with a rough, choked gasp, he came, cock throbbing hot against your skin, spilling messily between your thighs and over your cunt, marking you with every pulse. His breath came heavy and wild as he shuddered through it, grinding until there was nothing left but the slow pulse of the storm and the filthy heat between your bodies.

He pulled his fingers from you slowly, dragging them up to your mouth and smearing your lips with the taste of yourself and him. “Good girl,” he murmured, thumb pressing between your lips, watching your mouth part for him. “Take it all. Every fucking drop.”

Bucky stayed between your legs, his palms dragging up your trembling thighs, slow and lazy, as if he had all night to enjoy you. His gaze flickered up to your face, and a crooked, knowing smile spread across his lips.

You swallowed, pulse rabbiting in your throat. You tried to summon your voice, tried to wrestle your breathing into something that sounded like authority, like you still had a shred of power left. “Bucky. Listen to me. You don’t have to—”

He cut you off with a low laugh, leaning over you until his face was right above yours, his hair hanging in your eyes. “Don’t have to what, doctor?” He dipped down and pressed a kiss to your cheek, then your jaw, rough and taunting. “Don’t have to make you beg? Don’t have to keep you cuffed?”

You tried again, shaking, “You’re not thinking straight. This isn’t you—”

His lips crashed down on yours, swallowing the words, tongue pushing past your lips, hot and insistent, filling your mouth before you could protest. His metal hand cupped your jaw, angling your head just the way he wanted, the cold steel forcing your mouth wide. He kissed you hard, tongue fucking into you, devouring every attempt at speech and turning it into ragged moans.

You tried to keep talking, words muffled against his mouth, “you can’t—ah, Bucky, let me—let me go—!” but he just growled, lips dragging along your tongue, claiming you deeper, swallowing every desperate syllable. Every time you tried to speak, he just kissed you harder, relentless, wet and possessive. His tongue traced the roof of your mouth, circled your teeth, played with the soft, shuddering muscle of your own tongue until you couldn’t do anything but gasp into him.

He pulled back just far enough to speak, breath ghosting your lips. “Keep talking,” he taunted, a dark glint in his eyes. “I love feeling you try to fight with your mouth full.”

He kissed you again, tongue plunging in deep, teeth scraping your lower lip until it throbbed, then sucking it into his mouth. The taste of him was everywhere—his cock, your own slick, the sweat and salt of the storm around you. He devoured every word, every whimper, every attempt at reason.

You squirmed, wrists aching, but the cuffs just rattled uselessly. Your thighs clenched as he pressed his hips down, grinding the sticky mess of his spend against your cunt, smearing it all over your skin. “You keep thinking you can talk your way out of this?” he murmured against your lips, a smirk in every word. “Maybe I should fill your mouth with something better than arguments.” He pressed two fingers into your mouth, pushing past your lips, making you suck them clean. “Go on. Show me you can be good for something.”

You glared up at him, spit slicking your chin, but he just pushed his fingers deeper, tongue lapping at your lips before he bit you again, kissing you until your head spun.

“Bucky, you have to let me—” he just cut you off with another filthy, devouring kiss, tongue plunging deep, making you choke on the taste of yourself and him. You kept talking, trying to reason, voice breaking around his tongue. “You don’t have to—please, Bucky—let—let me go, you can’t—”

He grinned against your lips, biting hard at the corner of your mouth, words curling dark and rough in your ear, “why should I ever let you go? You look so fucking pretty like this—open, ruined, mine.”

His cock, still rock-hard, nudged at your thigh, leaking against your skin as he rutted slow between your trembling legs, grinding his mess against your slick, swollen folds. The sensation made you shudder, moaning into his mouth even as you tried to bite back the sounds. “Keep talking,” he taunted, voice dropping to a growl, “I want to feel you try to say no while I’m tasting you.”

He dragged his tongue down your neck, kissing you until you went limp for a second, breathless, only for your body to tense again when he shifted, bracing one knee on the bed, the other hand palming your belly—pressing down, holding you flat. His lips brushed your ear, his teeth grazing the shell, then his words dropped low and dirty, a promise that made your whole body jolt.

“Maybe I should just fuck you full,” he whispered, voice hoarse with want, “breed you so you’re marked as mine for good. Have you dripping for days, walking out of here with my come inside you, everyone knowing who fucked you open like this. Would you fight me then? Or would you beg for more?”

You shook your head, but the denial came out ragged, helpless—caught between defiance and the pulsing ache of want. He ground his cock against you, teasing your entrance with the thick, slick head, letting it slip up and catch on your clit, rolling his hips until you gasped again. “Say you want it,” he taunted, lips catching yours, his tongue fucking deep, filthy, until your protest was nothing but a muffled moan. “Say you want me to breed you. Make you mine for real.”

His words lit something molten in your belly, shame and need twisting tighter. You shook again, half sobbing, half cursing, but he just kissed you deeper, tongue pushing between your lips, swallowing everything, not letting you look away.

“You’re not going anywhere, doc,” he groaned, fucking his cock through your folds again, threatening to push inside, “not until you give me everything. I want you dripping. I want you ruined. I want everyone to see you and know I did this—marked you from the inside out.” He sucked a bruise high on your throat, lips dragging down to your chest, hands never softening their grip. “You’ll take it,” he growled, tongue flicking over your nipple, teeth scraping. “Every drop. You’ll take it all, and then you’ll still beg for more.”

He devoured your mouth again, hips grinding, his cock poised at your entrance, his words a low, dangerous promise between filthy, breathless kisses: “You’re mine. And by the time I’m done, you’ll never forget it.”

You shook your head, tears prickling at your eyes, every breath trembling. “No, Bucky, don’t—”

He caught your jaw, turning your face to his, eyes burning into you. “No more running,” he breathed, voice rough as gravel. “You want me to stop? Say it. Mean it. Or else I’m going to keep you like this all night.”

His mouth crashed down on yours, devouring, tongue forcing your lips wide as he kissed you breathless, swallowing every protest, every moan. When you tried to speak, he fucked his tongue deeper, sucking on your tongue until you were gasping, voice ruined, heat pulsing between your legs.

He broke away, breath hot on your cheek, his words curling filthy and low in your ear. “You’d look so good bred full of me, doc. My come dripping down your thighs, so everyone knows you’re mine. Maybe I should just keep fucking you until you take it all—until it’s inside you, leaking out, marking you where nobody else can touch.”

He pressed his cock against you, the head sliding inside, slow, stretching you until you couldn’t do anything but moan and jerk in the cuffs, the sounds spilling raw and desperate as he filled you, every inch driving his claim deeper.

Bucky fucked you steady and deep, each thrust grinding into your core, pelvis slapping your ass as he set a rhythm meant to push you over, again and again. His mouth stayed at your ear, voice all threats and promises: “That’s it, sweetheart. Take it. Take all of me—let me breed you. Let me make you mine forever.”

Your legs tried to close, but he forced them wide, his metal hand gripping your knee, holding you open as his cock pistoned in and out, thick and relentless. You felt him everywhere—filling you, stretching you, every stroke sending sparks up your spine and down to where his fingers pressed bruises into your flesh.

He reached down, thumb working your clit in tight, brutal circles, his hips pounding faster as you broke apart, body clenching tight around him, crying out as your orgasm tore through you, wet and shattering. He never stopped, rutting through your climax, cock dragging every tremor from your wrung-out body.

With a guttural groan, he slammed deep, cock throbbing as he finally let himself go, pulsing hot inside you, filling you so full you felt the slick drip down your thighs with every last grind of his hips. His breath stuttered out as he collapsed over you, mouth biting your throat, grinding the claim in with one last roll of his hips.

He stayed there, pressed tight to your body, his come leaking out, the cuffs biting your wrists, your body so used you felt you’d never be empty again.

His voice was low, dangerous, as he nuzzled the shell of your ear: “You’re mine, doc. Now, tomorrow, forever. No one else will ever have you.”

He didn’t move for a while. His breath stuttered against your skin, forehead pressed to the hollow of your throat, hands gripping you tight as if the world might drag him away. You could feel the shape of him inside you still, the warmth of his come pooling between your thighs, marking you just as thoroughly as his bruises.

When he finally lifted his head, his face hovered above yours—hair wild, cheeks flushed, eyes soft and hungry both. The storm had left the cell almost black, but every flash of lightning painted his expression in sharp, unforgettable lines. He cupped your jaw, thumb brushing your cheek, gentle for a heartbeat as he looked at you like he’d never get enough.

“You did so good,” he murmured, kissing your eyelids, the bridge of your nose, his lips softer now, dragging tenderness through the rough aftermath. “So fucking good for me. Didn’t think you could take it, did you?”

Your voice was little more than a hoarse, ruined whisper. “You… you didn’t have to—”

He shushed you, gentle. His thumb pressed your lips until you stopped talking, until all you could do was shiver as he laid kisses down your cheek, the corners of your mouth, your jaw. His fingers stroked soothing patterns down your ribs, thumb catching on the raw lines where your wrists had pulled hard against the cuffs.

Then his touch changed, shifting from gentle to possessive. His metal hand traced the curve of your thigh, squeezing hard, pressing into the bruises he’d left behind, the cold a jarring shock to the warmth of your flesh. He dipped his fingers between your legs, swirling through the mess he’d left, then dragging his hand up, smearing it over your belly, marking you all over again.

“Look at you. Look at what I’ve done,” he said, voice low, somewhere between wonder and cruelty. He made you meet his eyes, the look in them making you want to flinch and melt all at once. “So fucking pretty with my come dripping out of you. With my marks all over you. No one’s ever going to touch you again without knowing I was here first.”

You tried to look away but his grip on your chin tightened, not enough to hurt but enough to make clear you weren’t going anywhere. His mouth slanted over yours, kissing you slow, deep, stealing every breath you had left. He gentled again—fingers carding through your hair, his body curling around you, heavy and sheltering and immovable.

“You’re safe here,” he murmured, pressing his forehead to yours, voice thick with something like devotion. “As long as you stay mine.”

But the cuffs stayed locked. His arms curled tighter around you, the heat of him sinking into your bones, and when you tried to shift, tried to test your freedom, his hand moved to your throat—light but warning, a reminder of every edge you’d just been pressed over.

His words were soft, almost loving, “go on. Rest. You’re not leaving until I say so.”

Outside, the storm rolled on, the world reduced to darkness, to heat, to his body and his claim and the ache of being owned so completely.

And you knew, as you drifted on the edge of exhaustion, that this was both the promise and the threat: he could be so gentle, so soft, until the next time he wanted to break you open all over again.

“Already?” you tease, mouthing along the base of his shaft, tongue slow, deliberate, dragging wet heat up the underside. His cock is still slick with his release, but you can feel it twitch, the barest promise of him thickening up again under your tongue. “I thought you could handle more than that, Clark.”

He swallows hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing, voice gone rough with embarrassment and want. “I—I can,” he pants, but his hands clutch the sheets, knuckles bone-white. “Just—gosh—”

You let your tongue swirl around the swollen head, lapping up every trace of him, savoring the salty taste of his cum mixed with your spit. The first flick of your tongue across his slit makes him jerk, a strangled gasp ripping from his throat—his hips try to buck, to escape, but you’re relentless, pressing him down, making him feel everything.

“Look at you,” you murmur against his skin, mouth warm and wet. “Already shaking for me. Thought Superman could handle a little overstimulation.”

A flush creeps higher up his chest, splotches of red blooming under your fingers where you pin him. His cock is swelling in your mouth, growing heavy again, and you take your time, tongue tracing every vein, every ridge, learning what makes him shudder and moan and whimper. He’s achingly hard already, the aftershocks of his first orgasm making him hypersensitive, twitchy, needy in a way you rarely see. It’s intoxicating, watching him fall apart for you.

He’s biting his lip now, a soft, breathy whine building in his throat. “Please,” he whispers, barely more than a gasp. “Please, you’re—oh, god—”

You take him deeper, lips stretching around the thickness of his cock, tongue pressed flat against the sensitive underside. His thighs tremble under your hands; he’s shaking, trying so hard not to thrust up into your mouth, his whole body tense as you suck him in, slow and deep. The wet, obscene sounds fill the room, every messy slurp and swallow making him shudder harder.

When you finally pull off, letting him slip free with a pop, a string of saliva connecting your lips to his flushed cock, you look up at him—his hair is damp with sweat, his lashes fluttering, pupils blown wide and pleading.

“Can’t take much more, can you?” you say softly, but your hand is already wrapped around him again, stroking him slow, your thumb brushing just under the head.

He shakes his head, but it’s a lie; his hips are lifting off the bed, chasing your touch, desperate for more even as he whimpers, “Please, please, I can—oh, gosh, don’t stop—”

You don’t. Your mouth finds him again, tongue swirling, lips stretched tight as you suck, dragging another broken, desperate cry from his lips. His hands find your shoulders, trembling, gripping for purchase—he’s so close already, body wound tight, every muscle in his abdomen drawn taut as a bowstring. You can feel him pulsing in your mouth, the first stutters of his second orgasm threatening to overtake him.

“Come for me again, Clark,” you murmur, voice wicked, breath hot against his sensitive skin. “Let me taste you.”

He tries to hold back, tries so hard, but he’s powerless under your mouth. The sounds he makes are raw, helpless—moans and whimpers, desperate little pleas. “Please—oh, please, I—” He’s babbling now, words dissolving into gasps and soft cries, his cock throbbing on your tongue.

You work him with your mouth, relentless, lips and tongue milking him, until he’s sobbing out your name, hips jerking helplessly against your hands as he spills into your mouth again—hot, thick, shuddering release flooding your tongue, making you moan around him just to hear the way it wrecks him.

He’s still trembling, lips parted, eyes glazed and wet as you crawl up over him, thighs straddling his hips, your own slick smeared across the insides of your thighs and staining his skin. Clark’s arms flop weakly at his sides, chest heaving, every muscle twitching from the last orgasm you dragged out of him. His cock, spit-slick and flushed, twitches helplessly against his stomach—oversensitive, but still hard, leaking, begging for more.

You settle down, knees pressing into the bed on either side of his hips, and take his cock in your hand, guiding it through the slippery heat between your folds, teasing him, letting the tip catch and slide just where you’re most desperate for it. You grind against him, smearing his own cum and your arousal over his length, watching his face contort with overstimulation and hunger. He whimpers, unable to look away from the sight of you using his cock like this, rubbing yourself on him, grinding your clit against his swollen head.

“Oh gosh—” His voice cracks, high and breathless, hands finally rising to grab your hips, fingers digging in like he might hold on for dear life. He can barely speak, mindless and lost, whimpering as you rock your hips in slow circles, tormenting him with the heat of your cunt and the promise of more.

“Is this what you want, baby?” you taunt, voice low and hungry as you look down at him, dragging his cock through your folds, pressing the tip right up against your entrance but not letting him inside just yet. “Want me to ride you? Want to feel me milk you dry?”

He nods frantically, desperate, eyes blown wide with need and exhaustion and something close to worship. “Please—need you, need to feel you—please, I can’t—” The words fall from his lips in a whine, hips trying to buck up, but you just pin him down harder, not letting him take control, not letting him rush.

“Stay still,” you warn, one hand on his chest, pushing him back into the mattress as you finally, finally sink down onto him, inch by thick, throbbing inch, your heat swallowing him whole. The stretch is perfect, delicious, your walls clenching and fluttering as you take him all the way in, bottoming out and grinding your hips down until you’re pressed flush to his body.

He cries out—loud and desperate, the sound spilling out of him in a hoarse, broken moan, “ahhh—golly, oh my god—” His hands are tight on your hips, trying to hold himself together as you rock against him, rolling your hips in slow, greedy circles that have him shuddering, gasping, his cock twitching inside you with every movement.

You lean forward, pressing your palms to his chest, nails digging red crescents into his skin as you start to move, lifting and lowering your hips, dragging his cock out almost all the way before sinking back down again, hard and deep. The sensation is overwhelming for him, every inch of him on fire, cock pulsing with each slow thrust.

He can’t stop whimpering, his voice gone desperate and pleading, “Please—slower, I—it’s too much, it’s so good, I can’t—” But his body betrays him, hips bucking up to meet your rhythm, greedy for every thrust, every drag and squeeze of your cunt milking him for all he’s worth.

You clench around him, fucking him slow, deliberate, every roll of your hips making him shudder and gasp. The wet sounds of your bodies moving together fill the room—slick, messy, obscene, every squelch a reminder of just how much you’ve taken from him already. You lean down, your breath hot against his ear, whispering, “I want you to give me everything, Clark. I want you to come for me again, even if it’s too much. You can do it, can’t you?”

He nods, tears prickling at the corners of his eyes, his voice breaking, “Yes—please, just—don’t stop, please, I’ll do anything—” He’s babbling, overwhelmed, completely at your mercy as you ride him harder, faster, grinding your clit against his pelvis with every thrust.

You sit up, rolling your hips with more urgency, using his body for your own pleasure now, his cock stretching you, filling you so perfectly it borders on pain. He’s sobbing now, every nerve ending raw and exposed, the pressure building in him again already, his whole body tensed and trembling beneath you. You feel yourself getting close too, the pressure building low and hot, the pleasure sharp and consuming.

You don’t stop—you can’t. Not with him so open beneath you, not with your name spilling from his lips between broken, desperate moans, “please, please, please, I can’t—oh god, don’t stop, please—”

You ride him harder, hips snapping, your rhythm relentless and greedy, chasing your own pleasure on the thick stretch of his cock while Clark writhes helpless beneath you, skin flushed, chest slick with sweat, trembling with the force of overstimulation. His head tips back, jaw slack, mouth open in a silent, breathless moan as you grind your hips down, taking him deep, letting your cunt squeeze and milk every twitch, every throb, every pathetic whimper he can give you. The mess between your thighs only grows—his cum still sticky inside you from before, your own slick dripping down to coat his balls, smearing across his skin as you ride him without mercy.

Your hands slide up his chest, nails dragging pink tracks through the sweat, pressing him into the mattress. “You’re taking it so well, Clark,” you whisper, voice low and thick with heat, leaning down so your tits drag across his chest, breath hot in his ear. “Let me feel you come again. Fill me up, baby. I want to feel every last drop.”

He chokes out your name, voice gone high and desperate, hips jerking up to meet yours even as he shakes his head, as if he can deny the inevitable, as if he could ever stop himself from breaking for you. “I can’t—I’m gonna—” The words dissolve into a sob as your cunt clamps down around him, sucking him deeper, greedy for everything he has left. You ride him harder, faster, the wet slap of your bodies echoing through the room, every movement sending a new jolt of pleasure-tinged pain up his spine.

Clark’s hands fly to your hips, gripping tight, fingertips bruising as he tries to hold on, tries to ground himself in the feeling of you taking him, using him. His eyes flutter, tears threatening at the corners, overwhelmed and undone by the relentless pleasure, the heat, the way you command every inch of him. His cock twitches, swollen and angry-red, the head bumping your cervix with every thrust, sending sparks of pleasure through you so sharp it makes your thighs tremble.

You reach down, rubbing your clit in tight, frantic circles, chasing your own high as you fuck him through his. “Come for me, Clark,” you breathe, teeth scraping his jaw as you slam your hips down, taking him as deep as you can. “Want to feel you spill in me again. Fill me up, baby. Don’t hold back.”

He can’t. He won’t. His whole body tenses beneath you, muscles drawn taut as piano wire, a ragged, broken moan ripping from his chest, “ahh, I’m—” His cock pulses inside you, spilling hot and thick, flooding you with his cum, the sensation so intense, so overwhelming that his hips stutter and jerk, tears finally spilling down his cheeks as you keep grinding, milking every last drop from him. “S’too much, I can’t—please—” His voice is wrecked, sobbing, lost in the pleasure and the pain, the bliss of being so completely at your mercy.

You keep moving, riding him through his orgasm, through the aftershocks that leave him trembling and gasping, body limp beneath you, your cunt squeezing around him, holding him inside, not letting him go.

He’s shaking, tears drying on his cheeks, his chest still hitching from the force of his release, but even now his hands can’t stop roaming your body, greedy and adoring. You’re still pulsing around his cock, milking every last drop, the sticky mess of his cum seeping out of you, making everything hot and slippery and raw. His hands come up to your waist, thumbs rubbing gentle circles into your skin as he blinks up at you, eyes shining, dazed and utterly overwhelmed.

“Golly—can’t believe you made me—” he gasps, voice hoarse, still half out of his mind with pleasure, but even through the overstimulation you see the stubborn set of his jaw, the desperate need in his eyes. He glances down, watching your cunt flutter around him, the creamy mess of his come spilling from you every time you rock your hips. His breath catches—he bites his lip, eyes glazed, helplessly transfixed by the sight.

You can’t help but grind down, chasing your own high, but his hand slips between your thighs, fingers finding your clit and rubbing slow, sloppy circles, the pressure almost clumsy but so good you can’t help but moan, hips jerking. “Let me, please—want you to come for me, want to feel it—” His words are shaky, but determined, his body still trembling as he rubs you, desperate to make you fall apart the way he did.

You’re so close, the pleasure sharp and dizzying, but then he moves—just grabs your waist and pushes you backward, so easily it makes you gasp, until your on your back with his cock still buried deep inside you. You end up spread beneath him, legs wide, the sticky mess of his cum dripping out, soaking the sheets. He hovers over you, breathing hard, face hovering just above your cunt as he looks up, sheepish and eager all at once.

“Sorry—can’t help it,” he mumbles, voice rough and sweet, a little smile breaking through his dazed expression. “Just wanna be good for you. You made me feel so good—wanna make you feel even better, sweetheart.” His voice is thick with devotion, with gratitude, like he can barely believe you let him have this, have you. His hands are big and gentle as he pushes your thighs apart, thumbs spreading your lips so he can see everything—your pussy swollen and puffy, clit throbbing, his cum leaking out in messy streams.

“Clark—” you gasp, but he’s already moving, mouth open and hungry, tongue dragging up your slit, tasting the mix of you and him. He groans—low, guttural, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh—and buries his face in your cunt, tongue licking and lapping at the mess he’s made, his nose bumping your clit as he moans.

He eats you like a starving man, tongue fucking you, mouth working your clit in wet, eager circles, like he’s worshipping you, every moan and gasp of yours driving him harder. “That’s it, baby,” he pants, pausing only to breathe before diving back in, fingers sinking into your thighs, holding you open for his mouth. “Wanna feel you come on my tongue—be good for me, let go, wanna taste you.”

You can barely breathe, pleasure coiling tight in your belly, his tongue relentless as he sucks and flicks your clit, the wet, filthy sounds of him eating you out echoing through the room. His eyes find yours, dark and pleading, and between gasps he begs, “Please, let me have it—wanna feel you fall apart for me, please—”

Your fingers tangle tight in his hair, holding him right where you want him, pushing his face deeper between your thighs. Even with the heat of his mouth and the eager swirl of his tongue, even with him trembling and raw and so desperate to please, there’s no doubt who’s in control—he might have flipped you, might be buried between your legs now, but he’s still utterly at your mercy, waiting for your permission to take you apart.

He moans against your cunt, the sound needy and worshipful, and you let him have a moment to breathe, tugging his head back just enough that his eyes can meet yours, dazed and hungry. His lips are slick, his chin wet with the mix of your arousal and his cum leaking from you, and you smile, slow and satisfied, holding his gaze as you stroke your thumb over his cheek. “You want me to come for you, Clark?” you murmur, voice low and commanding, even now. “You want to taste me, make me fall apart on your tongue?”

“Yes, please,” he gasps, voice hoarse and wrecked, hips grinding unconsciously into the mattress, his cock still twitching, softening but still leaking between his legs. “Let me make you feel good—please, I need it, need to be good for you.”

You tighten your grip in his hair, pushing him back down. “Then do it. Don’t stop until I say so. Make me come, Clark. Show me you’re good for me.”

He obeys instantly, mouth sealing over your clit, sucking greedily, tongue flicking and swirling in perfect, messy circles. You keep your hold firm, grinding your cunt against his face, using him exactly how you want—riding his mouth, chasing your own pleasure with no mercy. His hands grip your thighs, holding you open, but he doesn’t dare try to control the pace; he just takes everything you give him, moaning like it’s the only thing that matters.

You look down, watching the way his tongue glides over your swollen flesh, the way his eyes go soft and unfocused every time you praise him, every time you tug his hair a little harder, using him for your pleasure. “That’s it, Clark—good boy. You love tasting yourself on my pussy, don’t you? Love how messy you’ve made me?”

He groans, nodding as much as he can with your grip still firm in his hair, his nose bumping your clit as he tries to bury himself even deeper, desperate for more. You start grinding down, using his face, every slick roll of your hips sending sparks of pleasure racing up your spine. Your thighs shake, every muscle tight with the effort of holding yourself back, drawing it out, making him work for it.

You don’t let up, not even as the pleasure crests, as your cunt clamps down and your orgasm surges through you—sharp and intense, flooding your senses, making you cry out as you ride his mouth, hips jerking, grinding your release over his tongue. “Fuck, Clark—don’t stop—don’t you dare fucking stop—” Your voice is raw, almost cruel, but he only moans louder, drinking you down, licking and sucking every drop as you shudder and fall apart for him.

Your release gushes, soaking his chin, and he keeps licking, keeps worshipping you, even as your thighs clamp around his head, trapping him there. He doesn’t fight it—he just groans, letting you use him, tongue still working your clit, dragging every last aftershock from your trembling body.

When you finally ease your grip and let him breathe, he pulls back just enough to look up at you, face flushed and shining with slick, hair wild from your fingers. “Thank you,” he whispers, breathless, utterly wrecked, so fucking beautiful like this—broken open and so proud to be ruined by you, desperate for your praise, already begging for whatever you want next.

For a moment, you hesitate, palm pressed to the seam. Shouldn’t it be locked? Is this a mistake, or a test? Your mind races, cataloging everything you know about Sith, about fear, about the ways the Force can twist reality.

You step out. The corridor outside is vast, cavernous—lit by an angry red glow that pulses from deep fissures in the floor and walls. The heat is everywhere, relentless. Shadows flicker and shift along the stone. The silence is so complete it’s unnatural, broken only by the faint, ever-present rumble beneath your feet—the heartbeat of the volcano.

You wrap your arms around yourself as you walk, drawn forward by both curiosity and dread. The further you go, the more the architecture warps. Everything is sharp angles and sudden turns, doors that lead to nowhere, long empty halls that seem to stretch and twist when you look away. You pass empty rooms full of strange relics, shattered statues, a long-dead fireplace with ashes scattered across the floor.

Every so often, you think you hear something—footsteps behind you, a low voice just out of earshot—but when you turn, there’s nothing. The Force feels thick, coiling at the edges of your senses. Watching. Waiting.

At the end of one long corridor, you see a massive window—nothing between you and the endless roiling orange of lava flows, rivers of fire crawling across black stone. The planet is alive, and it’s angry. You press your hand to the glass, staring down at the hellish landscape. How did you get here? Where is here? Fear prickles under your skin, but you push it down. You’re a Jedi. You’re—

A voice, soft and low, echoes through the silence. “You’re awake.”

You spin around. He’s standing at the far end of the corridor, half in shadow. His hair is longer, unruly, his robes black, his eyes shining gold in the red light. Anakin. But not the Anakin you remember. He’s broader, somehow—heavier with power, darkness radiating from him like heat.

For a long moment, you can’t speak. You can only stare at him, at the shape of his jaw, the set of his mouth, the glint of something almost hopeful in his expression, as if he’s relieved to see you. Your voice cracks when you finally manage to speak. “Anakin?” you whisper. “What—where are we?”

He doesn’t move closer. Just stands there, watching you, the Force between you thick with something you can’t name. “You’re safe,” he says quietly. “No one will hurt you here. No one can take you from me.”

You step back, heart thudding. “Why am I here?”

He tilts his head, studying you like he’s searching for something beneath your skin. “Because you belong with me. The Order never understood that. But you will.”

The silence stretches between you, heavy and electric. You stare at him—at the dark robes, the hunger in his eyes, the way he looks at you like you’re the only thing that matters. You want to run to him, to demand answers, to scream. You want to touch his face, to see if he’s real. You don’t move. You swallow, voice trembling. “Anakin, what did you do?”

He smiles—a sharp, broken thing. “What I had to.”

You realize, suddenly, that the castle is breathing. The heat surges, the shadows twitch, the darkness in him calling out to something deep inside you. Your hand tightens against the seam of the window, knuckles white. For a second, you can’t breathe—heat pressing in, his gaze like a weight on your chest. The way he stands there, so sure, so still, as if the darkness that surrounds him is something he’s mastered, and now it answers only to him.

You force yourself to stand tall, even though every instinct is screaming at you to run, to fight, to do something. “You can’t keep me here,” you say, steady as you can, voice echoing in the burning hush of the castle. “This isn’t you. Whatever you’ve done, whatever you think you’ve become—Anakin, please. Let me go.”

His jaw tics, lips pressing together in a line you remember from years of half-hidden arguments and whispered midnight confessions. “I am still myself. I’m more than I was before. Stronger. Wiser. I did what I had to, to protect us.” His voice is quiet, but it thrums with something electric—a dangerous certainty.

You shake your head, fingers trembling where they dig into your own arms. “You destroyed everything. You killed—” Your breath hitches, and for a moment, the image of the temple in flames flashes behind your eyes, bodies on the steps, the screams still echoing. “You killed our family, Anakin. You killed the Order. Was I supposed to just… forget that?”

He steps forward—slow, measured, the soft hiss of his boots on stone—and you flinch back, bumping against the glass. The world outside is fire and death, but the world inside is worse. “They never understood us,” he says. “They would have taken you from me. They almost did. I couldn’t let that happen.”

You swallow, pushing past the sting in your eyes. “You could have. You could have chosen something else. You could have trusted me.”

He stops a few feet away, golden eyes burning, looking at you like you’re the answer to every question he’s ever asked himself. “I do trust you. I trust you to see the truth. To see me—finally.”

You can’t take it anymore. The weight of his gaze, the suffocating heat, the castle walls seeming to pulse with every angry beat of your heart—you dart past him, the Force screaming in your veins. You don’t know where you’re going, only that you have to move, have to get away, have to breathe air that isn’t scorched with his presence.

You tear down the corridor, bare feet slapping against the black stone, each doorway and turn blurring together in the red light. The castle twists around you, halls looping back on themselves, shadows stretching long and clawed across the floor. You hear footsteps behind you—slow, deliberate, following, not chasing. Like he knows you can’t get far.

You wrench open a heavy door, find yourself in a cavernous chamber lined with shattered statues, their faces worn away by heat. You skirt the edges, heartbeat loud in your ears, mind racing through a thousand plans, none of them making sense. You try another hallway—nothing but darkness and the flicker of red light, the ever-present groan of the volcano far below.

You call out, your voice echoing back at you, raw and small in the endless space. “Anakin, please—don’t do this! Just let me go!”

No answer. Only the oppressive silence, broken by your own ragged breaths.

A flight of stairs spirals downward—you take them two at a time, tripping, grabbing the rail to steady yourself. Each room is hotter, the air thick, hard to swallow. The castle feels alive, pulsing with the same darkness that coils in Anakin’s eyes.

You push through another door, into a room where the walls seem to flicker, light and shadow dancing together. There are relics here—robes, old lightsabers, things you don’t want to look at too closely. You press on, hoping, praying there’s a way out.

Suddenly, a cold spike of fear runs down your spine. The Force warns you—danger, close, behind you. You spin, breath caught in your throat, but there’s nothing. Just the darkness, the hum of the volcano, your own frantic heartbeat.

You run again, tripping over something in the gloom, catching yourself against a jagged outcrop of stone. A door slams somewhere behind you—he’s coming, you know it, you feel it in every inch of your skin. You duck into another corridor, stumble through a side chamber lined with half-finished stonework, the walls close, oppressive, the air so hot it hurts to breathe.

You press yourself against the wall, willing yourself invisible. Silence. Nothing. Just the throb of the volcano, the castle’s heart pounding in your ears.

And then—arms like iron clamp around you from behind, pinning you in place. You gasp, struggling, but he’s too strong, the heat of his body pressed to your back, the Force wrapping around you like a second skin.

“Enough,” Anakin breathes, his mouth at your ear, voice low and dark and almost… pleading. “Stop running. You know you can’t leave me. Not now.”

You twist in his grip, fury burning hot as the lava outside. “Let me go! Anakin, this isn’t you! It’s not—”

His hand slides up, covering your mouth gently, but with a terrible finality. “It is,” he says, softer, almost mournful. “And you’re going to understand. I’ll make you understand.”

You struggle, but his arms only tighten, heat and darkness closing in until there’s nothing but his breath at your ear and the distant rumble of fire. The castle seems to sigh, as if content.

You’re trembling in his arms, every muscle straining against his grip, every breath shuddering out between clenched teeth. The heat from his body blends with the molten air of the castle until you can’t tell where he ends and the world begins. Anakin’s hold isn’t cruel, but it’s unyielding—your wrists trapped against your chest, your back pressed to him, his breath stirring the fine hairs at your temple.

You try to twist away, panic prickling at the base of your skull. You try speaking, but it comes out mumbled against his hand, “let me go—Anakin, please, just let me go—”

He hushes you, the sound soft and gentle, incongruous with the raw power crackling under his skin. “Why do you fight me?” His voice is low, rough with longing and regret. “You know I’d never hurt you. I couldn’t. But I can’t let you run from me, not now. Not ever again.”

He starts walking, practically carrying you with both his arms, his steps measured and silent on the burning stone. His arms never falter, never loosen, even when you thrash, desperate, furious. Your protests echo in the empty corridors, swallowed by the castle’s endless silence.

“This isn’t you,” you bite out, throat raw, vision swimming. “You’re not this—monster. You’re not. You loved me—”

“I do love you.” He stops for a moment, head bowed so his lips almost graze your ear, voice trembling with something you almost recognize—ache, fear, need. “I always have. I always will. That’s why you’re here.”

He keeps moving, deeper into the castle, past twisting halls and black windows that burn with the orange light of the lava below. The world outside is nothing but destruction, but inside, the darkness is alive, humming in your blood, pulsing from him into you. You squeeze your eyes shut, desperate not to feel it, not to let it in.

“You’re scared,” he murmurs, voice darkly tender. “I can feel it. You think I want to break you. But all I want is for you to be free. To stop pretending. To be with me the way you want to be.”

He turns down another corridor, moving faster now, almost gliding. Your feet barely touch the floor. The room you woke in looms ahead, its shadowy doorway a mouth waiting to swallow you whole.

You dig your heels in, bracing yourself against the frame as he tries to pull you inside. “I don’t want this, Anakin. I don’t—I don’t want to be here, like this.”

He pauses, arms tight, body pressed flush against your back. You can feel the wild rhythm of his heart, the heat of his breath against your cheek. “You don’t know what you want,” he says, his voice softer now, heartbreak threaded through the hunger. “Not yet. They taught you to fear it. To fear me. To fear yourself. But I know you. I know what you’re capable of.”

His hand slides down to your waist, holding you in place, the other moving to gently tilt your chin, forcing you to look at him. You fight it, but his touch is insistent, almost reverent.

“You belong with me,” he whispers, golden eyes locked to yours. “Not with the Order. Not with their rules, their shame. Here, you can be anything you want. Take anything you need. No more hiding. No more lies.”

Your voice comes out as a ragged whisper. “You’re trying to make me into something I’m not.”

He shakes his head, slow and certain, thumb brushing your jaw, tracing the line of your cheek. “No. I’m just showing you what you’ve always been. You’re the only one who ever understood me. The only one strong enough to stay.”

He steps forward, nudging you backward into the room, his presence filling every inch of space, every flicker of shadow. You stumble, but he steadies you, his hands everywhere—gentle, patient, unyielding. You try to look away, but he catches your chin, forces you to meet his gaze. “I want you to see,” he breathes, his words wrapping around you like silk, like shackles. “I want you to feel what I feel.”

You shake your head, lips trembling. “Anakin, please—please, don’t—”

He silences you with a brush of his thumb, his eyes hungry, worshipful, desperate. “Let me show you. Let me have you. Just once. I promise—you’ll never want to go back.”

The darkness pulses, thick and sweet, and you can feel yourself slipping—just a little—toward him, toward the heat, toward the gravity of everything you were told to fear. He leans closer, lips ghosting over yours, voice velvet and fire. “Tell me to stop,” he murmurs, “and I’ll let you go. But if you don’t—if you stay—I’ll make you forget everything but me.”

Your body shudders in Anakin’s arms, a battlefield of nerves and shame and forbidden want. He waits, not moving, as if your silence is all the answer he needs. His thumb strokes your jaw, gentle, almost loving. When you say nothing—when you can’t say no—he surges forward, kissing you.

His mouth is hungry and deep, claiming. He swallows the shaky gasp you try to hold back, his tongue slipping past your lips, the taste of him smoky and dark, tinged with something wild. He presses you back, back, until the backs of your knees hit the edge of the bed, and you fall with a muffled cry.

You scramble to push him away, hands splayed against his chest, but he catches your wrists easily, pinning them above your head against the pillow. His weight covers you, thighs caging you in, his breath hot on your cheek. “Still fighting,” he murmurs, almost amused, bending close to nuzzle your neck. “You always did like to pretend you were stronger than this. Than me.”

He kisses your throat, soft at first, then biting, just enough to mark. You jerk, shame burning through you, but he only laughs—low, soft, dangerous. “I can feel you,” he whispers, lips brushing your ear. “The way your body betrays you. The way you tremble when I touch you. There’s nothing pure left in you, is there? Not for me.”

You try to wrench free, shaking your head, breath coming fast. “I don’t want this, Anakin—stop, please—”

He shushes you, mouth moving lower, kissing the base of your throat, the pulse fluttering there. “You do,” he purrs, his tongue dragging over your skin, slow and taunting. “I can feel it, love. You can lie to yourself, but you can’t lie to the Force. You’re burning for me. Let go. Stop pretending.”

He lets go of your wrists, but you don’t pull away. Instead, you stare up at the ceiling, heart thundering, shame and arousal twisting together inside you. He watches you for a moment—waiting, testing—then slides his hands down your arms, over your robe. His touch is reverent, almost delicate, as he unties your belt and parts the rough Jedi fabric.

He kisses each new inch of skin he reveals: your collarbone, the hollow of your throat, the curve between your breasts where your tunic opens. His hands slip beneath, callused fingers dragging over your ribs, then your stomach, slow and hungry.

“Let me show you,” he murmurs, voice dark and sweet, mouth brushing lower and lower. “Let me show you what it feels like to belong to someone. To be wanted. To be claimed.”

You shudder as he pushes aside your tunic, baring your stomach to the hot air, then kisses his way down, slow and unhurried. He nuzzles the soft flesh above your navel, his breath a scorching brand on your skin. He’s patient—painfully so—taking his time, hands stroking your sides, pushing your robes aside inch by inch.

“Look at you,” he whispers, licking a stripe down the line of your belly. “So beautiful. So strong. You don’t need the Order. You don’t need anyone but me.”

You press your thighs together, desperate, aching. Shame wars with hunger in your veins, but when his hand moves between your legs—palming you through the rough fabric of your pants—you gasp, hips rocking helplessly into his touch. His mouth lifts in a crooked, knowing smile. “See? You crave this darkness. You crave me.”

His fingers work deftly, unlacing your pants, pulling them just low enough to expose you. He leans in, eyes locked on yours, watching every tremor, every stuttered breath. His mouth hovers over the junction of your thighs, hot and humid, the Force thrumming through his touch like a living thing.

“Say it,” he demands, voice like velvet and smoke. “Tell me you want this. Tell me you want me.”

You shake your head, lips parted, the words tangled in your throat. He doesn’t seem to mind. Instead, he settles between your legs, hands gripping your thighs, spreading you wide. He drags his tongue up your slit, slow and deliberate, tasting you through the rush of heat and humiliation.

You try to bite back a cry, but he only hums, pleased, his mouth working you open, his tongue circling your clit in torturously slow strokes. His hands are everywhere, pinning you in place, forcing you to feel every sensation.

He eats you out with a single-minded focus, licking and sucking, alternating between gentle teasing and rough, hungry need. Every moan, every involuntary twitch, every shaky plea you try to swallow only makes him more relentless.

You arch off the bed, fist tangled in the sheets, breathless, lost. He murmurs against you, words breaking over your skin in waves—mine, always, let go, let it happen, be good for me—each one another chain binding you to him.

He pushes two fingers inside you, slow but relentless, curling them just so, his tongue never stopping. You sob, pleasure burning through you, shame and want and fear all tangled together. You try to turn away, but he won’t let you. He pins your hips down, holding you open, making you take everything he gives.

“Let yourself feel it,” he whispers, voice hoarse with longing. “Let the darkness in. It’s so much better when you stop fighting. You’ll see. You’ll see, love.”

You’re falling, helpless, body shattering around his mouth and hands, the Force singing through your veins. The world narrows to his tongue, his fingers, the dark, forbidden thrill of giving in.

He doesn’t stop. He devours you, licking up everything you give him, savoring the way you writhe and gasp, the way you come apart for him. When you finally collapse back against the sheets, boneless and shaking, he rises over you, face flushed, eyes burning with triumph and hunger.

“See?” he whispers, thumb brushing your lips, his voice all dark satisfaction. “You belong to me now. You always have.”

You don’t answer, too wrecked to speak, your body still trembling in the aftermath. Somewhere deep inside, a small, desperate voice is still screaming to run. But another part of you—the part that aches, that burns—wants only to stay.

He yanks you upright, his hands rough as they drag your robes back around your shoulders, not bothering to close them, letting the fabric fall open so the air grazes bare skin and everything feels exposed, forbidden. Your pants are still tangled around your thighs, your tunic a mess. His own dark robes remain perfectly in place, the heavy black fabric brushing your calves as he crowds between your legs at the edge of the bed, eyes burning gold and unyielding with a hunger that’s as much about possession as lust.

“Look at you,” he breathes, voice thick, pushing you back onto the mattress. “A Jedi. Still trying to pretend you’re pure. Still pretending you can fight this—fight me.” His gloved hand slides up the inside of your thigh, fingers cold at first, then blazing with the heat of his skin as he squeezes, spreading you wider, the last of your modesty shredded.

You want to tell him to stop, but all that comes out is a broken gasp, “Anakin—please—”

He laughs, the sound low and sharp as he grabs the back of your head, forcing your gaze up to meet his. “Say it again. Say my name like that. Like you need me.” His free hand wraps around your throat, thumb pressing just beneath your jaw, gentle at first—a warning, a promise—his grip tightening slowly as he leans in, mouth dragging along your jaw to your ear, every word a spark that catches and flares in your core.

“Is that what you want?” he whispers, grinding his hips against you, the hard length of him obvious through his robes, pressing into the slick heat between your thighs. “To be used? Ruined? You want to be filled with something you can’t cleanse, can’t meditate away?”

You choke on a moan, nails digging into his forearm as he squeezes, cutting off your words, your breath, until the only thing left is the desperate pulse in your body—his presence flooding through you, making your thoughts blur with pleasure and panic and hunger.

“Feel it?” he growls, rolling his hips, grinding harder, not letting you move away, not letting you hide. “That’s the dark side. That’s me, inside you. You can’t escape it. You don’t want to.”

He drags your hips to the edge, manhandling you into place, pants caught around your knees. With one swift move he undoes just enough of his robes to free himself, the heat of his cock pressing against you, sliding through your slick folds, head catching against your entrance but not pushing in—not yet. Instead he teases, moving back and forth, every brush making you whimper, squirming, desperate for him to fill you, to do anything but torture you with this impossible, relentless anticipation.

His hand is still around your throat, holding you down, the Force prickling along your skin—he could pin you with a thought if he wanted, but he wants to feel you struggle. Wants you to break yourself trying to fight and then beg for what you swore you’d never let him take.

“You want me to fuck you,” he says, and it’s not a question. “You want me to fuck you until you forget what it means to be good.” He shifts, pushing just the tip inside you, stretching you slowly, making you feel every inch. “Say it. Tell me.”

You gasp, shaking your head, tears burning your eyes, but your body betrays you, arching up, trying to take him deeper. “Anakin, please—please, don’t—”

He growls, dark delight rippling through him. “Liar. You love this. You love how it feels to fall.” He thrusts shallowly, just enough to make your back arch, to make your legs tremble. “You want to be ruined, don’t you? My good little Jedi—falling apart, coming undone, mine.”

He withdraws, leaving you empty, a desperate sob slipping from your lips. He leans down, his mouth on yours, teeth nipping, tongue demanding. “Beg,” he whispers, hand tightening around your throat until your vision swims. “Beg for me. Beg for the dark.”

You try to hold on, to keep something of yourself, but his words are a poison in your blood, every touch unraveling the last of your resistance. He drags his cock along your slit, not giving you what you need, making you squirm, plead, promise anything if he’ll just give in—but he doesn’t.

Instead, he edges you, over and over, pushing inside just enough to make you ache, then pulling back, his grip unyielding on your neck, his voice in your ear, a constant litany of dark praise and taunts. “So wet for me. So desperate. The Council would cast you out if they could see you now—would you beg them, too? Or would you beg me to do this in front of them, show them how you break for me?”

Your hips buck, your body frantic, your moans raw and broken, “please, please, please—”

He grins, savage, triumphant, and finally, when you think you can’t take it any longer, he drives into you, hard and deep, splitting you open on a ragged scream. The Force surges through you both—hot, wild, overwhelming—your body clenching, writhing, helpless beneath him as he fucks you with brutal precision, every thrust sending sparks up your spine, your mind shattering at the edges.

He keeps his hand on your throat, squeezing just enough to keep you floating, not enough to hurt—every breath a struggle, every second another surrender. “You’re mine,” he snarls, fucking you harder, faster, using your body like you’re nothing but a vessel for his need. “Say it. Say you’re mine.”

You try to answer, but all that comes out is a strangled sob, your body tightening, hovering on the edge, unable to fall—he won’t let you, holding you there, forcing you to feel everything. “Not yet,” he growls, pulling almost all the way out, making you beg again, making you work for every second of release. “You’ll come when I let you. When you give in. When you’re not a Jedi anymore.”

Your vision blurs, the world narrowing to heat, darkness, his voice, his cock, his hand around your throat. “Say it,” he commands, grinding deep, holding you on the brink, your body begging for release.

Your vision swims, everything reduced to heat and pressure and the raw, ragged sounds spilling from your lips—half sob, half moan, every nerve strung out, the air thick with smoke and power and the scent of sweat, sex, fear. His hand is iron on your throat, not cruel, but unyielding, pinning you down so you feel every violent snap of his hips, every shockwave of pleasure crashing against the edge of pain.

“Say it,” he growls, voice low and guttural, words pouring over you like molten glass. “Say you’re mine. Say it, or I’ll keep you right here forever, right on the edge. I want to watch you break for me—watch you fall.” He thrusts harder, the bed creaking, every stroke filling you so deep you can feel him in your belly, your whole body straining, trying to arch, to escape, to chase that shattering release he’s holding just out of reach.

“Anakin—please, please, I—I can’t—” Your voice is a hoarse whimper, your hands clutching at his wrist, the one around your neck, not really fighting anymore but holding on as if it’s the only anchor you have left. “Let me—let me come, please—”

He leans down, his lips brushing your ear, his breath a scalding promise. “Only if you say it. Only if you give yourself to me.” He rolls his hips, grinding against your clit with every thrust, so close, so nearly too much, the pleasure turning sharp, desperate, frantic. “You want to, don’t you? Want to stop pretending. Want to be ruined. Say it.”

Your shame is a living thing, writhing inside you, but the hunger swallows it whole. The words claw their way up from your chest, torn from somewhere deep and hidden, “yours—fuck, I’m yours, I’m yours, please, Anakin—”

He makes a sound, half snarl, half groan, and the Force bursts outward, pressing down on you, holding you splayed, helpless, for him. His grip tightens, just shy of pain, and he fucks you harder, each thrust battering you right at that edge, not letting you tip over, your body seizing, trembling, slick with sweat, your thighs shaking where they clutch at his hips.

“You belong to me,” he says, and there’s triumph in his voice, hunger, but something twistedly soft too—affection, obsession. “You always have. Even before you knew what you were. Even before you wanted this.”

He releases your throat, just enough for you to gasp, drag in a ragged breath, but his hand stays, thumb stroking your skin as his other slides down, thumb rough on your clit, forcing you higher, harder, until you’re not thinking at all, just feeling, your body clamped tight around him, pleasure burning you alive.

“Come for me,” he whispers, and the words shatter the last of your resistance. “Let them all hear you—let the Force itself see what you’ve become.”

You break, shuddering, every muscle spasming as you come, hard, on his cock, your cry raw and wild, echoing off the black stone, hands clawing at his back, your cunt pulsing, squeezing him tight. He grinds into you, holding you down, fucking you through it, making you take every last jolt of pleasure until it’s almost too much, nearly painful, the darkness coiling tighter inside you.

He doesn’t stop—not yet—his cock still rock-hard inside you, his eyes drinking in every inch of your wrecked, ruined face, the way you gasp for breath, the way your body shakes. “Look at you,” he croons, dragging his tongue along your cheek, the corner of your mouth. “So good for me. So fucking perfect. You were meant for this, for me—meant to fall.”

You barely hear him, every sense ringing, your skin hypersensitive where his hands move—dragging your tunic lower, baring your chest, palms flat on your breasts, fingers pinching your nipples until you jerk, until the pleasure spikes again, sharp and overwhelming.

He starts to move, slow at first, then building, fucking you again, deeper, rougher, chasing his own release, determined to mark you inside and out. “I’m going to fill you,” he promises, words thick, voice wrecked. “Going to fuck you until you forget the Order, until there’s nothing left but this—me—what you really are.”

You can only gasp, whimper, body limp beneath him, every thrust stretching you open, every drag of his cock another confession, another surrender. The Force is everywhere, thick and wild, wrapping you both in darkness, in heat.

He’s close, you can feel it, every muscle in his body tense, jaw clenched, sweat beading at his temples. He leans in, mouth bruising against yours, biting, claiming, his hips stuttering as he drives into you one last time, burying himself to the hilt as he spills inside you with a guttural, feral groan, his whole body shuddering over yours.

He holds you there, panting, pressed so close you can feel his heart pounding, the heat of his breath on your cheek, the weight of his possession sinking into your bones. His hands roam your body, soothing and claiming all at once, even as you tremble, still pinned beneath him, the darkness inside you blooming, wild and hungry.

When he finally lifts his head, his gaze is softer, but no less intense. “You’re mine,” he says again, quieter this time, almost gentle, as if it’s a vow.

By the time you got home, you were buzzing with it—because what was gossip for, if not to be shared over leftover Chinese takeout in your shared apartment’s kitchen?

Clark had already loosened his tie, glasses perched on his nose as he flipped through one of the day’s papers at the counter. When you walked in, he looked up immediately, smiling that warm, quiet smile he reserved for you. “Rough day?”

You dumped your bag by the couch and nearly tripped over yourself. “You’re not going to believe what I saw at work today.”

Clark folded the paper with exaggerated patience, settling back in his chair as though bracing himself for a story. “Go on,” he said, tone serious but eyes dancing with amusement.

“Dominic,” you started dramatically, pointing a finger like you were making an accusation in a courtroom. “Junior editor. Slick hair. Tries to say he knows Hemingway’s work by heart.”

Clark nodded. “Uh-huh. That one.”

You leaned against the counter. “Well, first, Jenna kissed him.”

Clark blinked, adjusting his glasses, polite surprise on his face. “Kissed him.”

“Yes. In the hallway. Outside accounting. Bold as anything.”

“Alright,” he said slowly, like he was filing the information away.

You raised a finger, savoring the moment. “And then, not even twenty minutes later—” you drew it out, watching Clark’s brow furrow—“Ryan kissed him too.”

That got him. Clark sputtered, coughing on his own sip of water, and reached for a napkin. “Wait—what? Ryan as in… the other intern?”

“The very one,” you confirmed, lowering your voice like you were letting him in on classified intel. “I saw it with my own two eyes.”

He looked equal parts bewildered and entertained, the corner of his mouth twitching. “So… Dominic is—what? Dating both of them?”

You spread your hands. “That’s exactly what it looks like! One minute he’s smooching Jenna by the filing cabinets, the next he’s letting Ryan brush a kiss against his cheek like they’ve been dating for months.”

Clark tilted his head, clearly suppressing a laugh. “And you’re sure you weren’t just… misinterpreting?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Clark Kent, are you doubting my observation skills? I am very good at noticing things.”

He smiled, holding his hands up in surrender. “I’m not doubting. I’m… clarifying. Because that’s a very bold assumption.”

You leaned closer over the counter. “Listen, if Dominic isn’t dating both of them, then what is he doing, kissing two different people in one morning?”

Clark chuckled, shaking his head. “You know, most people come home and talk about the weather or how their boss yelled at them. But not you.”

“Would you rather I bored you with the quarterly expense breakdown?” you teased, reaching for the takeout carton.

His grin widened. “No. Please—keep going. Tell me every detail.”

And so you did. Over lo mein and spring rolls, you dissected Dominic’s every glance, every smirk, every suspiciously long coffee break with either intern. Clark listened like it was front-page news, nodding at the right places, laughing when you got especially dramatic, and occasionally making quiet little comments that betrayed how much he enjoyed seeing you so animated.

By the end of the night, you were convinced you’d stumbled upon the Planet’s biggest love triangle since Perry White had accidentally double-booked Valentine’s Day years ago. And Clark? He was content to let you spin your theories, leaning back in his chair with that soft, indulgent smile that said he’d happily listen to your gossip every night for the rest of his life.

---

You were in early, your desk still half in shadow from the weak morning light streaming through the blinds, the smell of burnt office coffee clinging stubbornly to the air. The building was quiet, humming with the low buzz of fluorescent lights, and you almost felt silly for arriving ahead of the rush—until fate rewarded you.

Dominic strolled in through the revolving doors, crisp shirt sleeves rolled to his elbows, hair already perfectly styled like he woke up in a cologne commercial. And right there beside him? Jenna. Bright-eyed Jenna, clutching her bag to her chest and laughing at something he said.

You watched, wide-eyed, through the glass partition. They slowed near the bullpen, close enough that you could see them lean in—quick, casual, like it was nothing—and then kiss. Not long, not dramatic, but unmistakably a kiss. Then Jenna peeled away with a little wave, vanishing toward the copy desk.

You were already leaning halfway out of your chair, heart hammering with the thrill of being in the front row for live-action drama, when Ryan appeared. Coffee cup in hand.

You froze.

Ryan beelined for Dominic like it was the most natural thing in the world, offered him the cup—from Jitters, no less, which meant a twenty-minute detour this early—and Dominic, looking entirely at ease, accepted it with a warm smile. Then, without hesitation, he bent down and kissed Ryan’s cheek.

Your jaw dropped.

Ryan slipped into the elevator, the doors closing behind him like the curtain on the second act of a play, and Dominic lingered in the lobby a beat longer before heading toward the newsroom.

You sank back into your chair, clutching your pen like it was evidence in a trial. Dominic wasn’t just dabbling—no, no, this was a pattern. A routine. You’d just witnessed him kissing Jenna and Ryan within five minutes of each other.

By the time lunch rolled around, your expense reports were still untouched, but you had a notebook filled with hastily scrawled observations like 7:42am, Dominic + Jenna = hallway kiss. 7:49am, Ryan gives coffee, receives cheek kiss. TWO KISSES, SAME MORNING.

After a quick walk around the office to stretch your legs, you nearly dropped your water bottle. Ryan and Dominic emerged side by side from the all-gender bathroom, shoulders brushing, voices low. Ryan’s hair was damp at the temples, like he’d splashed water on his face, and Dominic—ever immaculate—was smoothing down his rolled sleeves with the kind of casual air of a man who had nothing to hide. Which, of course, meant he definitely had something to hide.

You ducked instinctively behind the nearest potted plant in the hallway. The poor fern, long neglected by office maintenance, did very little to conceal you, but in your mind, you were a hardened investigator watching a suspect in the wild.

They lingered outside the door for a moment, Ryan gesturing animatedly with his cup, Dominic leaning in just a touch too close. Then Ryan clapped him on the shoulder, grinned like they were sharing a private joke, and disappeared toward the elevators. Dominic, on the other hand, ambled in the opposite direction, hands shoved into his pockets, as though he’d just wrapped up a perfectly ordinary conversation.

You pressed your lips together so tightly it hurt. First the hallway kiss with Jenna. Then the coffee-and-cheek-kiss routine with Ryan. Now this? The notebook practically burned in your desk drawer, begging for another entry.

By the end of the day, you had three new pages filled:

7:42 AM: Dominic + Jenna = hallway kiss. (Public! Brazen! She waved afterward!) 7:49 AM: Ryan gives coffee, receives cheek kiss. TWO KISSES, SAME MORNING. (Cheek kisses at sunrise? Intimate.) 12:18 PM: Dominic + Ryan exit bathroom together. Ryan looks freshly splashed. Suspicious.

You underlined the last word twice.

---

That evening at the apartment, Clark had barely set down his briefcase before you intercepted him in the doorway like a reporter chasing down a headline. “Clark,” you whispered urgently, tugging him inside. “It’s getting worse.”

He blinked at you, still loosening his tie. “Worse?”

You nodded gravely, already pushing him toward the couch where your notebook lay waiting. “The Dominic Situation has escalated.”

He sighed, a long-suffering sound, though the twitch at the corner of his mouth gave him away. “The… Dominic Situation.”

“Don’t mock me. This is serious.” You slapped the notebook onto his lap. “Read the updates.”

Clark dutifully adjusted his glasses, glancing down at the page like he was reviewing alien schematics. “Bathroom together, huh?”

“Yes!” You dropped onto the couch beside him, throwing your hands in the air. “And Ryan looked—wet! Like he’d just splashed his face or—God, who knows?!”

“Maybe he… washed his hands?” Clark offered, very reasonably.

You gave him a flat stare. “Do you always have to be the voice of reason? What if I want to indulge the chaos?”

He chuckled, setting the notebook aside. “Okay, okay. Indulge away.”

“So now we have a triangle,” you continued, leaning closer, voice dropping conspiratorially. “Jenna. Ryan. Dominic. All tangled up in—something. And don’t you dare tell me it’s nothing, because I’ve got timestamps.”

Clark leaned back, letting you gesticulate wildly in front of him, his smile growing softer with every word. “You know,” he murmured, “most people would say you have too much time on your hands.”

You jabbed him lightly in the chest with your finger. “Most people don’t know what’s really going on in the bullpen.”

He caught your hand, laughing under his breath. “And what is really going on in the bullpen?”

You lowered your voice, as though someone might overhear through the walls. “Dominic’s dating both interns. And he thinks no one’s noticed. But I’ve noticed, Clark. I’ve noticed everything.”

Clark bit back another laugh, squeezing your hand gently. “Remind me never to get on your bad side.”

You smirked, victorious. “Exactly. Now pass me the popcorn, I have to tell you about the way Jenna slammed her pen down in the staff meeting.”

---

The next day, you told yourself you’d be professional. Focused. Absolutely dedicated to your job. You even opened the expense reports first thing, determined not to get distracted by hallway drama. But the universe had other plans.

It started in the cafeteria. You were in line for a turkey sandwich, minding your own business, when you caught sight of Dominic at one of the tables. Jenna was across from him, practically glowing, her chin propped up on her hand as she leaned forward like she was in the middle of a rom-com. Dominic was laughing, low and easy, and there was something about the way his hand brushed against hers on the tabletop that made you almost choke on your bottle of water.

You quickly abandoned your sandwich and pretended to study the vending machine instead, angling yourself just right so you could keep them in view.

Then came the twist.

Ryan appeared. You recognized him instantly—tall, always a little rumpled, perpetually carrying a stack of papers too large for one human being. He spotted Dominic and Jenna, hesitated for a heartbeat, then strode right over like he had every right in the world to join them.

And Dominic… smiled. Warmly.

Ryan slid into the seat beside him, and within moments, Dominic was dividing his attention between them both—a hand on the table near Jenna, a shoulder brushing Ryan’s, laughter spilling like he’d been born to play both sides of a triangle.

You nearly dropped your notebook then and there.

By the time you got back to your desk, you were scribbling furiously:

12:36 PM — Jenna + Dominic = flirty lunch. Hand brush confirmed. 12:40 PM — Ryan joins. No sign of tension?? Suspicious. 12:42 PM — Dominic laughing with both. Possible manipulation tactic. 12:44 PM — Jenna plays with hair. Ryan smiles like he’s in on a private joke. Conclusion: This man is an evil genius.

You underlined evil genius three times.

---

That evening, Clark was at the stove when you stormed into the apartment, tossing your bag aside like you’d just broken the story of the decade. He was stirring something in a pot, glasses sliding down his nose, looking every bit the picture of calm domesticity.

“You will not believe what happened today,” you declared, pointing dramatically toward him.

He glanced over his shoulder, the corner of his mouth twitching. “Does it involve Dominic?”

You froze. “How did you—”

Clark raised his brows. “Lucky guess.”

You stomped closer, planting your notebook on the counter like evidence. “Lunch. Cafeteria. He was with Jenna. Holding hands. Practically feeding her soup.”

Clark turned off the stove and leaned against the counter, folding his arms as if settling in for a briefing from the Justice Gang. “Soup feeding,” he repeated, deadpan. “Scandalous.”

“And then,” you continued, jabbing your pen at him for emphasis, “Ryan shows up.”

Clark widened his eyes. “Oh no.”

“Oh yes. And instead of looking guilty or panicked or even remotely human, Dominic welcomed him. With open arms! Like the world’s most brazen con artist.”

“Uh-huh,” Clark said, nodding solemnly, though you caught the sparkle in his eyes.

“I think—” You flipped open the notebook, showing him the scrawl of timestamps and arrows. “I think Dominic is running some sort of romantic Ponzi scheme.”

Clark coughed into his hand, his shoulders shaking. “Romantic Ponzi scheme?”

“Yes!” You started pacing, hands flying as you explained. “He’s investing time in both Jenna and Ryan, balancing them carefully, making sure each feels like the chosen one. But it’s unsustainable, Clark! Sooner or later, it’ll collapse. And I will be there to witness it.”

Clark leaned on the counter, watching you with that soft, indulgent look he always got when you were on one of your tirades. “You’re really into this.”

“This is better than TV,” you insisted. “Better than Perry’s cigar TikTok rumors. Better than the donut thief scandal. This is Shakespearean.”

He laughed, shaking his head. “You’re going to give yourself an ulcer over someone else’s love life.”

You pressed a hand dramatically to your chest. “It’s not just gossip, Clark. It’s the human condition.”

He chuckled again, crossing the kitchen to press a quick kiss to your forehead. “Alright, Shakespeare. Finish telling me about the great Ponzi scheme over dinner. But tomorrow, maybe try doing some actual work at your desk?”

You narrowed your eyes. “You sound just like Perry.”

He grinned. “Terrifying thought, isn’t it?” And you had to admit—maybe it was.

---

Clark prided himself on being steady. The kind of steady that people could lean on when the sky was falling. The kind of steady that came from watching, listening, absorbing the quiet details nobody else thought to notice.

But nothing in his years of patrolling Metropolis had prepared him for this.

It was a Wednesday morning, the bullpen humming with its usual early chaos—phones ringing, printers wheezing, Perry barking orders about deadlines that had passed thirty minutes ago. Clark had just returned from a quick coffee run, balancing two cups with the ease of someone who could carry a collapsing building if necessary.

And then, he saw it.

Through the glass partition near the stairwell, Jenna was standing far too close to Ryan. Not Dominic. Not the “central figure” of the ongoing saga you’d been dramatizing nightly at their apartment. No, Jenna and Ryan. Two sides of the supposed triangle.

Clark froze mid-step, nearly spilling scalding coffee down his shirt. His eyes widened as Jenna’s hand brushed Ryan’s arm, their heads tipping toward each other in a way that could only mean one thing. Then—without hesitation—they kissed.

Quick, casual. Familiar. Like this wasn’t their first.

Clark blinked once. Twice. He even pulled off his glasses and wiped them on his tie, as though his vision might be faulty. But when he looked again, Jenna and Ryan were laughing softly, parting ways with the ease of co-conspirators, leaving Dominic nowhere in sight.

He stood there in stunned silence.

That evening, Clark sat at the dining table while you bustled around the kitchen, reheating leftovers with the kind of dramatic energy reserved for someone about to deliver another round of theories. He was unusually quiet, fingers drumming lightly against the tabletop as he replayed what he’d seen over and over.

When you finally set a plate in front of him and plopped down across the table, notebook at the ready, Clark cleared his throat. “I, uh… I saw something today.”

Your eyes lit up instantly. “Oh?”

“Yes,” Clark said slowly, shifting in his seat. “Something… about Dominic.”

That got you leaning forward like a detective hearing fresh testimony. “Tell me everything.”

He hesitated. “Well… it wasn’t Dominic exactly.”

You blinked. “What do you mean, not Dominic?”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, lowering his voice as though the apartment walls might be bugged. “I saw Jenna and Ryan.”

“Together?”

“Yes.”

“Talking?”

“…Kissing.”

The word dropped between you like a live grenade. You slammed your fork down, eyes going wide. “What?!”

Clark flinched at the volume, pushing his glasses up nervously. “I’m sure of it. They kissed, right there by the stairwell.”

You gasped, hands flying to your mouth. “But—how? Dominic kissed Jenna! And Ryan! Both of them!” You scrambled for your notebook, flipping frantically through the pages of timestamps and notes. “This doesn’t add up.”

Clark watched you, half-amused and half-concerned as you muttered under your breath, drawing little triangles and arrows between names.

“Do you realize what this means?” you asked, eyes wide, pen poised dramatically in the air.

“That I should probably stay out of office gossip?” Clark offered dryly.

“No!” you hissed, pointing the pen like a weapon. “It means Dominic isn’t in a love triangle at all. He’s in a—” You paused, lowering your voice to a whisper. “—love square.”

Clark choked on his water. “A what?”

“A love square! Jenna and Dominic. Ryan and Dominic. And now Jenna and Ryan! Three corners all attached to Dominic, but two corners sneaking off together!”

You scribbled furiously on the page, arrows flying in every direction. Clark leaned over, watching you connect the names in a web of chaos that looked less like office gossip and more like a detective’s board in a crime drama.

He couldn’t help it. A laugh bubbled up, soft and helpless. You looked up at him, scandalized. “This isn’t funny, Clark!”

“Oh, it’s definitely funny,” he said, smiling so wide his cheeks hurt. “You’ve turned the Daily Planet into a soap opera.”

“It is a soap opera!” you insisted, jabbing your pen at him. “And now you’re a witness. Which means you’re part of the investigation, whether you like it or not.”

Clark shook his head, still laughing, but the warmth in his chest surprised him. There was something so utterly human about this—about you leaning over the table, eyes bright with conspiratorial glee, treating office gossip like a matter of national security. He spent his days saving cities, stopping disasters, facing threats the world could barely comprehend… and somehow this was what made him feel the most alive.

“Alright,” he said at last, leaning back in his chair. “If it’s a square, then what’s your theory?”

You narrowed your eyes, tapping your pen against the notebook. “I think Dominic’s the linchpin. The sun they all orbit around. But Jenna and Ryan? They’re plotting something. A coup.”

Clark snorted into his hand. “A coup.”

“Yes,” you said firmly. “And mark my words, Clark. When this house of cards collapses, I’ll be ready.”

Clark just shook his head, smiling so fondly it almost hurt.

---

It started innocently enough.

You were at your desk late one afternoon, fiddling with an expense report that refused to balance, when Jenna strolled up. She leaned against your partition, bright-eyed and casual, like she didn’t have the weight of an entire love square resting on her shoulders. “Hey,” she said. “Quick question.”

You swiveled in your chair, suspicious and intrigued all at once. “Shoot.”

“Do you know any good restaurants in Midtown? Like… not super fancy, but nice. Somewhere you’d go for a date.”

The word date sent shockwaves through your system. A date. She had said it. With her own mouth. This was it—confirmation. The threads of your investigation were finally weaving together.

You blinked at her, fighting the urge to demand who with. Instead, you plastered on your most helpful smile. “Uh, sure. There’s that Italian place on 52nd, Trattoria Venezia. Candlelight, pasta, the whole nine yards. They even have a string quartet sometimes.”

Her face lit up. “Perfect. Thanks!” And then she was gone, vanishing back toward the bullpen like she hadn’t just dropped a nuclear bomb in your lap.

You stared after her, heart racing, already composing the evening’s report in your head.

At home, Clark was sitting on the couch, reading glasses sliding down his nose as he flipped through a dog-eared paperback. He looked up when you barreled through the door, hair windswept, notebook clutched in hand like a sacred text. “Clark.” You dropped onto the couch beside him. “We have a development.”

He dog-eared his page, setting the book aside with the patience of a man who already knew he was about to be drafted into something ridiculous. “Go on.”

“Jenna asked me for a restaurant recommendation.”

His brow furrowed. “And that’s… newsworthy?”

“Not just any restaurant,” you pressed, leaning in. “A date restaurant. Romantic atmosphere. Low lighting. String quartet!”

Clark rubbed the bridge of his nose, but you caught the tiny twitch of a smile. “And?”

“And she’s going tonight.” You pulled the notebook open, flipping to a page where you’d scrawled the details. “Eight o’clock. Trattoria Venezia.”

“Okay,” Clark said slowly, drawing the word out like he was speaking to a child. “And what exactly do you want me to do with this information?”

You grinned. “Come with me.”

His eyebrows shot up. “Come with you? To spy on her date?”

You waved a hand dismissively. “Not spy. Just… observe. Casually.”

He gave you a look. “That’s stalking.”

“It’s not stalking if we also order dinner,” you countered brightly. “Then it’s just date night. With a side of reconnaissance.”

Clark let out a long sigh, tilting his head back against the couch. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me,” you sing-songed, poking him lightly in the chest.

He caught your hand, shaking his head with a smile he couldn’t quite hide. “You’re lucky that’s true.”

Which was how you found yourselves later that evening, dressed for dinner, standing outside Trattoria Venezia. The restaurant glowed with warm amber light, the faint strains of a violin drifting through the open windows. You tugged at Clark’s sleeve, peeking past the host stand to scan the tables inside.

“There,” you hissed, pointing discreetly toward the back corner. “It’s her.”

Clark followed your gaze. Sure enough, Jenna sat at a candlelit table, looking radiant in a soft blue dress. Across from her sat a figure obscured by the wine menu. Clark sighed. “We’re really doing this.”

“We’re already here,” you whispered. “Might as well order some pasta.”

The host appeared, smiling warmly. “Table for two?”

“Yes,” you said quickly, before Clark could protest. “Near the window, please.”

Soon you were seated with menus in hand, Clark giving you the kind of exasperated look usually reserved for Jimmy’s wildest stunts. “This is insane,” he muttered under his breath.

You grinned, sipping your water. “This is fun. Think of it as undercover work.”

“I’m not sure the Justice Gang handbook covers spying on interns’ love lives.”

“Well,” you said, leaning closer, “then maybe the Justice Gang should revise their handbook.”

Clark laughed softly despite himself, shaking his head as the waiter came to take your order. You both asked for pasta, but your attention kept drifting to the corner table where Jenna’s date had finally lowered the menu.

You froze, fork halfway to your mouth. It was Ryan. Ryan, in a pressed button-down, leaning forward with the same kind of easy smile Dominic had worn at lunch the day before. Jenna was laughing, her hand brushing his across the table.

Your notebook practically burned a hole in your bag. You bit down on your lip to keep from squealing. Clark caught the look on your face and sighed again, but his lips twitched like he was seconds away from laughter. “You’re going to explode, aren’t you?”

“Clark,” you whispered urgently, gripping his hand across the table. “It’s happening. The love square is imploding. Right here. Right now. Over ravioli.”

Clark squeezed your hand, eyes soft despite his words. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Ridiculously right,” you shot back, unable to tear your gaze away from Jenna and Ryan as the violin swelled in the background.

Clark leaned back in his chair, shaking his head with a fond smile as you scribbled another frantic note under the table. He knew better than anyone that when you were on a mission, there was no stopping you. And if it meant getting to share a plate of pasta and a glass of wine with you in the process, well… maybe spying wasn’t so bad after all.

You tried—you really did—to focus on your own ravioli. The sauce was perfect, the candlelight soft, Clark looking unfairly handsome across the table in his button-down with the top button undone. It could have been the perfect date night.

Except Jenna and Ryan were sitting a mere twelve feet away, whispering over their wine like a scene out of some office romance novel, and your brain refused to let it go. You leaned across the table, lowering your voice. “Clark.”

He sighed, already knowing what was coming. “No.”

“You don’t even know what I was going to say.”

“Yes, I do. You want me to use my hearing.”

You tried for your most innocent expression. “Just a little hearing. Not full-on Kryptonian surveillance. Think of it as… research.”

He set his fork down, leaning closer. “It’s an invasion of privacy.”

You huffed. “It’s dinner theater.”

“Dinner theater doesn’t usually end with HR investigations.”

“Clark,” you whispered urgently, glancing back over your shoulder at the corner table. “They’re plotting. I can feel it. What if this is the beginning of the implosion? What if Dominic shows up and there’s a brawl in front of the string quartet? We’d have front-row seats!”

He covered his face with one hand, shoulders shaking with a laugh he was trying very hard to stifle. “You’re unbelievable.”

“Unbelievably right,” you corrected. Jenna and Ryan were leaning close now, heads almost touching, their hands brushing on the tabletop. You nearly squeaked aloud, clutching Clark’s arm. “Did you see that?” you whispered fiercely. “The hand touch. That’s not platonic. That’s plotting.”

Clark glanced over, then back at you, his eyes soft with amusement. “You realize you sound like you’re covering an international conspiracy, right?”

“It is a conspiracy,” you said, gesturing with your fork. “Against Dominic. Against the natural order of the bullpen.”

“Natural order,” Clark echoed, fighting another laugh.

You ignored him, narrowing your eyes as Jenna leaned in to whisper something into Ryan’s ear. Ryan chuckled, his smile spreading slow and lazy.

“Oh my God,” you hissed, gripping your pen under the table. “They’re in cahoots.”

Clark raised a brow. “Cahoots?”

“Yes! Secret cahoots. Romantic cahoots. Call it what you want — Dominic’s house of cards is collapsing. I can see it.”

The waiter arrived then, setting down a bottle of wine with a flourish. You barely noticed, still scribbling notes beneath the tablecloth while Clark poured for both of you, watching you with the sort of expression that was equal parts exasperated and utterly in love. “You know,” he said quietly, “if anyone looked over here, they’d think we’re the suspicious ones.”

You froze mid-scribble. “Why?”

“You’re hiding a notebook under the table and muttering about cahoots while staring at two interns.”

You straightened immediately, trying to look casual. “I’m blending in.”

Clark smirked. “Like a neon sign.”

Still, he reached across the table to squeeze your hand, grounding you, reminding you that this was supposed to be a date night too. His thumb brushed gently across your knuckles, and for a second you almost forgot about the interns in the corner. Almost.

Then you heard Jenna laugh again, bright and clear, and your head snapped back toward them. “Clark,” you whispered urgently. “We have to get closer.”

He blinked. “Closer?”

“Maybe on the way to the bathroom. You could casually pass by. Pick up a detail. Confirm the cahoots.”

Clark stared at you for a long moment, lips twitching, then let out a low chuckle. “You’re asking me—Superman—to run bathroom reconnaissance on an intern’s date.”

“Yes,” you said, utterly serious. “For the integrity of the investigation.”

He rubbed his temple, shaking his head. “This is ridiculous.”

“And yet,” you said sweetly, sliding your hand into his, “you’re going to do it.”

Clark sighed, but when you tilted your head, eyes wide and pleading, he caved with the ease of a man who’d never been able to say no to you. “Fine,” he murmured. “But if anyone asks, I was just washing my hands.”

He rose from the table a few minutes later, slipping past the waiters and diners, tall enough to be inconspicuous and commanding all at once. You tracked him like a hawk, trying not to crane your neck as he moved closer to Jenna and Ryan’s table.

Clark slowed near them, pretending to adjust his glasses, pausing as though debating whether to head for the restroom. You saw his brow lift slightly, the faintest twitch in his jaw as he overheard something. Then he moved on, disappearing into the back hallway. You nearly vibrated out of your chair with anticipation until he returned a few minutes later, settling back into his seat. You leaned in immediately, eyes shining. “Well?” Clark hesitated, pouring himself another glass of wine. “Clark,” you begged. “Don’t hold out on me. What did you hear?”

He looked at you over the rim of his glass, lips curving into a maddeningly soft smile. “They were talking about lasagna.”

You gaped. “Lasagna?”

He nodded serenely. “Lasagna.”

You thumped your notebook against the table. “You’re holding back. I can see it in your face.”

Clark chuckled, reaching across the table to tuck a stray piece of hair behind your ear. “Maybe I am. Maybe I’m not. Either way…” He leaned closer, voice low and warm. “You’re mine tonight. Not Dominic’s. Not Jenna’s. Not Ryan’s. Mine.”

Your cheeks heated, your pen sliding forgotten to the side as his hand lingered against your jaw. For a moment, the investigation melted away, the restaurant noise fading until it was just him, just you, and the candlelight between you. But when Jenna laughed again from across the room, you jumped, scribbling furiously in your notebook.

Clark groaned, dropping his forehead into his palm. “Unbelievable.” And yet, when he looked up again, he was still smiling.

Back at the apartment, you burst through the door like Perry White on a deadline, shrugging out of your coat and tossing your bag onto the couch. Your notebook was already open before Clark had even hung up his jacket, pen scribbling furiously across the page as if the candlelit restaurant had been a war zone and you were filing the first draft of history.

Clark closed the door behind you, moving with deliberate calm, as though he hadn’t just been dragged into a covert operation at an Italian restaurant. He set the keys on the counter, loosened his tie, and turned to find you hunched over the coffee table, papers spread like a general’s battle plans.

“They’re definitely in cahoots,” you muttered, as you drew a quick sketch of the restaurant’s floor plan. “She asked me for the restaurant recommendation, she picked Ryan over Dominic, and then—then—he held her hand across the table. That wasn’t just flirting, Clark. That was solidarity. That was plotting.”

Clark slipped his glasses off, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “Against Dominic.”

“Yes!” you jabbed your pen at him. “You saw it. You felt it. The energy was charged. And the lasagna thing? Classic cover. No one is that passionate about pasta unless they’re trying to hide something bigger.”

Clark chuckled, crossing the room to sit on the couch beside you. “You’re telling me two interns in their twenties are masterminds, staging a coup in the middle of Trattoria Venezia, and covering it with… lasagna?”

You slammed your notebook shut for dramatic effect. “Exactly.”

Clark leaned back, stretching one arm along the back of the couch, watching you with the patience of a saint and the amusement of a man who couldn’t quite believe how lucky he was to come home to this kind of chaos. “You know, you’d make a very dedicated reporter.”

You turned sharply, eyes gleaming. “Absolutely not. Reporters deal in facts. I deal in theories.”

That earned you a laugh, low and warm, and before you could get back to your frantic scribbling, Clark’s large hand gently closed over your notebook. “Hey,” he said softly, tugging it out of your grasp. “Enough conspiracies for tonight.”

You pouted, reaching for it, but he held it easily out of reach, smile tugging at his lips. “Clark, you are interfering with an active investigation.”

“I’m rescuing you from an ulcer,” he countered, shifting closer. His free hand found your chin, tilting your face toward his until you couldn’t hide behind wild theories and frantic arrows anymore. His thumb brushed along your jawline, slow and grounding. “Besides, wasn’t this supposed to be a date night for us?”

For a moment, the tension drained out of you. His eyes were warm, earnest, the kind of gaze that always made the noise of the world dim. You felt your heart stumble over itself, pen slipping from your hand as your focus shifted entirely to the man in front of you.

Then you remembered the restaurant, and your eyes widened. “But what if Dominic—”

Clark groaned, dropping his forehead lightly to your shoulder, laughter muffled against your sweater. “You’re impossible.”

“And you love me for it,” you said smugly, threading your fingers into his hair.

He looked up, grinning. “That’s the problem. I do.”

You melted at that, all your notebook-scribbled fervor softening into affection. He kissed you then, slow and tender, his hand still holding your notebook hostage. The kiss lingered, until you forgot about interns and conspiracies and the possibility of a lasagna cover-up.

When you finally pulled back, breathless and smiling, you poked him lightly in the chest. “Fine. But tomorrow, if I see Dominic with either of them, you’re getting another debriefing.”

Clark chuckled, resting his forehead against yours. “Deal. But next time? No field missions. We’ll keep the spying to the comfort of our couch.”

You leaned into him, eyes closing, your laughter mingling with his. “We’ll see.”

And even though your notebook still sat on the coffee table, pages filled with triangles and arrows and timestamps, you let it rest for now. Because for the moment, the only person worth investigating was the man whose arms were wrapped around you, steady and sure, grounding you in a world that you both knew could spin into chaos at any second.

---

The next morning, Clark told himself he would not get involved. Absolutely not. He was a reporter. A professional. A Pulitzer winner. He did not dabble in gossip conspiracies about interns and junior editors.

But then Jenna and Ryan walked past his desk, laughing a little too closely, and Dominic appeared not five minutes later with two cups of coffee—one for Jenna, one for Ryan—and suddenly Clark was scribbling notes in the margin of his draft like a man possessed.

He didn’t even realize what he was doing until Lois leaned over, scanning his notebook with a raised brow. “What’s this? You’re tracking coffee habits now, Kent?”

Clark flushed, snapping the notebook closed so fast it startled her. “Uh—sources,” he mumbled. “Just… sources.”

Lois gave him a look that said she wasn’t buying it, but luckily Perry bellowed from across the bullpen and she moved on, leaving Clark with his very un-Superman-like secrets. By the time he got home that evening, you were already waiting at the door, notebook in hand like a detective welcoming her partner back from the field. “Well?” you demanded before he’d even gotten his shoes off. “What did you see?”

Clark sighed, setting down his briefcase, but the faint smile tugging at his lips gave him away. “I didn’t say I was going to—”

“You did say,” you interrupted, tugging him toward the couch. “You said you’d tell me next time. Now spill it.”

He dropped onto the couch beside you, shaking his head, amused despite himself. “Alright. But just remember—you asked for this.”

You leaned forward eagerly. “I’m ready.”

He held up a hand, ticking off points with his fingers. “First: Jenna and Ryan came into the office together this morning. Laughing. Very… comfortable.”

You gasped, flipping open your notebook and scribbling furiously. “Comfortable how? Shoulder bumping? Whispering?”

Clark bit back a laugh. “More like… leaning close. Whispering, yes.”

You nodded solemnly, jotting down every word. “Okay, continue.”

“Second,” Clark went on, “Dominic showed up not long after. With coffee. One for Jenna, one for Ryan.”

Your pen froze mid-stroke. “Both of them?” Clark nodded. “Scandalous,” you whispered, eyes wide.

“And third,” he said, drawing the moment out just to watch you fidget, “at lunch… I saw Ryan slide a note across the table to Jenna.”

You slapped your notebook shut. “A note?”

Clark chuckled, leaning back. “Looked like it. He was very subtle about it, but I have good eyes.”

You grabbed his arm, eyes blazing with the thrill of the hunt. “Clark. This is it. The square is shifting. They’re forming alliances. Jenna and Ryan are consolidating power against Dominic.”

He shook his head, laughing outright now. “You sound like you’re covering international politics.”

“This is international politics,” you insisted, climbing onto your knees so you could gesture wildly. “Think about it—Dominic’s holding the middle ground, but if Jenna and Ryan unite, they can overthrow him. It’s basic strategy. And the coffee? That’s appeasement. It won’t last.”

Clark covered his mouth with his hand, trying to hide his grin. “You’re unbelievable.”

“You’re my source,” you shot back, poking him in the chest. “You’re deep cover in the bullpen. You’ve got eyes where I can’t.”

“Deep cover,” he echoed, his voice warm with laughter.

“Yes,” you said firmly, jotting another note. “And tomorrow, you’ll report back again.”

He reached out, tugging the pen from your fingers and setting it aside, his hand lingering over yours. “Tomorrow,” he murmured, “I’d rather report back on you. Over dinner. With no interns, no Dominic, and definitely no conspiracy charts.”

You softened, heart flipping at the look in his eyes. But then Jenna’s laugh echoed in your memory and you snapped your notebook back open. “Fine,” you said. “Dinner first. Then updates.”

Clark groaned, but he was smiling, and when you leaned against him, scribbling furiously in your notes about “Dominic appeasing both factions,” he pressed a kiss to your temple, secretly more invested than he’d ever admit.

---

Clark hadn’t planned on playing courier that day either. He’d been buried in copyedits, Lois had been shouting over the phone, and Perry was in one of his “deadline or death” moods, so the last thing he needed was another detour. But then he thought of you upstairs, hunched over numbers and receipts, chewing your pen the way you always did when you were concentrating too hard.

So, on his lunch break, Clark slipped out to Jitters. He balanced two paper cups of your favorite coffee in one hand, a neatly wrapped sandwich in the other, and took the elevator up to the accounting floor. He told himself it wasn’t a big thing, just a small gesture. He liked making your day a little brighter.

The hallway was quiet when he stepped out, fluorescent lights buzzing overhead. The smell of toner and burnt coffee clung stubbornly to the air. He adjusted his glasses, moving toward your office, when the click of a door caught his attention.

It wasn’t your door. It was the supply closet at the end of the hall. And then, like a scene from a play he hadn’t rehearsed for, three figures emerged. Dominic. Jenna. Ryan.

All together.

They spilled out of the closet in a cluster, laughing too loudly, hair mussed, shirts wrinkled. Dominic’s tie was askew, Jenna’s blouse untucked on one side, and Ryan had a faint smear of… was that lipstick? Clark’s jaw went slack, his brain short-circuiting at the sight.

He ducked instinctively into the shadow of a cubicle, holding the coffee like contraband, heart pounding harder than it ever did during a rooftop chase. Dominic raked a hand through his hair, grinning like the cat that got the cream. Jenna smoothed her skirt, giggling as she elbowed Ryan, who was tugging at his collar as though trying to cool down.

Clark blinked rapidly, certain his eyes were deceiving him. But no—there they were. The love triangle. The alleged coup. The subjects of your wild theories. And they looked… guilty. Disheveled. Caught in something they hadn’t planned to share.

He stepped back as they rounded the corner, their voices fading down the hall.

“…shouldn’t all three of us…” Jenna’s voice drifted, muffled by distance. “…relax, nobody even noticed…” Dominic’s low chuckle. “…next time, maybe not the closet…” Ryan, muttering, followed by another burst of laughter.

Clark stood frozen in the empty hall, the coffee cooling in his hands, his reporter’s mind struggling to catalog the scene. This wasn’t just gossip anymore. This was… whatever it was, it was beyond his capacity to politely ignore. Finally, he shook himself, cheeks heating, and made his way to your office.

You looked up as he pushed the door open, your face lighting when you saw the coffee and sandwich. “You’re a saint,” you said, reaching for the cup. But your smile faltered when you saw his expression. “What? What happened?”

Clark set the coffee down carefully, as if steadying himself. He tugged at his tie, glasses slipping lower on his nose. “I saw something,” he said, his voice oddly grave.

Your heart skipped, curiosity flaring instantly. “Was it Dominic?”

He hesitated, then nodded. “Dominic. Jenna. Ryan. All three of them.”

You leaned forward across your desk, eyes wide. “What do you mean all three of them?”

Clark ran a hand through his hair. “They came out of the supply closet together.”

You blinked. “Together together?”

He swallowed. “Together.”

Your jaw dropped. “Disheveled?” His silence was answer enough. You shot up from your chair, notebook already in hand. “Oh my God.”

Clark held out a placating hand. “Now, it could’ve been nothing. Maybe they were—”

“In the closet?” you interrupted, your voice pitching higher. “Three people? Looking like they just survived a tornado? Clark, this is it. This is the scandal of the century.”

He groaned softly. “You’re exaggerating.”

“I’m under-exaggerating!” You were already scribbling furiously, arrows and question marks flying across the page. “It’s not a love triangle. It’s not a love square. It’s a…” You stopped, tapping your pen against the paper, eyes alight. “It’s a love… trapezoid.”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not even how geometry works.”

You whirled on him, notebook raised. “Then what shape has everyone kissing everyone?!”

“Chaos,” he muttered. “The shape is chaos.”

You slapped the notebook down on the desk, looking at him with wild, triumphant eyes. “Clark, do you understand what this means? It’s bigger than we thought. This isn’t just a subplot. This is the main event.”

He leaned against the doorframe, shaking his head, lips twitching despite his exasperation. “You’re going to turn the Daily Planet into your own personal soap opera.”

“It already is,” you shot back.

And when you looked down at your frantic notes, then back up at him, you caught the soft gleam in his eyes—the kind that said he’d follow you into any conspiracy, no matter how outrageous, as long as you kept smiling like that.

---

It was supposed to be an ordinary afternoon. The two of you had slipped out for a walk after lunch—your idea, because you swore the office air was staler than week-old donuts and you needed a stretch before diving back into numbers. Clark, ever indulgent, had agreed, hands tucked in his pockets as you strolled down a sun-splashed Metropolis avenue, the noise of traffic and chatter washing over you.

You were mid-rant about Perry’s latest tirade—“if he yells about receipts one more time, I’m expensing aspirin just out of spite”—when Clark’s steps suddenly faltered. You glanced up at him, confused, until you saw where his gaze had snagged.

Across the street, in front of a little café with outdoor seating, three very familiar figures stood huddled together.

Dominic. Jenna. Ryan.

At first it looked like a normal sidewalk chat—Dominic gesturing animatedly, Jenna laughing with her whole face, Ryan balancing a takeaway cup as he listened. But then Dominic leaned closer. Jenna tilted her head. And Ryan, instead of stepping back, angled in.

Your mouth dropped open. “No way.”

Clark’s brow shot up, glasses slipping down the bridge of his nose as all three of them leaned in—and met in the middle. A kiss. Not shy. Not accidental. A deliberate, synchronized meeting of lips. And not just two. All three.

You grabbed Clark’s arm with such force he nearly spilled his coffee. “Clark. Clark. Are you seeing this?”

He looked down at you, stunned, then back at the trio still entangled on the sidewalk, earning a few startled glances from passersby. “I—uh—yes. Yes, I’m definitely seeing it.”

“Oh my God.” You clapped a hand over your mouth, muffling your squeal. “That’s not just cahoots. That’s—That’s—” You flailed helplessly for the word, fingers tapping against his sleeve. “That’s a triumvirate.”

Clark coughed into his fist, shoulders shaking as he tried not to laugh. “A what?”

“A triumvirate! Three people, equal power, equal affection. Roman history, Clark. I read books.”

He bit his lip, amusement breaking through. “I know what a triumvirate is. I just didn’t think you’d apply it to interns in the middle of Metropolis.”

“They’re not just interns anymore,” you whispered fiercely, eyes wide, notebook already half-pulled from your bag. “They’re history in the making.”

Across the street, the three finally broke apart, laughing breathlessly, completely oblivious to the chaos they’d just unleashed in your brain. Dominic draped an arm around each of their shoulders as they strolled off toward the corner, Jenna reaching up to fix Ryan’s crooked glasses, Ryan brushing a hand across Dominic’s sleeve like it was the most natural thing in the world.

You nearly collapsed against Clark, clutching his arm. “I was right. I was right all along. It wasn’t a triangle. It wasn’t a square. It was this. It was always this.”

Clark glanced down at you, expression caught somewhere between shock, disbelief, and fond resignation. “I think… I think you might need a new notebook.”

You snapped yours open anyway, scribbling furiously as you walked, muttering under your breath about geometry and historical parallels. Clark guided you around a lamppost so you didn’t walk straight into it, his hand warm and steady at the small of your back. “Y’know,” he said after a moment, tone dry but affectionate, “most couples spend their afternoons talking about grocery lists.”

“Most couples don’t witness history being made outside a café,” you countered, waving your pen.

He chuckled, shaking his head. “Only you could make me stand on a street corner and watch three interns kiss like it’s front-page news.”

You glanced up at him, grinning, your excitement still bubbling over. “Admit it. You’re invested now.”

Clark pressed his lips together like he wanted to deny it, but his eyes gave him away. “...Maybe a little.”

“Ha!” You jabbed your pen in the air triumphantly. “Knew it. You’re in the trenches with me now, Kent. No turning back.”

He smiled, soft and rueful, tucking a strand of hair behind your ear as you scribbled your final note of the afternoon: 1:14 PM, three-way kiss witnessed, public setting. Case blown wide open.

And though he shook his head, pretending to be the reasonable one, Clark felt a warmth in his chest that had nothing to do with gossip and everything to do with you, your laugh, and the way you turned the world—even the chaos of a love triumvirate—into something worth holding onto.

When the two of you finally pushed through the revolving doors of the Daily Planet, you were still buzzing with adrenaline from what you’d just witnessed outside the café. Your notebook was practically smoking from the furious scribbles you’d made during the walk back, every page covered with arrows and underlines and words in all caps. Clark kept his hand at the small of your back, steadying you as you half-tripped over yourself in your rush to narrate every detail.

“Three-way kiss,” you whispered fiercely as you marched beside him through the lobby. “In public. No shame. No hesitation. I told you, Clark. I told you.”

“I know,” Clark said, hiding a smile. “You’ve only told me six times since we left the café.”

“Seven,” you corrected, stabbing your pen into the notebook for emphasis. “This makes seven.”

By the time you reached the bullpen, reporters were scattering papers across desks, phones were ringing, the smell of ink and old coffee hung heavy in the air. Clark guided you to his desk, ever the gentleman, setting down your coffee from earlier and pulling out your chair like this was a dinner party instead of the middle of a newsroom.

But before you could launch into your grand recounting for the benefit of anyone within earshot, Lois materialized at Clark’s elbow. Her expression was sharp, eyes glittering with the thrill of a hunt. She leaned against the edge of Clark’s desk, crossing her arms. “You two have a second?” she asked, voice low, conspiratorial.

You straightened immediately. “Always.”

Lois glanced around, lowering her voice even further. “You’ve noticed it too, right? With Dominic. And the interns.”

Clark froze mid-adjustment of his glasses. “Noticed what, exactly?”

“That something’s going on,” Lois hissed. “I’ve been tracking it for weeks. Late arrivals. Early departures. Mysterious coffee runs. And don’t even get me started on the supply closet incident last Tuesday.”

You gasped so loudly three heads turned in your direction. Clapping a hand over your mouth, you leaned across Clark’s desk until you were nose to nose with Lois. “You know?”

Lois raised a brow. “I’ve been investigating.”

Your heart thundered with vindication. You snapped your notebook open with a flourish, pages fanning like evidence files in a courtroom. “Lois. My sister in truth-seeking. I don’t just know. I have proof.”

Clark groaned under his breath, sinking into his chair as Lois’s eyes widened.

“Proof?”

You slapped the notebook down between you, jabbing a finger at your carefully logged entries. “Hallway kiss. Jenna and Dominic. Confirmed. Cheek kiss. Ryan and Dominic. Confirmed. Cafeteria lunch? Jenna and Dominic—interrupted by Ryan. Bathroom exits. Suspicious timing. Then the supply closet? All three. Disheveled.”

Lois whistled low. “That explains the lipstick smear.”

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “Lois—”

“Don’t interrupt,” Lois said, waving him off. She leaned in closer. “That’s good work. But what about motive? What’s their angle?”

Your eyes gleamed as you delivered the final blow. “We witnessed them. A three-way kiss.”

Lois’s mouth dropped open. “Shut up.”

“I will not,” you declared, practically vibrating with triumph. “We saw it with our own eyes. The case is closed. Dominic, Jenna, Ryan. It’s not a triangle. Not a square. It’s a full-blown triumvirate.”

Lois let out a laugh, shaking her head. “God, Perry’s gonna blow a gasket when he finds out he’s been paying them to play musical chairs in the bullpen.”

Clark cleared his throat pointedly, trying to bring some semblance of reason back into the conversation. “We are not telling Perry. This is their private business. We should just let it be.”

But Lois was already scribbling something into her reporter’s notebook, and you were basking in the glow of your victory. You closed your own notebook with a snap, grinning so wide Clark thought your face might split.

“Closed case,” you said, leaning back in your chair like a detective at the end of a noir film. “Mystery solved. Truth uncovered. Order restored.”

“Order?” Clark muttered, staring heavenward.

Lois smirked, tapping her pencil against the desk. “Not bad, rookie. You’ve got an eye for dirt.”

You glowed at the compliment. “Thank you.”

And as Lois sauntered off toward her desk, muttering about whether or not she could turn this into a gossip column, you turned back to Clark with the kind of smug satisfaction that only came from being right all along.

Now, Clark crouched, ruffling the thick fur along Krypto’s neck. The dog leaned into his touch, eyes bright with uncontainable energy, a low whine building into a sharp, impatient bark. Clark tried to reason with him, like one would with a child. “I have work today. At the Planet. Big article due. Lois is going to kill me if I don’t turn it in.” Krypto tilted his head, then licked Clark’s chin in answer, tail thumping against the floor.

The Fortress felt too pristine for this much enthusiasm. Clark glanced around at the crystalline spires and remembered how often they’d cracked or shifted just from him walking through them carelessly. He imagined Krypto barreling through at full speed, chasing his own shadow, and his stomach tightened. “Just… take it easy, okay? Don’t chew on anything that glows. Don’t open any doors that weren’t open already. And for God’s sake, stay away from the Phantom Zone projector.”

Krypto barked again, ears perked, as if Clark had just offered him a rousing game of fetch. Clark sighed, standing and smoothing down his tie, already dressed in his pressed shirt and glasses for work. He gave the dog one last pat, lingering because part of him hated leaving Krypto alone, even here. “You’ll be fine. Just… don’t make me regret this.”

When he finally turned to leave, the dog padded after him, nails tapping on crystal with every step. Clark had to gesture sharply toward the central dais. “Stay.” He tried to sound firm, but the command came out almost sheepish. Krypto froze, tail still wagging, then flopped onto the floor dramatically with a long, exaggerated sigh. Clark almost laughed. Almost.

He hesitated a moment longer, watching Krypto sprawl there in the heart of his Fortress, looking both entirely out of place and like he belonged all the same. Then Clark drew in a steadying breath, squared his shoulders, and took off into the cold polar sky.

Behind him, Krypto perked his ears the moment Clark was out of sight. A grin—if dogs could grin—seemed to tug at his mouth. He rose, gave a playful shake, and bounded straight toward the first glowing console he could find.

Clark, halfway across the globe, already had a bad feeling.

---

By the time Clark returned to the Fortress that evening, his tie was askew, his shirt wrinkled from a long day of deadlines and detours, and his patience already thin. He’d had to slip away twice during the day—once to stop a warehouse fire in Metropolis’s South End, and once to redirect a wayward satellite before it broke up over the Pacific. Neither had been catastrophic, but both had eaten into the precious time he’d needed to finish his article. Lois had teased him in that razor-sharp way of hers, “Kent, if you tell me another excuse about space debris, I’m going to start carrying a telescope to our editorial meetings.”

Now, though, as he touched down at the Fortress entrance, boots crunching against the snow, Clark felt a prickling sense of dread. The moment he stepped inside, the sound hit him. Chaos had a sound. It was clattering, crashing, the rhythmic thump of something heavy being knocked over, and—worst of all—the faint, muffled hum of Kryptonian robotics. Clark’s eyes widened.

The Superman Robots were supposed to be patrolling quietly, maintaining the Fortress, safeguarding artifacts when he wasn’t there. They were efficient, stoic, and eerily silent under normal circumstances. Tonight, however, he could hear them whirring and stomping like beleaguered orderlies chasing a toddler.

“Krypto,” Clark muttered under his breath, pinching the bridge of his nose beneath his glasses before remembering he didn’t have them on.

He moved deeper into the crystalline halls, and the sight nearly knocked the wind out of him. Three Superman Robots stood arrayed in a semicircle, their capes shredded and their once-pristine silver armor dented. One robot’s chest plate had a paw-shaped crack dented into it, still glowing faintly. Another’s head was twisted backward at an odd angle, optics flickering blue as it tried to reorient itself. And in the middle of it all was Krypto—tongue lolling, tail wagging, bounding in delighted circles around them like this was the best game of his life.

“Krypto!” Clark’s voice boomed, firm but tinged with disbelief. The dog skidded to a halt, ears flicking back, but only for a second. Then he barked joyously and launched himself straight into Clark’s chest. The impact made Clark stagger backward a step, cape whipping as he dug in his heels. “Easy, boy—easy!”

Krypto whined happily, licking at his chin before darting away again, prancing proudly toward a pile of shattered crystal that used to be a memory console. Clark groaned aloud. “That was a Kryptonian database on medicinal flora from Vathlo Island.”

One of the robots, its voice crackling through damaged speakers, tried to report. “Kal-El… subject… non-compliant. Repeat: subject… does not… heed.”

Clark ran a hand through his hair. “You’re tellin’ me.”

The Fortress looked like a tornado had touched down. Crystalline structures leaned precariously: a collection of star maps was scattered in shards across the floor, and one of Jor-El’s preserved data spheres sat in a puddle of melted ice, half-chewed and dripping dog saliva. Krypto, entirely unrepentant, trotted over with the sphere in his jaws and plopped it proudly at Clark’s feet as if he’d fetched a ball.

Clark crouched, pried the soggy relic from Krypto’s mouth, and stared at it in silent horror. “You ate a Kryptonian archive.” He held the mangled object up to the faint Fortress light, then sighed. “Lois is never going to let me live this down if she finds out I can’t even keep a dog entertained.”

Krypto barked, tail thumping against the crystalline wall with enough force to send a small fissure spidering upward. The robots immediately moved to stabilize the structure, mechanical arms stretching out with a hum of effort. Clark shot them a look that was equal parts apology and exasperation.

“Stand down,” he told them. “I’ll take it from here.”

The robots retreated, optics dimming, though one lingered just a little too long, as if suspicious the chaos might reignite. Clark exhaled and glanced back down at Krypto, who was panting happily, sitting squarely in the wreckage of priceless alien history like the picture of innocence.

Clark sat back on his heels, rubbing a hand over his face, and admitted aloud what he’d been avoiding all day. “I can’t leave you here.”

Krypto tilted his head, ears twitching at the softened tone.

Clark reached out, scratching behind one of them, and felt the big body lean into him with absolute trust. The Fortress was too fragile, too alien, too precious to survive another day of Krypto’s enthusiasm. No matter how much Clark wanted to keep his lives separate—the cape, the apartment, the work deadlines, the family ties—this dog wasn’t going to allow it.

“I’ll have to bring you home,” he murmured, already picturing the disaster waiting to unfold in his small apartment. Lois might drop by. You might drop by. The couch was barely big enough for him, let alone a Kryptonian dog. And yet, as Krypto shoved his snout against Clark’s chest, demanding more attention, Clark couldn’t help but smile despite himself. “Fine,” he said, resigned, gathering the wriggling dog in his arms. “But you’d better behave.”

The dog barked once, loud enough to echo through the entire Fortress, as if promising nothing of the sort.

---

Clark paused outside the apartment door with Krypto tucked against his chest like a wriggling football, his cape still brushing the hallway floor. Clark could feel every ounce of Kryptonian strength vibrating under the fur. Krypto had been squirming the entire flight from the Arctic, tail smacking Clark in the ribs, his nose pressed up against the wind like he wanted to leap out of Clark’s arms and chase the clouds.

Now, as Clark shifted his grip to free one hand for the keys, Krypto gave a sharp bark that echoed down the hallway. Clark winced. “Shh,” he whispered, glancing toward the neighboring doors. “Mrs. Alvarez already thinks I sneak barn animals into the apartment. Don’t give her proof.”

The door opened, and the familiar warmth of your shared apartment wrapped around him—lamplight glowing golden over the bookshelves, the faint smell of coffee lingering from your evening cup, a softness that always tugged him back from the day’s noise. He closed the door with his foot, set Krypto carefully down on the floor, and straightened his glasses.

He barely got the chance to call your name before you appeared from the kitchen, drying your hands on a towel, a question already on your lips. “Clark? You’re late, I was starting to—” You stopped short when your eyes landed on the dog sitting proudly by his boots, ears perked, tail wagging so fast it was a blur. “Oh my God.”

Clark’s throat went dry. He tried for casual. “So, uh… this is Krypto.”

The name hadn’t even settled in the air before Krypto bounded forward, nails clicking against the hardwood. He leapt halfway into your arms, tail thrashing like he’d just found his long-lost best friend. You laughed, dropping the towel as you crouched to meet him, and Clark’s stomach gave a strange flip at the sound.

“He’s perfect,” you said, burying your fingers in the thick fur at his neck. Krypto wriggled, tongue lolling as he tried to lick your cheek, and you let him, laughing harder when he nearly knocked you back on your heels.

Clark darted forward instinctively, one hand catching your elbow to steady you, his other hovering near the dog’s collar. “Careful! He doesn’t really—he’s not used to people. He doesn’t know his strength.”

But you just grinned up at him from where you were half-crouched, half-toppled under a very happy Kryptonian dog. “Clark, relax. He’s wonderful.”

Krypto barked, as if agreeing, and plopped down in your lap as though he had known you his whole life. You scratched behind his ears, and his entire body leaned into the touch with such obvious devotion that Clark felt something prick at his chest.

“I usually leave him at the Fortress,” Clark admitted reluctantly, crouching down beside you both. His big hand smoothed down Krypto’s back, more out of habit than anything, and Krypto rewarded him by promptly shifting his weight further into you, nearly ignoring Clark altogether. “Safer that way. He… has a lot of energy.”

“A lot of energy, huh?” You teased, scratching under Krypto’s chin. “Sounds familiar.”

Clark shot you a look, the corner of his mouth twitching despite himself.

The apartment suddenly felt smaller, not because Krypto took up so much space—he wasn’t huge—but because of the presence he carried. His tail knocked into the coffee table, sending one of Clark’s neatly stacked newspapers sliding to the floor. His nose was already twitching toward the kitchen, curious, hungry, alive. And you, beaming down at him, only made it worse.

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, uncertain. “He’s never been in a regular apartment before. Just Kara. And Mr. Terrific once.”

You raised your brows, still scratching at Krypto’s ears. “So basically… no one?”

Clark sighed. “Not really.”

“Well,” you said cheerfully, leaning down to press your forehead against Krypto’s for a moment, “he’s doing just fine with me.”

Krypto barked again, sharp and happy, and licked your chin. Clark wanted to groan because he could see it already—Krypto was besotted with you. And you with him. He stood there, arms folded, as you cooed and laughed, and muttered under his breath, “Great. Guess I’m not the favorite anymore.”

You looked up at him then, smiling in that way that always unraveled him. “Oh, you’re just jealous.”

Clark rolled his eyes, but the heat blooming across his chest betrayed him. Krypto, blissfully unaware of the tension in Clark’s shoulders, wriggled in your lap again and then barked like he was announcing his new allegiance to the entire building.

Clark sighed, long and heavy, and resigned himself to the truth: life in this apartment had just become a lot more complicated. And—he admitted silently, watching the way you leaned into Krypto’s warmth—it had also become a lot warmer.

Later that night, the apartment felt nothing like its usual quiet refuge.

Clark had hoped—prayed, really—that Krypto would wear himself out after the initial excitement, maybe curl up on the rug with a chew toy and drift into doggy dreams. That was what normal dogs did, right? He had read enough of Pa’s Guide to Raising Farm Pups to think it was a safe bet. But Kryptonian dogs, as it turned out, did not abide by normal rules.

The first sign of trouble had been the couch. You had convinced Clark to let Krypto climb up “just for a little cuddle,” but the dog had promptly sprawled across the entire thing, tail hanging over one armrest and paws nudging Clark off balance. You, naturally, had fit yourself into the sliver of space he left, scratching behind his ears, while Clark sat stiffly on the very edge, newspaper folded but unread in his lap.

“See? He’s an angel,” you’d said, grinning when Krypto rolled over to nuzzle your side.

Clark’s response had been a muttered, “That’s one word for it,” though his hand had betrayed him by absentmindedly smoothing over Krypto’s fur.

The second sign of trouble was the kitchen. You had gone in to refill your mug, only to find Krypto had discovered the trash can and was nose-deep in paper towels. When Clark tried to pull him back, Krypto let out a sharp, playful bark that rattled the utensils in their drawer and made Clark wince.

Now, an hour later, Clark stood in the living room, arms crossed, watching Krypto parade around with one of his capes clenched triumphantly in his jaws. The bright red fabric trailed behind him like some victory flag as he leapt onto the couch, then off again, circling the room with uncontainable glee.

“I told you not to leave that lying around,” you said between helpless laughter, perched on the arm of the chair as if watching some private circus act.

Clark pinched the bridge of his nose. “That’s not just any cape. That one’s reinforced with a Kryptonian weave—took me hours to calibrate the fabric printer. And now it’s covered in drool.”

Krypto barked, shaking the cape vigorously, then bounded toward you and deposited it proudly in your lap. His tail wagged so hard Clark swore he could feel the floor vibrating.

“Drool and love,” you corrected gently, scratching under Krypto’s chin. “Besides, it’s not like he can destroy it. You said it was indestructible.”

“That doesn’t mean I want it chewed on,” Clark shot back, though his voice lacked heat. He watched as you leaned into Krypto’s affection, your laughter soft and unguarded, and the frustration in him tugged sideways into something warmer. He had faced intergalactic tyrants with less power to undo him than that smile.

The dog, thoroughly pleased with himself, hopped up beside you on the chair, pressing close until you were half-pinned against the armrest. You didn’t seem to mind. In fact, you cooed, “aren’t you just the best boy?” in the voice Clark had privately hoped you’d save for him.

Clark huffed and turned toward the window, muttering under his breath, “I save the world daily and still can’t compete with a dog.”

“Clark Kent,” you called, and when he glanced back, you were looking at him with that sharp, fond gaze that always cut through his sulking. “You’re just jealous because he listens to me.”

“I am not jealous.” He folded his arms tighter.

“You’re jealous,” you said sweetly, rubbing your nose against Krypto’s. The dog let out a soft whine and wagged harder.

Clark’s ears went red. He turned away again, trying to hold his ground, but the faint sound of your giggle followed him, curling under his ribs like a hook tugging him closer.

By the time the lights were dimmed for the night, Krypto had claimed the foot of your bed with all the entitlement of a king returning to his throne. Clark stood at the doorway, hands braced on the frame, staring down at the sight of you curled up under the blanket with Krypto sprawled happily across your feet. The dog’s eyes were half-shut, ears twitching in some dream, tail thumping every so often.

“Unbelievable,” Clark murmured, but his voice was soft. He moved closer, sliding onto the other side of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight. He lay back, eyes on the ceiling for a long moment before glancing sideways.

You were smiling in the half-light, one hand still resting on Krypto’s back. “He’s family, Clark,” you said quietly, as if reading his thoughts. “And he loves you. He just… really likes me, too.”

Clark let out a breath, half a laugh, half a sigh. He leaned over, pressing a quick kiss to your forehead, the warmth of both of you pressed close was steadying, grounding in a way even the Fortress never managed.

Krypto gave a contented snuffle, stretching his paws out until one rested on Clark’s ankle. And in that small, ridiculous gesture, Clark finally let himself relax, tension slipping from his shoulders.

Maybe this wasn’t what he’d planned. Maybe it wasn’t tidy or controlled. But as he drifted into sleep with you at his side and a Kryptonian dog sprawled at his feet, he couldn’t shake the quiet thought settling in his chest, maybe this was what home was supposed to feel like.

---

The morning sun streamed pale and gold through the curtains, the kind of light that made the whole apartment look softer than it really was. Clark had just finished buttoning his shirt when he heard it: the unmistakable sound of claws skittering against hardwood, followed by a sharp, eager bark. He turned and found you standing in the living room, already tugging on your jacket, while Krypto bounded in frantic circles around you, leash clamped between his teeth.

“See?” you said, grinning at Clark as he emerged from the bedroom. “He knows what it means. He wants to go out.”

Clark rubbed the back of his neck, looking less than convinced. “He’s never been on a walk before. Not… like this. Kara usually just lets him fly alongside her when she goes off-world.”

You raised an eyebrow as you bent to clip the leash to Krypto’s collar, the dog nearly vibrating out of his fur with excitement. “So he’s never touched grass? Never sniffed at a fire hydrant? Clark, that’s practically cruel.”

Clark opened his mouth to argue, then closed it again, because the truth was he didn’t have a counterpoint. He watched as you crouched to check the clip and scratch behind Krypto’s ears, and something twisted warmly in his chest. He was still adjusting to this—seeing you fold so easily into parts of his life he had kept separate for so long—but you made it look effortless.

Ten minutes later, the three of you were outside on the quiet Metropolis block, early enough that the traffic hadn’t hit its full roar yet. You held the leash firmly, Krypto trotting at your side, tail wagging like a metronome. Clark walked on your other side, arms folded, scanning the street with that ever-present caution.

At first, it seemed… normal. Krypto sniffed lampposts, tugged slightly at the leash, his nose low to the sidewalk. People who passed by gave friendly smiles, one or two even pausing to comment on how handsome he was. You beamed at each compliment, while Clark managed tight, polite nods, every muscle in his body coiled as if expecting disaster.

The disaster arrived two blocks later.

It started with a squirrel. Krypto froze, ears up, tail stiff, gaze locked on the tiny creature darting across the grass. You barely had time to murmur, “Oh no—” before Krypto lunged, yanking you forward with a strength that belied his size. You stumbled, laughing despite yourself, trying to hold on.

Clark reacted instantly, catching your elbow with one hand, grabbing the leash with the other. “Krypto, stop!” he barked, voice firm, the same voice that stopped runaway trains and disarmed hostile generals.

Krypto did not stop.

Instead, he bolted down the path, dragging both of you in his wake. Clark could have ended it, of course—he could have planted his heels and the leash would have been like a steel chain. But part of him was too startled, too human in the moment, trying not to yank you off your feet. So the three of you barreled down the sidewalk, you laughing breathlessly, Clark gritting his teeth, and Krypto gleeful as a rocket.

When they finally skidded to a stop at the edge of the park, the squirrel having vanished up a tree, Krypto barked triumphantly, chest puffed out, leash slack at last. You leaned against Clark, breathless, your cheeks flushed with amusement. “That… was incredible.”

“Incredible?” Clark echoed, still catching his breath though he didn’t need it. His tie was crooked, his glasses askew, and he looked like a man utterly defeated by a medium-sized dog. “He nearly dragged you into traffic.”

You straightened, smoothing your jacket, your smile wide. “But he didn’t. He just… wanted the squirrel. That’s normal.”

“Normal?” Clark repeated, incredulous.

“Normal,” you insisted. “This is what it’s like to have a dog, Clark. They pull. They chase things. They make a mess. And you love them anyway.”

Krypto wagged his tail, trotting over to press his nose against Clark’s knee. Clark looked down at him, torn between exasperation and affection. The dog gazed up at him with wide, trusting eyes, and Clark sighed, the fight draining out of him. He reached down, rubbed behind Krypto’s ears, and muttered, “you’re lucky she likes you.”

Krypto barked once, sharp and pleased, as if fully aware he’d just won. You looped your arm through Clark’s, tugging him toward the walking path that wound around the park. “Come on. Let him enjoy it. You might even enjoy it, too, if you’d let yourself.”

Clark glanced down at you, at the warmth in your smile, at the ease with which you strolled alongside both him and the dog, and felt the corner of his mouth curve despite himself. Maybe this was chaos. Maybe it was risk. But with you laughing beside him and Krypto trotting proudly ahead, tail held high, it didn’t feel so terrifying.

It felt… almost perfect.

---

Clark had warned you—half seriously, half in that “I’ve seen things” tone of his—not to underestimate Krypto’s energy. You’d smiled, promised to be careful, and sent him off to work with a kiss pressed against his jaw and a quiet, “we’ll be fine.”

You meant it. You were fine. For the first ten minutes.

Krypto was trotting at your side as you left the apartment, tail wagging briskly, nose twitching in every direction as if the world were a buffet of scents and possibilities. He behaved beautifully in the elevator, sitting when you told him to and staring with that wide-eyed focus that made your heart melt. But the moment the doors slid open and the city noises hit him—the chorus of horns, chatter, the hum of food carts—Krypto perked up like someone had flipped a switch.

He wasn’t pulling, exactly. Just... leading with purpose.

“All right, General,” you teased under your breath as he guided you down the sidewalk. “Where to?”

Your destination came to you when you passed a bright corner shop with a sign that read Paws & Claws Pet Emporium. The window display was an explosion of colors: squeaky toys shaped like donuts, plush animals, chew ropes, tiny dog sweaters in pastel shades. Krypto froze mid-step, nose pressed to the glass, tail wagging.

You laughed softly. “Oh, so this is what you wanted.”

When you stepped inside, the little bell over the door jingled, and Krypto immediately inhaled so deeply that you could almost see his ribcage expand. The shop was small but cozy, all shelves and bins and warm wood floors, and you could practically feel him vibrating beside you.

“Welcome!” chirped the woman behind the counter—a cheerful brunette with a nametag that read Molly. Her gaze flicked down to Krypto, and her whole face lit up. “Well, aren’t you handsome? What breed is he?”

You froze for half a second. Clark’s warnings about secrecy echoed faintly in your mind. You smiled, a touch sheepishly. “Uh… special. Very… limited edition.”

Molly laughed, taking it as a joke. “Well, he’s adorable. Feel free to look around. We’ve got a sale on winter gear!”

You crouched beside Krypto, tugging his leash gently. “Okay, you heard her. Pick something, buddy.”

You hadn’t expected him to actually understand, but Krypto tilted his head, sniffed once, and trotted straight toward a bin of toys shaped like bones. He nudged one out—a bright blue one that squeaked when it hit the floor—and barked once, short and decisive.

“Oh, that’s a good choice,” you said, grinning as you picked it up. “You’ve got taste.”

From there, it was like shopping with a child. He’d stop at each aisle, nose buried in bins and baskets, occasionally looking back at you for approval. He picked out a rope tug, a plush penguin—which he promptly tried to carry around the store—and, after an extended sniff test, one of those treat puzzle toys that looked far too complicated for a dog. You decided to buy all of it.

But then you turned a corner and saw it.

A rack of dog sweaters in every imaginable pattern. There were solid colors, stripes, even tiny superhero-themed ones—though thankfully none that directly mimicked Superman’s crest. Still, something about the soft, cozy look of them made you grin.

You held one up, a navy blue knit with a little white star pattern scattered across the back. “What do you think?” you asked, crouching to hold it up at his eye level.

Krypto sniffed it, then licked your wrist approvingly.

“That’s a yes,” you declared.

The fitting process was more complicated than you’d expected. Krypto was patient, but fidgety, turning his head to watch you the entire time as if unsure why his human was insisting on wrapping him in yarn. When you finally slipped his front paws through and adjusted the sweater around his chest, he stood there for a moment, motionless. Then, with a soft, pleased sound, he gave a little shake and wagged his tail.

The woman at the counter cooed. “He looks so handsome! You’ve got a model on your hands.”

Krypto puffed up at the praise, chest out, tail high. You couldn’t help laughing. “He knows it, too.”

By the time you left the store, you were carrying a small mountain of shopping bags and a very proud Kryptonian dog. The walk home was slower—mostly because people kept stopping you. Kids asked to pet him, older couples complimented his sweater, and Krypto soaked it up like sunlight. You found yourself telling harmless little stories: that he belonged to your boyfriend, that he’d been cooped up too long, that yes, he was just this well-behaved.

It wasn’t until you got home, setting the bags down with a satisfied sigh, that you realized how much fun you’d had. The apartment was warm and quiet, sunlight spilling across the floor. You unhooked Krypto’s leash, and he immediately trotted to his new toys, nose diving into the bag until he found the blue bone.

You leaned against the counter, smiling as he settled onto the rug, squeaking the toy like it was his new mission in life. “Clark’s not going to believe this,” you murmured, amused.

And when Clark finally came home that evening, tired from work and loosening his tie at the door, he paused mid-step. Krypto bounded up to greet him, sweater shining, tail wagging, toy in his mouth. Clark blinked. “...What happened?”

You crossed your arms, trying to suppress a laugh. “We went shopping.”

He looked between you and the dog, utterly lost. “Shopping?”

“For toys. And clothes. He picked this one himself.”

Krypto barked as if to confirm it, tail whacking Clark’s knee. Clark’s lips twitched, his exhaustion dissolving into disbelief and reluctant fondness. “You bought my dog a wardrobe.”

“Correction,” you said, stepping forward to kiss his cheek. “Our dog. And he looks adorable.”

Clark looked down again, watching Krypto prance toward his bed, sweater glinting in the warm light. He sighed, long and quiet, before muttering, “you’re never going to let me live this down, are you?”

You grinned. “Not a chance.”

And when Krypto flopped happily onto the couch, squeaky bone in his mouth, tail thumping against the cushion, even Clark couldn’t help the soft smile tugging at his lips. For all the chaos the dog had brought, the apartment felt a little fuller. A little warmer. And maybe—he thought, glancing at you—just a little more like home.

---

By the time Clark had loosened his tie and shrugged off his coat the next day, the apartment felt alive in a way it rarely did at the end of his workday. The light through the curtains had gone amber with sunset, and you were kneeling on the rug, laughing breathlessly as Krypto pounced on something bright and fuzzy. The sound of squeaking filled the air—sharp, insistent, joyful—and Clark froze in the doorway with a look of utter confusion.

Krypto’s tail was a blur, the navy sweater you’d bought him slightly askew on one shoulder. Between his teeth was a small plush penguin, its stitched eyes already a little crooked from enthusiasm. He’d toss it into the air, watch it bounce, and then leap to catch it again, paws sliding over the hardwood with every bound.

You looked up when you heard the door click shut. “Clark! You’re home.”

He took a cautious step inside, setting his briefcase by the wall. “I… am. What’s going on here?”

“Krypto discovered his favorite toy,” you said with the kind of pride one reserved for a child’s art project. “Meet Mr. Waddles.”

“Mr. Waddles?” Clark repeated flatly, eyes following as Krypto launched the penguin halfway across the room, caught it midair, and landed in an exuberant sprawl that knocked a throw pillow off the couch. “Is that what we’re calling it?”

Krypto barked once in approval, then pranced over to Clark, penguin still in his mouth, and shoved it into his leg like an offering. Clark blinked down at him, bewildered. “He wants you to throw it,” you explained, amused.

“I just got home,” he said weakly.

“Exactly. Bonding time.”

Clark sighed—long, theatrical, but not really annoyed—and crouched to take the toy. The instant it left Krypto’s mouth, the dog crouched low, muscles coiled, eyes bright. Clark hesitated a moment, gauging the distance, then tossed it gently toward the far wall. Krypto shot forward in a blur of motion, claws scraping faintly on the floor as he caught the penguin in one leap.

“He’s fast,” you said softly, watching him with a smile that made Clark’s chest tighten.

“Faster than he should be,” Clark admitted, though his lips twitched upward. “I told you he’s not exactly—”

“Normal?” you teased, glancing over your shoulder. “You think?”

Krypto came trotting back proudly, chest puffed, penguin squeaking between his jaws. He deposited it neatly at Clark’s feet again and wagged his tail, waiting expectantly. “Oh no,” Clark murmured. “Now he thinks it’s a game.”

You leaned back on your heels, eyes dancing. “It is a game.”

Clark threw it again. And again. And again. Each time, Krypto brought it back with a joy so pure that even Clark couldn’t resist smiling. He adjusted his throw subtly—underhand this time, higher arc, a little spin—and Krypto bounded after it with a small bark that echoed off the walls.

At one point, the penguin landed on the couch. Krypto didn’t hesitate; he leapt straight up, grabbed it mid-bounce, and sent two cushions tumbling to the floor. You clapped your hands over your mouth to stifle laughter while Clark groaned, rubbing his forehead. “I just fluffed those this morning,” he muttered.

“He’s expressing himself,” you said through your giggles.

“He’s destroying the furniture.”

“Same thing.”

Clark shot you a look, but it was softened by the warmth in his eyes. He reached down as Krypto trotted back, panting and happy, and scratched behind his ear. “You’re lucky she thinks you’re cute.”

Krypto wagged harder, pressing into Clark’s touch. The penguin squeaked between them. Clark took it again, absently tossing it toward you this time. You caught it, surprised, and Krypto instantly spun, waiting for your throw.

“You try,” Clark said. “Let’s see if he listens to you.”

You tossed it lightly, the penguin tumbling end over end until it bounced against the far wall. Krypto bounded after it, tail wagging wildly, and brought it back—not to Clark, but to you.

Clark huffed. “Of course. Traitor.”

You laughed, reaching out to ruffle his hair affectionately. “Don’t take it personally, Smallville. He just knows who buys the toys.”

Krypto dropped the penguin in your lap, then leaned his weight against your knee, panting contentedly. The sweater he wore had slipped further to one side, his fur sticking out in soft tufts around the collar. You adjusted it gently while Clark watched, his heart tugging in a quiet, familiar way.

It wasn’t often that he saw you this way—completely at ease, smiling without restraint, surrounded by warmth and sound. He’d spent so long compartmentalizing his life: the hero, the reporter, the alien, the man who never quite fit. But now, watching you on the floor with Krypto in your lap, he felt something else entirely. Something whole.

When you finally looked up, his expression made you pause. “What?” you asked softly.

Clark shook his head, a small smile curving his mouth. “Nothing. Just… never thought I’d come home to this.”

“To what?”

He glanced at Krypto, who was now dozing happily across your legs, penguin still clutched between his paws. Then back at you. “Peace. Noise. You. Him. All of it.”

Your smile gentled, eyes soft. “You like it, don’t you?”

He hesitated for half a second before nodding. “Yeah. I do.”

You shifted slightly, patting the rug beside you. “Then come sit with us.”

Clark sank down beside you, legs stretched out, and Krypto stirred just enough to drape one paw over his thigh, tail giving a lazy thump. You leaned your head against Clark’s shoulder, and for a long moment, the world was quiet except for the faint squeak of the penguin as Krypto dreamed. Clark exhaled, the tension of the day bleeding out of him. “He’s not so bad,” he murmured, almost to himself.

“Told you so,” you whispered, eyes closed.

Krypto shifted again, sighing happily, and Clark couldn’t help smiling into your hair. He would never admit it aloud, not to Kara or Lois or anyone else, but as he watched Krypto curl closer and felt your weight against him, Clark realized that this—this tiny, chaotic, ordinary kind of happiness—was worth every crystal the dog had destroyed in the Fortress.

---

It started innocently enough—a lazy Saturday morning, sunlight slanting through the apartment windows, the kind of calm that Clark had once sworn didn’t exist in Metropolis. You were sitting cross-legged on the living-room rug with a mug of coffee balanced beside you, watching Krypto roll around with the penguin toy. His sweater had been replaced by a bright red collar, and he looked so self-satisfied it was impossible not to smile.

Clark, however, had that look—the one that meant he’d been thinking. Overthinking, really. He leaned against the kitchen counter, arms crossed, his reporter-slash-Superman frown creasing slightly.

“You’re plotting,” you said without looking up.

“I’m not plotting.”

“You are. That’s your plotting face. I’ve seen it before. Usually right before you fix something that wasn’t broken.”

Clark sighed, pushing off the counter and walking toward you. “I just think,” he said, crouching beside you, “that maybe it’s time to establish a little order. You know. Rules. Commands.”

You raised an eyebrow. “Rules? For him?”

“He listens to you,” Clark pointed out, glancing toward Krypto, who had abandoned the penguin to chase his own tail. “Sort of. But he doesn’t listen to me. And if he’s going to keep living here, I can’t keep playing fetch with a dog who can accidentally chew through titanium.”

You grinned. “You’re jealous that he doesn’t listen to you.”

“I’m not jealous,” he said, a little too quickly.

“Mm-hmm.” You patted the floor in front of you. “Fine. Let’s train him. What’s your plan, Coach Kent?”

Clark brightened just slightly, the way he did when given a mission. “Start simple. Sit, stay, come.”

You clapped your hands. “Classic.”

Krypto perked his head up at the sound, tail thumping expectantly. You patted the rug in front of you. “Okay, buddy. Sit.”

To your delight, he immediately sat, straight as a statue, ears up, tongue lolling.

You beamed. “See? He already knows.”

Clark blinked, clearly unimpressed. “Beginner’s luck.”

“Watch this,” you said smugly. “Krypto, paw.” Krypto lifted one paw and placed it delicately in your hand. You cooed over him while Clark stared, open-mouthed.

“He’s showing off,” Clark muttered.

You tilted your head. “You try.”

Clark shifted forward, clearing his throat. “All right, boy. Sit.” Krypto blinked, tilted his head, and then promptly laid down, paws stretched out, chin on the floor.

You bit your lip to keep from laughing. “Well. That’s… a variation.”

Clark’s brow furrowed. “He’s doing this on purpose.”

“Clark, he’s a dog, not Lex Luthor.”

He ignored that. “Krypto, come.” Krypto stayed where he was, blinking serenely up at him. “Krypto,” Clark said again, voice firmer now. The dog yawned.

You lost the battle with your laughter then, snorting into your sleeve. Clark shot you a glare that was completely undermined by the faint flush creeping up his neck.

“I swear he’s doing this to spite me,” he muttered.

You wiped a tear of laughter from your cheek. “Maybe he just likes my voice better.” Krypto barked once, as if agreeing.

Clark leaned back on his heels, groaning softly. “I can’t believe this. I’ve negotiated ceasefires with alien warlords, and I’m being ignored by a dog.”

You slid closer, bumping his shoulder gently. “You could try asking nicely.”

“I did ask nicely.”

“No,” you said, reaching over to scratch under Krypto’s chin, “you commanded. He’s not your soldier. He’s family.”

Clark gave you a look that softened into something almost sheepish. “You really believe that?”

“Of course,” you said simply. “He trusts you. He just doesn’t know that he’s supposed to listen yet.”

There was a long pause. Then Clark’s lips twitched. “So you’re saying I have to earn his respect?”

You grinned. “Exactly. Think of it as diplomacy, not enforcement.”

He considered that, glancing back at Krypto, who was now chewing gently on the penguin toy again. Then, with a small sigh, he crouched down so that he was eye-level with him. “Hey,” he said softly. “Look at me.”

Krypto paused mid-chew, ears twitching.

Clark’s tone changed—less commanding now, more gentle, almost amused. “I know you like her better. I get it. She’s nicer, she smells like coffee, and she gives you treats. But sometimes, you’ve got to meet me halfway, okay?”

You had to bite your lip again to keep from laughing, but you stayed quiet this time. Krypto blinked once, then twice. Then, slowly, he sat up.

Clark blinked right back. “...Did he just—”

“Uh-huh,” you said, smiling. “He sat.”

Clark frowned suspiciously. “Did you signal him?”

You held up both hands in mock surrender. “Nope. That was all you.”

Krypto barked once, proud and bright. Clark stared at him, then at you, then let out a slow, incredulous laugh. “Unbelievable. He actually listened.”

“See? Diplomacy works.”

Clark’s smile widened. “Maybe there’s hope for us yet.”

You leaned in slightly, teasing. “I never doubted you, Kent.”

The rest of the morning passed in an easy rhythm. You worked on “stay,” then “come,” rewarding Krypto with small treats and praise. Clark joined in, slowly loosening up, his laughter genuine as Krypto bounded between you both with tail-wagging enthusiasm. The dog’s joy was contagious—every success, every exaggerated high-five of his paw against your palm made the apartment feel lighter.

By noon, the three of you were sprawled on the rug, Krypto stretched between you, panting happily while you and Clark caught your breath. Clark brushed a strand of hair from your face, his fingers lingering for just a moment too long.

“He did pretty well,” you said softly.

“He did great,” Clark admitted. Then, quieter, “So did you.”

You smiled, eyes meeting his. “Team effort.”

Krypto gave a low, contented huff, as if agreeing, and rested his head on Clark’s knee. Clark chuckled, absently stroking his fur. “Guess we’re both officially trained now,” he murmured.

You laughed, nudging his shoulder. “Don’t act like you didn’t need it.”

He turned to you, expression soft and entirely unguarded. “Yeah,” he said, voice low. “Maybe I did.”

---

It was supposed to be a quick stop. Clark had said it as he slipped his glasses higher on his nose, the picture of mild-mannered calm, “two minutes. Promise. They’ve got that brand of coffee you like.” And with that, he’d disappeared inside the corner store, leaving you and Krypto waiting on the sidewalk.

It was one of those warm, golden afternoons when Metropolis seemed almost gentle—buses gliding by, kids laughing down the block, the faint hiss of a street vendor’s cart. You stood just outside the door, leash in hand, while Krypto sat obediently beside you. He’d been well-behaved all day, tail wagging, ears twitching at every new sound but never straying too far from your leg.

You reached down to scratch the fur at the back of his neck. “See? We’re getting the hang of this,” you murmured. “No chaos, no broken furniture. Maybe you are just a normal dog after all.”

Krypto tilted his head as if offended by the notion, then sneezed, the leash jingling. You laughed quietly.

It happened fast.

A man brushed past—hood up despite the warmth, his movements sharp and jittery. You barely registered him until he stopped near the store window, glancing inside. His hands twitched. Then you saw the metal flash at his waist.

Your heart stuttered.

You opened your mouth to speak—to call Clark—but Krypto moved before you could form a sound. One second he was seated; the next, he was a streak of white and red, the leash snapping taut and then loose as the clasp gave way. The man turned, startled, as Krypto hit him full-force in the chest, knocking him backward into a display of newspaper racks.

The gun clattered to the ground, skidding across the pavement. Krypto planted himself between you and the man, growling low—a sound that vibrated deep and otherworldly, not the bark of an ordinary dog but something that resonated in the air.

People froze on the sidewalk. A few gasped. Someone shouted for the police. You stood there, pulse hammering, watching Krypto’s body coil protectively, his teeth bared just enough to make the threat clear.

The man tried to push himself up, muttering curses, but Krypto shoved him back down with one paw, his eyes glowing faintly gold. Not bright enough for anyone else to notice, maybe—but you did.

And then Clark was there. You didn’t even see him come out of the store; one moment the door swung open, and the next his hand was already on the man’s shoulder, voice low and deceptively calm. “You don’t want to make another move.”

The man froze, something in Clark’s tone—the authority that always bled through when he forgot to mask it—turning his defiance into silence. Within seconds, two bystanders had called the police, and Clark gently herded Krypto back toward you.

You knelt immediately, hands trembling as you took hold of Krypto’s collar. “You—oh my God, you did so good,” you whispered, pressing your forehead against his. He was panting lightly but still alert, eyes fixed on the man until Clark murmured something in Kryptonian—soft and low. Only then did Krypto relax.

When the officers arrived, Clark handled the explanation with his usual mild precision: he’d seen the man acting suspiciously through the store window; his dog reacted instinctively; no one was hurt. The officers accepted the story easily—after all, it wasn’t every day that a perfectly behaved white dog stopped a robbery before it started.

By the time the commotion died down, the street had returned to something like normal. The shopkeeper was shaking Clark’s hand, the police led the man away, and you stood there still catching your breath while Krypto leaned against your legs as if nothing out of the ordinary had happened.

Clark turned to you finally, eyes searching your face. “You okay?”

You nodded, though your voice came out thin. “I’m fine. Just—he moved so fast.” You looked down at Krypto, still pressed to your side. “He… he really protected me.”

Clark crouched next to the dog, his expression unreadable for a moment. Then he smiled faintly and rested a hand on Krypto’s head. “He’s a good boy,” he said quietly, pride threading through his voice. “He was bred to protect. Guess instincts kick in even when we don’t want them to.”

You reached out, brushing your fingers through Krypto’s fur. He leaned into both of you, tail thumping softly, the tension finally easing from his body.

“Remind me,” you murmured, trying to sound light even as your pulse still raced, “to never underestimate him again.”

Clark’s smile deepened. “I don’t think anyone will.”

The three of you stayed like that for a moment on the sunlit sidewalk—Clark’s arm draped around your shoulders, Krypto sitting tall between you, eyes bright and alert. The air smelled of coffee and asphalt and faintly of adrenaline, but beneath it all, there was something steady. Safety.

Clark leaned in, voice just for you now. “He’s part of us,” he said. “And he’s always going to make sure you’re safe.”

You looked down at Krypto, who wagged once as if confirming the promise. Then you smiled, a soft, shaky thing that finally reached your eyes. “Guess I’ve got two heroes watching out for me now.”

Clark chuckled, pressing a kiss to your temple before standing and offering his hand. “Come on. Let’s go home.”

Krypto trotted proudly at your side, tail swinging high, and for the first time, Clark didn’t even bother to hide the small, proud grin tugging at the corner of his mouth.

By the time the three of you turned the corner and started down the next block, the rush of adrenaline had faded into something softer. Clark’s hand was still threaded through yours, his thumb absently tracing the back of your knuckles while Krypto trotted a little ahead, tail waving like a white flag in the breeze. The city had settled back into its rhythm around you—buses sighing to stops, snippets of laughter spilling out of nearby shops, the steady hum of afternoon life carrying on as if nothing extraordinary had just happened.

You were the one who spotted Jitters first, the familiar glow of its sign spilling out through tall glass windows. The smell of roasted coffee hit you before you even crossed the street, warm and sweet and grounding. You tugged lightly on Clark’s hand. “Let’s stop,” you said. “I think we’ve all earned something.”

Clark hesitated. “You sure you want to sit somewhere public right now? After…” He gestured vaguely back toward the direction of the chaos.

You squeezed his hand, smiling faintly. “Clark, he’s fine. I’m fine. You handled everything. Besides”—you looked down at Krypto, who was sniffing a lamppost, utterly unbothered—“he deserves a treat. His first official hero moment.”

That earned the smallest, reluctant smile from Clark. “You want to get him coffee?”

“No,” you said with mock scandal, “I want to get him a pup cup.”

Clark blinked. “A what?”

You laughed, tugging him toward the café. “You’ll see.”

Inside, Jitters was cozy as ever—soft jazz humming under the low chatter, baristas moving with the quick rhythm of practiced efficiency. Clark held the door for you and Krypto, and as you stepped in, a few heads turned at the sight of the dog. He wasn’t exactly inconspicuous, pristine white fur, bright red collar, and the air of a creature who knew he’d just saved the day.

You led him to a quiet corner table while Clark went to order, your fingers trailing through the fur behind his ears. “You did good,” you murmured, watching his tail thump against the floor. “Scared me half to death, but—you were amazing.” Krypto gave a soft, almost bashful huff and nudged your palm until you started petting him again.

A few minutes later, Clark returned with two steaming cups and one small paper cup piled high with whipped cream. He set it on the table in front of Krypto with a deadpan expression. “So this is what a pup cup is.”

You grinned. “Behold: civilization’s greatest invention.”

Krypto sniffed the cup curiously, then looked up at you for permission. You nodded encouragingly. “Go ahead, hero.”

He dipped his nose into the whipped cream—and immediately snorted, pulling back with a confused little shake of his head. You burst out laughing. Clark’s hand went to his mouth, trying to hide his own smile, but the effort failed when Krypto dove back in with sudden enthusiasm, lapping at the treat with growing delight. A streak of cream smeared across his snout, and you leaned forward with a napkin, trying unsuccessfully to wipe it off while he squirmed and wagged his tail.

“He’s going to make a mess,” Clark murmured, amusement threading through his voice.

“He already did,” you said, still laughing. “But look at him! He’s so proud.”

Krypto licked the last of the whipped cream from the bottom of the cup, then sat back on his haunches, tail sweeping the floor. When Clark offered him a small napkin to clean up the remaining cream, Krypto simply licked Clark’s hand instead.

You couldn’t stop smiling. The three of you probably looked ridiculous—an ordinary couple and their extraordinary dog in a corner café—but the moment felt too perfect to care.

Clark leaned back in his chair, stirring his coffee absently, eyes soft as they lingered on you. “You know,” he said quietly, “I’ve seen him do some incredible things. On other worlds. In the Fortress. But I don’t think I’ve ever seen him look this happy.”

You rested your chin on your hand, still watching Krypto lick the inside of the empty cup. “Maybe he just needed a taste of normal.”

Clark’s gaze drifted back to you, and that familiar warmth settled in his eyes—the kind that made your breath catch. “Yeah,” he murmured, “maybe we all did.”

Krypto barked once, startling a nearby couple but earning a round of quiet chuckles from a table of college students. You laughed softly and rubbed his head. “See? He agrees.”

When you finally stood to leave, Clark tossed the empty cups and held the door open again. The breeze outside was cooler now, dusk just starting to settle over the city. You slipped your hand into his, and Krypto trotted proudly at your side, the very picture of a dog who had earned both a medal and dessert in one afternoon.

As you walked, Clark glanced down at you, his voice low and playful. “You realize Kara’s going to find out about this.”

You smirked. “Good. She should know her dog’s a hero and a dessert connoisseur.”

Clark laughed quietly, the sound soft and unguarded. “You’re impossible.”

You bumped his shoulder. “You love it.”

And he did. As the three of you moved through the twilight, laughter trailing behind you, Clark realized that somehow, between alien fortresses and newspaper deadlines, he had stumbled into something beautifully, absurdly human—a small life full of warmth and light and whipped cream mustaches. And for the first time all day, he didn’t think about the danger, or the past, or the hundred worlds he’d once saved.

---

When Kara finally returned, the Arctic winds around the Fortress of Solitude shimmered with the familiar hum of her descent. A streak of blue and red sliced through the cloud cover, landing in a smooth blur that sent a gust rolling across the snowdrifts. The great crystalline spires of the Fortress glowed faintly in greeting, reacting to the Kryptonian energy signature they recognized.

“Kal!” she called out, voice echoing through the massive chamber. “I’m back! You will not believe the party on Talok VIII—”

She stopped short.

It wasn’t Clark waiting for her in the entry hall—it was you, bundled up in a coat far too thin for the polar air, standing beside Krypto, who was wearing his navy blue star-patterned sweater. He sat perfectly still at your heel, tail giving the faintest wag, head tilted toward his returning master.

Kara blinked. “...What is he wearing?”

You smiled, the corners of your mouth twitching as you tried not to laugh. “A sweater.”

Her jaw fell open. “You—put clothes on him?”

“Krypto picked it himself,” you said with mock solemnity. “He has excellent taste.”

Before Kara could respond, Krypto sprang to his feet and bounded toward her, tail wagging so furiously his entire back end wiggled with him. She laughed as he jumped into her arms, nearly knocking her backward with the force of his affection. “Okay, okay! I missed you too, boy!” she said between giggles, her gloved hands sinking into his fur. Then she paused, pulling back to look at him again. “You smell like—coffee? And whipped cream?”

You rubbed the back of your neck, cheeks warm. “We… might’ve stopped at Jitters.”

Kara blinked. “You took him to a coffee shop?”

“Kara,” came Clark’s voice from deeper in the hall, his tone carrying both amusement and preemptive defensiveness. He walked out from behind one of the great crystal pillars, his cape brushing the floor lightly. “Before you say anything—he’s been a model citizen.”

Kara looked between you, Clark, and the dog, who sat proudly with his sweater perfectly straight, chest puffed out like he was posing for an award photo. “You domesticated him,” she said flatly.

“Trained,” you corrected with a grin. “He knows sit, stay, come, and ‘no chewing on priceless Kryptonian relics.’”

Clark folded his arms, doing a poor job of hiding his smile. “We had a… bit of a learning curve.”

Kara arched an eyebrow. “Define ‘learning curve.’”

Clark grimaced slightly, but you spoke first, laughing. “Let’s just say a few Superman robots might need repairs.”

Kara groaned dramatically, pressing her palm to her forehead. “I leave for three weeks and you two turn my dog into a Fortress-wrecking fashion icon.”

Krypto barked, clearly pleased with himself. Kara looked down at him and tried to look stern, but the corner of her mouth betrayed her. “You’re lucky you’re cute,” she muttered, scratching behind his ears.

Clark stepped closer, the faint chill of the Fortress air curling around him. “He actually saved her life last week,” he said softly, his voice proud in that understated way that always made your chest tighten.

Kara’s head snapped up. “Wait—what?”

You nodded, the memory still vivid, the blur of movement, the flash of metal, the sound of Krypto’s growl before you’d even had time to react. “A guy tried to rob the store Clark was in. Krypto stopped him before I could even process what was happening.”

Kara’s eyes softened, her teasing dropping away. She crouched down, cupping Krypto’s face in both hands, her expression glowing with affection. “You protected her, didn’t you, boy?” she murmured. Krypto gave a small bark in response and pressed his forehead against hers. “I’m proud of you,” she said quietly. “Guess your old training didn’t go to waste after all.” Krypto barked again, as if seconding the statement. Kara groaned but couldn’t hide her grin.

You crouched beside them, brushing some snow from Krypto’s fur. “He can stay with us anytime,” you said softly. “I think he liked having a home base.”

Kara tilted her head at you, her expression softening. “You mean you didn’t mind the chaos?”

You laughed. “He fit right in.”

There was a moment of silence—the kind that felt warm, even in the frozen halls. Kara straightened, still smiling as she watched Clark rest a hand on Krypto’s back. “You know,” she said, “I used to worry he’d never really adjust. He was bred for battle, not… this.”

Clark’s gaze met hers. “And now he’s learning what peace feels like.”

Kara’s smile turned wistful. “That’s a good thing. For both of you.”

You watched the siblings share that quiet, unspoken understanding—the bond of two people who carried entire worlds in their bones and were still learning how to live among fragile ones.

Then Krypto sneezed. Loudly. The sound echoed through the crystal chamber like a gunshot, and Kara burst out laughing. “Okay, peace time’s over,” she said, scooping him up. “Come on, boy. Let’s get you out of that ridiculous sweater.”

You gasped in mock offense. “Hey! I picked that one!”

Clark slipped an arm around your waist, smiling into your hair. “Don’t worry. She’ll give up once she realizes he refuses to take it off.”

Kara rolled her eyes but smiled as she headed toward one of the side chambers, Krypto still squirming happily in her arms. “He’s coming back next time I travel,” she called over her shoulder. “You two are officially his second family now.”

You leaned into Clark, watching her go. “You hear that?” you murmured. “Second family.”

He chuckled softly. “Sounds about right.”

Krypto barked once from down the hall, as if to confirm it. His tail disappeared around the corner, his sweater still firmly in place.

Clark looked down at you, his hand brushing yours. “She’ll try to act like she’s annoyed,” he said quietly, “but she’s glad he had somewhere safe. Someone kind.”

You smiled up at him. “So are you.”

He didn’t deny it. Instead, he kissed you, slow and soft, the kind of kiss that melted even the Fortress chill. When he pulled back, there was laughter in his eyes. “Next time Kara leaves him with us,” he said, “we’re teaching him how to make coffee.”

You laughed. “Perfect. Every superhero needs a barista sidekick.”

Somewhere deeper in the Fortress, Krypto barked again—loud, bright, happy. Kara’s mock-scolding voice echoed after him, full of affection. Clark smiled, listening.

But you’d already made up your mind. The tiredness was there, sure, but under it something warm and impatient, a low burn in your stomach that flared every time his hand brushed your knee or his voice dipped into that soft, nervous register. “Lie down, Bucky,” you said, more of a suggestion than an order.

He obeyed, flustered, scooting back so his head rested on his pillow, hair falling over his forehead. He looked up at you, expectant, almost worried—until you shifted, rolling to your side and half on top of him, bracing your weight with one hand. The other reached for him, tracing the line of his jaw, the faint scratch of stubble there.

You tugged at the neckline of your shirt, pulling it down to expose one bare shoulder, then further until the swell of your chest was bare to the dorm-room air. Bucky’s breath hitched, hands fluttering uselessly at his sides.

You smiled. “C’mere, genius.” You guided his head, gentle but insistent, until his lips brushed your skin, so soft and tentative it almost tickled. He hesitated, lips parted, eyes wide.

“Is this—okay?” he whispered.

“It’s better than okay, Buck.” You slid your hand into his hair, encouraging, grounding. “Just like I showed you.”

He flushed deep pink, but his mouth closed over your breast, wet heat and trembling sighs. His tongue flicked, then he sucked, the sound obscene in the hush of the room. Your fingers threaded in his hair, keeping him close, your other hand wandering down to his jeans, finding him already hard beneath the denim.

He whimpered around your nipple, hips rocking up unconsciously. His hands finally moved, palms warm and tentative at first, ghosting up your sides, fingertips tracing the dip of your waist, then up under the hem of your shirt, hungry for skin. He squeezed gently, like he couldn’t believe he was allowed.

“Bucky—” You stroked him through his boxers, slow and deliberate, loving the way his thighs tensed, the way he gasped against your chest. “You’re so good for me, you know that? So smart. So handsome.”

He pulled back just enough to murmur, “You really think so?”

“I know so,” you told him, brushing your lips to his forehead. “You’re perfect. And I want you—just like this.”

He melted, practically vibrating under your praise, mouth greedy as he sucked at your other nipple, teeth scraping so gently you shivered. You slipped your hand inside his boxers, wrapping around him, stroking him slow, feeling him twitch and moan, the sound muffled by your skin.

“Oh, fuck—” he breathed, voice breaking, hands tightening on your hips. He was bolder now, one hand slipping down to knead your ass, the other sliding up your back, urging you closer.

You let out a low, appreciative hum, grinding against his thigh. “That’s it, Buck, don’t be shy. Touch me—want you to touch all of me.”

He was shaking now, breath coming in ragged little pants as you pumped him, precome smearing slick and hot against your palm. His mouth never left your skin, sucking little marks, licking and kissing everywhere he could reach, lost in the taste of you. He whined your name, desperate, need written all over him. “Please… please—”

You shushed him, thumb tracing the tip of his cock, hips rolling in slow counterpoint to your hand. “Let go for me, baby. Come on, let me see you fall apart.”

His eyes squeezed shut, mouth open, tongue lapping at your nipple, and you felt him tense, every muscle in his body straining as you worked him through it, holding him as he spilled over your hand, a low, broken moan vibrating against your chest.

You kissed his hair, still stroking him gently, feeling his whole body shudder beneath you. “Good boy, Bucky. So good for me.”

You, leaning against the kitchen island, sipped your coffee and said flatly, “no.”

Bucky, sitting next to you, just shrugged. “Eh.”

Peter, however, practically vibrated out of his chair. “Oh my god. Yes. Yes. This is perfect!”

You gave him a long, flat look. “You sound like Stark.”

He ignored you, spinning in his seat to face you and Bucky. “Okay, so listen—this is huge. We can’t waste this. We need a plan. A theme.”

Bucky raised an eyebrow. “Theme?”

Peter leaned in, lowering his voice like he was about to share state secrets. “For us. Just us three. We can’t let the others hear or they’ll steal it.”

You glanced at him over your mug. “Why would they steal it?”

“Because it’s genius,” Peter whispered. “But we gotta decide fast.”

Bucky smirked. “Alright, kid. What’ve you got?”

Peter grinned and held up his fingers like he was counting options. “Okay, option one: Addams Family. Easy. You two are Gomez and Morticia, I’m Pugsley. It’s classic.”

You deadpanned, “I’m not wearing black lace.”

“Okay, okay, option two,” Peter continued, undeterred. “Star Wars. You’re Leia, Bucky’s Han, I’m Luke.”

Bucky chuckled. “Pretty sure Luke and Leia are siblings.”

“Yeah, and?” Peter said.

You cut in. “Not happening.”

Peter pouted for half a second before snapping his fingers. “Fine. Option three: classic monsters. You’re a vampire, Bucky’s a werewolf, I’m the invisible man. Simple. Iconic. No one can beat it.”

Bucky gave you a side glance, lips twitching. “Vampire suits you.”

You ignored him. “What’s option four?”

Peter lit up. “Avengers, but backwards. Like, you two go as each other, and I’ll go as… Iron Man.”

You blinked slowly. “So you want me to wear a henley and scowl, and him to wear a trench coat and look unamused.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, delighted.

Bucky smirked. “That’s actually not bad.”

“Absolutely not,” you said immediately.

Peter sighed dramatically, slumping against the counter. “You guys are no fun.”

“You’re too invested,” Bucky teased.

Peter pointed a finger at him. “No, see, that’s the problem. You’re not invested enough. We could win this.”

You picked up your coffee again. “Or we could not participate.”

Peter gasped. “Blasphemy.” Then, muttering to himself, “okay, fine, I’ll keep brainstorming. But we’re doing something.”

Bucky leaned closer to you as Peter typed ideas into his phone like he was writing an Avengers mission plan. “He’s not gonna let this go.”

You sipped your coffee, unfazed. “Then he can dress up on his own.”

Peter looked up, horrified. “And go against the entire team without backup? That’s suicide!”

You stared at him blankly. “It’s a costume contest, Parker.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, as if that proved his point.

Bucky chuckled under his breath. “This is gonna be a long week.”

Over the week, Peter didn’t just ask once. Or twice. He begged. For days. Every time you came into the kitchen, he was there—leaning across the counter, eyes wide, voice full of hope like a kid trying to convince his parents to get a puppy. “Come on. Please. Just this once. You don’t even have to try hard. Literally, just show up in something.”

You would stare at him over your coffee. “No.”

Then he’d pivot to Bucky. “Okay, fine, but what about you? You’ll do it, right?”

Bucky, already halfway through his oatmeal, gave a lazy shrug. “Eh.”

Peter gasped. “That’s not a no! That’s a maybe. That’s progress.”

You set your mug down. “That’s not progress. That’s him not committing.”

Peter leaned closer, lowering his voice like he was hatching a master plan. “Do you know how many people are gonna be in this? Everyone’s taking it seriously. Sam already bought a fog machine. Clint’s been hoarding pumpkins. We can’t just… not participate.”

You blinked at him. “We can.”

“But—”

“No.”

Peter slumped back in his chair with a dramatic groan. “You’re impossible.”

Bucky smirked. “Told you.”

By the fourth day, he was desperate. He cornered you and Bucky outside the elevator, whispering urgently like you were in the middle of a heist. “Okay, okay, fine, final offer. You don’t even have to match me. I’ll go as Spider-Man, Bucky can go as, I don’t know, a wolf or something, and you—you could literally just wear all black and say you’re a witch.”

You raised an eyebrow. “That’s already what I wear.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, triumphant. “Minimal effort. It’s genius!”

Bucky chuckled, crossing his arms. “Kid’s not wrong. You’d win scariest costume without even trying.”

Peter turned to him like he’d just found an ally. “Right?! So you’ll do it?”

Bucky gave you a sideways look, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Depends. You in?”

You exhaled through your nose, deadpan as ever. “No.”

Peter groaned, dragging his hands down his face. “Why are you like this?”

Bucky smirked wider. “Efficient. Terrifying. Just the way I like her.”

Peter, muffled behind his hands, muttered, “worst parents ever,” before storming off to try and come up with yet another plan.

You sipped your coffee, watching him go. “He’s not gonna stop, is he?”

Bucky shook his head, amused. “Not a chance.”

You thought the pleading would die down after your last string of “no” responses, but the kid came back stronger, like he was treating this whole thing as a mission of his own. It was late afternoon when he cornered you and Bucky in the lounge. You had a book, Bucky had the remote, and Peter came skidding in with his phone open to some costume site like he’d just discovered the secret to world peace. “Okay, okay—listen. I’ve got it. This is the one. You have to say yes to this,” Peter said, bouncing on his heels.

You didn’t even glance up from your page. “No.”

Bucky smirked without looking away from the TV. “Let’s hear him out.”

Peter’s eyes lit up. “Right. So—you’re Ghostface.”

That got your attention, if only enough to raise an eyebrow. “The slasher mask.”

“Exactly!” Peter said, like you’d just proven his genius. “It’s perfect. Scary, minimal effort, totally your vibe. But here’s the best part—it’s interactive.”

Bucky finally looked over, one eyebrow raised. “Interactive?”

Peter grinned, lowering his voice conspiratorially. “You stab Tony for real.”

There was a beat of silence. You closed your book slowly. “For real.”

“Yeah! Like, not—okay, not fatally for real,” Peter said quickly, holding up his hands. “But like… just enough for authenticity. Imagine it! Everyone will think it’s a gag, and then boom—realism! We win.”

Bucky barked out a laugh, leaning back against the couch. “Kid, you just suggested attempted murder as a party trick.”

Peter hesitated. “...Yeah, but it would be epic.”

You stared at him flatly. “I’m not stabbing Stark.”

Peter slumped, muttering, “you didn’t even think about it.”

Bucky was still chuckling. “She did. You just don’t wanna know the answer she came up with.”

You stood, setting your book down. “If I stab Stark, it won’t be during a costume contest. And it won’t be for points.”

Peter blinked. “...So that’s a maybe?”

“No,” you said, walking out.

Bucky clapped Peter on the shoulder, still grinning. “Points for creativity, kid. But maybe next time pitch something that doesn’t land you on a watchlist.”

Peter groaned, flopping onto the couch where you’d been sitting. “You guys are the worst parents ever.”

Bucky smirked at the TV. “Told you—efficient, terrifying. Just the way I like her.”

Peter muttered under his breath, “Yeah, yeah, Gomez and Morticia energy. Whatever. I’m still gonna figure out a way to win.”

---

It was Saturday, late afternoon, and you were already suspicious when Bucky leaned into the doorway of your shared room with that too-casual tone. “C’mon, doll,” he said. “We’re taking Peter out for ice cream.”

You looked up from your tablet. “Since when do you volunteer for ice cream duty in October?”

Bucky shrugged, hands in his pockets. “Since now. Figured it’d be nice. You, me, kid, cones. Normal.”

Peter popped his head in right on cue, grin too wide, voice pitched way too innocent. “Yeah, c’mon! Ice cream! Normal!”

You narrowed your eyes. “You’re both terrible liars.”

Bucky smirked. “You’re paranoid.”

Still, you let them herd you out, into the car, and down a couple of exits off the highway. You were waiting for the tell, the slip-up. And then it came. Peter was practically vibrating in the backseat when Bucky pulled into the parking lot—except it wasn’t an ice cream shop, it was Spirit Halloween. You turned your head slowly. “This is not ice cream.”

Peter was already unbuckling. “It’s better!”

“No,” you said flatly, staring at the orange sign. “It’s not.”

Bucky grinned, pulling the keys from the ignition. “Kid asked me for backup. Said you’d never come willingly.”

Peter leaned forward between the seats. “You never come willingly! We gotta win the contest, and we can’t win if you don’t at least look like you’re trying.”

You sat back in your seat, deadpan. “I was promised ice cream.”

Bucky leaned closer with a little smirk. “Play along, and maybe we’ll get ice cream on the way back. Extra sprinkles.”

Peter added, “And I’ll do, like… all the dishes for a week!”

You stared at both of them, stone-faced, while they tried not to crack under the silence. Finally, you unbuckled. “If I end up in glitter, both of you are dead.”

Peter whooped, bolting toward the entrance. “Deal!”

Bucky got out too, still grinning as he fell into step beside you. “See? Family outing. This isn’t so bad.”

You gave him a flat look. “You tricked me.”

He bumped his shoulder lightly against yours. “Worked, didn’t it?”

Inside, Peter was already darting between racks of masks and costumes, holding up options like he was at an auction. You trailed behind, arms crossed, letting them whirl around you with ideas. Bucky leaned down after a minute, muttering just for you, “think of it this way—we get to veto the worst ones before he drags them home.”

You didn’t answer, but you did glance toward Peter holding up a giant inflatable dinosaur costume, and muttered, “start vetoing faster.”

In just under an hour, Peter must’ve tried on or waved around a dozen costumes already—dinosaurs, vampires, even a banana suit—before he stopped dead in the aisle with a gasp. He whipped a hanger off the rack and spun it toward you like it was Excalibur.

“Mortal Kombat!” he declared. The packaging showed a plasticky Mileena costume—bright pink, ridiculous mask, too much vinyl for anyone’s good. “You should totally be her!”

You looked at it, then at him, and said flatly, “no.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped. “What? Why not? It’s perfect!”

“If I were going to be anyone,” you said evenly, “it would be Kitana.”

Peter blinked, then immediately bolted two racks over and returned with a crumpled Kitana costume, still in its bag. “This one?”

You eyed the cheap plastic, the flimsy fabric. “No. I’m not wearing plastic.”

Bucky, who had been quietly laughing at this whole exchange, raised a brow. “So you’re saying you would wear it… if you made it yourself.” You didn’t answer, but you didn’t deny it either.

Peter caught the hesitation and practically vibrated out of his sneakers. “Oh my god. Oh my god. You could make them. All of them. You’d be Kitana, Bucky could be Sub-Zero, and I’ll be Scorpion!” He was already grabbing the bags off the hooks, juggling them like he was at checkout. “It’s genius. We’ll look amazing. No one will beat us.”

“Kid,” Bucky said, fighting back a grin, “you’re putting a lot of faith in her sewing machine.”

“She’s amazing at it!” Peter shot back without missing a beat.

You crossed your arms. “I never said I’d make them.”

Peter turned the full force of his wide-eyed pleading on you. “Please? Please, please, please? We’d win for sure. And it’s not like you’d let me wear plastic either. You already look down on it.”

Bucky snorted. “He’s not wrong.”

You glanced between them, stone-faced, letting the silence drag until Peter started to fidget. Finally, you sighed. “If I do this, you follow the list exactly. No complaining when I make you stand still for fittings. And if you spill chili on it, I’m not fixing it.”

Peter threw his arms up. “Yes! Yes, deal, done, no chili!” He grinned at Bucky. “We’re gonna crush them.”

Bucky leaned down, murmuring just for you, “never thought I’d see the day my wife signed up for cosplay.”

You gave him a flat look. “If anyone says ‘cosplay,’ they’re dead.”

Peter, juggling the plastic costumes he knew you’d never use, was already sprinting toward the checkout like a kid on Christmas morning. Bucky smirked, bumping your shoulder with his. “Guess we’re committed now, huh?”

You exhaled slowly. “I should’ve demanded two weeks of silence as part of the bargain.”

He chuckled. “Too late for that, doll. You just made his year.”

---

The costumes became a full-scale project the moment you touched fabric instead of plastic. You’d commandeered one of the spare rooms in the compound, spreading bolts of blue satin and black leatherette across the table with military precision. Scissors, chalk, thread, and a stack of pattern papers were laid out like weaponry. Peter hovered in the doorway, watching you pin seams with the awe of someone witnessing sorcery. “Are you… like… actually making armor?” he asked, eyes wide.

“Lightweight faux leather. Reinforced seams,” you said, not looking up as you cut through fabric with steady, exact lines. “Plastic is cheap. This won’t fall apart if you trip.”

Bucky leaned against the wall, arms folded, amused. “You should see her when she gets into this mode. Scariest part isn’t the knives—it’s the measuring tape.”

Peter grinned. “Okay, but this is amazing.” He shuffled further in, holding up one of the flimsy store-bought masks. “So… you’re making better versions of these?”

You gave him one sharp glance. “I’m replacing them entirely. You’re not wearing molded plastic on your face.”

Bucky smirked, moving to help, though “help” mostly consisted of holding fabric taut when you told him to. He leaned down toward Peter. “Told you, kid. She’s efficient.”

Peter stifled a laugh. “Efficient is one word for it.”

Hours slipped by like minutes. You worked methodically: cutting, stitching, assembling. Peter tried to help once, nearly stabbed himself with a pin, and was promptly reassigned to “fetching things.” His new role mostly consisted of sprinting back and forth with coffee and snacks while you perfected the details. At one point, Peter peeked over your shoulder as you embroidered faint silver edging into the blue fabric of Kitana’s dress. “That’s… so detailed,” he whispered.

Without looking up, you said, “if you’re going to do something, do it right.”

Bucky caught Peter’s expression—part terror, part admiration—and chuckled. “Told you she doesn’t mess around.”

By the time the sun dipped low, you had prototypes pinned together: Peter’s Scorpion tunic taking shape, Bucky’s Sub-Zero armor laid out in pieces, your Kitana bodice already halfway done with precise stitching.

Peter held up his half-finished mask in awe. “We’re gonna win. Like, not even close. Everyone else is doomed.”

Bucky smirked, slipping an arm around your waist. “Told you, doll. He’s more excited about this than the actual holiday.”

You didn’t answer, just kept stitching. But the faintest twitch of your lips betrayed you. Peter caught it, grinning ear to ear. “Oh my god, you’re actually into this.”

You gave him a flat look. “Say that out loud again, and I stop right now.”

Peter mimed zipping his lips shut. Then, once you turned back to your work, he whispered to Bucky, “totally into it.” Bucky just grinned and shook his head.

---

Tony announced it over breakfast like it was nothing. “Alright, team,” he said, slapping a datapad down on the counter. “Field trip. Escape room. Ten p.m. sharp tomorrow.”

There was a pause, then Steve looked up from his coffee. “You’re serious?”

“As a heart attack. Which, by the way, Cap, is what you’ll have if you keep drinking your coffee like that.” Tony leaned back against the counter, smirking. “Eleven of us, one room. Let’s see if Earth’s Mightiest Heroes can manage to solve some riddles without breaking the furniture.”

Clint immediately perked up. “I’m amazing at escape rooms.”

Sam snorted. “You cheat at Uno. No way you play fair in an escape room.”

Natasha raised an eyebrow. “You know we could get out of any locked room in about ten seconds, right?”

Tony waved a hand. “Yeah, yeah, but this one’s about teamwork. No phasing through the walls, no vibranium claws, no magic hexes, no punching through steel—” he glanced at you, then Bucky—“no knives.”

You stared at him flatly. “So we just sit there?”

“No,” he said cheerfully, “you use your big scary brains. For once.”

Peter’s head shot up. “Wait, so all of us? Together? Like… me too?”

“Especially you, Underoos,” Tony said. “Gotta test how you operate under pressure. Pretend the room’s full of high school algebra.”

“Terrifying,” Peter muttered.

Rhodey leaned back in his chair, skeptical. “You booked a room for eleven people? Escape rooms aren’t built for that many.”

“I may have told them we were an eccentric bridal party,” Tony admitted. “So if anyone asks, Wanda’s the bride.”

Wanda just sighed. “Of course.”

Vision tilted his head. “I fail to see the appeal of pretending to be trapped when we could simply walk out.”

“That’s the spirit,” Clint said. “Confusion and despair—exactly how escape rooms are supposed to feel.”

Bucky looked over at you with his usual dry calm. “You in?”

You didn’t look up from your plate. “No.”

“You don’t get a choice,” Tony shot back.

You gave him a long, slow look that made him fidget, then went back to eating. “If I don’t talk, don’t expect me to solve your puzzles.”

Peter leaned across the table toward you, whispering like it was a secret. “Please come. You’ll be really good at it.”

You just raised an eyebrow. “Why?”

“Because,” he said earnestly, “you look like someone who could solve a murder mystery in two minutes just by staring at the crime scene.” Bucky chuckled under his breath, but you didn’t argue. Which, to Peter, was as good as yes.

The next night Tony herded the team like cattle into a van, which—predictably—was his idea of subtle transport. By the time the eleven of you shuffled into the escape room lobby, the poor twenty-something receptionist looked one nervous laugh away from fainting. Eleven Avengers in one place was not exactly standard clientele.

Tony clapped his hands once. “Alright, team. No powers, no weapons, no smashing walls. Just brains. Let’s see if we can do this without embarrassing ourselves.”

Clint muttered, “we’re already embarrassing ourselves,” but followed the group into the dimly lit room.

The door shut behind you all, locking with a click. A recorded voice boomed overhead, setting the scene: a haunted manor, a missing heir, and riddles hidden in the shadows.

“Cool,” Sam said, squinting at the walls. “So basically Scooby-Doo but for adults.”

Peter was already darting toward a bookshelf. “There’s usually a clue hidden behind the books! Or inside one!” He yanked one off the shelf and shook it, dust falling everywhere. “See? Classic escape room move.”

Tony rubbed his temples. “You’re supposed to solve puzzles, not redecorate.”

Vision bent down in front of an old trunk. “This has a lock with four digits. Perhaps the date on the painting—”

“Or,” Clint interrupted, “maybe it’s the creepy doll on the chair, huh? Always the creepy doll.”

Steve was trying to keep order. “Okay, let’s divide up. Clint, Sam—check that side. Natasha, Wanda—see if there’s something under the floorboards. Bucky and—”

“I’m not playing,” you said flatly, arms crossed.

Steve gave you the long-suffering look of a man who’d already had this conversation. “You’re playing.”

You sighed and glanced around. The others were already bickering over lanterns and ciphers. Quietly, you stepped over to the wall, tilted one of the picture frames, and revealed a key taped to the back. You pocketed it without a word.

Ten minutes in, chaos reigned. Clint and Sam argued about whether a riddle was referencing a clock or a candle. Wanda muttered in Sokovian as she tried to decode a cipher with Natasha. Vision quoted the manual definition of “escape room” while Peter frantically searched behind every loose panel.

Meanwhile, you unlocked a desk drawer with the hidden key and pulled out a folded map. You laid it flat on the table, started marking the coded letters, and pieced together the next combination without comment. Bucky, who’d been leaning in the corner watching you, smirked. “You’re carrying the whole team, doll.”

Peter noticed what you were doing and immediately blurted, “guys, guys, she’s solving it! She’s like—she’s got it all figured out already!”

Everyone turned. You looked up from the half-finished code, deadpan. “Keep wasting time. I’ll finish it.”

Tony threw his hands up. “Unbelievable. The cold one’s the MVP.”

Steve’s mouth twitched like he wanted to smile but was holding it in. “Focus, Stark.”

Peter hovered next to you, watching your hands. “She’s, like, scary good at this. She just… she just stares at things until they give up their secrets.”

Sam raised an eyebrow. “That’s not how puzzles work.”

“It’s exactly how she works,” Bucky said, amused.

Forty minutes later, the final lock clicked open. You’d done most of the work, Natasha had helped with a few codes, and Peter had provided unending commentary. The rest? Mostly noise. The door creaked open, the recording congratulated you all on “escaping the haunted manor,” and the lights flicked back on. Tony groaned. “I hate to admit it, but we never would’ve made it without her.”

Peter grinned. “Told you. She carried us.”

You stepped out into the hall, calm as ever. “It was boring.”

Bucky followed right behind, smirk tugging at his mouth. “Boring, but effective.”

Peter looked back at the receptionist. “Can we get, like, an Avengers discount for how fast we beat it?” The receptionist just stared, wide-eyed, like she was still processing what she’d witnessed.

Then, Tony sprung the haunted house idea on everyone the way only Tony Stark could—by waiting until everyone was strapped into the van, on the road, with no way out. “Where are we going?” Steve asked suspiciously as the van rolled down an unfamiliar dark stretch of road.

“Team bonding,” Tony said smoothly. “Think of it as… exposure therapy.”

“Exposure to what?” Natasha pressed.

The van pulled into a gaudy parking lot lined with strobe lights, fog machines, animatronics, and a massive sign reading HOUSE OF TERROR – LIVE ACTORS, REAL FEAR.

Sam groaned. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

Clint looked oddly excited. “Oh, I love these things.”

Wanda narrowed her eyes. “No one agreed to this.”

“No one disagreed either,” Tony countered, hopping out. “C’mon. It’ll be fun.”

Peter lit up instantly. “Oh my god, this is going to be like Five Nights at Freddy’s!”

Everyone turned to him blankly. “…What?” Steve asked.

Peter blinked. “You know… FNAF? Creepy animatronics, haunted pizzeria, jump scares? Legendary game franchise?” Dead silence. “Never mind,” Peter muttered, trailing after you and Bucky.

Inside was everything Tony had paid for: animatronics jerking in strobe light, actors jumping out of hidden doors, air cannons blasting bursts of cold fog. The team’s reactions varied. Wanda sighed every time an actor lunged at her. Sam threatened to punch a clown. Steve kept reminding everyone “they’re just kids doing their jobs.”

And you? You barely blinked. A ghoul jumped out with a chainsaw, revving the motor inches from your face. You just stared at him until he faltered mid-scare and shuffled back into the shadows.

“Why do I feel like you’re scarier than all of this?” Clint muttered.

You ignored him, but when the next actor—a zombie bride—leapt from a coffin, you moved faster. One step forward, the tilt of your head, eyes locked. You didn’t say a word, but the actress flinched like she’d been the one ambushed.

Bucky smirked. “She’s doing their job better than they are.”

Peter was half hiding behind him but grinning. “Oh my god, you’re terrifying. This is awesome.”

Halfway through, the group shuffled into a foggy maze of mirrors. Everyone bickered about which direction to go. You slipped away without a word. It didn’t take long for it to happen, Clint rounded a corner only to scream when you appeared in the reflection first—silent, behind the glass, before stepping into his path with dead eyes and slow, deliberate movement. He actually stumbled backward.

Sam cursed loud enough to echo down the hall when you crept out from a corner, matching the timing of an animatronic so perfectly he thought you were part of the set. By the time the group emerged into the final corridor, Tony was laughing so hard he had tears in his eyes. “Oh, this is priceless. Forget the actors—I should’ve hired you.”

Natasha shook her head, smirking faintly. “You just traumatized three professional scarers.”

Peter was practically bouncing. “You have to admit it—she was the scariest part of the whole haunted house!”

Bucky slid an arm around your shoulders as you walked out, calm as ever. “Scariest part of anywhere, kid.”

Peter grinned like Christmas had come early. “She’s unstoppable.”

“Yeah,” Clint muttered, still pale, “and I’m never sleeping again.”

---

Peter cornered you in the kitchen right after dinner, practically vibrating with excitement. “Okay, hear me out. Pumpkins. Carving. Tonight.”

You gave him your usual flat stare. “No.”

“C’mon,” he begged, already dragging a massive pumpkin from behind the counter like he’d been hiding it all day. “You’re amazing with knives, you could, like, do something insane! It’d be the coolest jack-o’-lantern ever.”

Bucky, sitting at the table with his coffee, smirked. “Kid’s got a point. You’re terrifying with blades. Might as well put it to festive use.”

You sighed, but Peter was already clearing space at the island, setting out a bowl and a carving kit like he’d staged the whole thing. “Fine. But you’re doing the guts.”

“Deal!” he said, way too fast.

You handed him a knife and watched as he struggled through the first cut around the stem. It was messy, uneven, but eventually, he managed to pry the top off with a triumphant grin. The smell of pumpkin hit instantly, and Peter wrinkled his nose. “Ugh, okay, maybe not a deal.”

“Too late,” you said, sliding the bowl closer. “Scoop.”

So he did, chattering away the whole time—about school, about some science project, about how Flash still hadn’t gotten over the Avengers field trip. He talked nonstop, not even noticing when a string of pumpkin guts flew off the spoon and landed squarely on your sleeve. You froze, and then slowly you looked down at the orange mess, then up at him. Peter winced. “Uh… accident?”

Bucky chuckled under his breath. “You’re dead, kid.”

Without a word, you scooped a handful of guts from the pile and lobbed them across the counter. They hit Peter square in the hoodie. He gasped. “Did you just—?!”

“Yes,” you said flatly.

Peter grinned like he’d just been handed a challenge. “Oh, it’s on.” He scooped another handful and flung it—this one missing you and hitting the fridge with a wet splat.

Bucky laughed outright now, watching you both devolve into chaos. “Stark’s gonna love that.”

You ignored him, grabbed another handful, and nailed Peter right in the chest. He laughed so hard he dropped the spoon into the pumpkin. “Okay, okay, truce!”

“Wise,” you muttered, wiping your sleeve with a towel.

“Still worth it,” Peter said, breathless from laughing.

Bucky shook his head, smirking as he sipped his coffee. “Kid, you don’t know what you started. She plays dirty.”

Peter looked at you nervously. “You wouldn’t… right?”

You tilted your head, smirk ghosting across your face. “Clean up first. Then we’ll see.”

Peter groaned but grabbed the towel anyway, muttering, “why do I always regret these things…” Peter had cleaned up most of the pumpkin guts—with a lot of dramatic sighs and muttering about “tyranny”—and now he was perched across from you at the kitchen island, chin resting in his hand as he waited for you to start carving. The pumpkin sat in front of you like it was awaiting surgery. “Okay,” Peter said, gesturing. “Make it epic. Like… insane detail. Something scary. Something cool. Something that’ll make May gasp when she sees it.”

Bucky leaned against the counter, arms crossed, watching with that familiar smirk. “Careful what you wish for, kid. You give her a knife and say ‘epic,’ you’re asking for trouble.”

Peter grinned. “I trust her. She’s basically an artist with sharp objects.”

You picked up one of the carving knives, tested the weight, and gave him a look. “That’s the first accurate thing you’ve said tonight.”

Peter bounced in his seat. “So what are you gonna do? A spider? A haunted house? Tony’s Iron Man helmet? Ooo—Ghostface?

Bucky chuckled. “Or you could just carve Stark’s face and then smash it after. Two for one.”

“Tempting,” you deadpanned, turning the pumpkin to a good angle. “But no.”

Peter leaned closer, watching every move as you made the first cut—clean, precise, the blade slicing through like you were working on something far more serious than a Halloween decoration. Unlike Peter’s uneven mess at the top, your cuts were sharp, deliberate, like you already had a blueprint in your head.

Ten minutes in, Peter finally asked, “uh… what are you doing?”

You didn’t look up. “You’ll see.”

Another ten minutes and Peter’s eyes went wide. “Oh my god. Is that…?”

Bucky stepped closer to look and let out a low whistle. “Yeah, kid. She’s not messing around.”

By the time you set the knife down, wiped your hands, and leaned back, the pumpkin wasn’t just a jack-o’-lantern. It was a full-on piece of art: a skeletal reaper cloaked in shadows, scythe raised, with delicate cutouts that made it look like it was standing in front of a twisted, leafless tree.

Peter’s jaw dropped. “That’s not… that’s not even fair! That’s like, professional museum-level carving!”

You gave him a flat look. “No, it’s just basic knife work.”

Bucky barked a laugh. “Basic, she says. Kid, your little triangle eyes don’t even qualify as kindergarten compared to this.”

“This isn’t a contest!” Peter said quickly, before groaning. “Okay, maybe it is. But still—how do you even do that?”

“Finishing school,” you said simply, wiping down the blade.

Peter blinked. “Wait—you learned to carve pumpkins in finishing school?”

Bucky smirked, leaning in conspiratorially. “Pumpkins weren’t the target, kid.”

It took a second for Peter to process that, and then his eyes went huge. “Oh. Oh. Ohhh. Okay. Uh—cool. Yeah. I don’t wanna know.”

“Good,” you said, placing the pumpkin carefully in the center of the counter. The candle inside flickered, throwing eerie shadows across the walls.

Peter stared at it like it might come to life. “I’m still telling May you cheated.”

“You asked for epic,” you reminded him, tone dry. “Don’t complain when you get it.”

Bucky chuckled, nudging Peter’s shoulder. “Look at it this way—you just got the scariest pumpkin in Queens. No one’s topping that.”

Peter muttered, “yeah, because no one else has a retired assassin as their mom…” but he was grinning when he said it.

---

Peter was practically bouncing as he adjusted the fabric of his Scorpion costume, tugging at the mask until it sat just right. “Okay, okay—tell me this isn’t the coolest group costume idea ever,” he said, muffled through the yellow mask.

Bucky, dressed as Sub-Zero, was standing with his arms crossed, looking far less excited. “Kid, I’ve worn real uniforms with less straps than this thing.” He tugged at one of the belts across his chest. “It feels like Stark designed this just to annoy me.”

Peter grinned. “It looks awesome, though! Trust me, when she comes out, we’re gonna look like the most badass trio here.”

Bucky raised a brow. “Uh-huh. You’re just excited you get to yell ‘get over here’ at people.”

“Okay, yeah, that too,” Peter admitted with a shrug.

The door to your shared room opened, and both Peter and Bucky looked up at the same time.

You stepped out in the Katana costume you’d made yourself—blue, perfectly fitted, more authentic and intimidating than any store-bought version could dream of being. The twin fans on your hips caught the light, the armor plating hugged your waist and chest, and the slit in the skirt revealed just enough leg to make both Peter and Bucky’s brains short-circuit.

Peter’s jaw dropped so hard his mask nearly fell off. “Oh my god.”

Bucky’s expression darkened instantly. His gaze ran over you once, his jaw tightening, and then he moved without hesitation—his metal hand coming up to cover Peter’s eyes.

“Hey!” Peter yelped, swatting at the hand. “What are you doing?!”

“Protecting your innocence,” Bucky said flatly, still staring at you.

You raised an eyebrow, stopping in front of them. “Really?”

Peter wriggled, trying to peel Bucky’s hand away. “She’s my mom—well, fake mom—but my mom! What’s the point of a group costume if I can’t even look at it?!”

Bucky didn’t move his hand. “You can look when you’re thirty.”

You sighed, arms crossing over your chest. “Barnes, let the kid see the costume. It’s not that bad.”

“Not that bad?” Bucky muttered, finally dragging his gaze up from the expanse of your exposed thigh to your very unimpressed face. “You look like you’re about to commit a war crime at a fashion show.”

Peter groaned loudly. “Oh my god, let me see!” He finally yanked Bucky’s hand off his face and got a full look at you. His eyes widened again, and then he slapped a hand over his own face. “Nope, nope, nope, too weird. Forget it.”

Bucky smirked faintly. “Told you.”

You rolled your eyes. “You two are ridiculous. It’s a costume. That’s all.”

Peter peeked through his fingers. “Yeah, but like… do you have to look that cool? You’re making us look bad.”

“You look fine,” you said, adjusting the strap of your fan. “Sub-Zero and Scorpion are supposed to look ridiculous. It balances out.”

Bucky snorted. “I’m not sure if I should be offended or relieved.”

Peter pointed at you. “You know Mr. Stark is gonna lose his mind when he sees that, right?”

You gave a small, dangerous smirk. “Good.”

Bucky groaned, dragging a hand down his face. “This is gonna be a long night.”

Peter, finally resigning himself, looked between the three of you in the mirror and brightened. “Okay… but admit it—we look awesome together.” You didn’t argue; even Bucky couldn’t find a comeback for that.

The team had gathered in full costume, some more enthusiastic than others. Natasha looked effortlessly deadly in a black catsuit, Wanda wore something vaguely witchy, Vision looked… well, Vision; Tony had slapped a cape on him and called it festive, and Clint wore a cowboy hat so cheap it bent in half whenever he turned his head.

Tony strutted to the front like a game show host, mic in hand. “Ladies, gentlemen, cyborgs, synthezoids, and—” his gaze lingered on Clint—“whatever that is. Welcome to the first annual Stark Halloween Costume Contest! Winner gets a prize. And not some cheap pumpkin-shaped candy bucket either. I’m talking Stark-level prize. Luxury. Prestige. Cash. Bragging rights. All the good stuff.”

Peter whispered excitedly to you and Bucky. “This is it. This is our moment.”

Bucky muttered under his breath, “I’m regretting this already.”

“Contestant number one,” Tony continued, “Vision—aka ‘Diet Dracula.’”

Vision stepped forward, very solemn. “I am not Dracula.” Applause was minimal.

“Contestant number two: Clint Barton, as…” Tony squinted at him. “Spirit Halloween clearance bin?”

Clint tipped his floppy hat. “Cowboy.” The room erupted in laughter.

Then came Natasha, Wanda, Steve as a very unconvincing Frankenstein—the neck bolts were crooked— and Sam, who walked out in full vampire gear, including a ruffled shirt. He gave an exaggerated bow. “I win already. Admit it.”

Finally, Tony turned toward the three of you. “And last, but definitely not least… Mortal Kombat, Avengers Edition.”

Peter shot forward first, striking a dramatic pose. “Scorpion!” he announced, his voice muffled through the mask. He tried to do the “get over here!” line, but his voice cracked halfway through. Still, he got cheers from Wanda and Clint.

Bucky followed, slow and steady, arms crossed as Sub-Zero. He didn’t do any theatrics, just glared at the crowd until people started clapping nervously. And then you walked out in your hand-made Katana costume. The room went silent for about three beats before Clint muttered, “holy shit.”

Tony blinked. “Okay… yeah, that’s cheating. That’s not a costume, that’s—like—that’s Broadway-level production value.”

Sam raised his eyebrows. “That’s not off the rack?”

“Nope,” Peter said proudly, stepping forward. “She made it. All of it. Every detail.”

The reactions around the room were immediate—shocked noises, murmurs, and a not-so-subtle whistle from Clint before Natasha elbowed him. Bucky’s jaw clenched, his arm subtly shifting behind you like he was ready to block the view from certain people.

Tony dragged the mic closer to his mouth. “Alright, we’ve seen the contestants, now for the judging. Audience vote—”

“No need,” Peter cut in. “We won. Right? Guys?” He looked around desperately, nodding. “Right.”

Natasha smirked. “I’ll give you this—impressive.”

Wanda tilted her head. “I didn’t think you’d actually wear it.”

Peter grinned behind his mask. “She wore it! And we’re synchronized. This is a group costume, Mr. Stark, so that’s extra points.”

Tony tapped the mic. “Points don’t exist, kid. But… I’m not blind. Winner: Team Mortal Kombat.”

The room erupted in groans and cheers, depending on the contestant. Peter threw his arms up in triumph. “Yes! Victory!”

“What’s the prize?” Clint asked, arms crossed.

Tony grinned. “Front-row tickets to whatever the hell you want. Concert, play, fight night, monster truck rally—you name it, Stark pays.”

Peter nearly fainted. “Wait. Anything?!”

“Anything within reason,” Tony said quickly. “No space trips, no private islands, no solid gold arc reactors.”

Peter practically bounced over to you and Bucky. “We actually won! Together! Oh my god, what are we gonna pick?!”

Bucky just looked at you, his expression saying what his words didn’t: This is your fault.

You smirked faintly. “I told you it wasn’t that bad.”

He shook his head. “Not that bad? Doll, you’re never wearing that outside this building again.”

Peter, still buzzing with excitement, didn’t hear him. “Do you think they’d let us go to a Mortal Kombat tournament?!”

---

It started sometime after midnight—well past curfew, lights dimmed, the compound quiet except for the hum of the refrigerators. You were sitting at the kitchen counter, working on a cup of tea, when Peter came bounding in with his laptop clutched to his chest like it contained national secrets. “Okay,” he said breathlessly, “game night. All three of us.”

You blinked at him. “It’s one in the morning.”

“Perfect time,” Peter said. “That’s the point.”

Bucky walked in behind him, half-asleep, wearing a T-shirt and sweatpants. “The point of what?”

“Game night!” Peter said again, setting the laptop on the table. “You guys owe me after Halloween. And it’s time to prove yourselves.”

Bucky frowned, rubbing his eyes. “Prove ourselves at what?”

Peter opened the laptop and pulled up the game’s main menu. The distorted jingle played, tinny and unnerving in the quiet kitchen. “Five Nights at Freddy’s,” he announced dramatically. “You’re both playing.”

Bucky stared at the screen like it had just insulted him. “The hell’s a Freddy?”

You sighed. “I’m going back to bed.”

“No, wait!” Peter blocked your path, grinning. “You’re gonna love it. It’s scary. It’s, like, a security job simulator with haunted robots.”

“That doesn’t make it sound better,” Bucky muttered.

Peter ignored him. “You take turns surviving the nights. You can check cameras, close doors, watch your power. Easy. The goal is to not die.”

You gave him a flat look. “Charming.”

Bucky sat down first, squinting at the controls while Peter explained them. “So I just… click things?”

“Yeah. Check the doors, the lights, the cameras—don’t let the animatronics get to you.”

“Animatronics?”

“Robot mascots,” Peter said cheerfully. “Bonnie, Chica, Foxy, and Freddy. You’ll see.”

Night one was Bucky’s turn, who was surprisingly steady. He didn’t panic, didn’t waste power, and stared down every hallway with the calm of a man who’d seen worse in real life. When 6 AM chimed, Peter cheered. “See? You’re a natural!”

Bucky shrugged, unimpressed. “They didn’t even move that much.”

“Just wait,” Peter said ominously.

Night two was your turn. Peter hovered nearby, practically vibrating with excitement. “Okay, so they’re more active now, but you’ve got this.”

You didn’t answer, eyes locked on the cameras, methodical and detached. You switched between feeds with machine-like precision. When Bonnie appeared in the doorway, you shut the door instantly. No scream. No jump. Nothing. At 6 AM, the victory tune played.

Peter blinked. “You didn’t even flinch.”

“Predictable pattern,” you said simply.

Bucky smirked. “Told you—nothing scares her.”

Night three was Bucky’s turn again. Within three in game hours, Foxy bolted down the hallway. Peter screamed, Bucky swore, and clicked the door button, but it was too late. The jump scare hit. Bucky jerked back in his chair. “Son of a—! Okay, that’s cheap!”

Peter laughed so hard he nearly fell over. “You jumped!”

“I did not!”

“You did.”

You slid the laptop over without a word. “Move.”

You finished Night 3 in one try while Bucky glared at the screen. “You’re cheating.”

Bucky insisted on playing night four, and halfway through, the screen flickered. “Uh oh,” Peter muttered. “That’s—”

The golden bear materialized in the office. “What the hell is that?!” Bucky shouted.

“Golden Freddy!” Peter yelped. “Don’t look at him—!”

Too late, the screen went black, and the distorted face lunged. Bucky nearly flipped the chair. “That thing’s cursed!”

You leaned forward. “My turn.” This time, you finished the night easily, mechanical and calm, ignoring Peter’s commentary entirely.

On night five Bucky tried again and didn’t make it past 3 AM, Freddy got him mid-laugh. He threw up his hands, “that bear’s mocking me.”

You reached over, clicked continue and beat it on your first attempt. Peter gawked. “Okay, that’s not even fair. You’re a robot.”

You looked at him. “Takes one to kill one.”

Bucky tried again on night six, determined now with his jaw set and eyes narrowed. Somehow, despite running out of power forty seconds before the round ended, he managed to survive until 6.

Peter exploded with joy. “He did it! Oh my god, he actually did it!”

Bucky grinned, triumphant. “Told you I could handle it.”

Then Peter leaned over and whispered, “night 7.”

Bucky froze. “There’s a seventh?”

Peter grinned, evil. “Custom Night. Level 20 on everything. Only the bravest survive.” He turned the laptop toward you. “You’re up.”

You gave him a long, unimpressed look. “You realize this is a child’s game.”

“Not at level 20,” Peter said cheerfully.

You sighed, cracked your knuckles, and started. It was chaos. The doors slammed constantly. Alarms beeped. Power drained fast. Freddy laughed, Foxy sprinted, Bonnie and Chica appeared almost simultaneously.

Still, you made it to 5:00 AM. Peter and Bucky were leaning forward, holding their breath.

“Come on, come on…” Peter whispered.

Two percent power… one percent power… zero percent power… then nothing. Freddy’s song started to play in the dark.  

Peter clutched the table. “Oh no, oh no—”

The jingle stopped and Freddy’s face appeared on-screen.  You flinched—just once—but your hand reacted faster than your brain, and you punched the laptop.

Hard.

The screen went black and the corner cracked. There was total silence. Peter’s mouth hung open. Bucky blinked. “…You just killed the laptop.”

You exhaled slowly, flexing your hand. “I’ll buy him a new one.” Peter just continued to stare at you, wide-eyed. You met his gaze calmly. “And whatever you want. Just don’t tell anyone.”

He nodded instantly. “Deal.”

Bucky tried very hard not to laugh. “You punched Freddy.”

You leaned back in your chair. “He deserved it.”

Peter looked between the two of you, still half in awe, half terrified. “You know… I think you just unlocked a new ending.” You didn’t reply—just picked up your tea again like nothing happened.

Bucky shook his head, grinning. “Next time, we’re playing something less violent.”

Peter nodded rapidly. “Yeah. Like Mario Kart.”

You sipped your tea. “Still violent.”

Peter blinked. “What—how is Mario Kart violent?”

You didn’t even look at him. “Bananas.”

it's-tober! tags: @unificsation @thehaifbioodprince @wordacadabra @beforemdnight @herejustforbuckybarnes

You lifted a brow. “You’re not gonna fill up first?”

“I’ll do it after.” His voice carried that rough finality that usually meant the discussion was over. He opened the door, slammed it shut, and disappeared inside, boots thudding across the cracked concrete.

You watched him go—broad shoulders, that same old flannel jacket he refused to throw away, dog tags glinting when the door caught the light. You loved him, but sometimes… he could be such a caveman.

You looked at the gas gauge. The needle was barely above E.  So you sighed, rolled your eyes a little, and slipped out of the truck. The October air hit you sharp and cool. You tucked your hands into your jacket pockets and swiped your card through the old reader, hearing the pump come to life with a low rumble. You stood there watching the numbers climb, the smell of gasoline mixing with pine and damp air.

By the time the nozzle clicked, the bell above the shop door jingled again. You looked up just in time to see Logan step out—cigars in one hand, a bag of snacks in the other, and a bottle of water tucked under his arm.

He froze mid-step when he saw you. “Darlin’,” he said slowly, voice low, dangerous in that quiet way that didn’t actually mean danger. “What’re you doin’?”

You grinned, trying not to laugh at the way his jaw clenched. “Filling the tank. Someone’s gotta keep us moving.”

He stopped beside the truck, staring at the gas pump like it had personally offended him. “I told ya to wait in the car.”

“You did.” You met his eyes, deliberately cheerful. “But I didn’t listen.”

He breathed out through his nose—that almost-sigh that was more growl than exhale—and set the bag on the hood of the truck. His eyes cut from the pump, to you, to the receipt in your hand. “You used your card?”

You tilted your head. “Yeah.”

“Sweetheart,” he said, running a hand down his face, “you don’t gotta pay for gas. Hell, you don’t gotta pay for anything.”

“I was trying to help.”

“Don’t need help.”

You folded your arms, leaning against the truck. “You also said that when I offered to drive last night, but we nearly ended up sleeping in the cab because you didn’t see the ‘motel full’ sign.”

He gave you that look—the one that meant he wanted to argue but couldn’t quite find the words. Instead, he just huffed out a breath and stepped closer, the gravel crunching under his boots. “Ya just gotta do things your own way, huh?”

You shrugged, biting back a smirk. “Maybe I like being useful.”

He looked at you for a long moment, then down at your hand still holding the receipt. Without saying a word, he took it from you, crumpled it in his fist, and shoved it into his jacket pocket. “You’re impossible,” he muttered, but there was a hint of warmth under the gravel of his tone.

“And yet,” you said, smiling up at him, “you still keep me around.”

He didn’t answer right away. Just leaned down a little, close enough for you to smell the faint tobacco and leather on him. “Don’t push it, sweetheart,” he said quietly. You could see the twitch at the corner of his mouth—the almost-smile he tried to hide. You knew you’d won. He took the nozzle, hooked it back onto the pump, and opened your door for you with a small shake of his head. “Get in,” he said. “Before I start chargin’ you interest.”

You slid into the passenger seat, trying to contain the grin spreading across your face. He rounded the hood, muttering something under his breath about stubborn women, and climbed in.

The truck roared to life again, the road stretching out ahead, the last of the sunlight bleeding orange over the horizon. You rested your hand over his on the console. He didn’t look at you—didn’t need to. His thumb brushed against your knuckles once, absentminded, before he muttered, “next time, you listen.”

“Sure thing, Logan.”

You didn’t mean it. He knew you didn’t mean it. And that, you thought, was exactly why he sighed—but didn’t let go of your hand.

---

The truck rumbled down the long stretch of highway, the hum of the tires blending with the low growl of the engine. The sun had fully set now, leaving the world washed in deep blue and amber streaks from the dashboard lights. The heater hummed faintly, keeping the cab just warm enough against the bite of October air sneaking through the cracked window.

You sat sideways in your seat, one leg tucked under you, the other bouncing slightly to the rhythm of the old song playing faintly from the radio. Logan drove with one hand on the wheel, the other resting on his thigh—relaxed, but you could tell he was listening to everything: the road, the weather, the quiet.

You opened the small plastic bag sitting between you. Inside were a few things he’d grabbed from the gas station: a bottle of water, a bag of jerky, and a pack of gummies you’d picked out last time you’d stopped somewhere like this. You tore open the gummy bag and popped one in your mouth. “You want some?”

Logan glanced over briefly, then back to the road. “Nah.”

“They’re the good kind,” you said, holding one up. “The ones shaped like little bears.”

“I’ll pass.”

You squinted at him, mock-offended. “You’re impossible. Who doesn’t like gummy bears?”

“People with taste.”

You gasped dramatically and put a hand to your chest. “You take that back.”

His mouth twitched—barely, but you caught it. “Not happenin’.”

You chewed thoughtfully on another gummy, watching the headlights carve out the road ahead. After a moment, you said, “you think they have feelings?”

That earned you an actual look—one eyebrow lifted, skeptical. “What?”

“The gummies,” you said, waving one around for emphasis. “You think they know? Like, when you bite their heads off, do they feel it?”

He blinked. “You really askin’ me that right now?”

“Yeah.” You popped the bear into your mouth, chewed slowly. “I mean, they all have faces. Someone designed them that way. Maybe they were meant to feel.”

Logan shook his head, muttering something that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “You’ve been sittin’ too long. Startin’ to go stir-crazy.”

“Come on, just answer.”

He grunted. “No, they don’t have feelings.”

You hummed, pretending to consider it. “That’s kinda heartless of you.”

“Heartless?” he said, half a chuckle under his breath. “They’re candy.”

“Candy with dreams.”

He cut you a sideways glance. “You’re somethin’ else, sweetheart.”

You grinned and leaned your head against the window, looking out at the dark forest blurring past. “If I were a gummy bear,” you said suddenly, “would you still love me?”

The silence that followed made you smile wider. You could feel him looking at you even before you turned. “What kinda question is that?”

“A serious one.” You tried to keep a straight face. “Would you? Or would you just eat me like all the others?”

He exhaled hard through his nose, shaking his head. “You’re outta your damn mind.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Alright, fine.” He adjusted his grip on the wheel, eyes back on the road. “If you were a gummy bear, I’d… put you on the dashboard so you could stop talkin’ while I drive.”

You laughed—a real one, bubbling up until it filled the cab. “That’s so mean.”

He smiled then, just a little, his voice softer. “Figure it’s the only way I’d get some peace.”

You nudged his arm, still laughing. “You’d miss me.”

“Maybe,” he said after a beat, and you could hear the warmth behind the word. “Maybe I would.”

The radio crackled softly, some old country tune threading through the quiet. You leaned closer, resting your head lightly against his shoulder for a second before sitting back again. The road stretched on, endless and calm, your laughter still hanging in the air like the last note of a song. Logan didn’t say much after that—didn’t need to. But his hand shifted, resting just a little closer to yours on the console, and the truck felt warmer for it.

---

By the time you pulled into the motel lot, the sky had gone completely dark. The kind of darkness that swallows small towns whole—just a strip of flickering neon across the cracked sign reading Maple Pines Motor Inn, one of the letters burnt out so it really just said Maple ines.

The truck rumbled to a stop in front of the office. The lot was mostly empty except for a few cars parked haphazardly near the rooms, yellow light leaking out from behind thin curtains. Somewhere, a dog barked once and then went quiet.

Logan cut the engine and leaned back, stretching his shoulders until his joints popped. You watched him from the corner of your eye—the way his hands flexed, the soft exhale through his nose, the look that said he’d driven too long again. “I’ll get us a room,” he said, reaching for his wallet. “You stay here.”

You smiled faintly. “You and your rules.”

“Yeah,” he grunted, opening the door. “They keep you dry.”

He didn’t wait for an answer, just stepped out and shut the door behind him. You could see him through the windshield—that easy, heavy stride, hands in his jacket pockets as he crossed the lot toward the office. Inside, the clerk was a silhouette behind a yellow counter. A short exchange, some paperwork, then Logan slid a key into his pocket and turned back toward the truck.

You glanced out your window. The rain had started up again while you were sitting there—just a drizzle, soft at first, but steady enough to pool around the tires. Streetlight reflections rippled across the puddles, silver and gold.

When he came back, he opened your door, the smell of wet asphalt curling into the warm air of the cab. “C’mon,” he said. “Got us a room. Far corner, quiet.”

You looked down, eyes widening slightly. “Logan…”

“What?”

You pointed below. “There’s a puddle.”

He followed your gaze. The ground right under your door was completely covered—water spreading out from the curb, dark and wide, a perfect trap for your shoes. “So go around,” he said simply.

You wrinkled your nose. “That’s, like, ten feet.”

“It’s three.”

“Still wet.”

He sighed, rubbing the back of his neck. “You’re unbelievable.”

You tilted your head, feigning innocence. “You told me to stay in the truck, remember? Now you’re telling me to walk in a puddle. You’re sending mixed messages.”

That earned you a low sound from his chest—something between a growl and a laugh. “You’re impossible, sweetheart.”

Then, before you could say anything else, he stepped closer. You barely had time to react before his hands were at your sides—strong, steady, calloused palms against your waist. He lifted you like it was nothing, your breath catching as the ground fell away.

“Logan—!”

“Quit squirming.” His voice was rough, but there was no bite in it. Just that familiar warmth beneath the gravel.

You looped your arms around his shoulders on instinct, startled but laughing as he stepped easily around the puddle, boots splashing through the shallow edge. Rain dotted his jacket, glinting in the light. “You could’ve warned me,” you said, trying not to smile too wide.

He smirked down at you, one corner of his mouth curving up. “You’d have argued.”

“Maybe.”

He carried you across the lot like you weighed nothing—steady, sure, the kind of casual strength that didn’t need to show off. When he reached the door of the room, he shifted you slightly, reaching for the key with one hand while still holding you with the other. You could feel the rumble of his chest as he muttered something about high-maintenance passengers under his breath. The lock clicked, and he nudged the door open with his boot. “Alright, princess,” he said quietly, setting you down just inside the doorway. “Happy now?”

You smoothed your jacket, pretending to think it over. “Hmm. Dry feet. No puddles. Carried like a damsel in distress… yeah, I’d say pretty happy.”

He huffed a laugh, shaking his head. “You’re somethin’ else.”

The room was small but clean—two lamps casting soft amber light across a single bed, a chipped nightstand, and curtains that swayed slightly from the draft. You could hear the rain tapping steadily against the window now, filling the quiet between you.

Logan set the bag from the truck down by the door, shrugging off his jacket. “You hungry?”

You looked up at him, smiling faintly. “Only if you’re sharing your jerky.”

“Was gonna save it,” he said, dropping onto the edge of the bed with a sigh. “But maybe.”

You stepped over, sitting beside him. “You say that like I won’t just take it anyway.”

He turned his head, that half-smile appearing again—the one he only showed when he was too tired to hide it. “Yeah,” he said softly. “I know.”

Outside, thunder rolled somewhere far off, the rain steady and constant. Inside, the warmth of the little motel room wrapped around the two of you, soft and quiet, and for once, Logan didn’t seem to mind the peace.

---

The rain had stopped sometime before dawn, leaving the world washed clean and still. Pale sunlight spilled across the cracked pavement outside the motel, turning the puddles to mirrors. Logan was already up when you stirred—boots on, flannel half-buttoned, the faint scent of soap and coffee in the air. “You sleep?” he asked when you sat up, voice rough from disuse.

“Eventually,” you mumbled, stretching.

He gave a short nod, finishing off what was left of his coffee before tossing the cup. “C’mon. Let’s get somethin’ to eat before we hit the road.”

You blinked the sleep from your eyes, pulling on your jacket. “Somewhere with pancakes.”

He smirked faintly. “Course it is.”

The diner sat at the edge of town—the kind of place that smelled like bacon grease and fresh coffee, all chrome edges and cracked leather booths. A neon sign buzzed faintly in the window, and inside, the air was warm and filled with the low murmur of morning conversations.

You followed Logan to a booth by the window. He slid in first, facing the door out of habit, his hand automatically moving the menu toward you.

A waitress with a nametag that read Doris came over, pad in hand. “Mornin’, hon. What can I get ya?”

You scanned the menu, your finger stopping on the picture. “Blueberry pancakes.”

Logan didn’t even look up from his coffee. “You won’t like ‘em.”

You frowned. “Yes, I will.”

“No, you won’t,” he said evenly. “You never like ‘em at the diner back home.”

“That’s because those blueberries taste weird,” you countered. “These might be better.”

He gave you a look over the rim of his mug—one brow raised, skeptical but amused. “They won’t be.”

You smiled sweetly. “Ordering them anyway.”

Doris jotted it down without missing a beat. “And for you, sweetheart?”

“Coffee. Eggs. Bacon. Toast.” He handed the menu back, voice steady. “Simple.” The waitress nodded and disappeared toward the kitchen.

You sipped at your water, smirking at him across the table. “You’re not always right, you know.”

He took another sip of coffee. “I usually am when it comes to you.”

“That’s cocky.”

“Just accurate.”

You leaned back, pretending not to grin. “You’re gonna feel real silly when I love these pancakes.” He only hummed in response, clearly unconvinced.

When the food came, the plates clattered softly onto the table—his breakfast steaming and savory, yours covered in golden pancakes with a sheen of syrup and bright blueberries dotting the surface like jewels. You cut into them immediately, determined. The first bite was warm and sweet—and then, as the blueberries burst, that familiar taste hit: tart, too syrupy, somehow artificial despite being fruit. You froze mid-chew.

Logan watched you, quiet amusement in his eyes. “Well?”

You swallowed, trying to play it off. “They’re… fine.”

“Uh-huh.”

“Maybe just… a little too—”

“Blueberry?” he offered.

You sighed, poking the stack with your fork. “Okay, fine. You were right.”

He smirked, the corners of his mouth twitching upward. “Usually am.”

You looked at his plate—the perfectly normal breakfast sitting there, the smell of eggs and bacon making your stomach twist with sudden regret. “Can we switch?”

He raised an eyebrow. “Seriously?”

“Please?” You gave him your best innocent look, the one you knew he couldn’t resist.

He groaned under his breath. “You’re impossible.”

“And hungry.”

After a long moment, he pushed his plate toward you, taking yours in exchange with a reluctant sigh. “You do this every damn time,” he muttered.

You beamed, already cutting into the eggs. “Because you always order better than me.”

“Because I don’t order like I’m five,” he said, shaking his head, but his tone was warm, affectionate under the gravel.

You grinned, mouth full. “M’five at heart.”

He looked at you—really looked—and for a second, that faint smirk softened into something else. Something gentler. “Yeah,” he murmured. “I know.”

You ate in companionable silence after that, the kind that didn’t need filling. The diner buzzed quietly around you—coffee cups clinking, the sizzle of a grill, a jukebox humming in the background. When you finished, he tossed a few bills on the table before you could reach for your wallet. “Logan—”

“Don’t start,” he said, standing and grabbing his jacket. “You paid for gas yesterday.”

You hesitated, then smiled softly. “Fair trade?”

He looked down at you, eyes crinkling faintly at the corners. “Not even close, sweetheart.”

Outside, the air was crisp and cool again, sunlight gleaming off the wet pavement as you walked back toward the truck. You fell into step beside him, your hands brushing just enough for him to notice—and just enough for him to let it happen.

---

The drive back to the cabin took most of the afternoon. The sun had started sinking low by the time the familiar outline of the mountains appeared, sharp against a pale sky streaked with fading gold. The truck rumbled along the dirt road, wheels kicking up a thin veil of dust that hung in the crisp air behind you.

It had been days since you’d seen home—the rough-cut cabin tucked away between the pines, smoke still faint in the chimney from the last time Logan had started a fire. The moment you saw it, your chest loosened in a way you hadn’t realized it was tight. “Feels good to be back,” you said quietly, watching as the trees thinned just enough for the front porch to come into view.

Logan grunted, that low sound that usually meant yeah, me too.

He parked the truck beside the stacked pile of firewood, the engine giving one last growl before settling into silence. The world outside felt still—the kind of stillness that only came this far north, where you could actually hear the wind moving through the trees.

When you stepped out, the air was sharper than it had been in town. Cold enough to bite a little, carrying that familiar mix of pine, earth, and wood smoke. You pulled your jacket tighter and followed him up the porch steps, boots thudding softly on the worn wood.

Inside, the cabin smelled like home—cedar and ash, faint traces of coffee, and something distinctly Logan: leather, smoke, warmth. The living room was dim, lit only by the last of the evening sun slanting through the curtains.

“I’ll get the fire goin’,” he said, setting his bag down near the door. “You go change. It’s cold enough to see your breath in here.”

You smiled. “You just want me out of the way.”

He gave a small huff of laughter. “Maybe.”

You headed to the small bedroom down the hall, peeling off your jacket and tugging on the soft, well-worn pajama pants waiting at the foot of the bed. The air was chilly enough that your skin prickled when you changed into an oversized sweatshirt—one of his, of course, sleeves hanging past your hands and smelling faintly like his soap and smoke.

When you came back out, Logan was by the door, sleeves rolled up, hauling in a few logs from the pile outside. His movements were quiet and efficient—heavy boots crossing the floor, the wood settling with a dull thud as he stacked it by the hearth.

You curled up on the couch, tucking your legs under you and pulling the blanket closer. The cushions were old and a little lumpy, but the view from here—watching him work in that easy, practiced rhythm—made up for it.

The scrape of flint and steel broke the quiet, followed by the soft whoosh of kindling catching. The firelight spread slowly, flickering gold across the room, painting his face in warm light and shadow.

He crouched there for a moment, making sure it took, then straightened and brushed his hands off on his jeans. “That’ll do,” he muttered, more to himself than to you.

You smiled from the couch. “You’re like a pioneer or something.”

He gave you a look over his shoulder. “A pioneer?”

“Yeah,” you said, teasing. “Out here in the wilderness, chopping wood, building fires, keeping the cabin warm. You could be in a history book.”

He snorted softly, walking over. “You sayin’ I’m old?”

“I’m sayin’ you’d fit right in.”

He stopped beside the couch, shaking his head, but you caught the small flicker of a smile as he reached down to adjust the blanket around you. “You always run your mouth this much, or do I just bring it outta you?”

You leaned into the warmth, eyes half-lidded. “You bring it out.”

“Lucky me.”

The fire crackled, filling the silence between words. The cabin glowed softly now—orange and gold light bouncing off the walls, the windows reflecting it back like a heartbeat. Logan dropped into the armchair across from you, the one that had become his without ever being declared as such.

He leaned back, a quiet sigh escaping him as he stretched his legs toward the fire. “We’ll stay put a few days,” he said finally. “No rush goin’ anywhere.”

You smiled into the blanket. “That sounds nice.”

For a while, neither of you spoke. The only sounds were the pop of the fire, the wind brushing against the windows, and the faint creak of the wood settling around you.

You glanced over at him. His eyes were half-closed, the flickering light catching the lines of his face—the kind that came from years of living hard and loving quietly. His hand rested on the arm of the chair, relaxed, but still somehow ready for anything.

You thought about saying something—maybe teasing him again, maybe thanking him—but the words felt unnecessary. Everything you wanted to say was already there in the quiet between you. So instead, you just whispered, “feels good to be home.”

He didn’t open his eyes, but his mouth curved faintly at the corner. “Yeah,” he murmured. “It does.”

And for the first time in days, you felt completely still—the fire warm against your skin, his presence steady as the heartbeat of the cabin itself.

---

The days that followed blurred into a quiet rhythm—the kind that only existed up here, tucked deep in the pines. Mornings were slow; you’d wake to the smell of coffee and the low creak of the cabin as it warmed under the rising sun. Logan would already be up, boots by the door, smoke from the chimney curling lazily into the sky.

You fell into easy routines—shared silences, soft laughter, the kind of peace that felt earned. But after three days of snow-dusted quiet and flannel mornings, Logan surprised you. “We’re goin’ out tonight,” he said one afternoon, leaning in the doorway with his arms crossed.

You looked up from the couch, a book resting open in your lap. “Out?”

“Yeah. Town.” His tone was casual, but there was a hint of something in it—something almost shy, if Logan could ever be called that. “Figured you might want real food that ain’t from a can.”

You smiled. “Are you… taking me on a date?”

He grunted, pushing away from the door. “If that’s what you wanna call it.”

“That’s exactly what I’m calling it.”

“Then yeah,” he said, a small smirk tugging at his mouth. “I’m takin’ you on a date.”

By the time you stood in front of the bedroom mirror, the late afternoon light had already softened into gold. You’d pulled half your clothes out trying to decide what to wear—flannel felt too plain, sweaters too cozy, jeans too casual. The floor was a mess of fabrics and indecision.

From the living room came the low sound of a match striking, followed by a muttered curse and then the faint scent of cigar smoke. “Y’almost done in there?”

You smirked at your reflection. “Patience, Logan.”

“Been patient,” he called back, though his tone carried more amusement than frustration. “Been sittin’ here watchin’ the fire for an hour. Thought maybe you fell asleep.”

You stepped out, smoothing down the hem of your sweater. “I had to look nice.”

He was leaning back in the armchair, one ankle resting over his knee, the soft glow of the fire lighting the edges of his face. When he looked up, whatever he’d been about to say caught in his throat for a second. You caught the faint flicker in his eyes—the way they softened, darkened, before he covered it with a gruff exhale. “You look fine,” he said, voice low.

“Fine?” You raised a brow, pretending offense. “That’s all I get?”

He pushed to his feet, moving closer. “You look beautiful,” he said finally, quiet but sure.

You smiled, the warmth in your chest blooming in time with the firelight. “That’s better.”

He reached for his jacket and held yours out to you. “C’mon. Let’s go before I change my mind about civilization.”

The town was small, but it had a certain charm when night fell—strings of lights hanging over the main street, shop windows glowing warm against the snow-dusted sidewalks. Logan’s truck stood out against the neat row of cars, but somehow, it fit—like he did, rough edges and all.

He found a spot near a small diner that looked a little fancier than their usual haunts. Inside, the air was soft with warmth and the smell of butter and sugar. Couples sat tucked into booths, soft jazz playing somewhere near the back.

He held the door open for you without a word. You brushed past him, smiling when his hand found the small of your back—a habit he’d never admit was gentle, but always was.

You sat across from him, the candlelight between you flickering across his features. His jacket was draped over the back of the chair, sleeves of his flannel rolled up, forearms inked with faint scars catching the light.

“Didn’t think I’d see you somewhere like this,” you teased softly, unfolding your napkin.

He arched a brow. “Why’s that?”

“Because you look like you belong in a bar with sawdust on the floor, not a place with cloth napkins.”

That earned you a small, rumbling chuckle. “Don’t worry. I still ain’t usin’ the fancy fork.”

You grinned. “What are you getting?”

“Steak. No frills. You?”

You scanned the menu. “Hmm… maybe the chicken. Or—” you looked up, pretending to think hard, “—the blueberry pancakes.”

He gave you a look. “You’re jokin’.”

“Maybe I’m nostalgic.”

“Maybe you’re tryin’ to test my patience.”

You laughed softly, leaning on your elbows. “You make that sound like a challenge.”

“It usually is.”

Dinner came and went easily—conversation flowing in that unhurried way it always did with him. He didn’t talk much, but what he did say carried weight, and he listened when you filled the spaces between. You told him about small things: books you wanted to read, the idea of painting the cabin walls, the way the forest looked different every time it snowed.

He mostly just watched you—quiet, attentive, the faintest smile tugging at the corner of his mouth when you got carried away. When the plates were cleared, you sat back, full and warm, the candle flickering low between you. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” you asked, teasing.

He shrugged, reaching for his glass. “Coulda been worse.”

“High praise,” you said, smiling.

He met your eyes over the rim of his drink. “You make things better,” he said simply. No tease. No irony. Just truth.

The quiet that followed felt full—of warmth, of familiarity, of everything you didn’t need to put into words.

By the time you made it back to the cabin, the night had turned clear and cold again. The stars stretched endless above the treetops, so bright they looked close enough to touch. Logan cut the engine, and for a long moment neither of you moved. The world outside the truck was still—no sound but the crack of cooling metal and the faint whisper of wind through the trees.

You turned to him, smiling softly. “Thanks for tonight.”

He looked at you, that same unreadable tenderness behind his eyes. “Yeah,” he said quietly. “Anytime.”

You stepped out, breath misting in the air, and he was there before you could reach the steps—one hand brushing against your back again, guiding, steady. Inside, the cabin welcomed you back with the faint smell of wood smoke and comfort.

---

It was one of those days where the air seemed made for staying inside: pale light, faint snow flurries drifting past the windows, the cabin filled with the quiet promise of doing nothing at all. Logan, though, had other plans. He came in from the porch, stamping off snow and running a hand through his hair.

“Gonna run into town,” he announced, grabbing his coat from the hook. “We’re outta coffee. You need anything?”

You glanced up from the kitchen table, mug warming your hands. “Maybe… more of those gummies? The ones from the store by the post office. The sour ones, not the bears.” He gave a noncommittal grunt, which usually meant yes, and was gone before you could remind him twice.

A few hours later, the truck crunched up the drive, tires scattering icy gravel. You heard the door open, boots scraping the mat, the familiar shiver of cold air sneaking in as Logan carried two bags inside.

He set them on the table, pulling out the essentials first—coffee, bread, a few cans, things you’d run low on. Then, with a smirk, he slid a bag of gummies across the table toward you.

Except… You stared at the packaging. Wrong color. Wrong brand. Definitely not the sour ones you loved.

He must have seen your expression, because his brow creased. “What?”

“These… aren’t the right ones.” Your voice came out softer than you meant.

He blinked, then shrugged. “They’re gummies. They’re all the same.”

You didn’t answer. Just pushed the bag aside with deliberate slowness and looked down at your mug, lips pressed into a pout. The silence in the room stretched, longer and longer, until it wasn’t just quiet—it was purposeful.

You busied yourself with things that didn’t need doing: wiping the counter, refolding the same dish towel, moving mugs from one spot to another. Logan made coffee, poured himself a cup, but you didn’t look his way. Didn’t say a word.

He watched you, you could feel it—the slow burn of his attention, the mounting impatience under the surface.

Finally, after what felt like an hour, he set his mug down with a little too much force and crossed the space between you in three strides. “Alright,” he growled, voice low. “Out with it.”

You folded your arms, refusing to look up. “Nothing to say.”

He crowded your space, forcing you back until your hips bumped the edge of the kitchen table. “You’re givin’ me the silent treatment over some candy?”

You glanced up, defiant. “You never listen. I said the sour ones.”

He cocked his head, a half-smirk curling at his mouth. “That what this is about? You wanted my attention, now you got it.” He leaned in, voice lowering to a near growl. “What’re you gonna do with it, sweetheart?”

You bit your lip, not backing down. “Maybe I just want you to fix it.”

His eyes darkened, a glint of heat sparking in the depths. “You want a fix? That it?”

You swallowed, throat suddenly dry. “Maybe.”

He leaned closer, his breath warm against your cheek, hands bracketing your waist. “You want somethin’ from me, you gotta work for it.”

You shifted, trying to close the space, but he held firm. “Logan—”

“Uh-uh.” He squeezed your hips, pressing you back gently but firmly. “You want my fingers, my cock, any of it—you gotta earn it.” His tone was rough silk, each word sliding along your nerves.

You pouted, letting your eyes widen. “That’s not fair.”

He smiled, slow and wolfish. “Life’s not fair. ‘Sides, I got another idea.”

He guided you out of the kitchen and over to the couch, sitting down and pulling you into his lap, his hands large and warm even through your clothes. He slid you sideways until you were straddling one thick thigh, the muscle beneath you tensing as he shifted, making sure you felt every inch of him.

“You wanna be bratty,” he murmured, mouth brushing your ear, “you can ride my thigh until you’re sorry.”

You whimpered, rocking your hips once, twice, feeling the hard muscle through your thin pajama pants. Heat built in your core, frustration and need tangled together, made sharper by the way he just watched—steady, calm, unhurried.

You ground down, breath shuddering, desperate for friction. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place but not helping, not giving more.

“Logan, please,” you whispered, voice shaking. “I need—”

He cut you off, voice gravelly, patient and unyielding. “You want more? Gotta show me. Keep going, sweetheart. Work for it.”

You pressed harder, chasing relief, your movements getting messy, needy. His hands never left your hips, thumbs pressing deep but never slipping lower. You could feel his thigh flex beneath you, giving just enough resistance to drive you wild, not nearly enough to satisfy.

Every whimper, every gasp, every plea only made his hold firmer, his gaze hotter, his patience endless. “You wanna come?” he asked, voice just above a whisper. “Then you take what you want.”

You whined, hips moving faster, chasing the edge as he watched, silent and steady, giving you nothing but the weight of his thigh and the dark promise in his eyes.

You could’ve begged. You almost did. But he only shook his head, soft and dangerous. “No shortcuts this time, baby. You wanna come, you do it like this. Show me how much you want it.”

When you finally fell apart, trembling in his arms, he gathered you close, mouth brushing your temple, voice gone impossibly gentle. “That’s my girl,” he murmured. “Told you, you work for it, you get it.”