Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
swearing ⢠reader is of age ⢠teacher/student dynamic ⢠intoxication ⢠cheating ⢠cormac is a dick ⢠mentions of drug use ⢠use of pet names âsweetheart, honey, darling, sweet girlâ ⢠insecure remus ⢠sirius feature âď¸
main masterlist đž
song : clean air - laufey
w/c : 6.3k
a/n : lmao finally posting this after procrastinating writing this for like 2 weeks đđ but itâs fineâŚanyhow hope u enjoy lovelies!
You stare at the ugly red marking the top right of your parchment. You blink. Once, twice, but it doesnât stop the tossing and turning of your stomach as you look at your grade. D. Not once in your life had you ever gotten anything below an A. Professor Lupin shoots you a sort of sympathetic, disappointed look as if sensing your turmoil, the frustration radiating off you.
âMeet me after class.â He murmurs, patting your shoulder, before continuing to pass out essays to the rest of your class. Your throat feels tight as he moves on, the touch of his hand lingering like a brand on your shoulder. You nod, though heâs already turned away, and sink a little lower in your seat. You stare down at your parchment again, the red ink burning into your vision. How could you have missed so many key points? Youâd spent nights going over every creature, every counter-curse, every page of Defensive Magical Theory. You can still picture the ink stains on your fingers, the candle burning low. A dreadful? Merlin, if your parents found out, your ancestors would be turning in their graves, and they would send you yet another of an elightening howler in front of the whole Great Hall. You fight the impending tightening of your throat, the blurring of tears in your eyes. Could this day get any worse? Cormac â your dickhead of a boyfriend, well, technically ex-boyfriend now, had the smart idea of making out with another girl mid-party. One, he conveniently forgot he attended with you as your date. You grit your teeth. Merlin, if you could hex him into next week, you would. Of course, you had to ignore all of your friends' warnings, all the things they called him. Player. Dickhead. Eager to fuck anything with a pulse. Walking red sea. But no, you had to be different. You had to believe youâd be the one to âchangeâ him, that underneath the smug grin and the cocky broom-handling skills, there was something worth holding onto. Spoiler: there wasnât, besides a measly 2 inches. Theyâd all tried to warn you, and youâd brushed them off with a confident laugh, claiming Cormac was just âmisunderstood.â
Misunderstood, your ass. You press the heels of your palms to your eyes, willing yourself not to cry again. Not here. Not after that D. Not after everything.
The bell rings, and you nearly jump out of your seat. Around you, chatter arises, classmates packing up books, discussing Hogsmeade plans, upcoming assignments. Slowly, you stand, as the last few trickle out of the door, you approach Lupinâs desk. You swallow hard. You can feel the bitter taste in your mouth, the ache in your chest, and your hands tremble slightly as your fingers curl around the edge of your desk. You wish, just for a second, that the world could stop, that you could pause everything and breathe without the weight of failure pressing on you. Lupin looks up, his eyes soft, hinted with concern.
âI wasâŚsurprised to see your results.â He says softly. âYouâve been top of my class for years. Is everything alright at home? Boy problems? Stress?â You manage a defeated shrug.
âDoes my boyfriend cheating on me count?â
âOh honey,â Professor Lupin sighs, his face falling into something between sympathy and quiet understanding. He sets his quill down, the faint scratch of parchment ceasing as the room stills.
âI see,â he says gently, and for a moment, he seems to be choosing his words carefully. âIâm sorry. That sort of thing can make it difficult to focus on⌠well, anything, really.â You nod, staring at the floor, heat rising in your cheeks. It feels childish to admit, but the words had already slipped out before you could stop them.
âI just⌠feel stupid,â you admit quietly. âEveryone warned me, and I didnât listen. And now my grades are slipping because of some-because of him.â Lupin leans back slightly, folding his arms.
âThat doesnât make you stupid,â he says firmly. âIt makes you human. People hurt us sometimes, and itâs not always something we can predict or prevent. But what matters is how you move forward.â
âBoys are stupid at this age.â He snorts. âTrust me, I was one of them too once.â
âDid you ever have anybody?â The words stumble out before you can stop them. âIâm sorry if that was too personal-â Lupin chuckles, cutting off your rant.
âNo harm done,â He leans further back into his chair, and you try not to stare at the way his sweater bunches around his forearms. You hope your cheeks arenât as red as they feel. Get it together, thatâs your teacher for Merlinâs sake.
âOnce.â His eyes turn sad. âA very long time ago.â Thereâs a weight to his tone - kind of quiet ache, the sound of a memory too fragile to touch. You donât press him; you simply nod, letting the silence speak for you both. But the words are heavy in the air, on the tip of both of your tongues. I miss them.
âIf you want help with your grades, or you want some study sessions, or somebody to talk to, my door is always open.â You nod, but your throat feels tight. The lamplight flickers between you, painting his face in soft gold, and for a second you think you see his eyes linger on your face, darting down to your lips, but itâs so fast youâre convinced you mustâve imagined it.
âThank you,â you manage to say. âI might take you up on that.â He hums in acknowledgment, reaching for the book on his desk. His fingers brush the worn cover, tracing the spine absently, like heâs somewhere else entirely.
âSee you at dinner Professor,â You whisper, holding your books tight to your chest as you open the door, the corridor a cold contrast to the warmth in the classroom.
âYouâre worth more than him. Donât let him convince you otherwise.â Lupinâs voice echoes behind you.
You feel like shit. Every time your eyes snag on Cormac in your peripheral, his arm casually slung around her shoulders as he laughs loudly at one of his friendâs stupid jokes, you fight the urge to throw a hex. And at every single attempt to touch the food on your plate, a wave of nausea washes over you. You stab your fork into a potato like it personally offended you, ignoring the way your friend shoots you a wary look. The noise in the Great Hall blurs into one dull hum, and all you can think about is how smug he looks, like he knows exactly what heâs doing. He probably does. You can feel his gaze flick toward you every now and then, just to check if youâre watching. And, of course, you are. Pathetic.
You push your plate away and lean back, arms crossed. If you had an ounce of self-respect, youâd stop letting him get to you. But then he laughs again low and easy and she tucks her hair behind her ear, tilting her head toward him like heâs said something clever. Merlin, you hate him.
âAre you okay?â your friend asks quietly. You glance at her, force a smile that feels about as real as a Polyjuice disguise.
âPeachy.â But when Cormacâs arm tightens around the girlâs shoulders, your jaw clenches. You tell yourself you donât care. You tell yourself youâll hex him later - nothing serious, maybe just something itchy and embarrassing. Something thatâll make you feel better. You donât believe yourself for a second. With each new step to a mental breakdown, you find yourself remembering Professor Lupinâs offer. All you need is some help with your Transfiguration Essay. Thatâs all. Itâs definitely not because you want to stare at his scars and pretty brown eyes. Listen. You werenât blind. Professor Lupin was pretty attractive, you would have to be stupid to deny it. He had his own personal fan club of swooners (which was growing in numbers by the month), and honestly, you couldnât even blame them. There was something about him - the way his voice carried when he spoke, calm and measured, but warm. The way he smiled, like heâd seen the worst of the world and still chose to be kind. The faint tiredness in his eyes that somehow made him softer, not weaker. His voice, deep and husky in the morning classes, and warm next to your ear when you raised your hand for help. You werenât immune to any of it. In fact, you were almost certain he did it sometimes on purpose, although you didnât have any evidence. Still, you tried to convince yourself that this was purely academic. You were just going to his office to ask for help - nothing more, nothing less. You were taking advantage of his offer, being courteous and accepting such an invitation. So why had you checked your appearance five times already on the way.
By the time you reached the Defense Against the Dark Arts classroom, the castle had quieted. Candles flickered along the corridors, and your reflection trailed beside you in the dark glass of the windows. You hesitated outside his door, heart pounding faster than it should. You raised your hand to knock, but before you could, his voice called out â
âCome in.â He always knew. You stepped inside, clutching your books like a shield. He looked up from his desk, spectacles perched low on his nose, a faint smile tugging at his lips. Holy shit does he know how utterly fuckable he looks? You could just rip his pants off and ride-
âAh. I was hoping youâd stop by.â You blink, cheeks flushing.
âYou were?â Professor Lupin laughs, slow and warm.
âYouâd had a rough week.â
âProfessor-â
âCall me Remus.â He stands, moving to the kettle. âHot Chocolate?â Your throat goes dry.
âHot chocolate?â you repeat, like the words are foreign. He glances over his shoulder with a small, knowing smile.
âThe best cure for a terrible day,â he says. âThat, and good company.â Youâre not sure which one he means for you. You nod anyway, setting your books down on the edge of his desk. The surface is cluttered - stacks of essays, quills, a half-eaten bar of Honeydukes chocolate, but itâs somehow exactly what you expected. Lived-in. Warm. Like him. Remus moves with quiet ease, pouring steaming milk into two chipped mugs, the soft clinking of ceramic filling the space between you. He stirs them, the faint scent of cocoa curling through the air. When he turns and offers you one, your fingers brush. Itâs barely a touch, but it sends a strange, shivery pulse through your chest. You look down quickly, pretending to focus on the rising steam.
âThank you,â you mumble. He leans back against the edge of his desk, cradling his own mug in both hands.
âSo,â he says gently, âboy trouble, bad grades, or both?â You huff a dry laugh, staring into your cup.
âIs âexistential crisisâ an option?â Remus smiles faintly.
âAlways.â You stir your cocoa thoughtfully.
âProf-Remus?â You correct yourself, as he smirks.
âYes?â He sips his drink slowly, maintaining eye contact with you, his glasses fogging up with steam.
âYou went to Hogwarts right?â Remus gives you an amused look.
âA long time ago.â You nod, tracing the rim of your mug with your finger. âWhat was it like? When you were here, I mean.â A small, wistful smile plays on his lips.
âDifferent,â he says after a pause. You tilt your head, watching him.
âYou were a prefect, werenât you? I read it somewhere-well, not read, overheard. Somebody mentioned it.â He chuckles softly, setting his mug down.
âGuilty. Though I wasnât nearly as strict as I shouldâve been. My friends⌠made sure of that.â
âFriends?â you prompt, curious. His gaze flickers - the kind of flicker thatâs half fondness, half ache.
âYes. There were four of us. James, Sirius, Peter, and me. We were inseparable, more like brothers. We called ourselves the Marauders.â You smile at the warmth in his tone, but thereâs a shadow behind it - something heavy that makes you hesitate to pry further.
âSounds like you miss them,â you say quietly.
âI do.â He doesnât look at you when he says it. âMore than I can explain.â For a moment, you think a tear glints in your teacherâs eye as he says it, caught up in the tortures of his own memory to remember you. Theyâre just on holiday right? THEYâRE JUST NOT IN THE COUNTRY RIGHT?! Your subconcious screams, as you force yourself not to pry.
âMemory has a funny way of holding onto the things we love⌠and the things weâve lost,â Remus says softly, finally looking at you. His voice is low, steady, but thereâs a weight to it that makes your chest tighten. You nod, unsure what to say. Thereâs a temptation to ask more, to dig, but you swallow it. Instead, you just sip your cocoa, letting the warmth spread through you, hoping it can chase away the knot of unease twisting in your stomach. He watches you for a moment, eyes unreadable, then exhales quietly and pushes the essay papers toward you.
âNow,â he says, âletâs see if we can make sense of this essay together.â You take a deep breath, gripping your quill, and for the first time all day, feel a little of the tension ease. Maybe youâre not entirely hopeless.
After that session, it turned into two. Than three. And soon, every Monday and Thursday evenings were spent in the comfort of Professor Lupinâs office, the fire casting warm shadows across stacks of parchment and open textbooks. At first, it was strictly academic. Essays were dissected, spells practiced, notes compared. You arrived with your quill ready, determined to prove yourself, and he guided you patiently, correcting your mistakes and explaining concepts until they finally clicked. But slowly, the sessions became more than just lessons. There were shared smiles over small victories, quiet laughter at the mischief of past students, and the occasional story about Hogwarts long ago. Sometimes, youâd catch him staring into the fire for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes, and youâd realize he trusted you with memories he shared with few others. The office became a refuge. A place where the weight of bad grades and heartbreak felt lighter. You still thought about Cormac occasionally, still felt the sting of betrayal, but in here, with the smell of cocoa and old books and Lupinâs quiet presence, it was easier to breathe. And slowly, your walls around your heart began to unravel once again, and you found yourself falling. It didnât feel like when it was with Cormac. No, this type of crush felt giddish, and clichĂŠ, the type where you felt like you were floating, where in animations you would gain heart eyes at the mention of his name. It was the kind of falling that made your stomach flutter with every smile, every small laugh shared across a desk stacked with parchment. The kind of falling where your thoughts would drift to him at the oddest moments - when a fire crackled in the common room, when a chocolate frog hopped across the table in the Great Hall, when a memory of Hogwarts long ago teased the corners of your mind. You swear itâs two-sided, that youâre not delusional. Every glance that lingers just a second too long, every quiet smile exchanged over a corrected essay, every subtle tilt of his head when he listens to you - it all feels deliberate, like heâs leaning into the connection just as much as you are. Itâs in the way he watches you wrestle with a tricky spell, patience softening the edge of his eyes, and the gentle nods when you explain a thought out loud, as if heâs genuinely interested in every word. The way he hums thoughtfully, absentmindedly, when you struggle through a passage - like heâs memorizing the rhythm of your voice. And the thought both excites and terrifies you. Because unlike Cormac, thereâs no game here, no smirk hiding an agenda. This feels real. Safe. Honest. You try to remind yourself: itâs just admiration. Respect. Gratitude for the way he guides you through chaos. But the butterflies in your stomach say otherwise. They insist on it. And every time he reaches across the desk to hand you parchment, or to adjust a crooked page, your chest flutters, and you swear, just for a moment, that the world has narrowed to the space between you two.
Drunk you wasâŚa sight. Slytherin parties were notorious, a chaotic mix of drugs, alcohol and a suspicious haze in the air laced with sweat, sex and euphoria, and the bass of the music vibrated through your bones like some kind of twisted heartbeat. Youâd styled your hair into glossy curls that fell over your back, a tight black mini dress that just about showed all the right things, and your makeup was done up just right. You were just missing something. Him. It was your first party since the breakup, and somehow, he had managed to snag an invite, and was now leaning against a wall, lips pressed against Sadie? Sally? Susan? Youâd lost track after a while, but it took everything in your to not spit your drink back out. Instead, you downed it, relishing the, letting it coat your throat, trying to convince yourself you didnât care. But every laugh he threw her way, every careless tilt of his head, made your chest tighten. The sticky heat of the room, the thumping music, the swirl of bodies - it all faded into the background, leaving only him. You wanted to storm over, hex him into oblivion, or at least shove him off the wall -but something in you held back. Part of you was still smart enough to know that throwing a fit wouldnât fix anything. Another part, the part that still hurt, just wanted him to notice that you were here. You down another firewhisky. Then another, and the room starts to spin. The music thumps in your ears, louder now, but itâs not just the bass - itâs him. Cormac, leaning back against the wall, grinning like he owns the night, her laughter curling around him. You stumble in your too high heels, feeling the need for fresh air. As you stagger out into the cool corridor, ignoring all the couples that line the walls, you begin to skip down the hallways, all sense of conscience out the window. As you hum a soft tune, you huff as you bump into a solid brick wall. It looks down at you, amused as you slur a greeting in a poor attempt to look sober.
âRemmy!â You sniff, wrapping your arms around his waist. Merlin, it was smaller than yours. Remus studies you, sniffing the liquor on your breath.
âHave you been drinking?â
âNoooo,â You giggle. âIâm a good girl. Iâm your good girl.â You breathe out the last words, blinking up at him with large glossy eyes. Remus gulps as he struggles to compose himself.
âWhat are you doing at the party?â
âSweet girl, weâre in the hallways of the Dungeon. Thereâs no party out here. I was patrolling and doing my rounds.â You look around, disoriented, before grinning and nodding.
âOh yeah!â A wave of sadness hits you, as you slump down onto the ground, tucking your knees in front of you as tears roll down your cheeks.
âHe was kissing her.â You mumble. âI want him back. I miss him.â The world seemed to suffocate your chest, as you exhale, intaking breath shakily. âAm I not good enough? Is that why?â You hiccup, letting the tears fall freely, the weight of heartbreak pressing down like a stone in your chest. The cool night air does little to soothe the sting, and your hands tremble as you pull your knees closer. Remus sits quietly beside you, not rushing, just steady and present. His hand brushes a damp strand of hair from your cheek, his touch gentle but grounding.
âOh darling,â he murmurs softly, voice low and warm, âyouâre enough. He was just too blind to see it.â You blink up at him, raw and vulnerable, words catching in your throat.
âBut⌠I loved him,â you whisper, voice trembling. âI still do. Doesnât that mean anything?â He shakes his head slowly, sighing with a quiet ache.
âIt means something to you, yes. But love alone doesnât always make someone see what they have⌠or make them act the way they should.â
âWhy does it hurt? Why doesnât this pain go away?â You look at him so gently, that Remus almost-almost-pulls you into a hug.
âCome on sweet girl, letâs get you some water and some comfy clothes, hm?â He stands, offering you his hand, as you stand shakily, your heels dangling in your other hand, the opposite one that holds onto his a bit longer than necessary. If he notices, he doesnât say anything, leading you through the winding corridors to the exterior of the now familiar sight of his study. He murmurs the password, leading your unsteady figure over through the office and into his private chambers, laying you on the bed.
âIâm going to get you some clothes, and Iâm going to turn around, okay?â He says, rummaging through a drawer, pulling out a soft, oversized cotton shirt. Worn, and stained with his cologne, he passes it to you.
âHere.â He says gently. âIâm going to go grab you some aspirin for the morning.â As he leaves the room, you fumble with your zipper, somehow managing to squeeze the skin-tight satin off, and slipping on the shirt. You hug it to yourself as you relax into the soft pillows, your mind a haze on somewhere up above.
Remus had been battling his demons ever since heâd seen you. Merlin, he should feel disgusted with himself, mortified, especially. His top student, you, in pretty curls, and a dress that highlighted all your curves, pouted glossy lips, and big innocent eyes, lined with black as you hugged him. You, who was old enough to be his daughter, you who haunted every dream and waking thought. You, who was currently in his bed, in his clothes. He feels faint. He sighs, reaching for the aspirin and filling up the water glass, to bring to you for your unavoidable hangover in the morning. The way you called him Professor sent blood rushing to his cheeks and other places, left him with a new level of guilt with every waking touch, and each trail of burning desire your gaze left in its wake. Merlin he was going to hell. As he approaches, he freezes. A sliver of black lace peeks up from where the shirt rides up. Slowly, he places the tray on the bedside table, walking outside to go sleep on the couch.
âRemus.â Your voice, ridden with drowsiness, calls from your cocoon on the quilt. âWhere are you going?â
âTo sleep on the couch.â He answers softly. Thereâs a pause, a hint of hesitance from your half-asleep figure.
âStay.â You say it so softly that Remus is convinced he misheard. âPlease.â For a moment, he contemplates his options. Stay, go to hell, which he is convinced he is already, and enjoy a night next to you, and hopefully skip the nightmares. Go-fuck it, heâs already laying down. He shifts, his giant, lean frame awkward on the bed, clearly not used to sleeping with somebody else. The mattress dips and creaks under his weight, and he lets out a soft, sheepish sigh, trying not to disturb you. Unconciously, you inch closer to him, curling your back against his front. His arm instinctively wraps around you, draping gently over your side, and you sigh softly, nuzzling slightly into the crook of his shoulder. Remus stiffens for a moment, unused to this level of closeness, but the tension slowly melts as he adjusts, letting you mold into him. The rise and fall of his chest beneath your cheek is steady and grounding, a quiet anchor against the storm of thoughts and heartbreak swirling in your mind.
âBetter?â he murmurs, voice low and soft, more to himself than you, as if testing the comfort of the moment. You hum in response, pressing just slightly closer, letting the silence speak for you both. No words are needed; the comfort, the shared warmth, and the quiet presence is enough.
Fuck. Your head pounds as your eyes adjust to the light, as you rub your head. You definitely had too much to drink last night. As you sit up, you note your unfamiliar surroundings, and your choice of attire for the night was definitely not your own. You read the slogan in the mirror.
âDonât be sad. Just listen to ABBA.â Last night floods back in fragments: the music, the firewhiskey, your stumbling through the halls, the desperate words tumbling out about Cormac. And then⌠him. Remus. His steady presence, his hands guiding you, the careful patience in his amber eyes. The memory makes your chest tighten-part relief, part longing. You sit up slowly, swaying slightly as your stomach protests against the remnants of alcohol. Blinking, you scan the room, noting the stacks of books, the flickering candlelight that never fully burned out, the scattered parchments on his desk. And then your eyes fall on the folded note on the bedside table, propped against a small stack of books. Next to it, a small aspirin tablet and a glass of water which you down, before fixating your gaze on the wad of paper Your hands shake slightly as you reach for it, hesitating for a fraction of a second before breaking the seal and unfolding the parchment.
âRest. You had a bit of a wild night last night. Iâm cooking breakfast , just go through the doorway and turn left.â You fold up the paper, tucking it under the pillow as you stand, stabilising yourself as you shuffle, following his directions. Soon enough, you hear voices and the unmistakable sizzling of something in a pan. Shielding your eyes from the light, you walk in, tugging at the shirt. Both of the voices stop mid-conversation, both eyes turning to you as you groan. A fairly attractive man, around Remusâ age and with a vaguely familiar face, whistles as you walk in.
âMoony! You dirty, dirty wolf, you had a chick over?â Remus groans at his friends comment, though his eyes soften at your disgruntled state.
âHangover potion is on the table. And no, it wasnât like that.â After you down the potion, grimacing at the bitter taste, you eyes begin to focus better as you blink, clutching your forehead as the pain subsides.
âThe subject of the conversation has a name you know,â The man sitting on the kitchen bench smirks, raising an eyebrow.
âApologies love,â Remus sighs.
âThis is my friend Sirius.â
âWait Sirius? Sirius Black?!â You scream, grabbing a knife and pointing it at him. The mirth in Siriusâ eyes fades, as realisation clicks into place in your mind.
âYouâre a murderer!â You tremble, as Remus stands between the two of you, holding his hands up in a gesture of innocence. âWhy are you defending him â oh my merlin are you two working together? ARE YOU GOING TO MURDER ME-â
âNobodyâs going to die today.â Remus interjects firmly.
âSirius is innocent, he was framed.â
âYeah, because of that slimy piece of shit Pettigrew-â
âPads.â Remus warns. Sirius holds up his hands, the grin draining from his face the moment he sees how terrified, and how serious you are.
âAlright, alright,â he says, tone shifting to something softer. âNo need for knives. I wasnât- I didnât-â He trails off, because words are useless here. Remus gives you a look thatâs all apology and command.
âPut the knife down, love,â he says quietly. âWeâre friends. All of us.â Youâre trembling, breath sharp; your fingers are sticky from the hangover potion and the small glass slips from your grip, clattering to the floor. The noise is ridiculous and somehow grounding. You drop the knife, knees shaking, and sink back onto a chair as Sirius exhales a rough, disbelieving laugh.
âMoonyâs right,â Sirius says, more serious now, the mischief gone and something raw left in its place. âI didnât do it. I was set up. Pettigrew did what he did and pinned it on me. Iâve been on the run ever since.â He rubs a hand over his face, and for the first time you see not the cocky prankster youâd half-expected but the man whoâs been carrying too much for too long. âYou donât have to believe me straight away. I donât blame you. But I swear to you, Iâm not a murderer.â Remus sits beside you, close enough that your shoulders brush, grounding you.
âHe was framed,â he repeats softly, for your sake and probably because he needs to say it aloud too. âWe all know the truth. Itâs⌠complicated.â Siriusâs jaw tightens at the memory, and the kitchen fills with a heavy, shared history. Slowly, you hesitantly lower the blade, letting it clang to the marble gently.
âIf Remus trusts you, then I suppose he has a reason.â You sigh. Sirius exhales, clearly relieved, and gives you a small, crooked smile.
âThank you,â he says, though itâs laced with humor. âMost people donât greet me with a knife first.â You fold your arms, still wary, and glare at him lightly, though a shaky laugh escapes.
âWell⌠most people arenât supposed to be fugitives.â Remus chuckles softly beside you, the warmth in his presence grounding your jittery nerves.
âYouâre both ridiculous,â he mutters, shaking his head. Then, softer, he adds, âBut thatâs why I trust him.â Siriusâs grin returns, more playful now, though thereâs an edge of seriousness in his eyes.
âSo,â You begin. âIs this the famous Sirius from all your Marauders tales Lupin?â Sirius barks out a laugh.
âIâm famous, am I?â He ruffles Remusâ hair as he places plates in front of the both of you.
âIâve heard all of your escapades, pranks and idioticness all in your youth. Quite the ladies' man, I heard Mr Black.â
âItâs all in the Black charm.â He smirks, mouth full of scrambled egg.
âThis so-called Black charm, entail talking with your mouth full to ladies?â
âI like this one Moony. You should keep her.â
âOh no we arenât-â You say the same time Remus replies hurriedly;
âNO-I mean no weâre not-â Sirius smirks, nodding slowly as you both awkwardly halt your sentences.
âSure. No judgment from me, Iâve been there too once.â Sirius sighs wistfully. âSeventh Year, Professor Lacie Pallow.â You make a face.
âDo I even want to know?â
âStraight Oâs all year.â Sirius smirks. You blink at him, raising an incredulous eyebrow.
âAnd⌠you charmed her how exactly?â Sirius grins, leaning back with that trademark arrogance that somehow makes you roll your eyes. You can see how heâs related to Draco.
âCarefully. Smoothly. And occasionally⌠with absolutely no regard for subtlety. Seventh year me didnât do subtle.â Remus snorts beside you, shaking his head.
âHeâs leaving out the part where he got caught sneaking out of the library at midnight.â
âOh, that was a tactical retreat!â Sirius protests dramatically, gesturing with his fork. âA masterful maneuver to avoid a detention that was entirely unfair!â
âIâm sure.â You snort, enjoying as they bicker. Sirius throws you a mock-offended look, waving a hand dramatically.
âIt was!â
âWasnât.â Remus cuts in.
âWas.â
âWasnât.â
âWas.â
âWas.â
âWasnât - MERLIN DAMN YOU.â You stir your tea, snickering into your cup. Sirius shoots you a look.
âShut up.â
You and Remus never spoke about it. Just slipped back into your usual routines, but somehow your eyes always seemed to find his. Youâd catch him watching you sometimes, over the rim of his cup or from across the room, gaze soft and thoughtful. Heâd always look away first, clearing his throat, muttering something about needing to check the wards. And youâd pretend not to notice, though your heart always ached just a little. Today, though, today, something was different. It was the week before the full moon, and Remus was being more touchy, more bold than usual. Listen, you werenât an idiot, you realised that he was a werewolf, and though he had yet to tell you, you knew you were right. He always disappeared mysteriously after the full moon with some bullshit excuse, and his face was covered with scars. Youâd pieced it together ages ago - his sharp senses, the way his hands sometimes trembled, his eyes going almost golden under certain light. You werenât afraid. If anything, you understood him better for it. The guilt that lingered in his posture, the restraint that lived in his every breathâit all made sense now. But this week, something had shifted. The air between you crackled differently. His touches lingered longer than they should have - his hand brushing your wrist when he handed you a quill, his palm resting briefly on your back as he passed behind you. Small, almost nothing gestures, but they set your pulse on fire.
That night, during your usual âstudy sessionâ, Remus leans against the counter, stirring his own cup as the kettle whistles softly. You lean against the doorway, watching him quietly.
âHot chocolate or tea?â he asked, voice low and rough from a long day of work.
âSurprise me,â you replied, smiling faintly. He turned, meeting your gaze for just a moment too long. There it was again - the warmth, the hunger, the thing he tried so hard to hide. His jaw tightened, and he turned back to the stove, muttering something under his breath. You padded over, curiosity winning.
âYouâre acting strange, you know,â you teased lightly, leaning your elbows on the counter beside him. âEven for you.â He glanced at you, lips twitching into a tired smile.
âStrange?â
âMm. Broody. Restless. More than usual.â He huffed a quiet laugh, but didnât meet your eyes.
âRough week.â
You tilt your head, studying him-the tension in his shoulders, the faint dark circles under his eyes, the way he avoided your gaze like it might burn him.
âYou can tell me, you know,â you said softly. Remus flinches involuntarily.
âAre youâŚscared of me?â You blink, thrown by the question.
âWhat? No, of course not.â His jaw works as he stares into his mug, eyes dark and unreadable.
âYou should be,â he murmurs. âYou donât know what I am. What I could do.â
âRemus-â you start, but he cuts you off with a sharp shake of his head.
âNo. You donât understand,â he says, the restraint in his voice cracking slightly. âItâs not safe. Being near me-itâs not safe for anyone.â You take a small step closer, your voice barely above a whisper.
âIâm not scared of you.â He looks up then, eyes meeting yours - gold flickering in the dim light, something wild and sorrowful beneath them.
âYou should be,â he says again, softer this time. He sets the mug on the bench, sighing.
âIs that why?â You let out a brittle laugh. âYou refuse to let us become anything-â
âYouâre my student!â He protests, but his breath hitches as you step towards him. He can smell your perfume, feel the warmth of your body seeping into him.
âIâm graduating in two weeks! I know you want me, I canât describe it, but I can feel it! I see your stares, and I know you want this as much as I do-â He groans.
âYouâre impossibly stubborn you know?â He groans at your words, dragging a hand down his face.
âYouâre impossibly stubborn, you know that?â You grin faintly, stepping closer until youâre toe-to-toe.
âTakes one to know one.â
He exhales, the sound shaky, his resolve thinning by the second. âYou have no idea what youâre asking for.â
âI think I do,â you whisper, gaze flicking from his lips to his eyes. âAnd I think you do too.â Remus laughs under his breath, a sound caught somewhere between disbelief and surrender.
âYouâre going to be the death of me.â
âThen at least itâll be mutual,â you murmur, and thatâs all it takes. His restraint snaps like a stretched string. One hand finds your jaw, the other your waist, pulling you in until your breath catches. For a heartbeat, he just looks at you - like heâs memorizing every inch of your face, then his lips crash into yours, all heat and pent-up hunger. You kiss him back like heâs the only thing keeping your sanity alive, like heâs oxygen, and you claw at his robes.
âDo you know how long Iâve wanted to do that?â Remusâ eyes are dark and wild, his hair mussed and his chest heaving. His hands slide down your back, pulling you impossibly closer, as if heâs trying to erase the weeks of tension and longing in a single touch. Your breaths mingle, ragged and shallow, and the world outside that kitchen seems to disappear entirely.
âIâve⌠Iâve wanted this too,â you gasp between kisses, tilting your head to deepen the connection. Your fingers thread through his hair, tugging gently, desperate for more, needing him as much as he needs you. Remus groans low, a sound that shakes through his chest, and presses you against him harder.
âMerlin, you have no idea what you do to me,â he murmurs, voice rough, laden with desire and something more, something almost tender. You clutch him tighter, your forehead resting against his as you both try to catch your breath. The tension, the frustration, the unspoken words - all of it melts into this moment, and for the first time, neither of you cares about the consequences.
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
alcohol use ⢠angst ⢠swearing ⢠cheating ⢠manipulation
main masterlist áŻâ
synopsis : you and draco were perfect in every life except for this one
w/c : 3.7k
song : a cautionary tale
a/n : a bit of draco content to feed you all đ i hope youâre all enjoying this masterlist a lot, because im enjoying writing for yâall đ as always, please lmk if iâve missed any warnings. set in ootp
You had never minded Draco Malfoy. His gloating and his blown-up ego, his unfairly attractive looks, his snarky retorts were all just background noise. You donât remember when something changed, or when you realised just the extent of his looks. Maybe it was the time you caught him comforting a crying first-year on the stairs, who had been bullied by a Gryffindor for being a âslimy snake.â The scene had stopped you in your tracks. His voice, softer than you thought it could ever be, carried through the corridor, gruffly murmuring comfort. He had stared for a moment, then crouched down to the younger studentâs level, a hand resting against the nape of his neck awkwardly, broad body shielding them from the stares of passing students. It was fleeting, a moment so small it could have gone unnoticed. But it didnât. Not to you. After that, every little thing stood out. The way he absentmindedly twirled his quill when he was bored in class. The quiet scoff he gave when Astoria tried too hard to impress him. Even the way he loosened his tie just slightly when he thought no one was watching. It was like suddenly, you were. Always watching. Always noticing. And Merlin, it was infuriating. Because Draco Malfoy wasnât supposed to be kind. He wasnât supposed to make you pause, to catch you staring, to make your heart trip over itself when his gaze brushed yours across the Great Hall. Yet somehow, he had a cast an Imperio curse on your heart, dangling and tugging the strings within his fingertips like a puppetmaster. You told yourself it was harmless at first. A glance here, a passing thought there. Nothing more than idle curiosity. Thatâs how all tragedies start, isnât it? With the belief that you are immune. That you can walk through the fire and come out unburnt. But each gaze, each small smirk, seemed to singe you even further, til you were utterly consumed by the flames, dancing in the aftermath of your ashes. That was the thing with boys like Draco Malfoy â they collected hearts like Chocolate Frog Cards, and built walls high and indestructible around their own. Maybe you were too naĂŻve for your own good, to think you could change that.
Draco had always known you. Smart, quick-witted, and eyes that sung with the stars, eyes that dared to look at him as though he were more than the sum of his surname. He had noticed, long before you realised, how your laughter curled at the edges of his pride, how your words could slice through his arrogance without drawing blood.
But he was Malfoyâcursed with a legacy, tangled in shadows he never asked to inherit. Affection was a luxury, and luxuries were dangerous. Still, when you walked into a room, it was as though the air changed, lighter, warmer, unbearable in its temptation. He told himself he wouldnât reach for you. That people like him didnât deserve people like you. And yet, he watched. He lingered. He let the thought of you weave into his mind late at night, when silence pressed too heavy against his ribs. The cruelest thing about Draco Malfoy was not his words or his pride, but the way he made you believe he could love you back. And perhaps, in some corner of his fractured heart, he did. But love from him was no gift - it was a warning. A thread pulled loose, leading you straight into a story that would end, as all such stories do, in ruin. Still, he mustered up his courage and one day sent a single rose, pink, your favourite colour, signed with his initials. He told himself it wasnât creepy as he sat at the breakfast table, eyes fixated on you as he shovelled spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth. His pulse hammered with every second that passed, every breath you took, waiting for your reaction. You picked it up delicately, fingers brushing the soft petals, lips curling into the smallest smile. A smile that wasnât for anyone else - it was his, though no one else knew it.
For weeks after the rose, life tilted into something dreamlike. The hallways seemed shorter with Draco beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he matched your stride, his pale fingers ghosting yours like he wasnât quite brave enough to hold on in plain view. In the library, he sat across from you with his chin in his hand, pretending to read when his grey eyes never left your face. And when, one evening, you found yourselves alone in the dungeons, torchlight flickering gold across his sharp features, he leaned in, hesitant, uncertain, and kissed you. It wasnât fireworks or fanfare. It was quiet. Like something inevitable, something long overdue. His lips were cold, but his hand was warm against your cheek, and for the first time, you thought maybe, just maybe, youâd been wrong about cautionary tales. Days turned into weeks. You learned that Draco laughed, really laughed, when you teased him. That he hated pumpkin juice but drank it anyway because it looked better than water. That when he couldnât sleep, he walked the corridors until his shoes ached. He whispered secrets against your skin in the dead of night: fears, doubts, the quiet admission that sometimes he didnât feel strong enough to carry his familyâs name. You held him tighter with every confession, thinking you could be his anchor. Thinking love could save him. And then Christmas break passed. You had received a necklace, a lockaet witholding a photograph of both of you at Hogsmeade, courtesy of Pansy, and a card with his mark scribbled all over it. Not just any quill, but one chosen for him: dark green, phoenix feather, imbued with the subtle glimmer of gold in the shaft. Youâd written a note that bled sincerity, telling him he mattered more than any expectation, any legacy. That you believed in him, in the boy behind the Malfoy name. But as you board the train, searching for the mess of his blonde hair and his grey eyes that would surely be searching for yours tooâŚright? You glance down the crowded corridor, scanning the familiar faces of first-years chattering, older students lounging with their books, but thereâs no sign of him. Not a flicker of his cloak, not a shadow of that self-assured smirk. Your heart hammers, and for a moment, panic rises. Did he leave early? Did he not want to see me? You shake the thought away, telling yourself he couldnât resist. He would be here. He always looked for you. You step past a compartment full of Gryffindors laughing too loudly, gripping your trunk tighter as you make your way down the train. And then-there he is. Or at least, almost. You catch sight of the familiar platinum hair, bent over a book, sleeve hiding part of his face. He hasnât noticed you yet. His grey eyes are focused, distant, unreadable. A flutter of hope warms your chest. Maybe heâs just pretending not to notice. Maybe this is some elaborate game only Draco Malfoy could pull off. You hesitate, fingers brushing your wand tucked in your sleeve, heart thudding so loudly it might give you away. Finally, you step closer, and his head lifts. Silver eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the train car seems smaller, the noise of students fading into a background hum. They soften slightly, before hardening into something unspoken.
âHi.â
âHi.â You murmur back, watching as he hesitates, before shuffling over to make space next to him. You sit next to him, trying to ignore the way he flinches, trying to pretend that it means less than it should. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the hum of the train and the murmur of other students filling the silence. You notice the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how his hands fidget with the hem of his sleeve as though heâs wrestling with something he doesnât want you to see.
âI⌠got your quill,â he says finally, voice low, almost reluctant. âThe one you sent me over Christmas. Itâs⌠perfect.â You smile, warmth flooding your chest.
âIâm glad you like it. I-â Your words falter as you notice the shadow in his expression. Something is there, hidden beneath the surface, and you canât name it yet. He looks away, staring out the window at the blur of snow-covered countryside.
âIâve been⌠busy,â he mutters, almost to himself. âWith⌠things.â
âThings?â you prompt gently, your heart tightening. Draco shifts uncomfortably, jaw clenched.
âJust⌠family. Obligations. You wouldnât understand.â You bite back the words that want to spill out, the urge to remind him that you do understand, that youâve always tried to. Instead, you nod, forcing a small smile, trying to convince yourself that itâs nothing. That this is nothing.
âOh.â You notice the way he tugs at the sleeves of his robes, tugging them over his arms, the way he tries to shrink into the seat. The questions rings in your mind. What happened to Draco over the break?
You try to ignore it. Truly. But the distance grows. He still sends letters, still speaks to you when others are watching, but the warmth you once held in his presence seems diluted. The touches become fleeting, the smiles rare. Sometimes, heâs just gone from the library when you arrive, or buried in some mysterious meeting with Blaise, Astoria, or the Slytherin prefects. You try and deny it. That heâs still the Draco you fell for. But every cold shoulder, every glance, every excuse chips away at the certainty you once felt. And the worst part? He seems to notice none of it, or he pretends not to. Itâs always Quidditch Practice. Study Group. Family Matters. They stacked up like bricks, and weighed against your eyes as you closed them in your bed each night, trying to fight the steady stream of tears that flooded them. And when you thought it couldnât get any worse, he seemed to be determined to prove you wrong. His hand slipping from yours the second anyone turned the corner. His letters, once sprawling and full of sharp wit, shrinking down to two or three detached lines. Averted gazes at meals. And merlin, Draco was like a wild animal â his sex drive was insatiable. Free time? Gone. Studying? You can do it later. Dinner? Dessert first. But now? He would barely touch you, flinching every time you would even attempt a kiss, mumbling something about needing to go. It was the gnawing tension, the impossibility of knowing him now, that drove you to follow him that night to the Astronomy Tower. You werenât sure why you even wentâyou didnât want to see him with someone else, but you couldnât stop yourself. The corridor stretched endlessly under your feet, shadows deepening with each step, until you finally saw him, lips attached to her. Astoria. Her laugh was too close, too soft. His smirk, lopsided and tired, faltered the instant his cloudy eyes met yours. The sharp scent of firewhisky clung to his robes, his cheeks flushed with drink.
âY/N,â he slurred, stumbling a little as he straightened. âItâs not-itâs not what it looks like.â
âIsnât it?â Your voice cut sharper than you intended, slicing through the night air.
Astoria shifted smugly in his laps, twisting off him as he attempted to push her off.
âDonât,â you whispered, the sight burning into you. âDonât insult me by pretending.â He staggered forward, stubbornness blazing through the haze of drink.
âYou think Iâd choose her over you? You think Iâd ever-â His words tripped over his pride. âYouâre imagining things. Itâs nothing. Sheâs nothing. But his denial was clumsy, and the ache in your chest knew better. You left him there, the door slamming shut on his protests, your footsteps carrying you as far from him as you could go. Your heart burned with something â betrayal, frustration, anger, hurt as you storm away. He broke your heart. And you let him.
Morning arrives with a brittle, gray light. You storm into the Slytherin dormitory without knocking. The room is quiet except for the soft, uneven sound of someone sniffling. Draco. He lay huddled under the thin covers, hair dishevelled, eyes red and glossy, the unmistakable shadow of last nightâs whiskey still clinging to him. He looks smaller somehow, fragile, broken-the proud, untouchable Draco Malfoy reduced to something human, something unbearably vulnerable.
âDonât try and talk to me,â you said, voice sharp and controlled, though your chest ached at the sight. âIâm just here to collect my stuff.â He blinks at you, lips trembling, but doesnât respond. You marched past him, grabbing the hoodies youâd left scattered across the room over the years-soft, familiar scents that still smelled faintly of him. Your hands move quickly, almost frantically, rifling through drawers and shelves. You need distance, some tangible proof that you could leave and survive. Then, as your fingers brush the edge of a small velvet box tucked beneath a pile of shirts, your breath caught. You pull it free and freeze. An engagement ring. Gold, delicate, with a single diamond catching the weak morning light.
âDonât-â Dracoâs voice cracked as he suddenly reaches for it, his arm shaking, eyes wild. âDonât touch that.â You flinch, the movement stopping you, and your gaze falls to his forearm. The inked mark, black and sharp, branded his pale skin. A Death Eater mark. The room spins, the floor tilting beneath your feet. Your chest constricts as you finally understood. The weight of the betrayal wasnât just personalâit was a choice he had been forced into, a life you could never share.
âYou-â The room suddenly feels too small. âYouâre-â Draco shoves his sleeve back on, turning away.
âYou should go.â He whispers, his voice cracking as if the words themselves were killing him.
âWhy didnât you tell me?â you ask softly, the words quieter than you intend, though your throat aches. âDid-did you not trust me enough?â Draco flinches, his shoulders hunching as if your question struck him physically. He runs a hand through his damp, unkempt hair, avoiding your eyes.
âItâs not⌠I didnât not trust you,â he murmurs, voice tight, rough with emotion. âI just⌠I didnât think you could⌠I didnât want to drag you into it. Into them. Into⌠everything.â
âEverything?â Your voice rises slightly, more out of frustration than anger. âDo you even hear yourself? This-this is everything! Youâre involved with them, Draco! Youâre a Death Eater! And I-â Your chest tightens, tears threatening to fall. âI thought⌠I thought we were us. And now I donât even know who you are.â He swallows hard, finally lifting his gaze, and you see it-the storm behind his grey eyes, a mixture of shame, fear, and desperation.
âIâm still me,â he says quietly. âThe part that loves you⌠thatâs still me. But the rest⌠my family⌠the expectationsâŚthe danger. I didnât want to hurt you.â Your hands tremble, clenching at your sides.
âWe wouldâve gotten through it together, Dray! That was us, remember? Always together!â
âYou donât understand okay! You will never understand! Why canât you get that Iâm trying to protect you?!â
âSo what-Astoria did?!â You shove the ring in his face, pushing against him, ignoring the way his flesh burns under your skin.
âMy parents want me to marry Astoria.â he admits finally, voice breaking into something more human than youâve ever heard. âItâs not⌠itâs not about me. Iâm meant to propose to her. I was supposed to⌠to agree, to obey, to-â His words crumble into a sob, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, knuckles white. You stagger back, heart hammering, breath uneven.
âSo all of this⌠all the rose, all the nights, all the promises⌠were lies?â
âNo!â he yells, and itâs like the sound of a dam breaking, the mixture of rage, guilt, and desperation spilling over. âIt wasnât a lie! I love you! You have to believe me-I do! But Iâm trapped. Trapped by my name, by my blood, by what they expect me to be. I canât fight it forever, and I⌠I thought if I left you out of it, if I kept you safe⌠maybe-maybe youâd still stay with me, in some part of your heart!â Your hands shake, gripping your bag, your belongings, your chest tightening with the weight of it all.
âI canât, Draco. I canât be the one who waits while you destroy yourself⌠and while youâre already being forced to destroy us. I canât do it.â He collapses onto the bed, head in his hands, a broken boy beneath the proud Slytherin exterior.
âI didnât want to lose you,â he whispers hoarsely, almost too quiet to hear. âI really didnât.â You stare at him for a long moment, seeing the boy you fell in love with, the boy who sent a rose, the boy who once seemed untouchable, now reduced to trembling and tears. And somewhere deep inside, you feel the undeniable, brutal truth: this love, yours, his, the hope you clung to - is already shattered.
âI wish we worked out.â You whisper. âThat in some alternate universe your parents approved of us. That we could be together. That I could hold you right now-â
âWhatâs stopping you?!â His voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and raw, and you startle at the sudden intensity. His hands are trembling as he gestures wildly, as if the motion could physically unburden the weight crushing him.
You swallow hard, tears brimming, your chest aching. âYou are,â you manage, voice tight with grief. âYou, and everything that comes with you. Your family, your world⌠the choices youâre forced to make. I canât compete with that, Draco. I canât fight a war I never signed up for.â He staggers closer, desperation in every step.
âI donât care about them!â he snaps, though the edge in his voice betrays the lie he wants you to believe. âI donât care what they want! All I care about is you!â
âBut you do care,â you say softly, shaking your head. âOr you wouldnât be here, trapped in a life you hate, letting them, letting Astoria take the place that shouldâve been ours. You think love is enough to fight that? Itâs not. Not alone. Not with everything stacked against us.â Dracoâs shoulders slump, burying his face in his hands. âI thought I could protect you⌠I thought if I shielded you from all of it, youâd stay. But I canât. I canât even save myself, let alone you.â Your lips tremble as you whisper,
âI just⌠wanted us to have a chance. Thatâs all I ever wanted.â You let out a soft sigh, refusing for the tears that brim in your eyes to leave.
âIn another life Draco, I hope we worked out. That we were both brave enough to fight for us.â
âYeah.â He echoes. âIn another life.â You cup his cheek.
âTake care of yourself, okay?â You let out a sob-like laugh. âPromise me you wonât disappear completely⌠that youâll eat, sleep⌠that you wonât let them, let this take everything from you.â He swallows hard, voice thick with emotion.
âIâll try. I⌠I donât know if I can, but Iâll try. For you.â You nod, brushing a hand over his messy hair one last time, the pad of your thumb reaching out to catch the tear that falls from his eye.
âThatâs all I ask. Just⌠try. And maybe, in some other life, weâll get it right.â He doesnât reply, just watches you go, the raw pain in his eyes mirrored by the hollow ache in your own chest. And when the door closes behind you, the room is empty, but the memory of him lingersâthe boy who loved, who faltered, who was never meant to survive unscathed in a world that demanded everything from him. You step out into the cold morning, clutching your belongings, heart fractured but strangely lighter. And for the first time, you understand the cruelest truth: sometimes the only way to protect someone is to let them go, even when it shatters you entirely.
established relationship ⢠fluff ⢠swearing ⢠lmk if I missed anything
main masterlist áŻâ
synopsis : while cuddling with clark after a long day, you learn the cause of his stress isâŚmemes?
song: lover girl - laufey
w/c : 1.5k
a/n : domestic clark kent has me on my knees đđđ
The creak of the door disturbed the peace of your reading, and the figure of Clark filled your doorway, shoulders slumped and hair fussed up and messy. He let out a soft sigh as he kicked his boots off, the weariness in his frame making him seem almost smaller, though you knew better than anyone how much he carried. His glasses slipped down his nose as he rubbed at his eyes, before his gaze found you curled up on the couch. The moment his eyes met yours, his tired expression softened, like clouds parting for sunlight.
âLong day?â you asked gently, closing your book. He gave you a small, crooked smile and just nodded, too tired for words. You lifted the blanket beside you in silent invitation, and he didnât hesitate, shuffling over and lowering himself onto the couch with a groan of relief. The cushions dipped under his weight, his warmth immediately seeping into your side. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and for the first time all day, he let himself simply rest.
âBetter?â you whispered. Clark hummed softly, arms looping around you, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
âMuch better, sweetheart,â he murmured, voice muffled and heavy with exhaustion. And with that, the world outside its chaos, its demands, its constant need for him, seemed to disappear, leaving only the quiet beat of his heart against yours. You thread your fingers through his messy hair, brushing it back from his forehead. Itâs soft, still holding the faint smell of rain and city dust, and you smile to yourself at the thought of Superman looking more like a drowsy farm boy right now. Clark sighs contentedly, melting further into you, his weight pressing you into the couch.
âYouâre too good to me,â he mumbles, voice low and husky from fatigue.
âYou say that every time you come home like this,â you tease softly. âAnd every time, I tell you itâs not true.â He shifts just enough to look up at you, blue eyes heavy-lidded but shining with something gentler than any sunlight.
âIt is true. Youâre my safe place.â His hand finds yours beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in lazy circles. You lean down and kiss his forehead, lingering there for a moment, feeling him relax fully beneath your touch. You let him pull you into a lazy kiss, his tongue swiping against yours, humming contentedly against your lips. His lips are slow, unhurried, carrying none of the urgency you sometimes feel when he returns from the worldâs chaos. This kiss is different, itâs soft, grounding, like heâs reminding himself that youâre here, that heâs home. When he finally pulls back, his nose brushes against yours, and his eyes are softer than the lamplight spilling across the room.
âIâve been looking forward to that all day,â he murmurs, voice low and thick with exhaustion. You smile gently, threading your fingers through his thick curls, letting his eyes blink slowly at you, blue and soft, framed by his black glasses.
âSo, what has made the great Clark Kent all sad today?â Your fingers brush his jaw, lingering on the stubble that is stubborn to the blades of his razor. Clark lets out a huff, sinking further into the plush, picking at his fingernails, his brows furrowed, lips pouted.
âNothinâ. Itâs stupid anyway.â
âClark.â Something about your tone softened something in Clark, as he lifts his head, puppy dog eyes fully on display.
âFine. The internet is relentless.â You stifle a smirk.
âAnother blog?â
âSUPERSHIT! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!â He explodes, burrowing his head in his large hands. You canât help it. You snort before you can stop yourself.
âMemes? Clark, please tell me youâre not doomscrolling your own hashtag again.â
âI wasnât trying to,â he defends, though his ears flush pink. âBut Perry made some comment about âSupershit trending again,â and I-â Thatâs it. Youâre practically doubled over with laughter, clutching your stomach.
âSupershit?!â you wheeze.
âAnd now thereâs weird videos of me to music-â
âYou mean thirst traps?!â You practically scream, half-choking on your own laughter. Clark groans, dragging a hand down his face.
âI donât even know what that means, but they keep putting slow-motion clips of me catching helicopters to⌠to some song called âPony?ââ You absolutely lose it, falling sideways onto the couch, tears streaming.
âCLARK. THEY MADE YOU A STRIPPER EDIT.â He shoots you a deadpan look over his glasses, his ears now crimson.
âI did not sign up for that.â
âYou did,â you manage between wheezes, âwhen you decided to have biceps the size of Kansas!â Clark shakes his head in exasperation but the corners of his mouth betray him, twitching upward.
âOh, and apparently, Iâm also part of something called - âSuperLex?ââ You shriek, grabbing a pillow to muffle your laughter.
âNO. THEYâRE SHIPPING YOU WITH LEX?!?â He leans back with a long-suffering sigh, arms crossed like heâs accepting his fate.
âApparently, itâs very popular.â
âOh my god,â you gasp, voice breaking as you roll onto your back, still laughing. âYouâre not even Superman anymore. Youâre just an enemies-to-lovers Wattpad trope.â Clark tilts his head down at you, finally grinning, eyes warm despite the red in his cheeks.
âGlad my humiliation entertains you so much.â
âEntertains me?â you say, breathless. âI am LIVING for this.â He shakes his head again, pulling you into his arms despite your cackling.
âOne day, Iâm cutting the Wi-Fi.â
âThen how will I watch Supershit part two?â you shoot back, and thatâs when he drops his head into your shoulder, groaning dramatically while you dissolve into another round of wheezing laughter. You press a kiss to his cheek.
âShow me.â He groans begrudgingly, before handing you his phone.
âLook.â You begin to scroll, a smirk tugging at your lips as you read.
âSuperslut. Creative. Oh, @user1234 says âRaw. Next.ââ You clear your throat, as Clark shoots you a confused look.
âRaw? What am I now, some gourmet steak?â You pat his bicep, snuggling into his chest as you read more aloud.
âThis one is popular. @supermancanrailmeintoawall said âIf that suit was any tighter, I would be able to see the full outline of his massive di-ââ Clark covers your mouth before you can finish, eyes widened mortified. Clarkâs hand stays clamped over your mouth, his cheeks blazing so red it could rival his cape.
âDonât you dare finish that sentence,â he mutters, glaring at his phone like it betrayed him personally. You smirk.
âOh babe, you havenât seen half of this.â
âSweetheart are you sure this is a good idea-OH GOSH!â You, had somehow stumbled on the freaky section of his hashtag, and you were now faced with veryâŚcreative scenarios of smut between Lex and Clark. He covers his face with both hands, groaning.
âIâm never showing you my phone again.â You scroll back up just to torment him.
âClark. They have you and Lex in a-oh my god-is that the Oval Office?!â
âSTOP READING IT!â he nearly yelps, lunging for the phone. You rip it away from him, whistling as you continue reading.
âClark Kent, you are one filthy dog.â You murmur as you scan the screen. âHow much fanfiction is there?â Clark freezes, then groans so loudly it rattles against your chest.
âToo much. Way, way too much.â You bite back another laugh, scrolling with exaggerated slowness.
âOh my god, Clark-they have chapters.â
âPlease, donâtââ he starts, but you cut him off with a dramatic gasp.
ââLexâs fingers traced down the plane of Supermanâs chest, undoing the cape clasp with a sinful smirk, dropping to his knees in a show of submission as he began to suck-â
âGIVE ME THAT!â he practically leaps for the phone again, his ears cherry-red as he fumbles to grab it from you. You dart out of reach, clutching it to your chest, your laughter ringing through the room.
âBabe, youâre practically literature! Do you know how many people dream of becoming the main character in a smut saga?â Clark buries his head in his hands, muttering something about Ma never finding out. Still wheezing, you flop back down beside him, pressing a kiss to his temple.
âDonât worry, Supershit. I promise, Iâll only read it when youâre not home.â He peeks at you through his fingers, blue eyes narrowed in mock warning.
âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â You grin, tucking yourself under his arm.
âOf course I am. My boyfriendâs the internetâs favorite guilty pleasure.â He huffs.
âYouâre lucky I love you.â You fall into a contented silence, him pressing a kiss to your palm, nose buried into the crook of your neck, before you break it.
âBabe, do you fantasise me as Lex Luthor when we have sex?â
Percy Weasley is actually one of the most interesting characters in Harry Potter because he represents abject the horror of being the âgood childâ in a family where literal chaos is the currency of love.
Like. Imagine being born into the Weasley clan: Fred and George, literal walking fireworks; Ginny, the baby and only girl, adored by everyone; Ron, Harry Potterâs bestie (which is like being the drummer in the Beatles); Bill, effortlessly cool curse-breaker with dragon bite scars; Charlie, dragon guy with the vibes of a jock who lifts logs for fun. And then thereâs Percy. Middle child. Glasses. Prefect badge. The one who gets made fun of for⌠caring too much.
Percyâs whole deal is that he decided âFine. If I canât be funny or cool or adored, I will be Usefulâ˘.â And he threw himself into that role so hard it became a personality. The rules? Followed. The Ministry? Idolized. Authority? Obsessed with. Because to him, approval = love.
But hereâs the kicker: Percyâs downfall is not arrogance. Itâs loneliness. He thinks if he just works hard enough and impresses the right people and keeps everything perfect then finally heâll be seen. But in the process he alienates himself from his family, who donât understand that beneath the pompous speeches and Ministry talk is just a kid who wants someone to tell him theyâre proud without laughing after.
I will defend him forever, man. People thought he was a jerk but he just wanted to been seenđŤ
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming
pairing: bob reynolds x fem!reader
summary: ava and yelena have no choice but to call your ex-boyfriend when you refuse to leave girlsâ night out without him. but in your drunken haze you forget youâre broken up, and bob was never very good at telling you no.
tags: new avenger!reader, exes to lovers, angsty mutual pining goodness (i canât seem to write anything except men who yearn these days), alpine picked bob in the divorce (you were never married)
warning(s): reader wears a dress and makeup, reader drinks alcohol and is intoxicated, mentions of addiction, mentions of mental health issues, suggestive content (no smut but some mild spice), one derogatory joke about florida (sorry florida. love, a californian đŤśđť)
word count: 11.6k
note: title comes from the song back to friends by sombr, which i listened to while writing to help inspire the angst đââď¸
masterlist
If Ava and Yelena had known what a menace you were when you got drunk, they would never have floated the idea of a girlsâ night out. They just thought you needed to blow off some steam after Bucky banned you from going on missions for two weeks.
Ever since you and Bob broke up, youâd been trying your best not to visibly mope too much. It had been almost three months since the breakup, and it was easy to avoid Bob when you went on missions and he stayed behind at the Watchtower. You did everything you could to throw yourself into work and volunteer for missions with barely any breaks in between to avoid the pain of seeing him.Â
Everything was going to plan until Bucky put his foot down after you almost got shot in your exhaustion. Luckily, John had gotten there just in time, but it was a closer call than any of your teammates were comfortable with.Â
So, for the last week, youâd been locked in your room to avoid Bob. You tried desperately not to run into him, only using common areas when you knew he was scheduled for training.Â
That was how Ava and Yelena got the idea to have one of their famous Thunderboltsâyou never did quite feel like the âNew Avengersâ label fit you, much preferring your inside joke team nameâgirlsâ nights out.Â
And boy, were they regretting that now.Â
You were something of a dark horse when it came to alcohol tolerance.Â
At first, Yelena and Ava were blown away by your ability to throw back drinks. For the first hour, Yelena was banging on the bar top and yelling for you to chug while Ava cupped her hands around her mouth and cheered. During the second hour, you hit the dance floor, closed your eyes, and let your hips sway with the pulsating beat of the 2000s dance track playing.Â
It was the third hour when all your drinks caught up with you.Â
You were delightfully sweet when you were drunk; they had to give you that.Â
Even though you were leaning against the bar, blinking slowly at your friends, you had a honeyed smile on your lips. Your already short dress was riding up your thighs as you slumped on a bar stool, and the eyeliner Yelena had carefully applied for you at the start of the night was smudged at the corners.
The nightclub had already started winding down. The dance floor that was buzzing only half an hour ago was now a cluster of stragglers clinging to the last songs. You could taste salt on your lips, from sweat or the rim of some forgotten glass.Â
âYelena, your hair looks soooo good slicked back,â you said, just slightly slurring your words. Yelena, whose love language was exchanging insults and making fun of you, stared back emotionlessly. âLikeâlike a sexy seal. Ava, tell her sheâs a sexy seal.âÂ
âYes,â Ava deadpanned. âShe is a very attractive aquatic mammal. Happy?âÂ
You laughed, delighted. âSee? You get it. Yelenaâs the prettiest seal in the sea. If seals wore blue eyeliner and were trained to kill.âÂ
You blinked slowly. The lights in the room had gone softer, pink, purple, and blue lights smearing at the edges like a watercolour painting. Your body was slow to obey you, limbs heavy and skin hot, a pleasant hum under your skin where alcohol loosened your nerves.Â
Yelena snorted, then sighed as she watched you wobble on your stool. âOkay, dorogaya, time to go,â she declared. In your inebriated state, you had no idea this was the fifth time sheâd said this. âDrinkâs empty, partyâs over. Up you get.âÂ
You pouted, clutching your glass protectively. It was empty, save for some ice left behind, condensation wetting your fingers. âNoooo, Iâm not leaving until Bob gets here!âÂ
Rubbing her forehead, Ava tried not to lose her temper. âBob didnât come out with us tonight,â she reminded you. âHeâs back at the Watchtower.âÂ
You leaned across the bar top, whispering like you were telling them a secret. âLiar. He never misses girlsâ night out!âÂ
Yelena rolled her eyes, muttering, âI am not paid enough for this.â Then, more gently, she tried to urge you out of your stool. âCome on, youâll see him tomorrow.âÂ
You shook your head furiously, words dragging together. âNooo, I need him now! I miss him. I love you both sooo much, but youâre not Bob. Nobodyâs Bob but Bob.â You pointed very seriously at Ava, who blinked like she wasnât sure how to answer.
âTrue,â is what she went with. âIâm not Bob.â Then, below her breath, Ava muttered, âWhoâd want to be from Florida?âÂ
You giggled, throwing your arms around her anyway. âBut youâre my best ghosty-shadow girl. I love you.â Ava had to admit that it was nice to get a hug. If there was one thing the Thunderbolts were starved of, it was physical affection, but you gave it out freely and happily. âBut I need Bob to take me home.âÂ
Yelena lowered her voice while you nuzzled Avaâs shoulder. âSheâs going to break him in half,â she declared. Even though he was the one who broke up with you, everyone knew it absolutely destroyed him. âHeâs just barely standing, and now this?âÂ
The pinched expression on Avaâs face suggested she agreed. âI donât like it either. But sheâs not going to move for anyone else. Sheâll stand here all night long, hoping Bob will show up.âÂ
You lifted your head suddenly, eyes bright and wet. âDid I ever tell you? Bob makes the best midnight snack noodles.â A faraway, glazed-over shine filled your irises. âHe always stirs them with chopsticks because he thinks it makes the soup tastier.â Your voice grew tender. As your eyelids grew heavy, each blink lasted a second longer than the last. âNobody makes noodles like BobâŚâÂ
Yelena tried not to let the stab in her chest show on her face. âYou are killing me.âÂ
You perked back up, grabbing Yelenaâs hand and kissing it. âBut youuu, youâre the absolute best. Youâre my girl forever, Lena. Even if you make me drink water when I donât want to.âÂ
Taking the opportunity, Ava suggested, âMaybe drink some now? Before you declare your love for the bartender.âÂ
You gasped, genuinely scandalised, clutching a non-existent string of pearls. âI would never! Only Bob.â Your gaze fell to the bartender, eyes narrowing as you studied him. ââŚAlso, maybe the bartender a little bit. He gave me free fries.â
Yelena muttered something under her breath in Russian, and Ava was glad she didnât understand the profanity. âShe is impossible,â Yelena complained.Â
âShe went all judo on my arse when I tried to drag her out,â Ava reminded her flatly. âI vote we surrender and text him.â
You were the most experienced out of the three of them at hand-to-hand combat, and you nearly tossed Ava over your shoulder the first time she tried to help you out the door. Even drunk, you werenât going to let anyone carry you anywhere.Â
Yelena pinched the bridge of her nose. âHeâll come. And then what? We get front row tickets to his heartbreak?âÂ
âBetter than a broken wrist,â Ava retorted, but she didnât look happy about it. Â
You leaned across the bar again, all wide-eyed with sincerity. Some of your body glitter was smudged across your cheek. âYou guys always take care of me. Youâre my family.â Your voice wobbled, suddenly heavy with emotion. âBut I justâ I need him, okay?â
Yelena shut her eyes, inhaling sharply. âText him the code,â she told Ava. âBefore she starts crying.âÂ
Ava, who was already pulling out her phone, muttered, âHeâs going to kill us for letting her get this drunk.âÂ
âAt least weâll leave in one piece,â Yelena said.
AVA: code safety net. sheâs fine, just refuses to leave the club without you.
When you and Bob first started dating, he set up what he called a âsafety netâ with the rest of the team. If anyone sent him a code safety net, heâd come running. The idea was that it was for non-emergencies, moments when you needed him but couldnât ask him yourself.Â
The last time anyone sent him that code was over four months ago, when you were still his girlfriend.Â
Now, Bob sat on the edge of his bed, tugging his sneakers on one at a time. Getting that code used to mean rolling out of bed, grumbling half-heartedly to himself about how youâd gotten yourself into trouble, and loving that it was his responsibility to come and help you.Â
Reading the code word now felt like stepping into dangerous territory. Bob didnât know if he was allowed to be the person who came to your aid now that youâd broken up.Â
When he got the text, heâd already had the messages app open, scrolling through an endless exchange of texts between the two of you. He knew he shouldnât have reread them again, but it was like pressing on a bruise to see if it still hurt.
Spoiler alert: it did. A lot.
Even months after the breakup, letting you go was something Bob hadnât quite figured out how to do, no matter how hard he tried.Â
He had to remind himself that he had reasons to break up with you; good reasons. Bob reminded himself of these reasons constantly, just to stop himself from taking it all back.Â
At the end of the day, it wasnât fair of him to drag you into his mess. He was still trying to learn what it meant to be Sentry, still doing his best to tame the thing inside him that one day might crack open and release Void into the world again. He couldnât risk that, not with you sleeping beside him every night.Â
Whether he was Bob, Sentry, or Void, he would burn the world down if he ever hurt you.Â
And then there was his sobriety. Even in the best of times, it was a fragile, fickle thing. Bob had been in and out of programmes enough to know how it worked: no new relationships for at least a year, not until his feet were steady under him. He had broken that rule the moment he kissed you, but he couldnât let his feelings for you be the reason he fell apart this time.Â
You were the right person at the worst possible time.Â
Bob knew meeting you was the kind of kismet people only got once in your life, and thatâs if theyâre lucky. He never considered himself particularly lucky, so heâd held on tight when he first found you.Â
Bob wondered now if that made it worse. Now that you were broken up, he knew exactly what he was missing.Â
When he arrived, the club was almost empty. The music was quiet, a few people were slouched against the walls outside, and the bouncer didnât bother checking his ID when he walked in.Â
The smell hit him first. The scent of cheap spirits was soaked into the bones of the club, leaving the floor sticky and tacky beneath his shoes. Even though nobody was smoking, cigarette smoke clung to the walls, making his throat tighten. The air was heavy with memories Bob didnât particularly want to relive.Â
Heâd never been much of a drinker, but chemicals were chemicals, and his body recognised the promise of it even if his mind didnât want it.Â
Bobâs mouth went dry, a phantom bitterness gathering at the back of his tongue. His thumb rubbed compulsively across the ridge of his palm, a nervous tick heâd barely registered unless you pointed it out to him.Â
He spotted you sitting on a bar stool beside an exhausted-looking Ava and Yelena, and the way your eyes lit up when you saw him made something in his chest shatter. In seconds, you were there, arms flung around Bobâs neck with the easy warmth of someone who didnât remember they were supposed to keep their distance.Â
âI knew youâd come,â you murmured so sweetly that he felt his knees buckle a little.
You smelled of his favourite perfume, sweat, and alcohol, and it was so dizzying that it was almost like another type of intoxication. Bobâs breath hitched. He nearly folded into you without thinking, fingers twitching with the urge to hold you before remembering he wasnât supposed to anymore.
His heart pounded against his ribs, too fast, too loud, and he irrationally youâd hear it. He forced his muscles to stiffen, every nerve screaming at him to let you go while every neuron insisted he hold you like he wanted to. It was the most delicious sort of agony.Â
Yelena and Avaâs eyes flicked his way, because of course they noticed his turmoil, so he took a heavy step back. Inside, everything screamed. Bob tried to mask his face in calmness, knowing his teammates could see right through his efforts.Â
âSorry about this,â Ava said, grimacing at the way you pressed your face into Bobâs neck. âWe wouldnât have dragged you out if we had any other choice.â
Nodding drily, Yelena added, âShe refused to leave. We tried everything short of a tranquiliser dart.â
âIâve never seen her like this,â Ava mused. Now that Bob was here, your shoulders had completely relaxed. âShe said sheâd only go home if you came.â
Forcing a smile, Bob waved away their concern. âSâalright. Donât worry about it. Iâm glad you texted.â
âDonât you think Yelena looks like a sexy seal?â you asked excitedly. Bob wasnât quite sure what that meant, but nodded anyway.Â
As you babbled drunkenly about what you got up to that night, Ava and Yelena shared a weary look. âHe says heâs glad,â Yelena mumbled, âBut he looks like he swallowed glass.â
âYeah. I noticed,â Ava agreed.
âYou know I can hear you, right?â Bob cut in, brows pulled together, offended. âIâm fine.â
When you moved back just enough to peer at him with glossy, adoring eyes, Bob audibly gulped. âI missed you so much, Bob,â you said sweetly. Your voice was a little husky and tired, and it made him shiver.Â
Stiffening slightly, Bob gently patted your back with one hand. The other was still busy doing his usual nervous tick, rubbing his thumb across his palm. âYeah, IâI missed you too,â he stammered, shooting Ava and Yelena a concerned look.
Yelena softened, her expression regretful. âShe doesnât remember,â she explained, cadence uncharacteristically tender. Â
It felt as if someone had punched Bob in the gut. He couldnât actually feel anyoneâs punches with his impenetrable skin, but God did he remember what it was like. His breath gushed out of him all at once, and his organs felt like they were being crushed together.Â
Incredulous, he looked at you with wide, questioning eyes. And there you were, grinning at him like youâd never broken up. âYou look soooo good tonight, handsome,â you told him. The familiar nickname was like a second blow to his stomach. âDâyou know that?â
Bobâs eyes darted to the others. âUhâŚâ
You frowned, unhooking your arms from his neck and catching his hand in yours. âYouâre doing it again. The thumb thing,â you noted. âYou only do that when youâre worried. What are you worried about, Bob?â
He choked a laugh, trying to pull free gently. âNothinâ, sweetheart. I justâ donât worry about me.â
Suppressing a laugh, Ava commented, âSheâs sharper drunk than half the team sober.â
Yelena was slightly less tactful; she didnât even try to hide her smirk. âOnly when it comes to Bob,â she sang. âA tragic gift.âÂ
âVery inconvenient,â Ava agreed.Â
Still holding Bobâs hand, your voice wobbled a little. âYou didnât answer me. I missed you. Did you miss me?â Your head tilted as you took on a seductive tone that used to make Bob do whatever you wanted. âYou do, right? You always do, especially at nightâŚâ
Heat curled low in Bobâs stomach, and you thought you might have caught a familiar glimmer of gold in his irises. âOf course I missed you,â he admitted hoarsely.Â
You hummed happily, lacing your fingers together and resting your other hand on his solid chest. âKnew it. You always say as long as you miss me, you love me. You still love me, right?âÂ
Bob swallowed loudly. âYouâve⌠had a lot to drink tonight.â
You offered him a bright, tipsy laugh. âOnly enough to tell the truth,â you teased. âYouâre my Bob. Always my Bob.âÂ
When you leaned in and started pressing kisses to his neck, Bob jerked back, turning scarlet. He shot Ava and Yelena a look that said, For Godâs sake, how much did you let her drink?Â
âDonât look at us,â Ava exclaimed defensively, hands up. âWe tried cutting her off hours ago. She just kept sneaking off and getting more.â
âWe told the bartender to deny her orders, but she caught the next guy once his shift ended,â Yelena added, straight-faced. âItâs a miracle she still has a functioning liver.â
Bob huffed out of breath, blowing the hair from his face. âOkay.â He started steering you toward the exit. âCâmon. Time to head home now, yeah? Fresh airâll do you good.â
Dopily blinking at Bob, you smiled. âIf you think so, Bob.â
Yelena and Ava trailed behind, keeping an eye on you. As you stepped into the cool night, the music dulled behind you. You closed your eyes contentedly as the breeze soothed your warm skin. New York City air wasnât exactly fresh, but Bob said itâd help, so you basked in it regardless.
âEasy now,â he said, holding you steady. âOne foot at a time.â You nodded, clinging to his arm and taking careful steps.Â
âShe does exactly what he says,â Yelena said, partially impressed. âWe spent almost an hour arguing with her to switch to water.â
âTell me about it,â Ava groaned. âI nearly pulled my hair out.â
âI told them I wouldnât go without you,â you told Bob sincerely. âI knew youâd come. You always come when I need you, and I really needed you tonight.â
All Bob could do was nod, smile, and try not hide how much his hands were shaking. It was ridiculous how he still remembered the sensation of your weight against him. Muscle memory was a cruel thing, and this one came with a sharp jab in his chest.Â
âYeah. Iâm here,â was all he could say.
Warmth pooled under your skin, not from alcohol but from leaning against Bob. His skin was always hot, bleeding into you until you felt safe and cosy in his arms.Â
You paused as Ava lifted a hand to flag down a cab. Bob could feel the burn of Yelenaâs stare and pointedly ignored her. While you were the person who knew Bob best, Yelena was his best friend. The two of them were inextricably bonded after everything theyâd gone through, and he knew heâd fall apart if he saw the pained sympathy on her face.Â
âFor the record, we did try everything,â Ava said as a nearby cab slowed to a stop beside them.
âAt one point, she sat on the floor and said she lives in the club now. That was our breaking point,â Yelena added. She hurried to open the back door, watching Bob carefully manoeuvre you inside the cab.Â
âAlright, careful now,â Bob warned, careful to put his hand out so you wouldnât hit your head as you got in.
âLetâs go before she decides sheâs staging another sit-in,â Ava sighed. She took the passenger seat, giving the cab driver the address for the Watchtower.Â
The middle-aged man stared at her in shock, clearly recognising the address and the team in his car. Without making a big deal about it, he started the meter once Yelena slid into the last available seat in the back, shutting the door behind her.Â
The cab rattled softly, city lights flickering across the windows. You were half-curled against Bobâs side, still talking despite your heavy eyelids. Yelena watched you with a conflicted frown.
âKnew youâd come for me, Bob,â you murmured again. Your heartbeat slowed when your head tipped against his shoulder. âAlways do.â
âYeah, sweetheart, Iâve got you,â he assured you. The old anxiety ticks were back before he could stop them, thumb worrying the side of his index finger, shoulder giving the faintest twitch every time your hand shifted further up his thigh. âLetâs just get you home, alright?â
You smiled at him, eyes half-closed and gleaming with exhaustion. âHomeâs wherever you are, silly.â
Bob felt his pulse jump in that ugly, uneven way it used to when he was strung outâexcept this was worse, because there was nothing to take the edge off. Just your eyes, devoted and pure, looking at him like he was still yours.
Noticing the shift towards the kind of honesty you wouldnât be verbalising if you were sober, Yelena leaned forward a little. âYou should rest,â she suggested. âSave the poetry for the morning.â
You giggled tiredly. âSânot poetry. Sâthe truth.â Your skin tingled deliciously where it touched Bobâs. It wasnât sexual so much as the electrical spark of recognition, like your body was sighing in relief. âMissed you so much tonight, Bob. Like my chest was hollow until I saw you walk in.âÂ
Ava turned from the passenger seat to glance at Yelena.Â
Beside you, Bob stiffened. âYouâve, uh, youâve had a long night,â he said, soft and strained. âJust close your eyes, yeah?â
You shook your head clumsily, words slurred but earnest. âCanât. Gotta tell you.â You touched his chest softly, with all the care in the world. âFor the first time in what feels like forever, Iâm not empty anymore,â you confessed. âAnd weâve only been apart for a few hours. Isnât that wild?â
Silence filled the cab. Even the driver flickered his eyes to the rear-view, then looked away.
Bob kept his jaw locked, molars grinding so hard he knew theyâd crack if his body was still capable of breaking. It was better than letting his mouth soften, better than letting something slip that he couldnât take back. There was a low, burning ache behind his sternum. Not sharp or panicked, but heavy, like his heart was collapsing in on itself.
Ava cleared her throat, trying to cut the tension. âHey, maybe we all just⌠take a breather, yeah? Get some rest.â
You pouted, trying to keep your eyes open. âI love you. I always will.â Your laughter came out fond and warm, almost dreamy. âMy BobâŚâ
Bob looked stricken, eyes darting helplessly to Yelena. His thumb rubbed harder against his palm, and he was sure that if his skin could still chafe, it would have. Yelena shook her head slowly, silently urging him not to answer.
Still, there was an almost imperceptible shift toward you when you drifted off to sleep, his body betraying what he wouldnât let himself admit aloud.
The worst of it was the relief. That tiny, treacherous thought whispering: you still loved him. You still wanted him. It made Bob light-headed, sick with hope he knew better than to trust.Â
You canât love me if you donât remember why we ended things, he thought. You canât. But God help me, I want to believe you.
Bobâs head tilted towards you as you dozed, the old instinct to shield you from the world kicking in even when he was supposed to have stopped. This was a masterclass in containment. He didnât explode or crumble; he absorbed your confession, keeping it together while his heart split down the middle.
Bob effortlessly helped you out of the cab and up to your room in the Watchtower. It had taken a few months to get used to the newfound strength that came with the Sentry serum. But at least he wasnât accidentally ripping doors off their hinges or breaking dishes when he picked them up anymore.
With uneven steps, he guided you into your room, setting you down on the bed. Seated, you blinked up at him, drowsy and smiling like heâd hung the stars. It was a look that was overfamiliar; an intimate expression heâd missed seeing.
âIâm not tired,â you mumbled, resisting his help.
âLove, youâre half asleep already,â Bob tried, coaxing but awkward. He gave a short, nervous laugh. âCâmon, letâs just get you sorted out.â
You squinted like heâd offended you. âSorted? I donât need sorting. I need⌠food.â
With a huff of laughter, he shook his head. âFace first. Food later. Thatâsâuh, thatâs how it works. Pretty sure.â Then, mostly to himself: âIf youâre still awake by then, which⌠yeah, probably not.â
Disappearing into the bathroom, Bob kept an ear out for any noises as he grabbed your makeup remover and wet a washcloth with warm water. He returned and crouched in front of you, carefully starting to wash your face for you.Â
You leaned into the touch happily, taking the opportunity to admire your ex-boyfriend. âYou always do it nicer than me,â you mumbled, grinning. âSo good to me.â
Quietly, Bob admitted, âOld habit.â
You pouted playfully. âI love it when you take care of me,â you confessed. âI always think itâs so hot when youââ
âOkay, I think itâs time for pyjamas,â Bob blurted, pushing up to his feet a little too fast. He turned away, ears pink, and wondered briefly if his poor heart was as conflicted as his mind was tonight. âDonât fall over, alright?â
After taking your favourite pair out from your dresser, Bob turned his back to you as you wriggled into your pyjamas. His back was unnaturally stiff, listening for the sound of you stumbling. When you flopped back against the pillows, hair mussed and smile loose, he finally glanced over.
âSee?â you said proudly. âAll sorted. I can sleep now.â
Relieved, Bob nodded. âGood.â He moved to tuck the blanket around you.Â
You blinked up at him, suddenly urgent. âWait,â you said, loud and high-pitched. âSnack!â
Bob sighed. âButââ
âNo, Bob, listen,â you hurried, sitting back up with wide eyes. âIf I donât eat something right now Iâll die.â Your confession wobbled, tears starting to form as your eyes became glassy.
Oh boy. If there was one thing that was Bobâs Achilles heel, it was you crying.
There was something so heart-wrenching and wrong about seeing you in tears. The way your cheeks puffed up and your eyes widened, lips curving down into the most perfect frown, was enough for him to agree to do anything to make it stop.
âIâm so hungry now,â you whined, the first few tears cascading down your cheeks. Bob caught them without thinking, chest aching at the sight. He was torn between wanting to maintain some semblance of ex-appropriate boundaries and the dull twinge in his chest.
Eventually, his soft heart couldnât take it any longer. âGod, sweetheart,â he groaned. âYou canât do that. You know Iâm useless when you cry.â He tried to laugh, but it came out as a thin sound.
You sniffled, only a touch dramatic. âYou wouldnât let me starve. You love me too much.â
He shut his eyes at that, steadying himself. âYou donât play fair,â he said under his breath.
Triumphantly, you offered Bob a teary smile. âSo⌠snack?â
âFine,â he agreed. âYeah, okay. But you stay put, alright? Donât you dare try and follow me.â Bob wasnât sure what heâd do if you kept looking at him like you still loved him. âJust stay here.â
You huffed, visibly offended. âAs if Iâd follow you.â
Bob arched his brow. âYou absolutely would.â
âNu-uh!â
You padded into the kitchen after Bob, clutching the back of his sweatshirt like heâd disappear if you let go. He was resigned but soft with you, guiding you towards the counter. The fluorescents hummed overhead faintly.Â
âMidnight feast!â you whisper-yelled excitedly, pumping your free fist in the air.
âItâs a quarter to two,â Bob corrected.
You gasped, delighted. âEven better,â you declared.Â
Bob wasnât sure what your metric was for deciding what time was better to have a snack, but he laughed anyway. He went through the fridge while you rummaged noisily through the pantry.Â
Moments later, your tiny gasp of joy filled the kitchen. You held up two packets of noodles like they were a rare treasure. âBob, noodles!â You held them out for him, already climbing onto the counter deftly. Even your drunken state couldnât stop years of practised agility. âItâs perfect.â
Bob gave a half-laugh, shaking his head. âThatâs⌠yeah, sure. Wild, right? Cosmic destiny.â
Midnight noodles were something of a weekly ritual when you were dating. You usually had dinner early with the rest of the team, then stayed up late chatting and cuddling. By the time the two of you were tired enough to sleep, you were hungry again.Â
You narrowed your eyes. âDonât mock.â
He smiled, rubbing the back of his neck. âOh no, hey, Iâm serious. I swear.â
Taking the packet from you before you tore it open with your teeth, Bob took out a saucepan and set the water to boil. You sat swinging your legs, watching him with lazy admiration.Â
Bobâs shoulders hunched, stomach tightening each time you called out to him affectionately. His face was schooled into neutrality, but he didnât know how much longer he could hold it. He was hyper-aware of your position in the room. If you swayed, even slightly, his whole body tensed in case he needed to catch you.
âYou like this,â you mused, teasing him. A lazy, fizzy happiness bubbled in your chest. You couldnât quite figure out why, but you felt truly happy for the first time in a long time. âTaking care of me.â
Bob ducked his head shyly. âI like when youâre not sad. Or mad at me. So,â he motioned awkwardly to the stove, ânoodles.â
You nodded. âYouâre good at making sure Iâm not sad,â you said fondly. âCanât ever feel sad around you.â
It was a compliment that meant more to him than you could imagine.Â
Bob chuckled lowly. âNo, Iâm good at screwing stuff up, mostly. This is just hot water and noodles. Even I canâtââ he faltered, jaw tightening. âWell, I probably could mess it up.â
You frowned at his characteristic self-deprecation. âDonât be mean to Bob,â you scolded.
Bob raised an eyebrow, dropping the noodles in the boiling water. âPretty sure I am Bob.â
âExactly,â you huffed. âDonât be mean to my Bob.â
He nearly dropped his chopsticks at that. Clearing his throat, Bob bought himself some time by stirring the soup base into the water. To himself, he mumbled, âDidnât know I was still yours.â
You smiled, still oblivious to your break-up. ââCourse you are, Bob. Youâll always be mine, and Iâll always be yours. Thatâs how the whole âforeverâ thing works.â
Bob busied himself with the noodles, but when you started humming, he couldnât stop glancing at you. You leaned your cheek against the cupboard beside you, watching him as if heâd strayed out of a dream. Reaching for him without thinking, you tugged carefully at Bobâs sleeve, pulling his free wrist closer.
âMiss you tonight,â you told him, longing to hold his hand.
Bob laughed softly, deflecting. âIâm right here.â
You shook your head stubbornly. âNot like that. Missed you in my bones, yâknow?â
His chest squeezed. He cracked the chilli oil packet open to have an excuse to take his hand back. âYeah, but you had your thing, right? Girlsâ night. Shots. Dancing. Didnât need me standing awkwardly in the corner.â
âAlways need you,â you argued.
Bobâs hand tightened around the chopsticks. Still facing the stove, he begged, âDonât say that.â
Your brows pulled together. âWhy not?â
ââCause itâsâ youâre drunk, okay?â It was tough to maintain a firm boundary and not get lost in how you treated him like he was still your boyfriend. âYou say stuff like thatââ
âBecause itâs true,â you said happily. âYouâre shy tonight. Whatâs the matter?â
âIâm,â he gestured at himself, voice breaking, âIâm Bob. Iâm the guy who ruins every good thing he touches. And youâreâŚâ he trailed off, swallowing hard. Bob couldnât bring himself to say, Youâre the last person I wanted to hurt.
You slid off the counter, stepping closer. Bob finally looked at you, wincing like it hurt to meet your eyes. For a second, all the noise in his body stoppedâno fidgeting, no rambling. Just raw, aching stillness.
âYou are something good, Bob,â you declared. It would have been sweet had your words not slurred together, reminding him of your tipsiness.Â
Bob reached for the bowls and poured noodles and soup into them. âOkay, so, noodlesâuh, one for you, one for me,â he rambled, passing you the bowl with a noticeably bigger portion.
Bob returned to your room, balancing a glass of water and some painkillers for the headache you were sure to have in the morning. You were curled beneath the duvet, hair a mess, cheeks warm, still blinking against the low light. The noodles had settled in your stomach without making you nauseous, which you were both grateful for.Â
He set the glass on the bedside table, fingers twitching like he wasnât sure if he should tuck you in or back away. âSo,â he cleared his throat. Your eyes drifted up to his. They looked like the ocean during a storm, and you were transfixed. âThere we are. One water, one magic pill. Not as fun as tequila, but youâll thank me in the morning.â
You grinned sleepily. âYouâre bossy.â You were comfortable in Bobâs presence, letting your guard down entirely.
He huffed a shy laugh. âMânot bossy, Iâm being responsible. Someoneâs gotta keep you from feeling rotten tomorrow.â
âBossy,â you sang, pulling the duvet higher. Bob rolled his eyes fondly. He perched at the edge of the bed, hands clasped so tight in his lap his knuckles paled. You noticed. âWhy do you look like youâre waiting for your turn at a job interview?â
Startled, Bob stammered, âWhâwhat? Iâm notâ this is just how I sit.â
You giggled. âWeâve been dating for, like, nine months. I think I know how you sit.â
Bob bit his lip, glanced away, then reached down to straighten the corner of the duvet to keep his hands busy. âJust making sure youâre settled,â he said. âThatâs all.â
You hummed, dubious. âYouâre fussing. You only fuss when youâre nervous.â
His cheeks turned pink at that. âMaybe Iâm always nervous around you,â he diverted your question. You blinked up at him, a little too fuzzy to catch the weight of it. âRight. Youâre all tucked in. No more sneaking around for snacks, okay?â
You opened your mouth to argue, but a muffled sound at the door caught your attention. A soft little purr. Both your heads turned. âApine!â you gasped, ecstatic to see Buckyâs feline companion entering your room.
The little white cat slipped in, tail high, and leapt onto the bed. You sat up straighter, arms out, laughing as Alpine bumped her head against your chin and curled beside you. Your smile spread wide and unguarded.
âHi baby,â you cooed, stroking her head with the back of your hand. âI thought you didnât love me anymore.â
ââCourse she does. Sheâs just picky.â Bob brushed a crease from your pillow, doing anything to stop himself from reaching for you.
âYouâve been avoiding me,â you accused Alpine, speaking to her in a low, dulcet tone. You watched her with almost childlike delight, pressing your cheek against her. âFor weeks and weeks. I thought I got on your bad side somehow. Like that time John accidentally stepped on your tail.â
Bob chuckled, but his hands twisted together in his lap. He bit at his lower lip. Watching Alpineâs purrs vibrate against your cheek made his chest split in two. Heâd always been more of a dog person, but he did have a soft spot for Buckyâs cat. âIâm sure she just missed you.â
âOr you,â you argued. âYouâre her second favourite, arenât you?â
âI donât know about that.â
âNo, you are. Everyone knows it,â you insisted. âShe follows you around like a shadow. You spoil her with treats when you think nobodyâs looking.â
âI guess she likes me well enough,â Bob allowed. His hand hovered near Alpineâs back, then withdrew, retreating to his lap.
You giggled into Alpineâs fur, drunk and unbothered. But then the giggle faded, replaced by a sudden, sharp earnestness you couldnât quite stop.
âBut she hasnât come near me for weeks,â you murmured, lips pressed to the soft patch between the felineâs ears. Your hand stilled on her fur. âNot sinceâŚâ
The words trailed away. You didnât know why. Some small, skittish part of you pulled back from finishing the thought.
Your smile slipped, slow and reluctant, like something precious sliding out of your grip. A heaviness pressed against your chest, cutting off the little bubble of warmth youâd been floating in all night long. You lifted your head, blinking at Bob. His face was flushed, eyes darting from you to Alpine to the headboard behind your shoulder.
Your stomach dipped, a cold wash chasing away the warmth of the alcohol. Thatâs it, isnât it? The pieces slid into place with cruel precision, emerging from the alcohol-induced fog that kept them hidden all night long.
âSheâs been with you,â you said, the words cracking open in your throat. âBecause weâbecause weâre notâŚâ
Bob froze, throat bobbing as it worked against words that wouldnât form. âIâIâdonâtâŚâ He tried again, breath stuttering. âItâs notââ
The ache in your chest grew so quickly that it made your hands shake. You dragged trembling fingers down Alpineâs back, stroking her fur in desperate repetition, like you could keep yourself from fracturing if you just kept the motion steady.
Your voice spilled into the room in a whisper. âWeâre not together anymore, are we?â
The words hurt more once spoken, like theyâd hadnât been true until you said them aloud. Tears pricked hot at the corners of your eyes. You blinked hard, but it only made them spill faster, streaking down your cheeks and landing in Alpineâs snowy fur.
âYou broke up with me,â you recalled, your reply wavering in the middle of your sentence.
Bob looked ruined. His whole chest heaved, and for a moment, he just stared, caught in the wreckage. Hesitant and trembling, his hand pulled you gently, carefully into him. The dam broke when Bob wrapped his arms around you, turning your silent cries into sobs.
âDonâtâdonât cry. Please,â Bob begged, audibly torn. One hand rubbed your back in clumsy circles, while the other cupped your head, tender and desperate.
Your question came muffled against his shirt, small and devastating. âWhy did you break up with me? I love you so much.â
Bob flinched like the words struck him, eyes squeezing shut. His hand kept caressing your back, not steady but frantic, trying to stop both of you from falling apart.
You pressed your face harder into his sweatshirt, tears hot and messy against the fabric. The sobs came out loud and hard, shaking your shoulders, then softened into smaller gasps and hiccups as the rhythm of Bobâs hand calmed you.Â
He could feel how your remaining energy slowly burned itself out. First, your trembling quietened, then your hands loosening where theyâd clutched his sweatshirt, then the weighted slump of your body. His arms tightened around you instinctively, holding you upright.
You gave a little sniff. âDonât you love me?â
Every muscle in Bobâs body locked. His lips parted, but nothing came out at first; not with your breath warming his sweatshirt, not with the fragile pressure of you sinking so trustingly into him.
âIâ Do I love you?â The words shuddered out of him, frayed at the edges. âOf course I do.â
But when he pulled back to see your face, your lashes were already lowered, breaths evening out, body soft in the safety of his arms. Your question had used up the last of your energy, and now you were asleep.
Bobâs chest throbbed with relief and grief all at once. Youâll never know, he thought. Not really. Not the way he wanted to tell youâawake, sober, with steady hands instead of shaking ones. He pressed his chin to the top of your head, shutting his eyes to stop his own tears from falling.
You woke to sunlight pressing against your eyelids, a dull yellow insistence that came from your curtains being open. Your head throbbed; not stabbing but heavy, like someone had stuffed your skull with cotton. Your mouth was dry, your tongue thick, every swallow tasting faintly of metal.
You blinked slowly, trying to piece the previous night together. What you remembered came in flashes: Avaâs laugh at the bar, Yelena making a face at the DJ, colourful lights blurring overhead. And then, nothing. Just a clean break in the reel, as though someone had pressed stop and forgotten to hit record again.
At least you were in your own bed, the duvet pulled up to your chin like your own personal fairy godmother helped you home. You couldnât smell cheap takeaway on your clothes, which meant youâd dodged your usual post-club ritual of inhaling fries at three in the morning.Â
Still, the gap in your memory made your stomach twist a little. Not in fear, you trusted Ava and Yelena too much for that, but embarrassment. A mortifying little voice in your head whispered that if youâd blacked out at the end of the night, youâd probably done or said something mortifying.Â
You groaned and pressed the heel of your palm to your eyes.Â
After taking the painkiller someone left for you on your bedside table, you shuffled into the kitchen looking for something to have eat. You didnât care that your hair was mussed and you looked distinctly worse for wear; you just needed to get something into your stomach before the nausea took over.Â
In the kitchen, Yelena and Ava were sitting at the table while John rifled through the pantry. Both of them look just as bad as you did. Yelena wore sunglasses even though you were indoors, and Ava still had eyeliner streaked across her face. You gratefully accepted a cup of coffee when Ava passed it to you. Collapsing into the chair beside her, you groaned quietly.Â
âOkay,â you began, a little sheepish. âDonât laugh. I donât remember anything after the club last night.â Your friends shared a look that said they werenât surprised. âI just wanted to say thanks for dragging me home and dealing with me.â
Yelena smirked. âDragging is the right word. You fought like a feral raccoon.â
âWe were two seconds away from calling animal control,â Ava chimed in, grinning.
If they were teasing you, then their hangovers werenât that bad.
You groaned, burying your face in your arms. âI knew it. Iâm the worst drunk.â When you looked up, you gave your friends your prettiest smile. âSorry about that. How did you even get me into bed?âÂ
Yelena and Ava exchanged a quick look.Â
Before you could prompt them further, John interrupted. âOh, for fuckâs sake!â he screeched. You turned around just in time to see him slam the pantry doors shut, glaring at the three of you like youâd committed a horrible betrayal. âWho ate my noodles?â John demanded.Â
All he got in return was three blank stares.Â
âPardon?â Ava asked, her tone suggesting she was already done with the conversation before it started.
âMy last two packets of instant ramen,â John said, crossing his arms and glaring between you. You had to admit, as much as you all liked messing with him, he could be pretty intimidating when he wanted to be. âBeen saving them all week, and what do I find? Empty shelf.â
Without missing a beat, Yelena said, âMaybe the universe is telling you to eat a vegetable.â
âThe universe can shove it,â John deadpanned. âSomeone in hereâs a thief. And donât act innocent! Itâs been a while, but my noodles used to vanish every week like clockwork.âÂ
You froze with your coffee cup halfway to your lips. Your eyes snapped to Yelena and Ava, who were already looking at you, matching your wide-eyed look of surprise.Â
âIt was Bob,â you said quietly, almost accusing, once John gave up and started searching the fridge for something edible. âThatâs how you got me to come home.â
Yelena sighed heavily, rubbing between her eyebrows like she was getting a headache. âWe didnât have a choice, you wouldnât leave without him. Besides, it wasnât that bad.â
âWasnât that bad?!â you exclaimed, not buying it for a single second. âI know exactly how unhinged I get when Iâm drunk, and you let me spend the night with my ex-boyfriend?â
âYou honestly didnât do anything embarrassing,â Ava insisted. Then, she paused. âWell, I guess you did forget you were broken up and treated him like you were still together,â she admitted. You opened your mouth to keep yelling, so she hurriedly added, âBut he was honestly fine with it!â
âHe took it very well,â Yelena agreed. âIt crushed his mind, body, and spirit. But he took it well.â
âEven if I was asking for him, I canât believe you forced him to come,â you retorted.
Yelena gasped. âWe did not force him!â
John, who was eavesdropping the entire time, cut in. âWait, wait, hold up.â Your eyes drifted over to him. âAre we even allowed to call a code safety net if the two of them are broken up?â
You frowned. âCode what?âÂ
âNicely done, Walker,â Yelena drawled sarcastically, pretending to applaud him. She was known to resort to his last name when he messed something up. Which, in her eyes, was often. âWhat is it about a secret code that you donât understand?â
âWhat secret code?â you asked, already dreading the answer.
âOkay look,â Ava said, giving it to you straight. âWhen you and Bob started dating, he set up an emergency code called âsafety net.â If you were too far gone at the club, or if you needed him but were too scared to ask, weâd send him the code. He always came to help, no matter what.â
You swallowed, processing the news. âThatâsâŚâ
âOverly protective?â John teased, smirking a little. He didnât mean it, of course. Nobody had called a code safety net more often than him. He just lived to tease you and was convinced you ate his noodles.Â
âI was going to say romantic,â you corrected him, rolling your eyes.
âDonât you think youâre a little too, I donât know, divorced to be making comments?â Yelena added.Â
âJesus,â Walker muttered, holding his hands in defence and grumbling about ordering takeout instead.Â
Once he was out of the kitchen, Ava smirked. âSo, midnight noodles with Bob?â
âI have a big mouth when Iâm drunk,â you grumbled, downing the rest of your coffee to soothe your dry throat. Youâd never told them about you and Bobâs midnight noodles, so you knew you had your drunk self to thank for that one.
âYeah, but it was cute,â Ava said, leaning back in her chair. âYou looked very proud of your little tradition.â
Yelena snorted. âYou made it sound like a sacred ritual.â
You pressed your lips together, staring at the empty mug in your hands. âBut⌠why would he still come? Why would heââ You broke off, shaking your head. âHeâs the one who ended things. If he doesnât love me anymore, then why show up to help?â
For once, Ava didnât have a snarky comment locked and loaded. She just tilted her head, eyes warming. âThat sounds like a question for him,â she said.
Yelena nodded, elbowing you lightly. âYeah. Donât waste your breath on us. Go ask Bob. Weâll be here eating Johnâs backup noodles. I found them this morning and stashed them in my room.â
You stood outside Bobâs door longer than planned to. Long enough to wonder if the team could hear your pacing from the hall, long enough to almost turn back around. Twice. You even considered coming back tomorrow, but you knew your courage was dwindling fast. If you left now, you probably werenât coming back.Â
You held your breath as you knocked. From inside, you could hear Bob shuffling around before the door slowly cracked open. He blinked at you, hair a mess and t-shirt wrinkled like heâd been napping. For a stupid, dizzying second, the sight of him all domestic and soft punched through your ribs. You could still feel what it was like when you used to wake up in that bed with him.
Bob looked surprised to see you standing there, but not unhappy. âHey.â
âHey,â you echoed, hating how your throat tightened around the word. âUm. Can we talk?â
For a second, you thought he might say no. Then, he stepped back and opened the door wider. âYeah. Sure. Come in.â
You crossed the threshold and realised you hadnât prepared yourself for the wave of nostalgia that made your stomach clench. Bobâs room looked exactly the same as it had the last time you were in it. From the mug on his bedside table to the blanket youâd bought for him, half-folded on the bed.
It was all the same, except you didnât live here anymore. Your fingers itched to straighten the blanket the way you always used to, so you folded them together like a penitent child.
You hovered awkwardly in the middle of the room, unsure where to sit. Bob noticed and gestured toward the chair at his desk before sitting on the edge of his bed. It felt like heâd deliberately put distance between you.Â
âSo,â he said, rubbing the back of his neck. âWhatâs up?â
You smoothed your palms over your jeans. âI justâ I wanted to check in. See how youâve been.â
Bobâs brows lifted. âIâve been⌠fine,â he said slowly. âBusy, I guess. You know how it is around here.â
âYeah,â you agreed. âOf course. I get it.â
Before the awkward silence stretched further, he asked, âAnd you?âÂ
You blinked. âMe? Oh, you know. Same thing. Busy.â
âRight,â he replied. Bob didnât point out that he knew Bucky had banned you from going on missions for two weeks, and refused to acknowledge how heâd accidentally broken the windows in the conference room when he found out you were almost shot.Â
You nodded, exhaling through your nose as your fingers tightened on your lap. âOkay, so⌠Ava and Yelena told me about last night.â Bobâs eyes flicked up to yours wearily.Â
âThey said you came to pick me up,â you continued. âBrought me back. Stayed until I was asleep.â You shifted in the chair, the words scraping raw in your throat. âJohn mentioned something about missing noodles, so I assume you made those for me. Which IâI donât remember at all.â
âI donât know what I did,â you admitted, voice smaller than you intended. âI donât know what I said. I just keep thinkingâ God, I mustâve been awful. Embarrassing. Ava said I forgot that weâd, yâknow,â you gestured vaguely with your hands, referring to your breakup, âAnd I hate that I donât even know what to apologise for.â
Something flickered across his face, not quite a wince, but close. Bob looked down at his hands, thumb dragging over his palm. âIt wasnât like that,â he said finally. âYou werenât being embarrassing. You didnât do anything wrong.â
You almost laughed at how gently he said it. âThen what was it like? Because right now, it feels like everybody knows something I donât,â you revealed.
Bob hesitated, mouth opening and closing before anything came out. âYou were drunk. People get drunk, they⌠say things. Do things.â His cheeks and ears flushed as he averted his eyes. âIt doesnât matter.â
âIt matters to me,â you pressed. âWhy did you come when they texted? You couldâve ignored the code, or told Yelena to handle it, but you didnât. Why?â
His jaw tightened. Truthfully, Bob had never considered the fact that you might find out about code safety net. When the two of you broke up, he assumed youâd never have a reason to hear about it.Â
âBecause it was you.â He said it like he expected a blowback, shoulders hunched just like when heâd first confessed his feelings for you.
You blinked at him, the honesty of it knocking you off balance. Bob seemed to realise what heâd admitted, because he immediately pushed on, fumbling. âI meanâ I set that code up for a reason. Back then. You always knew exactly when I needed help, and I was never as good at figuring that stuff out, so I set up a code. Even last night, I couldnât ignore it. Thatâs all.â
âThatâs all?â
Bob nodded too quickly, eyes darting to the floor again. âThatâs all.â
You studied him. Dating for almost nine months allowed you to mentally store something like a Bob Reynolds textbook. You could tell from the way his shoulders shook like he was bracing for impact that he wasnât being entirely truthful. Then there was his nervous tick of rubbing his thumb across the ridge of his palm, and the way his legs couldnât keep still.Â
âYou didnât tell drunk-me we broke up,â you said after a beat. âYou just let me thinkâŚâ The words trailed, your breath catching at the memory you didnât have. âWhy would you do that?â
He shook his head, voice rough. âYou were drunk. I wasnât gonna hit you with reality in that state. Didnât feel right, not when you were smiling for the first time in months.â
You sat back, staring at him like you were trying to piece together a puzzle with half the pieces missing. âSo⌠you didnât tell me because I was drunk. Because you wanted me to be happy.â Bob shifted awkwardly on the bed. âAnd because you knew I wasnât saying anything I didnât mean.â
His head jerked up to meet your eyes before he could stop himself. âYouâre sure you donât remember anything?â
You nodded. âNot a thing. But I can guess. If I thought we were still together, I would have trusted you with my most private thoughts. I would have poured my heart out without knowing what I was doing.â
Bob exhaled slowly. âEnd of the night, you figured it out. When Alpine came in, you looked at me likeââ He broke off, jaw working. âYou realised we werenât together. It hit you, andâit tore you up.â His wince said the memory still hurt. âIf Iâd known telling you up front wouldâve spared you that, I would have said something. But I didnât know what to do. I just didnât want to hurt you.â
âYou wanted to spare me the pain,â you pressed. âWhy? If you were just helping me out of an old obligation, why did it hurt you to see me upset?â
âBecause Iââ Bob cut himself off, breathing hard through his nose. Because I love you was dangerously close to the tip of his tongue. âBecause it was hard. Anyone wouldâve found it hard.â The excuse was weak, even to him.
You leaned forward, refusing to let him retreat. âI donât care what anyone wouldâve thought. I care what you thought. Why was it so hard for you?â
Finally, Bob dragged in a breath. âYou think this is easy for me because Iâm the one who ended things? Believe me, it hasnât been easy.â
Your heart thudded hard in your chest, but you didnât speak; you didnât move.
âI broke up with you because, for once, I wanted to do the right thing,â Bob went on, words tumbling out like he was afraid heâd lose his nerve. âI had to focus on the depression, and the loneliness, and the never-ending void.â He rubbed his eyes. âI messed this stuff up so many times trying to get sober, and I canât afford to do that with the Void and the Sentry hanging around. If I fall off again, itâs not just me who pays the price. I couldnât drag you through that.â
You opened your mouth to argue, but he pressed forward, too worked up to let himself be interrupted.
âI wanted you. God, I wanted you. And maybe thatâs what made it worse. Because every time I looked at you I thoughtâwhat if I screw this up? I couldnât live with myself if I did that.â Bobâs words caught, low and ragged. âSo I let you go. Not because I wasnât sure I loved you. It was just⌠bad timing.â
You sat frozen, his words blowing up everything you thought youâd known. Youâd told yourself a hundred stories about why heâd walked away; boredom, fear, maybe even that he stopped loving you. But youâd never considered this.Â
Bob scrubbed his hand over his face, then let it drop. âYou know Iâm sober,â he said. âAnd yeah, the serum means drugs donât really⌠stick anymore. I canât drink, canât use, not in any way that matters. But sobriety isnât just about not putting stuff in your body. It can make you screw up the people around you while youâre trying to get clean. I guess my fear of doing that to someone never really went away.â
He let out a shaky breath, eyes flicking up to gauge if you were still listening.
âEvery program told me the same thing: donât date in the first year. Because youâre too raw, too unsteady. Youâll lean on someone in ways that end up hurting them.â He shook his head. âAnd I thought if I wanted a real shot at keeping the Void under control, I had to treat it like I was back at square one. Like I was still in that first year.â His jaw flexed, guilty, pained. âBut by then Iâd already met you, and for once, I thought maybe I got lucky.â
He looked away. âBut I couldnât have it all. Not when I was still learning how not to let the Void bleed out, or not to let the Sentry serum break everything I touched.â
You let out a laugh, shaky and wet, dragging your hand across your cheek. âDo you have any idea what youâre telling me right now?â you whispered.
His brow furrowed, wary. âIâm telling you why I ended things.â
âNo,â you said, tone firming. âYouâre telling me you never stopped loving me.â You were startled by how steady the words sounded, considering how violently your pulse was hammering.
Bobâs mouth opened, then closed. He didnât deny it.Â
The months without him came crashing down: every long night staring at empty walls, every mission you buried yourself in, hoping exhaustion would trick you into not missing him.Â
âI know exactly what I would have said to you last night if I thought we were still together,â you admitted. âI wouldâve told you I love you. That I miss you so much it feels like part of me got ripped away.â You swallowed hard, blinking against the sting in your eyes. âIâve been walking around trying to pretend that I didnât search for you every second of the day.â
Bobâs silence should have scared you. Months ago, when it felt like you were on the verge of breaking up, it did.Â
âDo you know what the worst part was?â you whispered. âNot knowing why you did it, or if Iâd been wrong about you. I kept thinkingâif you could walk away so easily, maybe you never loved me the way I loved you. And I hated myself for wanting you anyway.â Your chest rose and fell unevenly. âAnd nowââ You broke off in a half-laugh, half-sob, ânow that I know why you did it, it makes me love you even more.â
Bobâs hands twisted together in his lap, and then slowly stilled. âYou know,â he said, voice quiet enough that it made you lean in to catch it, âitâs been a year.â
You blinked at him. âSinceâŚ?â
He glanced up hesitantly, like he wasnât sure if saying it aloud might jinx it. âSince the last time the Void broke through. Since Iââ Bob exhaled shakily. âSince I lost control like that. One year of doing everything right. No shortcuts, no lies, no risking it. Other than being with you, I guess.â
Your throat tightened. âYou did it.â
âI did it,â Bob echoed, almost like he couldnât believe it himself. âI didnât think I could, but I did. And these last few months,â his eyes found yours, steady now, âI missed you so much.â
Something tugged at your gut. âThen why be with me at all, if youâd promised yourself a year?â The words came out softer than you meant, not accusing, but like you were afraid of the answer.
Bobâs mouth pressed into a thin line. âBecause I couldnât let you go. You were the only thing that made me feel like I wasnât just surviving that year, but actually living it. I thoughtâI thought I could hold both, you and the vow, but when it came down to it⌠I was terrified Iâd break one, and I couldnât risk it being you.â
You bit your lip, forcing yourself not to cry. âI missed you so much,â you said. âNothing feels right without you.â
Bob swallowed, his gaze fixed on you. âYou really thinkâŚâ His words faltered, and then, barely above a whisper: âYou really think you could take me back?â
You reached for him before you could second-guess it, your hand covering his. His fingers tensed, then relaxed, instinctively interlocking with yours.
Bob stared down at your joined hands, thumb brushing over your knuckles. âI donât deserve this,â he murmured. âYou shouldnâtââ
âYou donât get to decide that for me,â you interrupted, quieter than you meant, but steady. âIf anything, the fact that you were willing to give this up to get better proves that you deserve it.â
When he looked up at you again, there was something tender in his eyes. âI just donât want to hurt you again.â
âYou did hurt me,â you admitted, a small, almost rueful smile tugging at your mouth. âBy keeping things from me. But we can work on that.â
For a long moment, he didnât speak, just held your gaze like he was trying to capture the moment in a memory. Then, voice rough, Bob asked, âSo what now?â
You squeezed his hand, feeling the warmth of it sink into you. âNow?â You drew in a shaky breath, lips trembling with something like a laugh. âNow we see if we can get it right this time.â
Then Bob leaned across to reach you, almost hesitant, like he was giving you one last chance to pull away.Â
Your free hand caught his sweatshirt collar and pulled him in the rest of the way, and then his mouth was on yours. It was laughably familiar, the exact way you used to tug him down for a kiss when he was stalling, and you felt his breath hitch like he remembered that too.
It was the kind of kiss that came from months of restraint tearing loose all at once. His lips pressed hard to yours, hungry and desperate, like your bodies remembered what your minds had tried to forget.
You tasted saltâyour tears, his, you couldnât tellâand his hand slid to cradle your jaw, tilting your face so he could kiss you deeper. It was as if heâd been picturing this moment in his head and couldnât risk losing a single detail now that it was real.
The tremor in his hands gave him away; Bob always shook when he was holding too much back, and you realised this was months of self-restraint crumbling. Your lungs burned with the need for air but your body refused to stop, greedy and starved, like youâd gone months without food and only he could satiate you again.
The heat of it built fast, familiar and overwhelming, like no time had passed at all. Bobâs mouth found yours with the kind of certainty that only comes from practice, from knowing exactly how to draw that sharp gasp from your lips, exactly how to make your knees weaken.
You broke apart just long enough to breathe, and he let out a ragged groan against your mouth. âI missed this,â Bob whispered, deep and wrecked like it always was after you kissed.
âThen donât ever make us miss it again,â you said, and dragged him back into another kiss.
Bobâs breath shuddered against your mouth, his thumb tracing over your cheek to ground himself in you. âI love you,â he said, hoarse and certain, before kissing you again.
Your hands slid into his curls, tugging him closer, closer, until the chair scraped back against the floor. Bob didnât care, didnât even pause, just caught your waist and pulled you into his lap like he couldnât bear a single inch of distance. Your knees sank into the mattress you used to sleep on every night, heat flooding your abdomen.
The sound he made when you settled against him was half growl, half plea, and it vibrated through you, low and devastating. His hands slid up your back, spanning your ribs, mapping you all over again with a reverence disguised as desperation.
âYou feel exactly the same as I remember,â Bob rasped against your mouth, the words breaking on another groan as your fingers tugged his hair. âExcept so much better than anything my mind made up.â
You kissed him instead of answering, teeth catching on his bottom lip. He cursed softly, lost to it. His hands moved restlesslyâyour hip, your thighs, your backâlike he couldnât decide where to touch you first. There was nothing careful in the way he kissed you.Â
When you leaned back, Bob chased your lips. âI canât stop,â he whined, trembling as his thumb stroked gently across your throat. âTell me to stop and I will, butâGod, I canâtââ
âDonât stop,â you cut in, breathless, your lips bruising his as you spoke. âDonât you dare.â
That was all it took. Bob surged up to kiss you again, all fire and urgency, one hand splayed across your back to keep your chest pressed against his. You could feel the frantic beat of his heart against yours. You gasped when your back hit the headboard, legs wrapped around his waist for stability. His mouth was already chasing the sound, devouring it.Â
âMissed thisâmissed youââ Bob muttered between kisses, completely wrecked. His hands roamed, greedy and adoring all at once.
Your fingers hooked into the hem of his sweatshirt, aching for bare skin, tugging it half-way up before you even realised youâd done it. The noise he made when you touched himâstrangled, helpless, carnalâshot straight through you like lightning.Â
He broke the kiss only long enough to yank his shirt over his head, his chest heaving, eyes burning into yours. âTell me this isnât just me,â he rasped, already pulling you back in.
âItâs not,â you whispered. âI love you.â Then you kissed him as your hands traced over familiar lines of muscle, remembering exactly where to touch to make him shiver and groan.
Bobâs masterful composure broke. He fell back without warning, pliant and gasping underneath your fingers. Your knees dug into the mattress again, your hands bracing on either side of his head while his fingers disappeared underneath your t-shirt. You arched into him instinctively, his name breaking on your lips, and his grip on your hips tightened.
Bob knew exactly how to undo you, exactly where to linger, exactly how to make your breath stutter. And you knew him just as well; the way his hands trembled when you trailed kisses down his neck and across his collarbones said you hadnât lost your hold on him either.
Every scrape of his stubble, every brush of his tongue, every shaky gasp between kisses was a reminder that Bob knew you inside and out.
And then you started laughing. Messy, breathless giggles that bubbled up between kisses when Bob fumbled with the button of your jeans and swore under his breath, when his nose bumped yours because neither of you could keep still.
You dropped your forehead against his shoulder, giggling helplessly. He smelled the same, soap and cedar and the faint tang that clung to him when he woke up, and it sent another wave of hysterical affection through you.
âWeâre a disaster,â you teased, rolling over to lie on your back beside him.
âSpeak for yourself,â Bob muttered, though his grin was hopelessly crooked, his chest still heaving. âIâm very smooth.â
You gave him a look, one brow arched. He sighed, sagging down beside you, reaching for your hand like it was the only thing tethering him.Â
âOkay,â he admitted, eyes flicking away. âMaybe not smooth. More like⌠sandpaper. Or, uh, a car crash. The kind you canât look away from because itâs that bad.â
You laughed again, louder this time, tugging him forward so you could kiss the corner of his mouth. âBob.â
He glanced at you warily, self-deprecating humour still lingering in the downturn of his smile. âYeah?â
âYouâre fine,â you whispered, cupping his cheek, brushing your thumb over the stubble there. âMore than fine. Youâre the best thing Iâve ever let crash into me.â
Something unguarded flickered in his eyes then, relief tangled with endless affection. The way his face crumpledâhalf a laugh, half like heâd taken a breath after holding it for too longâwas so unmistakably Bob that you couldnât help kissing him again. Softer this time, slow and sweet, like coming home.
established relationship ⢠fluff ⢠swearing ⢠lmk if I missed anything
main masterlist áŻâ
synopsis : while cuddling with clark after a long day, you learn the cause of his stress isâŚmemes?
song: lover girl - laufey
w/c : 1.5k
a/n : domestic clark kent has me on my knees đđđ
The creak of the door disturbed the peace of your reading, and the figure of Clark filled your doorway, shoulders slumped and hair fussed up and messy. He let out a soft sigh as he kicked his boots off, the weariness in his frame making him seem almost smaller, though you knew better than anyone how much he carried. His glasses slipped down his nose as he rubbed at his eyes, before his gaze found you curled up on the couch. The moment his eyes met yours, his tired expression softened, like clouds parting for sunlight.
âLong day?â you asked gently, closing your book. He gave you a small, crooked smile and just nodded, too tired for words. You lifted the blanket beside you in silent invitation, and he didnât hesitate, shuffling over and lowering himself onto the couch with a groan of relief. The cushions dipped under his weight, his warmth immediately seeping into your side. He tucked his face into the crook of your neck, his breath warm against your skin, and for the first time all day, he let himself simply rest.
âBetter?â you whispered. Clark hummed softly, arms looping around you, his chest rising and falling in steady rhythm.
âMuch better, sweetheart,â he murmured, voice muffled and heavy with exhaustion. And with that, the world outside its chaos, its demands, its constant need for him, seemed to disappear, leaving only the quiet beat of his heart against yours. You thread your fingers through his messy hair, brushing it back from his forehead. Itâs soft, still holding the faint smell of rain and city dust, and you smile to yourself at the thought of Superman looking more like a drowsy farm boy right now. Clark sighs contentedly, melting further into you, his weight pressing you into the couch.
âYouâre too good to me,â he mumbles, voice low and husky from fatigue.
âYou say that every time you come home like this,â you tease softly. âAnd every time, I tell you itâs not true.â He shifts just enough to look up at you, blue eyes heavy-lidded but shining with something gentler than any sunlight.
âIt is true. Youâre my safe place.â His hand finds yours beneath the blanket, his thumb brushing over your knuckles in lazy circles. You lean down and kiss his forehead, lingering there for a moment, feeling him relax fully beneath your touch. You let him pull you into a lazy kiss, his tongue swiping against yours, humming contentedly against your lips. His lips are slow, unhurried, carrying none of the urgency you sometimes feel when he returns from the worldâs chaos. This kiss is different, itâs soft, grounding, like heâs reminding himself that youâre here, that heâs home. When he finally pulls back, his nose brushes against yours, and his eyes are softer than the lamplight spilling across the room.
âIâve been looking forward to that all day,â he murmurs, voice low and thick with exhaustion. You smile gently, threading your fingers through his thick curls, letting his eyes blink slowly at you, blue and soft, framed by his black glasses.
âSo, what has made the great Clark Kent all sad today?â Your fingers brush his jaw, lingering on the stubble that is stubborn to the blades of his razor. Clark lets out a huff, sinking further into the plush, picking at his fingernails, his brows furrowed, lips pouted.
âNothinâ. Itâs stupid anyway.â
âClark.â Something about your tone softened something in Clark, as he lifts his head, puppy dog eyes fully on display.
âFine. The internet is relentless.â You stifle a smirk.
âAnother blog?â
âSUPERSHIT! CAN YOU BELIEVE IT?!â He explodes, burrowing his head in his large hands. You canât help it. You snort before you can stop yourself.
âMemes? Clark, please tell me youâre not doomscrolling your own hashtag again.â
âI wasnât trying to,â he defends, though his ears flush pink. âBut Perry made some comment about âSupershit trending again,â and I-â Thatâs it. Youâre practically doubled over with laughter, clutching your stomach.
âSupershit?!â you wheeze.
âAnd now thereâs weird videos of me to music-â
âYou mean thirst traps?!â You practically scream, half-choking on your own laughter. Clark groans, dragging a hand down his face.
âI donât even know what that means, but they keep putting slow-motion clips of me catching helicopters to⌠to some song called âPony?ââ You absolutely lose it, falling sideways onto the couch, tears streaming.
âCLARK. THEY MADE YOU A STRIPPER EDIT.â He shoots you a deadpan look over his glasses, his ears now crimson.
âI did not sign up for that.â
âYou did,â you manage between wheezes, âwhen you decided to have biceps the size of Kansas!â Clark shakes his head in exasperation but the corners of his mouth betray him, twitching upward.
âOh, and apparently, Iâm also part of something called - âSuperLex?ââ You shriek, grabbing a pillow to muffle your laughter.
âNO. THEYâRE SHIPPING YOU WITH LEX?!?â He leans back with a long-suffering sigh, arms crossed like heâs accepting his fate.
âApparently, itâs very popular.â
âOh my god,â you gasp, voice breaking as you roll onto your back, still laughing. âYouâre not even Superman anymore. Youâre just an enemies-to-lovers Wattpad trope.â Clark tilts his head down at you, finally grinning, eyes warm despite the red in his cheeks.
âGlad my humiliation entertains you so much.â
âEntertains me?â you say, breathless. âI am LIVING for this.â He shakes his head again, pulling you into his arms despite your cackling.
âOne day, Iâm cutting the Wi-Fi.â
âThen how will I watch Supershit part two?â you shoot back, and thatâs when he drops his head into your shoulder, groaning dramatically while you dissolve into another round of wheezing laughter. You press a kiss to his cheek.
âShow me.â He groans begrudgingly, before handing you his phone.
âLook.â You begin to scroll, a smirk tugging at your lips as you read.
âSuperslut. Creative. Oh, @user1234 says âRaw. Next.ââ You clear your throat, as Clark shoots you a confused look.
âRaw? What am I now, some gourmet steak?â You pat his bicep, snuggling into his chest as you read more aloud.
âThis one is popular. @supermancanrailmeintoawall said âIf that suit was any tighter, I would be able to see the full outline of his massive di-ââ Clark covers your mouth before you can finish, eyes widened mortified. Clarkâs hand stays clamped over your mouth, his cheeks blazing so red it could rival his cape.
âDonât you dare finish that sentence,â he mutters, glaring at his phone like it betrayed him personally. You smirk.
âOh babe, you havenât seen half of this.â
âSweetheart are you sure this is a good idea-OH GOSH!â You, had somehow stumbled on the freaky section of his hashtag, and you were now faced with veryâŚcreative scenarios of smut between Lex and Clark. He covers his face with both hands, groaning.
âIâm never showing you my phone again.â You scroll back up just to torment him.
âClark. They have you and Lex in a-oh my god-is that the Oval Office?!â
âSTOP READING IT!â he nearly yelps, lunging for the phone. You rip it away from him, whistling as you continue reading.
âClark Kent, you are one filthy dog.â You murmur as you scan the screen. âHow much fanfiction is there?â Clark freezes, then groans so loudly it rattles against your chest.
âToo much. Way, way too much.â You bite back another laugh, scrolling with exaggerated slowness.
âOh my god, Clark-they have chapters.â
âPlease, donâtââ he starts, but you cut him off with a dramatic gasp.
ââLexâs fingers traced down the plane of Supermanâs chest, undoing the cape clasp with a sinful smirk, dropping to his knees in a show of submission as he began to suck-â
âGIVE ME THAT!â he practically leaps for the phone again, his ears cherry-red as he fumbles to grab it from you. You dart out of reach, clutching it to your chest, your laughter ringing through the room.
âBabe, youâre practically literature! Do you know how many people dream of becoming the main character in a smut saga?â Clark buries his head in his hands, muttering something about Ma never finding out. Still wheezing, you flop back down beside him, pressing a kiss to his temple.
âDonât worry, Supershit. I promise, Iâll only read it when youâre not home.â He peeks at you through his fingers, blue eyes narrowed in mock warning.
âYouâre enjoying this way too much.â You grin, tucking yourself under his arm.
âOf course I am. My boyfriendâs the internetâs favorite guilty pleasure.â He huffs.
âYouâre lucky I love you.â You fall into a contented silence, him pressing a kiss to your palm, nose buried into the crook of your neck, before you break it.
âBabe, do you fantasise me as Lex Luthor when we have sex?â
alcohol use ⢠angst ⢠swearing ⢠cheating ⢠manipulation
main masterlist áŻâ
synopsis : you and draco were perfect in every life except for this one
w/c : 3.7k
song : a cautionary tale
a/n : a bit of draco content to feed you all đ i hope youâre all enjoying this masterlist a lot, because im enjoying writing for yâall đ as always, please lmk if iâve missed any warnings. set in ootp
You had never minded Draco Malfoy. His gloating and his blown-up ego, his unfairly attractive looks, his snarky retorts were all just background noise. You donât remember when something changed, or when you realised just the extent of his looks. Maybe it was the time you caught him comforting a crying first-year on the stairs, who had been bullied by a Gryffindor for being a âslimy snake.â The scene had stopped you in your tracks. His voice, softer than you thought it could ever be, carried through the corridor, gruffly murmuring comfort. He had stared for a moment, then crouched down to the younger studentâs level, a hand resting against the nape of his neck awkwardly, broad body shielding them from the stares of passing students. It was fleeting, a moment so small it could have gone unnoticed. But it didnât. Not to you. After that, every little thing stood out. The way he absentmindedly twirled his quill when he was bored in class. The quiet scoff he gave when Astoria tried too hard to impress him. Even the way he loosened his tie just slightly when he thought no one was watching. It was like suddenly, you were. Always watching. Always noticing. And Merlin, it was infuriating. Because Draco Malfoy wasnât supposed to be kind. He wasnât supposed to make you pause, to catch you staring, to make your heart trip over itself when his gaze brushed yours across the Great Hall. Yet somehow, he had a cast an Imperio curse on your heart, dangling and tugging the strings within his fingertips like a puppetmaster. You told yourself it was harmless at first. A glance here, a passing thought there. Nothing more than idle curiosity. Thatâs how all tragedies start, isnât it? With the belief that you are immune. That you can walk through the fire and come out unburnt. But each gaze, each small smirk, seemed to singe you even further, til you were utterly consumed by the flames, dancing in the aftermath of your ashes. That was the thing with boys like Draco Malfoy â they collected hearts like Chocolate Frog Cards, and built walls high and indestructible around their own. Maybe you were too naĂŻve for your own good, to think you could change that.
Draco had always known you. Smart, quick-witted, and eyes that sung with the stars, eyes that dared to look at him as though he were more than the sum of his surname. He had noticed, long before you realised, how your laughter curled at the edges of his pride, how your words could slice through his arrogance without drawing blood.
But he was Malfoyâcursed with a legacy, tangled in shadows he never asked to inherit. Affection was a luxury, and luxuries were dangerous. Still, when you walked into a room, it was as though the air changed, lighter, warmer, unbearable in its temptation. He told himself he wouldnât reach for you. That people like him didnât deserve people like you. And yet, he watched. He lingered. He let the thought of you weave into his mind late at night, when silence pressed too heavy against his ribs. The cruelest thing about Draco Malfoy was not his words or his pride, but the way he made you believe he could love you back. And perhaps, in some corner of his fractured heart, he did. But love from him was no gift - it was a warning. A thread pulled loose, leading you straight into a story that would end, as all such stories do, in ruin. Still, he mustered up his courage and one day sent a single rose, pink, your favourite colour, signed with his initials. He told himself it wasnât creepy as he sat at the breakfast table, eyes fixated on you as he shovelled spoonfuls of porridge into his mouth. His pulse hammered with every second that passed, every breath you took, waiting for your reaction. You picked it up delicately, fingers brushing the soft petals, lips curling into the smallest smile. A smile that wasnât for anyone else - it was his, though no one else knew it.
For weeks after the rose, life tilted into something dreamlike. The hallways seemed shorter with Draco beside you, his shoulder brushing yours as he matched your stride, his pale fingers ghosting yours like he wasnât quite brave enough to hold on in plain view. In the library, he sat across from you with his chin in his hand, pretending to read when his grey eyes never left your face. And when, one evening, you found yourselves alone in the dungeons, torchlight flickering gold across his sharp features, he leaned in, hesitant, uncertain, and kissed you. It wasnât fireworks or fanfare. It was quiet. Like something inevitable, something long overdue. His lips were cold, but his hand was warm against your cheek, and for the first time, you thought maybe, just maybe, youâd been wrong about cautionary tales. Days turned into weeks. You learned that Draco laughed, really laughed, when you teased him. That he hated pumpkin juice but drank it anyway because it looked better than water. That when he couldnât sleep, he walked the corridors until his shoes ached. He whispered secrets against your skin in the dead of night: fears, doubts, the quiet admission that sometimes he didnât feel strong enough to carry his familyâs name. You held him tighter with every confession, thinking you could be his anchor. Thinking love could save him. And then Christmas break passed. You had received a necklace, a lockaet witholding a photograph of both of you at Hogsmeade, courtesy of Pansy, and a card with his mark scribbled all over it. Not just any quill, but one chosen for him: dark green, phoenix feather, imbued with the subtle glimmer of gold in the shaft. Youâd written a note that bled sincerity, telling him he mattered more than any expectation, any legacy. That you believed in him, in the boy behind the Malfoy name. But as you board the train, searching for the mess of his blonde hair and his grey eyes that would surely be searching for yours tooâŚright? You glance down the crowded corridor, scanning the familiar faces of first-years chattering, older students lounging with their books, but thereâs no sign of him. Not a flicker of his cloak, not a shadow of that self-assured smirk. Your heart hammers, and for a moment, panic rises. Did he leave early? Did he not want to see me? You shake the thought away, telling yourself he couldnât resist. He would be here. He always looked for you. You step past a compartment full of Gryffindors laughing too loudly, gripping your trunk tighter as you make your way down the train. And then-there he is. Or at least, almost. You catch sight of the familiar platinum hair, bent over a book, sleeve hiding part of his face. He hasnât noticed you yet. His grey eyes are focused, distant, unreadable. A flutter of hope warms your chest. Maybe heâs just pretending not to notice. Maybe this is some elaborate game only Draco Malfoy could pull off. You hesitate, fingers brushing your wand tucked in your sleeve, heart thudding so loudly it might give you away. Finally, you step closer, and his head lifts. Silver eyes meet yours, and for a moment, the train car seems smaller, the noise of students fading into a background hum. They soften slightly, before hardening into something unspoken.
âHi.â
âHi.â You murmur back, watching as he hesitates, before shuffling over to make space next to him. You sit next to him, trying to ignore the way he flinches, trying to pretend that it means less than it should. For a moment, neither of you speaks, the hum of the train and the murmur of other students filling the silence. You notice the way his shoulders are slightly hunched, how his hands fidget with the hem of his sleeve as though heâs wrestling with something he doesnât want you to see.
âI⌠got your quill,â he says finally, voice low, almost reluctant. âThe one you sent me over Christmas. Itâs⌠perfect.â You smile, warmth flooding your chest.
âIâm glad you like it. I-â Your words falter as you notice the shadow in his expression. Something is there, hidden beneath the surface, and you canât name it yet. He looks away, staring out the window at the blur of snow-covered countryside.
âIâve been⌠busy,â he mutters, almost to himself. âWith⌠things.â
âThings?â you prompt gently, your heart tightening. Draco shifts uncomfortably, jaw clenched.
âJust⌠family. Obligations. You wouldnât understand.â You bite back the words that want to spill out, the urge to remind him that you do understand, that youâve always tried to. Instead, you nod, forcing a small smile, trying to convince yourself that itâs nothing. That this is nothing.
âOh.â You notice the way he tugs at the sleeves of his robes, tugging them over his arms, the way he tries to shrink into the seat. The questions rings in your mind. What happened to Draco over the break?
You try to ignore it. Truly. But the distance grows. He still sends letters, still speaks to you when others are watching, but the warmth you once held in his presence seems diluted. The touches become fleeting, the smiles rare. Sometimes, heâs just gone from the library when you arrive, or buried in some mysterious meeting with Blaise, Astoria, or the Slytherin prefects. You try and deny it. That heâs still the Draco you fell for. But every cold shoulder, every glance, every excuse chips away at the certainty you once felt. And the worst part? He seems to notice none of it, or he pretends not to. Itâs always Quidditch Practice. Study Group. Family Matters. They stacked up like bricks, and weighed against your eyes as you closed them in your bed each night, trying to fight the steady stream of tears that flooded them. And when you thought it couldnât get any worse, he seemed to be determined to prove you wrong. His hand slipping from yours the second anyone turned the corner. His letters, once sprawling and full of sharp wit, shrinking down to two or three detached lines. Averted gazes at meals. And merlin, Draco was like a wild animal â his sex drive was insatiable. Free time? Gone. Studying? You can do it later. Dinner? Dessert first. But now? He would barely touch you, flinching every time you would even attempt a kiss, mumbling something about needing to go. It was the gnawing tension, the impossibility of knowing him now, that drove you to follow him that night to the Astronomy Tower. You werenât sure why you even wentâyou didnât want to see him with someone else, but you couldnât stop yourself. The corridor stretched endlessly under your feet, shadows deepening with each step, until you finally saw him, lips attached to her. Astoria. Her laugh was too close, too soft. His smirk, lopsided and tired, faltered the instant his cloudy eyes met yours. The sharp scent of firewhisky clung to his robes, his cheeks flushed with drink.
âY/N,â he slurred, stumbling a little as he straightened. âItâs not-itâs not what it looks like.â
âIsnât it?â Your voice cut sharper than you intended, slicing through the night air.
Astoria shifted smugly in his laps, twisting off him as he attempted to push her off.
âDonât,â you whispered, the sight burning into you. âDonât insult me by pretending.â He staggered forward, stubbornness blazing through the haze of drink.
âYou think Iâd choose her over you? You think Iâd ever-â His words tripped over his pride. âYouâre imagining things. Itâs nothing. Sheâs nothing. But his denial was clumsy, and the ache in your chest knew better. You left him there, the door slamming shut on his protests, your footsteps carrying you as far from him as you could go. Your heart burned with something â betrayal, frustration, anger, hurt as you storm away. He broke your heart. And you let him.
Morning arrives with a brittle, gray light. You storm into the Slytherin dormitory without knocking. The room is quiet except for the soft, uneven sound of someone sniffling. Draco. He lay huddled under the thin covers, hair dishevelled, eyes red and glossy, the unmistakable shadow of last nightâs whiskey still clinging to him. He looks smaller somehow, fragile, broken-the proud, untouchable Draco Malfoy reduced to something human, something unbearably vulnerable.
âDonât try and talk to me,â you said, voice sharp and controlled, though your chest ached at the sight. âIâm just here to collect my stuff.â He blinks at you, lips trembling, but doesnât respond. You marched past him, grabbing the hoodies youâd left scattered across the room over the years-soft, familiar scents that still smelled faintly of him. Your hands move quickly, almost frantically, rifling through drawers and shelves. You need distance, some tangible proof that you could leave and survive. Then, as your fingers brush the edge of a small velvet box tucked beneath a pile of shirts, your breath caught. You pull it free and freeze. An engagement ring. Gold, delicate, with a single diamond catching the weak morning light.
âDonât-â Dracoâs voice cracked as he suddenly reaches for it, his arm shaking, eyes wild. âDonât touch that.â You flinch, the movement stopping you, and your gaze falls to his forearm. The inked mark, black and sharp, branded his pale skin. A Death Eater mark. The room spins, the floor tilting beneath your feet. Your chest constricts as you finally understood. The weight of the betrayal wasnât just personalâit was a choice he had been forced into, a life you could never share.
âYou-â The room suddenly feels too small. âYouâre-â Draco shoves his sleeve back on, turning away.
âYou should go.â He whispers, his voice cracking as if the words themselves were killing him.
âWhy didnât you tell me?â you ask softly, the words quieter than you intend, though your throat aches. âDid-did you not trust me enough?â Draco flinches, his shoulders hunching as if your question struck him physically. He runs a hand through his damp, unkempt hair, avoiding your eyes.
âItâs not⌠I didnât not trust you,â he murmurs, voice tight, rough with emotion. âI just⌠I didnât think you could⌠I didnât want to drag you into it. Into them. Into⌠everything.â
âEverything?â Your voice rises slightly, more out of frustration than anger. âDo you even hear yourself? This-this is everything! Youâre involved with them, Draco! Youâre a Death Eater! And I-â Your chest tightens, tears threatening to fall. âI thought⌠I thought we were us. And now I donât even know who you are.â He swallows hard, finally lifting his gaze, and you see it-the storm behind his grey eyes, a mixture of shame, fear, and desperation.
âIâm still me,â he says quietly. âThe part that loves you⌠thatâs still me. But the rest⌠my family⌠the expectationsâŚthe danger. I didnât want to hurt you.â Your hands tremble, clenching at your sides.
âWe wouldâve gotten through it together, Dray! That was us, remember? Always together!â
âYou donât understand okay! You will never understand! Why canât you get that Iâm trying to protect you?!â
âSo what-Astoria did?!â You shove the ring in his face, pushing against him, ignoring the way his flesh burns under your skin.
âMy parents want me to marry Astoria.â he admits finally, voice breaking into something more human than youâve ever heard. âItâs not⌠itâs not about me. Iâm meant to propose to her. I was supposed to⌠to agree, to obey, to-â His words crumble into a sob, his hands gripping the edge of the bed, knuckles white. You stagger back, heart hammering, breath uneven.
âSo all of this⌠all the rose, all the nights, all the promises⌠were lies?â
âNo!â he yells, and itâs like the sound of a dam breaking, the mixture of rage, guilt, and desperation spilling over. âIt wasnât a lie! I love you! You have to believe me-I do! But Iâm trapped. Trapped by my name, by my blood, by what they expect me to be. I canât fight it forever, and I⌠I thought if I left you out of it, if I kept you safe⌠maybe-maybe youâd still stay with me, in some part of your heart!â Your hands shake, gripping your bag, your belongings, your chest tightening with the weight of it all.
âI canât, Draco. I canât be the one who waits while you destroy yourself⌠and while youâre already being forced to destroy us. I canât do it.â He collapses onto the bed, head in his hands, a broken boy beneath the proud Slytherin exterior.
âI didnât want to lose you,â he whispers hoarsely, almost too quiet to hear. âI really didnât.â You stare at him for a long moment, seeing the boy you fell in love with, the boy who sent a rose, the boy who once seemed untouchable, now reduced to trembling and tears. And somewhere deep inside, you feel the undeniable, brutal truth: this love, yours, his, the hope you clung to - is already shattered.
âI wish we worked out.â You whisper. âThat in some alternate universe your parents approved of us. That we could be together. That I could hold you right now-â
âWhatâs stopping you?!â His voice cuts through the quiet, sharp and raw, and you startle at the sudden intensity. His hands are trembling as he gestures wildly, as if the motion could physically unburden the weight crushing him.
You swallow hard, tears brimming, your chest aching. âYou are,â you manage, voice tight with grief. âYou, and everything that comes with you. Your family, your world⌠the choices youâre forced to make. I canât compete with that, Draco. I canât fight a war I never signed up for.â He staggers closer, desperation in every step.
âI donât care about them!â he snaps, though the edge in his voice betrays the lie he wants you to believe. âI donât care what they want! All I care about is you!â
âBut you do care,â you say softly, shaking your head. âOr you wouldnât be here, trapped in a life you hate, letting them, letting Astoria take the place that shouldâve been ours. You think love is enough to fight that? Itâs not. Not alone. Not with everything stacked against us.â Dracoâs shoulders slump, burying his face in his hands. âI thought I could protect you⌠I thought if I shielded you from all of it, youâd stay. But I canât. I canât even save myself, let alone you.â Your lips tremble as you whisper,
âI just⌠wanted us to have a chance. Thatâs all I ever wanted.â You let out a soft sigh, refusing for the tears that brim in your eyes to leave.
âIn another life Draco, I hope we worked out. That we were both brave enough to fight for us.â
âYeah.â He echoes. âIn another life.â You cup his cheek.
âTake care of yourself, okay?â You let out a sob-like laugh. âPromise me you wonât disappear completely⌠that youâll eat, sleep⌠that you wonât let them, let this take everything from you.â He swallows hard, voice thick with emotion.
âIâll try. I⌠I donât know if I can, but Iâll try. For you.â You nod, brushing a hand over his messy hair one last time, the pad of your thumb reaching out to catch the tear that falls from his eye.
âThatâs all I ask. Just⌠try. And maybe, in some other life, weâll get it right.â He doesnât reply, just watches you go, the raw pain in his eyes mirrored by the hollow ache in your own chest. And when the door closes behind you, the room is empty, but the memory of him lingersâthe boy who loved, who faltered, who was never meant to survive unscathed in a world that demanded everything from him. You step out into the cold morning, clutching your belongings, heart fractured but strangely lighter. And for the first time, you understand the cruelest truth: sometimes the only way to protect someone is to let them go, even when it shatters you entirely.
ceo bucky having one of those big offices with big windows and have a skyline view
ceo bucky collecting vintage cds and motorcycle helmets and displaying some in his office
ceo bucky who always insists on wearing a 3 piece suit but will occasionally ditch the tie and roll up his sleeves when deep in work because he knows what it does to you
ceo bucky who canât hide his smirk when he catches you staring at his forearms
ceo bucky who remembers your coffee order and orders it for you
ceo bucky who sends you to pick up the coffee order, and acts surprised when it comes with your usual coffee
ceo bucky who rarely raises his voice and goes deadly calm instead
ceo bucky who keeps a vintage record player in his office, occasionally letting soft jazz or classic rock hum through the room while he works. You canât help but watch him relax into it, sleeves rolled up, fingers tapping absentmindedly on his desk.
ceo bucky who leaves little notes on your desk or in emails, just small things -âdonât forget your scarf today,â or âmeetingâs moved 10 mins, donât worry.â
ceo bucky who always smells faintly of coffee, expensive cologne and oak
ceo bucky who has a secret soft spot for your jokes
ceo bucky who knows exactly how to lean against his desk so you can see the roll of his sleeves and the outline of his forearms, and he absolutely knows the effect it has on you.
ceo bucky who has the most elegant and neat calligraphy youâve ever seen
ceo bucky being old and getting you to help him work out how his computer works
ceo bucky who calls you pet names like doll, sweetheart and pretty
ceo bucky who notices how your thighs clench sometimes when you stare at him
ceo bucky who drapes his jacket over your chair sometimes
ceo bucky who knows how to tease you without words
Anya is live and ready to show you everything. Watch her strip, dance, and perform exclusive shows just for you. Interact in real-time and make your fantasies come true.
â Live Streamingâ Interactive Chatâ Private Showsâ HD Qualityâ Free Actions
Free to watch ⢠No registration required ⢠HD streaming