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iamthatonefangirl · 2 months ago

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grumpy x sunshine but filthy smut where reader is just his wittle baby :( loves and does anything for her and she’s the same for bucky

baby - nsfw bucky barnes

this might be the softest smut I've ever written in my life. totally got away from me.

(lmk if you'd like to choose an emoji, I'd love to hear more from you 🤍)

~~~

you're wrapped up in his arms, the lights dimmed low. the soft, warm luminescence from the lamp makes you glow like an angel, he thinks.

you are an angel. you have to be, because how could you be real?

you are ethereal, a beam of joy and happiness for him in a world that is otherwise nothing but a void of endless nothingness and despair. you can do absolutely no wrong in his eyes; he'll defend and protect you until the day that he dies.

he's got you in his lap, wrapping his arms around your torso to keep you close. you dangle your arms over his shoulders, lazily wrapping them around his neck.

your foreheads are pressed softly together, the act so intimate and full of love it makes you feel like you’re one.

he's just barely moving you back and forth, keeping you oh so close to him while you moan lowly at the pressure of him buried inside you.

he breathes in your scent, just feeling the way you make his whole body soar with love and the surge of happiness that runs through him like a never-ending jolt of electricity.

~~~

when you met him, you were told to expect the worst. you were briefed that he doesn't talk to anyone, doesn't leave his apartment except for work, etc. you were mentally prepared for the antisocial homebody you had been forewarned about, but you weren't nervous. you would just be yourself and hope for the best.

but when you met him, he wasn't staring at you like everyone said he would. yes, he was staring at you, but not with the rage of a thousand suns like you anticipated. his eyes were wide open in... curiosity?

he was shy, but he shook your hand no problem.

internally, he was a wreck. he was melting just from seeing your smile, something that had never happened to him before. he was stunned into silence. sure, he never really made the effort to speak to anyone else anyways, but you?

how was he supposed to talk to a pretty girl like you?

he would only embarrass himself, or look like a pathetic loser, or maybe you had made your decision about him before you met him. maybe you already hated him, and he didn't even stand a chance.

he knew how his demeanor came off; he didn't care what people thought of him. ideally, they wouldn't perceive him at all. the dream life would be to work, stay in the shadows, and never have to speak to another soul again.

but you... god, you were just something else. he wanted to say more to you than he had, he wanted to prove to you that he was more than the angry, people-loathing person everyone else probably told you he was.

after your first meeting, he felt a fool. he blubbered and stuttered like an idiot, and Sam smacked his shoulder and chuckled as you walked away. he scowled at him and stalked off, as usual.

he was just a hateful person. no reason for you to think he could be more than that.

~~~

"you're so pretty, sweetheart," he whispers to you, taking in the sight in front of him. your eyes are shut so softly, relishing in the way he's making such gentle love to you. it's almost sickening how sweet the scene is.

he brings a flesh hand to your cheek, cradling your face in his palm. brings new meaning to "his whole world in the palm of his hand."

"oh, baby," you mumble to him, moving your hips against him a little, neediness taking over your mind. "Bucky, baby, my baby..."

"come on," he whispers. with your eyes closed, you don't see the way his face pinks up. "I'm not a baby. you are my baby," he says, adjusting his grip on you, keeping his hands pressed against your soft skin. his fingertips dip into your flesh ever so softly, making sure not to hurt you. he'd go to the ends of the earth to protect you, rip out anyone's spine for you...

"but you are my baby," you whisper back to him, eyes still shut. your voice is a soft whine as you slowly move back and forth. "you’re my baby, Bucky. my baby, my Bucky, all mine..."

your words send him into a spiral. him? your baby? he's fucked.

"would... would you say it again?" he says, so low in the back of his throat, the words are barely audible.

"you're my baby," you repeat, and he somehow pulls you even closer, as if you're not already as close together as humanly possible.

"and you’re mine, sweetheart,” he tells you as he begins to move you both, still keeping you pressed tightly against him as he lays you on your back and begins to move his hips between yours so slowly and perfectly. “god, I love you,” he breathes.

you let out a soft little cry. "shh, pretty baby, I'm here," he says to you, his tone just a little higher, the way it shifts only around you. "you know I'm here. I'll always be here. just let me take care of you, my baby.”

~~~

every time you spoke to him him after your initial meeting, he felt like his entire reality was warped. time seemed to speed up, moving way too fast whenever he got the chance to speak to you. it was never enough time.

he found himself smiling, even blushing around you. everyone else was shocked, wondering if the man was on drugs or something with the way he seemed to perk up around you.

but no, no drugs.

you lit up something in his soul that he didn't know was possible.

no matter how scared he was, how convinced he was that you were going to say no, he knew he cared too much about you to not make the effort. he was so deeply in love with you to not ask you.

and if you said no, he would deal with it the same way he dealt with everything else: by pretending he didn't care and falling deeper into his hatred for the world.

lucky for the both of you, when he asked you out, you said "yes!" with a vibrant smile and a small spring in your step. he thought he would never be happier than he was in that moment.

oh, but he was wrong. that moment when he got down on one knee, and saw the way your face lit up in pure delight and excitement as you exclaimed, "yes, yes, yes!" over and over again?

that was the happiest moment of his life.

~~~

he reaches down to where your hands are now interlaced, running his fingers over the metal band on your ring finger. he proceeds to bring your hand to his lips to press a kiss to your knuckles, to the permanent mark he's now left on your skin, forever.

a beautiful diamond for the most beautiful girl in the world.

having you, here, under him. it's the biggest privilege of his life to call you his, and he's going to spend the rest of his life trying to prove that he deserves to have you.

"you feelin' good, baby?" he whispers to you, cupping your face in his hand once more. "tell me what you need. anything at all, it's yours."

you shake your head. "it's perfect, baby..." you whine, lifting your hips to meet his.

"you ready for me to make you come, baby?" he asks, pushing a strand of hair out of your face.

"yes, please, James," you ask him, and he brings his lips to your neck.

"no need for pleas, baby, I'm gonna give you everything you want for the rest of our lives."

he moves your legs to wrap around his waist and kisses your neck up to your jaw, doubling down on his efforts as he fucks you so sweetly.

"that's my girl. my baby, my fiance," he whispers as though he's speaking to himself. "you're doing so well, babydoll. come for me."

your legs tighten around his waist, trapping his hips against yours as you bear down and reach your release with a cry of his name.

"so beautiful, that's it, baby," he whispers, holding you through it.

"I love you, James," you whisper as you find your breath again.

"oh, baby, you'll never know how much I love you. how much you've changed my life for the better. how afraid I am of the feelings I have for you... and how I'd rather die than run away from the feeling, no matter how much it scares me."

your eyes well up with tears of joy, and he wipes them away with a soft brush of his thumb.

"I'm yours, forever, babydoll," he whispers, and leans in to kiss you like the world depends on it.

because it does. you are his world.

~~~

who am I and what have I done with horny bri. I guess I'm a softie now

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ellewritesx · 2 months ago

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cruising altitude (a sequel to ''cabin pressure'')

Summary: Professionalism takes a nosedive while mutual tension hits cruising altitude.

Warnings: teasing, fingering, oral (f!receiving), post-show sex, overstimulation, some degradation, slight praise kink, choking, dom!Harry, just generally really filthy honestly

A/N: ahhh it's finally here! i wanted it to be perfect for you guys. i've linked the first part of this in the title in case you missed it :) let me know if i've forgotten any warnings, i have a tendency for that, oops. hope it lives up to your expectations!

Word Count: 3,892

...

The Lisbon venue is buzzing with electricity. Crew members are scattered across the stage, marking spots, checking cables, adjusting lighting cues. You're sitting beside Harry in the nosebleed seats in the back of the stadium, clipboard in hand, walking him through the final pre-show rundown as he scopes out the venue before the show, but your mind is nowhere near the itinerary.

Not when he looks like that, black embroidered trousers clinging to his muscular thighs, sheer blouse half unbuttoned, showing off the tattooed swallows adorning his collarbone, hair a mess of curls from running his hands through them over and over again (much to the dismay of his hair stylist). And not when he hasn't stopped glancing at you with that look in his eyes all day.

Not long after your activities on the jet on the way here, the team had woken up to eat the (crappy) airline breakfast. You'd picked up the menu, and Harry had leaned over discreetly and lowly whispered in your ear something sinful. ''Gonna make you wait for it today.'' You hadn't realized he'd meant all day.

...

Soundcheck is unbearable. His voice is angelic, almost distracting you from the way he blatantly stares at you, undressing you with his eyes. His hands run up and down the microphone stand seemingly innocent, but you know better. It's sinful. You never thought you'd be jealous of an inanimate object, but here you are. Just terrific.

You're walking around the stage with Lloyd, showing him a few angles in which you'd like photos taken that'd be good for press. You catch the ghost of a smirk when Harry struts across the stage during Little Freak, mouthing, ''That's you, love.''

You barely make it to lunch.

The green room smells like him. Even before he arrives, there's something in the air, the vague presence of his warm cologne, expensive and woody, mixed with leather and citrus and a hint of vanilla. You take a seat, pretending to scroll through your phone, but really you're just breathing him in. It's stupid, you know. Pathetic. But he smells like comfort, like home.

You've worked with Harry long enough to know things about him no one else does. Not the fans. Not the press. Not the crew. You know that when he gets anxious before a show, he paces, not fast, but with a sort of steady rhythm, like he's trying to match his breathing to the beat of his footsteps. He rolls his shoulders four times before going on stage, left, right, left, right. Always in that exact order. It's not for posture, it's superstition. He never skips it.

You've seen him unravel in quiet ways. He doesn't talk about being homesick, but when he gets that faraway look in his eyes, you can tell he's thinking of his mum's kitchen, or the flower garden behind his childhood home. He's never mentioned it out loud, but you've noticed how he keeps a folded photo of his family tucked into a pocket inside his backpack. On the really hard days, with long travel, cancelled plans, and exhaustion written into the lines under his eyes, you've caught him pulling it out, just for a second. Just long enough to be able to breathe.

You know his habits like they're etched into you. The way he bites the inside of his cheek when he's overthinking. How he taps the edge of his rings against a table when he's bored, or how he hums under his breath when he's in a good mood, usually something old, something soulful. You know that he loves quiet mornings and hot tea with too much honey, that he hates waking up to alarms, and that he writes little ideas down on scraps of paper because the apps on his phone make him feel ''too digital.'' You've found those notes around the tour bus, crumpled and forgotten, full of half-finished songs and poetry that make your chest ache.

The media paints him in broad strokes: the rockstar, the fashion icon, the flirt. But you know the smaller, softer truths. The way he's careful with people's feelings. The way he listens, really listens, when someone talks to him. You've seen him sit backstage with a crying crew member, hand rubbing comforting circles on their back, voice low and soothing. You've seen him spend twenty minutes helping a lighting tech with a busted cable because he ''just likes to understand how things work.'' You've seen him come alive when the crowd sings his lyrics back to him, and dim a little when he walks off stage and the noise stops.

And you… you read him like no one else. You know when his smile is real and when it's a mask. You know when his laughter comes from his stomach and when it's just a polite response. You can tell when he's carrying something heavy he doesn't want to talk about. You see it in the slope of his shoulders, the way his fingers twitch against his thigh. You see it in the way he exhales, shallow and short instead of long and full. You see him, even when he doesn't want to be seen. Especially then.

That's what makes this complicated. The fact that you're not just his assistant or his friend or even his secret hook-up. You're the one who knows him. The real him. And even when he's in full showman mode, belting obscene lyrics, swinging his mic, thrusting into the air like sex personified, you can still feel the pulse beneath the surface. The tension in his hands. The flicker of something unspoken in his gaze. You catch it all. Every goddamn time.

And sometimes… when he looks at you across the room, when he smiles at you so brightly his dimples pop out, like there's an inside joke lingering in the air that only the two of you are in on, you wonder if maybe he knows you just as well.

...

Not much later, the long table is crowded with crew, conversations blending into a white noise you can't focus on. Harry slides into the seat next to you and rests his large palm on your thigh under the table. No one sees. He's careful, maddeningly so. His thumb lazily strokes slow circles… then dips between your legs.

You jolt, barely managing to cover it up by taking a quick sip of your water. He leans closer, face stoic like you're discussing stage cues.

''You're so warm,'' he murmurs. ''So wet. Poor thing.''

You try to breathe normally, try to keep your hand steady as you cut into your salad, but it's impossible when he's pressing two fingers against your panties, applying a gentle pressure. He doesn't slip beneath them, not yet. You've noticed he likes the build-up. The denial. He rubs slow, firm circles until your thighs tremble and your fork clatters against the plate.

''You gonna be a good girl and stay quiet, Y/N?'' he asks lowly, eyes zeroed in on your lips like it's taking everything in him not to kiss you right in front of the entire team.

You nod quickly, but it's humiliating how quickly your body betrays you. You can't focus on anything but his hand. His fingers move lower, dragging down the soaked cotton just enough to brush bare skin, making your breath hitch.

Then suddenly, he pulls away.

You're breathless. Empty.

''See you after the show,'' he says lightly, and he's gone before you can even protest.

...

The concert is torture.

He performs like a sin in velvet and glitter, hips rolling with obscene precision. You're near the wings with your headset on, pretending to be focused on the crew chatter, but every time he growls into the mic or grips it like you imagine he would your throat, you're subconsciously pressing your thighs together.

And he knows it. He glances over mid-set and catches your eye; it's not the usual glimmer of showmanship or crowd-charming sparkle, but that burn of intensity that he saves just for you, the same one he'd given you on the jet, and you know you're in for it tonight.

When the end of his set nears and the intro to Kiwi starts, he steps to the edge of the stage, curls clinging to his forehead, shirt clinging to his chest, and he pins you in place with a look that makes your knees buckle. It's not subtle. Not even close. His brows twitch just slightly as he sings the filthiest lines while making direct eye contact, daring you to keep watching.

The way he slinks across the stage, hips loose, shoulders rolling, one hand gripping the mic while the other runs through his hair, is pure sex. He throws his head back at the bridge like he's losing himself in it, and you know damn well it's calculated. Everything is. Every thrust of his hips, every stomp of his shoes, every teasing smirk. He doesn't just perform the song, he weaponizes it.

When the crowd enthusiastically douses him in water, he's soaked, his shirt clinging to his chest like a second skin, completely see-through, the fabric stretched tight across his torso. You can see the outlines of his abs, the ink swirling over his body, the faint rise and fall of his chest as he catches his breath between lines. His curls drip over his forehead, lips parted around heavy breaths. The crowd roars at the sight of him. He looks wild. Ferocious. And so fuckable.

He finishes the encore drenched in sweat and water, chest heaving, curls dripping on the floor. As soon as the lights drop and the crowd screams, he sprints off stage, straight to you.

You barely get a word out before he grips your wrist and drags you down the corridor.

The green room is empty now. Quiet. And as soon as the door shuts behind you, you're shoved back against it, mouth claimed in a rough, desperate kiss.

''You've been such a good girl today,'' he whispers against your lips, voice low, husky. ''Didn't even touch yourself, did you?''

You shake your head, breathless. ''No, Harry.''

''Need me that bad, don't you?''

Your knees nearly buckle when he grins. His teeth sink into your bottom lip, tugging on it lightly before releasing you with a low chuckle that makes your stomach flip.

His hand finds your throat, thumb brushing over your pulse as he walks you backwards toward the dressing table. Lights flicker in the mirror behind you, harsh, glowing, bathing you both in a golden haze.

''Get on the table,'' he orders softly. ''Hands behind you. Legs open.''

You scramble to obey, heart pounding, perching yourself on the cool marble with your knees separating for him. The air hits your thighs, making you shiver. The dress you'd chosen to wear this morning is modest enough to be professional and practical enough to allow you to move freely despite the heat here in Lisbon, but you've seen the way Harry has been eyeing your bare legs all day, and you'd be lying if you said that wasn't part of your motivation behind the choice of clothing. He steps between your legs, tongue flicking over his bottom lip like he's already tasting you in his mind.

''Look at yourself, Y/N,'' he says, hand returning to your throat. He presses, gently. Dominant. It's subtle enough to not be particularly constricting of your airflow yet, instead making you feel deliciously light-headed. ''Look how fucking desperate you are.''

His hand trails down your body and slides your dress up your thighs, before pushing your soaked panties to the side with two fingers, making a vulgar sound when he taps at your drenched slit.

''You've made a mess,'' he mutters. ''Think you need to be punished for it.''

He grips your thighs to push them further apart, then drops to his knees on the floor, deliberately slow, maintaining eye contact.

The first lick makes your vision go white.

You gasp, hands uselessly gripping the edge of the vanity as he devours you like a man starved. His tongue is ruthless, lapping, circling, sucking your clit until your knuckles turn white. He groans into you, the vibrations sending jolts of almost unbearable pleasure through your core.

''Keep your legs open,'' he growls. ''Or I'll tie them open for you.''

You nod, choking on a moan as his fingers push into you, two at once, rough and cruelly deep. He crooks them just right, licking your clit in sync with the the thrusts of his fingers, building your high up so fast you're panting his name like a prayer. The slick sounds, the obscene way he groans into you, it's filthy, raw, addictive.

''Fuck, Harry, please—''

''You don't come until I say.''

But it's too much.

His tongue flicks faster against your clit, his fingers drive deeper, and your orgasm slams into you before you can stop it. You cry out, thighs clenching around his head, but he doesn't relent. Doesn't even slow down until you're whining pathetically in overstimulation.

He smirks.

''Guess you do need to be punished.''

You're ruined. He keeps going.

He brings you to the edge again, fingers and tongue unrelenting, dragging every last sound out of your throat as he whispers filth against your core.

''You taste like heaven,'' he pants, pulling back for breath only to spit on your clit and start again. ''So fucking sweet, love. Gonna eat you every night if you keep being this good for me.''

Your thighs are twitching, your hand burying in his hair as he devours you, makes you cry into the curve of your elbow, desperate to stay quiet even as he eats you out mercilessly. Some of the curls on his forehead are soaked with your slick. You whine at the obsene sight.

He kisses the inside of your trembling thigh when he's finally done, lips soft and wet, the tendernes of it a stark contrast to what he was doing to you just seconds earlier.

''You ready, baby?'' he asks deceivingly sweet, grinning up at you.

You're still trembling on the dressing table, thighs sticky and shaking from orgasm after orgasm, when Harry rises to his feet. His lips are glossy, his cheeks flushed, and his pupils are blown wide with hunger. He doesn't give you time to catch your breath. Doesn't say a word.

The veins in his arms stand out as he yanks his shirt over his head, exposing every taut, glistening muscle. He's a fucking masterpiece. Cut from marble, bronzed by the sun, inked like a sinner.

You'd seen him shirtless before. Too many times, if you were honest with yourself. Quick, stolen seconds you weren't supposed to linger on. Like the time you'd walked into his dressing room door to update him on a last-minute setlist change and caught him mid-change, pants slung low and unbuttoned on his hips, chest bare and glistening with sweat from soundcheck.

Or worse, the time you'd passed the training room and caught a glimpse of him pulling himself out of an ice bath, water cascading down his body in rivulets, tracing every cut line of his abs, dripping from his tattoos like holy water. His muscles flexed with the effort, every inch of him flushed pink from the cold, breathing hard, eyes scrunched shut, and you'd had to physically force yourself to keep walking despite your knees feeling weak, to swallow the desperate little noise that almost escaped your throat.

But back then, you were just his assistant. Invisible. Untouchable. You'd trained yourself to look away, to keep your hands steady, even when all you wanted was to touch him, to trace the ink of the ferns hung low on his hips, to kiss the sparrows perched beneath his collarbones, to worship the body you weren't allowed to want.

Now, with his abs flexing, chest heaving, water from the show still dripping down the delicate black lines of his tattoos, he's standing right here in front of you, looking at you like he's starved for you, and you don't have to pretend anymore.

You don't even realize you're reaching for him until he catches your wrists midair and pins them behind your back with one hand. His eyes flash with dominance.

''Desperate little thing,'' he murmurs, stepping between your spread thighs again. ''Already wrecked and you're still begging for it.''

''I need you,'' you beg softly, your voice hoarse from moaning. ''Please, Harry. Need all of you.''

His free hand undoes his belt with one quick, sharp snap.

''You're gonna take all of it,'' he growls as he shoves his pants and briefs down just far enough to free himself. ''Every inch. Keep your hands behind you, or I'll tie them.''

You nod frantically, mouth watering at the sight of him. He's thick, heavy, flushed an angry red at the tip, veins running up the shaft. Your walls flutter in anticipation when you glance down, wide-eyed, dazed. You can see the way he's leaking for you, how painfully hard he is, and you realize he's just as desperate for you as you are for him.

You used to think he held all the cards, that he was this larger-than-life figure who was unbothered while you struggled with wanting something you could never have. But now, pressed against his bare chest, feeling his heart pounding like a war drum against your skin, seeing the raw need etched into his face, you realize he's just as wrecked as you are. Every twitch of his aching cock, every shudder of his body, every ragged breath he takes, it's for you. It knocks something loose in your chest, a quiet, aching insecurity you hadn't even known you were carrying, because it's not just you losing control tonight. It's him, too. And he's not hiding it anymore.

When he strokes himself once and presses the head against your entrance, dragging it slow and teasing over your soaked folds, it jolts you out of your epiphany.

''You want this?''

''Yes, fuck, yes—''

He slams into you in one sharp thrust.

Your head falls back against the mirror with a loud thud, mouth open in a silent scream. He doesn't give you time to adjust, just grips your hips and fucks into you, deep and rough, his cock stretching you so good you can't think.

The table rattles violently with every ruthless snap of his hips.

''Look at yourself,'' he pants, glancing down at where you're connected, where your slick coats his cock. ''So fucking wet for me. You hear that?''

You can. It's obscene, the sound of him driving into you, your soaked cunt sucking him back in every time he draws out.

He grabs your jaw, turning your head at an uncomfortable angle to face the mirror.

''Watch.''

It's filthy. Your mouth is parted, eyes dazed, tits bouncing with every thrust. You're a mess: smeared lipstick, flushed skin streaked with mascara stains, a few bite marks already blooming on your neck. He watches too, groaning at the sight.

''Fuckin' made for me,'' he grunts, one hand sliding up to wrap around your throat again, squeezing just hard enough to make you dizzy. ''You like this, don't you? Being fucked like a good little toy?''

''Yes, Harry, please, harder—''

He growls, snapping his hips faster, harder, sweat dripping down his temples. The sound of your skin slapping together echoes off the walls.

And then... he pulls out.

You gasp at the loss, the sudden emptiness, aching, clenching around nothing.

''Bend over the vanity,'' he commands.

You scramble off the table, barely steady on your legs. He manhandles you into position, pressing your face into the cool marble, your ass high in the air.

The mirror in front of you reflects it all, your ruined expression, the curve of your back, the dark look in his eyes as he slides back inside your cunt from behind.

He grabs your hips, surely leaving bruises, and starts to fuck you again, deep and punishing, every stroke angled perfectly to wreck you. You cry out, eyes fluttering shut as your body jolts forward with every harsh thrust.

''I could watch you like this forever,'' he grunts, snapping his hips. ''Split open and begging.''

One hand tangles in your hair, yanking your head back so you can see yourself in the mirror again. His other hand slides between your legs, rubbing ruthless circles over your clit. When you let out a choked moan, the hand in your hair moves to wrap around your throat again, pulling you back slightly so you're upright, your back against his chest. Your eyes meet in the mirror.

''You're mine now,'' he growls in your ear, voice gravelly and dark, his cock driving into you so deep you don't even realize you've been holding your breath. ''No one else gets to see you like this. No one else gets to touch you.''

''I'm yours,'' you cry, voice breaking. ''Only yours.''

''That's right, baby,'' he whispers. ''All fucking mine.''

He keeps driving into you, each thrust harder than the last, the sound of your skin slapping obscene.

''You gonna come for me again, Y/N?''

''Yes, yes, please, fuck, I'm gonna—''

He slams into you harder, biting down on your shoulder as your orgasm rips through you and you shatter around him with a scream, convulsing, clenching hard around his cock.

He works you through it, his thrusts growing sloppy before he spills inside you with a deep, guttural moan, heat flooding you as he buries his face in your neck, panting, hips jerking against your ass.

You're both silent for a long moment.

He stays buried inside you, hand stroking your thigh soothingly, lips pressing gentle kisses to your spine. His breaths come heavy and uneven against your skin, but even now, everything about his touch is so careful, so heartbreakingly loving. It's jarring, how gentle he is, after fucking you like that. But of course he is. It's Harry.

Your whimper softly.

Finally, he pulls out with a low, reluctant sound, hands steadying you as your legs threaten to give out. Without a word, he slowly spins you around, lifts you onto the dressing table, and presses his forehead against your shoulder. He clutches you like he needs you to breathe, like he's terrified you'll slip away if he lets go for even a second, one hand stroking lazy, tender patterns along your back.

''You good, love?'' he murmurs against your skin, voice hoarse but so, so sweet. ''Wasn't too much, was I? Tell me you're good.''

You hum your answer, too blissed out and overwhelmed to find the words, but he hears it anyway, feels it in the way you melt against him, your arms wrapping around his neck as you hold him closer. He presses a kiss to your shoulder, then another to your cheek, another to your jaw. Like he can't stop. Like he doesn't ever want to.

And when you finally glance up at him, drunk on him, dizzy from it all, he smiles, soft and a little shaky.

''This was always gonna happen, you know,'' he says softly, pressing his forehead against yours.

Like it was inevitable. Like it's just the beginning of something neither of you will ever be able to walk away from.

...

thank you so much for reading! i appreciate any and all support so remember to like, comment and reblog. requests are open! 💕

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...

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hoondrop · 22 days ago

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demon! sunghoon headcanons

sunghoon isn’t loud about his affection. his love is obsessive, quiet, and constant, watching you in your sleep. his clawed fingers grazing your cheek or arm, as if memorizing you every night.

you’re the only good thing in his brutal, blood-stained world. not belonging in his domain. he couldn't understand love, he didn't want to. until you. but once he feels it, he burns for you like hellfire itself

he carves his sigil, his mark onto your collarbone with a kiss, marking you as his. it glows faintly whenever he needs to remind you that you're his. doesn't matter if he's near or in another dwelling

anyone or anything - another human or a creature of the dark - who looks at you wrong will never seen what or who is coming for them, never to be seen again.

“You don’t need to think about them” he murmurs. “Just know you’re safe, my love"

sunghoon has never feared anyone, never bowed in front of anyone, but he kneels at your feet without shame. he calls you his angel, his holy sin, his reason

he touches you like you’ll disappear; long embraces, lips to your pulse point, arms always around your. his wings wrapped around you like a blanket when you sleep together, or he flies you to other places.

his control is razor-thin, always tryinh to be gentle at first. his fingers tracing your curves, lips lingering on your thighs. but the moment you moan his name… it snaps.

His voice drops an octave, dark and low: “You don’t understand what you do to me, do you."

"we may indulge in sin, but.. god", he groans into your neck, inhaling your scent, "my love, you are what heaven must feel like"

he needs you with him at all times; on him, under him. it doesn't matter to him. when he hasn’t had you in a while, you’ll feel claws on your hips, sharp teeth on your neck, and his low growl in your ear: “You’ve been teasing me all day. You think I wouldn’t notice?”

his favourite thing is when he's in his court, his minions, his followers made to get on his knees for you, worship you. sunghoon's on his throne - a beast of a throne designed out of obsidian and what seems to be freakishly similar to blood and maybe bones? but that doesn't matter because he has you perched on your own special throne - his lap.

and times when he's craving you, his cock is your throne. he doesn't care if he has his subjects witnessing the filthy view of him bouncing you on his cock. if he's feeling possesive, he'll cover you with his wings.

after claiming you the first time, your souls are linked. he can feel your arousal, and you can feel his. it’s intoxicating. it burns within you the best way, the fire only be able to controlled and quenched when he fills you up.

he'll smirk at you across a room as you squirm from the growing heat between your legs, without a single touch

for instance, I one day, you took him out to a party, saying he needs to mix in with the crowd more, however, the second he saw some guy approaching you when he left to get you drinks, he just scoffed.

smirking right after as he uses his powers, eyes turning red with how his hidden tentacles came out, invisible, coming and wrapping themselves around your thighs and up where you needed him the most, thrusting in suddenly, almost enough for you to moan and cum on spot, marking his territory

more often than not, he abuses this connection to tease you until you beg, he won't give in until you say god's name in vain.

telepathic whispers like: "touch yourself, my pretty angel. let me feel you come for me."

he’s the king of his domain which means he's also always in control unless you beg him otherwise and even then, he lets you think you’re in control just to flip the switch mid-act.

"you never learn, do you, angel?" his teeth nip at your ear, a smug smile on his pretty lips. "you maybe the queen of hell but I'm god here"

a/n: the biggest fattest kissie to my girl @jaylaxies for being my designer 🥺🫶🏻

#enhypen smut #enhypen #sunghoon #park sunghoon #enhypen x reader #sunghoon smut #sunghoon x reader #park sunghoon smut

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zoro-sremedy · 1 month ago

Text

I NEED A HERO!

I'm holding out for a hero 'til the end of the night He's gotta be strong, and he's gotta be fast And he's gotta be fresh from the fight!

Synopsis. Your vibrator died and are in dear need of a rescue.

Including. Gojo, Geto, Nanami, Toji, Sukuna, Megumi, Yuji.

Risk assessment 18+ mdni, smut and crack, stablished relationship, reader is unprotected, spanking, backshots, missionary, prone bone, mating press, soft dom/dom vibes.

HOLDING OUT FOR A HERO 'TIL THE END OF THE NIGHT! SMAU that started this drabble if you wanna read it.

GETO SUGURU—"YOU DON'T NEED ANYTHING ELSE"

It started with a joke. The amused little smirk he gave you.

Then came the silence—that heavy kind, thick and knowing.

And now?

You're beneath him. Completely. Bent in half, legs folded up towards your chest, arms pinned gently above your head by his hand as he sinks into you for what has to be the hundredth time tonight.

"You poor thing," Geto murmurs, voice warm but sharp at the edge, like silk over steel. "You thought a toy could give you this?"

You try to answer, but you're already moaning—body melting under him, trembling from how deep he reaches. His strokes are slow, controlled, focused—designed to unravel you piece by piece.

"That little thing just buzzed at your clit, didn't it?" he goes on, kissing your jaw, your neck, your clavicle with unbearable patience. "Didn't touch your cervix. Didn't make you cry. Didn't tell you how beautiful you are like this?"

He thrusts deeper—you feel it, that weight pressing down where it aches, where you're soft and needy and desperate for him.

Your hands clench. He tightens his grip on your wrists.

"No, angel. Look at me."

You do.

His purple eyes lock on yours—glowing a little, even in the low light, like they're drinking you in.

"That toy doesn't know how to kiss you while you fall apart," he says, voice velvet-soft. "Doesn't know how you look when you're about to come. Doesn't know what your body begs for."

You gasp, head tilting back as he angles his hips just right—finding that devastating rhythm, again and again. You feel yourself spiraling.

And Geto leans down, forehead against yours, voice just above a whisper:

"I know."

You come. Hard. With a broken cry, tears at the corners of your eyes, chest heaving beneath him. And still—he doesn't stop.

His thrusts grow tighter, rougher, more desperate. You feel the warmth of his breath on your cheek as he groans, "That's it, just like that. Take it, love. Take everything."

When he comes, it's with a soft moan against your lips and a deep grind into your hips, holding you there, filling you to the brim.

He doesn't pull out.

Instead, he shifts, kisses your collarbone, and murmurs:

"Now stay. Let it sink in."

You're breathless. Blinking.

He chuckles softly and presses his palm on your lower belly.

"I want you to feel me for hours. I want you to leak me tomorrow. Let everyone wonder why you're walking so slow."

You whimper, and he kisses your temple sweetly, like didn't just rearrange your soul.

"I'll burn that vibrator later," he adds, smirking into your skin. "For your own good."

GOJO SATORU—"YOU THOUGHT THAT COULD REPLACE ME"

At the end, the filthy little thing abandoned you! How dare it! And after Satoru's threat, you didn't want to risk being edged to madness. So, you actually decided to have a cold shower instead.

You're getting some water when the door slams open.

"Satoru—?!"

"Don't you Satoru me," he growls, strides hitting up the hallway. "You really sent that text and thought I'd stay home?"

He's in front of you before you can blink—shirt half-tucked, pupils blown wide, lips twisted into something between a smirk and a warning.

"I was joking," you whisper, already breathless as he cages you in against the kitchen counter. "I didn't think—"

"Didn't think?" he repeats, jaw ticking. "Didn't think before announcing you were out here mourning a fucking vibrator like your pussy doesn't belong to me?

You whimper.

His hand slides down, fast and firm, slipping beneath your shorts. He finds you embarrassingly wet and groans low, head dropping to your neck.

"God, you are sorry, aren't you?" he murmurs against your throat. "Dripping like this. Practically begging to be punished?"

You nod. "I didn't mean it—please, I'm sorry. I should've waited for you. I need you."

"Oh, baby," he hums, dragging your soaked panties down with one hand while the other lifts you onto the counter. "You do need me. You just forgot what it's like to be ruined."

He doesn't bother undressing fully—just yanks himself out, strokes one, twice and then he's there, thick and hot into you like he owns the space between your legs.

(He does.)

When he thrusts in, you sob.

"Yeah?" he moans. "That feel like something your silly little toy could do? Can it make you back your arch like that? Can it grab your thighs like this while you cream all over it?

Your nails dig into his shoulder as he fucks you deep, relentless. One hand finds your throat—no choke, just holding—and he leans close, breathless against your lips.

"Say it."

You blink up at him, dizzy. "Say… what?"

"That you're mine," he pants. "That no battery-operated piece of plastic could ever make you feel this way."

"I'm yours," you gasp." Only yours—fuck, Satoru—please, don't stop, I'm—"

You melt around him, trembling and slick, and he groans loud as he spills into you, hips jerking, forehead pressed to yours.

When it's over, he doesn't pull away. Just holds you there, still full of him, smirking like the bastard he is.

"Good girl," he murmurs. "Now… next time you even joke about needing a replacement—just remember who shows up ready to break the bed.

You nod, limp and blissed-out. And he—grinning like the madman he is—adds:

"I'm still bringing back up. Just in case. Y'know. Double homicide."

NANAMI KENTO—"YOU SHOULD'VE WAITED FOR ME"

You should've known better than to text him that.

The moment Nanami steps through the door—tie loosened, jacket discarded, sleeve rolled to his elbows—there's something dangerous in his gaze. Something quiet, simmering. All the more terrifying than yelling.

"I see I failed you," he says, setting down his briefcase. His voice is calm. Too calm. "To make you feel so neglected… you considered outsourcing my job."

Your breath stutters as he approaches, undoing the top button of his dress shirt, eyes fixed on you like you're both a problem and the solution.

"Kento, I was just—"

"Joking?" he murmurs, stepping between your knees as you sit on the edge of the bed. His large palm slides up your thigh, warm, adoring. "Darling, you know better than to joke about things like that."

You open your mouth to protest again, but the way he tugs your panties down in one fluid motion tells you talking isn't part of the plan.

He kneels in front of you—his hands still gentle, always gentle—but his mouth? His tongue?

That is punishment.

By the time he rises again, your legs are shaking, your voice wrecked from the begging. And he's not even undone his belt yet.

"Now," he murmurs, brushing your hair back, kissing your temple. "You're going to apologize properly."

He turns you over onto your stomach, pressing a soft kiss between your shoulder blades before he pulls your hips up, spine arching under his guidance. He lines himself up, slow and reverent, like he's not about to break you from the inside out.

And when he pushes in—fully, deeply, thickly—you cry out his name like a confession.

His hands are firm on your waist. His pace is steady, precise, measured—the way he approaches everything else in life. But his voice, oh, his voice…

"I never want to hear about batteries," he growls into your ear. "I never want you to think there's something that could replace me. You want pleasure? You wait. You wait for your man."

You nod, blubbering, barely able to speak through the way he hits you just right.

"And when I come home from a long day," he pants, pace finally stuttering, "I want to find you right here—warm ,ready, aching—like the good girl you are."

He fucks you through your orgasm like it's his duty. When he finishes inside you with a soft moan of your name, he stays pressed to your back, kissing your shoulder softly, breathing hard against your skin.

"I'll always take care of you," he murmurs, voice hoarse. "No substitute. Ever."

You nod, blissed out and dazed, a sleepy smile curling your lips.

And he, ever the gentlemen, tucks you in the whisper:

"You're mine. And I take my responsibilities seriously."

FUSHIGURO TOJI—"BATTERY-OPERATED? CUTE"

You did wait. The last thing you needed was Toji edging you to your next life. Because he would, even more after you apparently offended him with the use of your pathetic little toy, or so he said.

"You what?"

His voice is flat. Unimpressed. He's tossing your vibrator between his fingers like it's a joke—a sad little toy he plucked from your drawer the second he walked in and saw the way you looked at him: guilty. Needy. Ruined before he even touched you.

"I—It died," you mumble, cheeks hot. "I was just—I wasn't gonna finish—"

"Oh, you weren't? he laughs, full-bellied and sharp. "Could've fooled me. Look at you. So fuckin' desperate you pulled this pathetic thing out like it'd satisfy you?"

He tosses it aside like trash and stalks towards the bed.

"You really think something like that could do what I do?" His shirt is already done, his belt undone—and there's that familiar glint in his eyes: wicked, ravenous. Mean.

By the time he's got you on your stomach, ass in the air, his hands are already spreading your thighs like he owns them.

"Should've waited for me, baby," he says, leaning over your back, tip of his cock dragging between your folds. "Now I gotta show you—again—what the real thing feels like."

The first thrust knocks the breath out of you.

He's thick. Deep. Filling you in a way that makes your eyes roll and brain empty. There's no buildup—just Toji, slamming into you like you owe him something. Like this is a lesson you need to learn.

"You feel that?" he grunts, hand wrapped around your throat, pulling you up just enough to hear your whimpers. "You think some battery-powered piece of plastic could fuck you this deep?"

He slaps your ass, watches it bounce. His thrusts are brutal, unrelenting. You're already clenching, already gasping—and he's just getting started.

"Say it," a low, hungry sound leaving that pretty face of his. "Say you're sorry for trying to replace me."

"I'm—fuck—sorry," you cry, barely able to breathe. "It's not the same, I swear—"

"Damn right it's not the same," he snarls, grabbing your hips tighter, driving into you so hard the headboard cracks. "You're mine. This pussy's mine. Don't you ever forget that again."

Your orgasm hits like a freight train—unexpected, unstoppable—and he doesn't let up. He keeps going, even when your legs shake, even when you sob his name like a prayer.

By the time he's done, his cum is dripping from between your thighs, you're brain's barely functioning.

And still, he leans down, kisses your shoulder, voice low and smug.

"Don't worry, sweetheart," he purrs, "I'll buy you a new one."

A beat. A smirk.

"Just so I can break it again."

RYOMEN SUKUNA—"IMPUDENT LITTLE THING"

His throne room is dim and gold-drenched, heat coiling in the air like smoke.

You hadn't even meant to tell him about the broke thing—the poor, dead vibrator now tucked in the bottom of your drawer—but he felt it the second he returned. Felt your body still humming with frustration, with denial. With betrayal.

"You toyed with yourself," Sukuna murmurs, voice like velvet over glass. "In my absence. With that?" You flinch under his gaze. His four eyes burn with quiet disdain, like he's looking at something pitiful—a servant that disobeyed. A possession that misbehaved.

"Sukuna, I didn't mean—"

"You did not wait for me." He steps down from the throne, barefoot and lethal. "And you expect leniency?"

The broken vibrator is on the nightstand of his chamber, like a criminal caught in the act. Sukuna sees it. Picks it up. Smirks.

"Pathetic little thing." Hi s voice is thick with amusement and venom as he lets it fall with a dull thunk on the floor. Then he turns to you—already bare, already flushed, knees pressed together nervously on his bed.

He's quiet for a beat.

Then he's on you.

One hand wraps around your ankle, dragging you flat onto your back like a prey. His body covers yours in an instant—massive, solid, terrifying—all ancient muscle and cruel intention. He grabs your thighs, shoves them open, wide enough to ache, and settles between them like a god claiming tribute.

"Let's see what kind of mess that toy made," he murmurs, running two fingers through your folds. You're embarrassingly soaked. "Tch. You're still this wet for me?"

You gasp, but he doesn't wait. He lines himself up—thick, heavy, perfect—and slides in deep in one brutal, punishing stroke.

Your back arches of the. He growls, low and guttural.

"That's it," Sukuna hisses, pressing down until you're completely folded under him, legs hooked over his shoulders, hips pinned. "Look at me."

You're trembling. There's nowhere to hide. His four crimson eyes stare down at you, devouring every twitch, every moan, every time your lashes flutter.

"Is this what you need? A fake little buzz, or this—my cock kissing your womb like it belongs there?"

He starts to move—slowly at first, but each thrust grows more intense. More deliberate. He rolls his hips to grind impossibly deep, relishing the way you gasp with each stroke, they way your hands claw helplessly at his arms.

"You'll take every inch," he grunts. "Every drop."

One hand slides to your belly, pressing down—you feel the bulge of him inside you, obscene and undeniable.

"Look at how deep I am. That toy never even made it past your entrance."

You whimper, lost in him. He smirks.

"That's right. Whimper for me. Let that ruined cunt remember what real pleasure feels like."

And then he snaps his hips.

Again. And again.

You come—not once, but twice—sobbing his name, thighs trembling against his shoulders, body a trembling mess beneath him. And still he doesn't stop.

"One more," he growls. "You're gonna come again—with my cock inside, and my name in your throat."

You do.

And he follows.

Sukuna spills inside you with a low, possessive groan, burying himself to the hilt. You feel full—thick warmth flooding you until it leaks around his cock, dripping down your thighs.

When he finally lets your leg down, he doesn't pull out.

He lays on top of you—heavy, warmth and possessive—cock still buried deep.

"You'll stay like this," he murmurs against your ear. "So every time you walk, you feel me leaking out."

And with a final, smug chuckle, he adds:

"Try replacing that, little one."

FUSHIGURO MEGUMI—"EMERGENCY RELIEF"

You barely make it to the bed before he's pressing you down, lips grazing your cheek with a quiet, unimpressed sigh.

"You couldn't wait for me?" he murmurs against your skin.

You whimper a weak sorry—but he's already there, behind you, hand curling under your thigh to lift your leg over his hip, cock slowly sliding into you from behind, inch by deliberate inch.

"I'm here now,' he says quietly. "So stop fidgeting."

You nod, biting your lip as he sinks in deep, so deep you swear you can feel him in your chest. The room is dim and quiet, his chest warm against your back, his arm beneath your head holding you still like you're made of something precious.

He doesn't thrust hard. He rolls into you. Every deep, slow stroke is maddening—filling, soothing, wrecking.

"You couldn't wait, so now you're going to take your time," he says against your shoulder. "That toy couldn't do this."

You can't even argue. You're too full, too breathless, the angle of your leg letting him reach everything inside you that makes your spine arch and your eyes flutter.

His hand slips between your thighs, thumb circling your clit in lazy, knowing motions.

He kisses your neck softly.

"Always so needy," he murmurs. "But this is what you wanted, wasn't it?"

You nod fast, moaning quietly, trying to hold back the sounds that bubble up.

"'Gumi—please—"

"You're lucky I miss you," he says, voice low, almost smiling as he slows down even more, just to hear the whimper in your throat. "Because otherwise, I would've let you suffer for teasing me like that."

When you come, it's not loud—it's devastating. Your whole body tenses, then melts into him, sobbing as you fall apart, clenching around him like you're trying to keep him forever.

He follows soon after, a groan into your shoulder as he spills deep, still inside you, staying exactly where you both want him.

You're both quiet for a while.

His hand strokes along your side, his breathing slow.

Then, a quiet murmur:

"Throw that thing away."

You laugh, exhausted. "Yes, sir."

ITADORI YUJI—"PUT ME IN COACH"

"Okay—" he pants, sweat dripping down his temple as he presses deeper into you, "—you're gonna have to say if it's too much, 'kay?"

You laugh, gasping as his hips meet your ass again, thick cock hitting just the right spot. "You're literally apologizing while wrecking me."

"Wha—I'm not wrecking you," Yuji huffs, offended. "I'm being gentle!"

You look over your shoulder, barely managing a smirk. "Baby, you're flatting me against the bed and whispering sweet nothings while my face is in a pillow."

He whines—actually whines—and leans over you, punishing, pushing you deeper in the prone bone position, his broad chest on your back, lips at your ear.

"I'm just—trying to make it good for you," he mumbles, hips stuttering when you clench around him. "Better than your toy."

You giggle, breath shaky. "You're jealous of my vibrator."

He groans. "You named it."

"I name everything!"

"I heard you say 'he never lets me down' with a smile," he mutters into your neck.

"And yet—" you moan as he grinds into you slow and deep, making your legs shake, "—here I am, flat on my stomach, absolutely owned."

Yuji moans again, like it physically affects him. "Yeah? Say it louder."

"You're better," you whisper, breath hitching as his thrusts quicken, muscles flexing above you. "So much better, Yuji—oh my god—"

His arm wraps around your waist, holding you tighter. "Good. Because I'm not stopping until you forget his name."

He means it, too. He's panting, flushed, focused completely on your pleasure. Every roll of his hips is desperate, not for release, but to feel you fall apart beneath him. When you come, he nearly cries, whispering "that's it, that's my girl," over and over like a prayer.

And even after, when your legs are shaking and you're practically sobbing into the sheets, he's still kidding you back, asking if you're okay, offering water—

Right before he says:

"… so, we are throwing him out, right?"

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