scorpiovelaryon

[scorpiovelaryon]

oh log we’re really in it now

[scorpiovelaryon]

Learning to Get Along

word count: 3k

warnings: SMUT!!! brat tamer!anakin, mean!anakin, prevy!anakin, mean!reader, praise kink, spit kink, pet names (baby, angel, pretty girl), anakin is moody, some angst if you squint, adult language, maybe slight OOC Anakin. MDNI!

You and Anakin had been walking for hours, stranded in the middle of nowhere, with no transmitter and no comlink. But most importantly, there was no Obi-Wan, and without him, it was damn near impossible for you and Anakin to stay civil. 

The sun for this planet was almost below the horizon, casting everything in a golden hue. 

“Maybe we should find somewhere to stay for the night.” 

Anakin scoffs at this idea, “We need to keep moving. If we stop now, we'll be even more behind schedule.”

You stop in your tracks, turning to look at him. “What schedule, Anakin?” You gesture around with your arms as you continue. “I don’t know if you’ve noticed, but we’re in the middle of nowhere, with no way of contacting anyone! They’ve continued on without us!” 

“We wouldn’t be here if you hadn’t messed everything up! You’re the one who missed the rendezvous point! You’re the one who couldn’t complete the only task given to them!” His nostrils flare with anger. His blue eyes were wide while his brows furrowed together. 

It pisses you off that he looks so hot when he’s mad. It pisses you off that you get turned on when he's mad. It especially pisses you off at how you get turned on when you’re the one who makes him angry. Your anger bubbles more, and you’re yelling at him before you can stop. 

“Me? My fault? You’re out of your damn forsaken mind, Skywalker. If you weren’t off trying to play hero for Amidala, maybe you would have been in tune with what was actually happening on the battlefield.” 

“Fuse, stop talking.”

You ignore him completely and continue with your rant. 

“Fuck you, Skywalker. You are such a selfish man, actually, you’re not even a man. You’re a boy. A selfish little boy.” 

In a flash, he’s on you. His large hand covers your mouth as he slams both of you against a tree. You’re glaring up at him through long lashes, and if looks could kill, Anakin is sure he’d be dead. You’re about to fight against him until you hear it. 

Rustling in the forest a few feet away, making you realize that you two weren't alone. The closeness of the noise has your anger momentarily forgotten as you both strain to listen. The rustling grows louder, and you exchange a tense glance. Anakin slowly removes his hand from your mouth, his grip on you loosening just enough for you to step back. Together, you cautiously move away from the sound, careful not to make any wrong movements. 

After Anakin is satisfied with the distance between you and the noise, you stop running. The two of you look around at the small underbrush you’ve stumbled upon, taking notes of all the ways you could quickly escape. 

He grumbles as he pivots around you, “Looks like you got your wish, Fuse. We’re staying here for the night.”

In the morning, before the sun and Anakin have risen, you've already begun meditation. You take advantage of this moment, knowing full well that Anakin would provide no peace to help your focus. After your meditation, you start stretching your head side to side. Smoothly, you shift to your hands and feet, and as they ground you to the forest floor, you allow your head to drop and let your body arch forward. 

Unbeknownst to you, the small huffs of air escaping your body have awakened Anakin. Still groggy from sleep, he rolls from his left side to his right, his eyes searching for the source of the noise. Quickly, they land on your bent-over form. Before he can stop himself, Anakin is noticing the arch of your back, the fullness of your round, plush ass, and the way your chest moves as you sigh. His whole body warms as it reacts primitively to the view. 

Every wave of emotion fills him with rage. The raw, insatiable lust, the relentless need gnawing at his core, and the way his body betrays him, as it responds instinctively, as if with a mind of its own. He feels like a puppet, yanked by invisible strings, being controlled by you. It only infuriates him further. 

Your spine tingles as you feel the sensation of being watched. Peering through your legs, you see a grumpy-looking upside-down Anakin. His eyes aren’t looking at your face, but instead at your ass. You don’t even try to fight the smirk as his eyes finally migrate down to your face. His cheeks tinge red from being caught in the act.

“Are you always this loud in the morning?” He gripes out. Voice still rough with sleep. 

“Are you always this pervy in the morning?” You mock back. Arching your spine toward the ground, causing your head to fall back toward him. 

After being unable to think of anything to say, Anakin ignores your comment. He calms his body before pushing himself off the ground. 

Once back upright, you look at Anakin again. The sparse beams of golden light flow through his sandy blonde hair, almost giving him a halo. His face is still puffy from sleep, and for half a second, you think Anakin is unfairly beautiful. 

“Time to get a move on, Fuse. Thanks to you, there’s a lot of ground to cover.” 

And just like that, he’s back to being unfairly annoying.  

After what feels like an eternity of walking in the sweltering heat, you finally convince Anakin to take a break.

“If I walk any further right now, I will pass out. Then you’ll have to carry me, and we both don’t want that.” 

Anakin had rolled his eyes in response and followed you towards some shade. While sitting under the shade of the trees, you faintly hear the sounds of a stream. Standing, you track the noise, not caring to see if Anakin has followed after you.

It doesn’t take long for you to find the stream. The sight takes your breath away. Teal water bubbles and twinkles as it passes over brown, reddish rocks. The banks are covered in vibrant green moss, and you can feel the temperature around you cooling from the water. 

Your body begins to ache for the refreshing feel of the water. As you looked around, you saw that Anakin was nowhere in sight. Shedding your clothes in a flurry, you plunge in without hesitation. The cold water’s touch against your sun-warmed skin makes you release a sigh of contentment. The tension ebbed, the water a soothing balm as it carried the worries away. 

It takes a couple of minutes for Anakin to realize you’re no longer near him. He slowly opens one eye to confirm your absence, then pushes himself off the tree, his gaze sweeping the area. He begins to call out your name, his voice echoing slightly. He ventures deeper into the woods when the silence stretches on. Then he hears it. The sounds of water and splashing. His mind immediately went to the worst-case scenario, and he surged forward, the rough bushes scratching at his skin as he pushed through. He can hear the stream gurgling softly on the other side. He was poised, his body coiled, the adrenaline coursing through him in anticipation of what he was about to witness. 

The bush parts with a harsh, tearing sound, and he stumbles to a stop, his breath ragged, as he sees you. Eyes closed and head tilted back, water droplets cling to you like diamonds in the bright sunlight. You’re also bare. Anakin has never seen you bare before. As his eyes widened, his mouth began to salivate, but his throat tightened. 

Feeling a shift in the Force, you open your eyes just a slit. They rake over his awkward stance and then flick up to his eyes. 

“What? Have you never seen a naked woman before, Anakin?” The sultry tone breaks Anakin out of his trance. 

“Stop messing around, Fuse. Get out and let’s go.” 

“If you want me out, you’re gonna have to come in and get me.” 

Anakin looks away. She’s playing a joke on me. She’s trying to see if she can make you fall.

“The fun’s over. Get out. Now.” He uses his big, scary General voice. It works effectively at turning you on, but not at getting you out.

Swimming to the bank, you place your arms over the top and stare up at Anakin. From your position, he looks much broader and taller than usual. “I already told you. If you want me out,” you reach for his ankle. “Come and get me.” 

He looks into your eyes for a secret motive. But all that stares back at him is your lust-filled, blown wide pupils, from behind hooded lids. He twitches in his pants as blood begins migrating down. 

He jerks his leg away from your hold and turns so his back is facing you. He begins undressing. 

“Fine. I’ll come get you. But you’re going to regret it.” There’s an edge to his voice that sends shivers down your spine, and goosebumps cover your skin. 

You back away to take in all of him as he strips off his clothing. Faint pink scars dotted his pale skin, and his muscles were so rigid that his skin was stretched tight. You’ve only ever seen his biceps under clothing. With nothing to shield your gaze, watching him is like witnessing raw, unadulterated sin. Just him without his shirt on has you feeling dirty. His shoes and pants come off easily, and finally, he’s down to his last article of clothing. 

You can see the obvious print of his hardness in his boxers, and you wet your lips out of instinct. It doesn’t go unnoticed by Anakin. In fact, his eyes zero in on your tongue as it glides across your mouth, and he twitches at the sight. He pushes the boxers down and stands proud as he springs free. His cock is flushed, the tip an angry red, and you watch as a drop of precum rolls down the shaft, glistening in the sun. Anakin begins moving toward the water. You swim backward, putting distance between you and the bank. 

Once he’s in the water, Anakin stares, giving you another chance to back out. Instead, you stare back strong and tease with a smirk, “Come and get me, oh great Skywalker.”   

And he’s quick at just that. Surging forward, trying to cross the distance quickly, but you’re just as fast. Moving away from him, the water aids in your escape. For a few moments, the pair of you circle each other, the air thick with unspoken words. His gaze, intense and dark, fixated on your body as it moved through the water, like a starving beast. Alternatively, a feeling of excitement shines in your eyes, anticipating the upcoming events. His hands shot forward with a surge of adrenaline, a sly smirk on his face.

His hands are on your arms as he’s pulling you to him. Even submerged in the cold water, his body still radiated a scorching heat. His lips meet yours, and the kiss is a demanding, bitter experience. His teeth met yours with a violent crash, and his tongue thrust into your mouth as his hands firmly clasped your cheeks. The tightening of his grip on your face causes your jaw to ache as you open your mouth wide to let his tongue in. 

In the direction of your chest, his mouth leaves yours and trails down the soft, dewy skin of your neck. Tangling your fingers in his soft blonde waves, you guide his hot mouth to your left nipple. He darts his tongue out, giving it a few licks before he wraps his lips around it and sucking. While his left hand grabs your waist, his right hand disappears below the surface of the water and finds its way between your thighs. 

A gasp of his name leaves your mouth at the stimulation being done to your sensitive areas. Anakin releases your left nipple with a pop and a trail of spit as he goes to the other one. His calloused first and third fingers spread you apart as his middle one rubs small circles on your clit. The heat in your stomach has you flooding; even in the water, you feel yourself getting wet. 

“Fuck, Anakin.” It comes out breathless and heady. 

“Does that feel good?” He’s asking you earnestly, no cockiness or teasing lilt in his voice. 

“It’s so good, Ani.” 

He hums in response, and you can feel him throb against your stomach from the praise. You pull your right hand from his hair and wrap it around his length; his hips buck from the touch. Your palm is so warm against him, and he shudders as you start stroking him with no urgency. You rub the flat of your palm against his red, sensitive tip, a soft ‘fuck’ escapes Anakin's mouth, and he jerks his hips at the pleasure. 

As you play with Anakin, he begins teasing your entrance. His middle finger grazes your opening ever so slightly before he drags it back to your clit. He keeps going back and forth. You can’t help but rut against him, and he coos as you do. He does the motion again as you rut, and the tip of his finger catches perfectly at your opening. You shiver in excitement as his grip tightens on your hip, and he can’t stop himself from pushing his finger into your warm, velvety hole. 

The air is knocked from your lungs as the thickness of his finger stretches you out. He’s gentle as he goes in and out, only curling slightly when his finger is fully inserted. 

“Shit, you’re tight…and warm, so fucking warm.” His voice is slightly hazy, as if he’s in a daze from just fingering you. 

“Anakin, go faster, go-go harder, please.” Your grip slides from his neck to his wrist, showing him the needed pace. He picks up that pace, and as he does, so do you. You squeeze his cock harder and begin pumping faster. Every few strokes, you give two extra tugs to just the tip. 

“You said please.” He laughs, breathlessly. 

“What?” 

“Just now, you pleaded me.” 

You think back, trying to force your mind to focus on anything other than the second finger he’s added. You roll your eyes in annoyance. 

“Shut up and fuck me, Skywalker.” Your voice is a little less intimidating and a bit more pathetic than you had meant. 

Anakin smiles, “You think you’re ready to take it, baby? You’re still squeezing my fingers so tight.”

“I can take it, Anakin. You’re not that big.” 

His smile falls. A fire sparked in his eyes. “Fine, you want me to fuck you. I’ll fuck you.” 

He yanks his fingers out, leaving your hole gaping. He places your legs around his waist and bullies his thick, girthy, long cock inside of you. It feels like you’re being ripped open as it burns so deliciously. You feel yourself getting addicted to it. Tears prickle your eyes, and you yelp out his name. 

“What’s wrong, Fuse? I didn’t think I was that big. I thought you wanted me to fuck you?” His tone and pace are both unkind. He’s slamming in and out, not giving you time to recover or think. 

His massive hand paws at your jaw, lifting your head to meet his eyes. Yours have glazed over from the overstimulation of his brutal pace. Your mouth is slack, and a small trail of drool has formed. Anakin leans in, licking up the spit and forcing it back in your mouth as you kiss. This kiss is less aggressive than last time, but still just as controlling. 

You’ve regained control of your body again, and you start matching his thrust with rolls of your hips. You tighten yourself around Anakin, trying your hardest to get him to cum first. 

His attention returns to your chest, and he pushes them together. He fully extends his tongue and begins going back and forth between the two. He’s absolutely drenching your chest in his spit, both of you moaning at the lewd noises. 

“That’s good, Anakin. So good, just like that.” 

He pulls away, briefly. 

“Say please again.” 

You ignore him. Not wanting to give him the satisfaction again. 

He pulls his mouth away and stops his thrust as well. 

“I’m not playing with you. Say please, and I’ll keep going.” 

“No.” You glare at him with swollen lips and a tear-streaked face. Anakin has never seen something so beautiful. 

“Just because you’re being difficult, now you’ll have to beg me if you want me to continue.” 

He’s still not moving, and his grip on your waist makes it damn near impossible to move. You contemplate what’s more important: you’re pride or your need for Anakin to keep fucking you. 

Letting out a sigh, you drop your head, mumbling a 'please' under your breath. 

“What was that?” You don’t have to look to see that he’s smirking at your begrudged compliance. 

“Please keep fucking me. Please fuck me until I cum.” You grit out. 

He gives a small roll of his hips. It causes you to arch your back, pushing your chest into him. He trails his fingers across the lower half of your face. “Who are you asking?” 

You instantly know what he wants. “You can’t be serious!” 

“Say my name while you nicely ask me to fuck you. Maybe then I’ll give you what you need.” He’s speaking saccharinely to you, and it’s embarrassing how it has you clenching him like a vice and growing wetter. 

Looking up at him with pleading eyes, you finally give in. “Anakin, please fuck me. Please fuck me so hard that I forget how much I hate you.”  

“One more time. Say it one more time.” He’s given a few rolls of his hips, giving you a taste of what you want the most right now. 

“Ani, baby, please give it to me. Please, please-.” You finish the word in a moan as Anakin starts fucking into you again. 

This time his pace is slower. He doesn’t entirely pull out, just drags his cock halfway out. Then he rolls his hips, and his cock comes back to rub against that nice spongy spot deep inside. 

“Like that, baby? Is that what you were begging me for?” His hands angle your face upward, and he stares down at you. You nod your head, not being able to form words. 

He picks up his pace. “You gotta come for me, pretty girl. I need you to come for me. You have to cum on my cock, fuck, please cum on my cock.” He’s abusing his bottom lip with his teeth. His voice strained as if just the thought of you cumming for him would push him over the edge. 

You help him out by rubbing your clit. The combined feeling of him stretching you with the circles you do on your clit, you cross the threshold in no time. Back fully arched, mouth agape, and hands clawing down Anakin's muscled back. With a cry of his name, you cum. 

“Oh shit, oh shit, I’m cumming. Fuck I’m gonna fill you up, pretty angel. You’re going to be dripping me for days. Fuck, fuck, f-f.” Anakin can’t finish his sentence. His orgasm is too intense as it washes over him. Both of you enjoy the feeling of the hot spurts that coat the inside of your walls. You milk him for all that he has, so much so that he has to pull out, so you stop humping and squeezing him. 

Afterwards, you remain silent, unsure of how to speak about what had just happened. You’re shivering and shriveled up at this point, and you’re the first to move out of the water. It’s hard to balance on your shaky legs as you put your clothes back on. Anakin gets out, mirroring your actions and speed. 

Once out of the water and back in the heat, you feel like you’ve been pulled out of a trance. The severity and the implications of what just happened smother you. 

Anakin goes to speak, but the rumble of an aircraft interrupts, and you both watch as a Republic ship lands on the other side of the forest. 

“So that was, um, something, huh?” You break the silence. Looking up at him.

“Do you feel like the water was controlling you?” Anakin asks. Dark eyes focused on you, he looks confident, but the slight waver in his voice gives away his unease. 

“Not controlling, more so, lowered my inhibitions.” You answer honestly. Before you can say anything further, he scoffs and walks away. 

“Right, the water lowered your standards.” He shakes his head, “I knew I shouldn’t have listened to you. I knew I shouldn’t have gotten in the water.” 

Reaching out, you pull at his arm, he stops, but doesn’t look at you.

“Anakin, don’t act like you didn’t feel the effects of the water. You were in there with me! And if you had let me finish, I was trying to say that I think the water sped up what was inevitably going to happen.” 

Finally, he turns to look at you. 

“We don’t have to talk about this again. We can move on and pretend it never happened, if that's what you want. If it’s easier for you to pretend that it wasn’t us controlling our bodies, I’ll play along with that. But it was me, Anakin, that was all me. I wanted you.” 

“And if I don’t want that? What if I want more?” He cranes his neck further down, his warm breath fans your face.

“Then we’ll work something out.” You whisper back. 

Pushing up on your toes, you close the gap. Your lips fall perfectly in sync with each other, much calmer and sweeter than the others. The anger out of your systems (for now). 

“Let's get out of here, Fuse.”

The soldiers of the 501st have been scouring the surrounding forest for a minute, and still no sight of you and Anakin. When, through the trees, the sound of bickering can be heard.

“I swear to maker Anakin, I’m going to kill you!” 

“I’d love to see you try, Fuse.”

You both emerge from the tree line. Obi-Wan lets out a sigh, a smile gracing his face when he sees you two.  

“Glad you two didn’t manage to kill each other.” 

“Thanks for the rescue, now please get me as far away from him as possible.” 

You pass Kenobi, heading straight for the ship. 

Obi-Wan shares a look with Anakin, who rolls his eyes and shrugs his shoulders in exasperation. 

Taglist: @lunacurlclaw, @theideaofhayden, @rainydeputygooptoad, @calidum-astra, @thewitchofbooks, @dulcillaa12

[scorpiovelaryon]

my girl

sirius black x fem!reader

summary: in which you overhear sirius calling you his girl. thus, a lovesick and kiss-drunk sirius makes it his mission to say it again, and again, until you finally believe it.

warnings: fluff, excessive affection, pet names, public displays of affection, mild teasing, soft!sirius who’s so in love, overwhelming sweetness, lovesick behavior, lots of kissing, tooth rotting fluff

word count: 3.1k

masterlist

The thing about dating Sirius Black is that it never quite feels real.

Not in the way people describe disbelief, like you’re waiting for the other shoe to drop, but in that strange, dreamy sense of stumbling into a story someone else might’ve written—some fairytale stitched with mischief and the kind of heat that lingers in the spaces between words.

It has been a few months now.

Enough time for your friends to stop blinking in surprise every time they catch you smiling at him, enough time for the rumors to die down and the whispers in the halls to quiet to a low murmur—though they never go away entirely when it comes to Sirius. 

He is, after all, Sirius Black: loud-mouthed and sharp-eyed, honey-voiced and maddeningly beautiful.

And yet, somehow, he chose you. Or maybe you chose each other, slowly, stupidly,and  sweetly.

You know what people must think. That you temper him. That he ignites you. That your silences fill in the blanks he never bothers to pause for. That he, for all his recklessness, somehow found something steady in you.

Which is why you’re heading to meet him now outside of class. Sirius had promised to spend the entire day with you today, as he was lately busy with studying.

You’re almost there when you hear his voice.

It’s not unusual—he talks loudly, as though the air is something that belongs to him, like even his words are allergic to restraint. But it’s the way he says something now that makes your steps falter. 

You’re still around the corner, concealed by the stone archway. You hadn’t meant to eavesdrop. 

“Sirius!” James Potter’s voice cuts through the corridor, warm and familiar, and it’s easy to picture his wide grin as he strides up to him. 

“Come on, padfoot. We’ve got a pitch slot and I need someone to test my latest throw. You still owe me from last week when you ditched.”

Sirius laughs, the sound low and raspy in the way you’ve come to know too well. “Didn’t ditch,” he says. 

“Oh, piss off,” James retorts. “You coming or not?”

There’s a pause. You imagine Sirius running a hand through his hair the way he always does when he’s pretending to think, when in reality he’s already made up his mind and just wants to seem dramatic.

“Can’t,” Sirius says finally, not sounding even the slightest bit apologetic. “I’ve got a packed schedule today.”

James scoffs, exaggerated. “What, you’ve started revising now? What exactly are you busy with?”

“No,” Sirius replies, too casual, too breezy. And then, with no warning at all, he adds, “I’m spending the day with my girl.”

It hits you like a whispered spell.

Not “my girlfriend,” not your name, not even some half-serious nickname. Just that. My girl.

You’re suddenly aware of everything—of the way your heart is thudding against your ribs like it’s trying to escape your chest, of the heat crawling up the back of your neck, of the way your fingers have curled slightly into your sleeves like you’re trying to make yourself smaller. 

You’ve never been someone who takes up space easily, and right now, the sound of those two words fills every corner of your body, makes you feel almost... lit up.

It’s not the fact that he said it. You know you're his girl. He’s told you in the way he tucks his fingers into the loops of your jeans just to pull you closer in the quiet corners of the library. 

In the way he lights up when he sees you walk into the common room, mid-sentence with Remus, stopping only to grin like you’ve rewired the gravity in the room. 

In the way he sits behind you during study sessions just to braid strands of your hair and mutter things like “beautiful,” and “gorgeous.”

But still—my girl.

You’re fairly certain you and James both made the same face at the same time. That vaguely unhinged, utterly stunned, slack-jawed expression that usually precedes a dramatic spill or a burst of inappropriate laughter in the Great Hall.

Somewhere in your brain, a single electrical wire sparked, and then everything short-circuited.

You could practically see James’s eyebrows lifting halfway to the ceiling, and it’s almost hilarious, almost.

Because you would have laughed—if you weren’t frozen, rooted to your spot like some enchanted statue.

Then came Sirius’s voice again, casual and clear, carrying from inside the classroom, smug in the way only Sirius Black can be when he knows exactly where he’s headed.

“Anyway, I’ve gotta go,” he says, and you can hear the smirk in his voice, “She’s probably already out there waiting for me.”

James groans dramatically. “Tell your girl I’m filing for abandonment.”

“See you later, prongs,” Sirius calls back, followed by the scraping sound of a chair and the creak of hinges swinging open.

Panic sparks in your chest.

You leap back from the wall like you’ve just been caught with your ear pressed to the keyhole��because, well, you have, essentially—and immediately fumble with your bag, turning slightly so it looks like you’ve just arrived. 

And then there he is.

Leaning against the doorframe like it’s something he was born to do. Hair half-tucked behind his ears, tie loose, expression bright and unreasonably happy for someone who got an earful from Slughorn not two days ago. 

His eyes find you instantly, like he was already reaching for the sight of you before he even walked out.

“Hi, baby,” he says, voice soft and amused and utterly at home in the syllables.

“Hi!,” you reply, a little too fast.

His brow lifts slightly. “Hi.”

Your heart trips. “Hi.”

He stares at you for a beat, then lets out the kind of laugh that sounds like it comes from his chest. The kind of laugh that should probably be bottled and sold as some form of antidote in your humble opinion.

“You look a little too happy for a Monday, baby,” he says, stepping closer, his hands shoved in his pockets and his head tilted as he studies you. “What’s happening?”

You shrug with deliberate nonchalance, fighting the smile that tugs at your lips. “Can’t I be happy?”

He grins like you’ve just said something precious. “Of course you can,” he says, reaching out to squish your cheeks between his hands so your words are suddenly a little garbled.

“Just wanna know what’s got you extra happy today.”

You mumble something unintelligible, eyes darting away, and he narrows his own suspiciously.

“Hmm?”

You free your face from his fingers and try not to giggle. “It’s nothing.”

“Nuh-uh,” he says, tilting his head with mock offense. “You don’t get to smile like that and then say ‘nothing.’ Come on, tell me.”

You hesitate, toeing the stone floor with your shoe. “I, um. I heard you.”

Sirius blinks. “You heard me?”

“In class,” you clarify, shifting your weight to the other foot and feeling heat crawl up your neck. “When you were talking to James.”

He tilts his head again. “You get happy when I talk to James? That’s new,” he murmurs, brushing his knuckles softly across your cheek—his touch featherlight.

His eyes, usually sharp with mischief, are softened now, warm and brimming with a quiet kind of awe.

You swat at his chest lightly. “No, Sirius.”

He laughs again, utterly delighted. “Okay, okay, sorry. What did I say?”

You bite your lip and look away. “Never mind. Forget it.”

“Absolutely not,” he says, eyes glinting with curiosity. “Now I need to know.”

You shake your head stubbornly, lips pursed, trying not to smile, but Sirius isn’t fooled.

He takes a slow step closer, tall enough that his shadow stretches over you, the scent of him curling into your breath. The air between you tightens.

“Wait,” he says suddenly, voice pitched low with amusement, grin sharpening like he’s just solved a riddle he’s been working on since breakfast, “Was it when I called you my girl?”

Your face gives you away in an instant.

Your eyes widen, the way they always do when you’re caught off guard, as if your thoughts have leapt too fast for your expression to catch up. Heat blooms high in your cheeks, blooming pink and soft across your skin like sunrise, betraying every effort to stay composed.

“Oh my god,” he says, actually laughing now, hands braced on his hips as if the revelation physically knocked the wind out of him. “That’s what got you all smiley?”

You narrow your eyes, cheeks blazing. “Stop laughing!”

He tries, he really does, but the laughter keeps bubbling out of him, shameless and golden. 

You huff and turn on your heel, nose in the air like you’ve just declared a personal war against him.

But you don’t get far.

Before you can take a single step away, he moves—quick and fluid, one long stride and he’s behind you.

His fingers find your waist with ease, curling firmly around your sides, and in one seamless motion, he pulls you back—hard enough to make you stumble slightly—until you're flush against his chest.

He holds you close. So close it feels like you’re standing inside the space between seconds.

“Hey, hey, c’mere,” he murmurs, voice lower now, softer, brushing against your skin like silk. His arms slip around you fully, drawing you in again, and this time, you don’t resist.

“Why so shy, baby?” he whispers, tilting his head, eyes sparkling with mischief and tenderness all tangled together.

You pout instinctively, your fingers resting lightly against his chest. “Nothing.”

His brows lift. “No, no. No hiding. What is it?” He leans down, brushing his nose against yours. “You are my girl though, right?”

You glare up at him, but your heart is not cooperating.

“You just... never called me that before,” you say, quiet, soft enough that it barely survives the space between you.

Sirius exhales, and pulls you even closer, resting his chin lightly on top of your head.

“Well,” he says into your hair, “You should start getting used to it.”

You don’t even get a moment to tease him back before he’s wrapping his arms around you again, tugging you flush against his chest like holding you is as instinctive as breathing.

He rocks you gently side to side, his chin hooked over your shoulder, and you can feel the quiet grin tugging at the corners of his mouth as he speaks.

“You’re so cute, y’know that?” he murmurs, voice low and warm, like he’s sharing a secret meant only for your ears.

He says it again, and again. Each repetition comes between a kiss to your cheek, his lips brushing against your skin with unbearable fondness, his long hair tickling across your jaw like satin.

“My girl,” he murmurs, pressing a kiss just below your cheekbone.

Another kiss, this time closer to the corner of your mouth. “My pretty girl.”

You giggle, trying and failing to turn your face away as warmth floods your cheeks. “Sirius, your hair’s tickling me—”

He just smiles into your skin, clearly unbothered. Another kiss, this one slower, more lingering, pressed just beneath your ear. “My favorite person.”

You squirm in his arms, laughing harder now, your hands curled into his shirt as you try to wriggle away, but he only holds you tighter.

“My most favourite girl.”

Each word hums against your skin like a spell.

And you, useless and smitten thing that you are, melt for him completely.

A quiet giggle escapes you, your fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt as you bury your face in his chest to hide the way your cheeks are burning. 

You try to squirm away, overwhelmed and giddy, but his grip tightens gently and he tilts your chin up with two fingers, catching your gaze with a look so full of open affection it robs the breath from your lungs.

He holds your face like it’s something precious, like he’s afraid to let it go. His thumb brushes just beneath your cheekbone, featherlight and impossibly gentle, and then he says—quietly, sincerely—

“Can I get a kiss?”

The way he looks at you in that moment, like you’re his whole damn universe, is almost too much. 

His long black hair falls into his eyes, the ends brushing his cheekbones, his mouth barely parted.

His eyes are shining, glassy with something deeper than a smile, and he’s smiling anyway, soft and crooked like the words he wants to say are too big to fit in his throat.

There’s a trembling silence where you don’t know how to speak.

Because this is the part no one sees.

This is Sirius Black in love. Not loud, not cocky, not showy or flirtatious. But bare, unshielded, and tender to the point of devastation.

And somehow, it still surprises you—how much he feels.

Because he plays it smooth, always, with his smirks and his swagger and his stupidly charming quips.

But deep down, Sirius is just as flustered to be around you as you are around him. Maybe even more.

He still hasn’t gotten used to saying your name out loud without his heart stammering. Still can’t look at you some days without wondering if you’re a dream made flesh. Still marvels at the fact that when you walk into a room, you’re walking toward him.

He calls you his girl like it’s nothing. But to him, it means everything.

Because you’re not just his girl. You’re his world.

You lean up slowly, your hands resting against his chest like he might vanish if you touch him too fast. Then you press your lips to his, soft and sweet.

He smiles against your mouth before pulling back slightly, his eyes still closed, like he’s trying to savor the moment just a little longer. A beat passes. Then—

“Can I get another one?” he whispers, one eyebrow lifting, that same mischievous edge bleeding back into his voice.

You blink at him. “You’re so—”

But you don’t get to finish.

Because he kisses you again—harder this time. His hand cups the back of your neck, his other arm firm around your waist, pulling you in like he’s afraid the world might steal you away if he lets go.

And when he kisses you like that—like you’re his first and last prayer—there’s no doubt left.

Sirius Black is utterly, hopelessly, and beautifully in love with you.

And even if you don’t quite realize it yet — he’s been yours all along.

His lips are still brushing against yours when he pulls back the slightest inch, gaze hazy and wonderstruck, as though he’s only just now realizing that you’re real. 

His thumb is tracing absent shapes at your waist, his breath slow and uneven like he’s trying to memorize the curve of your mouth by air alone.

His eyes, dark and warm and barely blinking, drink you in like he’s never seen anything so beautiful. Like he doesn’t want to miss a single second of whatever this is.

And then, of course, he leans in again for a third kiss. 

You stop him with a hand on his chest and a breathless little laugh. “Sirius,” you whisper, dragging out the syllables. “You can’t keep kissing me, we have a whole day ahead of us, and we’re still in the bloody hallway.”

He leans his forehead against yours with a groan, dramatic and wounded, as if you’ve just denied him water in a desert.

“But I thought you were my girl,” he says, pout in full effect, lips parted and brow creased with the exaggerated tragedy of it all.

“My girl doesn’t let me kiss her as much as I want? This is unfair.”

You burst out laughing, fully this time, and the sound of it sends a visible shiver through him.

He never gets tired of hearing it, probably never will.

“Come on, Black,” you tease, grabbing his hand and turning on your heel to pull him down the corridor behind you, your fingers threading easily through his.

“I need someone to help me carry the books I ordered.”

At that, Sirius lights up like someone’s handed him a trophy. “Books?” he says, perking up.

“You ordered books and didn’t tell me? That’s a violation of trust. But don’t worry, love—I’ll carry them, all of them. You won’t lift a single bloody finger.”

You glance back at him with a smirk. “Wow, look at you,” you tease, eyebrows raised.

“All manly now, huh? Sirius Black, the knight in shining armor, savior of poor girls with heavy textbooks.”

“I am manly,” he insists, puffing his chest out like an idiot and giving your joined hands a little swing. “And chivalrous and noble and handsome and criminally underappreciated and—.”

You snort. “Okay, I get it!”

But just as you’re rounding the next corridor, Sirius glances down and suddenly stops short, yanking you to a halt beside him.

“Wait—you’re carrying your bag?”

You blink, confused. “Um... yes?”

He gasps so dramatically you’re worried for a moment he might start clutching his chest. “What a horrible boyfriend I am,” he cries.

“Carrying nothing. Letting my girl do the heavy lifting like some kind of untrained baboon.”

You laugh again, shaking your head as he makes a scene of freeing your bag from your shoulder.

“Give me that. No, seriously, give it. I was raised better than this. Even my horrible, bloody mother would’ve scolded me for letting you carry your own things.” – He takes the bag from you with exaggerated care, slinging it over his shoulder – “Granted, she’d probably scold me just for being in public with you, but the point stands.”

You giggle again, unable to stop smiling, as he then reaches for your hand once more, the two of you falling into step like you were made to.

Your hands swing gently between you, fingers warm and safe in his.

And from that moment on, he never stopped.

Sirius Black referred to you as his girl in every corner of the castle, whether you were there to hear it or not.

He’d say it proudly, like the words alone lit something inside him.

And when you weren’t around, you’d better believe he was still talking, still rambling, and surely still flustered.

Cheeks tinted a soft, unmistakable pink, he'd go on and on to anyone who’d listen—usually James—about how smart you were, how good you smelled, how pretty you looked with your nose buried in a book or your hair tied back or when you laughed with your whole body like you did when he tickled your sides.

James, for his part, teased him relentlessly. But Sirius didn’t mind. Not even a little.

You were his girl after all, and he wanted the whole world to know it.

[scorpiovelaryon]

need a ride?

| sirius black x goth!reader (18+ smut)

summary: (2.5k) three words: you, sirius, & motorbikes. with a dinner date planned, sirius offers to take you for a ride. but as soon as you get on, the vibrations leave you desperately needy—and sirius? wildly turned on.

! content warnings: semi-public sex, vibration play (motorcycle), grinding, riding, p in v sex, dirty talk, fingering (f!receiving), squirting, softdom!sirius, voyuerism (if you squint), creampie.

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you didn’t even hear the knock on your flat door as you dragged the black lip liner slow and careful over your lips, filling them in. you liked taking your time with it, even if sirius always teased you for being dramatic.

the door creaked open, hinges groaning like the entrance to a haunted estate.

“doll?”

even just his voice had your stomach turning, a lazy drawl that always slipped down your spine, rough from cigarettes and dripping with mischief. you were finishing up for your date—not even flinching at the sound as you’d given him keys weeks ago, but sirius black never needed permission anyway to make himself at home. that was the thing about him: unapologetic, loud, certain he belonged wherever you were.

he came into view in the mirror as you glanced, leaning on the doorframe like another added accessory to your sisters of mercy poster-filled walls and dark velvet bedding.

sirius was dressed in leather, like you—except his was a jacket, and yours was a mini skirt with a pair of black boots. his leather jacket hung open, silver chain glinting against his loose queen band tee. his hair a sexy mess of dark waves that framed those sharp cheekbones and reckless grey eyes, jeans ripped right at the thighs like they were begging to be stared at.

he was drinking you in the way he always did when you got ready, black lipstick tugging across your lips, eyes thickened with bold graphic eyeliner. it should’ve been ordinary, but on you? every move was temptation.

he could feel his jeans tightening, just watching the smudge of dark pigment, mouth watering at the idea of ruining it—dragging it across his skin, swallowing your pretty sighs, tasting you hot through the paint.

he twirled his helmet in one hand, strolling forward with a low whistle. “christ, sweetheart…look at you, lipstick darker than my soul.” his grin widened, cocky, like he just wanted to sink his teeth in you at the sight.

“gonna kill me one day.” he muttered into the back of your neck as he bent to kiss it, lips hot and indecent.

you caught a whiff of his scent—like smoke and leather, and a faint hint of motor oil—all things utterly intoxicating that made your stomach curl and your thighs tense on their own.

“you could’ve at least waited for me outside.” you tried for exasperation, puckering your lips as you fixed the shape.

sirius groaned at the sight, entirely unholy.

“and miss this?” he waved lazily at your reflection—at all of you. “not a chance, love. over my dead handsome body.”

his gloved thumb cupped your chin and the smirk never faltered—except when he felt a shift in your thighs, his breath catching.

“all leather and lipstick, bloody vision.” he drawled roughly, just as his thumb brushed slowly across your bottom lip.

you jerked back with a half-laugh, half-scowl. “oi! i just applied that!”

he laughed low and delightedly, planting a quick kiss to your cheek. “c’mon then, goth grumpy. let’s see how good you look wrapped around my bike.”

he dragged you outside by the waist, still playing at being a gentleman until you stood before his motorcycle. the parking lot was quiet, just the faint humming of the dim streetlights illuminating the evening.

“pretty, isn’t she?” sirius gave a soft tap against the tank that had been spray painted in the shape of white stars.

“she?” of course sirius had to call it that. he probably loved that piece of metal almost as much as he loved you—almost.

“oi! don’t pout. you know you’re the only one for me.” his grin was sharp, flattering, and then—like he planned it all along—pulled out a bouquet of black roses from thee compartment of his bike.

it was utterly theatrical, the way they just conjured out of thin air. “see? wouldn’t waste bloody flowers on a bike. she’s just a fling.”

a laugh slipped out of you, cheeks warming at the thoughtfulness game that he always played. sirius was always like this—mockery wrapped in sincerity, daring you to catch which part was which.

“fine,” you grumbled with a hidden smile, taking them. “as long as i’m still your favourite.”

“course you are. at least you talk back.” his mouth caught yours in the smallest peck before you could chastise him, careful not to ruin your lip artistry—yet.

he shoved the helmet onto your head like he was dressing you for war, lifting you effortlessly onto the motorcycle. “now, hold on tight and look pretty f’ me. i’ll do all the dangerous parts, yeah?”

he drawled with a wink, climbing in front. your arms looped around his waist, bouquet squashed between both your body heats. “just—be careful, alright?”

except you knew sirius never was. the engine suddenly roared alive, rattling through your bones. now you understood why sirius loved riding bikes so much.

it was unlike anything else you ever experienced; it was sound and sensation both, flooding your thighs, your stomach—and oddly enough, your cunt.

a sharp gasp escaped you before you could stop it, barely muffled by the helmet. the seat beneath you buzzed, pressing heat and vibrations into you with every tremor.

sirius caught it instantly, the way your grip tightened around his waist, always attuned to you. as soon as he heard that broken gasp, a slow grin curled wickedly, and he revved the engine harder.

“like that, gorgeous? or am i just imagining things?”

your body betrayed you, voice dying out into a whimper, warmth coiling fast in your belly. your clit pulsed with every shudder of the machine, trying to utter. “it’s very—oh—”

he froze mid-rev, whipping his head around. he could see your dazed eyes through the slit of your helmet, the shift of your hips—he knew.

“merlin—you’re really—” sirius half-laughed, half-groaned, disbelief and hunger tangled together. “you’re about to get off on my bloody bike?”

you nodded helplessly, hips grinding for more friction, like you couldn’t even afford to be ashamed from how good it felt.

sirius swore at the sight, swinging his legs around to face you. the helmet was plucked off your face, discarded somewhere on the handlebars, bouquet of flowers tossed to the pavement—him wanting nothing more than to feel your body heat and see your lips part, eyes flutter, just for him.

“look at you. falling apart already? pathetic little thing.” he mocked, voice silk and gravel, pupils blown wide like his filthiest fantasies had finally been answered.

his hands came up to clamp around your tight-clad thighs, spreading you shamelessly. “use it. use my bike like a toy. c’mon doll—make a mess of her.”

his words spurred you on, the vibration just relentless. you kept rolling your hips in sloppy movements, the leather dragging across your covered clit as your head tipped back with a ragged cry. heat was swirling low, rushing straight to your core as your thighs trembled.

sirius’ cock throbbed painfully in his jeans, strained and aching. watching you unravel without even touching him was pure torture—but the hottest fucking torture he’d ever known.

“fuck me,” he rasped, thumb grazing the wet crotch of your tights under your skirt. “you’re soaked. couldn’t wait five bloody minutes, could you?”

his mocking words were only dizzying you with more need, hole clenching around nothing. it wasn’t enough, your clit was still swollen with ache.

“need—more—” you gasped, clawing at his jacket blindly.

sirius cursed under his breath, and his hands worked immediately, tugging your tights and panties down in one savage motion—your hips barely lifting off the bike just to aid him.

he shoved you back against the vibrating seat, your cunt bare and slick against the leather, the rough surface giving off a new sensation that made your eyes roll.

“that’s it, angel.” sirius muttered with barely-contained restraint, kissing hard down the column of your throat.

“ride it. ride it for me.” his hands encouraged the movement of your hips, before he wedged two fingers between your wetness and the seat, pressing into your hole. a sharp gasp ripped out of you, and sirius groaned into your neck.

“fuck—s’bloody tight,” he curled his fingers deliciously into you, the bike’s buzz amplifying every drag of his knuckles.

he didn’t care if his wrist was beginning to ache from how squashed it was—all he could think about was pleasuring you—to get you right on the edge, the pads of his fingers hitting that sweet squelchy spot over and over again.

your mind was just pure noise, cloudy, every nerve in your body pointed to the thick pressure building in your abdomen. the coil twisted tighter as you let out a moan, walls clenching hard around his fingers. “sirius!”

his mouth was everywhere, sucking red and purple into your skin—on your jaw, your collarbone, before smearing the delicate paint off your lips with his own.

“yeah? you’re close? cum for me, pretty girl.”

his words rasped right into your mouth as you whimpered back, squeezing his fingers with your spongy walls. “make a mess f’ me—ruin the seat so i remember you every time i ride it.”

he coaxed you, the squelching of his fingers and the quiver of the engine beneath, becoming all too much.

“oh!—” the coil in your stomach snapped, pleasure ripping through you, raw and violent. you gushed hot spurts across his hand and the seat, vision blurring as your body convulsed and sirius held you down.

he murmured filth in your ear, guiding you through the aftershocks, drenched fingers still moving in quiet shushes. you couldn’t believe at how your body had just given out, writhing in open air, on a motorcycle of all places.

but the reckless nature of it somehow made the aftershocks sharper, hotter—not to mention this recklessness was something sirius always encouraged.

his fingers finally pulled out, not leaving a moment of rest as he shoved them into his mouth and moaned like a starved man, licking every drop clean. the sound, so obscene and guttural, left your cunt fluttering all over again.

“you just came all over my fucking bike.” he laughed, voice wrecked with awe, fingers popping free of his mouth. his pupils were blown wide like it was a fever dream, and you swore you could see yourself in the reflection of them. “swear you’ve killed me, sweetheart.”

you were flushed and breathless, thighs still trembling—and yet, you still managed to quirk a brow.

“was this some wet dream of yours?”

sirius shrugged, trying not to let the ends of his lips curve up. “maybe.”

you shook your head with a smiling scoff, trying to catch your breath—before your eyes dropped down instinctively to his jeans, the bulge pressing painfully against the zipper.

your body reacted before your brain could catch up, shifting on the seat. sirius followed your gaze, smirk twitching, just so desperate to have you again—his hunger undeniable whenever it came to you.

“think you could bless my bike again? gonna have to ride me til’ i forget my own name.” he raised a brow in a dare and you could only nod eagerly.

the idea of it made your pulse spike—that you’d already fallen apart so publicly for him and would do it again just to see the look on his face. you definitely weren’t getting to that dinner anytime soon.

“good girl. c’mere.” sirius immediately tore at his belt, fingers fumbling like he couldn’t get his trousers off quick enough.

when his cock sprang free—thick, flushed, twitching—you whimpered. the tip was throbbing in red anger, beads of pre-cum sliding down the shaft. he didn’t even give you time to properly move, yanking you onto his lap with a growl before his mouth crashed against yours sloppily.

the rough grind of his cock against your soaked folds had you shuddering all over again, slick already smearing him. you grabbed the base, giving him a few pumps just to see his composure break—and it did, his head dropping back with a low moan, neck straining.

“shit—see what you do to me, baby? got fuckin’ hard watching you come apart. pathetic, isn’t it?”

you grinned, breathless, faint with want. “we both are. i mean—” you gasped a laugh, “i came all over a damn bike for fuck’s sake.”

sirius gave a weak chuckle back, but it broke into a groan as you lined him up and sank down in one swift motion. his head slammed back again, shoulder blades hitting the handlebars as a guttural sound ripped from his throat.

you sobbed from the stretch, walls molding to him inch by inch, feeling so effortlessly full as your hips moved. a soft breeze of wind swept your face that brought you back to the open air. the possibility of being seen had your pulse hammering in your throat, adrenaline and arousal blending into one as your cunt squeezed him tighter in a throb.

“fuck—made for me.” sirius ground out through clenched teeth, nipping at your jaw. “look at you—bouncing on me like a desperate little bunny. filthy girl.”

“uh huh—” was all you could manage, your brain turning to mush as your hips bucked.

each bounce made the bike creak beneath you, metal rocking on its stand. sweat slid down your back as your clit grinded against him with every thrust, the vibration of the machine still humming through your soaked folds. you were already nearing, moaning louder so it echoed into the evening, hips jerking without rhythm like your body was on fire.

sirius thrust up into you as hard as he could from the seat, his fat tip slamming into your cervix with each drive—desperate to get more of those pretty sounds out of you.

“yeah? you like that?” he rasped in a feral cocky grin, jaw trembling. “louder, doll. let everyone hear how good i fuck you. go on—scream for me, bunny.”

his eyes were locked on your face like he was burning it into memory, cock plunging deeply in and out of you. your body obeyed instantaneously, like you wanted nothing more than to please him.

you sobbed out incoherently, the heat in your stomach snapping again as you spasmed around him—and sirius lost it too, cock twitching inside you as he spilled hot. his curses dissolved against your skin, desperate and husked.

you slumped into his chest with tears trickling down your cheeks, both of you trembling in ragged breaths. the engine ticked softly as it cooled, and sirius just stared at you like something holy and obscene all at once.

he pulled back to see your face properly, grin growing slow and wicked. the pads of his thumbs gently wiped your cheeks of the eyeliner residue mixed with your tears.

that’s when he kissed you deep and messy, your black lipstick that was already all over your mouth, smeared again like sirius relished in ruining you in every way possible—cunt and lips alike.

“best fucking ride of my life—and i live for bikes.”

your laugh cracked out, high but spent. “mine too. rode two things today.”

he chuckled breathlessly against your head, kissing it softly. “merlin, you’ll be the death of me.”

you gently pecked his chest in a soft silent thank you, breaths steadying. “so…no date?”

“you minx,” he murmured into your hair, and you could feel the maddening grin against it. “who needs a sodding dinner with a start like this?”

he nipped your ear, smug and soft all at once, arms cinching around you like he couldn’t stand the thought of letting go. “got my meal right here.”

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©️siruslystarman. this fic was not made by AI.

[scorpiovelaryon]

𝐬𝐮𝐧𝐝𝐫𝐞𝐬𝐬 | 𝐟.𝐜. — ✨~.*🍋 ྀིྀི *.🌻~ 💛

── .✦ note and tags: had a thought about you in frank's fav sundress ..... and well! nsfw content ahead, minors dn not interact, frank castle x fem!reader husband!frank goes kinda crazy over you in a sundress, public sex, reader has a v, fingering, squirting, brief oral sex (f/m receive) backshots in the backseat, dirty talk (frank running that mouff), use of petnames (baby, mama, papa, sweet wife, baby girl, sweetgirl), slight food play?? — excuse any typos I was excited to post and this is subject to be edited!

wc: 4k

Frank has a special place in his heart for that pale yellow sundress of yours.

Thin strapped, high split, delicate tie in the middle made into a perfect bow always drove him insane.

It's a Sunday morning and Frank is lacing up his boots in your shared living room. You told him about the annual summer farmer's market the night before, proclaiming you would go with or without him. He was half asleep holding you, assuring you in half lucidity he would go under one condition:

"Wear that one yellow dress."

Frank is finishing lacing up his boots when you descend the stairs. He looks up to ask you if you were ready but the question never left his mouth. His fingers stall his lacing, sitting up straight to look at you all over. He mirrors the same smile you have adorned across your face.

"You like?" You ask, giving a twirl and allowing the split to open up. The delicious curves of your thighs peak out at Frank who simply smiles and shakes his head, attempting to gather his thoughts.

"More than like, sweetheart. You know what the dress does to me." Frank's eyes sweep up and down your fame as you saunter over. His hands find your waist immediately as you look down at him, sharing a gaze as your fingers run through his locks.

"So you said half asleep last night." You chuckle, hand moving down to scratch gently along his beard. He hums.

"I don't remember, but i'm glad one of us did, doll." He admits honestly and you smile. You reach down, kissing him on the lips and he kisses you back. His hand slides gently down to cup your ass softly, earning a giggle from you. He laughs as you smack him on the shoulder, but you give him one more kiss.

"Let's go before we don't make it out the house."

⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍋ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚ʚ🍋ɞ˚‧｡⋆⋆｡‧˚

Frank surprisingly kept his hands to himself on the way there. Sure he had that gentle hand on your thigh while driving, but he truly seemed like he was going to behave.

But that keyword: seemed.

Because the moment you two were steadily walking through the market, your hips swaying at every step, the restraint slowly dissipates from Frank's body. His eyes were fixated on your lower back as you wander between booths. You're completely oblivious as you continue sampling all the different kinds of fruits and juices the vendors offered. Currently you have a strawberry offered by a local strawberry farmer in your hand. You bite into it, juices exploding as it dribbles down your chin and around your lips. The world slips into slow motion as Frank watches, seeing the juice pool around your lips and some from your chin landing onto your breast. His pulse roars in his ears at the scene, eyes flickering back to your mouth as you lick away the juice.

"Babe, you gotta try this. It's so juicy." You bring the fruit up to his lips, still completely unaware of your husband violently undressing you with his eyes. He says nothing, but opens his mouth as you pop the fruit into his mouth.

But then his lips close around your finger playfully, making a small show to suck the juice off of your finger, your breath gets caught in your throat. Especially when you saw the glint behind those brown irises, hinting that he was not on his best behavior this whole time.

And all it took was a strawberry farmer to ignite his worst behavior.

You move your finger from his mouth, face flushing from the heat that was not because of the sunlight beating down. You can only look at him, words lost as your brain short circuits.

"Juicy," he says. "but I definitely know something that's juicer, baby." Frank says, eyes flickering from your breast to your face. He reaches down and wipes the juice away that's still sitting on top of your breasts.

"Yeah?" You ask, almost in a drunken daze because you know where this is headed. Especially when he takes his finger and sticks it in his mouth, your insides twist and flutter as you squeeze your thighs together.

"Yeah," He says. "I do."

You two hold a stare, subtly forgetting that you were in the middle of a market. You begin to snap out of your trance slowly before reaching out to grab his hand.

"Come on, let's at least walk by everything before you start plotting further, Mr. Castiglione." You say, interlocking your fingers and beginning to walk, pulling him after you. He trails behind, chuckling at you but his eyes watch your ass bounce with each step.

"Lead the way, Mrs. Castiglione." He says, low in his throat as he plants a kiss to your temple. More heat flushes across your cheeks and you give his hand a squeeze.

You two continue to get through the market. Despite his behavior with the strawberry he managed to hold it together. Or so he wanted you to think.

Frank's mind stayed on you and that damn yellow dress. The same one that catches the wind at the right moments, split opening graciously and revealing your thighs again. And if it wasn't your thighs that had his attention, then it was your ass. You actually caught him staring several times whenever you turned around unexpectedly to make a comment or ask a question. And if it wasn't your ass he was staring at, then it was your breast. Many times while you were eating or talking you saw his eyes flicker down to your chest. His mind far from whatever produce you were rambling about at that moment.

And at this moment, his focus was on the delicate bow you tied to hold your breast in the brassiere of the dress. This particular piece was driving him crazy, and all he could think about was reaching down, taking one of the dainty strings by his teeth to pull it loose, springing your breast free for him.

Heavily considered it before remembering you two were in broad daylight in the middle of a farmer's market. So, with the last bit of his restraint, he brought his focus back to you as you pulled him over to the next stall ran by a vegetable farmer.

"I could use some fresh vegetables for dinner tonight." You hum, picking up a variety of different vegetables. Cucumbers, tomatoes, potatoes, you had them all as Frank watches your hips sway. He bit into his bottom as he coasts up behind you, pressing his front against your rear.

"Gotta say, I'm pretty hungry right now, doll." He says, voice thick with want. The deepness of his voice sending shivers down your spine before they settle into the pit of your stomach. A pool of want growing as he places a hand on your hip. You look over your shoulder, seeing that look in his eye as he looks from your eyes, lips, and settling on your breast.

"Frank." You shutter out, watching as his head dips lower to kiss behind your ear. Your knees damn near buckle as he licks hotly before biting down. A gasp escapes your mouth and you drop the vegetables from your hands. The farmer looks up, alarmed by your sudden behavior and worried something was wrong with the produce.

"Everything okay, miss? There's nothing wrong with the crops right?" He asks, standing up as you quickly apology.

"No no! Sorry I just saw a bee." You lie, bending down to get the vegetables but Frank was already gathering them. He turns his attention to the farmer.

"We'll take these." Frank says, looking briefly at you before giving you a look you know all too well.

Frank was tired of waiting and this was the last stall you would visit.

And he was not going to wait till you both got home.

And that is how you ended up in the backseat of Frank's truck.

"Frank." You moan as his lips move from the corner of your mouth to trail wet, tepid kisses along your neck. He groans, licking along your pulse before nipping gently. You gasp, opening your legs wider to allow him to settle in comfortably.

"Been wanting you since I saw you come down in that dress, sweetheart." Frank confesses as he licks along your neck. Your legs shiver in response before you roll your hips against him.

"I love wearing this dress for you." You find yourself confessing along with him as he lowers his lips to your collarbone. Your fingers come up, gripping at his hair to anchor yourself as he bites along the bone. You whimper, rolling your hips again and feel the tightness in his jeans.

"Yeah, is that right?" He asks, continuing to shower you with kisses as he lowers himself to your breast. "Fucking love when you wear this dress you have no idea how much it drives me crazy, doll." Frank devotes himself to you while worshipping your body. You let out a squeak as he bites your breast, lips sucking to earn a illicit coo out of you.

"You're insatiable." You manage to chuckle out and releases your breast from his lips. He raises an eyebrow as dark chuckle escapes him.

"Can you blame me?" He starts, kissing the neglected breast, "fucking got me ready to take you in the backseat right now, princess. You do criminal things to me when you wear this dress you know that?" He says, kissing your breast before biting down. You throw your head back, moaning as pleasure consumes you. He licks an sucks, igniting heat within in your lower belly. Your cunt pulses and you roll your hips once more to feel pressure. Your clit is aching to be touched and his rough denim causes you to whimper at the contact. He releases your breast from his mouth, ready to move on as his bites decorate your skin.

And what he does next, leaves you breathless.

With his eyes never leaving yours, he lowers his mouth to the drawstrings in front of your dress. He takes one string between his teeth, pulling back to unravel the pretty bow you made early this morning. Your breast spring free and Frank licks his lips before divulging.

He takes one of your areola's in his mouth, the pert bud hardening within seconds in his hot mouth. Your eyes roll back at the feeling, tugging hard on his hair and earning a groan from him. He bites gently, causing you to gasp and your clit to twitch. His rough hand comes up to the neglected breast, cupping, squeezing, and rolling your nipple between his fingers. You begin panting in the backseat, heat increasing and you start to slide your sundress straps off until Frank slaps your thigh gently.

"Don't you fucking dare. Don't even fucking think about taking this dress off, you hear me, sweetheart?" He orders and you pull the straps back up, obeying without a second thought as he continues to worship you. He switches over to the other, trail of saliva in his wake and the scene of so lewd and disgusting but you love it. He earns another roll of your hips again but he grabs his hands and holds you still.

"Frank!" You whine, hating the restraint but forgetting momentarily when he sucks on your other nipple. Your thighs grow sticky with wetness that pools from your thighs. All this attention to every sensitive spot but the one place you craved him the most was driving you insane.

"Love how you did this bow sweetheart, but I love your breast more." He sucks harder, "so perfect, so beautiful, just like my girl." He praises and you sigh.

"Frank—" but he cuts you off.

"You know what I love even more?" Frank questions, fingers skating up underneath your dress.

"What?" You ask innocently, looking at him beneath your eyelashes into a look that you know drives him crazy.

"This pussy—fucking wet pussy. How drenched it gets for me, baby. Always a damn running faucet for me huh?" Frank confesses filithily, his fingers finding your naked pelvis. He raises an eyebrow at you.

"No panties today either? So that's why your ass was moving it was all damn day, huh sweetheart? You tryin' to kill me with that perfect ass of yours?" Frank rambles as he slides a finger across the silky patch of skin above your clit. It's freshly shaven and Frank wonders if you did it this morning.

"I was wondering how long it would take for you to notice." You tease as his finger slowly descends between your thighs.

"Oh I noticed," he says darkly, "and now I'm gonna give you what you asked for by wearing this fucking dress." His finger finds your swollen clit with ease, caressing it softly. The touch has you throwing your head back against the door as a pathetic mewl escapes you.

"I love when you play with my clit, Frank." You say as he continues his soft strokes. His rough fingers are so tender with their touch and the juxtaposition has your head spinning.

"Yeah, but I think you l deserve a little more right now, huh doll?" He asks, finger circling your clit once more before dipping down unexpectedly. He curses under his breath as he feels how drenched you are and you cry.

"Please, please please," the begs come out of you before you can stop yourself, "I want you, Frank." You plea, core clenching around nothing and you were growing achingly desperate for something to fill you, stretch you. The desire to be full continues to consume your mind and Frank sees it in the way your eyes look at him. He knows that look means you're ready for him to be buried inside but he has other plans.

"I know you do, baby but I gotta take my time with this dress yeah? You wore it for me and I gotta thank you the best way, baby girl." Frank slides his finger inside your soaking cunt and your hips jerk at the feeling. You whine, rolling your hips to get him to stuff you with one more finger.

"Frank—oh fuck!" Another thick digit buries itself into you before you can verbally beg him. He curves up, hitting that gummy patch and your eyes roll back.

"S'tight I gotta open you up before I give you my cock, y/n. I can't be hurting my sweet little wife who wore this dress just for me right? I'd be a shitty husband, huh sweetheart?" Frank runs his mouth, continuing to scissor his fingers as you whine.

"Frank." You pant as he moves his fingers faster, hitting that spot deeper and harder, earning that lewd sqleuching noise. Frank grunts, moving his free hand to grab your breast before playing with your nipple. He feels your clunt flutter around his fingers, squeezing tightly causing him to swear.

"Christ, you're squeezing the hell out of my fingers doll," he says, "you think you're ready for me? Or should I add a third and play with you a little longer, hmm?" His filthy words and brutal fingering earns desparate mmm's and ahh's out of you. He stares down at you, watching your breast jiggle as you continue your pathetic whines and whimpers. Your lips are flushed, glossy with saliva.

"Another." You finally mewl out and Frank hums.

"You want another, sweetheart? Fuck, I'll give it to you baby. I'd be a shitty husband if I didn't give you what you want, huh?" He asks and you're nodding, whimpering as he slides a third inside. He stretches you deliciously and you cry out. Your nails find home on his bicep as you struggle to brace yourself.

"Frank—fuck!" His hand flies from your breast to your mouth, quieting your moans as he sees a couple walk by. You're turned on more, whimpering against his palm as he continues to finger you dizzy. Frank watches the couple disappear between cars and turns his attention back to you. His fingers are soaked and he knows your dress isn't probably too far from being like his fingers.

"You think you're ready for me, sweetheart," Frank says, "because I think if you get any wetter you'll soak through that dress of yours." And you nod enthusiastically. You pull your dress up, exposing your thighs and messy cunt. He sees your thighs are soaked, arousal shinny and sticky. His pupils blow the moment he catches liquid pouring out of your cunt.

“Nnnmmphh—fuck!” You squeal as you spray all over his fingers, definitely wetting your dress now. Frank lets out a low rumble that resembles a growl almost before diving between your messy thighs. His hot tongue swipes at your clit before trailing down to drink up your nectar.

“Taste so good, sweetheart,” Frank says after pulling himself from between your thighs, “I definitely think you’re ready for me now, hm?” He asks, hands going to his belt but you’re faster. He lets out a chuckle as you work quickly, unfastening his worn leather belt and then working on his button. You undo the zipper as he pulls his denim down, along with his boxers and his cock springs free. Your mouth waters, seeing the mushroom tip flushed purple almost with the tip leaking. You surge forward, taking the head between your lips and sucking. Frank hisses, hand going to your curls before gripping roughly.

“Shit, y/n.” He groans as you work sloppily. You slide your mouth further, taking more in and he jumps in your mouth. You moan around him, salivating and Frank grips your hair tighter. You run your tongue along the prominent vein on the underside and Frank’s hips buck, making you take him deeper in your mouth. You gag softly but keep him nestled in your throat and Frank damn near loses it.

“Fuck, I need that pussy now. Turn around f’me, pretty girl okay?” Frank says, pulling you off of him and you have a trail of spit from his tip to your bottom lip. You smile, leaning down to kiss the tip one last time before turning around. You hike your dress up, having it pool around your waist and you brace your hand onto the doorrest. Frank settles behind you, hands coming up to caress your awaiting ass. He slaps one cheek playfully before squeezing it, admiring how the fat jiggles and how soft it is. Frank always told himself it was the 8th wonder of the world because he was mesmerized every time he saw it.

“Baby, you're staring.” You giggle, wiggling your ass playfully and he slaps the right cheek. You gasp but then whine as he slaps the other one harder.

“Gotta give my favorite juicy peach some love first, sweetgirl.” He says before positioning himself behind you. You foot a leg onto the ground, opening yourself up and giving Frank an illicit view of your awaiting cunt. It’s dripping obscenely and Frank doesn’t waste a single second before sinking himself into you. 

The two of you moan, hissing at the tightness of your cunt as he continues to bury himself at the hilt. You let out a salacious mewl, back arching just the way you knew Frank liked it before he eases out. He swears under his breath, sliding back in as he marvels on how well you squeeze him. He looks down, watching his cock emerge with a creamy ring and he swears. 

“Barely started and you’re already creamin’ on me, baby, fuck.” His pelvis meets the curve of your ass and he grips your hips to anchor himself. His nails dig into the skin and you whimper at the sting that occurs. You grip the door rest hard, ashening your knuckles you’re sure as he continues to drill himself deep inside you. 

“Frank, ohmygod–mmmph!” You whimper, hearing the sounds of skin slapping and your pussy creaming around your husband. Frank continues to grunt behind you, cursing whenever you squeezed him tight when he hit that spot that left you seeing stars. Your toes are curling in your sandals, roots sweating, and thighs shaking with each pound against your cunt.

“That’s my pretty little wife yeah that’s it baby,” he says, “keep moaning for me sweet girl, you’re so fucking good papa’s so proud of you yeah?” Frank says tenderly as he praises you. You wail at the praises, taunt feeling in your core pulling tighter and tighter as he talks you through it. 

“I love you so much, Frank.” You whimper, eyes screwed shut as you give yourself entirely to your husband. The pleasure runs rampant through your body, pooling tightly and warming in your lower belly as his cock continues to kiss those deep parts of you. 

“I love you too, baby s’good, so fucking good for your husband huh?” The praises tumble from his mouth as he continues to feel your cunt suck him in. The grip on his cock told him you never wanted him to leave and shit he was feeling the same. Your cunt was gushing, dripping down your thighs now and surely making a mess on the seat.

“Yes, daddy, I love being good for you.” You’re completely drunk off of his cock that continues to piston into you and he knows it. He hears the desperate whines you let out that only meant you were close. Especially with your thighs shaking, he knew you were only moments from coming all over him. He wasn’t too far behind you either.

“Ahh–fuck mama, you’re so perfect for me taking this cock,” he slaps your ass and you yelp but moan as he rubs the sore spot, “keep being good for me and cum on this cock yeah? I know you can do it sweet girl I feel you dripping and squeezing me sweetheart, fuck.” Frank continues to be filthy as he drills into you.

“Frank, I can’t, I can’t–” You chant, the pleasure becoming too much for you that you were almost scared. You already knew this orgasm was going to hit you hard and you knew no amount of bracing could prepare you for the pending wave about to crash over you. And Frank knew this too, especially with the way you reach back, holding onto his wrist to ground yourself. But he’s not phased by your words; he knows you can do it.

“Yes you can, mama. I know it’s so much and a lot for your little cunt but you’re so good,” he leans down, placing kisses along your back to soothe you, “you’re doing so good for me. Go ahead and come f’me baby girl.” He coaches you through it, placing more kisses and you mewl underneath him. You grow louder, body shaking as you feel the knot in your stomach tighten. 

“Oh—fuck!” You cum all over Frank, cunt clamping down and squeezing him tightly. Your body shakes violently as you let out a series of whimpers and moans. 

“That's right cum for me sweetheart,” Frank grunts, hissing as his balls feel heavy. “Atta girl, atta fucking girl come for papa.” Frank groans, feeling his balls swell as the build up rushes to his tip. He’s groaning, thrusts becoming chopping. 

“Go ‘head and come for me, Frankie.” You whimper as he continues to fuck you through your orgasm. He doesn’t need further encouragement with the help of your wet and slick walls coating him. He’s spilling in you within seconds, groans bubbling in his throat as he does. Frank gives a few more sloppy thrusts before pulling out of you. The two of you hiss at the loss but let out a sigh of content. You look over your shoulder to see your husband staring at you, chest heaving as he catches his breath. Your legs shake as he lets out a final breath, chuckling.

"Told you what that dress does to me."

©𝐫𝐢𝐯𝐬𝐭𝐢𝐠𝐥𝐢𝐨𝐧𝐞

[scorpiovelaryon]

smile for the camera. james potter x reader

it's jamie's birthday! the day is filled with laughter, cake and a surprise he's been begging you for (for a long, long time)*. ⋆2.5k words

cw: smut. fem!reader. recording during sex. making out. dry humping. piv. unprotected sex. 69ing. doggy style. face down, ass up. missionary. face slapping. spitting. choking. overstimulation. bit of manhandling. dirty talk. praise and degradation. pet names ("angel", "sweetheart", "slut"). creampie. lmk if i missed something!

a/n: i wish i had thought of this months ago, for his actual birthday😔anyway, remember english isn't my first language!

it’s james’ birthday, and the flat you call home feels charged from the second you wake up.

he’s been dropping hints for weeks, his ridiculous grin giving him away every time he says something like, “merlin, you know what’d be the hottest thing ever?” and then trailing off dramatically until you roll your eyes.

you know exactly what he wants—he’s begged, pleaded, pouted. and tonight, you’re finally giving in.

“love,” he breathes when he walks into the bedroom after his shower, hair damp and curling against his forehead, sweatpants hanging low on his hips. his eyes dart immediately to the tripod you’ve set up at the end of the bed. the little red recording light blinks steadily in the dim room. “you didn’t— bloody hell, you actually—”

“happy birthday, jamie” you say softly, suddenly shy under his stunned gaze.

james doesn’t move at first. he just stares, glasses sliding down his nose, his mouth parted like he can’t quite catch up with the moment. then he’s crossing the room in three long strides, crashing his lips to yours.

the kiss is messy, grateful, desperate. his tongue pushes into your mouth before you can even breathe, tasting of mint from his toothpaste, and you whimper into it, grabbing at his damp shirt. james groans like you’ve just handed him the world.

“best bloody gift i’ve ever got,” he pants against your mouth, already pressing you back onto the bed. “fuck, angel, you’re perfect. gonna make the hottest film anyone’s ever seen.”

you laugh breathlessly, though it melts into another moan when his knee wedges between your thighs, grinding up against your center. the camera’s little light winks at you both from the foot of the bed, but all you can focus on is james’ weight pinning you down, his mouth sucking at your bottom lip until you gasp.

his hand finds your jaw, tilting you so he can kiss you deeper, wetter. his tongue slides against yours, sloppy and filthy, spit shining your lips as he pulls back to look at you. “open a bit wider, angel— yeah, like that.” he leans down again, groaning when you let him devour your mouth, the slick sounds surely being caught by the camera.

you whimper when he rolls his hips, cock already hard under the thin fabric of his sweats. the friction makes your head spin.

“james—” you gasp when his fingers slide up your stomach, under the hem of your shirt. “the camera—”

“let it watch,” he murmurs, kissing along your jaw, down your throat. “want us both to see how good you look coming apart for me.”

he sucks a bruise against your pulse point and grinds down harder, the drag of his cock against your clothed pussy making your thighs tremble. you cling to his shoulders, rolling up against him.

“merlin, feel that? that’s all you, baby,” he groans, rutting up with no shame. “dry humping like bloody teenagers, yeah? but better. so much better.”

your laugh cuts off into a gasp when his hand slips into your panties, fingers finding your slit and sliding through the wetness. “already soaked for me,” he grins, voice wrecked. “god, the camera’s gonna love this.”

you buck into his hand, moaning when his thumb circles your clit. his tongue is back in your mouth before you can answer, swallowing every sound you make. the kiss is sloppy, hot, spit running down your chin as his fingers tease you, never quite giving enough pressure.

“james,” you whimper, hips jerking up.

“shh, angel, not yet.” he kisses you again, then pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. “wanna take my time— want the tape to show how needy you get for me.”

your cheeks burn, but your body thrums with arousal, slick coating his fingers even as he just rubs lightly at your folds. james moans into your mouth, clearly as turned on by your desperation as you are by his teasing.

when he finally slides one finger inside you, curling just right, you cry out, your back arching off the bed. the camera catches everything—the way your lips part, the way james grins like the cat that got the cream, the way you rut against his hand like you’d let him do this forever.

and he kisses you through it all, tongue fucking your mouth just as his finger fucks your cunt, his other hand gripping your hip to keep you pressed tight against him.

“gonna make you beg before i fuck you,” he murmurs against your spit-slick lips.

james pulls his hand from your panties slowly, deliberately, smearing your wetness over your inner thigh before licking his fingers clean right in front of the camera. his eyes go half-lidded as he sucks them into his mouth, moaning low in his chest.

“christ, baby,” he groans, popping his fingers free with a lewd sound. “you always taste so sweet”

you squirm under his gaze, chest rising and falling too fast. “jamie—”

“shh,” he says, grinning, “birthday boy’s turn now.”

before you can answer, he’s tugging your panties down your legs and tossing them to the floor. he nudges your thighs apart, lowering himself between them like he’s worshiping. his big hands press your knees wider until you’re spread open for him, pussy glistening in the warm light of the bedroom.

the camera’s red light blinks at the foot of the bed, and you realize it has the perfect angle: james’ messy hair buried between your legs, your cunt on full display. the thought makes you clench around nothing.

“fuck, you’re so pretty,” james murmurs, his breath hot against your folds. then his tongue is on you, long and flat, licking a stripe up your slit until it flicks against your clit. you cry out, fisting the sheets, your back arching.

he moans into you like it’s the best meal he’s ever had, slurping shamelessly, loud enough that the camera surely catches every wet sound. he licks into you, nose nudging your clit, then drags his tongue back up to circle it, flicking fast until your hips are jerking against his face.

“james— fuck—”

“that’s it, angel,” he growls into your cunt, his tongue pressing deep again. he eats you like he’s starving, like he could live here between your thighs. he doesn’t care how messy it is; spit and slick drip down his chin as he groans against you, rutting into the mattress just from the taste of you.

your thighs tremble, hands clutching at his curls, tugging hard enough to make him groan. he slides one hand up to squeeze your breast through your shirt, the other pinning your hip so you can’t move away from his mouth. he sucks your clit into his mouth suddenly, hard, and your vision whites out.

“james— oh my god.”

you’re shaking, right on the edge, but before you can tip over he pulls back, face wet, pupils blown. “not yet. want to try something for the camera.”

you blink down at him, breathless, as he climbs back up the bed. he strips his shirt off in one motion, muscles flexing, before tugging down his sweats and boxers. his cock springs free, flushed and leaking, and your mouth waters.

“c’mon, love,” he says, already maneuvering you. “birthday boy wants a sixty-nine.”

you let him guide you, climbing on top of him until you’re straddling his chest, your knees on either side of his head. the camera has the perfect view now: your ass in the air, james’ cock thick and hard against his stomach, your lips stretching around the head as you lean down.

“fuck yes,” he groans when you take him in your mouth. “god, that looks so fucking hot.”

you moan around him when his tongue licks up your slit again, the vibration making him buck into your throat. you swallow him deeper, your spit dripping down his shaft as you bob your head.

he groans into your pussy, the sounds half-choked by your weight on his face.

the camera records every filthy detail: your drool running down his cock, the obscene squelch of his tongue inside you, the way your thighs shake as he sucks your clit hard.

you gag when his hips buck, but instead of pulling back, you moan, your throat working around him. he nearly sobs into your cunt, hips jerking again.

“bloody hell, baby, gonna cum if you keep doing that.” he pants, but his tongue never slows. he’s relentless, eating you like a man obsessed.

your orgasm hits fast and hard, your thighs clamping around his head as you cry out around his cock. he groans against you, drinking down every drop, until you collapse forward, chest heaving.

james pulls his mouth from your dripping cunt with a gasp. “you look like a fucking wet dream right now”

he helps you off him gently, laying you flat before flipping you onto your stomach.

“need to fuck you now, angel,” he growls, climbing behind you.

he props a pillow under your hips, spreading your knees wide until your ass is arched perfectly for the camera. his cock slides through your slick folds, teasing, before he pushes in all the way with one hard thrust.

you scream into the sheets, your walls clenching around him.

“look at that,” james groans, grabbing your hips, fucking into you with deep, heavy thrusts. “camera’s catching the way your cunt sucks me in— fuck, baby, you’re dripping all over me.”

the angle is obscene: your ass bouncing with every thrust, his cock splitting you open, wetness shining on his length as he slams into you. he groans loudly, one hand sliding up your back until it presses between your shoulder blades, forcing your chest flat to the mattress.

“yeah, that’s it,” he pants, fucking harder. “just like that, perfect little whore for me.”

you moan into the sheets, tears pricking your eyes from how good it feels. his grip on your hips is bruising, pulling you back onto his cock each time he drives in. the bed creaks, the headboard slamming against the wall, the camera catching every filthy sound.

“jamie— fuck.” you sob, your cunt clenching around him.

“say it for the camera,” he groans, slapping your ass so hard it stings. “say you love being fucked like this.”

“i love it!” you cry out, voice breaking. “love it when you fuck me like this, oh my god—”

james moans like he’s possessed, rutting into you harder, his cock hitting deep, wet slaps filling the room.

“gonna make you cum all over me, love, right here for the camera.” he growls.

and when his fingers find your clit, rubbing fast, you do—screaming into the bed as your whole body convulses, cunt gripping him so tight he nearly loses it.

james doesn’t stop even after you collapse from your orgasm, cheek pressed into the sheets, sweat cooling on your skin. his thrusts keep coming, deep and ruthless, cock dragging through your fluttering cunt.

you whimper, muffled into the mattress. “j-james, i—”

he leans over you, his chest pressing against your back, his hand gripping the side of your throat just enough to tilt your face toward the camera. “look at that, sweetheart,” he pants, fucking into you hard enough to make the headboard slam. “already shaking, and i’m nowhere near done. gotta make this tape long enough, don’t we?”

the camera light blinks, recording every ragged sob that leaves your mouth, every slap of his hips against your ass. he grinds his cock into you on each thrust, pulling moans from you that sound obscene.

“face down,” he orders, pressing your cheek fully into the mattress. his hand slides to the back of your neck, pinning you there. the angle makes him feel impossibly deep, the weight of his body holding you in place as he pounds into you.

“james— oh god.” you sob, muffled.

“fuck, you sound wrecked,” he groans, leaning down to bite at your shoulder, sweat dripping onto your skin. “gonna watch this back and stroke my cock to the sound of you crying on my dick.”

the words make you clench around him, a choked scream muffled by the sheets.

he laughs, breathless. “yeah, you love it. my filthy little slut, letting me record you like this. christ, your cunt’s milking me—”

he pulls out suddenly, leaving you gaping and dripping, before flipping you onto your back in one rough motion. you gasp at the sudden exposure, thighs still trembling.

james doesn’t give you time to breathe. he hooks your knees over his shoulders, folding you nearly in half as he lines himself up and slams back into you. the wet sound makes both of you groan.

the camera has the perfect shot now: your tits bouncing, your cunt swallowing his cock, his abs flexing as he fucks you hard.

“open your mouth,” he pants. you do, dazed, and he spits right onto your tongue. “swallow it.”

you obey instantly, whining as you do, and he moans like it’s the hottest thing he’s ever seen.

“fuck yes! such a good girl.”

his hand wraps around your throat, squeezing lightly as his thrusts grow faster.

your head tips back, eyes rolling, drool slipping from the corner of your mouth. he slaps your cheek with his free hand, not hard, just enough to make you moan.

“stay awake for me, sweetheart. wanna see those pretty eyes while i fuck the soul out of you.”

you sob, nails clawing at his back, your body jerking with every thrust. “too much— jamie, it’s too much—”

“shhh,” he growls, tightening his hand on your throat just enough to make your head swim. “you can take it. my perfect slut can always take it.”

his thumb rubs your clit suddenly, viciously, and you scream, cumming so hard your vision whites out. your cunt clamps down on his cock, gushing around him, soaking his thighs.

“fuck, baby” james’ hips stutter, but he doesn’t stop, fucking you through your orgasm. “you’re dripping everywhere, christ, it’s all over me.”

you’re shaking, whimpering, but he just grins down at you, sweat dripping from his forehead onto your chest. “not done yet.”

he pulls out again, your slick glistening on his cock, before shoving back in with a groan. his rhythm turns punishing, desperate.

you’re overstimulated, tears streaking your face, but the pressure builds again anyway, unbearable.

“james— fuck— i can’t—”

“yes, you can,” he growls, slapping your tit hard enough to make you jolt. “gonna cum for me again. gonna do it on camera so i can watch you fall apart anytime i want.”

your nails dig into his arms, body shaking, as he slams into you, the wet sounds echoing in the room. he squeezes your throat tighter, his pace erratic now.

“cum with me, angel,” he groans, voice wrecked. “one more, wanna see you fucking lose it.”

the words tip you over. you convulse around him, screaming his name, your cunt gripping his cock like a vice. james throws his head back, moaning loud enough for the neighbors to hear, as he empties himself inside you, thick and hot.

he fucks his cum into you, hips grinding, until both of you are shaking, sweat-soaked, the sheets ruined beneath you.

finally, he collapses onto your chest, panting, kissing your throat lazily. the camera light still blinks, catching your ruined bodies, the mess between your thighs, the dazed look in your eyes.

james lifts his head just enough to grin at the camera. “best birthday present ever.”

lostrologyy © 2025.

[scorpiovelaryon]

everywhere, everything

pairing: joaquín torres x reader summary: being long-distance best friends with joaquín isn’t easy now that you’re on different teams. the more you talk, tease, and lean on each other, the clearer it becomes that friendship might not be enough for you anymore. tags: new avenger!reader, ex-widow!reader, friends to lovers, mutual pining, you and joaquín are children of the sambucky divorce warning(s): cariño used as a pet name, suggestive content (no smut just a lil spicy), gender neutral reader (ex-widow but gender/sex is not mentioned or implied at all) word count: 9.5k note: WHEW this one has been a wip for a while and i finally finished it! title comes from the noah kahan song of the same name. also i’m not a native spanish speaker but my friend told me that cariño is an appropriate nickname for any gender, please correct me if i’m wrong 🩷

masterlist

Your phone buzzed with the kind of urgency that could only mean two things: either the world was ending again, or Joaquín had found another cursed meme he thought you needed to see at two in the morning.

QUINO 🪽: yo why are you on the news being announced as the new avengers lmao

You barely had time to process before the next messages dropped in.

QUINO 🪽: wait. hold on. is this for real??? 

QUINO 🪽: wtf???

Your stomach flipped. This was exactly the conversation you’d been putting off having with him. Because who doesn’t love a little light long-distance betrayal on a random Tuesday?

When his name lit up your screen with an incoming call, you hovered like a coward. It rang enough that you let it go to voicemail. When he called back, you decided you couldn’t avoid him forever.

“Heeeeeey, Quino,” you said, dragging out the greeting in the world’s least suspicious tone. “How’s it going?”

“How’s it—? What the hell is going on?” His voice crackled down the line, equal parts alarmed and offended. “Are you serious right now?”

You opened your mouth to answer, only for Alexei’s booming baritone to cut through the tower’s open-plan kitchen. “I was only trying to help!”

“Help?!” John snapped back, loud enough that you’d be getting noise complaints in a regular apartment complex. “You nearly set the oven on fire again!”

Ava’s dry voice chimed in. “Ten dollars says he’ll do it a third time by next week.”

“I’ll take that bet,” Yelena added, unbothered as ever. They shook on it.

Bob, poor soul, sat in the middle of it all on the sofa with a throw pillow hugged to his chest, swivelling his head back and forth like he was centre court at Wimbledon.

You pinched the bridge of your nose. “Okay, hang on, I can’t— one sec.”

“...Are you in the middle of a family reunion right now?” Joaquín asked, incredulous.

You snorted. Joaquín knew you didn’t know anything about your biological family; the Red Room made sure of that. “Something like that.” 

You ducked down the hall and made the now-familiar trek to your room. You’d requested one on the same floor as the common spaces because the other floors felt too empty. When you made it to your bedroom, you shut the door behind you and sighed in relief. 

Blessed, beautiful silence. Now that you lived at the Watchtower, it was rarer than you liked.

“Sorry,” you said, sitting on the edge of your bed with the phone pressed to your ear. “It’s been a crazy day. Or, you know, week.”

There was a beat of quiet on his end. Then, softer, “So it’s true? You’re one of them now?”

You sank back against your pillows, staring at the wall like it might have the script you’d forgotten to study. “Yeah,” you admitted, exhaling. “It’s… complicated.”

“Complicated how?” Joaquín exclaimed. “You were supposed to call me if anything major happened. I have to hear about it on CNN?” His voice cracked a little at the end, like he was trying to sound annoyed, but worry slipped through.

Guilt tugged at your ribs. “I know. I wanted to, but it all kind of snowballed,” you confessed. “One minute Bucky’s dragging me along as backup, and the next I’m knee-deep in whatever Valentina’s mess is. Then Yelena showed up, and you know our history. I couldn’t just leave her, and… it just spiralled.” When Joaquín stayed silent, you quietly added, “I didn’t plan any of this, Quino.”

Silence stretched, heavier this time, though not unfriendly. You could hear the faint rustle of Joaquín shifting on his end of the line. He probably had you on speaker while pacing his room, running a hand through his curls like he did whenever he was stressed.

You picked at a loose thread on your blanket. “The thing is, I don’t feel like I can leave. Not now. They’re…” You stopped, trying to find the words. “They’re ridiculous, obviously. You just heard the circus outside. But they’ve sort of wormed their way into my heart.” You smiled a little. “Alexei’s trying so hard to be everyone’s embarrassing dad. Yelena and Ava—I didn’t know I could have friends like that. And with Bucky, this is giving him something better to hold onto than that whole congressman crusade. I can’t walk away from that.”

On the other end, Joaquín made a thoughtful humming noise, then said lightly, “I could put on the Falcon suit and come take you away in a few hours. Just say the word.”

The laugh bubbled out of you before you could stop it. “Don’t tempt me. You know we can’t.”

“I’m serious,” he teased. “No one would notice. I’d swoop in, whisk you out, and boom! You’re back where you belong. With people who actually own functioning smoke alarms.”

“Very funny,” you said, though your smile lingered. “But you know it’s not that simple. I love you, Quino. You and Sam are my family too. I’d never want to do anything to hurt you or make you feel like I’d betrayed you. But… I love them, too. The Thunderbolts.”

He went quiet. Long enough that you worried you’d overplayed your hand, or worse, confirmed some fear he hadn’t voiced yet. Then, “Who the hell are the Thunderbolts?”

There was a beat, and then both of you broke into helpless laughter. Yours came out wheezy, half-relieved, half-hysterical. Joaquín’s laugh rolled through the line warm and familiar, pulling you right back to every late-night hangout you’d ever had together.

When it finally ebbed into silence again, you were breathless, cheeks aching from smiling.

“You know you’re my best friend, right?” Joaquín said suddenly, earnest in a way that caught you off guard. “There’s nothing you could do that would change that. Not joining this team, not working with Bucky, not even— what did you call them? The Thundercats?” You knew he was teasing you.

“Thunderbolts,” you corrected him anyway, grinning into the phone.

“Sure, them,” Joaquín chuckled. “The point is, you’re stuck with me, cariño. No matter what headlines you end up in.”

The knot in your chest loosened. You pressed the heel of your hand to your eye, a little overwhelmed at how much lighter you felt just hearing him say it. “Thanks, Quino.”

“Don’t thank me. Just promise you’ll call me before you end up on the news next time,” he requested. “My heart can’t take that kind of shock.”

“I’ll put it on my to-do list, right under ‘stop Alexei from burning the tower down.’”

“Good,” Joaquín hummed. “Although, one of those sounds slightly more achievable than the other.”

You snorted. For the first time since the whole Void and New Avengers fiasco, the weight on your shoulders felt a little easier to carry. You stayed on the line a moment longer, reluctant to let the comfort of your friend go.

It still amazed you how all of this had started. 

You hadn’t been looking for new friends when Bucky Barnes had turned up on your doorstep with that gruff, awkward apology lodged in his throat. He’d braced for guilt, for explanations, for the familiar dance of trying to make amends the way his therapist wanted him to. Instead, you were the one who surprised him. 

You’d told him plainly that he didn’t need to answer for the Winter Soldier’s crimes; not to you, not to anyone. Somewhere in the middle of his therapy checklist, you’d adopted him instead. Bucky became your grumpy older brother, reluctant uncle, and occasionally an exasperated grandpa figure.

You met Sam soon after, and he introduced you to his protégé. Meeting Joaquín had been game-changing. It meant having someone closer to your age, someone who didn’t see you as a broken weapon or a case file. He helped you become a person who could laugh, tease, and stay up too late eating takeout on a worn sofa. 

It shifted something you hadn’t realised was stuck. He was a golden retriever puppy in human form, entering your life with boundless energy that made it very, very hard to keep the walls up. Before you knew it, Joaquín had woven himself into your life until you couldn’t imagine a single day without him.

When you’d moved to D.C. to help Bucky with his campaign—also known as keeping him from shit-talking his way into political disaster—being in the same city as Joaquín was a happy side effect. Close enough for coffee runs, late-night movie marathons, and the easy friendship that had become your anchor.

Sitting in the Watchtower a couple of hundred miles away, with Joaquín’s voice crackling through a line that already felt too short, you realised just how much you missed it.

“It’s really good to hear your voice again,” you admitted quietly. “Things got scary for a second there. I didn’t know what I was doing, or if I was helping or making things worse.”

Joaquín’s concern was immediate, voice softer than before. “Hey. Don’t say that. You can call me, you know. Anytime. I don’t care what’s going on. You can call until you’re absolutely sick of me.”

That earned a real laugh out of you, brighter than the earlier ones. “That’ll never happen. But fine, I promise I will. I’ll drive you insane with constant phone calls. Brace yourself.”

“I look forward to it,” Joaquín said, with a warmth that wrapped around you even through the static. Reluctantly, he sighed. “I gotta go. Falcon duties and all that.”

“Right,” you replied, though you clung to the moment until the call ended. “Talk to you soon.”

The screen went dark. You lingered in the quiet, phone still pressed against your ear, before finally dragging yourself back to the door. When you opened it, the chaos was still alive and well: John red in the face, Alexei defensive, Yelena and Ava gleefully egging them on.

You couldn’t help smiling. Yeah. You were in deep with these idiots.

Adjusting to life with the so-called New Avengers was a little like moving into a shared house where the neighbours were constantly on the verge of calling the cops. Which is to say: chaotic, loud, and kind of wonderful.

Alexei had decided, without consulting anyone, that he was the team’s fun dad. Which meant unsolicited pep talks, terrible jokes, and constant attempts to prove he could still do fifty push-ups in a row. He could not. 

Yelena endured this with the kind of long-suffering eye-rolls usually reserved for sitcom daughters whose fathers embarrass them in front of their friends. You, however, found it hilarious. Every time he started a story with, Back in my Red Guardian days, you could practically hear Yelena’s soul leaving her body.

Then there was John and Bucky. Together, they were like an odd-couple reboot no one had asked for. Two grumpy boomer figures trapped in a modern world they didn’t fully understand. John still called memes picture jokes. Bucky had once asked you in complete seriousness what yeet meant. You almost choked trying to explain it to him.

“Are you texting Joaquín about what I just said?” Bucky demanded one afternoon after you’d ducked into the corner, phone in hand.

You froze, glancing up and trying to look innocent. “...No,” you said, a little too quickly.

“Liar.”

“Fine, yes. But only because he needs to know that you actually said the words ‘thirst trap’ out loud.”

To his credit, Bucky only sighed and muttered something about kids these days being such little punks. You grinned even wider as you hit send. Joaquín’s reply came less than a minute later.

QUINO 🪽: lmao tell him he’s officially 106 going on 200

Meanwhile, Yelena and Ava were nothing short of revelations. Positive female friendships weren’t exactly in rich supply in your line of work. Having two women who just got it, who didn’t flinch at your past and still wanted to gossip about the others during stakeouts, made something inside you settle. Yelena wanted to, but Ava only tolerated it with minimal threats. 

You hadn’t realised how badly you’d needed it until it was right there, easy as breathing.

It wasn’t all sunshine. Training was brutal. Missions were worse. 

You still called Sam once a week, trading updates and making sure he wasn’t mad at you for joining a team that wasn’t his. He wasn’t, of course. Sam Wilson had more patience than saints. But it wasn’t the same as being back at the compound, where you could wander into the kitchen at midnight and find Joaquín raiding the fridge.

Still, there were good days. Great days, even. 

Days when Alexei’s antics made you laugh so hard your sides hurt. Days when Yelena and Ava dragged you into an impromptu game night, complete with verbal fights and everyone ganging up on John. Days when John and Bucky somehow managed to work together without yelling for a whole half hour. 

You started catching yourself smiling at nothing, storing up tiny snapshots of joy like you might run out if you weren’t careful.

And through it all, Joaquín was never far away. Every ridiculous tower moment got texted straight to him. The time Alexei tried to skateboard down the hallway and nearly took out a vase? Recorded, sent. Bucky falling asleep mid-mission briefing? Snapped and shared. 

Even the quiet moments, nights you chatted with Yelena about your past while Bob read a book upside down on the sofa, went to Joaquín. It was your way of keeping him tethered to your day-to-day, even when he wasn’t physically there.

In return, Joaquín sent you snippets of his world. Sweaty post-workout selfies, breathless but grinning as he wiped his forehead with his sleeve. Attempts at TikTok trends that usually ended with Sam shaking his head in the background, muttering something about kids and their internet dances. 

Joaquín always let you in on the more intimate parts of his life. A wide shot of the desert sunrise when his missions took him out west. A view from the cockpit, clouds stretching endlessly in every direction. His face when he turned the camera back around, softer somehow, like he knew you’d be saving it to watch later.

Sometimes, lying in bed after a long day of convincing Bob he should stop losing sleep over that time he went blonde, you let yourself wonder if you were leaning on Joaquín too much. But then your phone would buzz at one in the morning with a picture of his half-eaten pizza, and all the doubts would dissolve. 

Once, though, you picked up your phone and it wasn’t Joaquín at all. It was Sam.

“So…” Sam’s drawl came down the line, already laced with that particular brand of mischief he reserved for teasing you. “You and my guy Joaquín are still glued at the hip, huh?”

You froze mid-step in the tower hallway, nearly colliding with Bucky, who was carrying five grocery bags in one arm and looked alarmed at your expression.

“I—what—no,” you spluttered, waving Bucky away. “We’re just friends.”

“Uh-huh.” You could practically hear Sam’s eyebrow raise. “Look, I’m not here to pry. I just wanted to check in. Make sure you’re okay out there.”

That disarmed you more than the teasing. “I’m… yeah. I’m okay. It’s a lot, but it’s good too.”

Sam hummed like he believed you, but not entirely. “You know you can call me if it ever isn’t good, right?”

Your chest squeezed a little at that. “I know. Thanks, Sam.”

“Good. Now go back to pretending you and Joaquín don’t FaceTime more than most married couples.”

You groaned loudly, especially when Bucky snickered, clearly overhearing.

Another tradition you loved was your TV nights with Joaquín. It started innocently enough: a “Hey, let’s watch something together like we used to,” that turned into a full-blown ritual. Now you and Joaquín were three seasons into his favourite show, a messy blend of soap opera drama and superhero action.

“Okay, okay, listen,” Joaquín’s voice crackled in your ear, bright and animated. “This is where it gets good. You’re not ready for this.”

Your stomach did a strange swoop at the sound of his excitement. You eyed the screen, unimpressed. “I bet you five bucks the dude with the bad haircut betrays them.”

“He’s not— what? No! He’s loyal. He’s literally their rock.”

“Uh-huh.”

Sure enough, three minutes later, Bad Haircut Man pulled out a knife and stabbed his supposed best friend in the back. Literally.

You sipped your tea like a smug cat while Joaquín groaned dramatically. “You ruin everything, you know that? I was so excited for you to see that twist!”

“Twist implies surprise,” you deadpanned. “I saw that coming from a mile away. His hair alone was a red flag.”

“You can’t keep calling him Bad Haircut Man.”

“Would you prefer Traitor Mullet?”

Joaquín made a strangled sound, half-outrage, half-laughter. “You’re impossible.”

“You love it,” you replied knowingly.

There was a beat of silence, the kind that stretched just a little too long. Butterflies stirred in your chest before Joaquín rushed in with, “Okay, fine, maybe a little. But still! You’ve got to stop predicting everything. Just enjoy it.”

“I am enjoying it,” you said, shifting so you could lie back against your pillows. Your phone was set to speaker mode beside you. “I’m enjoying being right about everything, like always.”

He groaned again, but you could hear the smile in it. “You’re insufferable.”

“And yet you keep calling me,” you sang.

“Because I’m a masochist, apparently,” Joaquín said brightly, though he stumbled on the last word like he was trying too hard to keep it light.

That earned him a snort, which only made him laugh harder. It was the kind of laugh that was so bright you could almost see the way his face crinkled up with it. You could picture his warm brown eyes shining, and the curve of his mouth, and the image made your stomach dip again.

For a while, the two of you went back and forth like that, barely watching the show. You’d throw out another prediction to see Joaquín protest, and he’d respond with increasingly desperate defences of the show. 

“You don’t understand, this episode sets up the entire season four arc!” 

“Mm-hm, sure. Whatever you say, Quino.”

“C’mon, cariño,” Joaquín complained. The way he said your nickname this time was softer, though, almost breathless, and you had to clutch your pillow tighter to steady yourself.

Eventually, the TV faded into background noise, both of you too caught up in your own rhythm. It felt like he was right there on your bed beside you, close enough that you could feel the heat of him if you just leaned a little further into the sound of his voice.

“You’re quiet,” Joaquín said softly after a stretch of companionable silence. He was lying down now, too, you could tell by the muffled sound of his pillow when he shifted.

“Just tired,” you said, though the truth caught in your throat. Tired, yes, but mostly of pretending you didn’t miss Joaquín everyday.

There was a pause, then his voice came through, gentler. “I miss you.”

The words landed like a hand pressed to your sternum, grounding you even as your pulse kicked up. Joaquín always said things like that so easily, like it wasn’t a risk at all. Meanwhile, you had to wrestle your own honesty into submission before it could escape.

“…Yeah,” you finally admitted, words quieter than you meant. “I miss you too.”

Your ceiling blurred into soft shapes as your eyes stung, not with tears, but with the weight that had been building for weeks. On the other end, you pictured Joaquín sprawled across his bed, phone in hand, grinning that too-wide grin.

“You know what I’d do right now if I were there?” he asked suddenly, his voice dipping lower, hesitant.

You paused to consider it, your heart jumping into your throat. “Eat all the snacks I hid from Alexei?”

Joaquín laughed, low and warm. It came out a little breathless, almost shy, and the sound tangled with the butterflies already taking up permanent residence in your stomach.

“No. Well, maybe. But also—” Joaquín hesitated, and the pause stretched long enough to make your pulse race. Then, he barrelled on, “I’d bug you until you agreed to watch the next episode. In person. With popcorn. And you’d make fun of me the whole time, but I wouldn’t even care because you’d be here. Actually here, you know?”

Your lips curved despite yourself. “Sounds annoying.”

“You love it.” He threw your words back at you, smug and playful, but you caught the tiny stumble after love, like he’d almost said too much.

“Maybe a little,” you echoed his earlier response. You rolled onto your side, hugging your pillow like it might stop your heart from thumping straight through your ribs.

“I mean it, though,” Joaquín said, voice stripped of all his usual bravado. “It’s not the same without you here.”

You closed your eyes, wishing you could bottle his voice just as it was in that moment. Hushed, intimate, a little frayed at the edges. You wished you could reach through the line and trace the shape of that smile you knew was lingering.

“Don’t go getting all sentimental on me, Quino,” you managed, trying for lightness even as your chest ached.

“Too late.”

The two words hovered between you, more dangerous than any plot twist on his ridiculous show. You laughed because it was easier than admitting how much his words mattered. Easier than confessing that this—Joaquín’s voice in your ear, the soft cadence of his breath as he got sleepy—felt a lot like falling.

The credits rolled in the background, the show entirely forgotten. The line crackled gently beside you as Joaquín shifted again, probably stretching out like the overgrown golden retriever he was, all long limbs and restless energy.

“You’re gonna keep guessing plot twists next time, aren’t you?” he asked finally.

“Obviously,” you said, overly smug. “Unless the writing suddenly gets less predictable.”

Joaquín groaned. “Why do I put myself through this?”

You grinned. “Because you’d miss me otherwise.”

And though he tried to play it off with a mock-suffering sigh, you could hear the smile in his voice when he said, “Yeah, I would.”

The conference room was supposed to be a place of serious business. Debrief, strategy, updates. Instead, it had become a comedy club where the punchline was you and Bucky.

Everyone was trying, and failing, not to laugh. Shoulders shook. Snorts slipped out. Yelena had her face buried in her hands like she was praying, but her muffled giggles gave her away. John kept letting out little bursts of air through his nose, like an angry bull who couldn’t quite keep it together. Ava had her arms crossed, but her mouth was twitching dangerously at the corners.

And there you were, standing up front with your arms crossed beside Bucky, who looked like a dad dragged to a parent-teacher conference against his will.

“Stop it,” he said finally, gruff and unamused. “This is not funny.”

That did it. The room collapsed. Yelena wheezed, clutching her stomach. Alexei slapped the table. Ava actually let out a laugh, sharp and bright, like she couldn’t contain it anymore. Bob seemed to be holding back best, lips just slightly curved into a smile.

Through her cackles, Yelena managed to get out, “I’m sorry, but it’s hilarious that the tabloids think the two of you are dating!”

That just set everyone off again.

“Oh come on,” Bucky grumbled, glaring at them all.

Ava raised a brow, deadly calm but still clearly amused. “She’s not wrong. You’re literally old enough to be her grandfather.”

“Technically—” John started, but Bucky shot him a withering look that silenced him.

“Even if you go by his biological age,” Ava continued, ignoring him, “you’re still way too old for her. Not impossible, but kind of cradle-robbing.”

You had your arms folded tight. But honestly? Your lips were twitching too. Because you could totally see it.

Valentina had orchestrated the whole thing, of course. She probably thought pairing you and Bucky up in the public eye would soften your reputations or distract from less flattering headlines. So she’d whispered in the right ears, and suddenly three different gossip magazines had sources swearing you’d been together for years.

The articles came complete with a glossy little photo essay. A greatest-hits montage of every vaguely affectionate moment you and Bucky had shared since the Flag Smashers fiasco.

There was one of you walking side by side, shoulders brushing, both of you frowning like you were about to go punch something. The tabloids captioned it as STEELY LOVERS ON A MISSION.

Another was you handing him a sandwich of coffee after a mission. Innocent enough, except the angle made it look like you were gazing at him all adoringly while he took it. LUNCH DATE WITH NEW AVENGERS COUPLE, one magazine cooed, like you were influencers instead of international fugitives-turned-sort-of-heroes.

And then there was the pièce de résistance. The one that had everyone in stitches right now.

A few weeks ago, you and Bucky had ducked into a little coffee shop in disguise. Baseball caps pulled low, heads bent together, doing your best not to draw attention. Somehow, a photographer still caught the exact moment Bucky said something so grouchy that you’d lost it. 

He’d tipped his head back, laughing so hard it looked like joy had cracked him wide open. And you? You were doubled over, one hand braced against his chest, eyes squeezed shut as you giggled.

It was completely platonic. Just a rare, stupidly normal moment between the two of you. But freeze it in time, slap on a raunchy headline, and boom—suddenly you were the New Avengers’ It Couple.

Was it mortifying? Absolutely. Did you understand why the public ate it up? Unfortunately, yes.

“I mean,” Yelena wheezed, wiping her eyes, “you two do look cosy. Look at this one.” She held up her phone, flashing another coffee shop picture across the table like she was presenting evidence in court.

“Jesus Christ,” Bucky muttered under his breath, dragging a hand down his face.

You felt your own cheeks warm, though whether from second-hand embarrassment or the fact that the photo really was ridiculously convincing, you didn’t want to think about it too hard.

“It’s not like that,” you tried to say, but your voice came out too defensive, which only made everyone snicker harder.

Alexei tilted his head, shrugging. “We know this, but the public does not.”

This was what Valentina wanted. She wanted people to buy the story because a little romantic intrigue always sold better than the complicated reality that Sam was insistent the Avengers title didn’t belong to you.

You sighed, slumping in a chair at last. “I hate my life.”

“Tell that to your boyfriend,” Yelena teased, making kissy faces at Bucky.

Bucky groaned audibly this time, and the team dissolved into another round of helpless laughter.

Later that night, your phone buzzed just as Bob declared John’s collard greens were “life-changing” for the third time. John, who was on cooking duty and surprisingly knew what he was doing, was too busy shooing him away from the cornbread batter to notice your quick escape.

You slipped out of the kitchen, phone pressed to your ear before it could ring again. “Hi, Joaquín,” you said, leaning against the wall in the hallway.

“You didn’t tell me you were dating a grandfather,” he said without preamble. His voice was bright, teasing, but you could practically hear the grin through the line.

You groaned, rubbing your forehead with your free hand. “Not you too.”

“Am I supposed to act surprised? The whole internet thinks you’ve been sneaking around with Bucky.” You could hear the faux pout on his face when he said, “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me.”

“Do you want me to hang up right now?” you threatened. “Because I will. Don’t test me, pretty boy.”

Joaquín laughed, high and delighted, like he lived for winding you up. There was something about knowing he could pull a smile from you, even miles away, that made him feel closer to you. “Relax, cariño. He does have that rugged, silver fox thing going on.”

You sighed, dragging the sound out dramatically. “Joaquín.”

“What? It’s a compliment. If I had half that man’s jawline when I’m pushing a hundred, I’d be thrilled.”

Despite yourself, your lips twitched. “Technically he’s not a hundred. He was cryogenically frozen, remember?”

“Feels like it,” Joaquín teased. “Anyway, I’m proud of you. Bagging a war hero? Iconic.”

You let out an exasperated laugh, sliding your back down the wall to sit down. “You’re the worst.”

“And you love me for it,” he declared.

That was the problem. Joaquín said it so casually, like it was just another joke tossed between friends. But your chest tightened all the same.

The laughter faded. Joaquín’s voice lowered, gentler now. “Look, it doesn’t matter what people think. Anyone who actually knows you knows the truth. He’s basically your weird adopted uncle.”

Relief loosened your shoulders. “Thank you. I needed to hear that.”

“Always,” he promised. 

But there was a pause. Joaquín hadn’t meant for the joke to stick in his throat, but it did. Because sure, he knew the rumours were ridiculous. He knew Bucku was family to you, nothing more. 

And yet when the tabloids plastered those photos everywhere, Joaquín couldn’t stop looking. He couldn’t stop picturing a world where they were true, except he was in the coffee shop with you, not Bucky. Joaquín laughing with his head tipped back, your hand pressed against his chest, the whole world catching on camera what he’d wanted for months: that you were his.

Instead, they thought you belonged to someone else.

He’d carried his phone from room to room that day, scrolling past those pictures even though he swore he wouldn’t. Each time his stomach twisted the same way, each time his chest burned with the same ache. He wanted to hack the internet just so he didn’t have to see you leaning toward someone else, even if he knew it wasn’t real.

Joaquín tried to shake it off because that wasn’t fair. You didn’t belong to anyone. But the image dug into him all the same. He hated that it made him jealous. Hated that the distance between you made it worse. 

He hated that he couldn’t reach out and be there. That he couldn’t press his palm to the back of your hand where it curled around the phone, couldn’t feel you laugh against his shoulder instead of hearing it through tinny speaker static.

All Joaquín could do was call, tease, and make you laugh until you sighed and softened. But at the end of the day, you were still hundreds of miles away, and the world was still convinced you were in love with someone else.

“I really do miss you,” you admitted quietly. The words slipped out before you could second-guess them.

On the other end, Joaquín’s breath caught, just for a moment. God, how he wanted to tell you he missed you so much it hollowed him out. That on some nights, he stayed awake replaying every single conversation, every shared joke, every spark of your voice in his memory, because it was the only thing that made the silence bearable.

Then he rallied, light again. “Miss me? Please. You’re probably just jealous no one here makes tamales like I do.”

You laughed, a soft, warm sound. “You don’t even cook.”

“I’d learn. For you, I’d learn.” The words hung there, playful but weighted. You knew Joaquín meant them. 

And on his end, lying back against a hotel pillow in a city that wasn’t home, Joaquín shut his eyes and let himself imagine it. A kitchen, your laugh at his side, a life where you were his. He wanted it so badly he could taste it, and the wanting was its own kind of torture.

He listened to you breathe. He should’ve said goodbye, but every second he didn’t hang up was another second where he could pretend you were close.

“Still there?” you asked, a little tentative.

“Yeah,” Joaquín said. “I just don’t want to hang up yet.”

Your chest pulled tight, something tender and dangerous blooming there. You should’ve teased Joaquín, but you didn’t. You just let it sit between you, honest and unassuming.

Footsteps interrupted the moment. You looked up to see Bucky leaning against the doorway. “Dinner’s ready,” he said, his voice gruff but softer than it usually was when it was just the two of you.

On the line, Joaquín went silent. He’d recognise that voice anywhere.

“Quino?” you prompted gently.

He cleared his throat, covering the hitch with a laugh. “Tell your boyfriend I said hi,” he teased, light and sing-song. Playful enough to pass as a joke. But underneath, you heard the thin crack in it.

You rolled your eyes, though your smile tugged wide. “You’re ridiculous.”

“Yeah,” Joaquín said, but softer this time, like the word was wearing something heavier than humour. “Talk soon, cariño.”

And before you could answer, the line clicked as he hung up.

You were perfectly content that afternoon. Curled up on the sofa with Bob pressed up beside you, his latest book splayed open in his lap. He gasped every few pages as though he hadn’t spoiled half the plot for himself earlier by reading reviews. 

You were scrolling aimlessly through your phone, not really absorbing anything, until the familiar script of Joaquín’s name lit up your screen. Your lips curved before you even tapped the notification.

The photo loaded, and you bit the inside of your cheek. Joaquín. Shirtless, sweaty, muscles catching the light. But instead of sultry intensity, he was grinning like an idiot, hair mussed from a workout, a dimple cutting into one cheek.

QUINO 🪽: bet I can still do more push-ups than sam. place your bets, cariño.

You laughed a little. Only Joaquín Torres could make a post-workout selfie funny and platonic. Except apparently you were wrong about that.

“What is this?” Yelena’s voice landed over your shoulder, dry as ever. She’d just come back from Oregon with John in tow, dirt coating her boots. “Why is Falcon sending you thirst traps?”

Your phone nearly flew out of your hand. “It’s not a thirst trap!”

Bucky, from his armchair across the room, gave a long-suffering sigh and stood. “Nope. Not doing this. I hear that phrase one more time, I’m gone.” True to his word, he disappeared down the hall muttering something about needing quiet.

“Yelena,” you began, but it was too late. 

She was already plucking the phone from your grip with ninja reflexes. “Ohhh,” she drawled, scrolling with deliberate slowness. “Interesting. Very interesting.”

John leaned over. “Lemme see.”

You lunged, but he was faster, bracing one big hand on Yelena’s shoulder as they both peered at your screen like it was evidence in a criminal case.

“Oh my god,” John said, half laughing, half stunned. “He’s obsessed with you. Look at this one! Morning stubble, pillow hair, abs in the background. That’s not friendly, that’s a man playing dirty.”

Heat crept up your neck, pooling in your ears. “No, he’s just— he always looks like that,” you defended your best friend. “He’s… naturally photogenic?”

Yelena snorted. “Photogenic? He’s flexing.” She tapped the screen, enlarging one of the photos. “See? Bicep angle. Classic.”

You flailed. “He’s literally just holding his phone!”

John wagged a finger like a teacher making a point. “Nah. Guys don’t send selfies like this unless they’re flirting. Trust me.”

The words hit harder than you wanted to admit. Joaquín, flirting? With you? Your stomach swooped, butterflies you thought you’d outgrown years ago suddenly alive and thrashing. You tried to smother but your pulse betrayed you, drumming in your throat as image after image passed under Yelena’s ruthless examination.

You caught glimpses of them too. Joaquín, half-asleep. Joaquín pulling a face mid-training session, sweat-dark curls sticking to his forehead. He looked like he was on the cover of Men’s Health in every single picture.

Your mouth went dry. What if they were right?

Bob, who’d been suspiciously quiet, leaned over the sofa. His eyes went wide. “Oh yeah,” he declared without hesitation. “That’s a slutty Florida man who wants you bad.”

The room froze. You, Yelena, and John turned to gape at him.

Bob blinked, then flushed scarlet. “What? He does! Don’t act like I’m wrong.”

You burst out laughing, loud and incredulous, mostly to cover the way your heart had launched itself into your throat. Yelena cackled, clapping Bob on the shoulder while John doubled over, wheezing.

That night, sleep refused to cooperate. You were on your back in the dark. The ceiling was an indistinct blur above you, Joaquín’s selfies branded behind your eyelids like they’d been carved there.

Your teammates’ voices haunted you—especially sweet, unfiltered Bob’s.

You pressed your hands over your eyes, groaning into the darkness. What if they were right? What if those messy, unposed, grinning photos weren’t just Joaquín being Joaquín? What if you’d been too wrapped up in your own denial to notice that he’d been saying it all along without words?

Your stomach dropped just thinking about it, the kind of swoop that made you feel reckless and restless and half-sick with longing. Attraction, plain and simple, except you didn’t have the vocabulary to name it.

So when your phone buzzed across the nightstand, screen lighting up with his name, you didn’t even hesitate. “Quino,” you whispered, answering the phone.

“Cariño,” he answered, warm and teasing, mimicking your tone. “What? You weren’t asleep already, were you?”

“Obviously not. You know I never sleep before two.” You turned on your side and tucked your arm under your pillow. “What’s your excuse?”

“I was thinking about that mission briefing Sam gave earlier,” Joaquín said. “And then I started thinking about you, and— well, here we are.”

Your breath caught. Joaquín said it so casually, but now every word landed like a spark. After what Yelena and John had said, you couldn’t hear it any other way.

The conversation moved forward at its usual pace. Joaquín’s rundown of training drills, your sarcastic commentary about tower drama, but it all felt tilted. Each of his laughs sounded softer, more deliberate. 

When Joaquín told you about racing Sam up the steps of the Lincoln Memorial and losing spectacularly, you pictured the sweat on his chest from that selfie, the sun catching the edge of his grin. When he groaned about a bruised shoulder, you thought about how his biceps had looked, corded and flexed, and wondered how they’d feel if you traced the curve of muscle with your hand.

It was stupid. You knew it was stupid. And yet your chest ached with how much you wanted to believe it wasn’t.

“Are you smiling right now?” Joaquín asked suddenly, his voice suspicious and boyish.

You swallowed hard. “Maybe.”

“Good. I like when you smile.”

Your heart skittered. Joaquín had said things like that before, but never had they felt so heavy. Confirmation bias, you told yourself. Except your body didn’t care about logic. Your body was all butterflies and fire.

The two of you drifted into a softer silence. Joaquín must have been lying down too, because his voice was lower now, the edges fuzzy with sleep.

“You know,” he murmured, “DC isn’t really all that far from New York.”

Your eyes opened, darting toward the ceiling like it could anchor you. “You’re kidding.”

“No, seriously. An hour and a half by plane, less than a half hour by Falcon-wings. If I had a free weekend…” Joaquín trailed off, hopeful in a way that made your chest squeeze.

You pressed the heel of your hand over your heart, like that could steady the gallop. “Valentina would kill me,” you whispered. “Especially now that Bucky and I squashed the dating rumours without permission.”

“I’d take the risk,” Joaquín said easily, without hesitation. “I’m pretty sure I can take her.”

You closed your eyes. “Don’t tempt me. Because I really, really want to see you.”

For a beat, neither of you spoke. Then Joaquín let out a soft laugh, breathless, almost shy. “Careful, cariño,” he said. “I’ll hold you to that.”

And lying there, phone warm against your ear, you almost wished he would.

Some days just conspired against you. Today was one of them.

It started in the morning when Bob, in a burst of affectionate enthusiasm, high-fived you so hard you nearly somersaulted backwards. He looked horrified, apologising six times, but the bruise blooming on your arm didn’t care. You knew he was still getting used to his super-strength, and you weren’t badly hurt, so you didn’t hold it against him.

Then Alexei ate the last of your cereal. He didn’t even seem sorry about it. He just shrugged and said, “It is better fuel for Red Guardian,” as if that excused everything.

The tiny miseries stacked higher as the hours went on. You stubbed your toe on the sofa. Your phone slipped out of your hand and smacked you square in the face when you tried to read lying down. Yelena left a damp towel on your bed after using your shower since you had nicer-smelling shampoo. Even the vending machine betrayed you, spitting out a packet of chips that was so broken up it was basically dust.

By the time night rolled around, you were exhausted in a way that wasn’t physical. Just wrung out, fed up, convinced the universe was laughing at you. You sat hunched on your bed, scrolling through your phone with the distinct energy of someone hoping to be distracted. 

QUINO 🪽: miss you today. there’s a package waiting for you in the quinjet hangar

You blinked at the words, frowning. A package? This late? And why had he written it like some secret spy dead drop? For a moment, you just stared at the message, heart ticking faster without permission.

Curiosity trumped exhaustion. With a sigh, you shoved your feet into slippers and pulled the sleeves of your sweater down over your wrists. The tower was quiet at this hour, the usual noise hushed down to a low hum as everyone relaxed in their rooms.

When you reached the far end of the bar area, you paused, drawn to the wall of glass overlooking the city. New York at night never failed to take your breath away. The whole city pulsed with restless life, and from up here, you could almost believe you were just an observer floating above them.

When you stepped out onto the hangar, the air was sharp and cool against your skin. But you hardly felt it, because there—standing with his wings tucked close, helmet off, green Falcon suit catching the floodlights—was Joaquín.

His head lifted the second you appeared, and his smile lit up brighter than the skyline behind him. Open, radiant, all warmth. Your heart squeezed so tightly you thought it might burst.

You didn’t think. You didn’t worry about who might be watching or what rules you were breaking. You just ran.

By the time you reached him, you were already laughing, already breathless. You launched yourself forward, legs wrapping instinctively around his waist, arms locked behind his neck. His hands caught you without hesitation, steady and sure, like he’d been waiting his whole life for you to throw yourself at him.

“You’re here,” you breathed, words muffled into his shoulder. You didn’t even care that your voice shook. “Hi.”

“Hi,” Joaquín answered, laughing a little, but his arms tightened around you like he wasn’t planning on letting go. “God, I missed you, cariño.”

The admission hit you like a wave. You pressed your face closer, eyes stinging, and whispered back, “I missed you too, Quino.”

For a long moment, neither of you moved. You just held on, greedily soaking up Joaquín’s warmth, the faint smell of soap and jet fuel clinging to him, the steady thrum of his heartbeat beneath his chestplate. Months of phone calls, teasing texts and pixelated video chats melted away. 

Joaquín was here, actually here.

When you finally leaned back, you found his face only inches from yours. His eyes were wide, dark and searching, and you could see every ounce of what he felt written plain across them.

Neither of you spoke, but the tension thrummed between you like it had its own heartbeat. For months, you’d skirted the edge of this moment. Too careful, too uncertain, too far apart. But now, with Joaquín’s hands still firm at your waist and your fingers still curled into his hair, there was no more pretending.

You both leaned in at the same time. The kiss was everything and nothing all at once. Not dramatic, not cinematic, just inevitable. Joaquín’s lips were soft, insistent but devoted, like he’d thought about this a thousand times and still couldn’t quite believe it was real. You sighed into him, the sound swallowed up as he kissed you deeper.

“Took us long enough,” he murmured when you broke apart. Joaquín kept his forehead pressed against yours, breath shaky, grin unstoppable.

You laughed, nudging your nose against his. “Tell me about it.”

You reluctantly unwrapped your legs from around his waist, pressing a few delicate kisses to the corners of Joaquín’s mouth as if trying to memorise every curve. 

He shivered slightly in the night air, but didn’t pull away. Instead, his hands found your hips again, steadying you, and he bent his head, burying his nose just beneath your ear. You felt his warm breath brush against your skin, and then a quick peck at the hollow of your neck made a soft sigh escape you.

You pulled back enough to look at Joaquín, brushing your fingertips lightly over the curve of his jaw, the stubble rough against your skin. His eyes flickered to yours, wide and bright, and for a heartbeat, all you could do was stare. 

It was the kind of look that made you forget words entirely. You swallowed, heart thudding, and led Joaquín towards the Watchtower’s interior. The wind cut through the open hangar, tangling your hair and biting at exposed skin, and even through your sweater, you could feel the chills.

“Come on,” you murmured, tugging him gently along. “It’s freezing.”

Joaquín let himself be led, gawking as you walked through the communal bar and kitchen area. His eyes were wide, taking in the lights, the clutter of mugs and plates, the cosy chaos that was life here. 

“Wow,” he breathed, “this place is… It’s like a spaceship apartment or something. I love it.”

You grinned, feeling that familiar swell of affection that always accompanied his awe. “Yeah. It’s still homey, somehow.” 

You guided him down a couple of hallways, past the living room, and finally to your door. Inside, the air was warmer, the light softer. 

Joaquín paused at the threshold, taking it all in. Shelves lined the walls, filled with novels, a small stack of notebooks splayed on your desk, and a few mementoes from missions and friends. It was you, exactly you, and it hit him visibly.

He stepped forward, eyes scanning your room until they landed on a framed photo. He picked it up gently, cradling it as if it were fragile. It was the two of you from almost a year ago. You’d taken him to one of his rehab sessions and stayed the entire time to offer him some support. The two of you were laughing in a rare, unguarded moment.

“I have this exact picture in my room,” Joaquín said softly, reverently. “It’s… it’s always there, you know? Every time I look at it, I feel like you’re right there with me.”

Your chest warmed in a way that had nothing to do with the heater. 

He turned the photo in his hands, gaze lingering on your face before he met your eyes. “I like having a piece of you near me,” Joaquín murmured. “Even when I can’t actually be with you.”

Something fluttered low in your stomach, deep and insistent. You could feel your pulse in your throat, remembering the soft rise and fall of his chest against yours, the warmth of his body pressing against yours. 

Joaquín stepped closer, just enough to close the distance. “I couldn’t wait to see you,” he said quietly. “I’ve been feeling so homesick, and I just had to see your face.”

You swallowed, nodding, letting yourself lean into him. Your forehead rested against his shoulder, and you could feel every small inhale, every micro-movement of his adjusting just to be closer. You pressed a quick, delicate kiss to his jawline, then his temple, and Joaquín hummed softly. 

You both sank onto the edge of your bed. Joaquín’s grin was wide enough to make your heart ache. 

“I still can’t believe you kissed me back,” he whispered, voice a mix of awe and disbelief. “I mean, you want me the way I want you?”

You rolled your eyes, but your lips twitched into a smile. “You’re dramatic,” you teased softly, brushing a curl from Joaquín’s forehead. “Of course I feel the same way.”

He let out a breathy giggle, head tipping back slightly. It made your chest feel like it could explode. “Wow,” he murmured, voice low, “so I’m not imagining it? You actually, really want me?”

“Maybe,” you said, letting the word dangle teasingly in the air. “Depends on the night. And the lighting.”

Joaquín leaned closer, nudging his forehead against yours. “I’ll take what I can get.” His thumb brushed across your cheek, light and deliberate. “Because I’ve wanted this for months. You don’t even know.”

You swallowed, heart thudding. The truth was, you did know. Or at least, you had known in fragments, tiny flashes of realisation that kept you awake on nights like this one. 

“I’ve wanted it too,” you admitted quietly, voice almost lost in the hush of the room. “Probably for just as long.”

Joaquín’s lips curved into a soft, contented smile, and he leaned in to press a quick kiss to your temple. “You’re a little terrifying,” he said, breath warm against your skin. “Independent, mysterious, and somehow perfect at winding me up and making me feel like I could fly.”

“I’m aware,” you murmured, letting a laugh slip out, low and soft. “You’re not exactly subtle either.”

He leaned back just slightly to look at you, eyes sparkling. “Subtle is boring. You, on the other hand, keep me guessing. It’s amazing.”

“So, do we… admit how badly we both want this?” you asked softly, teasing but earnest.

Joaquín chuckled, a warm, low sound that vibrated through you. “Maybe we should whisper it. Make it official. Even if the whole world can’t know just yet, I’ve been craving you.”

You let the words settle between you and whispered back, “Me too. Badly.”

He nudged your shoulder playfully. “So, now that we’ve officially confessed, does this mean I get to make you watch my TV shows forever?”

You smirked. “You can certainly try. But fair warning, I’ll be spoiling all the predictable plot twists.”

Joaquín leaned in closer. “Oh, yeah?”

“Yeah.”

His grin widened into a smirk. Joaquín leaned in and pressed his lips to yours. Your body reacted before your brain could even register it, arching instinctively into him as he hovered over you, fingers threading through the silky softness of his dark curls.

His hands braced himself on either side of you, sinking into your bed and positioning his knees between your parted legs. Your hands roamed over his shoulders, memorising the feel of him, the slight tension in his muscles from months of holding back the want you both now released.

Joaquín groaned softly, lips brushing against yours again and again, each one leaving fire in its wake. Your heart hammered in your chest, heat pooling low in your stomach as his tongue traced along your lower lip. The push and pull of it all felt at once new and achingly familiar.

Your hands drifted to his back, pressing him down against you. Joaquín’s careful weight was comforting, possessive, and thrilling. Your arms slid up and around his shoulders as your hips shifted, seeking more contact, more of the electric friction that had been building since the moment he’d arrived.

You broke the kiss only to gasp, shivering from the mix of cold air and heat radiating between you. Joaquín’s eyes were dark, glimmering with the same need that made your chest ache. He arched into you as you dragged your mouth across his face and to his neck, leaving gentle, needy kisses, nipping softly in a way that made his knees weaken.

“I’ve wanted this for so long,” Joaquín murmured, breath ragged. He tilted his head to give him more access. “You have no idea.” 

“I think I do,” you replied, grinning as you kissed along his jaw. Your fingers dug into the hard shell of his Falcon suit, tugging him closer as if you could somehow bridge all the months of distance in that single motion.

Joaquín groaned, a low, rough sound that sent shivers straight down your spine. His hands slid from the bed to the small of your back, pressing you into him with an urgency that made your knees shake. You tilted your head back, letting him take the lead, lips and tongue moving against yours.

Every kiss, every press of lips, every soft brush of teeth carried the electric thrill of new territory. You could feel the rapid thrum of Joaquín’s heartbeat against your own, matching your own frantic pulse, and it made your stomach flutter. You tangled your hands in his hair, pulling him closer as his hands wandered over your back, brushing against your sides. 

The taste of him, the faint tang of sweat from the day, only sharpened the sensation, making every inhale, every sigh, send sparks through your body.

Joaquín tilted his head, lips dragging down your jaw. You whispered his name, and he caught it in his mouth, murmuring yours back with a breathy groan. You tested boundaries you hadn’t dared before. Joaquín nipped your neck, and you responded in kind, teeth and lips and whispered moans overlapping in a rhythm all your own. It was messy and perfect.

“Cariño,” he groaned into your neck, voice rough. “I— fuck, I can’t believe this is happening”

“You better believe it,” you breathed back, pressing your lips against his shoulder, tracing the slope of his neck, memorising him again in every way you could.

The sound of the door swinging open didn’t give you time to react. “Hey, do you know why the security system keeps flagging something in the hangar—” Bucky froze at the sight of Joaquín on top of you, still wearing his Falcon suit.

The three of you stared at each other, eyes wide. After a moment, the surprise on Bucky’s face melted into something amused. He stood there, arms crossed, the sheer deadpan of his expression making your stomach flip between mortification and humour.

“I’m too old for this shit,” Bucky said flatly, voice cutting through the haze of heat and adrenaline like a guillotine. He blinked, clearly weighing his life choices.

John’s voice rang out from the hallway. “What’s going—” He gasped in a scandalised tone, opening your bedroom door wider and taking in the image before him. You were below Joaquín, your arms still tangled in his hair, while he had red marks littering his neck and jawline from your efforts.

Ava barreled past John, phone already raised. “Wait! Hold up!” She snapped a picture without a second thought, capturing Joaquín perched on top of you, grin wide, completely unfazed.

Bob shuffled in next. “Finally,” he said quietly, more to himself than anyone else. You shot him an offended look that said you’re just as bad as the others, and he gave a little shrug.

Yelena followed, arms crossed, deadpan as ever. She looked at Joaquín and tilted her head, eyes scanning him like he was a puzzle she’d just solved. “Golden retriever,” she declared, nodding once. “Of course.” Her dry amusement made Joaquín grin sheepishly, and you groaned, covering your face with your hand.

Joaquín, however, didn’t flinch. Lips still swollen, jaw marked with your tender kisses, he stood up and waved at your team. “Hi! I’m Joaquín. Pleasure to finally meet you properly,” he greeted cheerfully, voice bright and undeterred. “I guess you already… uh… know of me?”

Bucky put his face in his palm. He gave a single, exasperated groan from the doorway. “I need a drink,” he muttered.

You sank further into the bed, using your blanket to cover your face as the rest of the team filed out, giggling. Joaquín leaned down slightly. 

“Don’t mind them,” he murmured, pulling the blanket from your head and brushing his lips against yours. “They’ll get used to me eventually.”

“I don’t know if ‘get used to’ is the right phrase,” you whispered back. You peeked up at Joaquín, who was still grinning like a fool. “Well, I guess the secret’s out.”

He leaned in, voice low and teasing. “Just the way I like it.”

[scorpiovelaryon]

i feel like ive missed out on so much in life. i wish i had been born different. there’s so much grief in this feeling

[scorpiovelaryon]

natasha romanoff + captain america's shield

[scorpiovelaryon]

LOKI SERIES / THUNDERBOLTS

[scorpiovelaryon]

you're not alone.

[scorpiovelaryon]

he’s so pretty 🥺

[scorpiovelaryon]

Thunderbolts*

| 𝐘𝐞𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐚 𝐁𝐞𝐥𝐨𝐯𝐚 𝐩𝐭.𝟏

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺

ʟɪᴋᴇ ᴏʀ ʀᴇʙʟᴏɢ ɪꜰ ᴜ sᴀᴠᴇ

ᴅᴏ ɴᴏᴛ ᴄʟᴀɪᴍ ᴍʏ ᴡᴏʀᴋ

≻───── ⋆✩⋆ ─────≺

[scorpiovelaryon]

[scorpiovelaryon]

Bob giving up control of his life to the physical embodiment of his depression and then beating himself up over it and the void just becoming more powerful as a result is such a perfect metaphor. like yeah, that's exactly how it is, you can't beat depression with self-loathing, you need support and purpose and the people you love and loves you. they pulled it off beautifully

[scorpiovelaryon]

music has healing properties nothing else on this earth has

[scorpiovelaryon]