#Anyways time to listen to The Strokes and think about everything...

[soupsosa08]

𝐔𝐧𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞𝐥𝐲 𝐋𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭𝐬 - Lewis Hamilton X Reader

Synopsis: Two worlds collide when Y/N, the lead singer of a famous emo band, meets Lewis Hamilton, the calm and disciplined Formula 1 driver. What starts as an unlikely encounter at a London event slowly grows into a deep and tender romance, where music and racing, chaos and calm, find harmony in each other’s arms. A story about vulnerability, connection, and finding home in the most unexpected places

Warnings: slowburn; fluff; soft romance; famous!reader; f1driver!lewis; rainy settings; mutual pining; london backdrop; strangers to lovers

Note: Writing this after almost a whole week listening to Paramore. Have you ever been emo, or are you?

Oh, I definitely had my emo phase (I think only 2000–2007 babies really know what emo was like).

Anyway, hope you enjoy it!

The party was far from the scene Y/N usually frequented—there were no colorful stage lights or the piercing sound of guitars. It was a sophisticated event in London, in a penthouse overlooking the Thames, where conversations flowed between whispers and discreet laughs, and every glass of wine seemed carefully chosen.

Y/N entered wearing ripped jeans, an oversized leather jacket, and heavy boots, a stark contrast amid the elegant dresses and tailored suits. She carried the energy of a show still pulsing in her veins, her dark eyes observing everything with a mix of curiosity and fatigue.

Lewis was leaning against a wall, a calm smile playing on his lips as he chatted with a small group of friends. When his eyes met hers, he felt a strange moment—not love at first sight, but an almost childlike curiosity, a silent desire to discover the woman who seemed so out of place, yet so whole in herself.

She walked to the bar, ordering something strong, something fitting for the night she had lived. As she turned to find a seat, her eyes met his again. He approached, his voice calm, almost hesitant.

“You’re different,” he said, more like an invitation than an accusation.

She laughed, a brief, almost melancholic laugh. “They say that all the time. Maybe it’s just true.��

“Lewis.” He extended his hand.

“Y/N.” She shook it, feeling an unexpected warmth.

The conversation flowed naturally, surprising them both. They spoke of music and racing, of what they carried inside and what they showed to the world. He talked about constant pressure, the expectations of a career where mistakes were a luxury he couldn’t afford. She spoke about music as her therapy, her scream, her way of existing.

In the middle of the conversation, a comfortable silence settled, and Lewis found himself observing every detail of her face—the eyes shining with sweet intensity, the shy smile that appeared when she spoke of important things, the way her hair fell without caring about perfection.

“I’d like to see you again,” he said, his voice almost low.

She smiled, feeling a spark she didn’t know she was looking for. “Me too.”

In the days that followed, Lewis made sure not to let the contact cool. He sent short messages, invited her to outings that broke the frantic Formula 1 routine.

On a gray afternoon, she arrived at his apartment, and the door opened to a minimalist but cozy space—candles scattered around, soft light coming through the window, a faint vanilla scent in the air.

Lewis was in the kitchen, stirring a pot, his apron loosely tied, and the smile she received when he saw her was like a warm embrace.

“Hey, you,” he said, pulling her close with a gentle kiss on her forehead.

She sighed, letting the weight of the world drop for a moment.

They sat down to dinner; the conversation flowed easily, but it was in the silences between words that everything happened—in the hands that met on the table, in the way he looked at her when she spoke, in the tenderness of every touch.

Later, on the couch, she played video games while he read a book. His restless hands couldn’t stay away—gliding over her arm, stroking her hair, tucking a few strands behind her ear.

“You look beautiful like this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

She smiled, turning to look at him, and in that look was all the vulnerability she rarely showed.

“Wanna play?” he asked, getting up to join her.

The game became an excuse to be closer, to share laughter, to touch hands more and more until finally their eyes closed in a kiss—first timid, then intense, full of the promise of something new and true.

Weeks turned into months, and the romance born in difference became their anchor.

Y/N learned to admire Lewis’s discipline, his ability to stay calm amid chaos, and he lost himself in her intensity and authenticity—in the way she wasn’t afraid to be imperfect, in how her music touched something deep inside him.

They spent entire afternoons in the apartment, her composing songs and him listening intently to every word, suggesting verses, holding her hand through the hardest parts.

On a rainy night, he pulled her close, her body pressed against his, and whispered,

“I don’t know anything about music, but I know I want to be part of your song.”

She laughed, tears shimmering in her eyes, and answered,

“And I don’t know anything about racing, but I want you to be my finish line.”

Their kisses were long, full of desire and affection, and in every touch was the certainty that, even coming from such different worlds, they had found home in each other.

[babacontainsmultitudes]

The first few seconds of every dndads episode: Dungeons and Daddies is RoWdY HORNy vIOLenT podcast for grownups 🤪

The last few seconds of every dndads episode:

[szasfuckingwife]

fwb!Sukuna who wakes up to an empty bed the next morning. Something was different when you guys had sex. It felt deeply personal, too personal. And that feeling, to you, is abnormal. Maybe it’s the way he cradled you or when he kissed your ear. Or maybe when he was reminding you how beautiful you were whilst thrusting inside you.

‘…I scared her off..’, Sukuna thought before sighing and starting his day.

fwb!Sukuna who is genuinely floored when he sees you kiss your boyfriend later that week. The way you’re smiling and laughing at him. And your boyfriend is none the wiser. He knew that it was just sex, but something in him thought maybe this time you would leave him. Maybe you would leave him for-

“Kunaaa! There you are!” Sukuna turns to see his ‘girlfriend’. She pouts up at him, “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, I’m fine.” He says as he carries her bag He watches as you and your boyfriend walk off hand in hand. Sukuna’s girlfriend is still talking about her day but all he can think about is how he’d much rather hear about yours. How he’d like you to stroke his hair. How he’d like to have dinners with your family.

“…Kuna? You listening to me?”

He turns around to her.

“I’m breaking up with you.”

fwb!Sukuna who feels like he’s going crazy with how he feels about you. Because, lowkey, you don’t deserve him, you deserve better. Realistically, no one is gonna have marriage plans with the guy that’s said to have had the highest bodycount in the team.

“Bro, just talk to her. You won’t get any answers here..” Toji says to him, carrying his duffel bag as they walk home from practice.

Sukuna sighs, “Fuck that. I’m not gonna go to her dorm and tell her to leave her boyfriend. She loves that guy-”

“She wouldn’t be fucking you if she loved him. She wouldn’t have been playing footsies or whatever the fuck you called it under the table. She likes you, grow the fuck up.” Toji turns to face Sukuna. “Anyways, I gotta pick up my girl.”

“The Fushiguro girl?” Sukuna grins as Toji rolls his eyes and gets in his car.

fwb!Sukuna who knocks on your dorm room later that night. You open, clad in your hoodie and shorts, rubbing your eye with a pout.

“It’s so late, this better be good..”

Sukuna sighs and walks in. He had to do this, he can’t hold it in any longer, “Who the fuck is your boyfriend? Like seriously, where the fuck did he come from?”

You glare at him before scoffing, “He’s not my boyfriend, we’re talking though.”

“Talking?” He looks at you with a raised brow.

“Yes, talking.” You answer before sitting on your bed. “Why?Jealous?”

Sukuna looks at you and sighs before getting on his knees in front of you and pulling at your shorts but then, your hands stop his and he looks up at you. “No. But you seem like you don’t like him..”

“No-”

Sukuna eyes you, “No?”

“For God’s sake, why are you repeating everything I say? I said no. Why are you even here?! You’re not gonna try fuck me and not communicate you always do this. I’m not giving it to you unless you talk to me.” You hide your smirk.

God, you were making this incredibly hard for him. He sighed and stroked his hair, “Well, I like you. More than a friend.”

You stare at him, prompting him to go on. “And…I don’t like seeing you with other guys. Especially…Especially when I know I can treat you better..”

“Why now? We’ve been friends for ages..” The words come out of your mouth send him thinking.

“I guess I’ve always felt it. I was just scared. Of ruining our friendship….of the thought of commitment. But I’m ready now. I swear-”

Your lips crash onto his and he instantly hold your head, guiding you into a passionate kiss. His hands are on you, clawing their way up your shirt. Cold fingers grazing over your nipples.

“Turn around…” He says in between kisses. Naturally, you do as he says as you get on all fours. Sukuna helps you out of your hoodie and slips your shorts down. His fingers meet his tongue before going underneath your underwear, rubbing your clit.

“I missed you, y’know…” He whispers, kissing the side of your face. But it feels so good, you just nod.

He’s so hard he barely thinks of pulling your panties off, he just moves them to the side and slides in. “…ffucckk…” You moan out. Involuntarily, you turn around to see his face and see a grin plastered on his face, “…Fuck you, Sukuna..”

He chuckles before pounding into you, if it was anyone else he’d bee all dainty and slow. But he knows you can take it. And you do. You feel his hands on you again, one on your hip, the other holding your back down. It’s so slutty, you think. But you couldn’t care less.

And when Sukuna sees you edging forward, his palm comes down on your ass hard, “Fuckin running from me…? Hm?”

“N-No…” You cry out as you grip the blankets.

“No..??” He thrusts even deeper, “Then, take it. It’s all yours..”

What happened next feels like a scene from a movie. Sukuna sees your phone illuminate and sees the name of your ‘boyfriend’ on the screen. “Just my luck…”

“Sukuna, no-” He shoves his fingers in your mouth and answers.

There’s a pause, a moment of silence before he speaks. “Hello? Y/N? Yeah, I got those movie ticke-”

“Yeah…she won’t be needing them anymore, bud…” Sukuna breathes into the phone.

“Who…Who is this..?”

“I’m fucking busy. Tell him, baby…” He takes his fingers out and passes you the phone and you try your best to conceal your moans but you’re quite unsuccessful.

You hear the three beeps meaning he hung up and you slap Sukuna’s thigh, “You’re actually such a dick.”

You feel his tongue on your neck, “Yeah, you love it though..”

Bf!Sukuna who walks around campus, hand in hand with you. Funnily enough, neither of you have seen your ‘ex’. You still feel bad but he couldn’t care less. Because now he has you.

[lyvhie]

★ ˙ ̟ ─── . “perv!127”.

| cw | perv behavior, masturbation, infidelity, alcohol consumption, stalking, fingering, oral (f), public sex, cockwarming, vouyerism, exhibitionism, pet names. | a/n | ill be honest, doyoung and haechan were my favorites, chat... btw i accidentaly posted this twice, i hate tumblr!! ANYWAYS, I HOPE I DID IT WELL (pls let me know, i have a hard time with this kind of thing)....

Mark really didn’t want to be like this, but he couldn’t help the dirty thoughts he had about his sweet girlfriend. It was getting harder and harder to control himself around you. You had decided to take things slow, to only move forward when you were both truly ready, especially you, since you were still a virgin. And maybe that was part of the reason behind his growing frustration.

Don’t get him wrong, he didn’t have some kind of fetish about virgins. The problem was that you acted in such unintentionally provocative ways, and it was torture for him not being able to do everything he wanted with you.

Like when you walked around the house without a bra, your hard nipples poking through your shirt, practically begging for his mouth. It was even worse when you hugged him, and he could feel them pressed against his chest. Or when you were cuddling and he had you as the little spoon—you'd shift around a little, rubbing your ass against his cock, forcing him to mentally sing every kind of anthem he knew just to keep from getting hard.

And, of course, even if he really, really wanted to throw you on the bed and make love to you until sunrise, he would only ever do anything when you allowed it. That's why he was forced to find other ways to relieve himself...

"Nothing really important happened today," your cheerful voice blessed Mark's ears through the phone as you began to rant about your day. "Oh, right, baby, I almost forgot! Did you know they opened a geek store two blocks from here?"

"Oh, really?" he replied, voice low and hoarse. "Had no idea," he added, keeping his answers short. Not because he didn't care, but because every word you said made his cock throb. He just wanted to listen.

His free hand clutched the phone tighter against his ear. The other moved slowly, rhythmically, stroking his hard cock. Your voice. Your laugh. The way you called him "baby" so sweetly, so innocently, with no idea that he was falling apart on the other side of the line.

"And I bought you a few Spider-Man editions, they're so beautiful!" you continued, excitement bubbling in your voice. "Ugh, it was supposed to be a surprise, but I just had to tell you!”

He bit his lip hard as his imagination ran wild, picturing how you'd sound moaning his name instead of talking about comic book stores, how your body would tremble beneath him, how your breath would catch when he whispered filthy things against your ear. The way your tight little voice would break when he slid into you for the first time...

“Fuck, babe,” he hissed, throwing his head back against the headboard, his hand moving faster now.

“Mark?” your voice wavered, a note of concern slipping in. “Are you okay?”

“Yeah, beautiful… just—” he gasped, forcing his voice to stay steady, “keep talking. Don’t stop. Please,” it came out almost like a whine, needy, strained, like he was hanging onto every word you said just to survive the moment.

As much as Doyoung liked to think of himself as a gentleman, even he couldn’t deny how filthy his thoughts had become. He should be ashamed of himself—lusting after you, his sweet, married neighbor. But shame did nothing to stop him. If anything, it only made it worse.

And the best part? Your marriage was crumbling. He had watched it happen, had listened patiently as you poured your heart out to him, seeking comfort in his presence. He had played the role of the good neighbor, the trusted friend.

But deep down, he knew exactly what he was doing.

Because every time you sat beside him, eyes glossy with frustration, lips trembling as you vented about your husband, all he could think about was how easy it would be to slip his hand between your thighs and show you exactly how a real man would treat you. And the way you looked at him sometimes—soft, vulnerable, needy—only made it harder to hold himself back. Just like now, as he watched you waste yourself with yet another can of beer, despite his weak attempts to stop you.

It was just another one of those nights, sitting together, talking about life, about how lonely you felt even with a husband waiting at home. By now, Doyoung already knew how weak you were to alcohol, how easily your sharp words turned slurred, how your usual restraint melted into something softer, looser.

His eyes followed the way your fingers toyed with the rim of the can, your lips slick from the drink, parted just slightly as you blinked up at him with that hazy, unfocused gaze. He swallowed hard, shifting in his seat. He shouldn’t be thinking about how easy it would be to push you back against the couch, to let his hands roam lower, to have you sighing his name instead of that bastard’s.

But fuck, you were making it so damn hard to be a good man.

“Dodo, am I not pretty?” Your innocent, slurred words snapped him out of his thoughts. You stared up at him through those drunken, doe-like eyes he couldn’t help but adore, making his heart skip a beat.

“What?” He quickly answered, voice tight, though his mind was already spiraling, his chest constricting. “Of course you are.”

But then, you leaned in just a little too close, your breath almost mingling with his, your face just a few inches apart, utterly unaware of the effect you had on him.

“Do you really think so?” Your pout deepened, and you seemed to search his gaze for reassurance, making him want to devour you.

He gulped, his throat dry. “Y-yes, I do,” he breathed, his voice shaking as he fought to keep his composure. “You're gorgeous. The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen in my life.”

And God, he meant every word, even if it was laced with thoughts he knew he shouldn’t have. He moved his hand up to your shoulder, slowly, appreciatively, letting his fingers glide down your arm, feeling the way you unintentionally shivered under his touch.

So responsive. So soft.

You were so close now, your breath warm against his skin, your lips parted ever so slightly. It wouldn’t hurt if he showed you just how much he liked you, right?

His palm cupped your face, thumb grazing your cheekbone, and his heart skipped a beat when you leaned into his touch without hesitation—so trusting, so unaware of the thoughts racing through his head.

Without a second thought, he found himself closing the gap, pressing his lips against your soft, pliant ones.

You tensed for a brief moment, as if processing what was happening, and even made a weak attempt to pull away—but he wasn’t having that. His grip tightened, holding you in place, his fingers pressing into your skin just enough to keep you right where he wanted.

And the second his tongue slipped past your lips, tasting the lingering bitterness of alcohol, you melted.

Fuck, you had no idea what you were doing to him. And you also had no idea what you were doing at all.

You were drunk, completely out of yourself, vulnerable in a way that made his chest tighten and his cock throb. If you were kissing him so eagerly, pressing your body against his so willingly, he could probably do anything he wanted to you right now, and you wouldn’t even think to stop him.

His hand trailed lower, fingers caressing your jaw before slipping down to your neck, feeling the rapid pulse beneath his touch. His fingertips danced along the neckline of your clothes, toying with the fabric, brushing ever so slightly over your breasts.

Then, just to tease, he tugged at your bra over your clothes, watching how it pulled against your skin. The soft whine that slipped from your lips between kisses had his mind sinking into a hazy fog of lust, but at the same time, it snapped him back to reality.

He pulled away, breathless, watching as you panted softly. You looked so out of it, yet so content, and before he could say anything, you were already leaning in again, chasing his lips for another kiss. He let it happen, just for a second, just to feel you melt into him again, before he forced himself to stop. His hands found your shoulders, gripping them firmly as he gently pushed you away.

Not like this. Not tonight.

“Doyoung…” you whined in protest, a pout forming on your lips.

He bit his lower lip. You were really testing him.

“You’re too drunk, darling,” he murmured, forcing a weak smile as he brushed his thumb across your cheek, trying to keep himself in check. “I’m taking you home, hm?”

It killed him to say it, to pull away when you were right there, pliant, eager, looking at him like he was the only man in the world. But no matter how much he wanted you, he wanted you sober even more. He wanted you to remember, to crave him just as much when your mind was clear.

So, for now, he would be good.

Yuta couldn’t help it, he just loved to tease you. You were his cute, pretty makeup artist, always working so hard to make his already striking face shine even brighter on stage. Which meant you were around him all the time. And if you weren’t? Well, he made sure to personally request you. Only you. After all, you were the best at what you did.

His sharp eyes roamed over your face intently, catching every little reaction—the way you nervously pressed your lips into a thin line, how your brows furrowed slightly, and how your hands trembled as you carefully dabbed the brush against his skin.

“What is it?” he asked, his voice filled with amusement. “Why are you shaking so much?”

The question was laced with mock innocence, but you knew better. Especially with his hand resting high on your inner thigh, fingers tracing slow, lazy patterns against your skin, rubbing up and down as if he had all the time in the world.

You didn’t know exactly when this whole thing started, but by now, it had become a regular occurrence—Yuta all over you, always touching, always whispering filthy things in your ear when no one was looking. His hands would linger too long, his gaze would darken with something unmistakable, and no matter how many times you tried to put an end to it, he always had a way to pull you right back in.

If you so much as hinted at resistance, he’d play his favorite card: the resignation threat. A single word from him could shatter your career, and he made sure you knew it. He never said it outright, never needed to. The smirk on his lips, the way he leaned in just a little too close when reminding you how irreplaceable you were—it was all part of the game.

But the worst part? Unlike what you had once believed, everyone knew. Even the other members. And yet, not a single one of them ever tried to stop it.

“Y-Yuta, can you please not do this here?” you whispered, your voice barely above a breath. Nervous eyes flickered around the room, scanning for any sign that someone might be watching, that someone might care. But no one seemed to pay either of you any attention.

Yuta, on the other hand, wasn’t even pretending to care. His gaze dipped, zeroing in on the teasing hint of cleavage right in front of him as you leaned in closer to check his face. The position gave him the perfect view, and he took his time, shamelessly drinking it in, tongue darting out to wet his lips.

“What? Now you’re trying to say this is my fault?” he raised a brow, looking up at you with that smug, knowing smirk. “You’re the one who chose to wear this skirt. You’re practically begging for me to touch you.”

Never mind the fact that he was the one who forced you wear it in the first place—telling you how pretty you looked in it, how it suited you so well. The truth was, he just loved the view. Loved watching the way your legs looked in that tiny thing, loved how you had to move carefully to keep from showing too much.

“I am not,” you shot back firmly, glaring at him, which only made him chuckle. He loved when you showed your claws—when you tried to act defiant, even when you both knew how easily he could break that act.

His hand moved up slowly, deliberately, until his fingers brushed against your clothed cunt. The sudden contact made you gasp, your body freezing in place as heat bloomed through you.

“Really?” he mused, voice dripping with amusement as he pressed just a little harder. “Because your body’s telling me something very different.”

It’s just a natural response, you told yourself, trying to cling to any shred of defiance. You wanted to snap back at him, but instead, a soft, helpless moan slipped past your lips.

Yuta smirked. He had already pushed your panties to the side, his fingers slipping inside you with ease, stretching you just enough as he pumped them in and out at a slow, teasing pace.

Your eyes darted around the room again, panic bubbling in your chest, but no one seemed to notice—or maybe they were just pretending not to. You bit down hard on your lower lip, desperately trying to stifle your sounds, only to earn a low hum of satisfaction from him.

“Let’s do this,” he mused, his foxy grin widening. “If I make you cum, you’re gonna be my personal stress relief tonight. Got it?”

Jaehyun had a girlfriend, one he claimed to love deeply, but he knew he was being a scoundrel. Still, he blamed it on biology, on a man’s natural urges. It wasn’t his fault that you, his girlfriend’s best friend, had been haunting his thoughts since the very beginning of his relationship.

He tried to be a good boyfriend, really, he did. But every time you were around, laughing, teasing, flashing that mischievous smile his way, it became harder to pretend. Harder to act like he didn’t imagine you beneath him, under him, taking him in ways his girlfriend never could.

Maybe it was wrong, but how could he be blamed when you were the one constantly in his head, you were the one who made his cock twitch with just a glance? It wasn’t his fault that every touch, every brush of your skin against his, sent a jolt straight through his body.

It wasn’t entirely his fault that he found himself slipping into these desperate habits to satisfy his twisted desires. He hated himself for it, for feeling this way, but the guilt wasn’t enough to stop him.

He couldn't resist the forbidden thrill of sniffing your panties every time he slept over at your place (he thanked God that you and his girlfriend were roommates) and taking a few of them with him so he could use them later. Not only that, but he really loved to peek at you in the shower. It was nice to see the way you touched yourself- even if it wasn't sensual, he just really liked watching you and imagining what it would be like if he were the one touching you like that.

And he didn't know you left the door unlocked on purpose, knowing he would be there—just like tonight.

You had chosen the perfect time, late at night, when his sweet little girlfriend was fast asleep, and you knew exactly who was watching you through the narrow crack in the door.

"Enjoying the view, huh?" you said, catching him completely off guard. He froze in place. "I know you're there, Jaehyun. Not gonna come in? I've been waiting for you."

He was stunned to be caught-stunned even more by what you said.

He hesitated only for a moment before stepping inside, welcomed by a wave of warm, damp steam that kissed his skin.

Even better—he now had a perfect view of you, not through a crack in the door, but all of you. He swallowed hard.

"Oh, you're this happy?" you teased, a playful smile dancing on your lips as your eyes dropped to the bulge in his sleep shorts, the soft, thin fabric doing nothing to hide just how excited he was.

"It's not like I can help it," he muttered, his eyes slowly roaming over every inch of your body, licking his lips like a starving animal eyeing a taste of something forbidden.

That made you laugh, "Come here, come," you beckoned him with a finger, his gaze lifting to meet yours. "I'll take care of it for you."

He knew exactly what that meant. It was written all over your eyes, your voice-and, of course, in the very situation he found himself in.

He bit his lip, casting a quick glance toward the door. His girlfriend was asleep just a few steps away.

"...Are you sure?"

"I'm giving you the chance to fuck me. You don't want that?"

He didn't think twice to answer, "Fuck, of course I do."

In an instant, his clothes were gone, and he stepped under the shower with you. His hands found your waist immediately, pulling you against him with a kind of hunger he didn't bother to hide. His hard cock pressed against your stomach as his hands wandered all over your body, fingers gliding, gripping, worshipping the feel of your wet, heated skin. It hit him all at once: this was real. He was really touching you.

“You have no idea how long I've been needing you," he nibbled on your neck, kissing his way up toward your mouth, searching for a kiss.

"Oh, believe me, I know," you whispered back, meeting his lips, feeling the desperate way his tongue moved against yours, barely holding back from reacting to your teasing.

"I'm going to fuck you so good," he said, squeezing your ass firmly. "I promise."

Okay, it’s not that he was stalking you. Jungwoo was just… preparing himself. Making sure he knew exactly what you liked, what you disliked, so that when he finally approached you, he wouldn’t embarrass himself and lose his chances with you.

Of course, that meant he had to figure out which places you frequented, who your friends were, what kind of things made you smile. It was all just research. Necessary steps to ensure everything would go perfectly between you two.

Not only that, he also ended up making sure you were safe. After all, the world was full of dangerous things, especially for someone as precious as you. So, really, watching you wasn’t just about getting closer. It was about protecting you. Making sure you got home safely, ensuring no one suspicious lingered too close, even subtly steering you away from places that didn’t seem right.

Learning your habits, memorizing the way you moved, keeping you safe—well, wasn’t that just proof of how much he cared?

Jungwoo couldn’t help but let a passionate sigh escape from his lips as he watched you try on the new lingerie you bought. He had noticed it the first time he ever saw you changing, that bad little habit of yours. You never closed your curtains. It was almost like an invitation, like you wanted him to see.

Of course, he couldn’t let you keep doing something so dangerous. He’d have to remind you (when he finally gathered the courage to meet you) that you shouldn’t be so careless. That there were people out there with bad intentions, people who could hurt you.

You were lucky that he was the one watching you, and not someone else.

Nonetheless, he couldn’t do much more than enjoy the view.

His mouth nearly watered at the sight of you in that delicate blue bra and lacy panties. God, you had such impeccable taste, it suited you perfectly, just the way he’d imagined. And, oh, he had imagined it. The moment he saw you pick it up in the store, he knew it would look divine on you.

His heart and cock throbbed in unison, so pleased, so grateful. He didn’t even need to rely on his imagination tonight, you were right there, unknowingly putting on a perfect show just for him. His fingers twitched at his sides, itching to reach for you, to touch, to feel, to claim. But for now, he had to be patient. Good things come to those who wait, right?

You shifted slightly, turning to the side to admire yourself in the mirror, and the movement nearly sent him over the edge. The way the fabric hugged you, the way your hands ran along your own body, adjusting the straps, smoothing the lace—it was almost too much.

Jungwoo bit his lip, his breath heavy as he palmed himself through his pants, his eyes glued to you like a starving man. You were so unaware, so innocent in your little routine, completely oblivious to the fact that someone was appreciating you more than even you appreciated yourself.

As if the universe really wanted to test his self-control, you let out a little sigh and pouted, clearly dissatisfied with something. His stomach clenched. What’s wrong, sweetheart? Don’t you see how fucking perfect you are?

Then, you did something that nearly made him lose it. You reached behind you, unclasped your bra, and let it slide down your arms. His cock jolted in happiness inside his pants when he caught a glimpse of your chest, your beautiful breasts gracing his eyes. He could barely contain the desire to press his lips to them, to suck and taste you so badly.

He was sure he could cum just like that, just at the sight of you. That’s why he had to look away, his cheeks burning in embarrassment, his heart hammering against his chest. But even as he turned his head, his body refused to obey. His eyes flickered back to you, drawn to every movement, every little shift of your body. Fuck. You had no idea, did you? No idea how much you tormented him, how badly he wanted, needed you to see him.

He swallowed hard, his hand gripping his thigh as if that would ground him, stop him from doing something stupid. He desperately needed you to acknowledge his existence. To look his way. To notice him. Just once.

But he knew this wouldn’t happen. At least, not yet.

Johnny always knew how to talk his way into anything, and with you, it was no different.

You trusted him, he made you laugh, always knew the right thing to say, always had a comforting tone, a clever joke, a witty excuse. You never really noticed how often he got away with things no one else would dare.

Like the way he’d casually barge into your room while you were changing.

It happened more than once, always with him claiming it was an accident, but somehow never looking particularly surprised. If you were trying on new clothes, he’d flash you a grin and say how amazing you looked, how the outfit suited you just right. If you were in your underwear, he’d murmur that you looked stunning like that, like it was the most natural compliment in the world.

And if you were naked… He’d let his eyes shamelessly roam, taking in every inch before offering you a cocky smile. He’d only leave when you scrambled to the door and slammed it shut, his muffled voice on the other side teasing, “You’re so fucking hot, you know that?”

And somehow, he always got away with it. Maybe because, deep down, you liked the attention. The way his eyes lingered on you. The way his charming smile could so easily cloud your judgment, sweeping your thoughts away from the obvious implications of his behavior.

And when he invited you over, you hadn’t expected to walk in on that. You froze in the doorway, gasping in surprise the moment your eyes landed on him—hand wrapped around his cock, stroking himself slowly. You turned around on instinct, heart pounding with embarrassment.

But he didn’t look the least bit flustered. In fact, the small smile on his lips said he’d planned this.

“Oh,” he said casually, his voice laced with amusement, “you’re here already.”

“Yeah, I—I’m so sorry, I didn’t mean to—you know!” you stammered, unable to string a proper sentence together.

“Don’t worry,” he chuckled, and you heard the wet sound of his hand moving faster. A soft groan slipped from him. “You came in at the perfect moment.”

You swallowed. “W-what?”

“Come on,” his tone low and teasing. “Look at me, baby. Don’t you wanna see what you do to me?”

There was a pause, the air thick with tension. And slowly, curiosity, shameless curiosity, won. You turned your head, just enough to see him biting his lower lip, his fist moving faster, eyes locked onto yours like you were the one touching him.

“That’s it, baby,” he murmured, voice thick with praise as he threw his head back, pumping himself faster. It was so much easier with you right there, just a few steps away, no need for imagination this time. You were real, watching, and that alone had him melting. “Fuck,” he groaned, chest rising and falling rapidly. “I’m gonna cum… just for you.”

And so he did, hot spurts of cum painting his hand as your name slipped from his lips in a satisfied moan. His body shuddered, breath heavy, and when he opened his eyes again, they landed right on you.

You were still standing there. Still watching. Eyes wide, lips parted, your thoughts written all over your face.

“So… are you gonna keep watching or help me out?”

Taeyong isn’t much obvious about it. To anyone watching, he just seems like the perfect, overly sweet boyfriend, the kind who couldn’t imagine living without you.

And really, he is the best. Caring, loving, sincere. Honest about almost all his feelings. He’s all affection, always holding you close, always cuddling you like you’re the most precious thing in his world, peppering your face with kisses like he’s addicted to your skin. And that clingy, affectionate side? It’s the perfect cover for how perverted he really is with you.

His hands are always on you. Always.

When you’re curled up together on the couch watching a movie, his fingers will start innocently enough, tracing light circles on your stomach, pretending to be casual. But they always wander higher. Just under your breasts at first, staying there long enough that it starts to feel normal. Harmless.

Until suddenly he’s full-on groping you with a calm look on his face like it’s just another act of love. And you’ve gotten so used to it, you barely even flinch anymore.

Whenever you take a bath, he insists on joining you, always under the excuse of helping you clean up or giving you a "five-star spa experience" with his so-called massage service. It’s all about relaxing you, he says. Just a way to help you unwind.

But the truth is, he just wants full access to your body, to touch you anywhere he wants, whenever he wants. And really, he does love you, so much it borders on obsession. He needs you close, always.

And when you sleep together? You curl up on his chest, soft and warm, pressing against him like you belong there. You're so close he can feel every part of you… and most nights, he ends up cumming in his pants, silently, helplessly, just from the way your body molds into his.

Sometimes, he just can’t hold himself back.

There are nights he wakes you up, his body burning too hot, need pressing hard against his patience. His arms wrapped around you, chest to your back, lips brushing your ear.

“Can I please just put it in?” he whispers, voice soft and breathy, a desperate little whine that trembles with restraint. He presses a kiss to your neck, soft and pleading, while his hard cock grinds lazily against your ass through his briefs.

And how could you ever say no to him? So you just sigh softly, pull your shorts to the side, and let him slip inside you without another word. The sound he makes, a choked, relieved groan, almost teary in its intensity, is absolutely priceless.

Does Haechan usually enjoy a bit of a chase? Absolutely. He liked the tension, the teasing. But with you… there was something different. Something addictive about the way you melted for him with just a little push, the way you were so, so easy for him and only him.

He couldn’t explain it. Maybe he didn’t even want to. All he knew was that with a little persistence, a little pressure, he'd have you right where he wanted, squirming under his touch, your body giving in to him in the most satisfying ways.

You were genuinely his favorite plaything, he loved to mess with you.

You weren’t even in a relationship, but he made it clear to everyone that you were his—hence the reason why you never managed to find a romantic partner.

Donghyuck sabotaged every single potential candidate for that spot in your life. He made a point of being extra clingy the moment someone interested in you entered the room: he’d hold you by the waist the entire time, pull you into a hug, cover your face with kisses, and slip his tongue into your mouth in a messy kiss. Even if you tried to resist all his attempts, you always gave in in the end.

It was so easy, it was almost refreshing.

If he wanted to pull you into a corner in a public place just to fuck you, all he’d have to do is ask sweetly and you’d already be lifting your skirt for him to take you from behind. If he wanted to eat your pussy for breakfast, he’d just need to walk into your room, crawl under your covers, and find his feast between your legs. If he wanted to film you giving him the best blowjob of his life, all he’d have to do is promise to make you come until you couldn't take it anymore.

He also had a little habit of leaving pieces of himself everywhere. Whether it was cumming in your panties or wiping himself off on your pillow, he loved the thought of you surrounded by him, even when he wasn’t there.

Sometimes he’d jerk off while you were in the shower, moaning your name into your bedsheets and finishing all over your favorite pair of underwear, then toss them casually back into your drawer, knowing you’d find them later. Or worse: he’d tell you to wear them, right before you went out, watching closely as you hesitated… then slipped them on anyway, embarrassment all over your face as his cum stuck to your skin.

“Now, pull your leg up, cutie," he murmured, kneeling down in front of you like it was the most natural thing in the world.

“But, Hyuck—” your voice trembled as you glanced around the library. It was full, and this corner wasn’t nearly as hidden as he made it seem. “We’ll get caught…”

“We won’t,” he said confidently, already lifting your leg and hooking it over his shoulder. He pressed soft, open-mouthed kisses along your thigh, voice dripping with sweetness. “Just be quiet for me, baby.”

“But still—”

“Please,” he breathed, and before you could respond, he kissed your clit, firm and full, enough to make you jolt and suck in a gasp. “Just wanna eat you.”

You bit your lip hard, casting one last panicked glance around the room. No one seemed to notice. No one had any idea what was happening behind the stacks.

When your eyes met his again, you didn’t speak, just gave him that look, the one that said “hurry up” without a single word. That smirk of his spread lazily across his lips before he finally dipped his tongue between your folds.

You were his. Not because you said yes, but because you never said no.

↝ taglist: @nebularsung, @spacejip, @peterm4rker, @sinisxtea, @bluedbliss

[wildflowersandvibranium]

Pie with Promise

Pairing: Husband!Dad!Bucky Barnes x Wife!Pregnant!Reader

Summary: In the soft glow of city lights, it's clear—your little world of blankets , pie , tacos and baby kicks is everything you've ever needed.

Word Count: 2.2k+

Content: PREGNANCY if that isn’t your thing then this isn’t the fic for you 🫶🏼Fluff Fluff and how about more fluff!!! I think just food mentions , pregnancy symptoms and kissing 💖 A/N: wrote my favorite thing ever to write again domestic dad Bucky 🤗 sorry NOT sorry hehe Tysm for every like comment reblog it means the world!!! see ya in the next one bbys 🌷

The Dodgers game was playing low on the TV, the announcer’s voice a smooth hum in the background. 

The golden afternoon light slanted through the window blinds , cutting stripes across the soft throw blanket on your lap. 

You weren’t sure when your eyes had started closing , but you were sure that the last thing you remembered was your husband sitting next to you on the couch , flipping through a dog-eared deck of cards as he played solitaire across the coffee table. 

Half listening to the game he had bet on with Steve and Sam.

And that pie. God, the pie.

It was still warm from the oven , that perfect crisp edge on the buttery crust , and you’d been halfway through your second slice , balancing the plate against your belly like a shelf , when sleep tugged at you too hard to resist.

Now , your hand rested empty in your lap , save for a sticky smudge of pie filling on your pinky. 

The TV was still on , but Bucky was nowhere to be seen.  And your neck had the stiff ache of a too-long nap in an awkward position.

“Mmgh,” you groaned , rubbing your eyes as you stretched.

A small weight shifted under your chin with a soft prrrr.

Alpine. 

You and Bucky's cat you adopted about a year ago. She was the softest , fluffiest, whitest ,  little purrbox.

You smiled sleepily , lifting your hand to scratch the back of her fluffed ears. 

She gave you a squinty , unimpressed glance , the same kind she always gave when you dared to move after she’d deemed you a suitable warm , napping place.

Your dark gray weighted blanket, the one you didn’t remember grabbing—was tucked over your lap and belly. 

You smoothed a hand over it , heart melting at the thought: Bucky. 

He must’ve caught you dozing and covered you up , careful as ever.

You looked around , still foggy in that post nap way.

“Buck?” you called softly.

No answer.

You shifted to sit up , one hand bracing your lower back , the other cradling your belly. 

You’d just rounded into your third trimester , literally , and it was getting harder to do… Well , anything without your husbands assistance. 

Your spine and knees cracked when you stood , and Alpine gave a little mrrp of protest as you scooped her up with both hands under her arms.

“C’mon, baby,” you murmured to her, smoothing her fur. “Let’s go find daddy.”

She blinked slowly in a silent agreement.

The apartment was quiet except for the soft clink of something in the next room. 

As you padded toward the nursery , the muffled sound grew clearer—rustling paper , tools , and your husband’s familiar low hum as he read something aloud to himself, under his breath.

You stopped in the doorway, blinking when you saw him.

There he was—your Bucky—sock-clad feet tapping against the green nursery rug , a small screwdriver held between his fingers , hair tucked and pulled back messily behind his ears. 

He was crouched beside the half-assembled changing table , squinting down at the instructions in a way that screamed “I don’t agree with these people, but I’ll follow their dumb little diagrams anyway.”

Alpine leapt gently out of your arms and padded across the floor toward him. 

He glanced up just in time to see her and smiled , reaching out to stroke her back. “Hey, princess. Keepin’ Mama safe and warm out there?”

His head lifted to meet your gaze—and when his eyes found yours , that soft , crooked smile hit you like a warm blanket fresh out of the dryer.

“Hi, sweetheart,” he said, voice low and soft. “You doin’ okay?”

You nodded , voice still raspy from sleep. “Yeah. Just woke up. Didn’t mean to knock out on the couch , but the pie took me out.”

He chuckled and sat back on his heels , wiping his hands on his sweatpants. “You passed out halfway through your last bite. I didn’t wanna wake you. You looked real peaceful… mouth open , droolin’ a little.” He teased winking.

“Rude,” you muttered, blushing.

“I loved it,” he grinned, then offered his hand to you to help you into the nursery recliner. “C’mon, sit with me.”

You took it gladly , letting him tug you close. Once you’d sunk into the chair, Alpine hopped into your lap and did a slow spin before curling into a fluffy loaf right on your bump.

“She’s obsessed with you,” Bucky murmured , crouching beside the recliner now, resting his chin on the armrest to be level with you. Your hands found his hair , lacing your fingers in it gently. 

“You and the baby. She follows you like a shadow.” he hummed.

“Jealous?” you teased, fingers dragging to his face , scratching his stubble.

He scrunched his nose. “Just a little.”

You smiled and leaned back, sighing as you stroked over your belly. “Doctor’s appointment is Thursday morning. That one’s the big one again—blood pressure, growth scan, the works.” 

He nodded, face serious. “I’ll be there.”

“I know , You always are.”

“And I’ll always be.”

You stared at him for a long second, your heart squeezing behind your ribs.

God , you loved him.

You bit your lip and looked down, stroking the top of Alpine’s head as she purred against you. “Okay ,  I sat as long as I could but I really gotta pee.”

He stood instantly , offering his hands. “Here , wait , let me help—”

“I can get up without you helping me like I’m made of glass , Bucky.”

“You’re carrying my child , doll. That makes you royalty. I serve at your pleasure.”

You laughed. “Well, tell your royal subject that their first order is to let their mama at least make it to the bathroom this time. And second order? Tacos. The baby’s demanding tacos.”

He gave a salute. “Understood. I’ll call the place on the corner.

You waddled toward the bathroom as he headed to the kitchen , muttering to himself about whether he should order one or four kinds of salsa.

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The scent of Mexican spices and lime drifted through the apartment twenty minutes later.

You and Bucky stood barefoot on the balcony under the fading evening sky , tacos piled high on plates ,  a soft breeze ruffling your hair. 

He passed you a napkin and leaned against the railing beside you , shoulder brushing yours as you both devoured your favorites.

“I love it out here,” you mumbled between bites. “It’s serene , just us the city and these amazing tacos.”

He laughed out of his nose mid bite , staring down at your bump as you wiped salsa off your chin.

 “All of it. This place. You. The baby. Got my whole world , right here.” he said quietly.

You paused , taco halfway to your mouth , blinking back sudden tears.

“I’m gonna cry,” you whispered.

He nudged you gently with his elbow. “Not before you finish that taco.”

You snorted, leaning into him, resting your head on his shoulder.

Then, a beat later, you groaned rubbing your belly..

“Ughhhhhh, I’m too full and nauseous now.”

He held out his hand. “Gimme.”

You blinked. “What?”

“Gimme the taco. You’re not wasting that.”

You passed him your plate and watched him finish off your last half in two bites.

It was a little tradition of yours.

He always finished what you couldn’t eat.

 A quiet, stupidly sweet thing you never talked about—but just did. Ever since your first date. 

Makes you cry everytime you think of it. 

You two meeting up at an Italian restaurant down the street , Bucky picked the place hoping to impress you. 

He bought a beautiful bouquet of peonies  , when you took them with a soft thank you ,  it wasn't the restaurant or even the pretty arrangement that stole your heart , but that lopsided crooked smile that met Buckys eyes when he looked at you. 

The crinkle in his nose when he laughed , his bright blue eyes and of course him being the sweetest man on the planet were all pluses. But man that smile stole your heart fully and wholly that day. 

And now look at you two.

You watched him slurp his soda as his free hand rested gently against your belly. Not rubbing, not talking. 

Just resting. Present.

You turned your face into his shoulder , eyes fluttering closed as the sky turned pink.

You  stayed tucked against his shoulder just like that for a while. 

The scent of tacos , laundry detergent , and everything that made up him filling your nose. 

His arm wrapped around your back gently , fingers drawing slow , soothing circles just under your ribs.

“I can feel you thinkin’,” he murmured.

You smiled. “I’m always thinking.”

“About?” he pressed gently.

You sighed. “Nursery. Delivery. If I’m going to poop on the table in front of you.”

He let out a short , surprised laugh.

 “Baby doll, I’ve seen worse remember that time in your second trimester when you-” 

He began but you covered his mouth quickly with your hand. 

“I thought you promised to never speak of that again?” you whined face red with embarrassment

“I'm sorry , okay , but you think I’m gonna blink twice if you poop during labor?”

“You say that now…’

“I mean it. I’ll be right there holding your hand and telling you how beautiful you are , how proud I am of you , and how amazing you are for bringing another life into this world.”

Your heart fluttered. 

You let your hand slide over his on your belly.

 “Okay. Then I’m not as scared.”

“Good,” he said softly , pressing a kiss to your temple. 

“We’re gonna be okay, all three of us.”

✧･ﾟ: *✧･ﾟ:*

The sky was dark now , just a faint gold halo left around the skyline. 

The city buzzed below you, but it felt so far away from your little bubble of safety and quiet. 

It always did when you were with him.

Bucky gently pushed back your hair. “You ready to go inside?”

You nodded, belly feeling heavier by the second. “Yeah. I think I need to lie down.”

“I’ll get the blanket. You get comfy.”

You both padded barefoot back inside , the taco plates clinking softly as he set them in the sink making a mental reminder to wash them in the morning.

You waddled straight to the nursery , Alpine trailing behind you , tail up like a little white flag. 

The soft rug under your feet , the pastel paint , the faint scent of baby lotion—it was all so surreal and real at once.

The changing table was half-finished still, the tools neatly lined up by the instructions. 

You smiled as you lowered yourself into the plush recliner with a soft grunt. You loved spending time in this room. Just waiting and prepping for you babe.

“I told you not to keep building that tonight,” you called softly.

Bucky returned a second later, blanket in one hand, water bottle in the other. “I know, but the screws were mocking me.”

“I bet they were , honey.” you smiled teasing.

He knelt beside you and reached to cover you with the soft blanket, tucking it around your legs. 

Then, like clockwork, his hand found its home on your bump again.

And the baby kicked and rolled .

Hard.

Both of you froze.

His mouth dropped open as he stared at your belly, then up at you. “Was that—?”

“That was definitely a kick,” you breathed, laughing as your hand joined his.

A second one followed—stronger, aimed right where his palm lay.

Bucky let out the softest noise, somewhere between a laugh and a gasp. 

His eyes were wide, blue like the sky before a storm. 

“That little punk kicked their dad already ,” he whispered. 

“That’s our baby.”

He leaned forward, brushing his lips to your belly right by his hand, whispering.

“Hey, you in there. Be nice to your mama.”

You blinked fast, your vision going blurry.

“I didn’t think I could love you more,” you said quietly.

He looked up, startled. “But?” 

Waiting for you to tell him something bad he had done or said.

“No,  but. Just… somehow I do. Every day.”

His lips parted, and he just stared at you for a second, like maybe you’d knocked the wind out of him.

Then he kissed you.

It wasn’t urgent or fast. 

It was soft and slow, like he had all the time in the world. 

Like nothing else mattered except the way your lips molded and perfectly fit against his. 

The way his thumb brushed your cheek as he deepened it, the way your hand curled into the front of his hoodie to keep him close.

When you pulled back, both a little breathless, he pressed his forehead to yours.

“Sweetheart,” he murmured, “I don't care about every good thing I do now , there’s still no way I’ll ever deserve this life with you.”

“You do deserve it, Buck.”

“I’m the lucky one.”

“No,” you said, touching his face, “we are.”

Then he chuckled. “You still full?”

You groaned. “Like a overfilled water balloon. Slowly regretting every bite.”

“C’mon , I’ll go rub your back.”

“Deal—but you gotta finish off my horchata, too.”

He smiled, already on his feet. “Already done.”

You exhaled , watching him walk out , one hand running through his sleep-tousled hair, the other already reaching for the bottle of soothing vanilla lotion.

This man. This life.

You looked down at your belly as it rolled gently beneath your hand. “You’ve got a pretty amazing dad, you know that?”

Alpine let out a soft mrrrp, hopping back onto the chair and curling into your hip. “See even your sister agrees” You said eyes closing , picturing a better life than this. 

Which was hard because there was no way you could.

This was perfect.

-end part two hereeeeee ->

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(although if you liked this fic please consider reblogging so it can reach a wider audience)

They let me know that you are enjoying what I'm publishing and gives me motivation to write more and more! :33

[mononijikayu]

fushiguro toji never said it directly.

it’s late already. you looked at the clock, it's already past midnight. the lights are off, but the room glows faintly with that gray-blue stillness only found between the last hour of night and the first breath of morning.

fushiguro megumi is asleep in the cot near the bed, curled up like a little bean under a blanket that keeps slipping off. the soft wheeze of his nose and the barely-there shuffle of his hands are the only signs of life in the silence.

you can’t sleep. not anymore.

you’re too tired to sleep. there’s a difference.

but that's just how it was, you think to yourself.

things have to be fair, after alll.

your body aches in ways you’ve stopped naming. the hospital smell has faded from your skin, but the bruises from the IVs still bloom purple and green along your hand.

your head is bald now, scalp soft and exposed, catching cool drafts from the window you cracked open earlier to feel something real. fushiguro toji is beside you in bed. awake, for once.

he’s always stiller than he looks, like a beast pretending to nap but listening for threats. but now, he’s talking. his voice low, slow, fingers brushing gently across the crown of your head.

"so....how about weddings?" you asked him, your voice low, too tired. you tried to make sure that it wasn't something he notices. "how was it like?"

“there was a wedding once when i was still there, well one grand enough anyway.” he says, humming. “back in the zenin estate. when i was a kid.”

you smile faintly. you’ve heard this one.

still, you let him tell it. it doesn’t matter.

you liked hearing him tell it all over again.

“it was some cousin of mine. third or fourth or whatever. rich pricks, you get me?” he adds with a dry snort. “everything was gold and loud. even the rice they threw looked expensive.”

your hand, the bruised one, is cradled in his other palm. he keeps tracing the inside of your wrist, slow, as if his touch could press something back in. life, time, luck. he keeps talking. you keep listening. somewhere along the line, it shifts.

“bride wore something stupid. feathers. like a chicken crossed with a geisha.” he mutters, and you chuckle, soft and tired.

"oh? and then? what else?"

“the mother of the groom, she was such a nightmare, baby.” he says, trying to be animated. “she was so dramatic. she wasn’t there. she missed her son's entire wedding!"

you hum, amused, turning your head slightly on the pillow. “what kind of mother of the groom misses her own son’s wedding? that’s ridiculous.”

he goes silent. completely. the kind of silence that isn't empty but full. swollen. stretched. you feel it first in his chest, how he stiffens against you.

his long fingers on your scalp pause. the ones holding your hand squeeze, too tight at first, then trembling. you turn your head toward him. you felt sorry for saying that.

“toji…”

his jaw clenches. you can’t see it in the dark, but you feel the movement, hear the breath catch. a drop lands on your shoulder. then another.

“shit.” he murmurs. and it breaks. whatever wall he had left in him buckles.

his face presses into the space between your neck and shoulder, and his arms pull you in like he could keep you here, keep you from slipping further, as if the right pressure could fight what medicine couldn’t.

you don’t cry. you’ve done enough of that already. you wanted nothing more now than to make sure you smile. that it was what toji remembers. what your husband rememebrs. you just lift your hand, your good one, and stroke the back of his head.

“i’m still here, baby.” you whisper. "its okay, don't worry."

he sobs, almost like a child. muffled. quiet. ugly in the way grief is when you try to swallow it down for too long. you press your forehead against his.

“tell me more, baby. go on.” you say, breath shallow but warm. “i want to hear more stories.”

“baby…”

“just keep talking. please.”

his breath shakes. he nods into your shoulder, then lifts his head, sniffling hard.

“i saw a buddhist priest trip once.” he whispers, trying to stop his voice from shaking. “during a funeral. landed face first in the incense burner.”

you giggle, even if it hurts. “what happened?”

“we all pretended we didn’t see it, but that man’s eyebrows were on fire.”

your laughter shakes the bed. his hand returns to your scalp, stroking slow, reverent. the kind of touch that wants to memorize what it’s losing.

just then, your beautiful megumi cries. not loud. just a soft, confused sound. the kind of baby cry that doesn’t ask for much. just presence, just your attention, your love. what's left of it.

toji exhales, getting himself together for a moment. he sits up and crosses the room in three strides. he carefully scoops the baby into his arms with ease.

“hey, hey. it’s alright, megumi.” he mumbles, rocking megumi gently.

the baby quiets a little, cheek pressed against his father’s shoulder. toji turns to you. “can i bring him here?”

you nod. “please.”

he lies down beside you again, gently, like you might crack beneath the weight of him. megumi is curled between you both, small fingers clinging to the fabric of your sleeve like even in sleep, your son knows something is slipping.

toji wraps one arm around megumi’s tiny body, holding him close. the other curls around your waist, fingers splayed carefully across the fragile place between your ribs and hip.

he’s holding you like you’re already gone. he's holding you like maybe if he keeps his hands there, keeps you bracketed in warmth and weight, you’ll stay.

your breathing is shallow. he’s memorized the rhythm of it—how uneven it’s become, how each breath pauses too long before it dares to return.

the three of you lie there, skin to skin. breath to breath. you shift just slightly. your weary, broken hand twitches, as if reaching for him in your sleep.

your eyes open, only half. and you smiled back at him. so faint it might’ve been imagined, if he didn’t know every curve of your mouth by heart.

“i love you so much, toji, my baby.” you whisper. your voice is frayed, breath threaded with pain. but the words come easy. as if you’ve waited your whole life to say them like this. “you and megumi... i love you.”

he breaks in a way that he had never done before. it was not in a loud, ugly way but in the way a dam breaks under pressure. quietly. inevitably. all too aware. his throat seizes.

“i love you too.” he says, voice hoarse. he squeezes you tighter. presses his lips to your forehead. “more than anything, baby. more than anything.”

your eyes slip shut again. this time, slower. like it’s safe. like it’s okay now. he stays there, still. frozen. waiting for the next breath. but it doesn’t come.

the quiet settles. not just in the room but inside him. something deep and final. he doesn’t shake you. doesn’t call your name. he just pulls you closer.

his arms around you, around megumi like maybe he can hold the moment long enough to undo it. but it’s done. it’s over. and maybe that’s mercy. maybe that’s love, too.

no, yes. it was love. it was love in another name, with no where to go. it was named grief. a love he was not familiar with just yet. a love that he doesn't want to be familiar with. not in this life. never in any lifetime.

he presses his forehead to yours, blue-green eyes shut tight. megumi stirs between you, lets out a soft sigh, then goes still again. fushiguro toji swallows a sob.

he’s crying without sound now, the kind of tears that come when there’s nothing left to scream about. he didn't want to scare megumi, nor alert him to a loss, a love he shouldn't need to live or know.

“no more pain, baby.” he whispers. voice cracking. shaking. "no more hospitals. no more needles. no more nights wondering if you're gonna make it to morning."

he kisses the space above your brow, slow, reverent. "i love you, i love you." he chokes, the words soaking into your skin. “i love you. more than anything,”

he stays like that for hours.

not because he’s waiting for you to wake up.

but because he doesn’t know how to say goodbye.

not to the only place that ever felt like home.

not when it was you.

[bearforcecaptions]

It’s my cologne.

That’s where it begins for most of them — but especially for him.

The scent hits first. It always does. Leather and smoke, with warm notes of aged cedar, worn tobacco, musk that clings to the lungs like memory. But under it all — beneath the rich, masculine perfume I distilled over years of trial and private experimentation — there’s something that doesn’t come from any bottle. Something that wraps around the mind like a warm fog. Gentle. Heady. Opening.

I don’t need to touch. I don’t need to command. All I need to do is be there — and breathe.

He was straight when I met him. The real kind. The kind that walks around with a cocky grin, a worn baseball cap, and no real awareness of how much of his identity is just noise. His voice was always a little too loud. He always looked like he was performing for someone, though I don’t think he ever figured out who. Confident in the way young men are when no one’s ever made them doubt themselves — yet.

That gym was full of them. Shaved chests, neon tanks, cold stares. They glanced at me sometimes — older, heavier, hairier — then looked away like they hadn’t. He was no different. The first few times, anyway.

Until he caught my scent.

I was sitting on the bench near the back corner, toweling off, the cologne still fresh on my beard and chest. I saw him walk past, mid-conversation with a friend, mid-laugh. Then I saw him stop. A beat too long. Just a breath. That’s all it took. His laugh cracked. His eyes flicked to me, puzzled. I didn’t even smile. Just met his gaze. Let the scent do its work.

He wouldn’t remember that moment. I made sure of it. It would dissolve into the background of his day, like a skipped beat — like forgetting why you walked into a room. But his body remembered. His brain learned something, in ways his conscious mind couldn’t grasp.

That’s the trick of it. The cologne doesn’t shove. It seeps. It convinces.

He started changing his schedule. I didn’t ask him to. He just started arriving when I was there. He told himself it was coincidence. That he liked the quieter hours. But I watched him — how he lingered near me, how he seemed distracted, a little more uncertain around me than anyone else. That cocky smile softened when he talked to me. He forgot to perform.

He asked about my cologne on the third week.

“What is that stuff you wear?” he said, with a nervous chuckle. “Smells… I don’t know. Good. Strong.”

I just said, “Something I make myself.” And that was enough.

He didn’t notice the way his breathing changed when he got close to me. How his body leaned in. How his shoulders dropped a little. He didn’t question why he started listening to me more — why when I gave advice, he followed it, even when it contradicted everything he’d done before.

I told him he’d look better with a beard.

Two weeks later, he stopped shaving. He told me it was just laziness. He said it offhandedly, as if he barely noticed. But I saw him stroking it while we talked, tugging the edges while his eyes flicked toward mine, waiting for approval. When I reached out and touched his cheek — thickening with scruff — he didn’t flinch. He just smiled. Nervous. Flushed. Obedient.

He still thought he was straight. That was important.

He still dated girls for a while. Still posted their pictures, still made the occasional comment about “getting laid.” But there was something hollow in it. The way someone sings along to lyrics they don’t understand. He was going through the motions, but the heat was gone. The hunger.

Meanwhile, I was in his dreams.

He wouldn’t tell me at first. But it leaked out, slowly, as it always does. The confusion. The vividness. The way he could feel the heat of my body, smell my chest hair, the weight of it — heavy, masculine, real. He said it like he was confessing something. I just smiled and rubbed his shoulder.

He stayed longer each night. Claimed he lost track of time. We’d sit on the couch, shoulder to shoulder, his breathing slower when I was near. Sometimes his head would tilt, just barely, until it touched me. He never apologized. Never pulled away. And I never said a word.

By then, the changes were more than social. His clothes shifted. He stopped wearing flashy brand names. He bought flannel. Heavier jeans. Real boots. He told me he was “trying a new look.” He didn’t remember where the idea came from. I did.

I helped him cut his hair shorter, rougher. Said it brought out his jaw. It did. He looked good. He always had. He just hadn’t known how to be seen before.

He stopped waxing his chest. That was my rule. I wanted him natural. I wanted him mine. The first time he stripped off his shirt and I saw the new growth — darker, denser, thicker — he blushed. I stepped forward, placed a hand on his chest, and said softly, “Good.”

He didn’t speak. But he stood a little straighter.

He sleeps in my bed now.

I never told him to. He just… started. A few nights a week, at first. Then every night. His old apartment’s still out there somewhere, but it doesn’t matter anymore. He has a toothbrush here. A drawer. A place by my side. And in his mind, this has always been the way it was going to be.

He calls me “Daddy” now. Not with a wink or a smirk. Not in some playful, performative way. He says it like it’s my name. Says it softly when I brush past him. Whispers it when he wraps his arms around me at night, burying his face in my chest hair, breathing me in like he needs it to sleep.

And he does.

When he’s away from me too long, he gets restless. Fidgety. He doesn’t know why. Can’t explain it. But when I pull him in and press his face to my beard, I feel the tension leave his body. Like exhaling after holding your breath for too long.

He never questions it.

Never wonders why his old self feels like a stranger now. Never wonders when exactly he stopped wanting women, or why the thought of obeying me feels so right, so natural. Why hearing “good boy” makes him close his eyes and smile.

Because he doesn’t remember who he was.

He thinks he’s always been this way — mine. Submissive. Devoted. Gay. In love with his big, hairy Daddybear.

And he is. Because I made him that way.

All it took was a little patience. A slow hand. A warm embrace. And a scent that slipped into every crack of his mind, filling the spaces he didn’t know were empty.

It’s my cologne.

And he’s mine.

Now. Always.

[chimielie]

You've gotten kind of obsessed with Suna's voice.

You don't know how because you so often hate the actual content of his words. He's monotone, often, so you have to really focus in to hear the nuances of it. The chuckle in the back of his throat when he's laughing at someone to their face, the dip when someone annoys him, the slight pitch up when he says something outrageous just to make you start shouting.

His voice is mellow and deep, not so bassy that it's grating, not so quiet that you ever have to ask him to repeat himself. He doesn't ramble and doesn't stumble over his words; if he speaks, he's self-assured and says only what he needs to say. If you unfocus your eyes and let whatever bullshit he's saying fade out and just listen to the rolling sound of it, you could almost imagine...

You refuse to finish that thought.

Still, it keeps leaking into your life in ways that aren't ideal. You try not to show preference when conversing with your friends, but your head snaps toward him whenever he says something, no matter how intently you'd been listening before. You start asking him to repeat himself even when you heard him perfectly clearly because you liked his inflection (or more often, lack thereof) on a particular word, the roundness of a certain syllable. He obliges so easily you start to wonder if he knows.

It's even coming up in your dreams. Nothing too explicit, not that your waking self knows of, anyway—you just wake up, suddenly missing the weight of a hand on your waist and the warmth of lips against the shell of your ear. Only one or two sentences will stay with you: sometimes lacking context, like "I missed this," this forever a mystery to you, or impossible phrases, like "I missed you."

Suna is a friend. A friend of a friend that you think is kind of annoying. You're not sure why you walk around with false echoes of him—him confessing to you in your head.

He's funny, sure, but too often mean. He always looks like he's thinking of a joke about you, one he doesn't even mind saying to your face because he doesn't expect you to get it. He's vitamin D deficient, he didn't know how to do his laundry until way too late in life, and he keeps inviting you over to watch weird experimental films.

You go, but only because you enjoy arguing with him about the meaning of it all and somehow the argument never quite finishes. "We'll finish this next time," he says, and you keep coming back like a lab rat for rage-hormone-laced sugar water. He used to invite the rest of your friends, but they stopped attending one by one until it was just you and him, whisper-shouting at each other at 2 a.m. because his hand touched yours in the popcorn bucket and you reflexively grabbed it and then bit him. And all the time, he has that stupid half-smile on his face, like he knows something you don't, like everything you say to him is a joke.

You're there now, your requisite fist-fight over the popcorn over and vacuumed up already, some 60s Soviet film playing on his TV. Somehow, after the violent intermission had wrapped up, he'd maneuvered you down so that your head was in his lap, petting you every time you started making unpredictable movements in a way that managed to make you go limp. It was unfair and made it much harder to win arguments without utilizing physical force.

"It's kind of obtuse if you don't know anything about the filmmaker," he's saying.

"That's the point," you say, his hand stroking across your forehead and making your eyes flutter closed. "You're telling me you make me watch this artistic shit and you want it to be linear?"

"You're not even watching," Suna laughs. "I don't want it to be linear, I'm just curious how much the average person knew about his biography back in the day."

"Mmf," you say. His other hand is on your shoulder now, gently applying pressure, working out some of the kinks having to put up with him has put there. "Annoying guy. Annoy me all the time."

"Do I?" He says. "You look pretty relaxed. You gonna fall asleep on me, huh?"

"It was an order, get it right," you grumble. "Not gonna fall asleep. Just keep talking."

"Anything you want," he says, "I knew you liked my voice."

You'd fight him about it, but you're so comfortable. It'd be like letting him win to disturb your peace right now, so you just listen to him neg you and then narrate the screen for your closed eyes, your breathing slowing and getting deeper. You'll wake in the morning not remembering coming to bed, a hand on your waist you remember without ever experiencing, a sharp chin you hadn't known to imagine digging into the crook of your neck.

He'll say something and be smug and obnoxious to the core, maybe (maybe!) awakening something in you even worse than it was with his morning voice.

When he tells you "we didn't finish last night," his lips tilting subtly in a motion that shouts out loud to you, "I thought you'd want to stay and get the last word in," you'll laugh without meaning to.

There's so much to disagree about in the world; you'll have to stay a long time before you've covered all of it. Thank heavens you have the spirit to battle it out till the bitter end.

[snail-day]

Tw: Yandere, Pet Play, Dehumanization, Humilation

Yan! SatoSugu x Reader

Just a thought, a friend of mine is training a new puppy and it got me thinking....

Thinking about poor you, locked in a goddamn dog crate the first night of your captivity. It’s humiliating. Horrifying. You’re curled up on a plush pink dog bed (Satoru had insisted you needed it - “It’s comforting, like enrichment,” he’d chirped) with one singular, thin blanket thrown over you. Suguru had handed it to you with a smirk, saying, “In case you feel like destroying your bed,” like you were some mangy mutt prone to tearing things apart in a tantrum.

Of course you're sobbing by midnight. Quiet at first, then hiccupy and wet, like a puppy left alone for the first time - no mother, no warmth, just the soft rustle of the plush beneath you and the ache of fear in your chest.

Satoru’s been awake for hours. Laying in bed beside Suguru, eyes wide open in the dark. Listening to your sniffles. Frustrated - not with you, no, never with you - but with him.

“Just let her sleep with us,” Satoru whispers, shifting under the sheets.

Suguru sighs in his sleep, already anticipating the argument. “It’s going to create bad habits.”

Bad habits. Satoru was about to argue. Claim that it's unfair for him to have you but not really get to have you, especially when you're so close.

But eventually Satoru gets up anyway. Pads down the hall, ignoring Suguru’s grumbling. The look he shoots back - what are you gonna do, I’m the strongest - shuts him up.

Puppy training does put a strain on most relationships.

When he finds you, your eyes are puffy and wet, face tucked miserably into the crook of the plush. You flinch at the sound of the door creaking open.

Satoru doesn’t open the crate.

No, he just lowers himself to the floor beside it, resting his cheek on the cool tile. Long fingers poke through the bars, stroking your hair gently, attempting to be comforting. Ignoring how you're trying to move away from him.

“Hey, baby,” he murmurs. “You’re okay now. You’re not alone anymore.”

You hiccup.

“We’re gonna take good care of you,” he promises. “We love you so much already.”

You don’t know what shuts off the crying, the soft drag of his fingers through your hair, the edge of mania in his voice, or the tension in his pants pressing into the floor, betraying his kind words. Because something deep inside you is warning you that he likes this.

Or maybe it’s the way Suguru appears in the hallway, sleepy and sharp-eyed, leaning against the doorframe with his arms crossed.

“Satoru,” he calls, voice low. “Back to bed.”

Satoru sighs. Doesn’t move. Will wait there until Suguru drags him back.

Just keeps petting you through the bars, a lovesick smile tugging at his lips as he whispers again, “Everything’s gonna be perfect now, baby. Just wait and see.”

[smutmind]

Caught Pink Handed

IVE Wonyoung X Male Reader

“Oppa?”

You froze mid-stroke, heart stalling. Her voice wasn’t surprised. Just curious. You turned slowly—hand still half-wrapped around yourself—and there she was.

Wonyoung. Nineteen. All legs, lush hair, candy-colored top riding high on her ribs. That denim skirt brushed her ankles as she stepped inside like she owned the place.

"Didn’t your mom teach you to lock doors?" she asked, one brow raised.

You fumbled for your blanket, too slow. Her eyes were already on the laptop screen—your folder open. Her photos. Her in that low-cut tank last summer, the bikini on your roof deck, the mirror selfie she’d posted and deleted in under five minutes.

“Seriously?”

She laughed. Not cruel—worse. It was soft. Disbelieving. Almost flattered.

“Holy shit,” she murmured, stepping closer. “You were actually jerking off to me.”

You couldn’t speak. She tilted her head, watching your shame crawl over you.

“That’s what you do when we hang out? Sneak photos? Save them for later?”

Her tone was sugar-laced poison. She came closer, the heat of her body brushing yours without touch.

“I come over all the time,” she whispered. “Your sister trusts me. And you’re just here, like some sad little perv, getting off in your gamer chair.”

You swallowed hard. Your hands stayed limp at your sides.

She leaned in. The scent of her was everywhere—floral shampoo, warm skin, something bubble-sweet under it all.

“Did you ever think what would happen if she found out?”

You shook your head, throat dry.

Wonyoung smiled, slow and terrible. “No, you didn’t. Because all you were thinking about was my tits, right? My ass in this skirt?”

She stepped between your knees. Her hand landed on your thigh, fingers feather-light.

“Look at you,” she said. “Still hard.”

She leaned closer until her lips hovered beside your ear.

“You don’t deserve this,” she said. “But maybe I’ll let you have it anyway.”

You stared at her, stunned. She stepped back.

“Clean up. Sit down. Don’t say a word.”

And then she curled onto your bed like it was hers, phone in hand, not even glancing at you.

The silence stretched like wire.

You knew this wasn’t over.

She lay sideways on your bed, scrolling like nothing happened. One knee bent, heel bouncing. That skirt rode up her thigh just enough to torment.

You sat in your chair, half-hard, half-humiliated.

Then came her voice. Casual. Sharp.

"Come here."

You stood, slow, still not meeting her eyes. She patted the mattress beside her.

"Closer."

You knelt on the floor. Her gaze flicked down.

“Good boy.”

Wonyoung shifted, planting both feet flat, spreading her knees just a little. The hem of her skirt drew tight. You tried not to look. Failed.

She smirked. "You really couldn’t help yourself, huh? All those times I bent over in front of you. All the outfits I wore just to mess with you…”

You blinked. “Wait—”

“Oh please,” she said, eyes gleaming. “You think I didn’t know? You’re so easy to tease, oppa. That little twitch you get when I suck on a straw? The way you stare at my legs when I kick my shoes off?”

She ran a hand down her own thigh. “You don’t hide it well.”

Then she paused. Her smile dropped, just enough.

"But this?" she said, nodding toward your desk. "This was pathetic.”

Silence.

Her voice softened. “You wanted me without asking. Like I was just a thing you could play with when you’re lonely.”

That landed hard.

She leaned forward, touched your cheek.

“I should be pissed,” she whispered. “I should tell your sister.”

Your stomach dropped.

“But I won’t.”

Relief. A breath caught in your throat.

“Not if you listen,” she added, sitting back, legs spreading wider. “Not if you do everything I say.”

You nodded. Too fast. Too eager.

She laughed.

“Strip.”

You hesitated.

“Now. Don’t make me repeat myself.”

You obeyed—shirt, pants, everything. She watched like it was a show she’d paid for.

Then she lifted her foot and tapped your chest with her toes. “On your back. Floor.”

Cool wood against your skin. You lay there, exposed. Waiting.

She stepped over you. That skirt hovered above your face as she straddled you, her panties damp, pressed against the fabric.

She crouched lower, letting her heat ghost over your lips.

"You want to taste what you've been jerking off to?"

You nodded.

“Then beg.”

“Please,” you breathed.

“Please what?”

“Please let me taste you, Wonyoung.”

She smiled. “No.”

She stood, turned, dropped onto all fours above you. Her ass now hovered over your chest, the cotton clinging wet between her cheeks.

“Here’s what you get,” she said, yanking her panties aside. “You make me cum. I decide if you get anything.”

You grabbed her hips. She slapped your hand.

“No touching. You work with your mouth only.”

Then she lowered herself. You moaned against her—she was soaked, warm, slick and tangy. You licked, desperate, your tongue exploring every fold, flicking her clit until she twitched.

“Fuck, oppa,” she gasped. “You eat pussy better than I thought.”

She rocked against your face. Hair fell like a curtain around your head. Her moans came sharper now, louder.

“Keep going—don’t you dare stop—"

She stiffened, thighs clamping, then shuddered hard. A whimper escaped her lips.

She didn’t move right away. Just breathed heavy, panting above you. Then she sat up and twisted to face your flushed, aching cock.

“Now you get your reward,” she said, grinning like a devil.

She straddled your thighs, hair falling around her face as she dipped her head low. Her lips found you, slow at first—tongue teasing under the crown, then sliding down, swallowing you whole with a messy, greedy hum.

You groaned, fists bunching the sheets.

She came up for air, her chin glistening. “You moan so pretty, oppa.”

Then she leaned in, her chest brushing your lips.

“You want these too?”

You didn’t answer fast enough. She reached down and slapped your cock lightly.

“Say it.”

“Yes—please.”

She smirked and pulled her shirt up, baring soft, full breasts tipped in pink. You sucked one into your mouth, her skin warm and flushed, her nipple hardening instantly.

“Good boy,” she whispered, grinding down onto your cock with her soaked panties still between you.

She rocked against you like that, hips rolling, nipples in your mouth, her breath catching every time your teeth grazed. Then she lifted, reached back, tugged the fabric aside.

“Condom?”

You shook your head, dazed. She laughed.

“Course not.”

She sank onto you bare—tight, dripping, so warm it made your back arch. Her hands found your chest as she bounced in slow, deliberate thrusts.

“God,” she panted, “you’re so fucking deep—”

Your hands gripped her waist. Her tits bounced with every movement, your mouth catching them when you could. She leaned in, kissing you wet and fast, tongues tangling.

A sudden beep—she glanced at the digital clock on your shelf.

“Five minutes,” she said, laughing breathlessly. “Let’s make them count.”

She climbed off and flipped forward onto all fours, looking back over her shoulder, hair falling in waves.

“Come get what you’ve been dreaming about.”

You knelt behind her, drove into her hard. She yelped, then pushed back into you with every thrust.

“Harder,” she gasped. “Don’t hold back, oppa—fuck me like you mean it.”

Your hands gripped her hips. The slap of skin echoed, loud and obscene, her moans rising higher, then breaking into whimpers.

“I’m gonna cum again—don’t stop—don’t you fucking stop—”

She spasmed around you, mouth open in a silent cry as her body jerked. You barely held it together. She collapsed forward, then twisted onto her back, eyes wild.

“Finish on my face,” she demanded. “Do it now.”

You knelt over her. She opened her mouth, tongue out, eyes locked to yours.

You groaned, cock twitching, and came hard—ropes of white striping her lips, chin, cheeks, even her collarbone.

“Fuck,” she whispered. “Just in time.”

She grabbed her panties from the floor and wiped her face quickly, licking her fingers clean between swipes. Then she pulled her shirt down, smoothed her skirt, and darted into the bathroom.

You barely had time to tuck yourself back in before the doorbell rang.

Wonyoung peeked out, cheeks flushed but clean.

She mouthed one word before she opened the door:

“Oppa.”

[owe-143]

you’re contributing greatly to the fandom I praise you. Anyways-

Either one. Cuddle chat with the saja boys or comforting them I need fluff for lease and thanks! Have a good day/night!

Comfort buddy<3

A/N: HAHA, THANK YOUUU. I really loved this movie. Like I need to contribute. Have a good day/night as well and ty for requesting (i already did cuddling head cannons so I chose the comfort one! also kinda a character analysis-)

Warnings: none I believe

Fluff☁⭐

Saja boys (seperate) x Reader!

Jinu!

-He makes it quite obvious when he's bothered or not doing well

-will lean on you figuratively and literally

-be patient with him. He'll eventually open up

-and when he does it's an entire vent session

-he needs you to reassure him that everything will be okay

-even if he doesn't believe it himself. Hearing it from you is enough

Abs

-doesn't often show that he is vulnerable and wants comfort

-usually does things out of the usual to signal he isn't okay

-I think he's extremely insecure and needs reassurance all the time

-NEEDS HUGS. CRAVES THEM💔

-compliment him. make him feel good about himself again

-don't forget to make him laugh. memes or jokes or whatever. just get him smiling again<33

Romance

-will literally have the worst anxiety or panic attacks

-he gets overwhelmed really easily so like be super patient and calm

-getting him a gift will definitely lift his mood

-acts as if the world is ending so you have to bring him back down

-gets pissed off with his emotions easily. like help before he throws something😭

-watch movies or shows together. Specifically something funny or relaxed

Mystery

-this man is silently fighting his own demons I swear

-Doesn't really understand the way he feels most of the time so he will ignore it until he finally crashes out

-first comes to you for reasons, like why the hell does he feel not good

-stroke his hair or hold his hands

-oddly very emotional when his feelings catch up to him. will be sobbing into your shoulder

-hold him real close. cuddle him tightly and make sure he knows you're there

Baby

-claims that he is fine when clearly he's not

-you sorta have to give him space before eventually comes looking for kisses and hugs

-give this man food, he'll be better in no time

-that confident facade eventually breaks where he explains all his worries and just needs you to listen

-will pout like a toddler while you coddle him

-maybe childish, but do something like colouring or doodling. he likes doing fun things with you

[buckysleftbicep]

where it truly lies 𐙚 b.b

pairing: ex!bucky barnes x fem!reader, steve rogers x cheating!fem!reader

warnings: nsfw, 18+, minors dni, infidelity, degradation, rough sex, unprotected sex, toxic relationship dynamics, overstimulation, creampie, possessiveness, guilt/shame (please read the warnings)

summary: you swore you were done with him, but every time steve touches you see bucky instead. one text drags you back to the motel, back to the lies, and steve will never know.

word count: 2.8k

author's note: hi, so this fic was highly inspired by moth to a flame by the weeknd who i absolutely love. kinda had it in my head for a few days now, and i'm glad i finally got it out! i hope you enjoy it! thank you for reading love!

also, look at him. raw, no questions asked.

cause he seems like he's good for you. and he makes you feel like you should

You used to believe love could be enough.

That the right man, the right timing, the right kind of affection—could cleanse you of all the pieces you gave away to the wrong one. You believed, foolishly, that once someone made you feel safe, you’d never crave danger again.

And Steve made you believe that again.

He brought peace into your life like it was something easy. Like it was something you actually deserved. He never demanded more than you could give. Never made you feel like you were too much or not enough. He listens, remembers, stays.

The kind of man who folds your laundry and leaves little notes in your coat pocket. Who warms your side of the bed before you crawl in, who touches you like you’re something sacred.

The kind of man who kisses your forehead in the morning and remembers exactly how you take your coffee. Who holds your hand in public just to remind you—I’m here, I see you and I will always choose you.

Who never raises his voice, never ever makes you feel small, never makes you question your worth.

He’s everything love should be.

Which makes the ache in your chest feel even more like a betrayal.

Because here you are—in Steve's bed, in his arms—with his soft, loving words tangled in your hair, and all you can think about is Bucky.

Your ex, your addiction, your god damn curse.

The sex was never quiet with Bucky. Never tender like how it was with Steve. It was teeth against skin, fists in the sheets, breathless begging, filthy promises whispered in the dark. It was rough, ravenous and desperate. He touched you like he was trying to own you, ruin you, keep you so high on him you would forget how to breathe without it.

You left him because you had to. Because love isn’t supposed to feel like drowning.

But it doesn’t matter how far you run—there are nights you still wake up with your thighs clenched tight, gasping his name like a sin.

Nights where Steve’s soft, steady love feels more like a lie you’re trying too hard to believe in.

Tonight is one of those nights.

Steve’s hand strokes your hair as he kisses the inside of your wrist. “I love you,” he whispers, voice thick with emotion, eyes soft in the dark.

And god, he means it. He means every word.

“I love you too,” you whisper back. And part of you means it, you really do.

Steve rolls over you slowly, gently, treating your body like something precious. His hands skim your skin with reverence, his lips brushing yours with care. His cock nudges at your entrance and slides in slowly, stretching you with aching tenderness.

He moves like a man who worships. Like a man who wants to be your forever.

And you cling to him like a coward, letting him fill you, letting the warmth of him sink in deep. His breath is soft against your cheek. His fingers lace with yours.

It should be enough.

But it starts anyway—the shift, the betrayal.

You close your eyes… and suddenly it’s not Steve above you.

It’s Bucky.

It’s the past coming back in full colour and full heat, all-consuming. Bucky dragging you by the hips to the edge of his bed, slamming into you from behind while your scream cracked the silence. His metal hand at your throat, pinning you down like a ragdoll while he fucked the fight out of you. His filthy voice in your ear: "you missed this, didn’t you? You missed me."

You remember his tongue between your legs, relentless. The way he’d make you come until you sobbed. The way he laughed when your body begged for mercy and gave it to you anyway.

“One more, sweetheart. Come on, I know you’ve got it in you.”

You remember how he left you trembling. Ruined and grateful.

And fuck—your body responds before your mind can stop it. You clench around Steve without meaning to, a whimper breaking past your lips.

He mistakes it for pleasure. “You okay, baby?”

You force your eyes open, force your smile. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m—good. So good.”

But your mind is still back there.

Back in that dingy apartment with the blinds half-closed, the sheets damp with sweat and sin, Bucky buried so deep inside you that you swore you’d never be clean again. The way he’d whisper “cum for me, doll,” and you would. Over and over.

Because nothing else ever made you feel that alive.

And Steve—he’ll never know.

He’ll never know what Bucky did to you. What you let him do.

What you liked.

Steve makes love to you like you’re breakable. Like he’d die before hurting you.

And you let him. You love him for it.

But inside, your body is screaming for something rougher. Darker. The kind of touch that leaves bruises behind. The kind of voice that tells you when to open your mouth, when to spread your legs, when to shut up and take it.

Steve moans softly, hips stuttering as he finishes inside you, holding you close like you’re his home.

“You’re everything to me,” he whispers.

And you smile through the guilt, through the ache, through the hollow echo that Bucky left behind.

Because Steve has your body tonight.

But your mind, your heart...

They still lie somewhere else.

Somewhere darker, colder. Somewhere Bucky never really let go.

it's just one call away. and you'll leave him, you're loyal to me

It starts with a vibration.

You’re curled up on the couch, still wearing Steve’s sweatshirt—oversized, soft, worn in all the right places. It smells like him, that clean, warm scent of cedar and soap, tinged faintly with the aftershave he only wears on Sundays. It wraps around you like a comfort you didn’t realise you were clinging to. Outside, the morning sun pours through the windows, gilding everything with a false sense of calm.

Your coffee’s has went lukewarm. A quiet song hums through the speakers. For a moment, it all feels deceptively peaceful.

And then your phone buzzes. Just once.

A short, sharp vibration against the wood of the coffee table.

You glance over without thinking, eyes still soft with sleep, mind slow with the kind of haze that only exists on lazy mornings.

And then you see it.

Bucky Barnes Can we talk? Just us.

Your breath catches in your throat.

You sit up too quickly, heart kicking into your ribs. Your pulse spikes before your brain can even catch up. It’s just a name. A message. But it feels like the floor’s tilted beneath you.

Bucky.

You haven’t seen that name in weeks. You made sure of it, you deleted your message history. You told yourself it was over. Swore it was over. And yet—

There he is.

And just like that, the quiet peace you were holding onto splinters into something jagged.

Your thumb hovers over the screen. Every rational part of you screams don’t. Ignore it. Block him. Tell Steve. Do the right thing.

But your hands are already shaking. Your stomach’s already tight with something ugly and electric. That coiling tension you thought you’d buried deep. The one that only ever came alive around him.

Before you can even think to reply—or delete the message entirely—your phone buzzes again.

Bucky Barnes I still know what you need, doll. Don’t pretend he gives it to you.

Your mouth goes dry.

And suddenly, everything inside you turns traitor.

You hate how fast your thighs press together. You hate the heat pooling low in your belly. You hate how your body remembers every word, every bruise, every orgasm he wrung out of you until you were crying his name into the mattress.

You hate that he’s right.

Because as good as Steve is—safe, kind, gentle—he doesn’t undo you. Not like Bucky. Not even close.

Behind you, footsteps pad softly into the room.

You fumble your phone screen off just as Steve slips his arms around you from behind, leaning in to kiss your temple. His lips are warm, familiar and comforting.

“I’m gonna head out for my run,” he murmurs. “You good here for a while?”

You nod, trying to smile as you clutch the mug a little too tightly. “Yeah. Of course. Be safe.”

He squeezes your hip, gives you one last kiss, and heads for the door. It closes behind him with a quiet click.

And then—

Silence.

Except for the pounding in your chest.

You stare at the blank screen of your phone like it’s cursed. Like it’s holding a live wire to your skin. Your hands tremble as you set your mug down, untouched now. Cold.

You don’t think. You don’t plan.

Ten minutes later, you’re shrugging into a coat, keys in hand, heart hammering so loud you swear someone might hear it.

And you leave.

Out the back stairwell. Quiet. Cowardly.

Still wearing Steve’s sweatshirt.

But walking straight into Bucky’s orbit as if leaving was only ever an illusion.

i'll pull you in, i'll pull you back to what you need initially

You meet Bucky at a run-down motel just outside the city—one of those places with a flickering vacancy sign and curtains that never open. He’s leaning against the wall outside Room 11, a black jacket clinging to his large frame, boots scuffed, hands buried in the pockets of his jacket like he’s got nowhere better to be.

But the moment his eyes lift to meet yours—steel-blue, sharp, familiar, you know you’ve already made the worst kind of mistake.

“You look good,” he murmurs, voice low and razor-edged.

You don’t return the compliment. “This is a mistake.”

He doesn’t flinch. “Probably. Still came, though.”

You shoulder past him, into the room. The air smells like smoke and old sweat, the curtains drawn tight against the daylight. You spin around, pulse thrumming in your neck. “This isn’t fair. You don’t get to text me out of nowhere—”

Bucky steps inside and kicks the door shut behind him. “Don’t talk to me about fair.” His gaze drops to your hands—trembling. “You’re shaking.”

“I have a boyfriend.”

“No. You have a security blanket.”

Your jaw tenses. “Steve loves me.”

“Yeah? But does he fuck you like you need to be fucked?” His eyes drop to your lips. “Or do you close your eyes and wish it was me—pinning you down, fucking you raw, choking you while you cum screaming my name?”

Your hand flies before you think. The slap cracks across his cheek, the sound echoing through the silence.

He barely reacts. Just licks the inside of his cheek, then smirks. “There she is.”

You backpedal, heart slamming. “I shouldn’t have come. I need to go—”

But he’s on you in two strides. You’re slammed against the wall, his mouth crushing yours with a violence you forgot you craved. His kiss is all tongue and teeth and anger, tasting like cigarettes and buried need.

You moan into it, helpless, bitter, clawing at his jacket like you’re starved.

He spins you fast, yanks your leggings down to your knees, and kicks your feet apart with his boot. It’s rough. Disrespectful. Fucking filthy. Your palms slap the wall, breath punching out of you.

His fingers slide between your thighs. “Already soaked,” he mutters. “Fucking pathetic. You walked in dripping for me, didn’t you?”

“Bucky—please—”

“Don’t beg yet.” His metal hand fists in your hair and jerks your head back, cheek pressed to the plaster. “Say it. Say you missed my cock.”

You gasp, heat roaring low in your belly. “I—fuck—I missed it.”

“That’s not good enough.” His voice goes guttural. “Say you missed me ruining you.”

You barely get the words out before he’s pushing inside—hard, unrelenting, no prep, no pause.

You scream, hand slamming the wall.

He fills you so deep, so fast, it knocks the air out of your lungs. His hips snap into yours, pace brutal from the start. The slap of skin on skin drowns out your guilt.

“You miss this?” he pants, breath hot at your ear. “Miss getting used like a little fucking toy?”

“Yes,” you sob. “God—yes, Bucky—”

He slams into you harder, both hands gripping your hips now, fucking you like he wants to break you. “Steve doesn’t fuck you like this. He can’t. He doesn’t know how to make this sweet cunt beg.”

His hand snakes around your throat again, squeezing just enough to make your head swim.

“You gonna cum already? Gonna fall apart just from getting pounded like a filthy little slut?”

You try to answer, but your body betrays you—clenching around him, hips jerking. It crashes over you like a wave, white-hot and devastating. You cry out, face crumpling against the wall as you cum hard, thighs shaking.

But Bucky doesn’t stop.

He keeps fucking you through it, drawing another broken moan from your raw throat.

“I’m not done with you,” he growls. “Not until I fill you up. Gonna send you home dripping my cum like the little slut you are.”

You whimper, overstimulated and wrecked.

And he groans low when he cums, hips pressed flush to yours, cock twitching deep inside. You feel it—hot, thick, spilling into you as he bites down on your shoulder.

When he finally pulls out, you slump against the wall, legs shaking, your thighs slick with everything he gave you.

You’re still catching your breath when your phone buzzes from the nightstand.

Steve Hey sweetheart, just got back, where did you go?

You stare at the message, numb.

Guilt claws up your spine, tangling with the aftershocks still rolling through your body. You pull your leggings up with trembling hands, fingers fumbling with the waistband.

Behind you, Bucky lights a cigarette by the window. He exhales slow, watching you through the smoke like he already knows.

You’ll come back.

Because you always do.

Because no matter how good Steve is— Bucky fucks you like he owns you. And some part of you still wants to be his.

does he know where your heart lies? where it truly lies

Steve’s breathing is steady next to you, soft in the dark. His hand brushes your arm, gentle and warm—the way he always is. But your mind is somewhere else.

The way Bucky’s hands grip your hips. The way his mouth claims yours, rough and urgent. The way he makes you come, harder than Steve ever has, with a fire that leaves you raw and desperate for more.

Your phone buzzes silently on the nightstand. You see Bucky’s name. A single message:

I'm nearby. Come.

You swallow hard, heart pounding—not with excitement, but with guilt.

You look at Steve, peaceful and trusting, and for a moment it nearly breaks you. But your body betrays you. Again.

Careful not to wake him, you slip out of bed, dress quickly, and grab your coat. The night air hits your skin cold, but you don’t care. Every step away from your apartment feels like stepping further from yourself.

You find Bucky waiting in the shadows, his eyes dark, hungry. Without a word, he pulls you into his arms, and the ache inside you shifts into something sharper.

The second he touches you, everything else disappears.

His hands are hard, rough—pulling your hair, gripping your waist, pushing you against the brick wall. His mouth is on your neck, biting, sucking, marking. You tremble because you’re his—only his.

He tears at your clothes like he’s been starving for you.

His touch is fierce, relentless. He fucks you like he owns every part of you, deep, fast, bruising, but somehow still so damn good you can’t catch your breath. He calls your name like a curse, whispers filthy promises between gritted teeth, telling you exactly how much you’re his, how much you need him.

You scream into the night, nails digging into his back as he drives into you harder, faster—until you shatter, collapsing against him, trembling.

When it’s over, Bucky pulls you close, but there’s no softness—only possession lingering in his touch. You can still feel the heat of him inside you, the harshness of his grip on your hair.

You pull away, slipping out of his apartment as quietly as you can, the cold night air biting your skin again. Every step back feels heavier, like you were dragging your own shame behind you.

Back inside your apartment, you don’t have the strength to face Steve. You crawl into bed beside him, careful not to wake him, but the weight of your guilt is crushing.

You stare at the ceiling, heart pounding, breath uneven. The darkness isn’t peaceful—it’s suffocating.

Because you’re here, lying next to Steve’s steady warmth, but your mind—and your body—still belong to Bucky.

And that truth claws at you like a knife.

[angelx]

I don't Wanna Leave

cw: NSFW! ex-boyfriend!katsuki x fem!reader, exes to lovers, reunion sex, thigh grabbing, unresolved tension, emotional vulnerability, praise, fingering, oral (f!receiving), penetrative sex, p in v sex, unprotected sex, creampie, dub-con, sorry for the long intro

You hadn’t meant to see him.

You swore you wouldn’t—had half a dozen plans in your head to dip early or fake a phone call the moment his name popped up on the RSVP list for Class A’s five-year reunion. But now you’re here, hands cold and clammy around a red plastic cup, wishing someone would invent a quirk that lets you go invisible just this once.

But fate—or maybe some cruel cosmic joke—had other plans.

Because Katsuki Bakugou just walked into the party, backlit by the golden glow of the rooftop lights like the universe still had the audacity to make him look good. Black slacks hugging his thighs, button-up slightly open at the collar, that same cocky grin tugging at the corner of his mouth as if he didn’t leave you behind like an unfinished sentence.

You look away fast, pretending to listen to something Denki says about streaming or crypto or something that doesn’t matter. You do everything you can to avoid him. Laugh a little too loudly with Kirishima. Stick close to Jirou and hide behind conversations you don’t care about. But he keeps drifting closer. Like smoke. Like fire. Like something you thought you’d long since buried. And when he finally corners you by the drinks table, eyes half-lidded and smug?

“Didn’t think you’d show, up” he murmurs, voice thick with heat and amusement.

You shrug. “Didn’t think you’d remember my face after five years.”

His smirk flickers—just for a second. But it’s enough. “Hard to forget the girl I used to fuck against my bedroom door every night.”

You nearly choke on your drink. “Still sharp-tongued, huh?”

“Still making you wet with one sentence,” he whispers, leaning in, breath hot against your ear.

You step back like his touch burns you. “Don’t start.”

“I didn’t come here to start a fight.”

“Yeah? Then what did you come here to do? Remind me how you disappeared without a word? Or how you chose your damn career over me like I was just—”

“Stop,” he snaps, the cocky mask cracking. “You think I forgot that night? That I wanted to let you go?” Your throat tightens.

“I hated myself every fucking day,” he says lowly, voice raw. “You were the best thing I ever had, and I was too much of a scared little shit to handle it.”

And then— “Let me drive you home.”

The reunion blurred into a haze of polite small talk and champagne, but he kept orbiting you like some kind of gravity-defiant bastard star, and you couldn’t run fast enough. So of course, when the party started dying down and your Uber bailed, it was him standing by his black Porsche, holding out his keys with that smirk that made your chest clench. “C’mon, I’ll take you home.”

“I’d rather walk.”

“It’s a 45-minute walk in heels, and you drank half the bar.”

“I’m fine.”

“No, you’re stubborn,” he muttered, unlocking the passenger side anyway.

You hated that he was right. Even more, you hated how your feet moved toward the car anyway. You should say no. You should tell him to rot in the mess he made. But you don’t. Because your heart’s a stupid thing with muscle memory—and it remembers how to beat for him.

The ride is quiet at first, the tension thick enough to slice. The Porsche purrs beneath you, sleek and fast—like him. His hand finds your thigh halfway through, firm and warm. Your breath catches.

“You always flinched when I touched you the first time,” he says softly, thumb stroking up the inside. “Like you were scared of wanting it.”

“I wasn’t scared of wanting,” you whisper. “I was scared of needing.”

He glances at you, and his voice is low. “Do you still?”

You should lie. But his hand slides higher, brushing the edge of your panties beneath your dress. Your hips jerk. “…Yes.”

That silence that follows is deafening. Not the kind that begs for words—but the kind that crackles with meaning. His thumb stays there, hovering just beneath the fabric, pulsing with heat. He doesn’t move it. He doesn’t have to.

“Where do you live?” he says quietly and you swallow. You gave him the street name like muscle memory. He drives the rest of the way with his hand on your thigh, fingers ghosting over your skin in slow, idle circles. Possessive. Intimate. Like nothing ever ended between you. You hate how natural it feels.

The car pulls up to your apartment complex, sleek and black under the amber glow of streetlights. The engine hums into silence, but neither of you moves. When you glance at him, he’s already looking at you. The tension is too real.

“I shouldn’t ask,” he says, low and rough. “But I’m gonna.”

You know the question before he says it. “Can I come up?”

You shouldn’t. Every piece of self-preservation you have left is screaming no. But your hand is already on the door handle. You nod.

The elevator ride is painfully quiet. You’re standing side by side, not touching, not speaking—but your skin is buzzing with awareness. You can feel his heat. Hear his shallow breathing. You can practically taste the restraint burning off him in waves. Your key shakes a little as you unlock the door.

And the second it swings open— He’s on you. No more waiting. No more pretending. You crash into each other like you were pulled by gravity.

The door slams shut behind you.

He’s on you like a storm—mouth crashing into yours, hands tearing at your dress, shoving it up to your waist. Your back hits the wall. You gasp when his mouth latches to your neck, teeth grazing the skin he once called his. “Fuck, you smell the same,” he mutters, dragging his teeth down your throat. “Like vanilla and fuckin’ heaven.”

“You left me,” you whisper, nails digging into his shoulders.

He growls. “I know. And I’ll never forgive myself. But fuck—let me have you tonight.”

“You’re a fucking jerk.”

“Yeah?” His hand slips into your panties. “Then let me fuck you like one.” His fingers stroke your slit—wet, aching, desperate. You moan. Loud. Shameful.

“You missed this,” he whispers, sinking two fingers in deep. “Missed me.”

“I hate you.”

“Then hate me while you come.”

He drops to his knees. Tongue flat, wide, filthy. He eats you like he’s starving—like it’s the first meal he’s had in five years. You’re a mess in seconds, hips grinding into his face, thighs trembling, tears slipping from your eyes from the overwhelmingness of it.

“Katsuki—fuck—oh my God—”

“That’s right,” he grunts, licking up your orgasm. “God doesn’t hear you tonight, princess. I do.”

He doesn’t stop. Keeps going. Builds you up again. One orgasm melts into the next. Your legs give out, and he catches you, lifts you like nothing, carries you to your bed. You don’t notice if he even put a condom on. All you feel is his hand gripping your hip, the other cradling your face—gentle, almost reverent—and then—

He thrusts in, all at once.

A scream tears from your throat. It’s not pretty. It’s raw—a sound scraped up from five years of aching. He doesn’t stop. Doesn’t let you catch your breath. He drives into you with such force that the bed frame slams against the wall.

"Fuck—fuck, baby," he groans, teeth clenched. “Still the tightest fucking pussy I’ve ever had.”

Your legs wrap around his waist on instinct, locking him in. You claw down his back, nails dragging angry red lines along old scars and new muscle.

“You always took me so fucking well,” he groans, hips pounding into you, breath ragged. “Your pussy was made for my cock. Still is.”

He fucks you like he owns you. Hard. Deep. Relentless. Your legs are shaking. You’re babbling nonsense. Your eyes roll back as he leans down and licks your tears off your cheek.

“Missed this—missed you,” he pants. “You fuckin’ hear me?”

You can’t answer. You’re moaning, crying, whimpering as he splits you open like it’s the only way he knows how to say sorry.

“You ruined me, y’know that?” he growls into your ear, voice breaking. “I couldn’t touch anyone else without thinking of this—of you.”

He fucks you harder, rougher, like he’s trying to carve himself back into your body.

“I should’ve begged you to stay,” he pants. “Should’ve fought for you.”

“It’s too late,” you gasp.

“No... It's not,” he growls, snapping his hips. “Not if you still come for me like this.” You clench around him and he loses it.

“Still so fuckin’ greedy for me,” he hisses, watching the way your tits bounce, the way your lips part in helpless little gasps. “Drippin’ around me like a whore.”

Your eyes roll back. A sob escapes you. “Katsuki—!”

“That’s right,” he snarls, hand slipping down to press firm circles on your clit. “Say my fuckin’ name when you come.”

And you do. You come so hard your vision whites out, body convulsing, mouth open in a silent scream. But he doesn't stop. Doesn't slow down. If anything, he fucks you through it—drags you to another high with ruthless precision.

“Gonna fill you,” he pants, hips slamming into you. “Wanna paint your insides. Want you leaking me for days.”

You nod, dazed. Wrecked. Begging without words.

“Fuck—fuck, take it—take all of it,” he groans, and then he’s burying himself to the hilt, cock twitching as he spills into your womb with a broken, guttural growl.

You come again just from the sound. He collapses on top of you, shaking. Breath hitching. He doesn’t pull out. He just holds you. The weight of him grounding you as your chest heaves beneath his. There’s silence—except for your ragged breaths and the sound of rain now spitting against the windowpane.

His lips press to your shoulder. Soft. Regretful. Like an apology too late. His breathing is still erratic. Shallow. Like he’s trying to catch more than just air. You’re both still tangled—his cock softening, your thighs sticky with sweat and slick and everything in between. His forehead rests against yours, skin hot and damp, and for one second… it almost feels like love again.

Until it doesn’t. Until the silence creeps in.

You feel it first. That hollow, cold pull in your chest. The realization, like a slap, of what just happened. What it means—or doesn’t.

He pulls out slowly, carefully, and you wince at the loss. The emptiness that follows. The mess he left behind. He walks to your bathroom and grabs the towel to wipe you up. Gentle, quiet. Too quiet.

Then he sits back on the edge of the bed, hunched over, palms pressed against his knees. Naked. Broad shoulders rising and falling like he’s holding back something worse than breath. You watch his back. The scars. The tattoo you don’t recognize.

So much time has passed. And yet, for a second, it was like none of it had.

“...Fuck,” he mutters, voice hoarse. “This wasn’t supposed to happen.”

You feel your heart nosedive. “Yeah,” you say, softly. “I know.”

You shift under the covers, tugging the sheets around your bare chest like they could somehow protect you from him—from this feeling that’s clawing its way up your throat. He runs a hand through his hair, messy and sweat-damp, and doesn’t look at you.

“I thought I was over it,” he mumbles. “Over you.”

Your chest tightens. You sit up slowly, legs tucked beneath you, every inch of your skin screaming with sensitivity—from the sex, from the truth.

“Katsuki.”

He finally turns his head. Just slightly. His eyes meet yours—red-rimmed, tired, and… afraid. You’ve never seen that look on him before.

You swallow. “What do we do now?”

He doesn’t answer right away. Just stares. And for a moment, you think he’s going to get up. Get dressed. Walk out.

But instead—He says, voice barely above a whisper:

“…I don’t wanna leave.”

Your breath catches.

“Then don’t,” you whisper back.

-ˋˏ✄┈┈┈┈

I think this could have more drama in it, but I'm trying to spare my heart and my readers (╥﹏╥)

check out my other works here!: MHA MASTERLIST

EMERGENCY WRITING COMMISSION OPEN

[formulafanfics13]

Is it possible to write a fic about Roscoe playing matchmaking for Lewis & when eventually reader and Lewis get together, Roscoe safely feels at peace and pass away knowing that he had helped his dad has found the one . I know you don’t write angus but if it’s possible to make it a happy romantic heated ending even though a tragedy had happen.

matchmaker’s peace - LH44

Masterlist

summary: lewis always said roscoe had good instincts. so when the old bulldog keeps leading him into the reader’s path again and again, he listens. slowly, love blooms — sweet, warm, inevitable. and when roscoe finally passes, it’s not alone, not tragic. it’s peaceful. because he did it. he brought them together. and now his dad is finally loved, exactly as he deserves.

warnings: major character death (roscoe the dog), grief, deep emotional themes, fluff, soft romantic build-up, comforting smut, aftercare, praise, lewis being the best dog dad, reader is gentle, mourning with hope

Lewis' dog starts doing it after Monaco. At first, Lewis thinks it’s a coincidence. The tug of a leash. A turn down a different street. A pause outside a café where you just happen to be sitting, sipping your coffee, sunglasses perched in your hair.

You smile at the dog. Roscoe huffs. Lewis smiles too, but it doesn’t reach his eyes. He’s tired. Distant. But he watches how the dog leans into your touch when you crouch to greet him. How the usually aloof bulldog gives you a nudge like he’s known you forever.

“You’ve made a friend,” Lewis murmurs, surprised. “Guess he’s got good taste.”

You smile up at him. And something shifts.

It keeps happening.

You see each other again at a grocery store. Then again near the marina. Then again while jogging, or in your case, walking, headphones in, playlist too soft for the chaos of the world.

Each time, the dog pulls. Each time, Lewis lets him.

You start walking together. Just short ones. Around the block. Past the harbour. Some evenings stretch into an hour, then two.

Lewis tells you about his childhood. About racing. About how the dog doesn’t like fireworks and only drinks bottled water.

You tell him about your sister. About your favourite books. About the way the dog's eyes look like they’ve seen everything and loved anyway.

One night, Lewis invites you up for tea. You say yes.

The dog follows you to the couch and flops onto your lap. “You’ve been replaced,” Lewis jokes, sliding into the armchair with two mugs.

You stroke the dog’s ears. “He was just waiting to pick the right girl.”

The dog gets slower in the months that follow. Not all at once. But gradually.

Lewis notices it first in the mornings, the way it takes him longer to stand. The way he sighs before curling up. How he doesn’t want to chase birds anymore, even the ones he used to loathe.

You notice too. So you love him harder. More walks. More snuggles. Steak on Sundays. A plush new bed that he immediately ignores in favour of your lap.

The night he passes, it’s quiet. He’s curled on his blanket between the two of you, his head resting on Lewis’s foot. You’re stroking his fur. Lewis is whispering something under his breath, thank you, I love you, thank you, thank you.

And when the dog lets go, it’s gentle. No fear. Just peace. Like he knows. He did it. He got his dad home.

You bury him in the garden behind Lewis’s LA home. You plant lavender. Hydrangeas. A tree that Lewis says will grow slowly, like everything that matters. And you grieve together. Cry together.

Hold each other in the kitchen when it’s too quiet.

One night, a few weeks later, Lewis finds you staring out the windo. 

He walks up behind you. Wraps his arms around your waist. “He loved you so much,” he says quietly.

You turn in his arms. “So did I,” you whisper. “So do I.”

You kiss him. Slow. Soft. Desperate. And then you take his hand and lead him to bed.

You undress each other like it’s sacred. Not rushed. Not feral.Just real. Just right.

You straddle his lap and he cups your face with both hands like he never wants to stop looking at you. “I miss him,” you breathe.

“I know,” he whispers. “Me too.”

You press your forehead to his. “But he gave me you.”

Lewis closes his eyes. Nods.

When he enters you, it’s with a reverence that makes your heart ache. He whispers how much he loves you. How grateful he is. How good you feel. How lucky he is that the one soul who always saw him finally found someone worth sharing him with.

Afterwards, tangled in sheets, sweat cooling, Lewis presses a kiss to your bare shoulder and whispers, “He waited until he knew I’d never be alone again.”

You nod against his chest, hand resting over his heart. “He didn’t just find me a partner,” he adds softly.

“He found you a home,” you whisper.

And Lewis knows it’s true.

[vanesycho]

• bf!minho x gf!reader x minho's friend!jisung | m.list

warning | smut, p in v, fingering, squirt

word count | 1,2k

a/n | this could be shit, I haven't written in a long time, I needed to get my head together

anyways enjoy reading！

“Yeah, of course you can come. Jisung? Oh I don’t think it’ll be a problem for him.” Minho’s eyes drifted to Jisung, who was on the computer while he was talking to you on the phone, knew very well that he was listening to him. “I love you too, baby, see you later.” After he hung up, he stood up and walked towards him, approached him from behind and spoke close to his ear. “Y/n will be here soon.” Jisung jumped at the sudden chill in his neck and turned his head to him. “Ah..Should I leave you alone?” he prayed for him to say yes. Hearing you fucking from a room while he couldn’t resist his feelings for you was getting on his nerves.

Minho knew exactly how he felt about you. He would have to be an idiot not to know, Jisung was a very obvious person and could never keep a secret. Was he angry tho? Strangely, no. The thought of you with him excited him in a vague way. He didn’t hesitate to share you with Jisung, so he was the one who specifically asked you to come today. You had already set off, knowing everything.

The corners of Minho’s lips curled up. “No, no, don’t go anywhere. Having you here will make everything more fun.” The sentence he said caused Jisung’s eyebrows to furrow. While he thought about the meaning of the sentence he said, Minho left him alone with question marks in his head.

You turned your head to the side and looked at your boyfriend, who was sitting sprawled out on the chair. The slight smirk on his face and the way his eyes roamed all over both of your bodies as he watched the two of you. “Fuck, Y/n.” Jisung let out a groan, you whimpered as his cock slowly slid inside you. He had been dreaming of this for so long that he wanted to take his time, he didn’t even care about your boyfriend watching you from a corner of the room anymore.

Minho stood up, walked towards the bed, and leaned into Jisung’s neck while not breaking eye contact with you. “Feels good, doesn’t it?” His breath was burning his neck, he couldn’t speak, he whimpered as he thrust hard into you again and nodded. Seeing how needy he was, Minho let out a small chuckle. “How cute. You’ve been dreaming about this pussy for a long time, haven’t you? How good she would feel, how tight her walls would be around your cock, how your name would flow from her lips…”

Every sentence of his would make Jisung cum faster, he put his hand on the side of your head and took a deep breath before looking at you, the way you looked so beautiful under him...He wasn’t sure he could ever get that image out of his head. “You better faster now. I’m not done with you yet.” He glanced at Minho who had sat back down on the chair and did as he was told. While it was the two of you in bed and he was the one fucking you, it was the one in the corner of the room who was actually dominating.

His entire cock started to enter you quickly, you moaned his name, unable to hold back your moans, each hard thrust bringing you closer to your orgasm and Minho knew it. He knew you like the back of his hand. The hard strokes inside your pussy didn't stop you after a while, you cum around his cock. Jisung continued his thrusts a little longer and then pulled back, jerking himself off with his hand and soon coming between your legs.

“Now...” Jisung turned to him, out of breath. Minho spoke as he stood up again and walked towards the two of you. “Tell me Jisung, have you ever made a girl squirt?” He placed one hand on the bed and leaned over you, the other hand starting to caress your cheek. “I- no…” he hadn’t even fucking with a girl in a long time. Minho turned his head to him. “Do you want to try?” his eyes widened in momentary surprise, making Minho laugh, fingers moved towards your pussy. Jisung watching every move. Minho positioned two fingers at your hole and watched them slowly slide inside you. Then he turned back to Jisung and watched how he swallowed hard. “It’s not that hard, here, I’ll guide you.” He looked up at him "I'm- I'm not sure hyung, just-"

"I said do it. Are you disobeying me? I'm letting you fuck my girlfriend, weren't you imagining this?" He held his chin tightly, getting closer to him, Jisung tried to pull away but couldn't because of his gaze, he just nodded "Good boy." He turned his attention to you and gave you a small smile, leaving a small kiss on your lips. "Now, put your fingers inside her and start fingering like normal." He didn't hesitate, two fingers sliding into your still wet pussy, the feeling of your tight walls making him let out a small moan. Curled his fingers inside you as he moved in and out of you at a normal pace, watching how your breathing became irregular and your legs parted for him "Come on, don't be so delicate with her. You won't hurt her, sure she came easily under the rougher stuff." The voice in his ear was making things harder, his fingers started to speed up, the sound of your wetness and moans filled the four walls. "Good. Now put your other hand on her lower belly and press lightly." He didn't hesitate again.

Jisung's hand went to your lower belly and gently pressed you down onto the bed, preventing you from moving your hips, while Minho's thumb started to play with your clit.

A whimper left your mouth, this time your legs started to move but Minho held one of your legs tightly. "Stay still." His finger stroking your clit sped up, the pleasure you were getting from both sides was driving you crazy. The two fingers were fucking your pussy hard, relentlessly. The strange feeling enveloped you as your orgasm approached, you knew there was more. The sheer pleasure was already making your eyes water, Minho let out a small chuckle at the sight. "Look at her. Are you that needy, baby? Does Jisung's fingers feel good?" you couldn't speak, you just nodded in agreement. "Then let him know."

Your gaze turned to him, seeing your eyes full of tears, made him curse under his breath, you let out another moan as his finger fucked your pleasure spot. “Jisung- fuck..You feel so good..Please, I-” you couldn’t finish your sentence, the stroke on your clit sped up and the weird feeling in your stomach increased. It didn’t even cross their minds to slow down when they both knew you were close. A few more thrust to your pleasure spot and with a loud moan you came, no you literally squirted. Your eyes were closed in exhaustion as the two stared at the mess you had made, Jisung slowly pulled his fingers out of you, moan slightly as the sight made his cock harden again. Minho looked at Jisung who was still insatiable, one last whisper in his ear was enough to make the night last longer for you. “Just so you know, Y/n is so fucking good with her mouth.”

[screamlet]

new chapter: bodyguard au (ongoing)

another installment of the ongoing bodyguard au. this one didn't quite fit with the last cuddle prompts i have left, so i'm posting it independently. these will be posted together as one fic on ao3 when it's finished. this is bodyguard buck and senator kinard: a flashback to the very beginning. fluff and more fluff. sal's snappiness is fond and fun. wordcount about 1.7k find all parts of the bodyguard au here (tagged "bodyguard au (screamlet)").

---

"But what this really comes down to, Nash," Sal says, "is that Senator Kinard's first bodyguard from your firm has about 10 minutes of actual experience as a bodyguard and that's who you think should be responsible for keeping him alive."

Bobby Nash, the owner and head of 118 Security, looks fairly placid as he listens to Sal, then answers, "No."

Sal looks to Tommy with a patented New York this fucking guy face, hand gestures to match.

"It's not Buck's first high pressure job, it's his first high profile job. That's significantly different and I think he's ready for it, if you're willing to give him a chance."

"We don't leave things to chance," Sal replies.

Tommy reaches out and rests a hand on Sal's forearm. "Let's give him a chance."

Now it's Tommy's turn to be that fucking guy.

"Everyone's gotta start somewhere," Tommy says. "And you know I think a bodyguard is overkill. Let him get some confidence following me around."

"You're gonna teach the bodyguard how to bodyguard? A fucking internship? Is that what we're running now?"

"Buck has three years of experience with our company," Bobby says, "and his unique background means he's great at adapting, quick thinking, and hard work. What it comes down to is that I wouldn't recommend him if I thought he wouldn't be good at it."

Sal cracks his knuckles and glances at Tommy. "Ultimately this is your show."

"Oh, is it?" Tommy asks dryly.

Sal rolls his eyes. "If you want us to take the kid on, then fine." Sal turns to Bobby. "I guess you can send over the paperwork so we can finalize it. I guess."

Bobby doesn't bother acknowledging Sal's tone; instead he looks at Tommy questioningly. "Are you in agreement, Senator?"

Tommy folds his hands and says, "Yeah, let's give him a shot."

---

Evan Buckley, or Buck, reports to Tommy's office at the Capitol a week later. He's dressed in a fine black suit and tie, a freshly touched up high and tight haircut, and an ocean of enthusiasm for everything around him.

Tommy steps out into the hall outside his office suite just as Buck's coming down the hall, though he's distracted by all the paintings lining the corridor. Buck gets up close, close enough to see brush strokes, then steps back to look at the whole thing, then keeps walking. He looks up at the high ceilings, cobwebs and wainscoting as fascinating as the art. When he finally gets back on track, he stops because he's noticed Tommy watching him. He and his legs jog over with a smile like a spotlight shining right on Tommy.

"Senator, hi, it's great seeing you again, I know we didn't get to talk much during my first interview, it kinda felt like a drive-by in the middle of Mr. Deluca interrogating me, anyway sorry, you do remember me, right? Evan Buckley? Uh, Evan's fine, I mean everyone calls me Buck, it's a nickname that kinda stuck from the semester in college I actually got through, but Evan's fine for you, if you want to call me that, like maybe a senator doesn't want to go around yelling for Buck all the time, you know? And Evan, it sounds better when you say it, if names can do that, I don't know, I'm over thinking it probably."

He had shaken Tommy's hand and hadn't let go of that entire time.

"If Evan works for you then it works for me," Tommy says.

He exhales, like that had really been weighing on him; his whole frame visibly relaxes. "It works for me, yeah, absolutely. Thank you, by the way. Thanks for letting me join your team. I'm excited to get to know all of you more and I'll do my best, I promise."

Sal comes out of the office then, eyebrows and frown first. "Buckley, I heard you from inside. You know the senator wasn't elected to stand here and talk to you all day, right? Nash briefed you on that, at least?"

"Right, of course, sorry," Evan says, finally dropping Tommy's hand. Both of his hands slip into his pants pockets as he looks puppy dog apologetic at Tommy. "Sorry, sir, didn't mean to get away like that."

Tommy puts a hand on Evan's shoulder and squeezes as he looks at Sal. "Be nice to this one, will you? As a personal favor? He's growing on me."

"Yeah, I'm not surprised, the two of you standing here while he spends an hour digging his talons into your hand," Sal replies. He glances at Evan. "Those eyes might work on Senator Kinard, god willing they don't, but they definitely don't work on me. Come inside, let's get you settled. I take it you already have your ID. How about an email address, you interested in one of those?"

Evan follows him inside and looks over his shoulder at Tommy, bemused but still excited. Tommy has a feeling that this kid may not be trouble, but Tommy's still going to find himself in trouble.

---

Tommy used to think that the night he won his electoral race was the night, he'd never smile so much.

Now he finds himself sitting in the backseat of his official car, listening to Evan talk, and his cheeks ache from smiling. Every day, Evan rattles off stories and facts, asks questions, all day long, and Tommy's smiling even as he drowns in his phone. Sal notices, of course he notices, it's his job to notice.

"Jesus, I don't need this," Sal mutters one day as he passes Tommy his phone. It's opened to a TikTok from his older daughter, Gabi, and Tommy laughs immediately. "Don't laugh! Someone's gonna ask about this."

Evan turns around from the front seat. "About what? Is the senator on TikTok?"

Tommy looks over his reading glasses to watch and he can't help laughing. "Just a little montage of all the times my bodyguard forgot he was forbidden to smile."

Evan frowns. "Bobby says that's not a thing. I'm supposed to blend in and it's gonna look weirder if I look angry all the time. I'm supposed to look natural and collected. I don't get angry a lot. It's weird on my face."

"It'll look weird if the trained politician is smiling and you're not?" Sal asks.

Evan sulks. "Well, when you say it like that."

Tommy lowers his reading glasses again. "Evan. Don't change a thing. Let that freak flag fly."

"Is that a thing people say?" Evan asks.

"Old people," Sal answers. "Gimme my phone back, now I gotta look into whatever this hashtag is."

"Delegate, Sal, this is for the interns. You'll sprain your old man thumb scrolling."

"I'm on it," Evan calls from the front. "It's weird searching for myself. Actually, not myself, but—oh there I am, I'm #HotBodyguard."

"Good for you, nice and simple," Tommy says.

"And you're #HotSenator, #TheHonorableHotSenator—shouldn't it be the other way around?"

Tommy thinks. "Yes, but it doesn't scan right."

"Buckley, don't get involved," Sal warns him. "The less you know, the better. Focus on bodyguarding, or whatever Nash says we're paying you for."

"This is on-the-job training, Sal," Evan replies, then turns around in his seat again. "Sir, you were right, look at this video. These sunglasses do look awesome on me."

Tommy laughs. "Don't thank me, I delegated to Gina."

"Huh." Evan twists further in his seat. "Sal, thank Mrs. Deluca for me, please."

"I'll pass it on to Mrs. Zaccaria, thank you."

"Right on," Evan replies. "Senator, can I ask you something, uh, gay?"

Tommy bursts out laughing and puts his phone and glasses away. "Yes, Evan, this is a safe space."

"Not from me it isn't," Sal replies.

Evan clears his throat and asks, very earnestly, "How often do guys change their names when they get married? Almost all the lesbians I know kept their names, I have a couple of bisexual friends who did, but I don't have a lot of gay guy friends, I guess?"

"Huh. Did not see that coming," Tommy says, more to himself than anyone else. "I think it's pretty common in these circles. Someone's usually going to take someone else's name."

"It's consolidation of power and trading on social capital," Sal adds.

"Oh," Evan says. "Do you think you'll keep your name, sir? If you ever…?"

Tommy raises his eyebrows. "Got any takers?"

"Do not—" Sal makes a slicing motion between them in the car. "No."

"You're no fun," Tommy replies. "And: I don't know, Evan."

Evan looks like he has more questions, but he turns around in his seat and looks down at his phone. He has this impulse that he hasn't felt, well, ever, to say something like, you can ask me anything.

Then he could watch Sal have an aneurysm as Evan climbs into the backseat and starts talking.

He doesn't, though. He's already too easy with Evan, who—he makes things easy. He talks endlessly, but when Tommy offers him something of himself, he shuts up and listens, then attacks with a dozen more questions. Every metaphorical door Tommy opens, Evan rushes through and examines every knickknack under a magnifying glass. A part of him shudders at the intrusion, and a part of him thinks it feels like a cool breeze moving through a room that's been unsealed.

"Evan," Tommy calls to the front. He turns around, eyes wide and curious. "You can call me Tommy."

Sal's head snaps around. "No he can't. He's an employee."

"So are you."

"Chief-of-staff is a side gig to the full time job of your best friend," Sal replies.

"It's okay, sir," Evan says. "Senator's fine. But thank you."

Tommy nods and takes out his reading glasses again; the emails have waited long enough. "It's an open-ended offer. No expiration date."

Evan nods and offers a tiny smile in return. He glances at Sal, who's looking down at his phone again, and then mouths: Thanks, Tommy. Then he grins and turns back to the front of the car, back to searching for the next thing to chatter about.

A few minutes later, Sal hands Tommy his phone again, showing him something in his notes app, written in huge text: I HEARD THAT

Tommy pushes his phone away and gets back to work, smile still aching on his face.