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jungkoode · 3 months ago

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𝐅𝐔𝐂𝐊 𝐌𝐄 𝐔𝐏 | 18

˗ˏˋ on your kneesˎˊ˗

"He didn't picture himself ever begging for pussy... but alas, here he is."

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⋆｡°✩ chapter details ✩°｡⋆

word count: 8,7k

content: wet sloppy kissing, jungkook being too horny for his own good, vibrator usage, masturbation (f), jerking off while eating kitty (idk what possessed me but i had to), vanilla kink (are we surprised), begging, slight praise kink, comfort, endearing moments, these two being stupid as always, post-orgasm sharing bed (yeah sleeping together), thinking about maybes.

✧ author's note ✧

LISTEN. You’re so lucky I have multiple FMU chapters backlogged right now, because if I didn’t? I would have thrown an actual tantrum, declared a two-week hermit arc, and told you all to fuck off while I moved to the mountains. BUT. Thankfully, I’ve written up to around Chapter 23-ish and just need to edit, so you can all calm the hell down.

First of all, no—I still haven’t updated the update post, because I’ve been too busy prepping this chapter for release. I’ve had zero time to sit and ponder. That said, the only valid suggestion I’ve gotten so far is to keep the Tumblr note goal but ALSO require the Wattpad goal to be hit—so that’s what we’re trying this time around.

Also—BIG ANNOUNCEMENT—we now have an official Kiki Nation Community on Tumblr (yay!). That’s where you little gremlins can finally scream together in one place, throw theories at each other, and insult Jungkook and Nix in a safe, protected space. (Mainly Jungkook. Because he’s a man. And this is a matriarchy. HUSH.)

So please check it out! Join, comment under the official Chapter 18 discussion post, and if you feel inspired to make a meme or TikTok or post your spiral—DO IT. If it makes me laugh, I will absolutely reblog it.

NOW. About this chapter.

BAHAHA. Okay. First of all—I am so proud of the kiss. I wanted it to be sloppy and wet and messy and borderline excessive, and I think I delivered. It’s so long. I really put my whole kikussy into it.

And of course… it was time. The vibrator had to make its appearance. It’s literally law. I don’t make the rules (but I do).

Also: Rogue begging. crawling. STILETTOS. Why did I like this chapter so much. It was delicious. I love sexually down bad men. Wait until he’s romantically down bad. It’s going to be so satisfying. Trust me.

And the ending?? Made me soft. Actual progress?? Kind of??? They’re still filthy, but they’re also edging toward something stupidly endearing and I hate how much I love that. The way this story is progressing is so slow-burn it makes my bones hurt, but I��m obsessed with it. We are maybe… possibly… inching toward friendship territory. MAYBE.

I’m really looking forward to the next chapters—soon, we’ll meet a new LI on Jungkook’s side (YES!). Things are gonna get messy (eventually). Reminder: they have zero romantic feelings right now. ZERO. What you’re seeing is just… subconscious tension, subtle shifts. We’re nowhere near falling.

So please. I beg you. If I start getting asks about them being in love, I will throw my laptop out the window and revoke my dictatorship. Don’t test me.

Enjoy the chaos. Let me know how hard you spiraled. Love you forever.

OH. I said it before but I will say it again. This chapter is entirely based on the song "get on your knees" by Ariana Grande and Nicki Minaj so. Do with that what you will. Listen to it. Enjoy.

⋆｡°✩ read on✩°｡⋆

ao3

wattpad

His kiss tastes like four days of wanting.

Your back hits the wall as his mouth crashes into yours—not gentle, not careful, just hungry. Like he's been starving for the taste of you since Tuesday.

His tongue traces the seam of your lips, a question that isn't really a question at all, because you both know how this ends. You part your lips anyway, granting him access because denying him feels like denying yourself.

His hand comes to rest on your neck, thumb pressing lightly against your pulse point. It's a strange, suspended gesture—like he can't decide whether to pull you closer or hold you exactly where you are. The indecision is so unlike him that it makes your stomach flip.

Then his tongue flattens against yours, and any thoughts of indecision evaporate. He's not kissing you so much as he's tasting you, licking your flavor directly from the source. The sensation is filthy and intimate as his other hand comes to your cheek, fingers splaying across your skin, holding you in place for his exploration.

"Fuck," he breathes against your mouth, the word more vibration than sound. "Missed this."

Not you. This.

The distinction matters, even as his tongue circles yours in a slow, deliberate drag that makes your knees weak. He's coating himself with your saliva, savoring you like you're some expensive whiskey he's been saving for a special occasion.

You should probably be grossed out by how wet this kiss is, by how thoroughly he's claiming your mouth.

Instead, you find yourself pressing closer, fingers curling into the fabric of his shirt.

Because this is what you've been missing too—not him, not really, but this. The way he makes your body respond without even trying. The way he kisses like he's trying to memorize the taste of you.

And then his lips close over yours—soft but firm—like finishing the kiss just to start it all over again. Chained kisses. One bleeding into the next, seamless and endless.

You follow him because how could you not? The way he kisses—it’s not just skill; it’s instinct. Like he knows exactly what to do to keep you hooked, alternating between tongue and lips so perfectly that you never get tired of either.

Not that you could ever tire of him.

You’re pretty sure you could never erase the way he kisses—or fucks—from your mind even if you wanted to.

Maybe it’s him knowing what he’s doing. Or maybe it’s just the two of you—two mismatched pieces of completely different puzzles that somehow fit together anyway.

Just like your mouths do now.

Just like when your tongue darts out to lick at his lower lip in a kitten lick that has him hitching against you, a small, desperate sound escaping his throat. His hips stutter against yours like his body is telling you to stop messing around and get your tongue back inside his mouth where it belongs.

So you do.

You push forward, tongue meeting his again in a slick slide that has him groaning into your mouth. Then you close your lips to transition into another kiss and he follows, tongues forgotten for three, four open-mouthed kisses before he’s lost patience.

He moves his tongue against yours, seeking more, always more. Because when it comes to you, Jungkook is just this eager.

But this time you catch it. Suck it into your mouth in a soft suction that makes him freeze for half a second before his hand tightens on your neck.

And the sound he makes?

Undiluted filth.

It spurs you on.

You suck harder, dragging your lips down his tongue before releasing him with a soft pop that leaves both of you panting against each other’s mouths. He doesn’t let the pause last long—doesn’t let you last long—and dives back in with a hunger that feels less like kissing and more like consuming.

Tongues forgotten for other five or six kisses as his lips move against yours with bruising intensity—open-mouthed and messy—but he easily grows impatient and his tongue is soon back, sliding against yours like he wants it there.

You catch it once more—suck it again—and the way his hips jerk against yours tells you everything you need to know about how much he likes it.

Filthy sounds fill the space between you: wet kisses, soft moans, the occasional hitch in his breath when you do something particularly good with your tongue.

And when his teeth graze your lower lip before pulling back just enough to look at you?

You realize there’s no winning here—not for either of you—because this isn’t about who takes control or who gives in first.

It’s about this. About mouths fitting together perfectly even though nothing else about this situation should make sense. About tongues sliding together and lips bruising from too much pressure but neither of you caring because fuck—it feels good.

It feels better than good.

It feels addictive.

Your back hits the table near the entryway, and honestly? You never thought a piece of furniture could be an accomplice in your bad decisions, but here you are. Pressed against the entryway table. The one that holds your keys, Yoongi's forgotten mail, and now, apparently, your dignity.

Jungkook hasn't stopped kissing you—not for air, not for sanity, not for anything resembling common sense. It's like he's on a mission to consume you entirely, starting with your mouth and working his way through the rest of you.

These are not the kisses you exchange with people you tolerate. These are not even the kisses you exchange with people you like. These are the kisses of people who might actually hate each other but have found a much more interesting way to express it.

Your lower back presses against the edge. Hard wood digs into soft flesh, and you're about to complain when—

Fuck.

He lifts you. One hand. One fucking hand curves under your ass and hoists you onto the table like you weigh nothing, while his other plants itself firmly on the wood beside your hip. The display of casual strength makes something molten pool in your stomach.

Unfair. Completely unfair how stupidly hot he makes stupid things look. Lifting you shouldn't be attractive. It's basic physics, not foreplay. But your brain has apparently liquefied, pouring out your ears while he steals the oxygen straight from your lungs.

"Fuck, Nix," he mutters against your mouth, the words more vibration than sound. "Been thinking about this for days."

His mouth is relentless—wet, demanding, precise in a way that makes your toes curl in your shoes. He sucks your lower lip between his teeth and—god—applies just enough pressure to sting, like he's trying to extract something essential from you. Like he needs to squeeze you dry, drain you of whatever it is that keeps him coming back.

Didn't even know your bottom lip was an erogenous zone until Jungkook decided it was.

It's too much. The heat, the closeness, the way he seems to have forgotten where you are, who you are.

You push against his chest—not hard, just enough to create a sliver of space between your bodies.

"Jesus Christ," you gasp, chest heaving. "Let me breathe, you animal."

He grins at that—a scorching, self-satisfied smile that makes you want to either slap him or pull him back in.

Maybe both.

He bites his lower lip, swollen from your kisses, and immediately leans back in like your need for oxygen is a minor inconvenience to his plans.

Your palm against his chest stops him, firm this time.

"Wait," you say, voice rough.

Not because you want to stop—god no—but because your brain is finally catching up to your body. And there's something you want. Something specific.

His eyes find yours, dark and questioning. Patient, despite the hunger radiating off him in waves. He's holding himself back, you realize. Letting you dictate what happens next.

Your eyes drop, hair falling across your face as you gather your thoughts, your courage. When you look back up at him through your lashes, his breath catches audibly.

"Bring me the vibrator you chose for me."

His reaction? Pretty funny. Like watching a computer crash and reboot. His entire body goes still—processing, processing—then his eyes widen a fraction. He blinks once, twice, tension visible in the way his jaw ticks.

"What?" he asks, voice cracking slightly.

Something about his reaction makes hot satisfaction curl through you. You like throwing him off balance. Like matching his chaos with your own.

"The vibrator," you repeat, slower this time, savoring each syllable. "The one you picked out. Go get it."

His eyes dart toward your bedroom door, then back to your face. For a moment, you think he might refuse. Might challenge you. But then:

"Yeah," he nods jerkily, already stepping back. "Yeah, I will."

"Will you?" you press, because you can't help it. Because you like the way his pupils dilate when you push.

"Fuck yeah," he breathes, already moving toward your bedroom with a kind of urgent, stumbling grace that would be comical if it weren't so hot.

You watch him go, breathing still uneven, lips still tingling.

And you think—not for the first time—that there's something dangerously addictive about the way Jungkook responds to you. The way he matches your energy, then amplifies it, reflecting it back at you until you're both caught in some kind of feedback loop of bad ideas and worse self-control.

Roommates with benefits, you remind yourself. That's all this is.

But as you hear him rummaging through your things, drawers opening and closing with increasing urgency, you can't help but wonder if "benefits" is too mild a word for whatever the fuck is happening between you two.

He sprints.

Jungkook doesn't walk to your room—he fucking jogs, like the vibrator might disappear if he doesn't get there fast enough.

Like this moment has an expiration date he can't afford to miss.

No shame. Not a single ounce of it as he bursts through your door, scanning the bedroom impatiently. The same room he's been in a couple of times, but never with this specific mission, never with this frantic energy coursing through his veins.

Where the fuck would a girl keep her vibrator?

No. Not a girl. You. Where would you hide it?

Under the pillow?

He lifts the edge of your pillowcase, peeks beneath it. Nothing. Definitely not there—you like sleeping too much, and having a hard plastic toy jabbing into your cheek all night would be uncomfortable as hell. You're smarter than that.

The wardrobe?

He eyes the wooden doors across the room, considering.

No way. Too far from the bed. You're too practical for that kind of inconvenience. If you wanted to get off, you wouldn't want to climb out of bed and trek across the room.

His eyes land on the nightstand. Bingo.

The drawer slides open with a soft sound. First thing he sees: a messy stack of panties, some lacy, some cotton, all of them instantly triggering mental images he doesn't have time for right now.

He fights—really fights—against the urge to pick one up. To feel the fabric between his fingers, to imagine it hugging the curves he's already memorized with his hands, his mouth. Maybe even bring one to his nose...

Focus, dickhead.

Pushing the underwear aside (what? sue him for wanting to fuel his imagination), his fingers brush against something solid. Hard plastic. Smooth curves.

There it is.

He pulls it out, a triumphant grin spreading across his face as he examines his find. It's exactly as he remembers from the store—sleek, purple, designed for both internal and external stimulation.

Still in its original packaging, which means you haven't used it yet.

Something jittery and hot coils in his stomach at the thought of being the first to see you use it.

He grips it tighter, already imagining what it'll look like pressed against you, already wondering if you'll let him control it or if you'll insist on doing it yourself.

Either way, he's about to witness something fucking spectacular, and his body knows it. His cock strains painfully against his jeans as he heads back to you.

He takes a deep breath before rounding the corner from the hallway.

Tries to center himself, to cool down just a little.

To not look as desperate as he feels.

But then—

Fuck.

The vibrator nearly slips from his suddenly sweaty palm.

You're naked on the table. Completely, gloriously naked except for those high heels that make your legs look like they go on for fucking miles. The dress is gone—discarded somewhere on the floor—and your panties dangle precariously from one ankle like an afterthought.

One leg bent at the knee, heel resting lazily on the wooden surface. The other straight up, creating a perfect right angle that showcases everything he's been craving since the moment he walked through the front door.

And your hand—Christ—your hand is between your thighs, fingers drawing lazy circles over your clit.

His eyes stutter back to one thing though.

The heels.

What is it about the fucking heels?

He's never particularly cared about shoes before, but something about the way they elongate your legs, the way they make your calves flex, the dangerous point of those stilettos against the wooden table-it's doing something to him. Something unexpected and intense.

He nearly stumbles. Actually has to catch himself on the wall because his knees go weak at the sight of you touching yourself, waiting for him, spread open on the goddamn entryway table like the world's most perfect welcome home gift.

His grip on the vibrator tightens until his knuckles go white. He forces his face into something resembling control—a smirk, he hopes, though it feels more like a grimace of restraint.

"Needed it that badly?" he manages, trying to sound casual and cool, though he guesses he fails spectacularly at that.

Your eyes meet his, challenging. "Didn't you?"

The question catches him off guard, but he doesn't falter. Not much, anyway. Just a slight hitch in his breathing that he hopes you didn't notice.

"Yeah," he admits, the word barely audible. Then, louder: "Yeah, I did."

He starts walking toward you, vibrator clutched in his hand, but you stop him with a single raised palm. The universal sign for wait.

"Crawl to me."

His feet halt. He opens his mouth. Closes it.

What?

"What?" he asks, not sure he heard correctly.

"You heard me." Your fingers never stop their gentle circles. "Crawl."

He doesn't know why he does it. Doesn't pause to analyze why the command sends a jolt of electricity straight to his cock.

He just... does it.

Drops to his knees, then to all fours, the vibrator still clutched in one hand.

Maybe it's the novelty—you taking control like this when usually he's the one calling the shots.

Maybe it's the way your eyes darken as you watch him approach, like seeing him on his knees for you is doing something for you too.

Or maybe—most likely—it's just the promise of getting his head between those fucking glorious thighs again.

Whatever the reason, he crawls to you across the hardwood floor, too turned on to care about how it looks, too desperate to worry about his dignity. All he can think about is how wet you'll be, how good you'll taste, how he wants to make you come on his tongue before introducing the vibrator.

He's almost there—close enough to smell you, close enough that if he stretched forward just a bit, he could press his mouth to your inner thigh—when the sharp heel of your stiletto plants firmly against his forehead.

The pressure isn't hard enough to hurt, just enough to stop his forward momentum. To keep him back.

He looks up at you, disbelief warring with arousal.

Surely you're joking?

There's no way you're genuinely stopping him when he's this close, when you're this wet, when everything about this moment has been building toward his mouth on you.

Right?

"The vibrator," you say, extending your hand, heel still pressed lightly to his skin. "Give it to me."

His throat works as he swallows, suddenly parched. "Don't you want me to—"

"The vibrator, Ro."

The nickname, combined with the firm tone, makes his cock make a mating dance against the zipper of his jeans. He places the toy in your outstretched hand, watches as you examine it with curious eyes.

You turn it over in your palm, studying it like it's a puzzle to solve. Your brow furrows slightly as you locate the power button, press it experimentally, and soon enough its low hum fills the space as the toy comes to life, vibrating gently in your hand.

"I've never used one before," you admit, and he already knew.

You told him that much before buying it.

Nonetheless, the idea that he gets to witness this first for you—it does something to him.

Makes him feel special in a way he has no right to feel.

"Let me help," he offers, voice strained. "I can show you how—"

"I think I can figure it out," you interrupt, but there's uncertainty in your eyes as you look at the different buttons, the various settings.

Fuck, you're adorable. Even spread-eagle on a table with a vibrator in your hand, there's something so endearing about your determination to figure this out on your own.

He watches, mesmerized, as you press another button. The vibration intensifies, making you jump slightly at the change. Your finger slips, pressing yet another button, and suddenly the toy is pulsing in a rhythm that has him imagining it pressed against you, imagining your reaction to that particular pattern.

He can't take it.

"Here," he says, reaching up, a bit desperate, a tad impatient. "May I?"

After a moment's hesitation, you nod, removing your heel from his forehead and allowing him to rise up on his knees. He takes the vibrator from you, quickly familiarizing himself with the controls.

"This button cycles through the patterns," he explains, demonstrating as the toy shifts from steady vibration to pulsing to waves. "And this one controls the intensity."

He presses it, the vibration becoming stronger under his thumb.

"Start low and work your way up."

He hands it back to you, then you glare at him and okay, he immediately settles back on his heels, waiting. Watching. Fucking aching to see what you do next.

You take the toy, reset it to the lowest steady vibration, and then—God help him—you bring it to your breast first. Circle your nipple with it, eyes fluttering closed at the sensation.

"Fuck," he breathes, the word barely audible over the hum of the vibrator.

He shifts on his knees, trying to adjust himself without being too obvious about it. His jeans have become a torture device, constricting him painfully as he watches you explore.

The vibrator trails down your stomach, leaving goosebumps in its wake. He can see them form on your skin, can see the way your muscles tense in anticipation as the toy moves lower, lower—

And then it's there, pressed against your clit, and the sound you make—a soft, surprised gasp followed by a deeper moan—nearly ends him.

"Good?" he asks, voice wrecked.

You nod, eyes still closed, hips already starting to move against the vibration. "Good. Really good."

He leans forward instinctively, mouth watering at the sight of you pleasuring yourself. He wants to taste you, wants to feel the vibrations against his tongue as he licks around the toy.

Wants to be part of this moment in a way that's more than just watching.

But as he moves closer, your eyes snap open, fixing him with a look that stops him cold.

You extend your leg, the one that was dangling off the table, pressing the point of your stiletto against his chest this time.

"Just watch," you command, voice breathy but firm.

He blinks, sure he's misheard. "What?"

"I said watch." You adjust the vibrator slightly, finding a better angle that makes your breath hitch, toe of your shoe pressing more firmly against his sternum. "Don't touch. Just... watch me."

Is he dreaming? Having some kind of bizarre hallucination? There's no way you're asking him to just sit here while you get yourself off right in front of him.

No fucking way.

"You're joking," he says, but the steady look in your eyes tells him you're not. "Nix, come on. You can't expect me to—"

"I can," you interrupt, increasing the vibration intensity with a press of your thumb. The change makes you gasp, hips lifting slightly off the table. "And I do."

He blinks, eyebrows tugging upwards in a cross motion. "Do you want me to bust untouched? Is that it? Because that's cruel, even for you."

A smile curves your lips, mischievous and knowing. "Maybe I just want to see if you can behave for once."

"I behave," he protests, even as his eyes remain fixed on the vibrator, on the way it glides through your wetness, on how your thighs have started to tremble already.

On those fucking shoes that, for some inexplicable reason, are making this whole situation at least ten times hotter.

"Prove it," you challenge, and fuck—he's never been able to resist a challenge from you.

Never really been able to back down when you push him like this.

So he stays where he is, on his knees, hands fisted at his sides, watching as you explore the toy, as you find what feels good, as you experiment with different patterns and pressures. Your foot still rests against his chest, not pushing him away now, just... there.

A point of contact that feels both like ambrosia and agony.

It's torture. Beautiful, exquisite torture to be this close and not touch you. To smell your arousal and not taste it. To hear your moans growing louder and know he's not the direct cause.

But it's also—strangely, unexpectedly—one of the hottest things he's ever witnessed.

Because you're not performing for him. You're genuinely discovering what you like, what makes you feel good. And there's something incredibly intimate about being allowed to witness that, about being trusted enough to see you this vulnerable, this real.

"That's it," he encourages as your movements become more focused, as you settle into a rhythm with the vibrator that has your breathing turning shallow. "Just like that. You look so fucking good, Nix."

Your eyes meet his, heavy-lidded but alert, and for a moment, he can’t help but stare back.

Then you close your eyes again, lost in the sensation as the vibrator buzzes steadily against your clit. Your free hand comes up to your breast, pinching your nipple in time with the pulsations of the toy, and he groans at the sight.

Your foot presses harder against his chest, whether intentionally or as an unconscious reaction to your growing pleasure, he doesn't know.

Doesn't care.

"Cruel," he mutters, because he needs to at least let you know. “You're fucking cruel, you know that?"

His eyes are fixed on your pussy like it's the only thing in the universe worth looking at. Maybe it is. The way you're working that vibrator against yourself, the little circular motions, the way your hips lift occasionally when you hit just the right spot—it's driving him fucking insane.

His dick is so hard it hurts at this point, and he thinks it's going to start a mutiny. He shifts his weight, trying to get some relief, but it only makes things worse. His forehead thumps against the corner of the table in frustrated surrender.

"God fucking hell," he groans, the wood cool against his skin. "Nix, I need to lick you. Please. Just—let me taste you."

You look down at him, eyes heavy-lidded but gleaming with amusement. Your stiletto traces a path down his chest, and when it reaches his stomach, you press slightly, the point digging into the muscle there.

A warning.

A tease.

He's not sure which, but it makes his cock throb painfully either way.

"What was that?" you ask, lifting the vibrator just enough that he can see how wet you are, how your pussy glistens in the low light. "I didn't quite hear you."

Fucking tease. Fucking gorgeous, evil tease.

"I said I need to lick you," he repeats, louder this time, pride completely abandoned. "Let me put my mouth on you. Let me make you feel good."

You pretend to consider it, tilting your head like you're weighing your options. Meanwhile, he's about to combust from the inside out.

"I don't know," you muse, trailing the vibrator up to circle around your clit, making yourself gasp. "I'm doing pretty well on my own, don't you think?"

Your stiletto moves again, tracing along the inside of his thigh. He tenses, breath catching as it moves higher, closer to the straining bulge in his jeans.

“Phee,” he bites back a groan. "You're doing amazing. Fucking incredible. But I can make it better. You know I can."

"Hmm." You press the vibrator directly against your clit again, eyes fluttering closed for a moment before fixing back on him. "Maybe if you ask nicely."

Is this really happening? Are you really making him beg? His cock twitches at the thought, answering that question with an emphatic yes.

He swallows, throat dry.

"Please," he says, voice rough. "Please let me help."

The word lies suspended between you.

Please. Such a simple word, but one he doesn't use often—not like this, not with this much raw need behind it.

Your eyes widen slightly, like you weren't expecting him to actually do it. To actually beg. But then a slow smile spreads across your face, and you nod.

"Since you asked so nicely," you say. "Go ahead."

He doesn't need to be told twice. He surges forward, hands gripping your thighs, spreading them wider as he buries his face against you.

The first swipe of his tongue makes you both moan—you from the sensation, him from finally, finally getting to taste you.

You taste amazing.

Like always.

Like something he could get addicted to if he's not careful.

"Fuck," he groans against you, the word vibrating against your sensitive flesh. "So fucking good."

He could honestly cum like this. Right now. Just from the taste of you on his tongue, from the way your thighs tense around his head, from the little gasps you make.

He knows he's got blue balls at this point. Knows his cock is probably leaking precum into his boxers, making a mess he'll have to deal with later. But he doesn't really care.

Until you kind of make him care.

"Jerk off."

He freezes, tongue mid-lick.

Did he hear that right?

Looking up at you, genuinely confused, he asks, "What?"

Your answer is a knowing smile and a slight increase in pressure as the heel traces the outline of his cock through the denim. Not enough to hurt, just enough to make him incredibly aware of how hard he is.

"I want you to get yourself off while you eat me out, Ro."

Jesus Christ.

When did you get so fucking bossy? And why is it turning him on so much?

"Yeah," he says, almost to himself, fumbling with his zipper. "Yeah, okay, absolutely I can do that."

His hands shake slightly as he undoes his jeans, shoving them and his boxers down just enough to free his cock. It springs up against his stomach, hard and flushed and so sensitive that even the brush of air against it makes him hiss.

"Shit," he warns, wrapping a hand around himself, already knowing this isn't going to last long. "Just a heads up, but this might be embarrassingly short."

You laugh, the sound turning into a gasp as he dives back in. Your leg dangles over his shoulder now, heel pressing slightly against his back.

"That's okay," you manage to say between breaths. "I'm pretty close too."

Thank fuck for that. Because the moment his hand starts moving on his cock, he knows he's on borrowed time.

The vibrator hasn't stopped. That's the thing that's driving him absolutely fucking insane. You've got it pressed right against your clit, humming on its lowest setting while he licks at your lips, tasting every inch of you except the one spot you're keeping for yourself.

It's maddening.

It's genius.

It's the hottest thing he's ever experienced.

His tongue traces your entrance, dipping just slightly inside before retreating to lick broad strokes along your folds. He's taking his time despite his own desperation, despite the way his hand is working his cock at a steady, measured pace.

Because he wants this to last, wants to savor the privilege of having his face between your thighs while you take your pleasure so confidently.

"More," you breathe above him, and he's not sure if you're talking to him or yourself.

But then your fingers move, pressing a button on the vibrator, and the hum intensifies. The sound changes pitch, grows deeper, more insistent. Your hips jerk in response, a gasp falling from your lips that sends blood rushing to his already throbbing cock.

His fist tightens instinctively, pace quickening to match the vibrator's new rhythm. It's like his body is syncing with the toy, with your pleasure, his own arousal tied directly to yours.

"Fuck, Nix," he groans against you, the words muffled but still audible. "You're so fucking wet. So fuckin’ good, I swear—I swear I could do this for hours.”

“But you won’t last hours,” you tease, rolling your hips against his face. “Will you?”

He shakes his head, not even bothering to deny it. Not when his balls are already drawing up tight, not when each stroke of his hand brings him closer to the edge.

“Nngh—no,” he admits, the word punctuated by a particularly firm stroke that has his hips bucking into his fist. “Not gonna—ah—not gonna last long at all.”

Because the truth is, he’s dizzy with it—your taste, your scent, the sounds you're making above him. It's overwhelming in the best possible way, a sensory overload that makes his cock pulse in his grip, precome slicking the way as his fist moves faster, more urgently.

You shift the vibrator slightly, angling it for better contact, and your free hand finds his hair. Fingers tangle in the strands, not quite pulling but definitely directing, holding him exactly where you want him.

"Inside," you command, voice breathless but clear. "I want your tongue inside me."

He doesn't hesitate. Doesn't even think. Just obeys, tongue pushing past your entrance, delving into the wet heat of you while the vibrator continues its relentless assault on your clit.

The angle is awkward, his neck craned to accommodate both the toy and his mouth, but he doesn't care.

Can't care about anything beyond the way you clench around his tongue, the way your thighs tremble against his cheeks, the way your grip tightens in his hair.

His cock throbs in his hand, so sensitive now that each stroke sends sparks shooting up his spine, and fuck he's close—so fucking close—but he's determined to make you come first. Wants to feel you pulsing around his tongue, wants to experience every tremor of your orgasm firsthand.

Above him, your breathing has grown ragged; little gasps and moans that tell him you're getting close too.

"Don't stop," you gasp, basically riding his face at this point. "God, don't stop."

As if he would.

As if he could tear himself away from this even if the building were on fire.

Your thighs start to shake in earnest now, little tremors that grow stronger by the second. The hand in his hair clenches, your stiletto digs into his back, the pressure increasing as your body tenses, and now he just knows; knows how close you are to the edge.

It makes his strokes faster, more desperate.

“Shit,” he gasps, pulling back for air. “Fuck, I’m gonna—”

“Don’t stop,” you command, lost in a whine. “Don’t you dare stop.”

And he feels it the moment you start to come—the way your inner walls flutter around his tongue, the sudden flood of wetness, the sharp cry that tears from your throat. His name, maybe. Or just a sound of pure pleasure. He's too far gone to tell the difference.

But it doesn't matter. What matters is that you're coming on his tongue, coming while he tastes you, while the vibrator buzzes against your clit, while his cock throbs in his hand, so close to his own release that he can feel it building at the base of his spine.

He pushes his tongue deeper, wanting to feel every pulse, every contraction of your orgasm. The vibrator keeps buzzing, prolonging the sensation, pushing you higher and higher until your hand finally yanks at his hair, pulling him back when it becomes too much.

"Fuck," you gasp, voice wrecked, vibrator still humming in your grip though you've pulled it away from your oversensitive clit. "Fuck, Ro."

The sound of his nickname—that stupid nickname you’ve given him—paired with the sight of you flushed and trembling from an orgasm he helped create, is what does it. What finally pushes him over the edge.

His release hits him then, stealing his breath as his cock pulses in his hand, spilling onto the hardwood floor in hot spurts that seem to go on forever.

He groans against your thigh, face pressed into the soft skin there as his hips jerk, chasing the last waves of pleasure.

“Ffff—shit,” he slurs as he strokes himself through the aftershocks. “Holy sssh—oh—fuck… Ahhh.”

For a moment, there's nothing but the sound of breathing, harsh and uneven. The vibrator still hums softly, forgotten in your hand until you fumble for the off button, plunging them into sudden silence.

Jungkook rests his forehead against your thigh, trying to catch his breath, trying to remember how to form coherent thoughts.

His hand is sticky, his knees ache from the hardwood floor, his back tingles from the trail your heel left across it, and he’s pretty sure he’ll never be able to look at the entryway table the same way again.

But fuck if it wasn't worth it.

He pulls back, gasping for breath, his hand still loosely gripping his spent cock. He probably looks a mess—hair wild from your hands, face shiny with your wetness, expression dazed and satisfied.

"Christ," he breathes, looking up at you with something close to awe.

"Yeah," you agree, equally breathless.

A moment passes where you just look at each other, both trying to process what just happened. Then, because he's Jungkook and he can't help himself, he grins.

"So," he says, wiping his mouth with the back of his clean hand. "I guess you like the vibrator I picked, huh?"

You roll your eyes, but there's no real annoyance there. Just a kind of fond exasperation that makes his chest feel weird and tight.

"It's alright," you say, casual as anything, like you weren't just having what looked like the most intense orgasm of your life. "Could've been better."

He laughs, full and genuine. "Liar."

Your lips twitch, fighting a smile. "Maybe."

He sits back on his heels, suddenly aware of the mess he's made on the floor. "We should, uh, probably clean up before Yoongi gets home."

You nod, both legs dangling off the table. “Wouldn’t want to scandalize him.”

"He's seen worse," Jungkook says without thinking, then flinches. "I mean—not with me. Just, you know, in general. Living with roommates and all."

You give him a look that's equal parts amusement and skepticism. "Right."

Awkward silence falls as the reality of what just happened settles in, because this? Yeah, it was sex. But this time you took control, you made him beg, you saw him at his most desperate and needy.

And he... liked it. More than he probably should have.

"So," he says, tucking himself back into his jeans with as much dignity as possible. "That was fun."

You snort. "Such a way with words, Ro."

"What can I say? I'm a poet."

He gathers the dress from the floor and gives it to you. You throw the dress at his head, but you're laughing, and he thinks—not for the first time—that he likes that sound. Likes being the cause of it.

He doesn’t analyze it further than needs to be.

He catches the dress, handing it back to you with exaggerated chivalry. "Your garment, m'lady."

"You're an idiot," you say, but there's no bite to it. Just that weird, fond tone that makes his stomach do strange things.

Fully on both legs now, he places both his arms between your spread thighs, his face hovering close to yours, tilting to the side.

"Yeah," he agrees, because sometimes the simplest truth is the easiest to admit. "But I'm an idiot who makes you cum really fucking hard, so..."

And there it is—that flash in your eyes, that hint of heat that never seems to fully dissipate between you two.

"Don't get cocky," you warn.

Too late, he thinks. Way too late for that.

He stands there with the taste of you still on his lips and he can't help but feel satisfied.

Good.

“Does this mean we’re not fighting anymore?”

You laugh, the sound bright and genuine in the quiet room. “I guess not.”

“Good. Because that was a fucking stupid fight anyway.”

“It was,” you agree. “But the makeup sex was worth it.”

“Always is with us.”

And that’s the truth of it, isn’t it? No matter how much you argue, no matter how much you drive each other crazy, this thing between you—this chemistry, this connection—always brings you back together.

No strings attached, just pure, perfect understanding of what the other needs.

It’s not love. It’s not even like, most days. But it’s something.

Something that works for both of you.

And then, Jungkook feels your forehead press against his shoulder, which catches him off guard. Not because it’s heavy or anything—it’s not—but because it’s you.

You, who usually keeps your distance unless you're actively trying to rile him up. You, who just made him beg on his knees like some desperate idiot a few minutes ago.

And now you’re here, leaning into him like this is normal. Like this is fine.

It’s... nice. He hates that it’s nice.

His lips twitch upward despite himself, a soft smile breaking through the lingering haze of post-orgasmic bliss. His hand moves before he can think better of it, sliding up your back in a slow, deliberate stroke. His palm presses lightly between your shoulder blades, fingers splaying out as he rubs soothing circles into your skin.

Your back is warm under his touch—soft in places, firm in others—and he thinks about how strange it is that he knows what you feel like now. Not just your skin but the way you move under his hands, the way your muscles tense and relax depending on what he’s doing to you.

It’s intimate in a way that makes something uncomfortable stir in his chest if he lingers on it too long.

So he doesn’t linger.

“Cleanup?” he asks, voice low and rough from everything that just happened.

You grunt. Not a word, not even a real sound—just a grunt. Like the idea of moving is physically painful to you right now.

He chuckles softly, the sound vibrating through both of you.

“Alright,” he says, hand still on your back as if that’s going to keep you from sliding off the table and face-planting onto the floor. “Let me get some wipes.”

Another grunt. This one sounds more annoyed than tired, but he can’t tell for sure because your face is still buried against his shoulder.

“Don’t tell me…” He pauses for dramatic effect because he knows how much you hate when he does that. “You’re a cuddlebug?”

That gets a reaction. Your head snaps up so fast he almost flinches, and then you’re shoving at his chest with both hands like you’re trying to push him off the planet.

“Fuck you,” you mutter, but there’s no real heat behind it. Your hands stay on his chest for a second longer than necessary before falling back to your sides.

He snorts, stepping back and giving you space because even though he likes teasing you (maybe too much), he knows when to quit.

Most of the time, anyway.

“Stay there,” he says over his shoulder as he heads toward his room. “Don’t move.”

You don’t respond this time—not even a grunt—but when he glances back, you’re still perched on the edge of the table looking thoroughly unimpressed with life.

Very you, indeed.

Then he's stepping into his bedroom, and of course, it is dark when he steps inside, the only light coming from the hallway spilling in behind him.

He grabs the container of wet wipes from his nightstand (don’t ask why they’re there; that’s none of anyone’s business) and heads back out before his brain can start overthinking anything.

When he returns to the entryway, you haven’t moved an inch. You’re still sitting there with both legs dangling off the table.

And for a moment, he can’t help but think the sight is oddly cute.

“Alright,” he says again as if this is some kind of official business meeting instead of… whatever this is. “Let’s get this over with.”

He crouches down first, wiping at the floor where his cum has left an embarrassing mess that Yoongi would absolutely kill him for if he saw it later. The hardwood glistens faintly under the light as he scrubs at it with more force than necessary—partly because it needs to be cleaned properly and partly because maybe if he focuses hard enough on this task, he won’t think about how close your legs are or how good you smelled earlier or how fucking soft your skin felt under his hands.

When he's done with that part (and only when he's sure it's spotless), he straightens up and turns toward you.

Your eyes are on him—soft but unreadable—and it makes something twist in his stomach that has nothing to do with hunger or exhaustion or anything else logical.

“What?” he asks because apparently silence makes him nervous now.

You shake your head slightly, lips curving into something that might be a smile if it weren’t so small and fleeting.

“Nothing.”

He doesn’t believe you—not for a second—but decides not to push it because pushing things with you in this state never ends well for him.

Instead, he steps closer until he's standing between your legs again and tilts his head toward yours like he's trying to figure out what you're thinking without actually asking outright.

"Hold still," he murmurs after a beat of hesitation that's barely noticeable but feels significant anyway.

The wipe is cool against your skin as he starts cleaning you up—gentle but thorough in a way that surprises even himself. Your eyes stay on him the whole time—watchful but not wary—and it makes him feel weirdly self-conscious even though there’s no reason for it.

When he's finished (and only when he's sure you're clean), he tosses the used wipe into the trash can by the door without looking away from you entirely.

"Sleep?" he asks after another moment of silence stretches between you like an elastic band ready to snap at any second now if someone doesn’t say something soon enough.

“Yeah.” You murmur. “Your bed.”

Jungkook blinks at you like he’s not sure he heard right.

Not because it’s weird—okay, maybe it’s a little weird—but because you said it so casually. Like it’s the most normal thing in the world to ask to sleep in his bed after everything that just happened.

He doesn’t know what to say at first. He’s not used to this part—the after part. Usually, there isn’t an after part. It’s just sex, then goodbye, then see you whenever.

But this? This feels different in a way he can’t quite put his finger on, and it makes his brain stutter for a second before he finally manages to respond.

“Uh… yeah,” he says, scratching the back of his neck awkwardly. “Sure.”

You don’t say anything else, just lift your arms slightly like you’re expecting him to do something.

He stares at you for a moment, confused, until it clicks.

“Oh, come on,” he mutters, rolling his eyes but already stepping closer. “You’re not serious.”

You just raise an eyebrow at him, and yep—you’re serious.

“Lazy ass,” he grumbles under his breath as he bends down to scoop you up.

Your arms loop around his neck automatically, and your legs wrap around his waist like this is something you do all the time instead of… well, never. He tries not to think about how natural it feels or how warm you are against him or how your breath brushes against his collarbone when you settle into his hold.

It’s fine. Totally fine. This is just… practical.

Yeah.

Practical.

He carries you with ease because let’s be real—he could probably bench press you if he wanted to—and nudges his bedroom door open with his foot.

“Alright,” he says as he approaches the bed and leans forward slightly to deposit you onto the mattress. “Here we go.”

But instead of letting go like a normal person, you cling tighter for half a second before finally releasing him with a grunt that sounds suspiciously like reluctance. He doesn’t comment on it because honestly? He doesn’t trust himself not to make it weird if he does.

You flop onto your back with all the grace of a drunk cat and immediately start wiggling around like you’re trying to make yourself comfortable in record time. Jungkook just stands there for a moment, watching you with an expression he doesn't even know how to describe.

“You good?” he asks once you’ve finally stopped moving and are lying still with your eyes closed like this is your bed and not his.

“Mmhm,” you hum without opening your eyes.

He shakes his head but doesn’t bother arguing because what’s the point?

Then he’s going to lay down too, but you sprawl onto his bed like you’re claiming it for yourself, arms and legs stretched out in every direction like some kind of human starfish.

Jungkook snorts, standing at the side of the bed with his hands on his hips like a disappointed parent.

“Move,” he says, nudging at your foot with his knee. “I want to sleep too.”

You crack one eye open, squinting at him.

“Then sleep,” you mumble, voice muffled by the pillow your face is half-buried in.

“I can’t sleep,” he says, gesturing dramatically at your starfish pose. “Not unless you move your limbs out of my personal space.”

You grunt something unintelligible but make no effort to move.

He sighs—long and exaggerated—before climbing onto the bed anyway, shoving at your leg until you reluctantly curl up enough to give him room.

He flops down beside you with all the grace of someone who’s been awake for far too long and immediately starts adjusting himself into what he considers optimal sleeping position.

Except there’s one problem: his arm.

It’s stuck under him, bent awkwardly against his side instead of stretched out under the pillow where it belongs. He tries shifting around to fix it but quickly realizes there’s no way to do that without encroaching on your territory.

“Hey,” he says, nudging at your side with his foot now.

“What?” you snap, voice sharp despite how tired you sound.

“Let me extend my arm under the pillow.”

“No.”

“What do you mean no?”

“I mean no,” you repeat stubbornly, turning your head just enough to glare at him over your shoulder. “Figure it out without bothering me.”

He stares at you for a second like he can’t believe what he’s hearing before deciding that negotiation is clearly not going to work here.

So instead, he does what any reasonable person would do in this situation: he forcefully shoves his arm under your neck like it belongs there.

You jerk upright immediately, twisting around to face him with wide eyes and an expression that screams 'what the actual fuck'.

“Bro,” you say, voice incredulous as you try—and fail—to push his arm away. “Get off me.”

“Bro,” he says simply, already settling back down like this is perfectly normal behavior between roommates who occasionally hook up but definitely aren’t friends yet (or whatever this is). “You’re in my bed. Shut up and act like a plushie or something.”

“A plushie?” You sound so offended that he almost laughs but manages to hold it back because laughing right now would probably get him kicked out of his own bed.

“Yes,” he says firmly, pulling the blanket over both of you with one hand while keeping his other arm firmly in place under your neck. “A plushie.”

You open your mouth to argue—because of course you do—but he shuts it down with a loud, drawn-out “SSSSHHHHH” that’s so over-the-top, so him, it stops you cold.

“Sleep,” he adds a second later, voice low, eyes already shut like the matter’s settled and he’s the authority on bedtime now.

The room stills. One of those dumb, drawn-out silences where neither of you wants to move first. Like shifting even an inch might make it real. Might make it weird.

But then you sigh. Loud. Dramatic. Flopping back down beside him like you’ve just made the ultimate sacrifice.

“Fine,” you mutter, sharp as ever, head hitting the pillow with a thud. “But if I wake up with a crick in my neck because of this stupid arm thing—”

“You won’t,” he says, already drifting, smug and certain and way too casual for someone who just turned a routine argument into a full-body tangle.

You mumble something under your breath—probably rude, definitely deserved—and go quiet.

And for a second, he just lies there. Listening to your breathing even out. Feeling the slight pull of your body next to his.

The ridiculousness of the situation should hit harder than it does.

But it doesn’t.

It actually feels…weirdly good.

Not in the usual way. Not in the easiest way.

Just—solid. Like he hasn’t fucked it up yet.

Which is a surprise, considering he really thought he had.

After Tuesday.

After the whole Jason thing—the fight that was never really about Jason. The way the guy had looked like every goddamn red flag Jungkook had ever ignored. Too neat, too careful, too condescending behind a smile that felt fake even from a hallway away.

He’d projected. Hard. Got scared on your behalf. Angry in that twitchy, irrational way he hates. Like he couldn’t stand the thought of you falling into something he knew could break you.

But that wasn’t fair. Wasn’t his choice. You’re not fragile. You’re you. You can make your own calls without his fears bleeding into them.

And he should know better by now. Should’ve remembered that you’ve survived things he doesn’t even ask about.

Instead, he snapped. Like he always does when things get too close. Like he’s got some built-in timer that detonates as soon as someone sees more than they’re supposed to.

So yeah. He’d assumed it was done. That he’d pushed too hard, too fast—again.

That whatever fragile thing had been building between you would crack right down the middle, just like every other almost-connection he’s tried to hold onto.

But then… you’d talked. Actually talked.

And—somehow—you’d listened.

Not just tolerated him. Heard him.

And tonight, he thinks—for the first time in a long, long time—he feels…comfortable. With a woman. With you.

And yeah, okay—he kind of likes that.

It’s not some life-changing moment. Not some movie scene epiphany.

Just this quiet flicker of maybe. Of could be.

Maybe he can have this. A woman beside him. No pressure. No angle. No romantic feelings. No attachments, no entanglements. Not drama, not hurt.

Just a dumb, chaotic almost-friendship built on late-night arguments and questionable sleep arrangements.

And fuck—he’s kind of proud of that.

So he lets his eyes fall shut. Lets the warmth settle. Lets the thought linger.

Not friendship. Not yet.

But maybe.

goal: 500 notes, but the wattpad goal has to be reached too

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ccl-c · 6 months ago

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i procrastinated on this for months and it didn't even take that long to finish lol things got very bad at work this year and i just didn't have the energy but i'm really happy with how it turned out!

(edit: thank you so much to everyone enjoying this piece! i'm so happy there are more people thinking about his prosthetic leg.)

some of my favourite details and long self-indulgent ramble below the cut.

as much as i love the unicorn leg in the show i really wish they gave izzy an actual post-amputation swordfight scene, which probably would imply a more practical prosthesis because honestly that candle scene looks very painful and pretty difficult to adapt in combat. so basically i wanted him to have a prosthesis that could work.

for the poses i mostly just took basic right-handed cavalry sabre movements that would need lots of force and/or mobility from the left leg (actually all of them do otherwise he'd lose stability which is a big no but well i did not consider the basic steps nor special ones such as the balestra because they're not very clear to draw. i included a flèche though because i just really, really want to see him do flèches (no more modern rules aha!!); i doubt he'd like it since it's very risky but it would be so fucking awesome. imagine him just darting full-speed at the opponent and passing through them sliding the sabre right between their ribs. the sabre isn't a pointy weapon especially since his is quite curved which makes piercing trickier than slashing (it would be a lot easier with a rapier or an épée; i like to imagine that stede prefers the rapier and makes every opponent who believes rapiers aren't fit for combat reconsider it) but hell that would just look amazing. although looking at it again i probably drew the footwork more like a pass forward …). now thinking about it i should have included a salute because he'd absolutely do that and make everyone do it in unison at the start of training sessions and it's just a cool series of gestures (i haven't gone through the historical documents yet but the salute our historical fencing club do consists of two appels (striking the ground with the forward foot which in izzy's case is the right foot), then raising the sword to the sky, then pulling the guard of the sword near the jaw with the tip pointing upwards, then pointing the sword down forward, usually a bit to the exterior for single-handed swords. this is the short version; we did the complete version of that salute precisely once and i seriously cannot remember either the year it was formalised or how it was done exactly. i think it was somewhere near the end of the 18th century and there was half a step forward and maybe a step on the spot at the beginning. if i ever find it or we ever do it again i'll update here we did it again! the complete version from the 1877 regulation under napoleon iii for the french army, as our master remembers, includes a process of going from standing to a tierce stance in the beginning and it's like this: start from a standing position with heels kept together and the sword to the front pointing downwards, then slowly raise the sword with the arm extended until that the point is about at eye level, bend the arm to finish on the tierce or sixte hand position depending on the sword (sabre and rapier typically use the tierce while épée typically uses the sixte although tierce works too; longsword would also use the sixte unless you're doing the more dramatic guards like porta di ferro or posta della donna and then i guess that's a high seconde if you squint hard? but it's not used in the army lol imagine that. and bayonet has a whole different salute), then start folding the legs while keeping the heels together and when you can't go any lower, move the front foot forward to the en garde feet position. and then tap twice on the ground etc.). also i feel like the dagger doesn't really look right ever since i saw the daggers and little swords at the exhibition about knights in nantes … anyway.

the prosthesis is loosely based on those 16th-century moveable leg prostheses by ambroise paré (on a side note, he made hand prostheses too and i think they're good references for spanish jackie's hand), douglas bly's above-knee prosthesis in the 19th century and modern running prosthetic legs (for the need of explosive force typical in lunges) as well as historical fencing and buhurt (full-armour medieval combat) gears. although i'm horrible at physics and have forgotten what little ergonomics i learned at university so it probably won't work in reality lol.

the text is in french simply because i learned fencing in french and didn't want to make mistakes in the vocabulary. the small words from left to right top to bottom are: motion (movement?), knee (front), knee (back), ankle & foot, locked, flèche (as in fencing; the word itself means “arrow”), unlocked (middle french spelling because i like it and it's not completely anachronistic i guess), lunge, en garde position in tierce (i somehow can't find any fixed way to say this in english; it's just the basic stance with the third hand position). the text on the left is probably quite awkward honestly but i can't not put it there because it's fun lol it reads “leg and foot prosthesis designed for first mate hands, by doctor roach with the assistance of frenchie, realised (built? made? constructed? manufactured?) by black pete and wee john feeney and the entirety of the crew of the revenge under co-captains stede bonnet and edward teach, illustrated by lucius spriggs”. so yes any mistake in there is theirs and not mine lmao (no). the font is very loosely based on my memory of jean jannon's regular and italic typefaces. i adore his italics; it's the prettiest, most delicate italics i've ever seen.

i still have other drawing ideas for ofmd but i'm also into a lot of other things now … i'll probably get to them a few months later.

#ofmd #izzy hands #ccl c

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asgards-princess-of-mischief · 20 days ago

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Last Updated: 2025-06-09

Disclaimer: I am not the author of these stories, just sharing my favourite Benedict Bridgerton stories. Find the authors' links below. If you want your work removed, message me privately.

Legend: 〔E〕 ⇢ Erotic/Steamy￨〔F〕 ⇢ Fluff￨〔A〕 ⇢ Angst/Hurt 〔M〕 ⇢ Minor Angst/Hurt￨〔C〕 ⇢ Comfort￨〔S〕 ⇢ Suspense￨ ♥︎ ⇢ Established Relationship￨𑁍 ⇢ Pregnancy/Children￨🚫 ⇢ Content Warning

✑ A Fitting Distraction by benedictscanvas • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: In which a game of pall-mall is afoot and you and your husband, Benedict, engage in a bit of harmless spying on your brother-in-law.

✑ A Lady's Guide to Surviving the Ton by atlabeth • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: You've prepared an endless list of rules and notes for the season to ensure a successful debut. Benedict may need some tips for a courtship of his own.

✑ All Along by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: You're feeling anxious at the first ball of your season. Luckily Benedict is there to help you through it.

✑ And Now I See Daylight by wonderlandprose • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict seemed to completely change his view on love after meeting the reader.

✑ Best Behaviour by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: An unexpected request and a push from his family is exactly what Benedict needs to finally take your relationship beyond friendship.

✑ Can't Bear It by benedictscanvas • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: What will happen when Benedict lets mistaken assumptions and jealousy guide his actions? More importantly, can you forgive him?

✑ City of Stars by rubysunnday • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: Eloise Bridgerton does not know when to keep her nose out of her friends business. Especially when that business involves pining over her brother - one that Eloise knows for a fact loves her back. If only they weren't completely oblivious idiots.

✑ Confession by fayes-fics • 16+ • 〔A᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict confesses to being in love…

✑ Drunk on Love by d-targaryenshoe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

Synopsis: Love is beautiful yet when one is drunk it can rather be a little confusing and breathtaking.

✑ Eden by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔F᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Seeing you with other Bridgerton offspring has an interesting effect on your new husband...

✑ En Garde by delphispoeticals • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: You have always cared deeply about your mother's opinions, often to the frustration of your siblings. However, when you begin to prioritize your desires, you realize how rewarding it is to follow your own path—starting with a game of fencing.

✑ Fear by fact-fictionx • 〔F᜶M〕 •

✑ Forgive Me by benedictscanvas • 〔A᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: In which you think Benedict doesn't like the idea of you marrying, but really he doesn't like the idea of you marrying anyone else…

✑ Friends to Lovers by jswizzlewrites • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict plots a way to win your heart…

✑ Game Night by iliveiloveiwrite • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Now Benedict's wife, you attend your first Bridgerton family Game Night.

✑ Hands by ijustwant2write • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Hands are every artists worst nightmare, it's always best to have a real model for help.

✑ Helen of Troy by neverinadream • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: In a world of societal expectations and staged romances, theirs might just be a love story written by choice, not chance.

✑ It's Just Tea by dragonsfictavern • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: You drink some of Benedict's special tea and now Benedict must take care of you until the effects wear off. With such a tea in your system, you can't help but bring up some truths you’ve been hiding and Benedict is right there to comfort you.

✑ Jealousy by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶A〕 •

Synopsis: Just Benedict Bridgerton being jealous…

✑ Just Friends || Prt. II by pixiemunsons • 18+ • 〔F᜶A᜶E〕 •

Synopsis: You and Benedict aren't merely friends… not even close…

✑ Love and Tea by iliveiloveiwrite • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Benedict had been fine all morning, not a hair out of place and that had all changed by the evening. In passing, he had mentioned to you that Colin had offered him a cup of tea he had brought back from his vast and various travels.

✑ Madness by writtenfangirl • 〔A〕 •

Synopsis: In which Benedict Bridgerton finally reveals the truth.

✑ Market Hearts by d-targaryenshoe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: When one notices their lover's joy in a rather odd place, why would they not join in on the feeling?

✑ Mine by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔M᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Benedict's wife gets lots of male attention at a party and he gets very jealous.

✑ Not for Him by iwritefandomimagines • 〔A᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: You may not be the season's diamond, yet your debut still caused quite the stir in many a man's heart—your childhood best friend benedict bridgerton included. However, given that the Viscount had decided that he would marry this season, Benedict cannot see why you would choose him over his brother.

✑ Not the End of Our Story by jswizzlewrites • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: You write about the love story of you and Benedict when you think they won't be anything more than a story…

✑ Paper Rings by wonderlandprose • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict fell in love with a girl he adored so much…

✑ Promenade by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict makes a drunken confession…

✑ Rake and the Spinster, the by imagines-all-day-everyday • 〔A᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: Growing up beside the Bridgerton siblings you and Benedict have been friends for as long as you can remember, but with you now officially debuting into society Benedict begins to realise that perhaps it is more than a friendship that he seeks.

✑ Ruined Reputation by jswizzlewrites • 〔A〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict has a very encouraging conversation with his brothers about you.

✑ Safe by fayes-fics • 〔A᜶C〕 • 🚫 •

Synopsis: Benedict comforts you after someone tries to compromise you.

✑ Second Son by fayes-fics • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: The second son is, for once, the first choice...

✑ Secret Romantic by ijustwant2write • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Eloise Bridgerton, as it turns out, is a brilliant matchmaker!

✑ Send It Soaring by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: A hot air balloon was something quite majestic... but so was Benedict Bridgerton.

✑ She's a Lady by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: You aren't considered a proper 'lady' by members of the ton yet one Benedict Bridgerton would disagree with them all.

✑ Sleeping Beauty by rubysunnday • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: Painting the woman of his dreams feels like a fairytale.

✑ Temptation by fayes-fics • 18+ • 〔E᜶F〕 •

Synopsis: After accidentally teasing Benedict, you catch the man your courting in a compromising position

✑ To Be Loved and Be In Love by desertno3 • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: You and Benedict had been best friends for as long as you remember, but during your first season, he didn't engage much. You left London engaged, but when news of your betrothal's failure reached Aubrey Hall in spring, everything changed.

✑ To Know You by fayes-fics • 〔F᜶M〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict knows you better than anyone, but does he know himself well enough to know what he truly wants?

✑ Untold Truth by itsmercurial • 〔A〕 • ♥︎ •

Synopsis: It is a universally acknowledged truth that men and women of the 1800s curate a carefully crafted image to attract suitable matches. Though the esteemed Bridgertons seem above such deception, a trip to a certain modiste uncovers a different truth.

✑ You Bewitch Me by pencil-n-pen • 〔F〕 •

Synopsis: Benedict has to be the least tolerable Bridgertonto to make your acquaintance. Still, no matter how hard you try, you can't seem to stay away from him.

✑ A Scandalous Affair by starryeyedstories • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Art of Finding a Wife, the by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Artists in the Making by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Body Imagine by eufezco • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Bridgerton Blue by fayes-fics • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Butterflies by starryeyedstories • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Clueless by thebadgerclan • 〔F〕 •

✑ Energetic by alewritesfics • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Forget-Me-Nots by jswizzlewrites • 〔F〕 •

✑ Heads or Tails by youvebeenlivingfictional • 〔F〕 •

✑ Heat Exhaustion || Prt. II by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶H〕 •

✑ His Everything by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ His Shirt by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Home by jswizzlewrites • 〔F᜶H〕 •

✑ I'm Not Drunk by fayes-fics • 〔F〕 •

✑ Insufferably Irresistible by kiaraldias • 〔E〕 •

✑ Little Things by leviathanspain • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Meet the Family by multi-fandom-imagine • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Muse by thebadgerclan • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Pall Mall by tontattletale • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Perfect Through My Eyes by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Sleepy by starryeyedstories • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ So Entirely Bridgerton by d-targaryenshoe • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Stitches by fayes-fics • 〔F᜶E〕 • ♥︎ •

✑ Stolen Moment by aliesbienish • 〔F〕 • ♥︎ • 𑁍 •

✑ Benedict Bridgerton Falling/Being in Love… by dragon-kazansky • 〔F〕 •

See More: Navigation || Benedict Bridgerton Master Index

Authors: @alewritesfics || @aliesbienish || @atlabeth || @benedictscanvas || @d-targaryenshoe || @dragon-kazansky || @dragonsfictavern || @eufezco || @fact-fictionx || @fayes-fics || @ijustwant2write || @imagines-all-day-everyday || @itsmercurial || @iwritefandomimagines || @jswizzlewrites || @kiaraldias || @leviathanspain || @neverinadream || @pencil-n-pen || @pixiemunsons || @rubysunnday || @starryeyedstories || @thebadgerclan || @tontattletale || @wonderlandprose || @writtenfangirl || @youvebeenlivingfictional ||

#Benedict Bridgerton x Reader #Benedict Bridgerton x Female Reader #Benedict Bridgerton x Fem!Reader #Benedict Bridgerton x Y/N #Benedict Bridgerton x You #Luke Thompson x Reader #Luke Thompson x Female Reader #Luke Thompson x Fem!Reader #Luke Thompson x Y/N #Luke Thompson x You #Benedict Bridgerton Fanfiction #Benedict Bridgerton Fanfic #Bridgerton Fanfiction #Bridgerton Fanfic #Luke Thompson Fanfiction #Luke Thompson Fanfic

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whisperofaflame · 1 month ago

Note

I have a fic idea-I don’t know how to write it but i just wanted to get it out and I’d like to hear your thoughts- so anyway R has flashbacks sometimes because of trauma and her name she uses is a nick name but her legal name brings back lots of trauma-she never told Wanda and nat because she didn’t think anything about it would come up but then the three get in a argument and one of them ends up in one of them yelling at R with there legal name-a panic trauma response ensuing angst and then some hurt comfort and then them helping R change there name to get it out of Rs life as much as they can.

Oh my god, this unleashed something within me and I just spent the last hour hammering out my interpretation of this prompt -- I really love it! It's not proofread but I'm gonna post now because it's 00:30 and I still need to get ready for bed whoops... ♡

(Also I really hope this is okay, I am slightly worried that I misinterpreted you and you just wanted my approval to write it yourself?)

By Any Other Name

Content Warning: implied past experiences of abuse

---------⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅---------

When you first met Wanda and Natasha, you had introduced yourself with your nickname, and that’s all they had ever used to address you in the months since. They needed nothing else, nothing more — they had a catalogue of cutesy pet names to employ, after all. But you knew they were aware of your full name, though they had never spoken it. They’d no doubt noticed it, on the letters from the bank which they passed blithely to you after sorting through the post. It had never been discussed, not even in a teasing way. So you just assumed they’d pieced it together themselves, and it never occurred to you to explain, to be explicit about your feelings towards that haunted moniker. Until it came back to bite you.

It was a silly argument, really. You had broken the rules, failed to update them of your whereabouts and gone AWOL on a Friday evening. They had every right to be angry, and you ought to have bowed your head and offered apologies. But you were feeling emboldened by the alcohol, and a little frustrated by the events of the evening (your friend had ditched you for some guy, leaving you alone at the party searching for her for at least an hour, before someone finally informed you that she had gone). You were pissed off at her, and taking it out on your dommes. Petulant, pathetic. But you didn’t have the clarity of mind to realise it. So you just kept on pushing…

---------⋅•⋅⊰∙∘☽༓☾∘∙⊱⋅•⋅---------

“You had us worried sick!” Wanda tells you, her concerned frown causing a pang of guilt in your chest, an ache you didn’t anticipate, and haven’t prepared for. So you bat it away, and purse your lips in an obstinate display of indifference.

“What do you have to say for yourself?” Natasha interrogates you, clearly riled by your lack of remorse.

“It’s a Friday night! I have every right to go out!”

“Honey, you know the rules…” Wanda begins, but Natasha cuts her off.

“Don’t baby her, detka, she’s being a brat.”

“Oh… fuck off,” you reply, crossing your arms initially through defiance, and then increasingly as a means to protect yourself from the flash of fury in Natasha’s eyes.

“What did you say to me?”

Your heart is almost pounding out of your chest, knowing you’ve pushed it too far, stepped well past the line of brattiness and into dangerous disrespect. But your drunken ego decides to double down. And you turn away, arms still crossed around your chest, your head slightly tilted up as you look to the corner of the room, away from their piercing, disapproving looks.

And then Natasha says it, growls it out like a dog. Your full name, the extra syllables emerging from her lips like something inedible she is forced to spit out. She continues speaking, finishing her sentence with some chastisement you can’t hear. Because all that reverberates in your head is another voice, shouting your name with unbridled fury. The sound is like a whip that cracks through your body. It splits everything in its wake, leaving only stinging, screaming pain. You can’t think, but you don’t need to. Your body responds, because your body remembers…

You stumble back, your legs recalling the need to retreat.

Flight?

Your hands raise, hovering in a loose stack at chest height, ready to form a fist should you need.

Fight?

But when a body advances towards you, you are struck with their height, and overwhelmed by their physical supremacy. Your fingers quiver as you lift them higher, splayed out in anticipation, ready to shield your cheeks.

Flinch?

Your back meets the wall, and the first option you clung to is suddenly no longer available; there is no chance to flee when two bodies are between you and the door. And they both approach even closer, their arms outstretched, rendering your other two options futile in such close proximity.

So you just surrender to the last available instinct. You slide down the wall, and curl up in a ball.

Freeze.

How long has it been? Were you lost? Were you dreaming? You continue to feel an intermittent tug in your stomach, your muscles clenching as they anticipate a blow. But nothing ever comes. No pain accompanies the images flashing through your mind. There is only silence. Only space.

“Y/N?”

A soft voice breaks through. It doesn’t belong here. Not that tone, not that name. It doesn’t match the memories replaying in your mind.

“Honey, we’re here. You’re okay.”

It sounds so foreign, so unbelievable. The strangeness of the words, of the sweetness, begins to disrupt the cacophony of fear. The images begin to blur, and the edges of your body seem to come back into focus. You can feel where the space ends, and your body begins. Even in the darkness of your tightly-shut eyelids, you can feel that you are back. Back home. Not the old one, with the old name. But the new one. With them.

“I’m just here. I’m right by you. Wanda is too. We’re here, when you’re ready.”

You can hear how close she is now; you can almost feel her presence in the air. She doesn’t sound angry anymore, but you’ve been tricked before by others. Lured out of safe spaces, just to be met with the wrath anew.

You clutch your knees a little tighter, trying to grip on to this reality, and avoid being swept away again. The alcohol even feels like waves, lapping at your skin from within, uprooting your sense of balance and stability as the world continues to sway.

You open your eyes, hoping to gaze upon something stationary, to find something to anchor yourself to. When you do, the first thing you see is Natasha, kneeling before you with her hands resting on her thighs. Wanda sits cross-legged beside her, tears brimming in her eyes.

“I’m sorry,” Natasha whispers, her voice wavering with regret. “I shouldn’t have said it. I should have known.”

You wish you could reassure her, but your mouth is so dry and there’s still a lump in your throat, like a physical lid you have somehow evolved over the years when backchat was a threat, and the stopper could save you.

“I promise you, I will never say it again. Ever,” Natasha pledges, and she looks so serious and sad that you don’t think you could ever doubt it.

Wanda’s tears break through, and begin to stream down her cheeks. Natasha doesn’t break her gaze from you, but her hand reaches out for her wife, and Wanda takes hold of it, accepting the small comfort while you remain unavailable for touch, for reassurance of their love for you, and yours for them. Your skin prickles, and you’re not sure if it’s from the lingering fear, or the burgeoning need.

“Just nod when you’re ready,” Wanda suggests, wiping her tears with her free hand and giving you a wobbly smile of encouragement. We can take it slow. But I’d really love to hold you, when you’re ready.”

You try to steady your breaths, each one an effort to fully release before drawing more in. When the ache begins to ease, you give the tiniest nod of your head.

Wanda lets go of Natasha’s hand, and opens both arms to you, scooting forwards a little on the floor, closing the gap. Your head spins a little as you lean it down to rest on her shoulder. But Wanda holds you steady, her arms enveloping you and her fingers gently stroking your spine and the hair on the back of your head.

“Shhhh…” she whispers. “I’ve got you.”

Her loving arms and tender tone break down your thorny defences, and your body begins to shake with suppressed sobs, now released in the safety of her hold. She lets you cry it out, murmuring sweet nothings, all the while stroking you and keeping your close. Natasha remains nearby. Silent but steady. Waiting for when you are ready to accept her back in.

When you begin to wipe your eyes, Wanda knows she can release you without letting you drift away. Your eyes find Natasha’s once your head lifts from Wanda’s shoulder. And you find her eyebrows knitted with concern as she studies you, clearly trying to gauge your feelings towards her.

“Natty?” you whisper, the first word that emerges despite her being the one who pulled the trigger. The simple call of her name tells her everything she needs to know. You forgive her, and you need her forgiveness too.

“Come here, baby,” she says gently, though she doesn’t make you move of your own accord. Instead, she pulls you to her, and hums a mixture of approval and relief when you begin to wrap your arms and legs around her, settling your full weight in her lap.

“I’m so sorry, baby,” she whispers in your ear. “Can you forgive me, milaya?”

“Mm-hm,” you murmur, from your position tucked tightly in her arms. Words are hard right now, but you try. “Forgive me?”

“Of course I do,” she assures you. “You made a mistake, but it’s okay, my love. We can talk about it tomorrow. Tonight is just for cuddles, and feeling better.”

You nod against her, your cheek brushing against the skin of Natasha’s sternum.

“Tomorrow we’re going to sort it, honey,” Wanda says, her voice gentle but decisive. “We can get it changed properly; we can figure it out together.”

Natasha hums her agreement, and you feel your breathing slow as you process Wanda’s words. Natasha brushes back your hair, and when you glance up at her you see that she’s looking down at you with such solemnity and love.

“We’ll make sure the only name you ever need to see or hear again is your own, okay?” She tells you, echoing Wanda’s sentiment that they’ll help you heal this wound.

Your fingers find her hand, and you give it a gentle squeeze. Your name is your own. But you? You are theirs.

#answered asks #wandanat #wandanat x reader #natasha romanoff x reader #wanda maximoff x reader #wanda maximoff #natasha romanoff

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irrevocablecondition · 2 months ago

Text

okay big talk time. in light of the UK Supreme Court ruling, i'm seeing a lot of posts about fandom spaces. i woke up to see a tiktok that says "if you write fanfic, there's blood on your hands too",,, so let's talk about it.

because there is no refuting that fandom spaces keep JKR relevant. there is no refuting that by producing any kind of media based on this franchise, we are engaging with her and we are keeping her universe relevant. we cannot deny that.

we often see people turn around and say "jkr would hateee what we write!" and that's true. that's so very true, but it isn't enough. your headcanons and your stories and your art Are Not Enough. particularly over on tiktok: if you post HP content over on that platform, you are promoting JKR. my existence in this space as a trans man is NOT an act of protest. everything else i do is, so what do we do about that?

we NEED to be talking about these things. about jkr, about her money, about her actions, about the bigotry in the source material, and if you are not in a position where you can have those conversations, then you need to be listening. because engagement with jkr is infact life of death.

and we carry that guilt. we do, of course we do. if you are somebody who hasn't yet been able to let go of this series like me, then we carry that guilt. even more so if you are a member of any of the communities that jkr has harmed - the guilt is heavy.

but,,, let me make one thing clear: this is not your guilt.

if you are not profiting her. directly, then you are carrying guilt that is not yours to carry. that guilt is hers to bear, and the lives we are about to lose are on her conscious. we have been forced, time and time again, to carry the weight of her bigotry.

but,,, we're carrying it. and i think there's a certain amount of guilt that makes us better. i think there's a certain amount of guilt that makes us more conscious human beings, and that makes us more receptive to these discussions.

you can use that guilt, you really can. you can talk. you can listen. you can educate. you can step away if the guilt gets too much. you can use that guilt for something good.

do NOT push it away. whilst it isn't ours to carry, we are not in a position where we can throw that guilt away and wash our hands of it - we are here, we are engaging, we have to accept that. if we simply pretend as though we are not, then all we do is cause harm.

because fandom spaces can do a lot of good, especially for those that jkr has harmed. fandom spaces can do so much good, but only if we are conscious of the ways in which we are engaging, and we are willing to sit and have these difficult conversations.

if i were not in the position i am in now, i would leave. i would leave this fandom space and at this point? i am in fact urging those of you are able to, to go. for your own sakes and the sakes of everyone around you.

but as someone who has been having conversations about JKR for ages? i am in no position to step back. i'm in no position to turn away and give up. not when there are so many people who benefit from these discussions and who benefit from safe spaces.

and the reason it's a safe space? it's because I Talk. because i Have These Discussions. and no matter how much i do, i am still promoting her when i go on to post a headcanon or update my fics. i am still promoting her when i engage in this space.

and there's still guilt.

don't chuck that guilt aside, let it fuel you in making safe spaces safe again.

there is absolutely no refuting that by being in this space we are causing harm. so if you are not in a position to leave this space, here's some things you can do to make it easier for everyone both in and out of it:

Listen. if you are not in a position to talk about JKR, then actively listen. actively listen, understand, process, and adapt.

Merchandise: stop posting your merch, secondhand or not. you know that you get comments asking "where did you get this!?", stop posting it. makes that small adjustment for wider good

Keep educated: on the bigotry in the books so that you aren't perpetuating it, on jkr's actions, on politics. keep educated as much as you can to make sure that you are not unwillingly causing harm in what you are doing

Block: block those who are going to the studios, who are posting merch, who are talking about the reboot, who are doing ANYTHING to support her. if you see a video? comment on it. the continued relevance of people in this space who have supported a bigot is Immense. do not allow for complacency - bigotry is bigotry no matter how many views it gets you.

and above all, hold that guilt. hold it. feel it. utilise it.

and if you are in a position where you can leave this space? then i encourage you to do so. i encourage you to Move On, and find new ventures. i encourage you to do that if you can. and if you can't, then i'll still be here to guide you through it all and keep having these difficult talks.

#fuck jkr

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fallstaticexit · 4 months ago

Text

Extended Bonus Scene-> Pillowfort ( just an extra scene I couldn't fit in this update and couldn't fit in the next featuring a conversation between Judith Ward & Geoffrey)

AN: Fun fact, the last scene of the previous post was actually the 500th screenshot of Part III. Woooo! We’re right around the halfway point. Time to pull out Nancy’s bad choice punch card, let’s see what we got so far…we got…cheating twice, gaslighting her husband andddd oh! Getting entangled with criminals! Great job, Nancy! 👹

Prev / Next / Beginning

Transcript under the cut

Vanessa: Hey, it’s your birthday.

Nancy: Best birthday I’ve ever had, thanks to you.

Vanessa: By the way, when you said no marks, I didn’t think that meant you would leave them all on me.

Nancy: I can’t even follow my own rules. I’m sorry.

Vanessa: I like them. Red is my color after all.

Nancy: [sighs deeply] I want to make love again.

Vanessa: You can barely keep your eyes open, baby.

Nancy: I still feel so needy. When does it stop?

Vanessa: [chuckles] It never really does.

Nancy: Vanessa. Will this be the last time?

Vanessa: Do you want it to be?

Nancy: Do you?

Vanessa: I think, we should have a conversation first. I need to know what’s going on with you and Lily Feng.

Nancy: Nothing is going on. It was a thing and then it wasn’t. And when it was a thing, it still wasn’t- [huffs]. What I’m trying to say is, I had to get these urges out of my system so they could stop driving me crazy. I could barely focus. It was just sex and it was just once. That’s all it was.

Vanessa: And you didn’t know about the imports?

Nancy: When I paid off her people, I thought I was stopping her from winning a development project with the city of San Myshuno. I had no idea about any of this.

Vanessa: [exhales] You pissed off alot of people, Nancy..

Nancy: So, when you said you were in town to see me, what you meant was you came here to ‘handle me’ for what I did?

Vanessa: Listen. I meant what I said; that I wanted to reconnect with you. But the truth is, this clusterfuck of a mess brought us together and I’m not upset about that. I just had to figure out how to keep you out of trouble and I figured if you could offer to work for Akira-

Nancy: What?! You want me to do what you do? Sell drugs? You’re not serious, are you?

Vanessa: Would you prefer the alternative? I would never suggest this if I didn’t think there was something to be gained from it-

Nancy: To be gained? Fuck, Vanessa! I can’t just- I’m just an architect! I’m a mother. I’m a wife-

Vanessa: If that’s all you think that you are, then you don’t know yourself that well. You are so much more than that, Nancy.

Nancy: [mutters] As if this wasn’t complicated enough- I can’t fuck up my life anymore than I already am. I can’t put Geoffrey and our sons in danger-

Vanessa: I’ve been doing this for almost 10 years, Nancy. I know what I’m doing and you can trust me. I would never let anything happen to you- or your family.

Nancy: What if I never paid off The Feng’s connects- would you have ever try to find me and see me again?

[a pause]

Vanessa: Yeah. I would have.

Vanessa: Baby, let’s get through this together, ok? Me and you. Now, come to bed. I miss how it feels to sleep in your arms.

Nancy Narrates: [Vanessa warned it was best to let her boss to do most of the talking and to allow her to assist when needed]

Nancy Narrates: [But I was groomed for business and business meetings was something I did best]

Vanessa: [in komorego] Boss, Nancy Landgraab is here to discuss the port situation.

komorego is the native language spoken in Mt. Komorebi thanks to @esotericas-sims for the recommendation!!

Akira: Nancy Landgraab, the unluckiest woman in the world. You've created a real shitty situation, haven't you? We have little patience for interruptions, particularly regarding matters as sensitive as my business.

Nancy: How else would I have gotten your attention?

[silence]

[Vanessa inhales sharply]

Akira: [laughs] Now why would a button up little white girl like you want the attention of The Kibo Family, huh? That Martha Stewart shit not cutting it for you at home?

Nancy: So I could make an offer.

Akira: ‘Make an offer’. [laughter fades] Like what exactly?

Nancy: You’re utilizing small business owners to work their way up the network to put themselves in the same room as the connects I have on speed dial. Politicians, influencers, A List Celebrities. I can be the direct line to them and sell your product personally. Vanessa and I already have a business relationship so the transaction is streamline, no middleman.

Akira: Vanessa’s told me all about you. How you’re hot shit in the states. She’s why I haven’t put one between your eyes yet. But what I want to know is, why the fuck would I want to do business with you?

Nancy: Then don’t. You can always go back to working with the Fengs who will ruin everything you worked so hard for over a quick fuck against a desk.

[laughter]

Nancy Narrates: [From the look in his eyes, I knew I had only bought myself a moment of respite. I had one chance to impress him, or-]

[retching]

#the art of being seen #the landgraabs #cw cheating #cw drugs mentioned #cw crime #sims 4 simblr #ts4 simblr #sims 4 stories

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leashybebes · 8 months ago

Text

this isn't quite a fix-it, but it opens the door to fix it. also i have had a real shitty week for a whole host of reasons and i'm getting out my sads. sorry!

Tommy drives away from Evan's - Buck's - the loft - for the last time feeling like he's been gutted. Liked he's gutting himself. He has to pull over at one point just to breathe, just so that if he's not driving he can't pull a highly illegal u-turn in the middle of the road and go back.

The first voicemail is on his phone by the time he gets home. For a long, wavering moment, he thinks he isn't going to listen to it, but it never really feels like an option. In the cab of his truck, Tommy hits play. The message is thirteen seconds of silence, an inhale, and the dial tone. Tommy listens to it three times, turns the volume all the way up, blocks his other ear.

It's just silence.

Everything is just silence.

—

The second message comes three days later, sometime during his shift, when he'd voluntarily benched himself for the first time in years, spent the day doing maintenance, his phone tucked away in his locker so he can stop feeling stupid for reflexively checking it every five minutes. Two weeks from now, he won't know Evan's schedule, but right now he knows he's on shift and part of him can't help anticipating those regular little updates. He knows they won't come - in his head he knows it, but his stupid, cowardly, aching heart is taking a minute to get with the programme.

That same stupid heart leaps when he sees the notification at the end of his shift. It plummets again quick enough, because he knows - he blew it all up so severely there's no way the message can be anything other than anger or practicalities, so he waits until he gets home to listen to it. It's not much longer than the silent one from the other day, but it's so much worse.

"I'm gonna send Eddie over with your stuff. Can you give him my things, please."

It sounds flat, rehearsed, awful. Tommy tells himself he doesn't have the right to feel sad, lets his eyes slide away from the bottle of scotch in the cupboard and goes for a late night drive instead.

When he gets home, he gathers the stuff Evan had left around over the course of the last six months - clothes, a phone charger, aftershave. He packs them into a box with his key to the loft, thinking about how he never used it unless he got there before Evan, thinking about all the lines he drew without even realising it. He tucks his heating pad in between two of Evan's shirts - Tommy doesn't get much use out of it anyway, and Evan always loved it on days when his leg flared up. Hopefully they can write it off as an oversight on his part, but he wants Evan to have it.

The conversation with Eddie is painfully awkward. Tommy doesn't dare to ask how Evan is doing, and Eddie doesn't need to ask Tommy how he is; it's written all over his face. He hasn't been sleeping, hasn't been working out. He hasn't been drinking either, but only because his self-imposed rules about when he's allowed to drink forbid it.

"Don't be a stranger," Eddie says as he's leaving.

Tommy knows he will be. Enough time, enough distance, and he'll be a stranger to them all all over again. He'll be a memory for Evan for a while, but give it long enough, and he'll be a memory he doesn't remember. It'll be okay. It'll all be okay.

—

The third message comes a few weeks later. Tommy's out on another aimless drive - he doesn't love spending time at home anymore. He knows it'll get better, but for now, he's spending pretty much all his waking hours in his car, at the gym, and at work. Like the very first message, he stays in the cab of the truck when he listens to this one. He's glad he managed to put off listening until he got home because this - this is the one that devastates him.

"Hey, Tommy. It's Evan. Well, Buck, I guess."

Evan's drunk, and Tommy should stop listening to the message right now, for his own sanity, and for Evan's dignity come the morning. But his voice…

"I'm real glad I didn't break your heart, Tommy." It sounds mean, sharp, so un-Evan, but it's followed by a silence, and then, "I am. I actually am." There's another silence, a sniffle. "Wish you didn't break mine, but… whatever. Be safe, Tommy."

In the cab of his truck, clasping his phone so hard he's distantly a little worried he might crack the screen, Tommy cries for the first time.

—

There's a month and a half of silence after that, and he hopes that means Evan is moving on. Tommy gets back home from a failed attempt to visit an old hook-up spot and get out of his head for the night. He's had a few drinks because it didn't break the rules (it wasn't a bad shift, he wasn't alone and okay, yes, he's sad, but if he sticks religiously to that rule he might never know the simple pleasure of a cold beer ever again), but he's not drunk enough for it to cushion the blow when he flops down on his cold bed and hits play.

"Hey, uh. Happy birthday, Tommy. I hope you had a good day."

He didn't.

—

A month later.

"I went on a date tonight. It was with a woman though, so I'm gonna guess I'm still not queer the right way for you, huh? Fuck you, Tommy. My date fucking sucked."

Tommy feels about two feet tall, and like that's exactly how he deserves to feel. His thumb hovers over the block button for less than a second - he owes Evan the outlet, and that awful, scared little masochist that lives in the heart of him won't turn down the opportunity to let Evan's voice claw at him every chance he gets.

—

He tells himself he's not going to listen to the next message that comes through, but he's briefly very glad he does.

"Hey, Tommy. I wanted you to know - Maddie and Chim are having another baby. It's past three months so they're telling people now. I, uh - I just wanted you to know. Um." Abruptly, Evan sounds on the verge of tears. "I miss you, you dick. I wanted that with you. Fuck."

And then he's back to feeling crushed. It wouldn't have worked out. It wouldn't have. But he's sorry that Evan's still hurting. His own hurt is - it's just the baseline of his existence turned up a little louder than usual. It'll pass.

He tells himself that every day, every hour, every minute. It'll pass, it'll pass, it'll pass.

Howie texts him the same news later that day. Tommy thinks the message he sends back is perfectly normal, but Howie shows up at his door that night with a six pack of beer and that annoyingly perceptive air about him that makes Tommy feel seen and unsafe in the exact same way it has since the day they met.

The first beer, they talk about the pregnancy in light ways. Howie's excited. Maddie's perfect. Jee's ecstatic. Tommy's happy for them.

The second beer, Howie talks about how scared he is. How they have set ground rules and they're sticking to them, but he's walking through the world with a little core of fear inside him. Tommy almost cries.

The third beer, Howie asks how he's doing. Tommy does cry. Just a little, and he turns his face away quick enough that Howie doesn't see. He still knows, though.

"He leaves me these voicemails," Tommy says, and he sounds wrecked even to his own ears. "I know I don't - I don't have the right to miss him, but it - "

"Tommy."

"It hurts, Howie."

"I know, bud," Howie says, his hand on the back of Tommy's neck, a rough squeeze.. "I know."

—

The next message is the beginning of the end of it all. Tommy's actually had a - not terrible day. He flew four times, the sky was perfect, the calls went well. They had really good tacos for lunch at the station.

The message is waiting for him when he gets home. Evan sounds - subdued.

"Hey, Tommy. Listen, I'm gonna - I'm gonna stop calling. I'm - you hurt me. You really, really hurt me. But I think I might be hurting you too, still, and I hate that, even if I'm mad at you. I'm really mad at you, and I think - I think I'm just gonna stay mad at you unless something changes. So I'd - I'd like to see you. Talk. Say - some things. Say goodbye. It's okay if you don't want to. But I'd like to. Let me know if you wanna. And if not, then, I don't know. Bye, I guess."

Bye, I guess.

Tommy hesitates for less time than he'd like to admit. Maybe he can just ignore this one like he has all the others (is ignore the right word if they have become the constant background soundtrack to his waking hours and woven themselves into his dreams?) and Evan will be as good as his word - stop calling, stay mad, hate Tommy, but move on from him.

But it's Evan, and he's asking for something from Tommy, and the one and only time Tommy turned him down for something he really wanted, he hurt them both so bad. The least he owes Evan - the very least - is closure. And if it drives the shards of heartbreak deeper into Tommy then, hey, whatever, he's pretty sure those shards are a feature not a bug, by this point.

He navigates to their message thread, carefully doesn't look at the most recent communications - a silly joke, a heart, a can't wait to see you - and tries to find the words to reply.

—

It's not somewhere they've ever been before, and Tommy feels like that was probably deliberate on Evan's part. Still, the scene is so familiar it makes Tommy's steps falter. Evan, at a table in the sunshine, two coffee cups in front of him. He looks beautiful. He looks nervous. He looks tired. He's chosen a table away from any of the other patrons.

Part of Tommy wants to run. The rest of him knows he owes Evan the bravery he couldn't give him all those months ago, and he approaches the table, hands in his pockets.

Evan looks up, smiles like it's a reflex, but it falls away from his face like he's remembered he's mad at Tommy.

"Thanks for coming."

Tommy shrugs. "Of course."

#bucktommy #my writing

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cleo-fox · 1 year ago

Text

Conquer

Part 1 of 5

Series Masterlist

Summary: The king intends to take a bride.

You just never thought it would be you.

(Soulmate AU where Loki won)

Pairing: Loki x Female Reader

Tag List: I don’t have a tag list for this fic, sorry! The best way to hear about updates is to follow me on Tumblr or subscribe to the fic on AO3.

Warnings: Smut, 18+, Minors DNI, enemies to lovers, dirty talk, praise kink, oral sex (fem receiving), teasing, p in v sex, vaginal fingering.

A/N: I’m kind of fascinated by the concept of a soulmate AU where Loki wins and this is just another take on that thought. If you've read my fic Surrender, this one is a different universe (an AU of an AU? Is that a thing?)

I am indebted to @infinitystoner, who was kind enough to talk me through some of my doubts about this fic. This one is for you, K. (Also, everyone should go read her work, it's fabulous).

The king intends to take a bride.

At first you think it’s just a stupid rumor, but with time, it becomes clear that it’s not merely a stupid rumor, but a true rumor about a stupid plan. He hasn’t found his soulmate; the speculation is that this is about producing an heir or something similar. Which is also stupid because he’s the one who took over your fucking planet. He can make new rules for succession if he wants to. He doesn’t have to make other people suffer.

You, like most people, still harbor a lot of anger and resentment toward Loki.

You don’t know who he’s going to rope into this plan, but you feel bad for her already. Imagine not only having to be married to that monster, but being in this weird second place to whoever is unfortunate enough to be his soulmate. Imagine having to fuck him, to try and have his kid, all the while knowing you’ll be discarded once he finds his soulmate. Imagine having to go along with all of this and never being able to say what you really think.

The only person you feel sorrier for is whoever turns out to be his soulmate.

Later, all of this will strike you as absurdly ironic.

But you don’t know any of that yet.

You took a job at the hotel because you needed a change of pace after Loki took over. It was just a front desk job—you checked people in and out, answered questions, and said “let me get my manager” whenever there was a serious problem with a guest. It wasn’t glamorous or fun, but it was straightforward and you never had to bring work home with you.

The one thing that you never really considered was whether you were inadvertently choosing a job that would bring you into closer proximity to the man you were trying so desperately hard to not think about at all.

You probably should have considered it—you knew when you took the job that he did a fair amount of travel. You never really understood why—he conquered the entire fucking planet, you think he’d be content to just chill in his palace or whatever. But no. He was constantly on the move, constantly showing up and demanding to be accommodated, and people put up with it because what else are they supposed to do? You can’t exactly persona non grata the guy that successfully took over your planet and made himself king. If that worked, he wouldn’t be here in the first place.

You kind of assumed that he wouldn’t show up to your hotel—it wasn’t conveniently located to anything useful and while it technically had a five star rating, you didn’t think it offered the same caliber of accommodations as the places he was known to stay.

As it turns out, you were wrong on all counts. Hilariously wrong. Because now his steward is here in your hotel lobby. Or his…emissary? You’re not sure what this guy’s official title is. You recognize him from the news—he can often be spotted in the entourage of guards and staff that accompany Loki everywhere, but you don’t know his name. He is rattling off a monologue of sorts—the king requires accommodations, only the finest rooms, and so on. You feel as though you are having an out of body experience as you click through the booking software and confirm that the penthouse is available. You breathe an inner sigh of relief—it would have been manageable to evict whichever rich person had booked it, but it would have fucked up the cleaning crew’s scheduling for at least the next week and you know that corporate is already up Marisol’s ass about your location’s overtime.

You don’t really expect him to show up during this transaction. If you had, you would have said “let me get my manager” and washed your hands of it—you don’t get paid nearly enough to deal with self-proclaimed kings. But as you are booking the room (who the fuck are you supposed to list as the guarantor on the invoice? This wasn’t covered in your training), Loki storms in, followed by a cadre of guards.

You’re not really prepared to see him in person—that’s partly why you freeze. He’s so tall and well…real. It sounds stupid, but it’s jarring seeing him in front of you instead of on a screen or in a picture. He’s not exactly more frightening, but looking at him makes your pulse quicken.

He’s scolding the steward (emissary?) about something—you’re so distracted that you miss exactly what it is that has him so annoyed.

And then you realize that the mark on your left wrist is burning.

You swallow hard. No. Not him.

Loki looks up and his eyes lock with yours.

Fucking hell.

The wedding is a spectacle, to say the least.

Your dress is fucking ridiculous. Instead of the traditional white, you are draped in yards of green fabric covered in thousands of emeralds and diamonds and painstakingly embroidered with thread made of real gold and silver. It is very much a statement about who you are and who you belong to. You don’t care for it, but you don’t really have a choice—the details of the ceremony have been largely left to other people to decide. Part of you thinks they must have been planning for this for years, based on the number of things that are already prepared. Or maybe having access to magic negates the need for planning ahead.

You are much too angry to actually ask Loki about any of this. Not that you see much of him before the ceremony anyway.

You go through the motions of the ceremony, trying to keep your cool. It’s only been a week since he found you at the hotel, so the fact that you haven’t consummated your soulbond is more akin to an annoying itch than anything more disruptive, but when he kisses you at the conclusion of the ceremony, it's…intense, to say the least. The mild ache that settled itself between your thighs last week seems to swell, sending a fresh wave of arousal to your core. When he slides his tongue past your lips, all you want to do is release a wanton moan directly into his mouth and rub yourself shamelessly against him. The fact that you’re standing on a platform while the entire world looks on is really the only thing that stops you.

The fact that this is your immediate reaction scares you a bit. You know it’s biology—soulbonds are meant to be consummated isn’t just a saying—but there’s part of you that feels like you should have a stronger handle on that impulse. You are mad at him, you remind yourself. He took over your entire planet, installed himself as king, and then had the audacity to be your soulmate. Focus. Be angry.

You wonder if your family and friends are watching. Your phone ran out of battery the night after he found you and you haven’t had the heart to charge it. You’re barely managing your own emotional reaction—you’re not ready to invite anyone else into it just yet.

The rest of your wedding day is a blur. You meet a bunch of important people and retain exactly none of their names or roles. There is an elaborate multi-course feast and you manage to eat without spilling food on your dress, which feels like a small miracle. You meet more important people and somehow retain even less information. You dance—a few dances with important people whose names you’ve forgotten, but mostly with Loki. The sun sets. They bring out an elaborate dessert course. You dance again. Loki’s hand on your waist fans the flames of desire that you’re trying so hard to ignore.

Finally, you’re whisked away to prepare for bed. It took three people to get you into your dress, and it takes just as many to get you out. They help you into a nightgown that you also didn’t get to pick out—and in fact, it’s the first time you’re seeing it at all. It’s almost too pretty to sleep in, though you suppose that’s the point—you’re supposed to fall asleep naked and sated in the arms of your new husband (god, it’s so weird that you have a husband). You’re not so sure that this is the specific fate that’s in your cards, but you anticipate the nightgown will be coming off at some point this evening. In the interim, you look stereotypically virginal in white lace and chiffon, a glittering emerald pendant resting in your cleavage.

You’ve been staying in a guest suite since he found you, but tonight, they bring you to his rooms. Your rooms, you suppose. Somehow, you doubt he’s the sort who believes that husbands and wives should sleep separately.

The lights are on, but it’s quiet. You wonder if he’s even here.

You approach the couch that sits in front of the floor to ceiling windows that overlook the city. You can see fireworks and twinkling lights of different celebrations and your stomach clenches like a fist. It’s supposed to be in honor of you. Earth’s new queen. A title that shouldn’t even exist, let alone belong to you.

You turn away from the window and sit down on the couch. You stare at the wall, hands twisting the delicate fabric of your nightgown in your lap.

You hear a sound in the other room—his study, you think—and your heart leaps to your throat, practically buzzing with an emotion that feels like the strange cousin of anxiety and anticipation.

You keep your eyes locked on the wall as you listen to his footsteps draw closer.

“It’s customary to announce yourself when you enter someone’s quarters, you know.”

You pause for a moment before letting your gaze trail to him. It’s a conscious, obnoxious power play on your part—you are trying to show him that you still have agency, that he has not yet won your respect or admiration.

You’re not even sure that it registers, which only serves to irritate you further.

He is still wearing most of his wedding clothes, though he’s taken off the fine surcoat from the ceremony, exposing the soft tunic he was wearing underneath. He is smirking—that seems to be his expression of choice, you’ve noticed.

“Aren’t these my rooms too?” you ask. “Is it customary to announce myself in my own space?”

You are trying to be rude, but it doesn’t seem to matter: he simply laughs.

“You are spirited,” he says, looking you over appreciatively, stirring a wild and burning need in your hips, slickness collecting in the lacy white underwear that had been chosen for you.

“And you intend to break me, is that it?” you snap with more venom than is perhaps wise.

“Of course not.” His answer surprises you, though you are determined to not let that show in your face. “Your will is part of your appeal. I’d no sooner crush a rose beneath my boot.”

You are skeptical of this claim given the amount of damage he did to New York City, but your traitorous cunt throbs at his words nonetheless.

“I’m not happy about any of this, you know,” you say, hoping that your anger will act like roiling floodwaters on the firestorm of lust that’s continuing to build in your hips.

It doesn’t, of course. What’s worse: he laughs. Again.

“I’d gathered,” he says. “You are wonderfully unsubtle when you’re angry.”

“I mean, are you surprised?” you say irritably. “I didn’t even get to pick out my own wedding dress, for fuck’s sake.”

“This is the burden of the office, I’m afraid,” he says. “Your wants and desires are often secondary to the needs of the crown.”

You bite down hard on the inside of your cheek to keep yourself from screaming at him. “I think you’re missing the point.”

“I think you’ll find I’m not.”

You let out one long breath. “Are you trying to irritate me?”

Another smirk. “I’m afraid I simply have a gift for it.”

You finally give in and scowl. “Great. This is going about as well as I had expected.”

His eyes drift down the column of your throat to the emerald pendant resting in your cleavage and then to the bodice of your nightgown. “Perhaps it’s time we concern ourselves with activities that require less talking.” He licks his lips and brings his gaze back up to yours.

“I’m not entirely convinced anything would stop you from talking,” you say.

“I suspect letting me bury my tongue in your cunt might do the trick.”

For the first time today, you are entirely speechless. The fire burning low in your hips roars into an inferno, like someone has poured accelerant along your nerves and Loki has struck a match. You take in one shaky breath, your heart thrumming in your throat.

“That’s what I thought,” he says with a dark sort of smugness. “To bed, wife.”

You steadfastly ignore the way your stomach jumps when he calls you ‘wife.’ Why is that hot? It shouldn’t be hot.

You’re tempted to argue with him some more—you don’t like giving him even the vaguest impression that you’re following his orders or anything like that—but one smoldering look from him has your heart pounding and another wave of fresh arousal flooding between your legs. You follow him to the bed, trying to keep your expression neutral and indifferent.

He pulls you firmly against him and you wonder if he can feel your heart pounding in your chest. There’s no space between you—you can feel his stomach muscles expand and contract with every slow intake of breath, the press of his slowly hardening cock against your stomach.

He tilts your face up to his and claims your mouth in a devouring kiss, and this time, the moan that you’d held back during the ceremony slips from your lips almost immediately. He makes a low growling noise in return, his hands sliding to the row of small pearl buttons that hold up the back of your nightgown.

You suspect that beyond aesthetic and functional value, the purpose of these buttons is to facilitate a slow, sexy reveal; Loki undoes exactly two and a half buttons before roughly pulling the edges of the fabric apart, the remaining buttons snapping from their threads and pinging against the floor.

You pull away from him, immediately annoyed. “Do you make a habit of ruining other people’s things? What if I wanted to wear that again?”

He laughs, tugging the fabric off your shoulders. “Perhaps you forget the extraordinary powers I have at my command,” he says, staring greedily at your breasts as he tugs the nightgown down your waist, pulling it off your hips so it falls to the floor. “I could tear this gown off you every night and remake it every morning with no more than a click of my fingers.”

Fucking magic powers undercutting your goddamn fucking point.

“Yeah, well, you’re still a jackass,” you say sourly, unwilling to concede the point any further.

His smile is sharp in a way that makes you shiver and he slips his hand into your underwear, his smile growing as he feels how slick you are. “It doesn’t seem to bother you all that much, does it?”

You try to keep your expression stern, but his fingers find your clit and you can’t help the moan that falls from your lips.

“Your sweet cunt is so ready to come.” He slides a finger into you and you whimper. “It’s obscene how wet you are for me.”

You bite back a plea and kiss him instead. His mouth is rough on yours, teeth nipping at your lower lip, tongue plundering your mouth. He slides a second finger into you and you keen.

“Yes,” he groans against your mouth. “Take it like a good girl.”

You clench around his fingers and your hands seek purchase in his hair. You tug on it lightly and he growls with pleasure before he pulls away, his hands moving to the waistband of your underwear and tugging it off your hips.

“Get on the bed.” His tone brooks no arguments. “Now.”

It’s tempting to talk back, tempting to resist. You are still angry about every aspect of this relationship and this stupid fucking wedding. But you know you need this—the dull ache in your hips is only growing more pronounced with every passing moment and the brief feeling of his fingers on your clit was nothing short of heaven. Soulbonds are meant to be consummated and your body seems to be doing everything it can to propel you toward that end.

You kick your underwear the rest of the way off before sitting down on the bed and lying back on the pillows.

He pauses for a moment to look you over, his gaze trailing lazily over your bare skin, his hand absently moving to palm his cock through his trousers. “Spread your legs,” he says. You do and you catch a breath of a groan from him as he stares at you. Your cunt throbs in response and you bite your lip to keep yourself from whimpering.

He allows himself one moment before he crawls on the bed to join you. He kneels between your legs, staring greedily at your exposed cunt, running a thumb along the edge of your folds. Your hips rock upward involuntarily, chasing his hand, seeking friction.

“Such a pretty cunt,” he murmurs. “So soaking wet, so desperately needy for my touch.” He pauses again, licking his lips. “I think I might need a taste.”

Your breath stutters in your chest and he kisses the inside of your thigh, slowly licking and sucking his way upward in a tantalizing preview of what’s to come. You’re already soaking and you can feel yourself growing wetter as his sinful mouth draws closer and closer to your aching need.

You’re not entirely sure whether it’s a moan or a whine that passes your lips when he finally licks that first long, lazy stripe from your entrance all the way up to your clit. He groans low and wanting against your cunt, his tongue rolling over your clit once more before he catches it between his lips and slowly begins to suck.

There is no getting around it: Loki is a pro at eating pussy.

It would be easier if he wasn’t, you find yourself thinking somewhere in the haze between orgasms. If he were mediocre, it would make it so much easier to be angry at him, to resent your current situation. This is not to say that you’ve abandoned your anger at all—you are still mad. But your anger feels so much less effective when he’s spent a solid ninety minutes with his head between your legs and you’ve lost track of the number of times he’s made you come.

He is—predictably—infuriatingly smug about all of this.

Your first orgasm arrives so quickly that it seems to take you both by surprise. And indeed, he lifts his head moments later, already smirking.

“That was awfully quick, wife,” he says. The glint in his eye tells you that he absolutely noticed how you reacted to that name earlier and you have to bite the inside of your cheek to keep from scowling.

“Maybe you’re out of practice,” you say. Even as you say it, it doesn’t sound convincing (it doesn’t even make sense when you think about it later) and Loki laughs outright.

“I think not,” he says, carefully sliding one long index finger inside of you. “I think your poor cunt has been sorely neglected, either by you or some subpar lover you took to ease the ache of missing me.” He adds a second finger and you bite your lip to keep in a moan. “I think you’ll be begging for me before the night is out.” His fingertips press teasingly against that spot inside you and you take in a sharp breath.

He starts lazily moving his fingers in and out of you and while it feels good, you know it’s not going to be enough to get you there. You suspect, from the way that he’s smirking, that he knows this, too.

“Do you want my mouth again? I don’t think you’re done.”

“You’re trying to be a jerk and I don’t like it,” you say.

He laughs and draws his thumb briefly over your clit. “Darling, I only want you to tell me what you want.”

Your eyes narrow. “Why?”

“I think you can understand the appeal of hearing a beautiful woman beg for your touch.”

His compliment immediately clashes with the suggestion that you begging for him is a possibility.

He smiles, catlike, like he knows exactly what you’re thinking.

“You need my mouth again,” he says, fingers curling inside you. “You need more. I can feel how wet you are, sweet thing.” His thumb presses against your clit and retreats as soon as your breath hitches.

“I could keep you like this for hours. Days, even,” he says, lazily stroking his fingers inside you. “I could keep you right on the edge, begging for your release. But I don’t think you want that. Even I don’t want that. I think you want to come again right now and I think you want my mouth.”

“I’m not begging you for it,” you say.

“I’ve only asked you to tell me what you want,” he says. “I’ve merely expressed that I find the idea of you begging very appealing.”

You want to smack him. With your luck, though, that would turn out to be one of his kinks and then you’ll really be in for it. Your fingers flex against the sheets.

“Do you want to come, darling? Do you want my mouth again?” he asks with a feigned innocence that suggests it’s not a loaded question, even as the glint in his eyes tells you it is.

You’re silent for a beat and then his thumb returns to your clit, pressing and stroking as his fingers curl inside of you. Your hips rock with his hand and you have to bite your lip to keep yourself from moaning aloud when he stops a few seconds later, his eyebrows raised like he’s expecting your answer.

This exchange repeats four more times. On the fifth, you finally break.

“Please,” you whimper. You sound more desperate than you would prefer, but your overwhelming need to come has quickly superseded whatever shreds of decency you have left.

“Please what?” he asks, radiating smugness.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl, which he only laughs at.

“I’m waiting…” he says, his fingers curling in a teasing way.

You know there’s no getting around this. “I need to come.”

He looks at you with a raised eyebrow, like he’s expecting more.

You resist the urge to sigh. “I need your mouth. Please.”

He barely spares a second for a wicked grin and a growl of praise that only elevates your need before he’s lowering his mouth again to your clit.

Your second orgasm is somehow even quicker than the first, only this time, you’re already whimpering for the next one as soon as you catch your breath.

Mercifully, he doesn’t lift his mouth from your cunt this time, though he does give you a wicked look that more or less says the same thing.

His fingers are wonderful, but you know they’re no substitute for his cock. And while he has made you come so many times already, the need to have him inside of you continues to grow, settling into a dull ache in your hips.

“I need you to fuck me,” you finally breathe as the aftershocks of your latest orgasm fade back to that ache.

He lifts his head for a minute. “I intend to, but I don’t think you’re done yet.”

Your eyes widen as he seals his lips back around your clit.

“I mean, I’ve just—fuck—I’ve just had more…c-consecutive orgasms than I’ve ever had before in my life, you’re—oh my god, yes—you’re not exactly leaving me wanting—oh fuck.”

He stays silent, but it’s because his tongue is working over your clit. You, on the other hand, are in the process of undercutting your own point. A few more strokes of his tongue and you are coming again, your hips jerking hard against his mouth.

He doesn’t stop after that, either—he draws more orgasms from you, groaning into your cunt when you pull on his hair.

Your pleas for him to fuck you become increasingly desperate with every orgasm, until he finally lifts his head.

“What was it that you wanted?” he asks with a smirk that tells you he needs absolutely no clarification whatsoever.

“Fuck me, please. I need to be fucked, I need your cock,” you say. You feel restless and desperate, the ache inside you growing with every passing second.

“Oh, darling, all you needed to do was ask,” he says, his tone overly cloying.

You’re not quite so far gone that you can’t manage a scowl. “I have been asking. Repeatedly.”

He laughs and begins to undress. You suspect he’s doing this to torture you—you know he could remove his clothes in one go if he wanted to.

He peels his shirt off first and your lips part involuntarily as you take in the firm expanse of muscle of his chest and abdomen, your fingertips itching with the need to touch him. You grip the sheets instead in the vain hope that it might make a difference (it doesn’t).

But even the enticing expanse of his chest is no match for what’s to come.

He removes his trousers with achingly precise slowness. You expect him to be hard; what you’re not expecting is the primal response that it invokes in you. His cock is long, thick, and hard, the head already slick with pre-come. It’s not just for you—it’s because of you.

You swallow hard as he turns to face you fully. You’re so distracted by his cock that you almost miss the smug smirk, which he makes no attempt to hide. He knows he’s hot, he knows he has a beautiful cock, and he knows that you are absolutely aching for him. It is profoundly irritating.

He wraps his hand around his cock, wetting his lips as he casually strokes himself once. “Do you want me?” he asks with the sort of tone and expression that tells you he absolutely knows the answer.

You could yell at him. The prospect is certainly tempting. But you’re not sure that it’s worth it, not with the way your cunt is throbbing with the need to be filled with his beautiful, thick cock.

“Loki, please.” It comes out as more of a whine than you’d like, but you decide that you can live with it.

You are treated to a particularly wolfish grin before he starts stalking towards you.

There’s a large part of you that expects him to flip you over and take you from behind, rough and fast and impersonal. But instead, he climbs on top of you and draws you into a kiss. It’s deep and slow and heightened by the heavy weight of his bare cock pressing against your belly, drops of pre-come smearing against your skin.

Your back arches and your right leg snakes around his waist, trying to pull him closer, urging him to finally ease the ache inside of you. But he takes his time, kissing you slowly, running his hands over your breasts and hips, rocking his cock against you, but not inside of you.

You don’t like begging—it feels too much like offering up a vulnerability—but it becomes increasingly difficult not to give into the urge the longer he stays on top of you like this.

“Loki,” you finally say when he starts peppering sharp, sucking kisses against your throat.

“What is it, my love?” he asks with a faux confusion that you can see through right away.

“You know what I want,” you say as evenly as you can manage.

“Mmm, let me hear you say it just once more,” he says.

“Please fuck me.”

You’re expecting another negotiation, another battle of wits, but instead, he gives you a rather sharp grin and adjusts his hips so he can rub the tip of his cock up and down the length of your cunt. And then, to your surprise, he lines his cock up at your entrance and slowly begins to ease inside of you.

There’s a part of you—a large part of you—that’s surprised by how careful he is. He’s gentle, slowly pressing into you, giving you time to adjust, his movements careful. He does this all in such a way that you might not notice if you didn’t think to look—he wants you to think that he’s not doing any of what he’s doing. He wants you to think he’s not thinking of you when he is, that the care and precision of his movements are merely a pleasant coincidence. You’re not sure how you know this, but you feel certain.

He waits to kiss you until he’s pressed fully inside you, and you realize this is another illusion, another cover so you don’t realize that he’s giving you another moment to adjust to him.

It’s oddly considerate—irritatingly so. The coals of your anger still burn bright in your heart, but they flicker for just a moment.

But then he begins to move and coherent thoughts flee your mind entirely.

He feels so good. You’re not sure if it’s the soulbond itself, the dopamine and serotonin, or if he just knows the perfect way to move, but the first thrust has your toes curling and that warm heat stirring in your belly. You’ve already come so many times tonight that it feels impossible that your body should be capable of more, but you know immediately that he’s going to bring you right back over the edge if he keeps moving the way he is.

And he’s showing no signs of stopping, either.

“Norns,” he breathes, pressing a kiss against your neck, “you feel perfect. So warm and tight.”

You shiver, your cunt clenching reflexively around his slowly stroking cock. He grins and presses his lips up against your ear.

“Do you like hearing how your snug little cunt fits me like a glove?”

You would prefer to be able to lie in this particular moment—instead, your body immediately betrays you and your legs tighten around his waist as your cunt shudders around him.

You can practically feel his sharp, hungry smile as he nips at your earlobe. “I can feel how much you do,” he murmurs. A devastating swivel of his hips has you uttering a gasping whine that you are not at all proud of.

“That’s it.” He’s swiveling his hips on every other thrust now and you know the moment he switches to that exclusively, it’s all over. “You’re so close,” he purrs with confidence that annoys you just a little, even in your pre-orgasmic stupor.

But then he swivels his hips again and you shudder before you can hide it and he notices…and does it again.

And again.

Fuck.

Your orgasm starts barreling toward you at an impossibly fast pace and his eyes glitter because he knows.

“You’re going to come for me.” It’s not even a command—it’s just a statement as he rolls his hips in those devastating thrusts.

You whimper, your back arching.

“Give into it. Let me feel you.”

One more push of his cock against that sweet spot inside you and you can’t fight it any more. Your muscles tense one last time and you cry out as you come hard on his cock.

“Oh, beautiful,” he groans, his eyes closing as he fucks you through it.

It seems to last a long time, drawn out every time the head of his cock drags against that sensitive spot that sent you over the edge in the first place. He pauses briefly to bring your legs up over his shoulders, which makes his cock hit a spot even deeper inside you that feels so good it pulls a strangled sob from your throat.

Loki groans, his pace increasing, one hand falling between your legs to rub at your clit. It’s so much, but it feels better than anything. You feel another orgasm rising in your hips and you whimper.

“Good girl, fucking take it,” he slurs. You can tell that he’s getting close from the way his thrusting is becoming more frantic, how he tips his head back and grips your hips even harder.

“Come for me,” he growls. “I’m going to fill your lovely cunt with my seed. Come for me.”

Your vision whites out and your back arches as you come. If you were capable of rational thought, you would be angry that your body simply obeyed this simple directive; as it is, it’s hard for you to process anything other than how good he feels inside of you.

You can tell he’s approaching his end and he’s utterly captivating to watch. His eyes are screwed shut, brow furrowed and lips parted as he lets out a low groan that makes your toes curl.

His eyes open in the final throes and he surges forward to kiss you. He moans softly into your mouth as he comes, his whole body shuddering.

You feel dreamy and sated as he slows to a halt, lowering his head to the crook of your neck. The restless ache inside you is finally quiet—at least for now.

You expect him to roll off you and fall asleep—the portrait of a cliche. Instead, he stays with you, the warm heat of his breath ghosting over your shoulder. You can feel his cock still throbbing inside of you.

You should push him away, reclaim the distance between you. You’re angry at him, after all.

But also…it feels nice.

It’s just the endorphins, you tell yourself. It’s hormones. It doesn’t mean anything.

You can feel the lie prickling at the edges of the thought, sharp and needling, like ground glass pressing against bare skin. It means a lot of things; you just wish it didn’t.

Be angry.

His lips brush against your shoulder. More of your muscles relax. It’s nice.

Be angry.

You’re tired though. It’s been a really long day and the bed is soft and the weight of Loki on top of you is oddly reassuring.

Maybe just for tonight. Maybe just this once you’ll allow yourself to fall asleep in his bed.

“I’m still mad at you,” you say. It feels too sharp, too strident. The lady doth protest too much, methinks. He doesn’t know you, though, not really, and so you can only hope that he misses the subtle catch in your voice, that little note of uncertainty.

“I’d expect nothing less.” His voice is slightly muffled against your shoulder.

Goddammit, why does this have to be so comfortable?

He shifts slightly, easing out of you. You feel the resulting mess vanish before it even hits your thigh. At least he’s considerate.

You scowl at the thought.

“Sleep,” he says after a moment. “You’ll need your strength to rage at me in the morning.”

“I can rage at you in my sleep,” you say as your eyes slide shut.

“I’m sure you can,” he says. “Sleep.”

And despite all your complicated feelings—your anger, the inherent feeling of ease you get from his embrace, your unease with your new title, your homesickness—you find that the pull of sleep is too tempting to resist and the world slowly fades away.

Next chapter

#loki smut #loki x reader smut #loki x reader #loki x female reader #loki x female reader smut #loki fanfiction #loki laufeyson smut

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zluckychap · 4 months ago

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i give my thoughts on sebastian and painter's roles in pressure's story because i am bored (see below)

sebastian is selfish.

he isn’t inherently selfish. his circumstances, however, forced him into a situation where he had to be. i would argue that his selfishness is the only reason he is still alive.

as of the lockdown, sebastian only has 2 goals in mind.

1) his own survival and 2) urbanshade’s downfall. anything he must do to accomplish those goals is a moot point.

in the midst of the lockdown, sebastian encountered something. or rather, someone. a fellow victim of urbanshade, who hated them just as much as sebastian did. someone willing and able to assist him in his goal of achieving freedom.

that was all he needed to hear.

sebastian is at least a bit fond of painter. he finds the little guy endearing.

but he mainly likes painter for his usefulness. he sees painter as an asset. therefore, he isn’t really inclined to treat him as a friend.

the deal they made stated that painter would buy sebastian time to organize an escape, in return for seb taking painter with him. in the end, painter’s fate relies entirely on sebastian’s willingness to honor that deal.

is there any chance that sebastian might actually do that? of course there is. that chance is just very, very, very low.

one thing that might compel sebastian to make good on his deal is his sense of honor as a businessman. he honors the sales deals he makes with the expendables, even if he hopes they all explode.

though i suppose if he had a habit of cheating them out, or killing them without reason, they’d stop coming to his shop, stripping him of a valuable source of data. sebastian is kind of forced to honor his deals in that scenario.

if sebastian chose to break off his deal with painter, he would not get the short end of the stick. painter would be the only one inconvenienced.

what about a sense of kinship? granted, while seb had it way worse, seb and painter are both victims of urbanshade. would seb feel compelled to save another poor soul from the same fate as him? ehhh…

in order for sebastian to care enough about honoring his end of the deal… he needs to put someone else’s needs before his own. does he care enough about painter to do that for him?

right now, as things currently stand within the story… my money’s on no.

it’s evident that sebastian doesn’t check in on painter much, if at all. he isn’t bothering to keep him updated on a plan that they are supposedly both in on.

despite that, painter holds onto hope that sebastian will come back for him. it’s not like he has any other options.

sebastian doesn’t check in on painter because, well, he is selfish. his circumstances have forced him into a mindset where he thinks his only chance at survival means exclusively looking out for number one.

in order to improve his own odds of survival, he did the bare minimum of what it would take to get painter on his side… and then left him out to dry.

heck, painter’s usefulness is the only reason the two are even acquainted. if, when they met, painter had been unable to assist sebastian at all, i guarantee seb would have just been like “welp sucks to be you, byebye” without a second thought.

so as things are now, painter is most likely doomed, as is the friendship he thinks he has with seb.

the only question remaining is: is there hope for them in the future? is there a feasible chance that they could both get the happy endings they deserve?

in order for that to happen, sebastian needs to learn to care again. to trust again. to do the work to keep and maintain painter’s friendship.

to try to accomplish his goals not just for himself, but for those he cares for.

could that possibly be in seb’s future?

i don’t know. but i don’t wish to rule anything out.

and i’m certainly not going to give up hope on these two just yet.

after all, anything is possible.

#pressure #pressure roblox #roblox pressure #sebastian solace #sebastian pressure #pressure painter #i love these two and i cannot wait to see what the future has in store for them

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spencer-sweets · 3 months ago

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9-1-1 Fic Recs | Evan "Buck" Buckley/Eddie Diaz

[Part 1] [Part 2]

so i am back in the trenches of this ship once again. praying for it to go canon in the next couple of seasons but i am surviving on the crumbs. i made a post before with some old recs but these are ones i have read recently.

[this rec list is incomplete and will be updated as I find more fics I enjoy - last update 4/9/25]

Bobby Versus Buddie by songbvrd (ao3) Mature 10,391 Eddie huffed out a breath. “I’m having a crisis.” And Bobby, he wasn’t proud of it, but the word ‘finally’ was flashing in front of his eyes in giant, neon yellow letters, because surely, surely this meant that he’d figured it out. Finally, at long last, Eddie was having the crisis they’d all been waiting for since he’d started a thousand emergencies earlier. Bobby waited, silent and hopeful, relieved that they’d finally gotten there. “I think I’m homophobic.” Bobby blinked at him. “I’m sorry?” OR - Five times Bobby tried to gently hold Buddie's hands and tell them they were in love, and one time they got the picture.

a cute 5+1 with bobby being done with eddie and buck. got to love the bobby and buck dynamic too.

What’s Your Love Language? by songbvrd (ao3) 18 332 “Which do you think makes you feel most loved?” Eddie thought for a long moment. Too long, maybe. Then he shrugged, “Honestly, Buck? I have no idea.” Buck’s brows pinched up. “What do you mean? When have you felt the most loved?” “Don’t make a big thing of this, Buck. Promise?” Buck made a show of crossing his heart, brows still raised curiously. “I’m not sure I’ve ever… really felt loved in a relationship? I’m not convinced that I know what makes me feel loved…” OR - After finding out that Eddie doesn't know what his love language is, Buck sets about finding out for him. He begins a five week experiment, one for each love language, to figure out which will make Eddie feel the most loved.

another great fluffy fic with some slight emotional infidelity. set in season 7 and buck decides he needs to learn how to best love eddie. spoiler: he was already doing just fine.

50 Cheeky Texts by songbvrd (ao3) 20.999 Bucklecup: I really like your moustache. it’s very girthy. really solid. Eddito: girthy????????????? Eddito: did you just text me at 7pm on a wednesday evening to tell me my moustache is GIRTHY???? Bucklecup: honestly, i’m kinda surprised you haven’t blocked me yet, eds OR - Buck gets drunk-dared to send Eddie one cheeky text every day for 50 days. Eddie loses his mind. TW for the cringiest pickup lines in existence.

awwww. tho i should warn you there is some emotional infidelity going on here but it wasn't bad enough to turn me off of the fic but i thought i'd warn yall. anyways absolutely beautiful fic that made me laugh. also love the author. unintentionally bookmarked this back to back with their prev on this list haha.

know it's for the better by hyruling for fallingthorns (ao3) Explicit 24 931 “I love you, you know.” Buck smiles, and it’s Eddie’s favorite - the one that seems to light him up from within, beautiful and too bright to look at directly for long. “Of course I know that, Eddie,” Buck replies, easy as breathing, but Eddie shakes his head. --- Or: Eddie confesses. Buck doesn't love him back, but it doesn't matter. He'll keep telling him anyway.

oblivious buck and a pining eddie. eddie confesses and buck kind of shuts down mentally over it but eddie just keeps loving him. set in season 7.

Hen Wilson's Four Part Guide To Making Your Stupid Friends Date by songbvrd (ao3) 25 010 “Okay, I know we kind of all had an unspoken rule not to talk about it, but…” “Buck and Eddie are being weird as hell?” Chim asked, sucking in a breath like he'd been holding back from letting the same thought out for far too long. “Yes!” Hen hissed, relieved that she wasn't the only to see the weirdness in the room. “Now, look, they're my friends and so obviously I want them to be happy, but it's also just throwing the team vibe way off.” Bobby took a long, tired breath. “Okay. So what did you have in mind?” Several things, as it turned out. Between them, they managed to come up with the very vague outline of a plan. Or a few plans, really, depending on how many failed. OR - When Buck and Eddie aren't speaking, Hen decides to take matters into her own hands.

i feel like i should be a little bit more ashamed at putting so many fics by songbvrd on this list but... they're sooo good. always coming in clutch for some interesting plot in a medium length fic. this one is no exception to that trend - loved hen in this one and i love miscommunication and outsider POV.

Eddie vs Romance by allyasavedtheday (restricted) (ao3) 27 889 “You wanna talk about it?” Buck asks after a beat. He doesn’t drink his beer. Eddie doesn’t either. It’s a crutch, mostly. A pretence, so that if the conversation gets too deep, too fast they can blame it on the alcohol. Eddie appreciates it. As he thinks about Buck’s question he wonders where to start. He’s told Buck some of it, the important parts, but not- not what compelled him to do any of it in the first place. In the end, he can only think of one thing. Swallowing around the lump clogging his throat, he says, “I don’t think I know how to be in love anymore.” - “I think Eddie’s in love with me.” She gapes at him, mouth working for a response that doesn’t come until Chimney beats her to it. “Eddie’s what?” Maddie claps her mouth shut, stepping aside to let Buck through. Chimney’s on the floor in the living room with Jee playing with her tea set. “You’re not involved in this conversation,” Buck says, pointing at him. “It’s your fault in the first place for even putting the idea in my head.” Maddie apparently finally finds her voice, appearing at Buck’s side and looking between them. “I’m sorry, what? How did Chim put the idea in your head?” “Him and Hen!” Buck exclaims, waving a hand. “They told me I should pay attention to how much Eddie wants to be around me.” “And you took that to mean he’s in love with you?” Chimney asks incredulously. * In which Buck has a clipboard and a list and is about to romance the hell out of Eddie Diaz.

a short series of two fics that explore eddie realizing he is in love with buck, buck realizing eddie is in love with him and then them getting together. really cute and an amazing take on eddie's relationship to shannon.

I’m Bringing You With Me by CourtepointeClementine, sunlight (ao3) 30 997 Eddie props his chin up on his hand to stare at Buck in the dark. The mattress makes an ungodly squeaking noise from even this small movement. Maybe sneaking out wouldn’t actually be that easy. Eddie reaches across him and squeezes Buck’s shoulder. Buck looks over at him. “You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to,” Eddie says. “I took the couch,” Buck blurts out. Eddie’s hand stills where it was still gently squeezing Buck’s shoulder. “What?” “Ugh.” He dislodges Eddie’s hand and pulls the duvet up over his own face. “Why?” Buck uses the duvet cover to absorb the lone tear that is trickling down to his ear. “It looked lonely. On the curb.” On Eddie’s last night in LA, Buck does something a little crazy. While Eddie’s in El Paso, he does something a little crazy. It all comes back to the couch in the end.

eddie moves to el paso and buck does not handle it well. like at all. lots of emotional hurt for buck and of course a happy ending.

it was more than a moment (it was the rest of our lives) by smilingbuckley (restricted) (ao3) Mature 36 161 At work, Eddie gets the shocking news that his parents are suing him for custody of Christopher. His lawyer, falsely assuming Buck and Eddie are a couple, suggests they get married to give Eddie a stronger case. Buck gladly agrees. -- “So,” Buck speaks up when the waiter is gone. He stretches his arms above his head, making the shirt under his jacket ride up and expose a bit of his skin. Eddie can see the faint lines of a tattoo before Buck shifts and his shirt falls down again. “Are we getting married?” Eddie has to do a double take, “Excuse me, what?” “Well, Mrs. Reese said that it would be useful,” Buck says, like it’s not a big deal at all. Like marriage isn’t an official commitment, usually reserved for people in love that plan on being together for the rest of their lives. “I… Buck, it’s… good that you’re, you know, my fake boyfriend or whatever, but I can’t let you marry me for this.” “Why not?” Buck asks, “If it helps you get Christopher back.”

fake marriage turned real marriage fic. also fuck helena and ramon all my homies hate helena and ramon. eddies parents fuck up and try to take chris permanently and eddie and buck get married over it. season 8.

something touched me (like a knife-blade) by kithmet (ao3) Explicit 42,295 “I feel fucking explosive, Buck. Like I’m about to go off at any second. I don’t want you caught in my mess.” His eyes sting. At the very least, Buck contains the sound of it in his voice. “Eddie, I don’t know if you’ve noticed,” he replies, “but I already am.” Eddie self-implodes. Christopher, seeking refuge, flees to Buck—whose priorities amount to, in varying order: take in the kid, get Eddie to talk to him, and keep the three of them afloat in the process. (Oh, and Tommy’s there too. He thinks.)

this was a great fic and an interesting take on chris staying with buck and eddie getting his shit together.

everything (nothing) has changed by bizarrestars (restricted) (ao3) Explicit 48 550 After Eddie gets shot, Buck confesses his love. From there, things get a little out of hand. *** Buck breathes for a moment, then sets his shoulders. "Eddie, there's something I have to tell you." "Do you?" Eddie asks flatly, still alarmed and doing his best to hide it. "I would've never guessed." Buck swallows. "Eddie, I love you." "Are you softening the blow, or buttering me up? Because, I've got to tell you, I'm still very worried regardless," Eddie tells him. "No, you don't understand. I love you. I'm currently in love with you," Buck says as evenly as possible, and even then, his voice wobbles precariously there for a moment. He exhales. "You don't have to worry about it, though, because I've processed it and decided to—to find relief in telling you before moving on and moving forward." Eddie stares at him. No response at all. Well, at least he's not freaking out.

the note left in my bookmark: "couldn't even play my video games while listening to this smh. took too much of my attention. <3"

i tend to download fics and listen to them through a epub reader and play video games but i could not keep from pausing to keep reading manually i needed to know what was next so bad. buck and eddie being stubborn and stupid and includes some of my favorite pining tropes. i love when one of them is convinced the other cannot love them so they try to fall out of love. amazing. also jealous eddie ftw.

Juxtaposition by ProstheticLoVe (ao3) Teen+ 74 552 “What kind of partner do you want?” Buck looks him straight in the eye and with no hesitation says, “One who has my back. Someone who loves me for me. All the chaos and the weirdness included. Someone who I love. Even if I have to wait for them to catch up.” He says it with such confidence, Eddie feels like his answer was lacking. Or the one where Eddie’s too busy stuck on the idea of a heteronormative family that he misses who is right in front of him and has been all along. Don’t worry, Buck’s trying to tell him.

eddie being in love with buck but being so deeply repressed is one of my fave tropes and it is pulled off excellently here.

Away From Us by Marchling (restricted) (ao3) Mature 76 165 They turned the last corner they needed to get to Buck’s loft and the floor was gone. “Firefighters evacuate. The building is collapsing.” Eddie stared incomprehensibly to the gaping drop that should have been Buck’s hall. His heart was pounding, not because he had worked so hard to get here… Because he was terrified. “Buck!” Eddie screamed as loud as he could to be heard over the flames. His hands scrambled over the walls, testing them, trying to see if he could use a ledge or a doorknob or something to get to Buck’s door. There was no answer but Eddie screamed again, “Buck! Are you here?” --- After the lawsuit Buck is doing his absolute best to try to win back his family but nothing is working and the hope is starting to hurt. He makes the the decision to resign from the 118 via letter and leave LA to start something new in Arizona. And that would've been fine except a fire burns down his entire apartment building that morning and the letter never makes it to Bobby. When Buck isn't found amongst the survivors his loved ones have to accept that he died in the fire. A presumed dead story about forgiveness, grief, second chances and falling in love.

aaahhhh presumed dead my beloved. buck is presumed dead in a fire when he decides to run after the lawsuit. eddie and the rest of the 118 have to grapple with the death of buck. loved bobby in this one and it broke me to see his grief over losing another kid.

there is no road by littleghost (ao3) Explicit 99 788 Eddie listens to the voicemail later. Buck sounds like he’s at a grocery store, absentmindedly talking into the phone. “Oh, I guess you’re with your sisters. Sorry to miss you. I just wanted to tell you about this call we had last night, but I gotta hear your reactions, so, later. Okay, uh, I guess I’ll just call back. Or text.” It ends abruptly, without a goodbye. Eddie replays it a second time, closes his eyes as he sits in the truck. For a moment, he can pretend Buck is sitting in the passenger seat next to him. For a moment, Eddie is back in Los Angeles and his best friend is dragging him through the grocery store. The voicemail ends, Eddie opens his eyes, and the fantasy breaks. Eddie is still in El Paso, parked in front of the house he’s renting, and there’s no one in the passenger seat with him.

omgggg. so im fairly sure the title is from that song from the bolt movie so points off the bat for that decision i have it stuck in my head now. a good fix it fic for season 8 where buck and eddie keep communicating through voicemails as they intentionally and unintentionally miss each others calls. great fic that has calls in it and a lot of substance. loved it.

originally posted 4/7/25

#911 abc #911 show #buddie #evan buckley #evan buck buckely #evan buckey x eddie diaz #evan buckley/eddie diaz #eddie diaz #fic rec #buck buckley #buddie fic rec #9 1 1 on abc #9 1 1 buddie

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