#and I am so looking forward to trying it out

[danysdaughter]

bucky seeing p0rn for the first time after the dating apps don’t work out👀

I'm deadddd, this was so vague so I just ran with it

The Education Of James Buchanan Barnes

pairing | post!tfatws!bucky x fem!reader

word count | 6.3k words

summary | when dating apps fail him and thirst traps become his downfall, bucky barnes finds himself spiraling down the internet’s most unholy rabbit hole—pornhub.

what starts as horrified research turns into full-blown obsession... especially when you, his sharp-tongued best friend, catch him red-handed and make very sure he lives out every filthy fantasy he’s been hiding.

tags | (18+) MDNI, smut, unprotected sex, rough sex, face sitting, breeding kink dirty talk, roleplay mentions, overstimulation, sexual humor, porn discovery, reader catches bucky watching porn, friends to very horny lovers, reader is a menace, teasing, flustered bucky, dom!bucky, subtle power play, consent is sexy, reader rides his face, doggy style, missionary? i hardly know her, mutual pining (solved by porn), no use of y/n, reader is a problem and bucky loves it, aftercare.

a/n | yeah, I definitely went overboard with this. I hope you freaks enjoy this

taglist | if you wanna be added to my bucky barnes masterlist just add your username to my taglist

likes comments and reblogs are much appreciated ✨✨

ᴍᴀsᴛᴇʀʟɪsᴛ

divider by @cafekitsune

You sipped your drink slowly, already biting the inside of your cheek to keep from laughing as Bucky glared into his beer like it had personally betrayed him.

“So,” Sam started, barely hiding his smirk. “How was the date with... what was her name again? Velvet? Vixen?”

“Vesper,” Bucky muttered, dragging a hand down his face. “And she asked if I’d be into choking her with my vibranium arm before we even finished our drinks.”

You snorted into your glass.

Sam leaned forward, grinning. “I mean... was she wrong?”

“Sam.” Bucky’s glare was instant, but mostly performative. “I just met her.”

You glanced at him over your glass, amused. “What app did you find this one on?”

He groaned. “The same one you said was ‘normal.’”

“No one said it was normal,” you said, raising a brow. “I said it was better than Tinder. That’s not a high bar.”

Bucky leaned back with a sigh, looking thoroughly done with the entire 21st century. “I miss when people met at soda shops and asked each other about their families instead of sending... pictures of their genitals.”

Sam barked a laugh. “Aw, poor Grandpa’s overwhelmed by the sex-positive future.”

“You know what’s not positive?” Bucky muttered. “The fact that I Googled ‘how to get back out of the dating app’ and it sent me to a subreddit with people just as confused as I am.”

You exchanged a look with Sam, both of you clearly enjoying this way too much.

“Have you... considered other ways to meet people?” you asked, trying not to grin. “Like not being a digital hermit?”

Bucky looked between the two of you, deadpan. “I’m this close to living in the jungle again.”

Sam raised his glass. “To Bucky Barnes, the only man who can bench-press a car but can’t survive Hinge.”

Bucky slammed his glass down—not hard, but with enough force to earn a side-eye from the bartender.

“I just don’t get it,” he muttered. “I’m trying to talk to these women like a normal person. I say, ‘Hi, how was your day?’ and one of them responds with—” he fumbled with his phone, squinting at the screen, “‘Send me a pic of the arm, baby, I wanna see what’s gonna rearrange my insides.’”

You choked.

Sam full-on cackled, grabbing his chest. “Wait—rearrange her insides? Yo, that’s poetry.”

“She sent a GIF after that,” Bucky went on, staring at the phone like it might explode. “A GIF. Of a hydraulic press crushing a watermelon. What does that mean?”

“I’m gonna die,” you wheezed, nearly spilling your drink. “She wants you to hydraulically press her coochie, Barnes. Come on.”

“I thought she was making a smoothie metaphor!” Bucky snapped. “And then another one asked if I was into CNC. I said I didn’t know what that meant, and she said ‘perfect.’”

Sam wiped a tear from his eye. “Oh my god—Bucky, you’re gonna end up in someone’s kink diary.”

“She sent me a TikTok about edging,” Bucky added, horror slowly overtaking his face. “I thought it was about gardening.”

You completely lost it, head in your arms on the table. “Please stop, I can’t breathe.”

Bucky scowled. “I’m serious! She said she wanted to edge me for hours, and I said that sounded peaceful, like a nice walk—and she sent back forty-seven emojis.”

Sam gasped between wheezes. “You’re getting sexted in hieroglyphics and you think it’s a hike, I’m begging you to never leave the house again.”

Bucky looked between you both, betrayal written across his face. “I survived Hydra. I survived seventy years of brainwashing. But I will not survive being called ‘daddy’ by a woman who lists her job as ‘freelance foot model and energy witch.’”

“Wait—did she have the crystals?” you asked, barely able to form the words.

He nodded grimly. “She said my aura was ‘screaming trauma kink.’”

Sam actually slid off the stool, wheezing on the floor.

He shut the door behind him with a dull thunk, then stood there for a moment in the silence. The kind that pressed in around the edges when no one else was around. Just him, the creak of the old radiator, and the words “rearrange my insides” still echoing in his head like a ghost.

Bucky sighed, tossed his jacket onto the back of a chair, and walked into the kitchen, opening the fridge as if disappointment wouldn’t be waiting there too. One beer left. Great.

He grabbed it, popped the cap off with his metal hand, and made his way over to his laptop.

It sat there on the table like a challenge.

He opened it. The familiar whir kicked on. A sigh slipped through his teeth.

“I fought in two wars,” he muttered to himself. “Survived Hydra. Took down a helicarrier. But this? This is the real enemy.”

He hesitated, fingers hovering over the keyboard.

Then he typed:

"What does CNC mean?"

Enter.

He leaned forward slowly, reading the top search result. Then the second.

His eyebrows pulled together. His mouth fell open just slightly.

"...Consensual non-consent?"

He clicked the link. Read further.

He leaned back in his chair like he’d just been shot.

“Why—why would anyone want that?” he muttered, scandalized. “That’s just... that’s just assault with permission.”

Still, he didn’t close the tab.

He opened a new one instead.

"Edging meaning (not gardening)"

More links. More acronyms. More trauma.

His face contorted in quiet horror as he scanned descriptions, diagrams, tips and techniques.

His beer sat forgotten on the table.

Eventually, he clicked a link that just said “beginner’s guide to porn kinks.” It was a blog. Fairly clinical. Until it wasn’t.

Then he clicked another.

And another.

Until eventually he wound up on a site with thumbnails—little videos with previews. Titles he didn’t fully understand.

He stared at one.

A girl, on her knees, mouth open, eyes wide.

Title: “Training My Pretty Submissive Brat”

He blinked. Then hovered. Clicked.

The video loaded.

He sat still, very still, as it started playing.

And then...

“What the hell—” he whispered.

The guy was talking. Dirty. Commanding.

The girl was moaning like someone had just whispered state secrets in her ear. She was calling him sir. Begging. Crying out when he—

Bucky slammed the spacebar to pause the video, hand clenched on the table.

He stood. Paced.

‘I shouldn’t be watching this,’ he thought, running his hand through his hair. ‘This is wrong. This is not—that’s not—’

He looked back at the screen.

Unpaused.

A few seconds passed.

He sat again.

Watched. Silent. Rigid.

His jaw clenched. His eyes darted across the screen like he was scanning enemy movement.

Then his hand—his metal hand—tapped the edge of the keyboard.

Paused again.

His chest rose and fell.

“I mean… he’s not hurting her,” he thought. “She’s asking for it. She likes it.”

Beat.

“And she’s loud.”

He sat back in his chair, arms crossed over his chest, glaring at the paused screen like it had insulted him personally.

Then he muttered, “Is that what people want now?”

He reopened the search bar.

"How to talk dirty in bed"

The search results hit him like a grenade.

By the third article, his ears were red. His fingers hovered over the trackpad like they didn’t know whether to scroll or just snap the whole laptop in half.

He clicked another video.

This one was slower. More intimate.

The woman straddled the guy’s lap, whispering in his ear. He growled something back, then pushed her down on the bed—

Bucky’s breath caught.

He didn’t even notice his hand moving under the table at first.

Didn’t notice the low groan that slipped from his throat when the man on screen said, “Good girl—just like that.”

He froze. Eyes wide. Mouth dry.

He swallowed hard.

“…I need another beer.”

But he didn’t move.

Didn’t stop watching.

Because something in him had been starved for this. For contact. For control. For someone wanting him, even in fantasy.

The next video autoplayed before he could stop it.

Another couple. This time, softer lighting. Moaning, whispered praise. Her back arched under his touch as he moved slow, deliberate, like every second was sacred.

Bucky swallowed hard.

He sat motionless for a full minute.

Then his hand drifted down.

Hesitant. Awkward.

He undid the button of his jeans, fingers brushing over the bulge in his briefs. The contact was enough to make his breath stutter.

“Jesus,” he whispered.

He shifted in his seat, pushed his jeans down just enough, and curled his hand around himself. Warm skin against cool air. His metal hand clenched uselessly on the table as the other moved slowly, uncertain.

The sounds from the video—soft, rhythmic, intimate—filled the room.

And Bucky gave in.

His eyes didn’t close. He watched—studied—the way the man touched her, held her, spoke to her like she was something precious and filthy all at once.

“Such a good girl,” the man murmured. “Taking all of me. Just like that.”

Bucky bit down on a groan, his hand moving faster now, hips twitching in his seat.

He imagined saying those words.

And then—

He imagined you.

Your voice, sharp and sarcastic, going breathy and soft when he touched you. Your legs around his waist. Your fingers in his hair. Your mouth whispering his name like it meant something.

And that thought—you, under him, with him—wrecked him.

He jerked harder, gritting his teeth, chest rising fast.

A low moan slipped out. Sharp. Uncontrolled.

His head fell back, eyes clenched shut as heat coiled in his gut. His body trembled.

One more stroke—

And he came.

Hard.

He let out a strangled noise, hips lifting off the couch, body seizing as white-hot pleasure shot through him. His hand slowed, milked every last pulse, until the aftershocks faded and all that was left was—

Silence. Reality. Shame.

His breath was harsh in his ears.

The screen was still playing.

The woman moaned, laughing, pulling the man closer.

Bucky stared. Then looked down.

At himself. At the mess.

At the way his hand was still wrapped around his cock, softening now, shame creeping in like a slow burn.

He let go like he’d been scalded.

The aftershocks hadn’t even faded before the guilt hit—cold and immediate.

Not from what he’d watched.

Not even from what he’d done.

But from who he’d seen in his mind while he did it.

You.

You, laughing beside him at the bar. You, rolling your eyes at his brooding. You, calling him “grandpa” and meaning it with affection.

You—beneath him, moaning, touching, giving yourself to him in the fantasy that had just ripped through his body.

His stomach twisted.

He yanked his pants back up, hands clumsy, face burning not with arousal now—but with shame.

“Fuck,” he muttered, pacing, one hand raking through his hair, the other clenching into a fist. “Fuck—what the hell’s wrong with me?”

You were his friend.

You were real.

And he’d just used the idea of you like… like some porn star on a screen.

His jaw tightened. He couldn’t look at the laptop. Couldn’t look at himself. He felt dirty—not because he’d touched himself, but because it felt like a betrayal. A violation of something pure.

He sat down heavily on the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees, head in his hands.

That hadn’t been just need.

That had been you.

And now he didn’t know how the hell he was supposed to look you in the eye again.

A Few Weeks Later

There was a knock at the door.

Three knocks, then a pause.

Then two more.

“Come on, Barnes,” your voice called through the door. “I brought sacrificial offerings.”

Bucky hesitated.

He sat in the dark, boots still on, bruised knuckles resting against his knees. His hoodie clung to him, sweat-damp and rumpled, his mind still halfway in the mission, halfway in the same loop it had been stuck in for weeks.

But it was you.

He got up slowly and opened the door.

You stood there with a paper bag in one hand, a six-pack in the other, grinning like you had zero intention of leaving whether he wanted you to or not.

“You gonna let me in or should I start monologuing like a Bond villain?”

He stepped aside without a word.

You strolled in like you owned the place, already heading to the kitchen with practiced ease.

“Brought dumplings, noodles, and enough alcohol to bleach the taste of both from your soul,” you said, setting things down. “You looked like someone clubbed you with your own metal arm last mission, so—figured I’d play nurse. A sexy, underqualified nurse with boundary issues.”

Bucky closed the door quietly behind you.

“You’re not a nurse,” he muttered.

“Not with that attitude.”

You popped the beers open, handed him one, then flopped onto his couch like you lived there. Legs kicked up, food containers opened without ceremony, your usual grin in place.

He stood a few feet away, beer untouched in his hand.

He hadn’t seen you in weeks—not really. He’d ducked every casual run-in, bailed on team movie nights, even ghosted your texts under the excuse of "needing space." He figured you noticed.

You just hadn’t said anything.

Until now.

You eyed him, casually, between bites. “You gonna sit down or do I need to pull you onto the couch like a Victorian housewife?”

He sat. Slowly. Farther away than usual.

You noticed. Of course you did. But you didn’t call him on it.

Not yet.

Instead, you nudged a container toward him and said, “Eat, soldier. You look like a sad, haunted lumberjack.”

And still—he didn’t say a word.

Because all he could think about, sitting beside you again after a month of silence, was the way your mouth had looked in that fantasy.

The way your voice had sounded moaning his name.

The way he’d used the memory of your real, friendly, teasing self to—

He swallowed thickly.

You kept eating, casual, sharp, familiar.

Exactly how he remembered. Exactly what made it so much worse.

You wiped your fingers on a napkin, leaned back, and gave him a look.

“Alright. You look like you’re two seconds from overthinking yourself into an early grave. Movie time. Something with violence or explosions—your love language.”

Before he could protest, you were already standing and heading toward his desk.

“Wait—” he said, starting to rise, but too slow.

You flipped open his laptop. “Let’s see what Grandpa Barnes has in his—”

“Ah—ahh—yes, please—!”

The moaning hit like a tactical nuke.

You froze.

So did he.

Both of you staring wide-eyed at the screen as the speakers screamed filth into the otherwise silent apartment.

Bucky moved fast.

Too fast.

He lunged over the couch, hand outstretched like he was taking enemy fire.

You dodged.

Smooth, practiced. Years of training paying off.

“No—” he barked, face already crimson, “Please—don’t—!”

“Oh my god—” you laughed, holding the laptop just out of reach. “Is this—is this Pornhub? Are you seriously—you are! You’ve been watching porn, you absolute degenerate.”

He groaned, dragging his hand down his face, mortified.

“Please give me the laptop,” he said, voice low, wounded, like you were holding a hostage.

But you were already clicking the spacebar, pausing the video mid-thrust.

“Oooh,” you said, squinting at the tab title. “‘Brat tamer destroys needy sub’? This is what you’re into?” You looked at him, eyebrows raised. “Bucky.”

“Stop,” he muttered, pacing now, hands on his hips. “I was—researching.”

“Researching what? The anatomy of a throatfuck?” you said, howling with laughter. “Brat tamer—are you even on Tumblr, old man?”

He looked like he wanted the floor to open and consume him.

“Do you know how much I regret every decision that led to this moment?”

You hugged the laptop to your chest dramatically. “I can’t believe you’ve been hiding this. The secrets. The shame. The kinks.”

“Give. It. Back.”

“Nope. Not until we find out if you’ve got a whole ‘rough dom Bucky’ fantasy folder stashed somewhere. You into praise? Degradation? Impact play? Knife play?”

He growled.

Actually growled.

And for half a second, it stopped being funny.

Because the way his eyes locked on you?

That wasn’t embarrassment anymore.

That was heat. Low. Dangerous.

You grinned, too drunk on the chaos to stop.

“Come on, Barnes,” you said, laptop still clutched like a prize. “Own it. You like a little bratty backtalk? You want someone to whimper please while you tell her she’s being a bad girl?”

He was still pacing, but slower now. Controlled. Coiled.

You didn’t notice.

You were too busy poking the bear.

“Is that what you’re into?” you teased, stepping back. “All that repressed soldier shit finally coming out in dirty little commands and throat grips?”

His eyes met yours. Still embarrassed, sure. But behind it? Something sharper. Something hungry.

“Y’know,” you added, tone light, teasing, “I always pegged you as more of a soft dom. Gentle hands. Lots of praise. But this? This is dark. Kinda filthy. Kinda hot.”

That did it. He moved.

Fast.

Faster than he should’ve.

One second, you were smirking with the laptop; the next, it was out of your hands, clattering to the couch. You were against the wall, chest rising, his body a breath away from yours.

His hand planted next to your head.

His voice low. Controlled.

“Enough.”

You stared at him. The air was suddenly thick. Your heart thudded once, hard.

“You think this is a joke?” he asked, eyes burning into you.

Your mouth parted, but no sound came out.

“You think I don’t know you’ve been toying with me since the moment you walked in?”

That teasing smile faltered—just a little.

“You keep pushing,” he murmured, leaning in, breath brushing your jaw. “You laugh, you flirt, you play. But you don’t realize... I’ve thought about you. In ways I shouldn’t.”

You swallowed.

Hard.

“I know what I watched,” he went on, voice rough, low, dangerous. “I know who I imagined.”

Your breath caught.

His eyes dropped to your lips.

Then back up.

And when he spoke again, it wasn’t a threat.

It was a promise.

“You want to see what I’m into?”

You blinked up at him—cornered, caged—but not afraid.

Not even close. Your smile crept back, slower this time. Calculated.

“Oh,” you murmured, tone shifting. “You imagined me?”

Bucky’s jaw tightened.

His silence said everything.

You pushed your palms slowly against his chest, feeling the way his body tensed under your touch. Solid. Barely held together.

You leaned in, lips brushing just beneath his ear.

“So tell me,” you whispered, voice low and coaxing. “If you’ve already pictured it, Barnes... what did I look like?”

He exhaled harshly through his nose.

You didn’t stop.

“What was I doing?” you went on, dragging your fingers down the curve of his chest. “Was I on my knees? Bent over? Did I ride you while you begged for it?”

A choked sound left him—more breath than voice.

You smiled against his neck. “Or do you want to tell me what you were doing to me?”

His hands twitched at his sides.

You could feel it—the war inside him. Guilt, hunger, restraint. And under all of it, the ache.

“Go on, James,” you whispered, using his real name like a secret. “Tell me. What do you like?”

His head dropped forward, forehead nearly touching yours.

A beat passed.

Then another.

And then—

“I want you on top,” he breathed, voice ragged. “I want you to sit on my face and ride it until your legs give out.”

Your eyes fluttered closed for half a second.

That was not the answer you expected first.

His voice deepened, like now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop.

“I want you on your knees, begging. I want to fuck you from behind so deep you forget your own name. I want to feel you come around me and not stop. I want to stay inside you.”

His breath hitched. His hands were fisting at his sides.

“And when I’m done, when you can’t even move anymore—I want to come in you and keep coming until you’re full of me. Until it’s dripping out of you.”

Your thighs clenched instinctively.

Your nails curled tighter into his chest.

And your voice, still low, still teasing—but now breathy, just slightly—said:

“Damn, Barnes. That’s a whole lot of filth for someone who didn’t even know what edging was last month.”

Your last teasing whisper hadn’t even left your lips before Bucky moved.

One second you were pinned between him and the wall, and the next, his hands were on your hips, gripping tight. Then the ground disappeared beneath your feet.

You gasped as he lifted you—easily, effortlessly—hauling you against his chest like you weighed nothing.

“Jesus, Barnes—” you started, but his mouth was already on yours.

It wasn’t a kiss. It was a claim.

Hot, rough, needy—his lips crashed into yours with the force of every filthy thought, every sleepless night, every moment he’d spent imagining your mouth, your body, your sound. His teeth scraped your bottom lip. His tongue pushed past yours. There was no hesitation. Just heat.

You moaned into it, hands threading into his hair, pulling him closer even as he carried you down the hall.

Your back hit the wall once, then the doorframe, and then—

The bed.

He dropped you onto it like a man starved for touch. The mattress creaked beneath you, sheets rumpled and cool against your skin as you propped yourself up on your elbows, breathless and grinning.

Bucky stood at the edge of the bed, looking at you like you were his undoing.

You tilted your head, voice low and mocking.

“Is this the part where you get all commanding, Sergeant? Or are you gonna make me do the work?”

His jaw clenched. He stepped forward. Then dropped his weight onto the bed, climbing over you, hands already at your thighs, dragging you down the sheets toward him.

“I told you not to push,” he growled.

You smiled, voice syrup-sweet.

“And I told you I liked pushing.”

His hands slipped under your shirt, yanking it over your head in one smooth motion. Your bra was next, tossed aside without ceremony. He ducked down immediately, mouth hot against your collarbone, then lower—kissing, biting, devouring.

You gasped, head falling back as his mouth found your breast, tongue circling your nipple before he sucked it between his lips, hard.

And still—you teased.

“Careful, Barnes. Gonna make a mess before you even get inside me.”

He looked up at you.

Eyes wild, hungry, dark.

And then he dragged your jeans down—fast, rough, like he didn’t have the patience for anything else—and crawled up between your legs, pressing his body to yours until there was nothing between you anymore.

“Then shut up,” he growled, grinding against you, his cock thick and hard through his jeans.

“Make me,” you whispered, pulling him down by the collar.

And he did.

His mouth was everywhere—jaw, neck, breasts, stomach—kissing, biting, groaning like he couldn’t get enough, like he didn’t know where to start because he wanted all of you.

Then he pulled back, breathing hard, eyes raking over your body like a man finally allowed to look.

“Get up,” he rasped, voice dark and thick with want.

You blinked up at him, dazed and grinning. “What?”

He sat back on his heels, hands gripping your thighs.

“I said get up,” he repeated. “I want you on my face.”

Your breath caught.

Dead serious.

You didn’t question it. Didn’t tease.

Instead, your lips curved into a slow smile as you shifted, sitting up, climbing over him with fluid, easy confidence.

“As you wish, Sergeant.”

That name hit him like a punch to the chest.

His hands guided you—firm, reverent, needy—until your knees were braced on either side of his head, your body hovering just above his lips.

He looked up at you like a man who’d prayed for this moment.

And then?

He pulled you down.

No hesitation.

Just mouth.

Hot, wet, desperate—he groaned the second he tasted you, tongue already lapping through your folds, lips sealing around your clit like he was starving.

Your head tipped back with a sharp gasp, fingers flying into his hair as your hips bucked against his mouth.

“Fuck—Bucky—”

He growled in response, hands gripping your ass, holding you down, keeping you there.

You rocked against him instinctively, gasping as his tongue flicked and circled, licked and sucked. He was moaning into you, mumbling things you couldn’t even make out—except for one word that hit clear, over and over:

“Mine.”

You looked down at him, eyes wild, mouth open.

His eyes met yours.

Dark. Glazed. Possessed.

You could see the man he used to be—the soldier, the weapon—but right now?

Right now he was just yours.

And you were his.

You couldn’t stop moving.

Couldn’t stop grinding against his mouth, against his tongue, the pleasure slamming through you in waves, harder and sharper with every flick, every suck.

Bucky moaned beneath you, the sound filthy, shameless, needy—like your taste was saving him from something dark and deep and buried.

His hands held you tighter, guiding your hips as you rocked against his mouth, your thighs trembling around his head.

“Fuck—fuck—” you gasped, one hand gripping the headboard, the other buried in his thick, messy hair. “Don’t stop—don’t you dare stop—”

He didn’t.

If anything, he doubled down—lips sealing tighter, tongue working you harder, sloppier, his groans vibrating against your clit like a live wire.

He wanted this.

He wanted to suffocate on you, drown in you.

And you gave it to him.

Because when you looked down, saw those glassy, desperate blue eyes staring up at you, pleading for more, there was no holding back.

The coil snapped.

Your whole body locked as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and searing, your hips jerking uncontrollably against his mouth.

“Bucky—” you cried, voice cracking, thighs clamping around his head as you came—hard.

He didn’t let go.

He held you there, arms wrapped around your thighs, mouth still working you through it, licking and sucking every shudder, every twitch, like it was a gift.

You collapsed forward, one hand braced on the headboard behind his head, the other still clutching his hair, your body wrecked, shaking, soaked.

And when you finally opened your eyes—chest heaving, heart pounding—you looked down at him.

His lips were wet, chin glistening, eyes blown wide with hunger.

He looked like he could live there. Like he’d happily die there.

And all he said, voice hoarse and full of worship:

“You taste like heaven.”

You were still trembling when he sat up behind you, hands stroking your thighs, your hips, slow and reverent like he needed to remember the feel of you.

“You good?” he rasped, voice wrecked from moaning into you.

You nodded, barely catching your breath, lips curving into a slow smile.

“Still waiting for that doggystyle fantasy to come true, Sergeant.”

That was all it took.

He growled low in his throat, grabbing your hips, flipping you effortlessly onto your stomach. Before you could even laugh, his hands slid under your body and lifted your hips high, chest pressed down into the mattress.

You moaned, the stretch in your spine perfect, delicious.

He leaned over you, his breath hot at your ear.

“This how you want it?”

You arched your back, ass pushing against him. “This is how you want it.”

He growled again—low, deep, possessive.

“Exactly how I want it.”

Then you felt him—his cock, thick and hot, dragging through your soaked folds, the head catching on your entrance.

He didn’t push in yet.

Just rubbed, slow, deliberate, teasing.

You whimpered, tried to push back.

He gripped your hips tighter.

“Not yet,” he murmured. “You’re gonna feel all of it.”

Then—he pushed in.

Slow at first, but deep, the stretch burning in the best way as he filled you, inch by thick, pulsing inch.

“Fuck—” you moaned, hands clutching the sheets as he bottomed out.

He held still once he was fully inside.

Like he was savoring it.

Like this—being buried in you, your body wrapped tight around his—was what he’d been starving for.

Then he moved.

Pulled out halfway.

And slammed back in.

You cried out, the sound muffled by the sheets as he started thrusting, each snap of his hips harder, deeper, rougher than the last.

His hands gripped your waist like you were his anchor.

His rhythm brutal, relentless.

He fucked you like he meant it—like he’d dreamed of this for weeks, like every fantasy had led to this.

You were gasping, moaning, clawing at the bed.

“Look at you,” he panted behind you. “So fucking tight—taking me so good.”

You couldn’t speak.

Could barely breathe.

And when his hand snaked around to rub your clit, you screamed his name.

He didn’t let up.

Just pounded into you harder, faster, until the sound of skin meeting skin filled the room, filthy and loud and perfect.

He was so deep in you.

Deeper than anyone had ever been—physically, yes, but also fully. Like this was where he belonged. Like this was where you belonged.

His hips rolled, the angle perfect, his cock dragging against that sweet spot inside you with every rough, claiming thrust.

And his voice—low, wrecked, filthy—poured right into your ear.

“You like that, sweetheart?” he growled. “You like being on your knees for me?”

You whimpered, nodding, voice breathless.

“Yes, Bucky—fuck—so much.”

He leaned over you, chest flush to your back, still moving inside you—slow now, torturously deep, like he wanted to feel every pulse of you clenching around him.

“Yeah, you do,” he whispered, lips brushing your ear. “My good girl. So fuckin’ wet for me. You were dripping on my face—you know that?”

You moaned, your body shaking, ass pushing back into him.

“I saw you,” he said, his rhythm stuttering just to drag the next thrust out longer. “When I told you to sit on my face? You didn’t even hesitate. You just gave it to me.”

You gasped as his hand slid down your back, curving over your ass, squeezing.

“And now you’re letting me fuck you like this,” he went on. “Taking every inch like a good little cocksleeve. You want me to fill you up, don’t you?”

You shuddered, squeezing around him so tight he groaned.

“Yes,” you panted, shameless. “Fuck, Bucky—fill me up—please—I want it.”

He slammed into you harder, rhythm picking up again, fast and unforgiving.

“That’s it,” he growled. “That’s what I like. You begging. You dripping. You mine.”

You cried out, bracing yourself against the mattress as he drove into you faster now, hand slipping beneath to rub your clit again.

“Say it,” he hissed. “Tell me who you belong to.”

“You,” you choked. “You, Bucky—I’m yours.”

He groaned deep in his throat, thrusts faltering for a beat like the words knocked something loose in him.

Then he grabbed your hair, gently but firm, pulling you up just enough to kiss your neck—bite it—then whisper:

“When I come, I’m gonna stay inside you. Gonna keep you full for hours. Walk around dripping with me.”

You whined, thighs shaking, the pressure building again—faster, sharper.

“Bucky—please—”

His voice was a growl, low and thick with promise.

“Come for me.”

And you did.

Hard.

Your whole body clenched around him, your scream muffled by the sheets as the orgasm ripped through you, sharp and messy, your walls fluttering around his cock.

Your moan was still echoing when he grabbed your waist, pulling you back—up, off the bed, into his lap.

You barely had time to gasp before you were straddling him, his chest pressed flush to your back, his mouth at your neck, and his cock still inside you.

“Not done,” he growled, arms locking around your waist. “Not until I come in you.”

Then he thrust up into you—hard, deep, devastating.

You cried out, your body already overstimulated, every thrust hitting that perfect spot inside you all over again. His hands were everywhere—gripping your hips, spreading your thighs wider, keeping you open for him as he pounded up from beneath you with bruising rhythm.

“Fuck—Bucky—” you whimpered, hands flying back to clutch at his hair, his shoulder, anything.

He was relentless.

Grunting with each thrust, hips snapping up into you, his breath ragged against your ear.

“Feel that?” he rasped. “How deep I am? How you’re still so fuckin’ tight?”

You nodded, moaning, body jerking with every thrust.

“You’re gonna take it,” he hissed. “Every drop. I’m not pullin’ out—you hear me? I’m comin’ inside you.”

“Yes,” you gasped, barely able to speak. “Please—Bucky—fill me up—”

He groaned, deeper than before, thrusts losing rhythm, his grip bruising on your hips as his body started to shake.

“Fuckfuckfuck—gonna come—”

One last thrust—brutal, final—and he buried himself in you, arms tightening, head thrown back as he came hard, deep inside you.

You felt it.

Hot.

Thick.

Flooding you as he groaned your name, holding you tight in his lap, still pulsing inside you.

And he didn’t let go.

Didn’t move.

Just stayed there—buried—chest rising against your back, his breath warm at your neck, whispering,

“You’re mine.”

You collapsed forward onto the bed, body still twitching with aftershocks, breath ragged and uneven. Bucky followed, slow and heavy, staying close, still inside you for a moment longer like he couldn’t stand to let you go just yet.

Eventually, he pulled out with a soft groan.

You whimpered at the loss, hips squirming on instinct.

He stayed behind you for a second, hovering—eyes locked on the way his release slowly dripped out of you, sliding between your thighs and onto the sheets.

You could feel him watching.

You tilted your head back with a lazy grin. “If you’re gonna stare like that, at least have the decency to offer a towel.”

He huffed a rough laugh—half-exhausted, half-stunned. “Sorry. Just... didn’t wanna forget what that looks like.”

You stretched like a cat, all smug satisfaction and afterglow. “Yeah, well. Take a picture next time, Barnes.”

He leaned down, kissed your shoulder—soft, slow, grateful—then flopped beside you, dragging the sheet up over your tangled bodies.

His arm wrapped around your waist, warm and heavy.

Neither of you spoke for a minute.

Just the sound of your breathing slowing. Your bodies cooling.

Then he murmured, voice quiet against your skin, “You’re in my head now.”

You smiled, eyes drifting shut.

“Good,” you whispered. “Took you long enough.”

You lay there, tangled together in the warm quiet, your body still thrumming, skin slick and flushed. Bucky’s arm was wrapped around your waist, his breath slow against the back of your neck, lips occasionally brushing your shoulder like he wasn’t even conscious of doing it.

You grinned.

Couldn’t help it.

“So…” you said, voice casual. “How long you been jerking off to me, Barnes?”

He froze.

You felt the heat bloom off him before he even said a word.

“Don’t.”

Your grin widened. “What? It’s a fair question. Based on how fast you devoured me, I’m guessing… at least a month?”

He groaned into your shoulder. “You’re the worst.”

“I’m right,” you countered. “Don’t think I didn’t catch the way you almost cried when I said ‘as you wish, Sergeant.’ You’ve been unwell.”

He muttered something unintelligible and buried his face in your neck.

You rolled to face him, propped on one elbow, smirking as you traced a line down his chest.

“So, tell me,” you purred. “Now that you’ve got a taste... what do you want to do to me next time?”

His throat bobbed.

You waited.

“I dunno,” he mumbled.

“Oh, you know.” Your nails lightly scratched his ribs. “Come on, be brave. Tell me.”

He grumbled. “You’re gonna use it against me.”

“Correct,” you said sweetly. “Now spill.”

He exhaled slowly, then muttered:

“...Sixty-nine.”

You grinned. “Classic. What else?”

He covered his eyes with one hand. “Breeding.”

Your eyebrows lifted, delight flashing in your eyes. “Oh? Really leaned into the ‘stuff me full, Sarge’ angle, huh?”

“Shut up.”

“I won’t, actually,” you laughed, leaning closer, lips brushing his ear. “Anything else you wanna act out, Barnes? Any other dirty little fantasies you been keeping locked up?”

He hesitated.

Longer this time.

Then—reluctantly, quietly:

“...Roleplay.”

You blinked.

Then broke into a slow, wicked grin. “Okay, now this I need to hear.”

“Nope,” he said immediately, trying to roll away. “That’s enough honesty for one night—”

You climbed on top of him, straddling his hips, pinning him down with a devilish smile. “Tell me if I need to show up next time in a pencil skirt and glasses, or if I should wear that SHIELD catsuit and call you ‘Sir.’”

His eyes snapped open.

And you knew.

You gasped. “Oh my god. You have a thing for the whole ‘secret agent mission gone sideways’ scenario, don’t you?”

He groaned, dragging a hand over his face. “Please stop.”

“You want me to cuff you to a chair and interrogate you,” you went on gleefully. “Or, wait—no—you want to interrogate me.”

“I’m begging.”

You leaned in, lips brushing his ear. “You want me in red lipstick and a wiretap, don’t you?”

“I’m never telling you anything again.”

You leaned down, lips brushing his.

“I’m gonna make all your little roleplay dreams come true,” you whispered.

“Kill me now,” he muttered.

“Nope. Gotta save your energy. You’re not done with me yet.”

You grinned, smug and sated, curling down against his chest, eyes closing as his arm wrapped around you again.

And beneath your cheek, you felt him smile.

[loljaeyunz]

only ever you. [jakehoon x reader]

Word count: 5.7k

Summary: You're mad at your boyfriends over something dumb, and they make it their mission to make you forget why you were even mad.

Warnings: established poly relationship, smut, soft doms!jakehoon, kinda bratty reader at first but she melts, brat taming? (not really, idk like its so vague), mxm (just kissing and a finger sucking :p), abs riding, looots of praising, brief tit play, worshiping, fingering, oral (m receiving), unprotected sex, your honor they're so in love.

a/n: this work is a purely self-indulgent fic, born from my deepest desires yall. which is: me wanting two boyfriends who love me and each other... is that really too much to ask? 😞 btw ts is nasty but like in a very loving kind of nasty, so beware.

"So this is how you're gonna act? Ignoring us?” Jake said as he followed you upstairs like a puppy. 

“I am not ignoring anyone.” 

“Uh-huh, because you ghosting all of my texts was my imagination, of course, baby.” Sunghoon remarked, he was also following you, just behind Jake. 

You sighed, barging into your room like a teen that just argued with her parents. Your intention was to slam the door in their faces but Jake caught it with the sole of his sneaker, wedging his foot between the frame and the door before it could crash shut. You sighed harder this time, throwing yourself on your bed to slide reels. 

“Come on, baby, don’t be like that. You knoo that’s just our job, none of it meant anything.” Sunghoon crawled on the bed towards you. You shrugged, keeping your focus on your phone. 

Jake climbed onto the bed next, kneeling at your feet and facing you like he was trying to get into your line of sight. His pretty hands were braced on your knees, thumbs absentmindedly stroking over the fabric of your sweats like he didn’t even realize he was doing it.

Still, you didn’t look up. Not even when you could see, out of the corner of your eye, that Jake was pulling his best puppy eyes and pout combo. 

“Pretty girl, stop that, hmm? We didn’t intentionally ghost you. Our phones were taken, that’s why we couldn’t text you.” 

You didn’t doubt your boyfriends. You trusted them, you knew where their hearts were, who they came home to, who they whispered goodnight to over FaceTime when schedules got crazy. Of course you knew that, and of course you knew you shouldn’t be petty about these things anymore. But it never helped that seeing your boyfriends smile at other girls still got under your skin. It was stupid, you told yourself. Immature. You weren’t seventeen and insecure anymore. And yet, there you were, scrolling through the videos of engenes from today’s event with a tight knot in your stomach and a petty little scowl on your face.

You were right in the middle of zooming in on a photo of one of the girls touching Jake’s arm when Sunghoon snatched your phone clean out of your hands.

“Hey–” you started, but he was already frowning at the screen like it offended him personally.

“Why are you doing this to yourself?” he muttered, locking the phone with a dramatic press of his thumb before tossing it somewhere behind him on the bed.

You lunged forward to reach for it, a glare already forming on your face, but Sunghoon was faster. One hand caught your wrist mid reach, the other pressing flat against your shoulder as he gently shoved you back down against the pillows.

“Nu-uh,” he said, voice low as he hovered over you slightly, palm flat against your stomach to keep you in place. “You’re dropping that brat act right now, baby.”  

You thrashed beneath him in frustration, your legs kicking uselessly at the mattress, arms squirming under his weight, but Sunghoon didn’t budge an inch. If anything, he looked mildly entertained, his brows raised like he was watching a particularly dramatic toddler throw a tantrum. Jake stayed quiet at your feet, eyes flicking between the two of you, but not interfering.

“Let me go, you asshole,” you snapped, wriggling harder. “You said – you said – I could have space! I literally walked away and then you followed me and now Jake’s all pouty, and you’re acting like some – some manipulative parent, and I swear to God, you two are the most annoying shitheads–”

Your rant didn’t get to finish. Sunghoon leaned down and kissed you. 

The kiss wasn’t sweet or slow. It was firm and a little rough, the kind of kiss that silenced you mid-sentence and made your breath hitch. His hand was still splayed across your stomach, keeping you pinned just enough to let you know he wasn’t playing around.

By the time he pulled back, your breath had hitched, your glare had softened and your voice was nowhere to be found.

“Better.” he muttered, brushing his thumb along your cheekbone. “Now, do you want to keep yelling, or are you gonna let us fix it?”

You scoffed, turning your head to the side like you weren’t already breathless from the way he kissed you. Your glare might’ve softened, sure, but you weren’t about to hand over the reins that easily. Especially, not when Sunghoon thought he could kiss the attitude out of you.

Your brows stayed furrowed, lips pursed in defiance. Sunghoon smoothed a thumb between your brows anyway.

“Stop scowling,” he said softly, still hovering over you. “You’ll get wrinkles.”

You gave him the flattest look imaginable. “You literally just kissed me to shut me up.”

“And it worked, didn’t it?” he said with zero shame, glancing back at Jake, who was still kneeling at your feet with his chin resting on your knee, clearly waiting for his turn to speak.

Jake shifted finally, crawling up from where he’d been stationed at your feet, the mattress dipping as he shifted to hover beside you. His knee brushed beside your hip, and soon he was hovering over you too, shoulder to shoulder with Sunghoon, their presence overwhelming in the way you secretly liked.

Your eyes flicked up, ready to shoot him a warning, but the moment you did, something else caught your attention: Jake’s necklace, the silver chain swaying ever so slightly, dangling down as he leaned over you. The little charm brushing against your collarbone when he leaned just a bit closer, smiling gently, eyes searching yours.

You hated how your eyes followed the chain, distracted for half a second too long.

“You’re really mad at us, pretty?” 

You blinked, your eyes darting between his necklace, his eyes, and the way his hand settled just beside your head on the pillow. God, they were so annoying. And kind. And pretty. And yeah, maybe you were still scowling. But it was getting harder to pretend you’re not affected by them. 

Jake’s hand rose to your throat, thick and long fingers wrapping around. But he didn’t squeeze, not even a little press. He just let his hand rest there.

At the same time, Sunghoon’s hand began to move slowly, sliding lower where it had been resting against your stomach. He knew exactly what he was doing to you, letting his fingertips trail just above the waistband of your sweats.

You swallowed hard, your throat shifting under Jake’s palm. He, of course, felt it, and his thumb ghosted across your jaw in response – so soft it made you shiver.

Your thighs pressed together instinctively the moment you felt it, that warm, sticky sensation beginning to pool between your legs, heat blooming low in your stomach. You clenched your jaw, trying to keep your face neutral, but Sunghoon’s eyes flicked down. He noticed.

His hand didn’t stop this time. It dipped lower, fingertips skimming past the waistband of your sweat. He moved slowly, too fucking slowly, giving you every opportunity to stop him. But you didn’t.

Jake leaned down, his necklace brushing your collarbone again, and his breath fanned across your cheek as he spoke, “How about you let Sunghoonie check if you are mad or not?” 

Your lips parted slightly, but no sound came out.

Sunghoon didn’t need your permission at that point, your body had already given him everything he needed. His fingers slipped past the band of your panties until they met bare skin. You sucked in a sharp breath, your whole body tensing as he found exactly what he was looking for.

You were soaked, your pussy hot and slick against his fingers. His fingers moved further, parting your lips gently. Your breath hitched again, squirming a little. 

He hummed, pleased, like he was proud of you. Like this was exactly the confirmation he wanted. “Thought so.” he muttered, the smirk in his voice practically audible. 

Sunghoon’s index finger and middle finger scooped up your wetness before slowly pulling back. You shivered at the sensation. His hand hovered in the air for a moment, your slick glistening faintly on his fingers, catching the low light in the room like something holy and obscene all at once.

He tilted his hand slightly, inspecting it with a smug smile before glancing sideways at Jake. “She’s dripping down there, want a taste Jake?” 

Jake’s tongue peeked out, barely wetting his bottom lip, his eyes dropping to Sunghoon’s hand. Sunghoon turned toward him fully and pressed those same fingers to Jake’s lips. 

Jake didn’t even hesitate, lips parting obediently as Sunghoon pushed his fingers past them. He sucked them in slow, cheeks hollowing, eyes fluttering shut, a low moan slipping from the back of his throat like he was tasting something sweet.

You couldn’t look away even if you wanted to. Jake’s lips wrapped around Sunghoon’s fingers so willingly, so prettily, his lashes fluttering like he was savoring every drop. You could hear the faint, wet sound of it, could feel the heat pulse harder between your thighs just watching the two of them.

And just when you thought that was the peak of it, Sunghoon leaned in.

You barely had time to process the movement before his fingers slipped free from Jake’s mouth, only to be replaced by something hotter, wetter.

His mouth.

His hand curled behind Jake’s neck, pulling him closer, and you swore you felt the air leave your lungs as their mouths moved together. Tongues tangling.

Sunghoon chased the taste of you now lingering on Jake’s tongue. You watched Jake melt into it, his free hand sliding up to fist in Sunghoon’s shirt, both of them kissing like they were starved, like you weren’t even in the room, and yet everything about it was for you.

It was filthy. And so, so beautiful. You even forgot why you were mad. 

Your breath came faster, the room was getting warmer. Your clothes started sticking to your skin. The sight of them kissing like that with your taste between them, made your hips shift involuntarily, like your body was trying to reach for something, anything. You were sure your panties were ruined by now. 

Jake pulled back first with a wet pop, his lips swollen, his eyes hooded. He looked dazed and wrecked yet he smiled. 

Sunghoon turned to you, expression almost the same as Jake’s. “Are you still mad at your pretty boyfriends, baby?” 

You didn’t answer with words.

Instead, your hand reached up and curled into the collar of Sunghoon’s shirt, tugging him down with enough force to knock the air out of both of you. He barely caught himself on his elbows, chest hovering over yours, his breath catching as your mouth crashed into his.

It was messy. Hungry. Just as fevered and wild as the kiss he’d given Jake moments ago, maybe more.

Sunghoon groaned softly into your mouth, the sound melting into you like smoke. His lips moved eagerly, parting for you as your arms wrapped around his neck, pulling him impossibly closer. His body pressed into yours, the full weight of him almost collapsing on top of you as he tried to keep himself steady.

Then he bit your lower lip. You gasped, and he took full advantage, slipping his tongue into your mouth. Your moans bled into the kiss, your thighs clenching again at the sound, the feel, the need.

And somewhere in the haze of it, while your hands were tangled in Sunghoon’s hair and your lips swollen from his bite, you felt Jake shift beside you. You couldn’t see him fully because of Sunghoon’s body. 

Then came the tug at your waistband, his big hands on your hips. You lifted your hips without thinking, without breaking the kiss, offering yourself up wordlessly.

Jake pulled your sweats down inch by inch, and your panties followed, sticking to the heat between your legs before peeling away. The cool air met your skin and you shivered.

Jake’s fingers brushed your thighs as he tugged the clothes down to your knees, then further, until you felt the soft drape of fabric being discarded somewhere across the room.

Without warning, sunghoon broke the kiss.

His hands slid down to your waist, and before you could blink, he was moving, rolling onto his back and pulling you with him in one smooth, powerful motion. You gasped, a startled yelp escaping your lips as your body was lifted and shifted like you weighed nothing.

You didn’t even register what happened until it was done.

One moment you were pinned beneath him, and the next you were straddling him.

You sat atop his abdomen, your thighs spread around his torso, your bare heat pressed against the hard plane of his stomach where his shirt had ridden up. Your hands had flown to his chest to brace yourself, fingers splayed over the fabric, your eyes wide with shock.

“Sunghoon—” you started, breathless.

But he just smirked, looking up at you with that maddening calm, as if he hadn’t just manhandled you into place like it was the most natural thing in the world. Like he wasn’t just making you go insane. 

Then he tilted his head slightly, eyes dragging lazily down your body and back up, voice dropping into something quieter.  “Why don’t you take my shirt off, baby?” he murmured. “Let you ride my abs properly.”

Your breath hitched.

Your fingers twitched against his chest, your mouth parting slightly in surprise. That... wasn’t something you’d ever said aloud. Not to him. Not to Jake. Not to anyone. But you had thought about it. You’d fantasized about it more than once, imagined exactly what it would feel like, pressed and grinding against firm muscle, nothing in between but skin and slick heat.

You didn’t even try to hide your eagerness. Your hands flew to the hem of his shirt, tugging it up his torso in one motion, and Sunghoon sat up just enough to help you pull it over his head. You tossed it aside, your eyes immediately dropping to his now bare chest. 

And fuck. 

Your mouth went dry. Your thighs instinctively squeezed tighter around his waist at the thoughts creeping in.

He smirked again, lazily, like he knew exactly what you were thinking. “Go on,” he said softly. “I’ve been working out just for you.”

God, he didn’t need to say, it showed. Your gaze stayed fixed on the cut lines of his stomach, his v-line disappearing beneath his sweats. You could see the way his muscles flexed subtly beneath your weight, his chest rising and falling with slow, controlled breaths. Your wetness started to drip down your inner thighs now, sliding against his skin, hot and humiliating and unbelievably arousing.

Somewhere from behind you, Jake let out a soft groan. “Pretty girl making a pretty mess on you Sunghoonie.” 

Your cheeks burned.

Sunghoon’s hands stroked slowly up and down your waist, each pass of his palms dragging your shirt with it, lifting the hem ever so slightly, then letting it fall again. He wasnt urging you to move, just holding you there. Letting you take your time. Letting you look. Letting you want.

The friction of the shirt sliding against your torso made your skin hypersensitive, your breath hitching with every pass. But it was his eyes, the way he looked up at you that cocky smile still pulling at his lips that made your body move before your brain could catch up.

Your hips shifted. Lower. You pressed your bare cunt against the warm, hard plane of his abdomen, the ridges of his abs prominent beneath your slick folds. You let out a breathy whimper at the contact and your body reacted instinctively.

You started to move.

Slow at first, almost shy, rolling your hips in tentative little circles. Your wetness smeared against his skin, glistening on the taut muscle beneath you. The more you moved, the messier it got. Sticky, warm, heavenly, whatever you want to call it. You felt everything, the slight drag, the ridges of his body, the smoothness of his skin just enough to make it feel good.

Sunghoon hummed under his breath. His fingers gripped your waist a little tighter. “Baby... you look so good like this.”

You kept going, your pace picking up, the friction enhancing, so hot, so dirty, so unlike anything you’d ever let yourself do before. Shameless little moans fell from your lips, your body shuddering with each drag of your clit against him. But it wasn’t enough. 

Yes, you loved it, loved the way it made you feel, the way it made Sunghoon look at you. But the friction was shallow, teasing, just barely scratching the edge of the ache building inside you.

You needed more. 

As if Jake could read your mind, he came up behind you, close enough that you could feel the warmth and sturdiness of him against your back. His hands slipped under your shirt in one smooth motion, palms warm and wide, sliding up your ribcage until they found your plush breasts.

You gasped, your back arching slightly into his touch. Jake’s hands molded around your breasts, the pads of his thumbs teasing over your nipples until they were stiff and aching. Each little pass sent jolts of pleasure down your spine, making your hips twitch harder against Sunghoon’s abs.

“ Knew you needed more.” he whispered into your ear. 

He kissed your shoulder first. Then the next kiss was open mouthed, wetter. His tongue traced along the dip where your neck met your collarbone before his lips latched on, sucking until you whimpered. You tilted your head without thinking, giving him more access, your body pliant under his touch.

He hooked his fingers under the hem of your shirt and began to lift. The fabric rose inch by inch, grazing your stomach, your ribs, until it bunched just beneath your arms. He didn’t stop there. He pushed it higher, baring your breasts completely.

Jake groaned, low and proud. “Mmmh, she’s so so soft.” 

Sunghoon’s eyes dragged up from your cunt to your tits, now fully on display as Jake cupped them again from behind, this time slower, more deliberate so could Sunghoon see every curve, everything. His fingers traced that curves, teasing the sensitive peaks, tugging lightly.

“She’s gorgeous.” Sunghoon murmured, and Jake agreed with a hum. 

He pinched one nipple between his fingers and tugged gently, while his mouth found your neck again, licking the spot he’d just marked.

One of Jake’s hands left your tit, slipping lower, trailing down your stomach in a slow, torturous line. You knew what he was about to do before he even got there. Your hips stuttered in their rhythm for half a second before resuming, grinding harder against Sunghoon’s abs.

His fingers dipped lower, lower, until they found the mess between your legs.

“Shit…” he breathed, almost to himself. “Love how you get so wet every time.” 

Jake didn’t tease, thankfully. He found your clit immediately, his middle finger rubbing slow circles over the swollen bud, syncing his movements to the rhythm of your hips.

The combination was instant, overwhelming. The friction of Sunghoon beneath you, the pressure of Jake’s finger just right, made your head fall back against Jake’s shoulder with a choked moan.

“Yeah, there she is.” Jake murmured, his lips brushing the shell of your ear. “You’re close, pretty, don’t stop now.” 

You couldn’t even think about stopping.

Your nails dug into Sunghoon’s chest as your hips rocked harder, chasing the way Jake’s finger rolled against your clit in perfect rhythm.

You whimpered when Jake added a two fingers, dipping low and pushing inside without warning, stretching you open with an obscene slick sound that made both of them groan.

“Fucking hell” Sunghoon muttered, his hands tightening on your waist so hard that it hurt.

But Jake kept going, his palm pressed firm against your mound while his fingers curled inside you while you rode both of them. Rode the drag of abs against your clit. Rode Jake’s fingers pressing up into that spot inside you. Rode the edge that had been building in your gut from the moment they laid hands on you.

Your thighs trembled. Your moans spilled out faster, desperate, helpless. You were almost crying now. You were so close.

“Come on, sweetheart. Let go. Let Hoon feel how hard you fall apart for him.”

You chased it with everything you had, grinding messily, erratically until your body locked up, your breath caught in your throat, and your orgasm hit you so hard it knocked the wind from your lungs. You cried out, hips jerking uncontrollably as your pussy clenched around Jake’s fingers, soaking his hand and Sunghoon’s stomach in the same breathless wave. 

You collapsed forward, panting, still twitching through the aftershocks, your head falling against Sunghoon’s chest. A pair of strong arms wrapped around your figure. 

You felt Jake leaning in against your back, his lips were at your ear when he whispered, “That’s our girl.” 

They let you breathe.

You laid there, trembling, chest heaving against Sunghoon’s bare skin. Your forehead rested just above his heart, the beat of it was calming. His arms tightened around your back, holding you to him like you were made of something precious and breakable.

“Did so good for us,” Sunghoon murmured, lips brushing the crown of your head. “So fucking beautiful, baby.”

His hand rubbed slow, soothing circles along your spine, easing the tremors still rippling through your limbs. He pressed soft kisses into your hair, onto your temple, and then just above your brow. You let yourself melt into him, every inch of your body boneless, content, loved.

You barely noticed the soft sound of rustling fabric behind you. Barely registered the shift of the mattress, the sound of a zipper, the thud of clothes being discarded onto the floor.

Until you felt something hard. 

The thick press of something undeniably real nudging against your ass, the slick head brushing your skin. 

Your eyes fluttered open, and you felt Jake, again, behind you, one large hand running up your spine. He exhaled a quiet groan at the sight of you sprawled like that, ruined and pliant between them. His other hand was wrapped around the base of his cock, lazily pumping himself as he leaned forward, lips brushing along the back of your shoulder.

`Ready for me?” He guided his length against your ass without waiting for a response, the tip brushing the swell of your cheek, dragging up and down slowly, deliberately, just to feel your skin shiver against him. His cock was heavy, hard, veins prominent along the shaft, the head flushed and leaking against your backside.

Sunghoon chuckled softly beneath you, feeling your breath hitch. “She’s so sensitive still,” he said gently, his fingers stroking your hair. “But I think she can take it, can’t you, baby?”

You just shifted your hips slightly, a soft movement of your ass pressing back into Jake, your legs spreading instinctively, inviting him in without a single word.

Jake cursed under his breath. “Fuck. I think we got our answer.” 

His hand smoothed up your spine again, and then gently,so gently, he guided your hips to arch, pressing the curve of your back just right, making you rise onto your elbows against Sunghoon’s chest. He leaned forward, letting the head of his cock nestle between your cheeks, then lower, until it pressed against your already soaked entrance. He ran the tip along your folds, collecting your wetness, groaning softly at how slick and warm you were even now.

Next, the thick head of his cock breached you, stretching you open inch by inch until your eyes fluttered shut.

“Ohh my god, Jake–” you choked, the fullness making your limbs tremble.

Jake’s hand gripped your hip tighter. He didn’t stop until he was buried deep, every inch seated inside, snug and hot and overwhelming in a way that made your whole body quake.

Your mouth hung open, a moan spilling out as your arms trembled against Sunghoon’s chest. His hands cradled your ribs gently, his thumbs stroking soft, comforting lines as if to say, You’re okay. You’re doing so well.

“Jesus, baby,” Jake rasped behind you. “I love your cunt so much.” 

Then he began to move.

A deep, fluid pull and a slow thrust back in, making your entire body lurch forward just slightly. Every time his hips met yours, the wet slap echoed through the room lewdly.

You cried out at the sensation, your head tilting back instinctively, spine arching deeper. You couldn’t restrain the sounds you were making even if you wanted. 

The pressure. The pace. The sound of slick skin meeting slick skin. Your body rocked between the two of them, Jake’s thrusts driving into you from behind, your chest pressed to Sunghoon's as he whispered praises between kisses to your temple. All of it was mind blowing. 

Your moans came in broken bursts, lips parted against Sunghoon’s skin, your fingers digging into his biceps like he was the only thing keeping you grounded.

“Hey.” Sunghoon’s voice cut through the haze. His fingers cupped your jaw, guiding your gaze up to meet his. “Look at me.”

Your lashes fluttered, your lips trembling around another moan as you forced your eyes open, your vision blurred with tears from the intensity. You barely managed to focus on him, but his expression was impossible to miss; stern and adoring all at once.

“Who’s fucking you right now, baby?” he asked, his voice deadly smooth.

You whimpered, the question sinking deep into your already overwhelmed brain. You opened your mouth to answer but all that came out was a helpless, choked moan. Feeling Jake deep inside your gut didn’t help either. 

Sunghoon leaned closer, his nose brushing yours, his voice even quieter now. “No, no. Use your words,” he whispered. “Tell me who’s making you feel this good.”

Your mouth moved soundlessly for a second, lost in the chaos of your body’s pleasure. Jake was relentless behind you, his hand tightening on your hip, other hand tightly squeezing your shoulder.

“I–ah” yet you tried. “Jake–”

Sunghoon smirked, but his eyes stayed locked with yours, his thumb brushing your cheek gently.

“Yeah, he’s fucking you so good, isn’t he?”

You whimpered in response, unable to do much else, your body still jerking forward with each of Jake’s thrusts behind you. You were barely hanging on, your breath catching every time Jake’s hips slapped against your ass.

Sunghoon tilted his head, brushing his lips against yours, not quite kissing you yet, just breathing with you. 

“You know he doesn’t fuck anyone else like this, right?” he murmured, the words threading into your ears like silk. “You’re the only one we come home to.”

He kissed the corner of your mouth, then the other, then finally pressed a soft kiss to your lips. “The only one we fall asleep beside.”

Jake groaned behind you, slowing just enough to make every deep push feel like a claim. “The only one we dream about.” he added, voice wrecked.

Sunghoon’s fingers found your chin again, tilting your face to look at him. “So don’t even let that pretty little head of yours worry about stupid shit like that again, yeah?”

You blinked through tears, your chest tightening at how gently he said them, how true they sounded even through the blur of pleasure.

“Only you,” Sunghoon whispered. “Only ever you, alright?”

Jake’s pace faltered after a couple of rough thrusts. His hips slowed, dragging through your walls with an almost unbearable languidness, giving you nothing but deep, shallow rolls that made your insides clench around him desperately.

You let out a broken sound, hips trying to follow him back, chasing more. “Jake…” you breathed .But Jake didn’t give in.

Instead, you felt both his hands wrap firmly around your waist. You gasped as he dragged you backwards, gently but firmly, shifting your body off of Sunghoon’s abdomen. Your cheek brushed the wrinkled sheets as Jake settled you on all fours in the middle of the bed, your thighs already trembling beneath you from all the sensations going on in your body. 

You gasped and braced yourself fully on your arms, elbows digging into the mattress, shaking slightly. 

Without needing to speak, Sunghoon seemed to understand exactly what Jake was doing.

He sat up slowly. Wordless, he moved up the bed until his back rested against the headboard, knees bent and legs spread. Just enough for you to see the sharp line of his erection pressing up against the front of his sweats.

Then he reached for you, his fingers brushing gently through the messy strands of hair that had stuck to your damp skin. He smoothed them back, tucking them behind your ear like you were the only thing in the world worth looking at.

After making sure your hair wouldn’t be in your way, Sunghoon pulled his sweats down just enough. His cock sprang free, hard, the tip wet and angry. One hand stayed tangled in your hair, the other wrapped around the base of his cock, stroking himself slowly.

Sunghoon's thumb brushed over your bottom lip as you blinked up at him, your eyes glassy, lips parted in anticipation. 

“Open for me, baby.” 

You did and he guided the tip of his cock to your mouth, smearing the wetness across your tongue before slowly easing in. Inch by inch, he fed it to you, watching your lips stretch around him, his jaw clenching the deeper he went.

“Just like that.” he dragged the words, hand tightening in your hair as he held your head still, not forcing, just… guiding.

Behind you, Jake moved too.

You barely had a moment to adjust before his hips snapped forward again, pulling a ragged moan from deep inside you, muffled by Sunghoon now. Jake’s grip on your waist returned. His pace began to build gradually.

Their rhythm was intoxicating. Jake thrusted harder now, each snap of his hips sending your body forward right onto Sunghoon’s cock, which glided deeper into your mouth every time you were rocked. And yet… they were careful with you. Gentle, in all the ways that made your body feel safe even in this situation. Worshipful, you could say that.

Jake’s fingers squeezed your hips, thumbs stroking over the bruises he was no doubt leaving behind. “You’re doing so good for– for me, oh fuck!” he rasped, the strain in his voice impossible to hide.

Sunghoon groaned softly, his hand grabbing the back of your neck, his other hand petting your hair.

Your legs were trembling, your arms no better, and the pleasure was building again. The stretch of Jake inside you, the salty taste of Sunghoon, the fullness, the heat, it was too much and not enough all at once. Your moans grew frantic, muffled.

“That’s it, pretty. Let go for us. Let go all over my cock. Let me feel how much you love being loved like this.” 

You did as if his words were your cue. Your whole body locked up, a sob of pleasure escaping around Sunghoon’s cock as you came. Your body trembled more violently, walls fluttering around Jake, pulling him in deeper, squeezing him tight.

“Ah, fuck, fuck, fuck–” Jake cursed loud, the rhythm of his hips faltering until he came to a stop. Hips pressed against your ass as he let his cum paint your insides. He leaned over your back to kiss your spine, panting against the sweaty skin.  

And just as you were coming down from your high, Sunghoon exhaled sharply above you. His fingers tightened in your hair.

“I’m– fuck, baby, I’m gonna–ah–ah”

You looked up, your eyes still glassy, mouth still full, and you didn’t pull away, patiently waiting for him to release his seed down your throat.

Sunghoon moaned your name as his hips jerked, his head hitting back against the headboard with a thud. You tasted it before anything else, the warmth, the salt, his pleasure spilling onto your tongue as he held you close through it. You swallowed it all, Sunghoon’s hand finally left your head, dropping beside him mindlessly. His cock popped off your mouth with a wet sound, and your head lolled against his inner thigh to rest there. 

You all stayed like that for a while.

Jake eventually slid out of you with a low grunt, his hands still holding your waist, gentle this time, as he caught his breath. The absence made you shiver.

Sunghoon didn’t speak. He just moved as if your body belonged in his arms. He leaned forward and scooped you up from all fours into his lap, cradling you sideways against his chest like you weighed nothing at all. His hands held you so carefully, one arm beneath your knees and the other at your back.

You melted into him, cheek pressed against the curve of his shoulder.

He kissed you softly, lazily, tasting the lingering salt on your tongue with a hum of satisfaction. Then he pressed his forehead to yours, his breath still warm and slightly uneven.

“Now, give us an actual answer, baby. Are you still mad?” he asked, a small grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

You let out a soft, breathless laugh, the kind that only came when every inch of you was boneless and loved. “I don’t even remember what I was mad about.”

Sunghoon chuckled, nose brushing yours. He looked so pretty like this, sweaty, flushed, pupils wide.

From behind, Jake’s voice joined, a little rough, a little smug. “Good. Isn't worth remembering anyway.”

He leaned down, dropping a kiss to the top of your head as he pulled the blanket up over the three of you, wrapping you in warmth.

“You two are so annoying.” you mumbled into Sunghoon’s chest, but there was no real bite in your words.

“Yeah,” Jake murmured, settling in beside Sunghoon, hand draped over your thighs. “But we’re yours.”

a/n 2: tumblr glitched the fuck out while formatting this. if it ruined the writing, i'm throwing hands. hope you enjoyed ˆˆ

[nayiana0]

"Off Limits"

choi san. just your brother’s best friend. off-limits. untouchable. but the tension between you two just doesn’t just disappear—it builds, until one late night... he snaps.. and it gets messy. and your brother seonghwa?? he’s not putting up with it.

wc : 4.9k

tags : explicit content, edging, teasing, overstimulation, softdom!san, cursing possessive behavior, messy creampie, san is thirsty & down bad, brothers bestfriend, protective!seonghwa, possessive!san, aftercare,secret hookup,so much cum, nighttime tension.

genre : smut

a/n : i wanted someone’s best friend fucking oc quiet on the couch while their brother sleeps upstairs. so i wrote it.

It’s past 1AM. The house is dead quiet. You pad down the stairs barefoot, oversized shirt brushing your thighs, craving nothing more than cold water and maybe some silence to soothe your restless mind.

But then—you freeze.

He’s still here.

Crashing on the couch like he always does when he drinks too much with your brother.

Except this time, he’s not bundled under a hoodie or buried under a blanket.

He’s shirtless. One arm slung across his eyes. The other resting on his chest, the veins in his forearm catching the dim moonlight.

Sweats hanging low on his hips.

Your throat goes dry.

And then… a shift.

His hips twitch. A groan escapes him.

You freeze.

Is he…?

No. No way.

You take one step closer. Then another.

And then—your name.

Low. Guttural. Slurred like a dream.

“Y/N…”

You press your lips together, shocked… and a little smug.

So that’s what’s going on.

You tiptoe closer, now definitely playing with fire, and whisper:

“San?”

He stirs, blinks—his eyes open, unfocused. And then they land on you.

“What are you doing?” “Getting water.” You hold up the glass. “What are you doing?”

A beat.

“Trying not to get in trouble.”

You glance down.

Then you see it.

A bulge.

Barely noticeable—but growing.

And then… a twitch. 

He’s trying so hard to cover it with the blanket, but you see the way his hand twitches like he doesn’t know what to do with it.

“You always walk around dressed like that at 1am?”

“You’re one to talk,” you smirk. “Didn’t know you slept with your dick out.”

He sighs. Covers his entire body with the blanket. Face turning red.

“It’s not what it looks like,” he mumbles.

“Oh?” You tilt your head. “So you’re not hard right now?”

“Y/N…” he warns, voice hoarse.

“Did I do that to you? Just me standing here got you hard?”

“Go to bed, Y/N.”

“Is that how you talk to all your best friend’s sisters when they catch you with a boner?”

“You’re not funny.”

“Oh, but I am,” you giggle. “I’ve never seen you so uncomfortable.”

He shifts again, jaw tight. “Y/N, stop.”

“Why? Because I’m your best friend’s little sister?”

He doesn’t answer.

You lean in just a little more.

“Poor thing,” you whisper against his ear. “Bet you’ve been jerking off thinking about me for years.”

Silence. Thick. Tense.

Then his voice—low, gravelly:

“Come here.”

You blink. Step back, teasing.

“Why?”

“Just—” he exhales— “I won’t touch you. Just… sit… uh .. Talk to me. I can’t sleep.”

You hesitate. Teasing is one thing, but this? Dangerous. But you sit anyway—not on his lap, not quite. Perched on the edge of the coffee table, facing him.

Your knees brush.

He’s still flushed, trying so hard not to look at your thighs.

“I don’t get it,” you say after a minute.

“Hmm?”

“You. You’ve wanted me for how long now? Months? Years? And you’ve never tried anything.”

He stares at you like you’ve knocked the wind out of him.

“Because I can’t try anything,” he says finally. “You know that.”

“But you want to.”

His jaw flexes. His eyes drop to your legs again—bare, close, right there.

“It doesn’t matter.”

You lean forward, drop your voice.

“So.. if I sat on your lap right now, and kissed you, would you stop me?”

No answer.

“San,” you press, “would you?”

And then?

He laughs once—quiet and dark—and you don’t even have time to react before his hand grabs the back of your neck and pulls you in.

Not for a kiss.

He doesn’t kiss you yet.

He just brings you so close you can feel his breath. Foreheads almost touching. His other hand wraps around your bare thigh, tight.

“You don’t get it,” he murmurs.

“Do you know how many nights I’ve had to sit across from you and pretend I wasn’t so fucking hard under the table?”

“I’m just–…”

“No,” he cuts in. “You want to play games? Fine. But if you’re gonna sit on me—if you’re gonna whisper shit like that in the dark—you better mean it.”

You go still. The air is so hot you’re dizzy.

“And if I do?” you whisper.

His grip tightens.

“Then don’t ever laugh at me again.”

His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.

It’s not soft. Not gentle. Not even romantic.

But you pull back, and stand up. 

His eyes are locked on you, not looking away.  

“You’re never gonna stop looking at me like that, are you?” you say, voice low, nearly a whisper.

He tilts his head. Smiles faintly.

“Nope.”

You cross your arms over your chest, trying to stay composed even though your heart is about to punch through your ribs.

“You said you wouldn’t touch me.”

“Sorry.”

A pause. Then:

“You’re dangerous.”

“You’re the one still standing there,” he murmurs. “Not me.”

The silence stretches.

“I shouldn’t–,” you murmur.

“Then don’t,” he replies, jaw tight. “I won’t ask again.”

But he doesn’t move.

Doesn’t flinch.

And that’s what breaks you.

Slowly—carefully—you step toward him. Your thighs brush his knees. His breath catches, just barely.

You climb onto his lap with agonizing slowness, straddling him, your knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips.

He still doesn’t move.

But you feel it. Every muscle in his body is locked and ready, barely held in check.

“Okay..,” you whisper, leaning in just enough that your nose brushes his. “Happy now?”

He swallows hard. His voice is rough when he speaks again:

“If I touch you again, I’m not stopping.”

You pause. Let the weight of that sink in. Your eyes flick to his lips, then back to his eyes.

And then?

One of his hands grips your waist—tight.

The other slides up your back, dragging you flush against him until your lips almost meet, until his forehead presses to yours, and the only sound left is the ragged rhythm of both your breaths.

You can feel him underneath you—hard, hot, straining against the thin fabric of his sweats.

His mouth is on yours before you can breathe.

It’s not soft. Not gentle. Not even romantic.

It’s heat. Years of tension, swallowed feelings, frustrated restraint, finally breaking loose in one chaotic, punishing kiss. Teeth. Tongue.

Hands gripping your thighs like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he doesn’t hold tight enough.

You gasp into him, your hands curling in his hair. You’re dizzy. 

You feel like you’ve been yanked out of your body and shoved into someone else’s life.

You pull back just enough to whisper—lips brushing his—

“You’ve wanted this that bad, huh?”

His palms are pressing between your shoulder blades to keep you close.

“Don’t start.”

“You’ve thought about this, like, every night?”

“Y/N…”

“Mmm?”

“You really want me to answer that while you’re sitting on me like this?”

“Thought so.”

That’s when he groans—really groans, low and wrecked—and leans back on the couch, dragging you with him. 

Now you’re straddling him completely, your thighs bracketing his, your top pulled tight against his chest.

“Still not gonna touch me?” you whisper, teasing.

“Say it again,” he breathes.

“Say what?”

“Say I can’t touch you.”

You blink—heart stuttering.

“I… didn’t say—”

“No,” he cuts you off, voice low, dangerous. 

“You didn’t. But you teased me like I couldn’t. Like I wouldn’t. Like I didn’t have the balls.”

You swallow hard.

“You think it was easy? Watching you flirt with every guy who wasn’t me?”

“I wasn’t—”

“Walking into a room knowing you knew what you were doing to me?”

His hands slide up under your shirt, slow, maddening, his rough palms grazing bare skin. You hiss in a breath as they find your waist.

You don’t say anything.

You don’t need to.

Because your hips rock forward—just slightly. Just enough for both of you to feel it.

And that’s when he snaps.

His hands grip your hips hard, and he drags you down against him in one sharp pull. Your breath catches—your head tips back.

He’s grinding up against you now, shameless, rough. His mouth finds your neck—kisses, bites, breathless murmurs against your skin

“You wanted this?”

“For a long time, Y/N.”

“You think I haven’t had to jerk off thinking about you in this exact outfit?”

You whimper before you can stop it—and he smirks against your collarbone.

“Thought so.”

He flips you—sudden, fast, hot.

Now you’re on your back. Couch cushions under you. His body over yours.

“I’m done pretending,” he growls.

His mouth finds your throat. Your collarbone. Your chest.

Your shirt and underwear are gone in seconds. His sweats follow.

He drags his hips down and pushes into you with a deep, shuddering groan.

You gasp—back arching, nails digging into his arms.

“Not so cocky now, huh?”

He thrusts again. Deep.

You cry out.

“Still think this is a joke?”

You’re panting. Legs trembling. Your hands scrabble for something to hold.

“I think you’re a fucking brat,” he growls. “And I’m done letting you tease me.”

He doesn’t give you time.

He sets a slow, brutal rhythm.

Thrust. Thrust. Thrust.

Dragging moans out of you with every inch. He holds your jaw, keeps your eyes on him, makes you feel every second.

And when you try to speak—he slaps a hand over your mouth.

“Shh. If your brother hears, I’m fucked.”

You whimper against his palm.

“And you,” he growls, “aren’t even trying to be quiet.”

His pace picks up. You’re dripping.

Shaking.

Crying into his shoulder.

He whispers in your ear:

“Say it. Say my name. Say it’s mine.”

You barely manage it between gasps. “Yours. Yours. Yours—”

“You’re so fucking tight,” he groans. “You’re squeezing me like you need me.”

You try to answer, but it comes out a breathy, broken sound.

“What was that?” he smirks, leaning down. “No more smart remarks?”

You glare through the haze. “You’re cocky for someone who’s about to fall apart.”

He growls—and speeds up.

Now every thrust is heavier. Deeper. The couch creaks beneath you. His hand slips between you, fingers circling your clit, rough and unrelenting.

“Tell me this is what you wanted,” he pants.

“Yes—fuck, yes—”

“Tell me you thought about this,” he rasps against your ear, “when you touched yourself at night.”

“Every time,” you moan. “Always you.”

That breaks him.

He fucks into you harder now—hips snapping, fingers working faster.

You’re right there—right on the edge—but trying so hard to hold out, to tease him one more time.

“Y—you gonna cum first?” you whisper, breath stuttering.

He grits his teeth.

“Fuck no.” he growls, hand clamping over your mouth as you let out a cry. “You are. And you’re gonna make a fucking mess doing it.”

He keeps going—grinding into you now, every inch hitting deep, precise. His lips brush yours, voice ragged:

“Cum for me. Cum on me. I wanna feel it.”

You’re right there—legs trembling, spine arching, thighs clenched tight around his waist. 

He’s deep and relentless, and his fingers haven’t stopped circling your clit in slick, perfect pressure.

It’s building fast—too fast.

“Fuck—wait—”

You gasp, hand flying to his wrist. “I—I’m gonna—just wait—don’t—”

He freezes.

Almost.

Because he doesn’t pull out. He doesn’t stop touching.

He just slows everything down.

“What’s wrong?” he murmurs, lips dragging over your neck. “Too much?”

You nod, whimpering. “I—I can’t—”

“You can.”

He kisses you softly, lips barely brushing.

“But you’re not allowed to cum yet.”

Then he pulls out halfway, slow and torturous, dragging the head of his cock over your sensitive walls—then pushes back in so deep you gasp and shudder under him.

“You feel that?” he whispers. “How close you are? How your body’s begging me to let go?”

You whimper. Try to rock your hips, chase it.

He pins you down.

“No, baby,” he breathes, grinding into you just enough to make your breath stutter.

“Not yet.”

You’re sweating. Shaking. Your legs twitch uncontrollably, heart pounding out of your chest.

“Please—please,” you choke. “I was right there, I was so close—”

“I know,” he says, voice all low heat and devilish control. “You’re cute when you beg.”

His fingers return to your clit—but not the way you need. Just feather-light touches. Barely there. Just enough to keep your skin buzzing.

“Tell me what it feels like,” he whispers, watching you unravel. “Tell me how close you are.”

“I—I feel.. It f–feels like like I’m gonna explode,” you breathe. “It hurts. Please, I need to—”

“You’ll take it,” he growls. “Don’t forget how much you've teased me, sweetheart. Made me bite my fucking tongue every time you bent over in front of me.”

He pushes in deeper. Slow. Grinding.

“Now you’re mine, and I’m gonna make you suffer for it.”

Your whole body jerks—your stomach twisting up like a coil pulled too tight.

“You wanna cum?” he murmurs at your throat. “Say you’re mine.”

“I’m yours,” you moan. “I swear—please, let me—please—”

“Nah,” he smirks. “You don’t mean it yet.”

Then—he pulls out completely.

You cry out—frustrated, aching, dripping down your thighs.

“Look at this mess,” he mutters, watching your slick glisten in the low light. “All this for me?”

You nod frantically, eyes glassy. “I can’t—I can’t take it, please—”

He smirks.

“You will.”

He leans in, strokes himself once, twice, right against your entrance. Just pressing. Not pushing in.

Your hips try to move, chase it. He holds you down by the throat—just enough pressure to make you still.

“You don’t come until I say. You hear me?”

“Y-Yes—yes, please—”

And then he slams back in.

Deep. Full. But still slow.

He fucks you like he wants to destroy you inch by inch. Every time you get close, he eases off. 

Every time you try to beg, he cuts you off with a kiss, or a palm over your mouth, or a whisper that makes your spine arch:

“Not yet.”

“Almost.”

“Hold it.”

“Be good.”

Your body is on fire. Every nerve lit up, throbbing with denied pleasure. You feel like you're going to break.

And all he does is keep you there. Teetering. Shaking. Ruined.

Your body’s gone numb with need—so close for so long that you’re past the point of control, past the edge of thought.

He’s still grinding into you slow, deep, relentless—your legs spread wide around his waist, held there by the iron grip of his hands on your thighs.

“You gonna cum again?” he pants, sweat dripping from his temple. “You gonna fall apart on my cock like the filthy little tease you are?”

You shake your head, but your hips betray you—grinding up to meet him.

“N-No—can’t—can’t take it—”

“Yes you can,” he growls, pressing harder. “You’re gonna cum, and you’re gonna fucking thank me for it.”

He’s right there at your throat, teeth scraping your skin, breath hot.

His fingers slide down again—cruel and practiced—and you lose it.

“F-Fuck—fuck, I’m—”

Your whole body snaps tight, legs seizing, back arched, mouth open in a silent scream—and you cum.

Hard. Violent. Wracking sobs shaking your chest.

“Please,” you whimper, barely conscious, voice trembling. 

“Please, I can’t—stop—please—too much—”

You’re broken. Twisted inside out. Twitching, begging, done.

But he doesn’t stop.

He shifts your legs higher, deeper angle, and it punches a new moan from your lungs.

You sob—gasping, writhing beneath him, so overstimulated it feels like lightning under your skin.

“I’m not done,” he groans. “Not till I fill you. Not till I cum inside this perfect pussy—so you never fucking forget who owns it.”

You’re crying now—quiet, broken little sounds—and still, he keeps going.

You feel that?” he pants. “How your body’s still taking me? Still sucking me in like you need it?”

“I—I c-can’t—”

Your voice cracks. Eyes squeezed shut.

He leans in, presses his forehead to yours.

“You can. One more. Be good. Cum with me.”

His thrusts grow frantic now—deeper, sharper, completely lost to the feeling. His breath stutters.

You’re still shaking—raw, ruined, stretched too far—

Then he growls, hips jerking as he buries himself to the edge.

“Fuck—I’m cumming..—fucking mine—”

He spills inside you with a shudder so intense he collapses onto your chest, panting into your neck.

And still—he gives one last slow roll of his hips.

You twitch. Gasp.

“S-still… going?” you whisper, weak.

“Shhh,” he murmurs. “I know. I know, baby. Just… needed to make sure it stuck.”

He kisses your temple, breath still shaking.

And finally—finally—he stops.

–

You’re both drenched in sweat. Your thighs are trembling. Your voice is wrecked. He’s still inside you, softening slowly, holding you tight.

You’re not sure how long you lie there.

Sweaty. Twitching. Barely breathing.

His weight still half on you, cock softening slowly inside you, both of you wrapped in the kind of silence that feels sacred.

You’re shaking. Barely able to keep your eyes open. His chest rises and falls against yours—hot and heavy.

Then, gently, he shifts.

“I’m gonna pull out,” he murmurs near your ear, voice hoarse. “You okay?”

You nod—barely.

But when he finally does, you both hiss—a sharp inhale at the feeling of it. The stretch, even now. The slick sound. The mess.

You gasp.

“Oh my gosh—fuck—”

It’s everywhere.

His cum spills out of you in thick, warm drips, sliding between your thighs, down your ass, soaking the already-damp cushions beneath you.

You blink, dazed. “That’s so much…”

“Yeah,” he mutters, voice full of smug disbelief. “Fuck.”

He sits up slowly, looking down at you—completely wrecked, legs spread, skin flushed, his cum leaking out of you like you were meant for this.

“Stay there,” he says softly, brushing damp hair from your face. “Don’t move.”

You nod. You couldn’t move even if you wanted to.

He disappears for a second—footsteps padding into the kitchen—and returns with a warm, damp towel. He kneels between your thighs, careful, reverent. His brows are furrowed, jaw tight.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmurs.

You shiver when he touches you—wiping between your legs, cleaning you up as gently as he can.

But it’s still sensitive. Every pass of the towel makes you twitch and whimper.

“Sorry,” he whispers. “I know, baby. I know. I got you.”

He kisses your thigh. Then your hip. Then your stomach. The towel’s warm, but his hands are warmer—soft, slow, soothing.

“You’re okay,” he whispers. “You did so good for me.”

You don’t say anything—you just watch him.

This man, your brother’s best friend .. who just fucked you like an animal, is now kneeling, caring for your body like he’s scared he broke it.

Maybe he did.

When he’s finished, he tosses the towel to the floor and leans over you again.

“Need help getting up?” he asks gently.

You nod, throat too dry to answer.

He lifts you like it’s nothing—arms under your back and thighs, carrying you bridal-style toward the stairs.

“Thought I was walking,” you murmur, head on his shoulder.

“You can barely breathe,” he chuckles softly. “You think I’m letting you crawl back to your room leaking my cum down your legs?”

You groan. “You’re such an asshole.”

“Yeah,” he smirks. “But you’re still dripping for me.”

He walks you down the hall and into your room—dark, quiet, still. Gently lays you on your bed, pulling the blanket back like it’s ritual.

He hesitates before pulling away.

“You want me to stay?” he asks, voice softer now. “I can. I’ll sleep on the floor if you want space.”

You look at him for a long second—shirtless, sweat-damp, hair a mess, looking somehow more beautiful when he’s being gentle.

“No,” you whisper. “Go before I ask you to do.. that again.”

He grins—low and wolfish.

“You say that like I wouldn’t.”

Then he kisses you. Just once. Soft, lazy, familiar.

“Go to sleep, Y/N,” he murmurs. “I’ll be on the couch if you need me.”

He leaves you there—sore, wrecked, satisfied—slipping out of your room with one last look.

You pull the blanket up.

Bite your lip. And feel every inch of him still inside you, even when he’s gone.

—————

The next morning,

You wake up sore in places that shouldn’t be sore.

Throat raw. Thighs aching. Knees? You don’t even want to talk about your knees.

You sit up, wincing.

“Fuck me…” you whisper. “I can’t even walk straight…”

Every shift of your legs reminds you exactly how deep he was. 

How long he went. How many times you begged—half-lucid—for him to stop, and he just kept ruining you like it was personal.

You shower fast. No time to process anything. Throw on a hoodie, some shorts you barely manage to walk in, and limp your way out of your room.

The smell of breakfast hits first. Bacon. Coffee. Something sizzling. Then—

Voices.

You freeze in the hallway, then peek around the corner.

There he is.

Choi San.

Sitting at the kitchen island, looking dangerously normal.

Shirtless, again. Muscles out. Hair still damp from a shower. Same grey sweatpants he absolutely came in last night.

He doesn’t look tired. You, on the other hand, look like you got thrown off a cliff and crawled back.

Seonghwa’s at the stove. Cooking. Humming. Oblivious.

You walk in like it’s nothing.

“Morning,” you mutter, heading straight for the fridge.

Seonghwa turns, glances at you, and immediately frowns. “Jesus. You look like shit.”

“Thanks,” you mutter, pulling out the orange juice.

“Didn’t sleep?”

“Eventually.”

“Mmhmm.” He flips a pancake and turns to look at you. “Y/N.”

“What?”

“Are you.. limping?”

You freeze mid-pour.

“No.”

“Pretty sure you’re limping.”

From behind you, a voice:

“She’s definitely limping.”

You whirl around to glare at San.

He’s sipping coffee like he didn’t have you sobbing into a couch cushion six hours ago.

Seonghwa turns back to the stove. “You hurt something?”

“No. I’m fine.”

“You’re walking like someone beat your ass.”

“Well maybe someone should beat yours,” you snap.

Seonghwa raises a brow. “Damn, chill. Just asking.”

From across the island, San’s silently laughing into his mug. You shoot him a glare. He just winks.

You sit down—too fast. A flash of soreness shoots up your spine and you hiss.

“Okay. Seriously, what the fuck is wrong with you?” Seonghwa asks, genuinely confused now. “Did you get hit by a bike or something?”

“I stretched wrong.”

“Doing what?”

“Yoga.”

Seonghwa squints. “You don’t do yoga.”

“Well maybe I fuckin’ started, Seonghwa.”

“Damn, okay. Shit.”

You shoot a desperate look across the table—and San’s biting his lip, clearly loving this. Eyes flicking down to your bare legs, then back up to your flushed face.

Your thighs are glued shut under the table. 

You’re not even wearing underwear. You were too sore to even try.

Seonghwa slaps a plate of pancakes down in front of you and leans on the counter.

“Eat up. Maybe it’ll help you walk straight again.”

You choke on your coffee. San’s laughing as if nothing happened.

“You good?” he asks sweetly, reaching over to rub your thigh under the table—hidden from Seonghwa’s view.

You jump.

Seonghwa frowns. “What?”

“Nothing,” you say quickly. “Just a leg cramp.”

San’s hand slides higher.

You slap it away under the table.

“What the hell was that?” Seonghwa’s looking between you now, suspicious. “You two are being so weird..”

“We’re always weird,” you say quickly. “You just now noticing?”

“No. This is, like, extra weird. Eye contact. Inside jokes. You’re jumpy. He’s smiling.”

He turns to look directly at his best friend.

“What the fuck are you grinning at?”

“Nothing, man.” His voice is calm. Too calm. “She’s just fun to mess with.”

“Right.. you better not be sneaking out again, Y/N.  I swear, if I catch you with some random dude—”

“I wasn’t.”

“I’ll fuckin’ kill him if I do.”

“And you,” he snaps, pointing his spatula at his best friend, “if you’re smoking in the house again I swear to God—”

“Mmm.. no,” he says smoothly, sipping his coffee. “But sure. Blame the guy who slept on the couch.”

You feel heat crawl up your neck. The couch.

“Seonghwa’s spatula points mid-air. “Yeah, well—don’t think I didn’t see you smoking it last week. You think I’m fuckin’ blind?”

“Clearly not,” he murmurs under his breath.

“Whatever,” Seonghwa huffs. “Just keep your shit outside. My place isn’t a fuckin’ frat house.”

He turns his back again—finally.

You exhale. Barely.

And that’s when he leans in, eyes lazy, voice low so only you can hear.

“Didn’t think you’d still be walking today.”

You blink. Whip your head up. He’s not even looking at you. Just sipping. Like that filthy line didn’t leave his mouth.

Your lips part. “Shut the fuck up.”

His eyes flick toward you—just a glance—and then right back to his mug. Smirking.

“You didn’t say that last night.”

You kick him under the table. Hard.

He grunts. Then chuckles.

Seonghwa turns around with a plate in hand. “What now?”

“Nothing,” you say too fast.

“Y/N’s mad ‘cause she didn’t get her eggs yet,” he offers helpfully.

“I swear to God—” you mutter.

“You swear a lot for someone who couldn’t even form words last night.”

You drop your fork.

Seonghwa freezes. “What?”

“What?” San echoes, totally deadpan. “She was sleep talking.”

You slam your hands on the table. “I hate both of you.”

Seonghwa narrows his eyes. “Okay, what the fuck is going on?”

“Nothing, Seonghwa.”

“You two are acting weird as hell.”

Your brother looks between the two of you—your flushed face, his smug smirk, the way your knees are clearly pressed together under the table like you’re holding in a crime scene.

Seonghwa squints.

“You sure you didn’t sneak out?”

You glare. “Positive.”

He looks at San.

“You sure you didn’t do anything?”

He shrugs, slow and easy. “Define ‘anything.’”

Seonghwa stares. “I will beat your ass.”

“Okay.”

Seonghwa finally turns around to get the toast.

You exhale through your teeth.

Under the table—again—a hand finds your thigh. Squeezes. Not playful. Possessive. Deliberate.

You don’t even look at him.

“You’re gonna get us killed.”

“Didn’t seem to bother you last night.”

You turn your head slightly, lips barely moving.

“You left a fucking mess.”

He hums. “You loved it.”

“You’re disgusting.”

“You came, like, four times.”

Seonghwa clears his throat, too loud.

You both freeze. He turns, looking at you.

“Y/N. Eat. Before you pass out or stab someone.”

“Okay.. I am...”

Seonghwa eyes you again. “You sure you’re good?”

“Totally fine,” you lie. “Just… sore.”

He nods. “Uh-huh. Well, hydrate. You look like you’re about to faint.”

Across the table, San’s lip twitches.

“She’ll be fine, Seonghwa. Just needs… some rest… she's just grumpy”

Seonghwa squints. “Why?”

“No idea.”

He shoots him a look. “Did you piss her off?”

“Not recently.”

“Right. Because you never piss people off.”

“Not unless they’re asking for it.”

Seonghwa frowns. “..You better not be fucking messing with her, man.”

“I’m not.”

“You sure?”

“Dead serious.”

“Because I swear, if you touched her—”

“Seonghwa,” he cuts in smoothly. “I didn’t touch your sister.”

“Then you better not be sneaking girls in. I’ve let you crash here for how long now?”

“I was on the couch all night!”

Seonghwa scoffs. “Right. Couch. Thats where you were all night?”

“Relax. I wasn’t sneaking around.”

“Right. Then why was my sister coming downstairs at 1am?”

Your fork hits the plate.

Seonghwa looks straight at you. “Yeah. Thought I didn’t notice, huh?”

“I was just getting water,” you mutter.

He tilts his head. “Took you a long-ass time for one glass.”

San jumps in.

“Maybe she couldn’t sleep.”

“And what, you could help her with that?” Seonghwa snaps.

“Not my place.”

“Alright,” he mutters. “You know what? What the fuck happened last night?”

“Okay. After Y/N came downstairs to get some water, she told me she couldn't sleep. So we watched a movie.

“And?”

“And… after the movie.. I went to sleep. On the couch. She went back to her room”

He’s smug. Too smug.

Seonghwa doesn’t blink.

“So why was she walking funny this morning?”

“Maybe she slept weird.”

“Or maybe she got railed. By my best friend. Behind my back,” Seonghwa spits.

You cough — loud — and practically choke on your eggs.

Seonghwa turns to you. “You good?”

“Yeah. Yup. Swallowed wrong.”

He frowns.

“I said I’m fine.”

Across the table, San bites his lip to keep from laughing.

Seonghwa’s eyes flick to him. “You think this is funny?”

“A little.”

“You’re seriously testing me right now.”

“Look, man,” he says, putting his hands up. “I really didn’t touch your sister.”

“You sure about that?”

“Positive.”

“Because I’ve got a sixth sense for this shit, alright? She’s acting off. You’re acting cocky. I know you.”

San just smirks.

“Seonghwa—” you start, trying to soothe.

“Nah,” he cuts you off. “This is some bullshit.”

“You’re paranoid,” San says. Calm. Controlled.

Seonghwa takes a step forward. “Say that again.”

“I said you’re paranoid.”

“You think I won’t fucking hit you?”

“Seonghwa!” you shout, flushing hard.

Seonghwa’s eyes snap to you. “What?! I’m not dumb, Y/N. I see the way he looks at you. You think I don’t notice shit?”

Silence.

You stare at your plate. He stares at your face. San sips his coffee like he’s watching a movie.

“Seonghwa. There's nothing going on. We didn’t do anything.”

“You’re lying to me.”

“I’m not—” you try.

“Swear to God, Y/N. If this whole limping thing is about him—”

“It’s not.”

“You swear?”

“I swear.”

Seonghwa exhales, nostrils flaring.

“Fine. But if I find out either of you are lying to me—”

You push your chair back.

“Okay,” you say. “I’m done.”

Seonghwa watches you limp away from the table and narrows his eyes further. “Yeah, that’s real normal, huh?”

Your back is to them.

And that’s when you hear it.

“You’re playing a dangerous fucking game, man,” Seonghwa mutters under his breath.

“It’s already been played,” San murmurs back

Masterlist Part 2 soon

[lomlsatoru]

BACK TO YOU — JINU ࣪ 𖤐.ᐟ

summary: he comes back home. to you.

content: fem!reader, angst, happy ending, a kiss, ~800 words, i dont really know what to feel abt this but lmk what you think!

a/n: he lives!!!!! (i yelled as they dragged me inside the asylum)

★☆ ★

Heart heavy. Eyes puffy. Mind foggy.

Why did you decide to get attached to a demon in the first place?

Sucks on you.

The air in your apartment was chilling, making you fall farther back into your mattress. Blanket covering your body as you stare at your ceiling.

The girls have come knocking, wanting to make sure you’re still alive because of how long you were cooped up.

You couldn’t bring yourself to do anything after the incident.

Part of you almost feels stupid, how are you letting his death affect you so much? You haven’t even known him for that long.

“Then, why does it hurt so bad?” you whispered to yourself, tears streaming down your puffy cheeks.

Suddenly, the sliding door to your balcony opened, adding the cold wind sweep across your room. You startled awake, rubbing your eyes to get your vision in focus as you walked to the balcony. The city looks almost ethereal with the golden honmoon.

Your body jumps in shock when you notice the huge pair of bright eyes staring at you. “Tiggy?” crouching down, the tiger slowly moved closer, snuggling closer to your hand and chest, “What are you doing here baby?” 

“Why? A guy can’t see a pretty girl anymore?” 

Your heart drops. Fingers stopping scratches on the tiger’s head, not brave enough to look up. 

His voice. No. No way. Your head is playing tricks. 

Shaking your head, you muttered to yourself, “Nope. No. I’m just dreaming.” hiding your face in the tiger’s fluffy fur, “This is so not funny.” 

Jinu’s chest clenched at your voice, taking slow steps until he is crouched in front of you, “Hi, sweetheart.” 

You blinked your tears away, hugging the tiger tighter, “Go away.” voice so fragile, so tired. 

The man leaned forward, his hesitating hand hovering above your head. “Hey, look at me.” slowly dropping his hand to the back of your neck as his thumb grazed your skin comfortingly. 

You shook your head, “You’re not real.”

His eyes softens, realising how much pain you are in, “Yes I am. I’m right here.”

With all the courage that you possess, you brought your head up. He’s right. 

He is right here. 

Right in front of you. 

He smiles warmly, gazing at your face, “Oh, princess.” he brings his palm to the side of your face, heart clenching when he notices your tear streaks, puffy eyes and runny nose. 

You sniffle, leaning into his warm palm, “I miss you so much.” a pout forming on your lips.

Jinu has to stop himself from grinning at how cute you looked, choosing to peck your cheeks instead, “Missed you too.”

A moment passed by as you stared at each other. Before the whole situation crashes on you fully, anger and grief overcome your system. 

Everything was so overwhelming. 

Shoving his shoulders back, “Where the hell did you go?” you yelled, standing up and stomping inside your bedroom. Picking up the pile of clothes on the floor and putting them inside of your wardrobe. 

He didn’t even move when you pushed him. He understood. He would be in pain too. 

He sighed. You took a deep breath, trying to calm your racing heart. 

“I had to take care of some stuff before I can see you.” carefully moving into your room, he surveyed the mountain tissues on the side of your bed, “You really missed me, huh?”

You scoff, “Shut up.” stumbling when the tiger tried to cuddle to your leg, making you smile. 

Jinu softly grins at the sight of you, nose still red and sniffling, hoodie engulfing your figure. You look soft, sweet, vulnerable. 

He stops right behind you, body so close you can feel how warm he is, “I miss you too.” he whispers. 

Letting out a shaky breath and biting your lip in nervousness, you slowly turned around and looked up to meet his eyes, 

“There’s my girl.” he smiles, rough fingers caressing your cheek. 

“I never want to feel like that ever again.” you lean into his warm palm, holding his wrist. 

He leans in, your breaths mingling with each other, “May I?” his thumb not stopping grazing your cheek.

You nod, letting him lean down to slot your lips together. The kiss was slow, calming your screaming thoughts, as you scrunch his jacket in your hands.

“Fuck.” he whispers against your mouth, moving more desperate, his hands moving to grip your waist to bring you closer. “Missed you so much, sweetheart.”

Giggling, you break apart to take in more breaths, hands now on the back of his neck, fingers grazing his skin making him shudder. “I might go on a wim and say that you missed me.”

He laughs and kisses your forehead, pulling your head to rest against his chest and hugging you as he lays his head on top of your head. 

For a demon he has a really loud heartbeat.

“Your heart is beating so fast.” you chuckled, wrapping your arms around him, fully melting into his embrace. 

Jinu’s cheeks went warm, he coughs, “Shut up.” backing away and meeting your eyes again, “I’m not going anywhere.” a pause, “Promise.” 

“You better not.” you shove his shoulder.

He laughs, pulling you closer.

“I’m home, already.”

reblog for a kiss 😛😛

[happyk44]

[ID: 1. Tumblr post from @/ryebreadgf: [all caps] YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! YOU CAN BITE AND SCRATCH AND BEG BUT YOU CAN NEVER GO BACK! [end all caps]

2. Tumblr post from @/mothvhs: the fact that time passes and things change and people leave and you can nly go back to a place physically and you will never be 14 15 16 again………….. I don’t understand how we are meant to endure that

3. A letter reading, “Hey, I used to live in your house. I’m drunk in Boston, and it’s the only address I know. Happy holidays. MW.”

4. Tumblr post from @/finelythreadedsky: a lil bit emotional about how “nostalgia” originally meant longing across a displacement in space but in common parlance it refers to longing across a displacement in time… you don’t go away from home and miss it, you stay where you are and times passes and home just disappears

5. Text reading: I want ‘em back, I want ‘em back The minds we had, the minds we had It’s not enough to feel the lack I want ‘em back, I want ‘em back, I

6. Quote from Alida Nugent: “You still crave lemonade, but the taste doesn’t satisfy you as much as it used to. You still crave summer, but sometimes you mean summer, five years ago.”

7. Tumblr post from @/firstfullmoon: I miss everything and will never get any of it back. Whatever

8. An orange and white kitten wearing a pointed pink princess hat and a pink cape. The cap is attached by a string tied beneath their chin in a bow. The cat’s eyes have been edited to look dramatically teary and sad. Black text across the image reads, “We are all going forward. None of us are going back”

9. Tumblr post from @/n1ntendos: [all caps] I AM HAUNTED BY A PAST I CANNOT GO BACK TO !!!!!! [end all caps] anyways

10. Text reading: You don’t have a home until you leave it and then, when you have left it, you can never go back.

11. Text reading: We won’t know what happens next, because it’s all made-up anyway; but really, we won’t know because that’s what life is. Life is the best friend from high school whose last name you can’t remember. Life is the ex-girlfriend who kept a piece of your soul, and it burned until you realized there were so many pieces left you didn’t miss it anymore. Life is the cousin who dies and maybe you saw her at Christmas that one year and maybe you didn’t. Life is the status updates you don’t understand, the phone calls you forget to return, the coffee dates that don’t lead to anything more than a caffeine high. Life is knowing that however hard you try, however wide you open your arms, in the end, you’ll leave everything behind you. Life is always leaving. And always leaving means that every friend you make it just one more goodbye.

It's worth it, though. In the end, little else is. /end ID]

Sources: 1. @/ryebreadgf; 2. @/mothvhs; 3. Unknown; 4. @/finelythreadsky; 5. Ribs sung by Lorde; 6. You Don’t have to Like Me: Essays on Growing Up, Speaking Out, and Finding Feminism by Alida Nugent; 7. Tumblr post from @/firstfullmoon; 8. Unknown; 9. @/n1ntendos; 10. Giovanni’s Room by James Baldwin; 11. Zack Handlen’s AV Club review of Star Trek: Deep Space Nine

the ache of nostalgia

[rulerofstars]

pretty church girl

oneshot: you’ve always been the church's golden girl—sweet smiles, soft dresses, sunday devotion. but when sergeant barnes returns, quiet and scarred, his steady gaze strips you bare. in pews and candlelight, tension simmers slow and sacred, until every glance feels like a prayer and every touch, a sin. with him, desire feels dangerously close to worship.

pairing: modern! sergeant! bucky barnes x reader

tags: (18+) 6.9k words. slowburn SMUT. sacrilege. raw penetration. fingering. creampie. sex in the church (i am so sorry). filthy smut. body worship. minors, dni. i am so going to hell for this.

“Set me as a seal upon your heart, as a seal upon your arm, for love is strong as death, jealousy as fierce as the grave.”

Pastor Thomas’s voice settles low into the marrow of the sanctuary, like it belongs more to the wood than to his throat, woven into years of confessions and casseroles, baptisms and burials. Song of Solomon, chapter eight, verse six. A verse meant for brides, for devotion. 

The June light slants through the stained-glass windows in muted halos, bleeding color across the old pews and softer sins. The scent of wax, lilies, and lemon oil clings to the thick air. Outside, the heat is climbing, inside, it gathers slowly between skin and fabric, between your thighs, between breath and restraint.

Your dress sticks faintly to the curve of your waist, the fabric stretched tight over your lap, clinging in places you wish it wouldn’t. The stockings itch beneath your knees, but you don’t move. Stillness is safer. Stillness hides the way your body betrays you when it shouldn’t. Your Bible rests closed in your hands, heavy with underlines and quiet doubts, and your knees remain pressed together in the obedient pose you’ve perfected over the years.

You look the part, demure, lightly glossed lips, posture faultless, a ribbon in your hair like some Sunday painting. But inside, you are heat and hunger and something far less holy.

Beside you, Natasha slouches in her usual irreverence, legs crossed like she owns the pew. Her red hair tumbles out of its barrette, she leans over, breath brushing your shoulder. “I swear, I’m about to drop dead,” she mutters, voice low and lazy. “No coffee. No air. Your uncle’s trying to preach us straight into Revelation.”

You flick her a warning glance, lips barely parting. “Nat. Hush.”

Her mouth quirks, unapologetic. “What? You think Mrs. Carter’s gonna smite me with that hat?”

You almost laugh, but you don’t. Not when your chest already feels too tight. 

Natasha’s teasing feels distant when you glance across the congregation. The town’s finest: fanning themselves with bulletins, murmuring prayers with dry mouths, shifting in their pews like sheep waiting for the bell to ring. There’s comfort in the predictability of it all—Mrs. Thompson dabbing her forehead, the Levin twins flicking spitballs when they think no one’s looking, old Mr. Jenkins snoring softly into his tie.

Then you see him.

Back row. Second pew from the door. Half in shadow.

Your lungs forget how to fill.

White shirt. Sleeves rolled up to his elbows. The stark line of his forearms catching the fractured blue light from the window. Broad shoulders hunched slightly forward, as though he doesn’t belong to the pew or the building or even the air. 

Sergeant James Buchanan Barnes.

You know that name. Everyone does. Even when people don’t say it, it lingers in town like the burn of communion wine on the tongue. The sergeant who disappears and reappears like a ghost. The boy who left with too much silence and came back older than the war he fought in.

You hadn’t seen him since last summer—when you passed him roofing nails and lemonade during a heat wave that melted straight through your better judgment. When he called you darlin’ like it wasn’t a sin to speak that way in front of the steeple. When he looked at you with those storm-gray eyes, slow and sure, and smiled like he saw every rule you ever followed curled up at his feet.

He was trouble. You knew it then.

But now? Now he’s ruinous.

His jaw is sharper, dusted with stubble. A new scar drags a pale line across the corner of his chin. His face is unreadable, but his hands, resting on the hymnal in his lap, are tight. White-knuckled. Like the sermon is something to endure. Like you are.

You shift slightly, thighs pressing tighter together. It does nothing to relieve the pressure, only makes it worse.

Natasha leans over again. “No way. No actual way. He's back?” Her voice catches the edge of a gasp, tempered by a wicked sort of thrill.

“I don’t know,” you manage. Your voice is hoarse.

“God, he looks…” She shakes her head, eyes wide. “Like sin in a shirt.”

You swallow, jaw stiff. “Shut up.”

But she’s right. He does.

He looks like a man built out of grief and war and hard decisions. Like someone who wouldn’t flinch if you kissed him wrong. Like someone who would ruin you sweetly and make you thank him for it.

“Bet he hasn’t looked away since you walked in,” Natasha whispers.

You stiffen. You don’t dare turn back. Not yet. You can feel it, though, like pressure against your skin, like being watched through a keyhole, like heat crawling under your dress in places you can’t mention during confession.

“He was staring last summer too,” Natasha adds casually. “Remember the festival? While you were passing out lemonade?”

You don’t answer. Because you remember. You remember every second of it. How he watched your fingers wrap around the cup. How his gaze trailed down the slope of your neck like he was memorizing it. How he didn’t look away, not even when your hands trembled.

“You’re imagining things,” you whisper.

“Am I?” Natasha hums, smug. “Look at him now.”

Your fingers tighten around your Bible, nails digging into the leather. And against every whisper of sense you ever inherited from your grandmother’s lectures and your mother’s modesty, you lift your gaze.

And find him already watching.

His eyes lock with yours—steady, unflinching, like they’ve been waiting. Not curious. Not playful. Hungry. And not in the way a boy looks at a girl in passing, not like a crush or a flirtation.

No.

This is a gaze that says: I would kneel for you. Or make you kneel for me. It depends on the hour.

His mouth doesn’t move. His hands don’t twitch. But the weight of him—of it—lands between your legs with aching clarity. You feel it. Low and deep. Like a question no prayer can answer.

You look away.

But it’s too late.

You’ve already said amen with your body.

The service closes with “Amazing Grace,” the final verse sung off-key but full-hearted. An old hymn, a familiar one, but today the words feel strange in your mouth.  Voices rise and fall unevenly, and when the last note fades, the congregation stirs like a spell has been broken.

The pews empty with the slow chaos of a summer Sunday. Bulletin pages flutter like leaves in the breeze from the open doors. Your uncle stands at the entrance, shaking hands, nodding gently to familiar faces, each one softened by light and routine. Natasha’s already vanished, no doubt chasing lemon bars and iced tea in the fellowship hall, her halo of red hair the only warning left behind.

But you stay.

The quiet chapel feels safer now that it’s half-empty, stripped of voices and eyes. You move through the rows slowly, hands methodical as you gather hymnals, stack them spine to spine. It’s a ritual. One you’ve claimed for yourself. Tidying things while your thoughts fray. Your dress whispers against your legs with every step, the hem brushing your skin, static clinging to your stockings. 

You’re not the saint they think you are. But you’re good at looking like one.

That’s what matters here, isn’t it? Pretty posture. Kind smiles. A polite “bless your heart” that can cut cleaner than sin. You know how to play this part, the girl with just enough shine to distract from the cracks.

Your fingers brush a forgotten tissue in the pew, and you pause just long enough to hear voices drifting in from the vestibule. The low hum of your uncle’s voice. Familiar, reassuring. Then another... lower, rasped.

Him.

“James,” your uncle says, warmth curling around the name, “we’re planning a Thanksgiving Mass. To give thanks for you and the boys coming home safe. I’d like you to speak, if you’re willing.”

Your hand stills, the bulletin in your grasp crinkling beneath your fingers. You hadn’t known. No one had told you there’d be a Mass. That he would be its centerpiece. 

You shift closer to the aisle, quiet as a shadow. Through the curve of the vestibule, you glimpse him leaning against the doorframe, arms crossed, face angled toward the light. He doesn’t belong there. Not really. But he looks like he could, if he let himself. He takes up space in a way that doesn’t feel fair.

His frame eclipses the doorway. Shoulders broad under crisp white cotton. His sleeves are still rolled. Still wrongfully intimate. Like his wrists have known the burden of restraint, and his forearms could still break it.

“Not sure I’m the man for that, Pastor,” he replies, voice rough and quiet. “Words aren’t my thing. Neither are crowds.”

His tone isn’t humble, it’s factual. Honest. Like he knows what he is and what he’s not, and he’s not interested in pretending otherwise.

You catch the sharp gleam of the scar on his jaw, etched like it was earned. You wonder what part of him bled when it happened. 

Pastor Thomas chuckles, warm and unwavering. “You’ll do fine, son. The Lord brought you back. That’s a story worth sharing.”

Bucky hums, noncommittal, and you should go. You should leave. But your feet are heavy. Rooted to the worn wooden floor like they’ve decided they’d rather burn than miss this.

Then he sees you.

No. Finds you.

Across the room, through half-light and silence, his eyes catch yours like a snare. And something inside you stumbles. Not your feet. Your faith.

He doesn’t look away.

He doesn’t smile.

His gaze doesn’t search, it knows. It lands on you like a thumb pressed gently against the base of your throat, a question and a warning both. You lift your chin instinctively, jaw tight, breath shallow. You hope it reads like defiance. But your heart betrays you, thumping recklessly, desperately, like it doesn’t believe in restraint anymore.

You’re still gripping the tissue like it might tether you when you hear them, his footsteps. Not loud. But sure. Each step is a confirmation that he’s coming closer.

You don’t turn.

Not yet.

“Need help?”

His voice is low. Right behind you. Close enough that you feel it in your spine before you hear it fully. You turn slowly, deliberately, because anything faster might reveal too much. He’s only a few feet away, holding a small stack of bulletins. His forearms flex slightly with the weight, veins visible, movements restrained, like he’s always holding something back. Like he could split a pew with his bare hands and wouldn’t apologize.

“I’m fine,” you say, sharper than you intend, smoothing your skirt out of reflex. You need control. You need space. You need him not to be looking at you the way he is.

“I don’t need saving.”

He doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t take offense. Just lifts one shoulder in an indifferent shrug.

“Didn’t say you did.”

He steps forward and places the bulletins gently on the pew, fingers brushing the worn wood with unexpected reverence. Every motion is quiet. Careful. Like he’s spent years learning how not to break things.

“Just offering.”

You grab another hymnal too hard and it lands in the stack with a dull thud.

“Well, thanks,” you mutter, eyes not meeting his. “But I’ve got it.”

He lingers. Not moving. Just watching you.

And it’s worse than a smirk. It’s worse than any teasing or flirtation. His silence is knowing. It leaves room for you to trip over your own heartbeat. It asks nothing and says everything.

You don’t trust it. You don’t trust him.

And yet...

Your body betrays you with every pulse of heat under your skin.

You can feel the faint hum in your fingertips. The way your breath shallows when you finally glance at his mouth. The slight part to your lips. 

“All right,” he says at last, voice dipped in something gentler than before. He turns away like he’s not trying to take the air with him. But just before he disappears into the doorway, he glances back.

“Good to see you.”

The words are simple. They shouldn’t make your knees weak. They shouldn’t leave you standing there, staring at your reflection in a polished hymnal like a girl who’s already been ruined in thought, if not in body.

But they do.

—

Weeks passed. Long, thick cozy weeks filled with the same rituals, Sunday services, choir rehearsals, bake sales, and casserole rotations. You keep yourself busy. Keep your hands full and your smile polite.

You stand behind the soup station, ladle in hand, your dress a soft petal pink that hugs at the waist and flares gently at the hem. It’s modest, church-safe, but the way it clings just enough when you lean forward, it’s not innocent. Not really. Your lips are tinted to a subtle shine, catching the light each time you smile politely at a neighbor or crack a joke to one of the kids. Your hair is pinned back with delicate precision, curls tucked into place.

You’re polished. Poised. Perfect.

And you’re distracted as hell.

James Barnes hasn’t been back to Sunday service since. Not that you’ve kept track. Not that you’ve stared too long at the back seats, wondering if it was him that made the air feel different. Not that your heart doesn’t stutter every time the church doors creak open.

You haven’t seen him.

Until now.

You don’t sense him before you see him. There’s no shift in the air, no chill across your neck like in some storybook.

He’s just suddenly there.

Across the table. Holding a tray in his hands.

His jacket is gone—no black barrier between his body and the room. Just a plain gray shirt, sleeves pushed up. His forearms are bare to the elbow, veins visible like topography on a map you don’t dare read too closely. His hair is a little damp at the ends, curled near the nape like he just ran his fingers through it out of habit. He doesn’t smile too much. Doesn’t speak, only when asked.

Your fingers tighten around the ladle.

“Chicken noodle or vegetable?” you ask, voice softer than it should be.

His eyes hold yours a moment longer, like he’s letting the sound of your voice settle in him before answering.

“Whatever you think’s best,” he says, and the gravel in his tone ripples through you like someone dragging their thumb along your spine.

You shouldn’t react. You shouldn’t feel it.

You dip the ladle into the chicken noodle slowly, trying to look as unaffected as you pretend to be. As you pass the bowl across, his fingers meet yours—just for a second—but it’s enough. The touch sends a jolt up your arm.

“Thanks,” he murmurs, holding your gaze a second too long before moving on, his tray held steady. You exhale only once he’s past you.

He walks to the edge of the room, settling at a small table in the corner, where the noise can’t reach him fully. You watch him eat slow, methodical. He doesn’t glance around. But he’s present in a way that’s almost unnerving—aware of everything, even if he doesn’t react to it.

He looks at families like they’re echoes of something he’s lost. Like he’s not sure if he misses it, or if he just envies the simplicity of belonging.

“Earth to you,” Natasha murmurs, appearing at your elbow with a plastic cup of lemonade and a sly smile.

You blink, pulled back into your skin. “What?”

She grins wider. “You were staring.”

“I wasn’t.” But your voice isn’t convincing. Your cheeks are already warm.

“Oh, please.” She sips her drink, gaze flicking over to Bucky. “That man eats soup like he’s brooding on a mountain somewhere.”

“He’s not brooding,” you mutter, though you’re not sure why you feel the need to defend him. You look back toward him and catch the moment he rises quietly to help Mr. Hargrove adjust his chair. He’s gentle. Careful. He doesn’t rush the older man or flinch when thanked. His movements are restrained, but there’s a softness in the way he places a hand on Mr. Hargrove’s shoulder that twists something in your chest.

“Heard he’s been going to the grief group,” Natasha says, quieter now. “Doesn’t talk much, but he listens. Really listens.”

You swallow.

Of course he does.

—

The church’s annual rummage sale spills across the lawn like a quilt, blankets unfurled, tables groaning under crockpots and glass trinkets, old ladies manning booths with sun hats and clipboards. The air smells like cinnamon bread, mothballs, and last year’s perfume. Laughter rises from the youth tent, mingling with the sharp rustle of donation bags and the distant notes of someone strumming a guitar.

You’re tucked beneath a white canopy, surrounded by cardboard boxes of clothes, carefully folding sweaters and arranging them into neat piles by size and color. Your dress is a pale blue today—modest neckline, flutter sleeves, cinched at the waist. It brushes your knees when you crouch to dig through a box of scarves, the cotton soft and worn from too many washes. 

You’re trying to focus. Really.

But your eyes keep drifting.

You’re folding a forest green cardigan when voices filter through from the other side of the rack, low, familiar, and just loud enough to pause your breath.

“Come on, Buck, it’s not that bad,” says someone with a warm, amused voice.

Bucky.

“Steve,” comes his gravelled reply, filled with dry disdain. “I look like an idiot.”

Another voice, deeper, playful: “Man could wear a trash bag and make it work. Even ugly Christmas sweaters.”

You freeze, clutching the cardigan a little too tightly, peeking between the racks like a guilty thought.

Bucky stands beside two other men, one tall, blond, with kind eyes and a faded plaid shirt, clearly the peacemaker. The other, handsome and grinning, carries the energy of someone who always gets the last word.

And James...

He’s holding up the most hideous red sweater you’ve ever seen. Rudolph stitched with googly eyes and a pom-pom nose. His brow is furrowed, jaw set, expression hovering between horrified and resigned.

But his eyes, when they land on his friends—are softer than you’ve ever seen them. Like for a brief moment, the weight he carries lets up, just slightly. Just enough to let something tender slip through.

“It’s for Christmas,” the blond says, Steve, you guess, trying to sound reasonable.

“It’s October,” Bucky mutters.

“Early prep,” the other man adds, grinning. “Ugly sweaters are a chick magnet. Right, Steve?”

“Sam—” Steve starts, face flushed, and Sam just cackles.

You duck back behind the rack, heart suddenly racing.

You don’t know why seeing him like that, a little relaxed, surrounded by people who know him unsettles you.

Maybe because it makes him human. Not just this dark-eyed soldier who lingers like storm clouds in the corners of sanctuaries. Maybe because it cracks the outline of the mystery you’ve built around him. Maybe because you liked it.

You’re folding a scarf, willing your pulse to settle, when...

“Need help with those?”

His voice slides into your bones.

You spin, scarf forgotten, to find him standing behind you, closer than he should be.

The ugly sweater is draped over one forearm, but it’s his eyes you notice first. Clear, steady, gray as winter and just as cold until they settle on you

Your throat tightens.

“I’m good,” you say quickly, too quickly. You step back instinctively, bumping against a box, the cotton of your dress catching on cardboard. “Just sorting for my uncle.”

He nods once. Doesn’t leave.

Instead, his gaze drifts to the rack beside you.

“Looking for anything specific?” he asks, voice low enough to keep between you.

“My aunt needs cardigans,” you reply before thinking. “Medium. Maybe large. She likes them loose.”

You don’t know why you’re telling him. It’s stupid. Pointless.

But he nods, like it matters.

Then he starts looking.

No hesitation. No small talk. Just quiet, focused movement as he shifts hangers aside, fingers brushing knit sleeves and lace trim, eyes scanning the rows. His brow furrows in concentration, the same way it did back in the chapel—like he sees the world in sharp lines and weight.

You steal glances.

His scar looks more pronounced in the sunlight. His hair is messier today, wind-tossed, one dark lock falling across his forehead. His shirt clings to his back when he bends to reach a lower hanger. You shouldn’t be looking. You know that. But your gaze keeps betraying you.

Within minutes, he pulls three cardigans from the rack: dusty rose, seafoam green, and cream. All soft, a little worn, and exactly the kind your aunt hoards in her closet like armor.

“These work?” he asks, voice quieter now.

You blink, surprised. “Yeah. Perfect.”

He holds them out. You reach to take them, and your fingers brush.

You don’t pull away immediately.

Neither does he.

When you finally glance up, his eyes are already on yours. And for one breathless, endless second, you’re not in a rummage tent surrounded by old clothes and casserole pans. You’re in some private, weightless space where nothing exists but the hum beneath your skin and the way he’s looking at you.

You open your mouth, unsure what you’re even going to say, when—

“Buck! You buying that sweater or what?” Sam’s voice slices through the air, easy and loud.

The spell breaks.

Bucky’s jaw tenses. The softness fades like a curtain drawn shut.

“I should go,” he says, stepping back.

You nod, throat dry. “Thanks again.”

“Anytime.”

And then he’s gone, the red reindeer sweater swinging limply from one hand as he walks back toward his friends, their laughter rising around him like smoke.

You hold the cardigans to your chest, trying to breathe normally. Trying not to stare. Trying not to feel the ghost of his fingers still lingering on yours. But when you glance up, just once, you catch the faintest twitch of his lips at something Sam says.

And your chest flutters—small and secret and completely, helplessly real.

—

Today's prayer service ends with the slow murmur of Amen echoing through the chapel. Candles flicker across the altar like dying stars. The scent of wax lingers thick in the air, threaded with incense and old wood. Outside, the sky has opened up and rain falls in relentless sheets, hammering the roof and streaking the stained-glass windows with watercolors. Most of the congregation has already fled, their laughter and boots fading across the slick stone path. The sanctuary empties quickly.

All except for you.

And him.

You’re still gathering candles in the soft hush, moving between pews with practiced care. The hem of your green dress skims your legs with every step, fitted enough to cling when you bend, the fabric catching on the curve of your hips. Your lips are red tonight. A sinful shade, bold against the candlelight. Your hair’s loose, damp near the temples from the mist that snuck in earlier, curling slightly around your shoulders. You hadn't intended to stay this long, but you always do. You like the quiet after services. Like to feel the hush settle into your bones.

But tonight, it’s not just yours.

You hear him before you see him.

He’s at the front now, by the altar, stacking hymnals with the kind of care that suggests reverence, not obligation. Rainlight casts him in fractured hues hrough the stained glass. His shirt, gray, damp at the collar, clings to his chest and shoulders. His hair’s slightly mussed from the rain, one curl clinging to his temple, and there’s a shadow along his jaw.

He hasn’t looked at you yet.

But he doesn’t have to.

His presence coils through the chapel like smoke.

"Rain’s keeping everyone out," you say, trying for lightness. Your voice breaks the quiet, but not the tension.

He looks up, finally.

“Good thing,” he murmurs, voice low, rough, quiet enough that it feels like it’s for you alone. “Gives us time to clean up.”

He sets another hymnal down, the muscles in his arms flexing subtly beneath his skin. You catch a whiff of cedar, leather, rain, and maybe war. It fills your lungs and lodges somewhere between your ribs.

You don’t ask for help.

But he joins you anyway, stepping into the aisle beside you like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

He doesn’t speak.

And you don’t either.

But the silence between you? It's alive.

The two of you work side by side, collecting stray candles and crumpled programs, and though your fingers never quite touch, they move in rhythm, close enough to feel, never enough to satisfy. You’re too aware of him. Of the heat he carries, the way his movements are quiet but commanding.

He nods toward your dress as you reach to place another candle. “Careful with your dress,” he says, voice steady but low. “Wax’ll ruin it.”

You glance down, then back at him. “This old thing?” you say with a faint smile, brushing the fabric. “You sound like my aunt.”

He lets out a quiet huff—amusement, and his eyes flick over you once more. “Doesn’t look old,” he says simply, and there’s something about the way he says it that makes your spine straighten.

You don’t look at him.

But you feel his gaze like the weight of prayer.

Another candle slips as you move—a clatter against wood that echoes too loud in the stillness. You both reach for it at once, and for the first time, you touch.

His fingers meet yours. Warm, firm. You both pause. You could move. You should move.

But you don’t.

Not right away.

You clear your throat, cheeks warm. “Clumsy,” you mutter, standing again, smoothing your dress more out of nerves than necessity.

“Happens,” he replies, placing the candle down carefully, like it deserves respect.

You watch him for a moment. The way he moves. The quiet precision. There’s no arrogance to him. Just control. And control is its own kind of seduction. You turn, gathering the last of the candleholders, but his voice draws you back.

“Been comin’ here a while,” he says. It’s not a question. Just a thread he’s decided to pull. “Used to feel different. Quieter. Now...” His eyes flick to yours. “Better with more of you around.”

Your lips part. The breath you draw feels too full. “Really, James?.”

He steps closer. Not enough to touch, but enough to crowd your space with his warmth. He sets a hymnal on the pew beside you, then lingers—close enough you can see the faint crease in his brow, the flecks of something almost blue in the gray of his eyes.

“Bucky,” he says, low and certain. “Not James. Not with you.”

It knocks something loose in your chest.

You nod, almost breathless. “Bucky,” you echo, trying the name on your tongue. It tastes like honey and warning.

His eyes darken, not in danger, but in depth.

His hand lifts, hesitates, then settles gently at your waist. The contact is featherlight. Careful. But the intention behind it is anything but innocent. His thumb brushes, just once, over the side of your dress. Not suggestive. Not aggressive. Just there.

And your body hums in response.

“Pretty girl,” he murmurs, reverent, sinful. His voice is the kind that belongs in confession. “Been thinkin’ ‘bout you.”

You feel the words like a hand at your throat. Not choking. Just claiming. And you don’t pretend to misunderstand.

“Show me,” you whisper.

He leans in, barely touching his lips to yours. It’s not a kiss. Not yet. 

But your hands rise, uncertain but brave and settle over his chest. He’s warm beneath the fabric, solid, alive.

Then he kisses you.

Gentle.

Sacrilegious.

His lips brush yours with reverence, not hunger, and your mouth parts without a second thought. It’s not urgent. Your fingers curl against him. His hand finds your lower back, anchoring you, holding without taking. He tastes like rain and smoke, like silence, like ache.

He pulls back first.

Breathing ragged.

Forehead to yours.

“Fuck, darlin’,” he breathes, voice thick. “You’re somethin’ else.”

So is this.

So are you.

You smile, slow and knowing, fingers lifting to trace the sharp line of his jaw. The scar beneath your touch is rough, an uneven line carved by something cruel but here, beneath your fingertips, it feels sacred. Claimed. “Gentleman, huh?” you murmur, teasing, your voice a hush in the chapel’s hush.

He chuckles, deep and quiet, the sound vibrating against your palm. His hand settles at your hip, broad and warm, thumb brushing over the fabric of your dress like he’s checking for fragility. “For you,” he says, voice low and thick, reverent as a vow.

Then he kisses you again. Slower now. Deeper. His tongue parts your lips with careful grace. He tastes like rain, like patience, like restraint stretched too thin. Your breath catches, your pulse thrums, and your thighs press together under the growing heat—soft and aching where you want him most.

But it’s not just lust. It’s the way he holds back, like you deserve more than hurried touches and breathless abandon. 

“Wanna do this right,” he breathes against your mouth, his hand sliding down to your lower back, guiding you gently, reverently, to the back pew. The wood creaks as you lower, the old bench cool against your thighs. He kneels between your legs like he’s done it a thousand times, but never like this. Never for this. His frame is massive, towering, but lowered before you now, his eyes locked to yours, asking. 

You nod—small, sure.

His fingers slide up your legs with aching patience. Your dress bunches at your hips, and for a long moment, he just looks at you—=, at your trembling thighs, your flushed face, your breath shallow. And then he moves, so slowly it feels like a confession.

You whimper, soft, unsure if it’s from the need or the way he’s looking at you—like he’s memorizing you, like he’s afraid you’ll vanish if he moves too fast.

“Touch me, Bucky,” you whisper, barely a sound, barely a breath.

And he does.

His fingers trace higher, finding the hem of your dress, and he pauses again, eyes searching yours. “This okay?” he murmurs, voice rough but soft, like he’s afraid to break you. His care makes your breath hitch, a spark flaring low in your belly, but it’s his gentleness that holds you.

“Yeah,” you whisper, and he groans, soft, his hand inching your dress up, slow, revealing the soft skin above your stockings. His fingers graze lace, feeling the first hint of your slick through your panties, and he exhales, shaky, like he’s been holding it in. 

“Fuck, darlin’,” he murmurs, voice awed, gentle, “this pussy’s already wet for me, ain’t it?”

You blush, biting your lip, not desperate, just curious, wanting. “Maybe,” you tease, voice soft, and he chuckles, low, wicked, his finger brushing your clit through the lace, light, teasing, making you gasp.

"God."

He leans in, his breath hot against your neck. “Don’t take the Lord’s name in vain, darlin’,” he whispers, teasing, lips brushing your skin. “Not when you’re this wet and sweet under me.”

You laugh, soft, clenching your thighs, earning a low moan from him. “You’re trouble,” you whisper, fingers grazing his neck, wanting to mark him. His free hand cradles your back, keeping you close.

“Love this,” he growls, lips brushing your ear, teeth grazing, soft, his finger still teasing through lace, not pushing, just stoking the fire. “Gonna make you feel so good, doll.” He pauses, eyes meeting yours, checking again, and you nod, leaning into him, wanting more, but patient, letting him lead.

A sudden gust rattles the chapel windows, rain pounding harder, and you both freeze, glancing toward the sound. The moment breaks, tension easing, and you laugh, nervous, the spell softening but not gone. “Storm’s loud,” you murmur, smoothing your dress, and he nods, hand resting on your knee, steady, grounding.

“Keeps us here,” he says, voice low, eyes glinting. “More time.” He leans in again, lips brushing your forehead, a gesture so tender it makes your heart stutter. “You sure ‘bout this, darlin’? We can stop.” His voice is gentle, respectful, and it pulls you closer, wanting him more.

“Don’t stop,” you whisper, voice raw, and he groans, his hand sliding back up, peeling your panties down, slow, careful, lace slipping over your thighs.

“Fuck, this pussy,” he murmurs, voice awed, finger brushing your bare clit now, making you whine, hips twitching. The wet sounds are soft, obscene in the chapel’s hush, and the rain’s roar makes it feel like a secret, sacred and sinful.

“More,” you plead, soft, and he obliges, dipping a finger inside, stretching, curling slow, hitting your spot. Your pussy grips him, cream coating his finger, and you moan, quiet, head tipping back, the intimacy overwhelming. “Bucky, fuck,” you gasp, and he covers your mouth, gentle, muffling, his lips brushing your ear.

“Shh, baby,” he whispers, amused, naughty, breath hot. “Don’t want the angels listenin’.” His finger thrusts deeper, thumb circling your clit, slow, building you up, and you’re trembling, pussy dripping, the risk spiking your pulse, his cock hard, pressing against your thigh, patient but huge.

“Feel so good,” you murmur, muffled, and he kisses your neck, soft, lingering, his free hand sliding up your back, holding you like you’re precious. “Want you closer,” you whisper, fingers tugging his shirt, pulling him in, and he groans, low, shifting, his massive frame pressing against you, shielding you.

And then it deepens everything. The intimacy, the tension, the sheer care of it. His fingers trace slow, deliberate circles, his eyes never leaving yours. The chapel holds its breath, the candles flicker like they're witnessing something unholy. 

Or maybe divine.

“Gonna give you everything,” he murmurs, adding another finger, fucking you slow, deliberate, wet sounds louder now, your pussy clenching. Your eyes roll, thighs shaking, and he watches. “Fuck, look at you,” he whispers, voice thick, “takin’ my fingers so sweet.”

You chuckle, shaky, clenching again, earning a moan. “Tease,” you whisper, biting your lip, and he smirks. 

“Cum for me, darlin’,” he murmurs, fingers curling, thumb relentless, and you shatter, pussy spasming, cream coating his finger, a muffled scream against his hand. He holds you, lips on your neck, soft, whispering, “That’s it, baby, fuck, so perfect.” 

“I need you, Bucky,” you whispered, voice raw and dripping with want, your gaze locked on his steel-blue eyes, darkened with lust.

He exhaled a low, guttural sound, his hands finding your hips, pulling you flush against him. Through the rough denim of his jeans, you felt the hard, throbbing outline of his cock, thick and insistent, sending a pulse of heat straight to your core. Your fingers fumbled with his belt, brushing against him, and he hissed, head dipping to press a hot, open-mouthed kiss to the curve of your neck. “Baby,” he murmured, “you’re gonna kill me.”

With a swift motion, he freed himself, his cock springing free, veined and heavy, the tip glistening with precum. You swallowed hard, your mouth watering at the sight of him, so potent, so ready. His hand guided himself to your slick folds, rubbing slow, deliberate circles against your entrance, teasing you with the promise of what was to come. Your breath hitched, a soft whimper escaping your lips as you pressed yourself closer, your thighs quivering. “Please, Bucky,” you begged, voice a sultry plea, your legs hooking around his waist, urging him nearer.

He growled low, his hand cupping your ass, lifting you effortlessly onto the edge of the old wooden pew, the creak of the wood echoing in the sacred space. “Gonna love this pussy,” he rasped, his eyes burning into yours, holding you captive as he positioned himself at your entrance.

The first push was exquisite agony. His cock breached you slowly, the thick head stretching your tight walls, parting you with a delicious burn that made you gasp, your nails digging into his shoulders. It felt like he was carving a space inside you, claiming you inch by inch, the sensation overwhelming—full, hot, and unrelenting.

He’s watching you come apart, his lips parted, reverence in every movement. His fingers never rush, never push too far. He keeps you right at the edge, not to tease, but to honor the feeling. His hand curls around the back of your neck, grounding you, and your head falls forward, resting against his.

Your pussy fluttered around him, gripping him instinctively, and you moaned, head falling back as the pleasure-pain of his size consumed you. “God, Bucky,” you whimpered, “you’re so fucking big.”

“Shit, so tight,” he groaned, his voice strained, his vibranium hand steadying your hip as he eased deeper, giving you time to adjust. The stretch was intense, but the intimacy of his restraint made it sacred, a slow, deliberate act of worship. When he bottomed out, filling you completely, your walls pulsed around him, and you both stilled.

He began to move, slow and deep, each thrust a promise, his cock dragging against every sensitive spot inside you, igniting sparks that curled through your spine. The wet, filthy sounds of your bodies filled the air, and you clung to him, your fingers raking down his back. 

“Fuck, feel that,” he murmured, his lips brushing your ear, “your pussy’s grippin’ me so good.”

“Harder,” you whined, craving more, and Bucky obliged, his thrusts deepening, the pew creaking louder under the force. “Yes, fuck, yes!” you cried, your pussy creaming around him, the slickness easing his glide, making every thrust smoother.

He shifted you then, guiding you to turn, your palms bracing against the back of the pew as he positioned you on your knees, your dress hiked up around your waist. The new angle made you gasp as he re-entered you, his cock hitting deeper, stroking a spot that made stars burst behind your eyes. “Goddamn, look at you,” he growled, his hand smacking your ass lightly, the sting blooming into warmth that made you yelp, then grin. “Takin’ me so fuckin’ well.”

You arched your back, pushing back against him, meeting each stroke with a desperate need. “Cream on my cock,” he urged, his voice a dark caress, and the combination of his words, his touch, and the relentless drive of his cock sent you spiraling.

"That's it, that's my pretty girl, Oh— God."

Your orgasm crashed over you, your pussy pulsing, clenching around him as you screamed into the crook of your arm, cream dripping down your thighs.

He wasn’t done. With a gentle tug, he pulled you upright, your back against his chest, his lips finding your neck as he guided you to straddle him, facing him now. You sank onto his cock, the new position intimate, your faces inches apart. His eyes locked on yours, and the connection was electric, his hands guiding your hips as you rode him, slow and deliberate. “Fuck, darlin’,” he panted, his flesh hand cupping your cheek, thumb brushing your lips. “You’re really somethin’ else.”

The pace built again, your thighs burning as you chased another peak. When you came again, it was softer but no less intense, your body trembling as you clung to him, his name a prayer on your lips. 

His groan was raw, almost feral, as his body tensed beneath you, his hands tightening on your hips. “Fuck, baby, this pussy’s gonna make me lose it,” he growled, his voice rough and urgent, thick with lust. “So fuckin’ tight, squeezin’ my cock like you were made for it.” His hips stuttered, thrusting up into you with a desperate edge, and you felt the first hot pulse of his cum spilling deep inside you. “Shit, I’m cummin’ so hard for you,” he rasped, his words dripping with filthy reverence. “Gonna fill this sweet pussy up, make you drip with me, baby—fuck.”

Each pulse of his release was a searing claim, his cock throbbing as he poured himself into you, the heat and fullness overwhelming, slick and messy as it leaked down your thighs and onto his lap.

His thumb strokes slow across your cheek, and the air between you is heavy with unsaid things, with want, with restraint. His other hand finds yours, interlacing your fingers, as he leans closer, kissing your jaw, your throat, your collarbone, like he’s tracing a rosary made of skin.

“You don’t know what you do to me,” he murmurs, and the words are hoarse, unraveling. “Pretty thing. Touchin’ heaven sittin’ on this pew.”

You stayed like that for a long moment, your bodies entwined, the rain a soft murmur outside, the air thick with the scent of sex and intimacy. Your fingers carded through his damp hair, tracing the strands that clung to his forehead, and he sighed, leaning into your touch like a man starved for it.

The storm rages outside.

And inside, he worships.

Not God.

You.

[demie90s]

Come Here

Natasha Cloud x Fem!Reader

MASTERLIST | MORE

Summary: Y’all just chillin’. At least you thought that.

Word Count: ~ 5.1k

Genre: Flirty slow-burn, teasing, discovery

Warnings: SMUT. Dom!Tasha. Sub!Reader. Sensual tension, queer questioning, Tasha bein’ too smooth.

(Written with Liberty Players. My bad. I linked Phoenix)

Second year in the league and you were vibin’. Cool with everybody, chill about everything. You weren’t the loudest on the Liberty, but you were the one people gravitated toward—laid-back, funny, a lil unpredictable. You didn’t talk much about your business, and you liked it that way. Let ‘em guess.

The internet? Always trying to figure you out.

“Are you gay?”

“You like girls?”

“Are you and so-and-so a thing?”

You never gave a straight answer. A shrug, a smile, maybe a slick lil “I like…vibes” and that was that. ’Cause why would you explain yourself to people who don’t even know your middle name?

Still—there was always something about Tasha.

Natasha Cloud was your vet, technically. A real one. Confident, grown, fine in that “I know exactly who I am” kind of way. People loved her. So did you. But not in a loud way. Just… in the way you always ended up standing next to her. Sitting beside her. Touching her without thinking.

You didn’t even notice half the time.

So y’all win a game. Good energy all around. It’s late, y’all in the hotel lobby area, a lil tipsy off post-game wine and adrenaline. She’s live on Instagram, talking to fans, still got her jersey half on like she didn’t just drop 15 points and coach a rookie through a panic attack.

You wander into the frame and slump against her side, head against her shoulder, hand casually resting on her thigh.

She smirks, glancing at you sideways. “Oh, so we cuddlin’ on live now?”

You blink like you just woke up. “Girl what?”

Chat blowing up instantly:

“WAIT HOLD ON”

“they always this close??”

“are they together?”

“Oh she is touchyyyy 😭😭”

“THE THIGH GRAB?? HELLO??”

You wave them off. “Y’all be reading too much.”

Someone asks again: “y/n you like girls?? 👀👀👀”

You shrug like always. Cool. Smooth. “I like… vibes.”

Tasha turns toward me slow, like she’s just now remembering I’m here, like she hasn’t been fully aware of my presence this entire time. Her voice drops, quiet enough that it cuts through the background noise like a secret not meant for the live.

“So if I kissed you right now,” she says, real calm, like we not in front of thousands of people, “would it be a vibe?”

She doesn’t even look at me at first. She says it with her chin tilted forward, her elbows still resting on her knees like she’s locked into the screen, like she’s talking at the chat—but then she glances back. Real slow. Over her shoulder. Straight at me.

I feel that look in my chest.

I’m leaned back, deep in the chair, my head pressed to the top cushion like I could melt into it. Legs stretched out, arm flopped behind her, fingers brushing the back of her jersey. My body’s loose but my heart skips anyway.

I’m not sleepy—just drained, heavy from the game, the come-down after the win. The kind of tired where your body still humming but your mind’s already floating.

I shift slightly, eyes narrowing just a little. “You wouldn’t. But it comes out softer than I meant it. Less challenge, more dare.

She smirks at that, all slow and smug, her eyes dropping to my mouth like it’s a question she already answered. Then back up. “I think I would,” she says, sitting back a bit like she’s settling into the moment. “Just to find out.”

Her hand shifts at the same time—subtle, but I feel it. Sliding a little lower on my thigh. Not wild, not disrespectful, but intentional. Like she wants me to feel it, like she knows I felt it and she’s waiting for me to say something.

But I don’t. And neither does the live.

The chat has slowed down, like everyone’s collectively holding their breath. Tasha’s eyes are still locked on me. Mine flicker to the phone screen, to the little hearts floating up, to the comments flooding back in all caps, but I can’t read a single one. My focus is stitched to her—her mouth, her hands, her energy.

“You bold,” I murmur, trying to keep my voice casual, but my throat’s tight.

She leans a little closer. Not closing the space completely—just enough to feel the heat. “You scared?”

I scoff under my breath, even though yeah, maybe I am. Just a little. Because it is a vibe. That’s the problem.

“Nah,” I say. “What…why you being messy.”

She grins. “Only a little.”

The way she says it..it’s not just flirting anymore. It’s a promise.

She laughs low, like she got away with something, and turns back to the live like the moment didn’t just shift gravity.

I try to play it cool. My head still against the back of the chair, arm lazily hanging behind her, chest tight but my face chill. Like that didn’t just happen. Like she ain’t just test me with that look, that tone, that touch.

But she don’t let up.

Her hand slides up and down my thigh now—real slow, like she’s tracing a pattern. Absent-minded, but not really. She knows exactly what she’s doing. Then her other hand. Drifts behind her like she reaching for something—nah, she grabs my knee and starts squeezing it like I’m a damn stress ball.

I pop her hand without even thinking. “Girl, gone somewhere.”

She laughs again, unbothered. “Don’t act like you ain’t leanin’ all over me ten minutes ago.”

“I was tired,” I say, smirking. “That ain’t mean open season.”

Tasha shifts again, more into my space now, leaning back so her shoulder presses into my chest, like she tryna recline on me this time. Her hand comes up, fingers lightly dancing over the hem of my shorts.

I catch her wrist real easy. Not hard—just enough to let her know I peeped. “Touchy ass.”

She grins, eyes still on the comments flying up the screen. “They eatin’ this up.”

“Oh, I know they are,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “They delusional.”

She turns her head just enough to look up at me. “Are they?”

I blink. My grip loosens on her wrist, but I don’t move my hand. “Stop playin’.”

“I’m not.” She shrugs, eyes soft now but still teasing. “You don’t be stopping me either.”

I suck my teeth, trying not to smile. “You so annoying.”

She just hums, real pleased with herself, and lets her hand rest right back on my thigh like she never left. I pop it again. She laughs again.

I pull my phone out, pretending to scroll like I’m not still feeling her hand on my leg. Notifications lighting up like fireworks. Texts, DMs, screenshots already in my mentions. I see the live getting clipped in real time.

“She be actin’ brand new but LOOK at her,” one comment says.

“She lowkey folded,” another.

“Natasha Cloud bout to snatch her,” someone added with crying emojis.

I shake my head, smirking at the screen. “Y’all wild.”

Tasha glances at my phone over her shoulder, then back at the live. “They tryna be messy.”

“They always messy, you like they leader” I mumble, still scrolling. “I’m used to it.”

She watches me for a second. Real quiet. Real still. Then she picks up her phone and ends the live. Just like that. Click. Gone. Whole vibe shifts.

I look up, confused. “Damn, you ain’t even say bye—”

She sets her phone down and turns her whole body toward me, eyes locked. Serious now. No more smirking. No more teasing.

“So you gon’ let me show you or what?” she says. Calm. Direct.

I freeze for a second, blinkin’ like she just short-circuited my whole system. “Huh?”

She nods toward my phone. “You on there actin’ like you unfazed. Like this ain’t nothin’. But you feelin’ it, huh?” She leans in, slow but confident. “You want me to stop touchin’ you, you would’ve made me. You don’t want me to stop. You just don’t know what to do with it yet.”

I open my mouth—close it. Suddenly real aware of how warm my skin feels. How close she is.

“Tasha,” I say, voice quieter than I want it to be. “Don’t do that.”

She tilts her head. “Why not?”

“‘Cause I don’t know what you tryna prove.”

She smiles, soft but dangerous. “I ain’t tryna prove nothin’, baby. I just wanna show you.”

She slides my phone out my hand like it belongs to her now, sets it on the table next to hers. Her fingers brush mine, slow. Her other hand slides up my thigh again, same spot as earlier—but this time I don’t pop her.

I just look at her. And she knows.

“Say the word,” she murmurs, leaning close enough for her lips to graze my cheek. “Or I’ll go.”

But I don’t say go. I don’t say shit.

The team’s still kinda around, kinda not—scattered between the hotel lobby, the pool, kitchen, whatever. But it don’t matter. ‘Cause Tasha and I in our own little world. Always have been.

She’s been looking at me. Not glancing. Looking. Like dinner. Like seconds. Like dessert she ain’t supposed to have but gon’ eat anyway.

Ain’t even subtle. And I know that look.

“Stop starin’ at me like I’m the menu,” I mutter, still scrolling but smiling.

“I’m try’na see what the special is,” she fires back without missing a beat.

I nearly choke. “Aht aht—relax, mama. You tryna risk it all in front of the Gatorade cooler.”

She leans back, arms stretched out across the top of her chair like she owns the room. Her eyes dragging over me with that lazy, cocky smirk. “You the one sittin’ there all fine and glowy talkin’ about you tired.”

“I am tired.”

She leans in, voice low like a damn secret. “Let me wake you up then.” I blink. Now hold on.

This grown ass woman really talkin’ to me like that. Meanwhile, I’m still new to this. Technically still got my rookie softness even if I’m in year two. I talk like I’m chill. I act like I’m unbothered. But deep down…I’m very much botherable.

So I glance around. Ain’t nobody paying attention—except Kennedy, who clocked the whole exchange from across the room and shot me that little “mmhm, finally” smile like she been waiting on this episode to drop.

I lean toward Tasha just a little, trying to whisper but definitely cheesin’. “You tryna show me or somethin’? Like you… serious?”

She doesn’t even blink. “Girl, I’ve been waitin’ on the green light since preseason.”

Now I’m lookin’ at her like she crazy. “Oh so you was plottin’ this whole time?”

“Hell yeah.” She adjusts her seat, gets a lil closer. Her hand casually finds its way back to my thigh like we ain’t still half in public. “I knew you was a quick learner. But I also know one thing about you—you like a woman in control.”

I pause. My whole body heatin’ up and we not even touchin’ like that. She say that line like she’s narrating the beginning of a documentary called How I Took Her Soul on a Tuesday.

I let out a breath, cheeks hot. “Mm You ain’t never lied.”

I mean it too. I do like somebody grown. Somebody who knows what they doing. I ain’t tryna lead—baby, give me a lil direction and watch me follow it like a damn GPS.

Tasha tilts her head, studying me like she reading instructions. “So what’s up? You ready or you still tryna play cool?”

I look at her. I mean really look. My leg’s bouncing. My palms sweaty. And I’m grinning like I just got handed a backstage pass to heaven.

“You got it,” I say, and I barely get the words out before—BOOM.

She stands up and picks me up. Not even dramatic about it. Just scoops me up like I’m groceries. Like she do this all the time. Arms under my thighs, grip firm, face serious.

I gasp loud as hell. “OH—okay!”

She laughs once, deep and low in her chest. “You said I got it, right?”

“Yeah but damn!” I wrap my arms around her neck real quick, holding on. “You strong as hell, girl—this what you be doin’ in the off-season?” It be the small ones.

“Nah,” she says, walking us smooth out the room like the credits just started rolling. “This what I do when I know it’s finally go time.”

As she carries me past the team, I catch eyes doing synchronized double takes. Somebody claps once. I think I hear, “bout time!” in the distance.

But I’m in a daze. Still laughing. Still hanging on to her. My voice drops into her ear like a confession.

“You really bout to turn me out, huh?”

She smirks, kissing the side of my jaw. “Girl. You ain’t even gon’ recognize yourself tomorrow.”

I just laugh again, already breathless. “Then lead the way, Coach.”

Game time.

She don’t say a word when we step in her room—just locks the door, kicks off her slides, and walks over to her little Bluetooth speaker like this a ritual. Like she been planning this night since training camp. Like she got a playlist titled “rookie initiation” or some shit.

I’m still by the door, jacket halfway off, watching her like she suspicious.

“What you doin’?” I ask.

“Setting the mood,” she says over her shoulder, all calm like this a wine commercial. “You gone thank me in a minute.”

Before I can even roll my eyes, I hear it. The first few chords. That slow, warm, sensual-ass hum.

Sexual. Healing.

I drop my head back and groan instantly. “TASHA. Are we deadass right now?!”

She turns around with the dumbest grin on her face, like she just hit play on the Super Bowl. “Hell yeah. I’m takin’ my time, shit—I just got you.”

I cover my mouth trying not to laugh. “You are so unserious.”

“And you,” she steps closer, pulling my jacket off smooth, “are about to be very much in serious trouble.”

I snort, still grinning as she tosses my jacket on the chair and starts working on the drawstrings of my sweats like it’s nothing. Like we not in the middle of a slow jam from the ‘80s. Like this ain’t my first time and she not up here playing the damn original soundtrack to soul snatching.

“You really got Marvin Gaye on,” I mutter, even as I let her pull my shirt over my head. “You not even shy about this?”

She presses a kiss to my collarbone. “Why would I be shy? You know how long I been wantin’ this?”

I don’t even get the chance to answer before she kisses me for real—slow, deep, steady like she tryna write the rhythm of the song on my lips. And baby… I’m gigglin’. Straight up gigglin’ into her mouth, breath hitchin’ between laughs like I can’t believe she actually has me cheesin’ this hard while actively getting undressed.

“I hate you,” I say into her smile.

“You love me,” she whispers back, hands slipping under my waistband like she tryna test the waters with just her fingertips. “That’s why you still here.”

She’s right. I’m still here. Shirt gone. Pants unbuttoned. Knees weak and chest rising like I just ran sprints at practice.

But she’s not rushing.

She takes her time, guiding me back toward the bed, still dancing a little with the song, still doing too much. Grinning the whole time, like she got the cheat code and I’m just now realizing I’m the damn controller.

She moves behind me, wraps her arms around my waist, mouth pressed to my neck as she hums along to the chorus like it ain’t currently ruining my life.

“Feel that?” she whispers, her lips brushing right below my ear.

I shiver. “Tasha…”

“I got you,” she says. “You know I got you, right?”

I nod, small, barely audible. “Yeah.”

Then she starts. Slow kisses down my spine. Hands trailing like she memorizing a language, not even rushing to get between my legs. Just holding me, touching me, showing up in every little place I never realized needed her.

I laugh again—light, breathless. She pauses.

“What now?”

“Ion know,” I say, blushing. “You just… really doin’ it. Like… this what I thought it would feel like.”

She smiles into my skin, low and sure. “That’s ‘cause you was right.”

Her mouth is soft on mine, but her hands are already working—slow, steady, intentional. She got my pants off without me even realizing, like her touch was meant to be there. And she keeps whispering little things between kisses, stuff that ain’t even nasty but still make my knees weak.

“Just relax, baby,” she murmurs. “Let me get you right.”

We’re still standing for a second, caught in this warm, slow motion. My shirt’s gone, pants and panties a memory, and she’s just… holding me. Arms around my waist, mouth against my jaw. Gentle. But that heat is real.

“Come sit with me,” she says soft, leading me to the bed.

I follow, floaty. She sits first, legs spread, and guides me right between them. Her back hits the headboard, and I end up sitting in front of her, back against her chest, thighs open—body bare, nerves everywhere.

“You comfy?” she asks, voice like silk, arms sliding around my waist.

I nod slow, already leaning into her. “Mhm.”

Her hands are warm on my thighs, smoothing over skin like she tryna calm the butterflies. Her lips trail slow kisses down my shoulder, her breath brushing my ear.

“You breathing a little fast,” she says, teasing.

I let out a breathy laugh. “I feel everything.”

She smiles against my neck. “Good. That’s how I want it.”

Her hands start to drift lower, fingertips tracing between my legs with the lightest touch, and my whole body jerks. She pulls me closer, one hand pressing to my stomach to ground me, the other moving slow and careful—testing.

“Shh, I got you,” she whispers. “Let me hear you.”

And baby, I do not disappoint. A soft moan slips out of me, mixed with this lil giggle I can’t even help—like a laugh that got lost in pleasure.

Tasha hums, clearly pleased. “You always laugh when it feel good, huh?”

I nod, still squirming, voice shaky. “I—I can’t help it.”

She kisses the side of my neck, fingers stroking gently. “I like it. That’s how I know I’m doin’ it right.”

I whine, hands gripping the sheets now. My head’s tilted back against her shoulder, eyes closed, body trembling. And all she doing is touching me. Real slow. Real intimate. Just the pads of her fingers gliding through heat and slick, not even applying pressure yet—but it’s already got me clenching my thighs, chasing more.

She notices.

“Open up for me,” she whispers, nudging my thighs apart with her own.

I do it without thinking, already gone. And now she’s got the perfect view. Me, laid bare in her lap, body twitching, breath catching with every stroke.

“You so sensitive,” she says, voice deeper now. “That feel good?”

“Yeah,” I breathe, eyes fluttering. “Real good.”

“Mhm.” Her other hand comes up to cup my breast, thumb brushing slow over my nipple while the first keeps teasing. Still not rushing. Still just… working me.

I let out another soft whimper, a breathy “fuck,” followed by that same little moan-giggle she loves so much.

“There it go again,” she murmurs, smiling. “You sound so pretty when you laugh like that.”

I cover my face, overwhelmed. “Tasha—”

“Nah, don’t hide now,” she says, voice close to my ear, lips brushing it between words. “I want you to feel everything, baby. You trust me, right?”

I nod, shaky. “Yes.”

Her fingers slide in deeper now, slow and smooth, and I cry out. Not loud. Not dramatic. Just this sweet, broken sound like I never knew it could feel like this. And I didn’t. Not till her.

She starts to move her fingers, curling just enough to make me squirm, to make my hips roll back into her. Her voice stays right there with me—in it with me.

“Good girl,” she whispers. “That’s it. Just like that.”

She’s everywhere. Her breath, her hands, her calm. I’m melting in her lap, thighs shaking already and we just getting started.

My laugh turns into a moan again, and I swear I can feel her grin.

“You gon’ laugh all the way through this?”

I moan again, breathless. “Maybe.”

She kisses my temple, fingers moving slow but deeper now. “That’s fine. I’m’a make you cry too.”

The way she says it. Not as a threat. As a promise.

Through it all—she never stops talking.

“Yeah… there she go. That’s it. Give it all to me.”

I do. I’m trying not to, but I do. My body jumps under her, legs trembling, throat tight with a moan so ragged it sound like confession. I come so hard my hands fly to the sheets, one leg kicking a little like I’m short circuiting, and all I can say is her name. Over and over.

“Tasha—Tasha, please—”She don’t stop.

Just grips my thigh tighter when I try to close up, keeps rubbing slow deliberate circles that make my hips twitch. Her voice never changes. Still calm. Still steady. Like this all part of the plan.

“Nah, baby. Don’t run now. That was just one,” she whispers, lips brushing my jaw as I shake under her. “We just gettin’ started.”

I try to scoot up the bed—reflex, survival—but she pulls me right back down with one arm. The other hand? Back between my legs. Real slow. Real messy. Just rubbing it in.

“You actin’ like I didn’t just break you in. Let me finish it.”

I let out the softest laugh, breathless, overwhelmed. “Tasha—girl, I can’t even think.”

“You ain’t supposed to think. You supposed to feel me.”

I squirm, giggling and moaning at the same time, legs trying to clamp together again. And she snatches them right back open, throwing her leg over mine to pin me in place. She don’t look mad, just determined. Like this is her sport. Like I’m her court.

“You try to close these thighs again, I’m tellin’ you right now—I’m not lettin’ you sleep tonight.”

The way she says it she Deadass. Like she means that. Like she’s already cleared her schedule for the rest of the week.

I cover my face, teeth sinking into my bottom lip to keep quiet, but that just make her grin. She dips her head down, kisses my thigh, my stomach, then my mouth—messy and slow—and her fingers Still playing with me like she tryna see how many shades of undone I can get.

“You know what I like?” she whispers, voice hot against my mouth. “You got that sweet lil laugh. That cute ass smile. But you nasty too, huh?”

I blink at her, face flushed, lips parted.

“You a freak, huh baby? Giggling and coming like you ain’t been waiting on this.”

All I can do is nod. ‘Cause she’s right. I have been. And now she got me melting. Sweaty. Legs open. Voice gone. Hips jerkin’ every time her thumb hits that same spot—

She leans in, grips my chin between her fingers, tilts my head just enough to look into my eyes. Her mouth barely touches mine as she talks. “Say it.”

I can’t even hear myself, but the words fall out. “I’m a freak…”

She kisses me hard, deep. Groaning low into my mouth. Then she pulls back, her voice dropping into that possessive whisper again.

“I know. You mine now.”

Her hand moves lower, two fingers sliding in slick and smooth like my body been waiting for her. My back arches, a loud cry escaping before I can stop it.

“Aww, look at you,” she coos. “You tryna be quiet but your body tellin’ on you.”

I swear I can’t take it. My thighs trembling, hands searching for something to hold—her wrist, her shoulder, the sheets, my sanity. But she don’t give me a break. Just grips my throat gentle and firm, pressing me back down with control that make me whimper.

“You like when I talk to you like that, huh?”

“Yes,” I moan.

“You like being touched like you mine?”

“Yes.”

“You tryna tap out?”

I pause—honestly, I might need to. But then she smirks and kisses my shoulder, whispering right in my ear: “Don’t.”

That’s what does it. Again. Wetter. Louder. Deeper than the first.

I come apart in her hands, crying out, thighs shaking like I’m being reborn. She watches me—watches—like this a game tape she gon’ replay later. Her fingers still curling in slow, dragging out every last tremble until I’m damn near gasping.

Then she kisses my mouth, slow and greedy, still whispering, “That’s it. That’s it, baby. Look how good you doin’ for me. You takin’ it so well.”

I’m dizzy. Clingy. Floating.

“You okay?” she asks, voice warm again.

“Uh huh,” I breathe. “I just feel like a—”

“A hoochie mama?” she finishes, laughing.

I laugh too, face still buried in her. “Yes.”

She grins, rubbing my back, smug as hell. “Good. That’s exactly what I wanted.”

And then real low, right in my ear. “Now turn over. You ain’t done yet.”

I blink up at her, barely functioning, body limp and overheated, still wrapped around her like I’m tryna become a part of her skin. She strokes my back, kisses my jaw, soft little things that should feel like an ending—except she already told me:

I’m not done yet.

“Turn over,” she says again, quiet but real firm, real smooth. Like it’s a courtesy, not a request.

I lift my head slow, eyes wide. “Girl…”

She grins, all teeth. “You still talkin’?”

I blink again, dead serious. “I’m sensitive.”

She kisses my lips once, slow and full. “I know. That’s what’s gon’ make it real good.”

Like a damn fool, I turn over. Because my body don’t listen to me no more. My brain is all “survival,” but my hips? My hips are up, ass arched, thighs still trembling like I didn’t just get rocked into another dimension.

Tasha settles behind me, real calm. One hand running down my back, tracing the dip of my spine. The other Pressed flat to my lower back, holding me steady.

“You so wet,” she mutters, low like she talkin’ to herself. “I ain’t even touched you again yet.”

She spreads me open just a little, and I gasp, arms shaking under me. “Oh my God—”

“Mmhmm.” Her voice is smug now, but it’s focused. “That’s all me, huh?”

“Y-yeah,” I stammer, barely able to get the word out.

She leans forward, body draped over mine, her chest warm against my back. Her hand slides under, fingers brushing my mouth.

“Open,” she says, still soft.

I do. And when she slips her fingers in my mouth—just the same ones that were inside me—I damn near lose it. She don’t even move them, just lets them sit on my tongue like a reminder.

“You taste that?” she asks. I nod, moaning around her fingers.

“That’s mine. And I’m not done takin’ it.”

She slides them back out, kissing the side of my face, then sits back on her knees. Her hands grip my hips, pulling me back just slightly until I whimper. My thighs are shaking again and she ain’t even done anything yet.

“You ever been touched like this before?” she asks. I shake my head, biting the pillow.

She hums like she expected that. “Good.”

Then her fingers slide back in—slow and deep. From behind. It’s worse like this. I can’t see her. Can’t read her face. All I can do is feel. She moves her thumb to circle my clit, slow, firm pressure that got my whole body jerking with every pass.

I start whining again. That soft, breathy sound I’ve been trying to hide.

“Ohhh, that’s the one,” she laughs, leaning over me again, whispering in my ear. “That little whimper you do? That’s the sound I’m keepin’ for later.”

I moan into the pillow, legs twitching as she picks up the pace. Not rough. Just enough. Just enough to make me stay open, just enough to keep me there.

“Tasha,” I gasp. “Tasha I’m—fuck—”

“Don’t run,” she whispers, hand gripping the back of my neck now. “Don’t move. You gon’ give it to me again.”

“I can’t—”

“Yes, you can.”

Her hand slides to my chin, pulls my head up and turns it slightly so she can kiss me—backward, messy, tongues meeting between moans.

“You a good girl, right?” she whispers into my mouth.

“Yes…”

“Then be good and take it.”

I’m still trying to breathe, face buried in the pillow, body loose and slick with sweat, thighs twitching. And she’s behind me, watching it all like art.

Tasha runs her hand down the back of my thigh, trailing light touches like she ain’t just had me shaking. I glance back at her, still panting, trying to laugh through it.

She smirks, head tilting. “You lucky I ain’t bring it. Oh I would’ve worked you ass.”

I blink. “…Wait.”

She leans down, all slow, and kisses the curve of my ass, hand sliding up to grab a handful, spreading me gently.

“Baby,” she murmurs, mouth warm and close, “if I had it, you wouldn’t be walkin’. But don’t worry it only ya first time…plus I got something better.”

Then she lowers her head. Oh my God.

The first lick got my soul trying to evacuate. My hands fly to the sheets, back arching off the mattress instantly.

“Tasha—girl—what the f—”

She flattens her tongue and drags it slow, moaning against me like she been starvin’. Her arms hook under my thighs and pull me deeper into her mouth—close, close like she tryna eat through me.

She’s overly freaked’ out too—low groans, breath catching, hands gripping like she losing her mind. It’s not even cute. It’s crazy. Like she waited too long and now she feasting.

Her mouth is sloppy, tongue moving in circles, then flicking just right, and all I can do is whimper. Real soft. Real messy.

I try to scoot up the bed again—natural reflex, survival instincts, Jesus take the wheel—but she yanks me right back down.

“Stop.”

That’s all she says. Just stop. And she keeps going. And I start losing it.

I’m moaning into the pillow now, whining, hips lifting, legs shaking again even though I know I ain’t got another one in me.

“You gon’ come again,” she murmurs between licks, voice low and hungry. “Let it out, baby. Make that pretty sound for me.”

I whimper, one hand clawing the sheets, the other trying to reach back and stop her, but she just laughs against me.

“Don’t you pull away from me.”

“Tasha please—”

“Open up,” she says, voice sharp, hand gripping under my thigh to hold it open. “Don’t be shy now.”

My body folds. I’m grinding into her mouth now like I ain’t got no shame left. I feel her everywhere. She moves her tongue in slow circles, sucks gently, then moans again like I taste better the more I shake.

That’s what really get me. She’s eating me like she love it. Like she missed it. Like she don’t care how loud I am, how soaked she gets, how many times I try to run—she’s not letting up until I cry again.

I do.

Whole body goes limp. That ugly moan escapes, one I ain’t never made before. My thighs clamp around her head but she don’t care—just groans into me louder, dragging the orgasm out like she tryna ruin me on purpose.

When it’s over she don’t say nothing. She just comes up slow, wipes her mouth with the back of her hand, kisses my cheek, and whispers

“Next time, im using the strap.”

@letsnowtalk @draculara-vonvamp @kcannon-1436-blog @let-zizi-yap @perksofbeingatrex @soapyonaropey @julieluvspb @non3ofurbusiness @kcannon-1436-blog @kaliblazin @liloandstitchstan @footy-lover264 @tpwkrosalinda @lightsgore @em-nems @yorubagirlsworld @daffodil-darlings @h4untedghOul @followthesvn @hibiscusblu @sevikasleftbicep @swiftie4evr @babyphatbrat @sivensblog @beeop223 @huntedghOul @salemsuccss @villain-ryuk @ihrtsarahstrOng @liyahh037

[hanasnx]

anal w fuckboy!clark bc he’s never done it before and you’re sooooo desperate to differentiate yourself from the other girls on his roster you’ll give him anything

ANAL — c.kent

“ i heard from a friend of a friend, that dick was a ten out of ten ” 🪽

MINORS DNI 18+ ᶻ 𝗓 𐰁 .ᐟ ✉️ | dc comics. NOTES: fuckboy!clark nsfw twitter porn link video reference, must be logged in to twitter with age to see it. disclaimer; fuckboy!clark is my au, do not use it without explicit permission. WARNINGS: fem reader ノ au; fuckboy!clark ノ established relationship; fwbs ノ mention of reader having hair ノ allusions to unprotected sex ノ explicit sexual content ノ anal (f receiving) ノ anal virginity.

It’s a dangerous slope, you know. Having a little thing on the side with FUCKBOY!CLARK KENT was bound to end in flames. You’re not entirely sure how it happened, one day you knew him as your classmate, and then you were hitting each other up in the AM to come over for a quick one. There’s a sort of effortless charm about him, he acts strangely gentlemanly in a way a modern man can. Unfortunately you know you’ve hit rock bottom in standards because you think it’s sweet when he buys your Plan B, or stays a little longer than he needs to watch something with you until he’s gotta head home. It’s almost friendship, in a way.

The worst part is, you’re catching feelings way too quick. Sure you were attracted to him initially, but now your heart actually skips a beat when he says your name. You wait by your phone trying to catch a text from him to see what you’re up to. It’s pathetic, you think, brushing your hair back over your forehead. You’re not even the only girl he’s seeing right now, and you told him he’s not the only guy on your roster… yet you dive for your cell as soon as you hear it ring.

“You mean it?” Clark reaffirms, smoothing a hand over the cheek of your ass you’re presenting to him. Back at his place yet again, you’re in a familiar position, yet you’re offering up something new. His parted lips in quiet awe enclose so as drag his bottom one through his teeth, tilting his head at how you glisten in the dull light, pretty pussy all open while you await his answer. It’s like you’re getting wet just talking about this. “You’ll let me fuck your ass?” It’s such a crude way of saying it, and it makes you surge forward with the pillow still hooked under your hips. Thick fingers slot in between the fat of your pelvis and thighs, adjusting you right back where he wants you.

“Are you gonna do it or are you just gonna stare?” you challenge, resting the side of your face on his mattress so you can look back at him. From your peripheral, you can see his meaty dick fill out to full attention until the base is grasped by his hand. He gives it a couple of healthy jacks. You’ve been prepping for this, you did a bunch of boring research and you stuck stuff up yourself to loosen the virgin muscle. Just because your little asshole hasn’t been fucked before, doesn’t mean you can’t make it as comfortable as possible for yourself.

He doesn’t waste any more time, bringing the flat of his fingers up to his mouth so he can spit. A fat gob of it drips down, and he gently brings it to your puckered hole, massaging the natural lube in. His callused thumb swipes up and down until it visibly relaxes, when he gets cheeky the tip of it dips in. If you could see his face right now, you’d see stars in his eyes and a slack jaw. You lean into his touch, stowing your nervousness and crossing your arms under your head. The cold air hits the moistened tissue, and you hiss. It’s nothing compared to the clumsy bump of his mushroom-shaped head, the velvety skin coming into contact. You suck in a breath just as he exhales a throaty groan, shoving the whole tip in in his enthusiasm. “Oh, fuck…” he drags out the curse, tipping his head back as his hips lazily chase the feeling. You whimper in turn, but there’s a pleasurable sting in your belly coursing through you from his reaction that acts as more than enough payment for your sacrifice. “For me, baby? This all for me?” he asks, and you nod even if he can’t see it.

“Mm-hmm,” you hum back, clutching tighter onto his sheets as more and more of him is introduced to the new hole.

Once again he bites down on his lower lip hard, inclining his great body to the side to lean on his fist, the mattress dipping with his weight. His other hand palms your tailbone, pushing you down onto his dick as he surges, forcing himself into your little asshole. It hurts, but it’s a different pain than the ache of your neglected pussy. Squeezing your eyes shut, you try to relax into the experience while he presses on. “You’re so- fucking- tight.” reverently, he sings your praises. His pre mixed with his spit helps to lube up the entry, but because it’s an entirely different feeling than what you’re used to, you’re not sure what change could help it feel better. It’s not bad, it’s just hard to wrap your head around. It’s probably because it’s your first time. “This your first?” He read your mind.

Once again, you can’t speak, so you nod and hum in confirmation. A grin breaks out onto his face, eyeing you with a dark hooded gaze as he laughs a little breathlessly… the kind that makes your knees go weak. “Yeah? Givin’ me your anal virginity? You want me or sum’n?” he taunts. At the sound of his assumption, he bottoms out, and all the air is pushed from your lungs in a keen. It’s a soreness in your stomach you can’t explain, but you don’t want him to stop.

@HANASNX 2025 | do not copy, plagiarize, or steal.

[idkwhatimdoinghere1655]

Shit, Sorry! - Charles Leclerc

<word count - 3628>

warnings: blood

Whoever invented the goggle games was a genius. To add to that, whoever's idea it was to make Charles and Carlos do goggle games was the smartest person to ever walk the earth. They were clearly very selfless too. Sharing that idea and making the Ferrari Boys do it in front of the cameras was just what the world needed to heal their souls.

You didn't want to ruin the recording with the cackles you were holding back as they flailed around, trying to play swingball after doing whatever the hell they were trying to accomplish before. It was very amusing, and you were glad to be asked to spectate as part of the Ferrari media team.

Why you were there, you didn't quite know, but you were glad to be there nonetheless. They were trying to coordinate with each other, but that quickly spiralled out of control as their competitive streaks took control, and they were just swinging for the fences to try and win.

The presenter was trying to help out Carlos, and she was looking out at the Ferrari personnel for someone to assist Charles. No one was stepping forward, so you took it upon yourself to help out the man from Monaco.

As you approached, you called out to him. "Charles, stop swinging, I'm here to help, OK?" you said, approaching him and putting a hand on his shoulder so he'd know what side you were on. 

"OK, OK, I am still," he said, putting his arms down so that the racket was down by his leg instead of hovering in the air.

"So I'm going to throw the ball, Carlos is going to hit it, and I'm going to help you hit it back, yeah?" you explained as he readied himself.

"Yeah, yeah, I've got it," he nodded, and you could only imagine how strange it looked from his angle. You threw the ball on the string in Carlos' direction, and he successively managed to hit it back towards you.

The next moments were all like slow-motion. Charles brought his hand up to hit the ball back, neither of which he could see. He did this without the help that you had offered, as you had not tugged his arm into position to hit the ball.

You tried to dodge his flying hand, but it was no use. It collided with your nose in a sickening crunch as you felt pain shoot through the entirety of your face. As your hands automatically came up to inspect the damage, you held them in front of your face as red spots of blood trickled down your skin.

"Fuck," you winced, trying to stop the blood with your hands as you watched it drop down onto the fake grass that you were stood on. You could tell by the way people were looking at you that it looked bad, and it felt horrendous.

Every time you moved your face you could feel the agony spreading beneath your skin as you fought back the tears that made your vision cloudy. "What happened? What did I hit?" Charles asked, slipping his goggles off from over his eyes.

He looked around at the people surrounding you, and followed their gazes over to you. You were doubled over, softly holding a tissue underneath your nose and you screwed your eyes shut, trying to ignore the pain. "Shit, Y/N, I am so sorry, are you alright?" he rambled, instantly feeling an overwhelming wave of guilt wash over him.

"Apart from the fact that I'm pretty sure you've broken my nose? Yeah, I'm doing swimmingly," you spat through gritted teeth. He placed a tentative hand on your shoulder, which you didn't much care about compared to the throbbing spreading from your nose to the rest of your face.

"Come on, I'll take you to the medical center," he said, taking some more tissues off a different team member to hand to you. You didn't want to be around him, even though you knew it wasn't his fault and it was an accident. The pain in your nose just fuelled you with anger towards the man from Monaco.

"Yeah, alright," you muttered as he gently pushed you with the hand that remained on your shoulder. No words were exchanged between the two of you, he didn't want to say anything to make it worse, and you couldn't guarantee you wouldn't call him some rather colourful names as a way to cope with the pain.

As soon as you arrived at the medial center, the people took one look at the tissues you were using to try and clog your nose, and the blood stains down your shirt and jeans and rushed you into a room.

Before you could protest, Charles followed you in, sitting in front the bed that was in there. "So what happened?" the doctor asked, tugging your blood-stained tissue holding hands away to inspect the damage.

There was still droplets of blood falling from your nose and onto your lap, but that was the least of your worries. Out of the corner of your eye, you saw the grimace on Charles' face as your nose was revealed. "Charles accidentally whacked me in the face with a swingball bat," you deadpanned as Charles avoided your gaze.

"I'll have to clean it up before I can actually see what the issue is, alright?" the doctor asked, unable to see past the dark red blood that had dried around your nose and had been smudged around with your tissues.

"Yeah, yeah," you nodded, the slow drips of blood tickling your upper lip.

"Take a seat for me, please," the doctor told you, as he went over to the cabinet in the corner of the room to take out some cotton wool and whatever other cleaning equipment he would require. You sat yourself down on the edge of the bed, as Charles stayed silent.

His leg bounced up and down, and he fiddled with the rings on his fingers. You could tell the guy was nervous, and you knew he felt bad. You felt slightly guilty for snapping at him, but you had to admit that you were still annoyed at him. Even if it was only slightly.

Every time he looked at you, he saw the mess that he had caused, and felt even worse about what he had done. He didn't mean to hurt you, he'd never want to hurt you, or anyone. But he had, and the least he could do was stay there with you, even if he could tell you were still irritated at him. He couldn't blame you, he would have been if the roles were reversed.

As the doctor very gently cleaned around your nose, Charles' heart broke a little more with every pained, sharp intake of breath you took when he got a little too close to the (at the least) bruised cartilage.

You instantly looked better, if you ignored the blood on your shirt and jeans. The damage fortunately wasn't as bad as first expected, the blood adding to the severity of the incident. "So I don't think it's broken, just very bruised," he explained, turning your head from side to side to take a look.

"But I have no doubt it feels like it's broken, it'll be very tender for a short while. You may also experience a few nosebleeds every now and then, more than a normal frequency. That's just your nose healing, but it will remain crooked," he continued.

Will remain crooked... shit. Not only had Charles injured you, but he had altered your physical appearance. Great. Brilliant. Positively splendid. He couldn't really tell the difference, he still thought you looked pretty as ever, but it was the fact that maybe other people would.

"OK, thank you," you said, unable to smile at the doctor because your face hurt too much. And you didn't really have any reason to smile. 

"You can go whenever you're ready," he smiled, leaving you and Charles away in the silence of the room, the tape on your nose already feeling itchy and tickly.

"I'm really sorry, I'm really fucking sorry," he broke the tension.

"Don't, it's not your fault, it was an accident," you dismissed, not wanting him to apologise.

"But I should've been more careful, I knew you were behind me," he said, the tape on your nose reminding him of the feeling when he made contact with your nose. 

"It's fine, Charles. I'm not annoyed at you. Well, not anymore," you lightly chuckled, trying to make him feel a little better.

"I'll drive you to your hotel, I'll tell whoever it is that you've gone back," he said, standing and offering a hand out to you. 

"You don't have to-"

"Please? It's the least I can do," Charles interrupted you, flashing his signature, dashing smile and staring at you with those green eyes that could make any girl melt. 

"OK, OK, let's go," you agreed, taking his hand and letting him take you through the paddock and out to the back.

The ride back to the hotel was quick, and silent. Charles knew that if you wanted to say something, then you would. He was also very aware of the fact that moving your face in any capacity would more than likely hurt your nose, and he didn't want to add to the pain he had already caused.

As soon as you walked into your room, you went to the bathroom to see what damage had been done. Thankfully, you were expecting worse when the doctor had said it would remain crooked. It was slightly, but you had only noticed because you had been told it was off centered.

It was swollen, and the red was transitioning into some deep shades of purples across the bridge of your nose. You saw the dark red stains down your scarlet Ferrari polo, and you knew you had to get it off as soon as you could.

"You know, you're lucky Charles. It isn't as bad as I thought it would be," you said, as Charles stood against one of the cabinets and watched your every move.

"Well I think you still look pretty," he said, and his comment caught you off guard for a moment, and he thankfully couldn't see the blush that coated your already flushed cheeks. It was a given that he was a handsome man, anyone with eyes could see that. But, he had called you pretty.

"Admiring your handiwork now, Leclerc?" you quipped out of nerves. Instead of just saying 'thank you', you randomly decided to tease him a little, make him sweat a bit.

"Hey, I think the crooked nose suits you, it's unique," he chuckled.

"If you want to be unique, I know a great guy. Charles Leclerc will whack you in the face with a swingball bat during a stupid game and you're sorted," you said as he laughed. You collected a different shirt from the wardrobe and a pair of comfortable leggings so that you could change out of your bloodstained clothing.

Disappearing into the bathroom again, you swiftly changed and went back out, to find Charles stood in the exact same spot as he was. "Can I get you anything?" he asked, wanting to be of as much help as he could be for you, since he was the reason you were in the way you were.

"You can go back to the track now, I don't mind." you shook your head, sitting down on the edge of the bed. You wished you could have gone back to the track so that you could just carry on with your day, but there was no way your boss would have let you, and neither would the migraine that was setting in.

The dull throbbing felt like it was coming in from the centre of your skull, as if it were trying to break out of your bones. You screwed your eyes closed for a minute as the adrenaline from the day wore off, and even the slightest movement of your eyes seemed to hurt. The light made it harder for you to keep your eyes open, and Charles was quick to notice.

He walked to the windows and the glass double doors that lead to the balcony, tugging the curtains shut so that it wasn't as bright in the room. "Any better?" He asked, sitting beside you on the edge of the bed.

"A bit, yeah. Thanks," you weakly smiled, the darkness instantly making you feel better, even if it was only slightly.

"You want a paracetamol? Ibuprofen? I can run to the store to get some if you don't have any," he offered, and you found the attentiveness endearing. It was nice to have someone care for you in such a capacity, even if it was just in an attempt to fix a problem they had been the cause of as much as they could.

"I don't have any, I think I left the box I had at the track," you said, even the process of thinking was making your headache slightly worse with every notion that ran through your mind.

"I'll be as quick as I can," he said without skipping a beat, standing and scooping his keys off the side.

"You really don't have to, I'll go in a bit," you said, not wanting to inconvenience him. You had already forgiven him, deciding that all of your anger had come in the moment and was fuelled by the pain you were feeling at the time.

"Look, I am looking after you until you can go back to the track and until you can go back to work, and I'm not taking no for an answer, got it?" He said, and you didn't find any point in trying to argue with him. He was very clearly a stubborn man, and there was no use in trying to stop him when he and his mind set on something.

"Fine," you huffed, crawling under the covers and burying your head into the soft white pillows. With a triumphant smirk, Charles walked straight out of the room, the door closing behind him. You didn't realise how long Charles had been gone for, since you fell asleep shortly after he had left.

The door softly clicked open and closed as he said your name, but it fell on deaf ears. He smiled to himself as he saw you fast asleep, completely peaceful and happy. He set his items down on the side, sitting in the chair in the corner of the room as to not disturb you.

He felt like a bit of a creep for watching you sleep, but he had his phone in his lap to make him look busy if you woke up and spotted him. After a short while, he spotted a small trickle of blood drip down your nose. For a moment, he panicked, but then he remembered that the doctor had said it was normal.

He didn't want it to stain the crisp, white pillow case, and he didn't want you to have to go through the hassle of changing again just because another shirt had been stained; ultimately because of him. Padding over to the bathroom, he secured a ball of tissue into his hand and approached you again.

He crouched down beside you, gentling dabbing the tissue under your nose. It felt like he was smearing it around more than he was cleaning it up, but the volume was becoming less. All he could hear was the softness of your breaths and the nervous pounding of his heart as it threatened to wake you.

You slightly moved your head, and he retracted his hand quickly. As you settled again, he went back to blotting the tiny droplets of blood. But just his luck, or lack of balance, Charles leant forward slightly and lost all sense of stability and fell forward, having no choice but to put his hands on the edge of the bed to steady himself.

You opened your eyes, seeing Charles grimace as you did. "Hey," you softly greeted as he put the tissue aside on the bedside table.

"I brought paracetamols and ibuprofen since I didn't know which you preferred, and I brought sweets, since I figured a bit of sugar could be good for you." He explained, nodding over to everything he had picked up while he was out.

"The roses for your girlfriend?" You asked, the large bouquet seeming rather out of place.

"Girlfriend? Oh, no, they're for you. As a small sorry," he sheepishly said, rubbing the back of his neck.

"Ah red, very apt," you smirked watching his eyes widen as he thought for a moment. You swore you could hear the cogs turning in his brain as he thought of what to say.

"Forza Ferrari?" he nervously giggled, but smiling made the dull thud in your brain worse.

"Touche, touche," you nodded, closing your eyes again. Charles retrieved you a glass of water and a couple paracetamols. "Thanks," you said, taking them off him and knocking back the water with the pills. It'd take some time for them to work, but it was worth it.

"Is my nose still bleeding or am I good?" you asked after spotting the blood-stained tissue on the bedside table.

"Not anymore, don't worry. Can I sit?" he responded, pointing at the small space on the edge of the bed beside you. You hummed in confirmation as he moved to sit beside you. He couldn't help but still feel guilty as he saw the state you were in, since it was his fault.

"I've got two things to ask of you, if that's alright," Charles said, unable to meet your eyes.

"Yeah?"

"Well the first one is, this is your free pass to whack me in the face as hard as you want, and I won't kick up a fuss or complain," he said, and you couldn't tell if he was having you on or if he was being completely serious.

"Really?"

"Really." he nodded, but you still didn't want to do it. Yes, he had permanently made your nose crooked, and he had caused you a great deal of pain over the past few hours, but you didn't want to make him suffer as well.

He had tried to make you feel better, and he had stayed with you, even when you told him he could go. And now he was asking you to offload your anger and exact your possible revenge on him. "No, Charles. That's not fair,"

"Neither is what I did to you," he quipped, "I am fully prepared to have a crooked nose too."

"I don't think you really want to be matching with me," you laughed, trying to imagine his picture perfect face with any slight impurity. But there was no way a crooked nose would make the one and only Charles Leclerc look bad.

"The crooked nose is cute, I think it'd be cool to match with you," he smiled, his words truly coming across as genuine.

"Well thank you, but I'm not going to do that to you," you said, and you'd feel unbelievably guilty if you had taken his offer up. If he had asked a couple of hours ago, you definitely would've given him a good slap, but now wasn't the same.

"Offer still stands, but now for number two. I would like to take you out for dinner, as a 'I'm really sorry, I fucked up, and I would like to make it up to you.'" he rambled, prepared for you to tease and make fun of his blushing and hesitation.

"You really don't have to," you said. It was sweet that he was asking to take you to dinner, but you didn't want him to just because he felt like it was his obligation to.

"But I want to, you deserve a nice night, and it'll be my treat," he continued, not wanting you to decline this offer.

"Then yes, I will go to dinner with you. I've already forgiven you, but I'll take dinner as collateral," you smirked, liking the idea of being treated for once. Life working for an F1 team was nothing short of fast paced, and when you were back at Maranello, you barely had enough time for yourself, let alone a significant other.

"And that is music to my ears. Well, maybe the fine tuned crunch of your cartilage, but you know," he chuckled, trying to make the most of the situation.

"So that's how you get so many women swooning over you, you damage them so then they'll never forget you. Now that is clever, Charles. Even for you," you laughed, and he wished he hadn't found it funny. He knew you didn't think he went around hurting women he liked, but he really hadn't given himself the best impression. 

"Yeah, yeah. Sure. So, how about after this weekend? In Maranello? There's this really sweet cafe that Carlos and I go to sometimes, they're open until really late and it's always dead past 4. It'll basically just be us," he explained.

You liked the privacy for two reasons: one was that the paparazzi wouldn't be able to hunt you down if you were somewhere that no one knew about. Two was that you could just enjoy Charles with no one else around. 

"This weekend in Maranello it is," you agreed, and the smile on his face was infectious. He couldn't help but grin. Somehow, he was taking the prettiest girl on the team to dinner, even after his moronic mistake that was fuelled by his unavoidable competitiveness.

He may have nearly broken your nose and permanently disfigured you, albeit only marginally, but he had still managed to make your heart soar. The world worked in mysterious ways, and who knew fate included goggle games gone wrong?

A/N - Rewatched this the other day and I just couldn't help myself! Bring back Charlos I am begging you, I miss my 'Rari boys. If you could give this a reblog, it would be greatly appreciated! Love y'all 💖

|masterlist|

[last-words-ofashootingstar]

Marry Me

➾In Which: Meeting your boyfriend for one last date to break the news — well, let's just say you should have sent a text instead and ran for the hills.

RATED X. MATURE AUDIENCES ONLY.

❥Jeong Yunho x fem reader

"Your efforts have been cute but I'm tired of it. Time to face reality."

♡'･ᴗ･'♡genre: yandere, dead dove 🪦

ಠ_ಠwarning/content: DARK FICTION. DARK DARK. DEAD DOVE FFR. 403 possessive yandere, 414 punishment, home invasion, kissing and non-con kissing, toxic relationship, extreme controlling behavior, reader described as shorter than yunho, alcohol but not enough to even be tipsy, if i can't have you no one can ahhh yunho, forced legal marriage, insults towards reader: unsubstantiated slut shaming + cheating accusations, violence towards reader: manhandling + slapping + yelling + threatening with a knife + implied baby trapping and nc (i am so very sorry but yunho is the worst yandere in ateez, i fully believe it). pet names: love, doll, sweetheart. semi-abrupt ending cause i couldn't make myself go that far

"You think I'm finished? Oh, that's cute... Your punishment hasn't even started yet."

➯a/n: anon who requested this woke something dormant up in my brain about yandere yunho 😵‍💫 i think he's the yandere i MIGHT start writing noncon with IF i ever decide to because i legit can't see it going any other way until reader has INSANE stockholm worse than hwa's baby... mans is fucking CRAZY and SCARY and i luv him

♡masterlist + navigation !♡

₊‧⁺stardust˖⋆ @sousydive @sunnysidesins @onyxmango @devilzliaison @ateezswonderland @queenofdumbfuckery @emilysecresy

18+. MINORS HIT THE ROAD.

─..★.─────

"Hey, doll," Yunho smiles as he walks up to the table.

Out on the restaurant patio, it's nice and breezy and it cools your nerves as you return his smile.

"Hey, Yunie," you crane your neck to look up at him as he bends down; cupping the side of your neck while giving you a gentle kiss.

"For me?" He points to the beer on the table as he pulls back.

"Mhm, it just got here, still cold," you nod, leaning back in your seat and taking a deep breath.

"You're so sweet, thank you," he takes the seat across from you, looking you up and down. "Is something wrong?"

"Hm? No," you shake your head quickly and wave him off, "I, uhm, I actually got some good news..."

"Really? What is it?" He asks before taking a sip; and you wait until he sets the glass down to speak. You think he might have choked if you didn't.

"You remember the position my boss recommended me for?"

His face drops slowly. Pressing his lips together, he nods slowly.

"They want me to take it-"

"No."

"Yunho, it's not up to you." You try to stand your ground, but your voice waivers.

"You'd have to move to the other side of the world!" His outburst gets the attention of a few fellow customers, and he slumps back in his chair; pulling his hat further down his face. "Have you even thought about this- the logistics? We'd be in two opposite time zones, when would we even be able to talk?"

You're quiet. Too quiet. Looking down at the table with something stuck on the tip of your tongue but you're afraid to say it.

"Sweetheart." He whispers as he leans forward, resting his arms on the table as he looks at you intently. "Don't fucking say what I think you're about to."

"I think we should break up."

You jump as he slams his hand on the table before quickly putting his face in his hands with a groan. "Fuck..."

"Yunho, I'm sorry..." You look down at your lap, "but it's- really, it's for the best. We can both spend more time furthering our careers and maybe in the future-"

"Are you kidding me?" He mumbles, hand over his mouth and looking at you with a barely contained storm of emotions in his eyes.

You avoid his gaze like it's the plague, bouncing your leg and holding your hands together tightly. "No. I'm serious. This is the last time we're going to see each other. I went to your apartment while you were at practice and got my things, and I left yours o-"

"Nope." He laughs, unhumorous. Like he's in shock. "No, sorry. Not happening."

"You can't just say 'no', this is the decision I'm making." You look at him for a moment with a glare before quickly look back down when you see his eyes locked on you like some sort of predator.

"Like fuck I can't, you said you were going to marry me one day. You said you wanted to have kids together." His voice is even, but it's laced with anger. He leans over the table and pinches your chin, making you look at him. "What happened to that, love?"

"I'm sorry, Y-"

He grabs your hands as you stand up, looking up at you intensely. "You can't just leave."

"Miss?" Both of your eyes snap to the elderly couple who's approached your table after hearing the ruckus. "Do you need some help?" The woman reaches towards you when Yunho stands quickly and pulls you to the other side of the table.

"She's fine. We're just having an argument, every couple does. Right, doll?"

You gulp as he rests his hands on your shoulders. Normally, in any other argument you had, you'd say yes. But this isn't something small like whose apartment to go back to or whether or not you should take birth control when he uses condoms anyway.

Thinking about that second one gives you pause.

It's like every little strange or controlling thing Yunho has ever said slams on top of you all at once; making your knees weak.

"...Yes." You squeak out, feeling his grip on your shoulders tighten.

"Let go of her, son," the older man steps forward, and Yunho only backs up.

"Sweetheart, seriously think about what you're doing. I love you like nobody else ever could, I want to share my life with you, please-"

You writhe out of his grasp, all but running to the woman; grabbing your purse from the table on the way. "Come on, dear, I'll take you to your car," she takes your hand quickly, rubbing your arm in a comforting manner as she guides you back into the restaurant to head for the front door.

Yunho can only watch, practically steaming with anger, as the man sizes him up. He's shorter, smaller. He could easily over power the old-timer. But people are starting to stare.

"Fuck," he groans, kicking a chair before taking off his hat and running a hand through his hair roughly. Already thinking of ways to make you stay when you've clearly made up your mind — for real this time.

You've never said those words. Break up. Not even when he made you just as angry as he is now when he snuck into your apartment and —

He takes a deep breath when the idea comes to him.

He knows how to make sure you realize that you don't get to leave him.

─..★.─────

Your tired and puffy eyes crack open as the bed shifts.

Then, they widen quickly as you catch the outline of Yunho's figure climbing on top of you. When you try to scream, he slams a hand over your mouth. "Shut up." He says shortly, silencing you as you feel something cold and sharp against your neck.

"This is all your fault. You're the one who broke our promises. I should kill you."

You feel the blade tilt against your delicate flesh, your eyes wide and begging; filling with tears quickly.

He's straddled over your hips, caging you against the mattress. He stripped the blanket away while you were asleep, leaving you in your large sleep shirt and panties. Suddenly feeling way too exposed even though he's not looking at you with anything besides anger.

He leans forward, nose to nose, "I'm going to move my hand. If you scream, I'm going to. Nod if you understand."

You nod. Quick and careful.

Taking a deep breath when he removes his hand, you tilt your head to the side to face away from him. "Y-"

"Me first." When you bite your trembling lip, he continues, "is there someone else?"

"What? No, no," you shake your head quickly, arms wrapping around your chest in an attempt to comfort yourself as his gaze burns through you.

"Are you lying?" He sneers as he grips the base of your scalp, making you yelp before you remember his threat and slam your lips together.

"Have you been slutting around behind my back? Is that why you were so damn insistent about your birth control? Hm? Answer me!" He drives the blade into the bed next to your head, making you jump to the side and grab at his other arm clumsily.

"No! No, Yunho! Wh- There's never been anyone else, I swear, I swear," you sniffle, looking up at him as your tears start sliding down your temples. "I swear, Yunie."

"You swear? Oh, you swear, do you? That's what you said about marrying me, too."

"I m-meant it," you sob as he yanks the blade from your bed; thinking you're its next target.

"Did you?" He yanks you up by the grip he has on the base of your skull, ignoring your cries as he drags you to your desk — where the only light in the room radiates from. "Sign it." He says simply as he shoves you into your chair.

You look away from him slowly, rubbing your sore scalp as you look at the paper.

CERTIFICATE OF MARRIAGE.

"Yunho..."

He raises his eyebrows, looking you up and down as he leans against the wall. "Sign it, doll."

"I br- but- I broke up wi-"

He pushes off the wall quickly and slaps you.

He slaps you so hard your ears ring. Your head snaps to the side. Your jaw drops. His hand is the size of your entire face.

"You say those words one more damn time..." He pants, throwing the knife onto the desk before slapping your other cheek; throwing your head in the opposite direction with a cry of pain. "I seriously fucking dare you. See what happens. I'm already mad, love. Your efforts have been cute, but I'm tired of it. Time to face reality. You belong to me. Sign the paper."

With a shaking hand, you pick up the pen quickly —

And you sign your name right next to his.

You drop the pen like it's burned you, staring at the paper for a moment before you look at him. He looks down at the paper and smiles, barely noticeable. "Good." He says before leaning and pressing his lips to yours roughly.

You stay there, stunned, until he pulls back — and slaps you. "Ow!" You scream. It hurts so much more the second time when your cheek is already sore and undoubtedly bruising.

"Say you're my wife."

"Wha-"

Slap! "Say it."

"I'm your wife..." You stare up at him, shivering, "Yunho, please, calm d-"

Slap! "Say you love me."

"I love you!" You yell as you push yourself back on the chair, getting caught almost effective immediately. "Please, stop-"

He wraps his hands up in your shirt and pulls you up, dragging you the few steps back to the bed and throwing you on it.

You fall onto your back and sniffle quietly, "t-thank you."

He laughs as he crawls back over you. "You think I'm finished? Oh, that's cute... Your punishment hasn't even started yet. You really think I'm going to go easy on you when you just broke my heart like that?"

Your heart falls into the depths of your uneasy stomach as he trails his hands up your waist. "You're my wife?" He arches an eyebrow, urging you.

"Yes," you nod, breath caught in your throat.

"And..." He leans over, mumbling against your lips, "you love me?"

"Yes."

"That's beautiful, sweetheart," he smiles a bit more before he bites at your lips. "I think I know what will make happy... What will make you stay."

Before you can tell him you've changed your mind, you'll stay as long as he never slaps you again because your entire face is sore now —

"A baby."

He slips his hands under your shirt, running them along your stomach. "Being a Mommy finally going to make you settle down? The Mommy to my babies?"

"Wai-"

"Yeah, it will~" He grins widely as he turns you to lay on your belly, shoving your face into the sheets as he speaks right into your ear, "and every time you look at them, you'll remember how much this fucking hurt."

─MARRY ME★.─────

[viperify]

Im late but congrats on the 1k mar!!

If possible can i get the dating booth?

I'm a Gryffindor with some Slytherin tendencies, a Virgo. I enjoy DADA and Potions. My ideal date would probably be walking around Hogsmeade and checking out clothing/accessory stores. A few character traits of mine are being an extroverted introvert (veryyy talkative with the right people), artistic, in love with fashion, and painfully observant.

You deserve this, im happy you've reached this point and I can't wait to see everything you'll write in the future! ❤️

1k celebration | ᴍᴀᴛᴛʜᴇᴏ ʀɪᴅᴅʟᴇ x ꜰ!ʀᴇᴀᴅᴇʀ

౨ৎ Shopping Date.

A/N: hi baby!!! thank u sm for requesting and ur sweet sweet words. ilysm!!! <333 so sorry for the long wait, I am trying to catch up, I promise!!!

Weak sun rays tickle your skin when you pull aside the curtains of your window, letting light flood your dorm.

It’s a beautiful Saturday morning in late spring—deer grazing at the edge of the forest, fog slowly but surely lifting itself from the ground.

Especially beautiful because Mattheo invited you to a trip to Hogsmeade—one of your favourite places to spend a free afternoon. Strolling through narrow streets, checking out the shops’ displays.

Obviously also trying on various new outfits, accessories, dresses of the finest fabrics which you’d never be able to afford—not at the moment, at least.

After lunch, Mattheo picks you up at your dorm, a smile spreading on his lips as he takes your hand in his, leading you away from the busy corridors and towards Hogsmeade. 

As usual, you first end up in Madam Malkin’s shop. Walking through shelf after shelf of newly arrived summer clothes.

By the time you have seen everything, a pile of clothes has gathered on Mattheo’s arms—but he doesn’t complain, not once.

Not even when you take your time trying on everything—and ask for his opinion on every single piece.

“That skirt looks gorgeous on you,” he says, eyes scanning over your figure, stopping briefly at the ruffled hem against your skin.

“You say that every time.” You reply, rolling your eyes at him as he takes a step closer to run his fingers over the fabric, pulling you in for a kiss.

His eyes soften, tone gentle and genuine. “Because I mean it. You look stunning in everything you wear, sweetheart.”

“You’re no good help, Matty.” You tease playfully, disappearing behind the curtains again.

Mattheo proudly carries your bags around, just so you have free hands to feel and try on anything you want.

You stop at one particular window, displaying a short, red dress—your favourite shade of red, too. You’ve felt over it countless times, even tried it on—but never bought it.

It’s made of a soft, silky fabric, flowing nicely and not too thick—perfect for a little summer evening date.

“You should get it, you know.” He mutters, taking a step forward to stand beside you, looking at you—recognizing the spark in your eyes you always have whenever you want something.

“Maybe some day.” You reply, turning to head to your last stop for the day—the Three Broomsticks.

And when the night gets long, perhaps a little bit too long, your friends joining in for a few drinks—you don’t even notice Mattheo slipping away for a few minutes.

But what you do notice? The smirk on his face for the rest of the night.

And when you wake up the next morning, you realise why.

A white box, wrapped with a ribbon, waiting for you. You recognize the brand immediately—one of the finest dressmakers in England—specifically the designer of the dress you’ve wanted for months.

When you open the lid, your fingers brush over the material—soft, silky—familiar.

You don’t hesitate, immediately knocking on Mattheo’s door.

As soon as the door opens, he sees the impossibly happy look on your face as you wrap your arms around his neck, kissing him.

And that’s how he knows it was all worth it.

thank you for reading! feel free to reblog and leave feedback <3

—

masterlist. | 1k celebration. <- event masterlist.

©2025 viperify. please do not copy, translate or claim my work as your own.

[bradleysass]

ally - @rosekillermicrofic - wc: 864

The first thing Evan notices is the smell.

Acrylic paint and something fruity—possibly watermelon—mix in the air like chaos and pride had a baby. The second thing is that the flat is way too quiet for what it smells like. No music, no TV, just the hum of summer heat coming through the cracked kitchen window.

Evan toes off his shoes and squints down the hallway.

“Barty?”

“In here!” comes the shout, echoing from their bedroom. There's a weird, wet-slapping noise like someone wrestling with a paintbrush and absolutely no effort to hide whatever disaster is going on.

Evan pushes the door open with the same energy one uses to check behind a horror movie shower curtain. And then he freezes.

Barty is standing in the middle of their room shirtless, arms lifted slightly away from his sides like he’s trying not to smudge anything. His entire chest has been transformed into a bisexual pride flag—pink, purple, and blue stripes smeared across his pale skin with suspiciously good blending. On one leg is the trans flag. His face has a rainbow like war paint under each eye, and one hand is currently halfway through painting the lesbian flag across his thigh.

They make eye contact.

Barty, wide-eyed and unapologetic, mid-paint-stroke.

Evan just blinks.

“…What the fuck is happening here?”

Barty doesn’t miss a beat. “What does it look like? I’m showing my support. I am an ally.”

Evan raises one hand to his mouth and rubs his bottom lip with his thumb, pouting ever so slightly like he’s trying to decide whether to laugh or walk right back out and pretend this didn’t happen. “Yeah, yeah, sure. But you’re also gay.”

Barty narrows his eyes. “Not just gay. I'm layered. Like a—like a queer onion.”

“A bisexual onion?”

“If you will,” Barty says, as he dips his brush into another blob of paint on a plate that Evan really hopes is not one of their good ones. “I contain multitudes.”

“You contain glitter on my sheets.”

“I’m doing this for the community,” Barty replies, solemnly, like he’s about to launch into a TED Talk. “Pride is about visibility. I am being very visible right now. You're welcome.”

Evan crosses the room slowly, avoiding paint tubes like landmines. He stops just in front of Barty and folds his arms. “You painted the lesbian flag on your leg.”

“I support lesbians.”

“You hit on a lesbian last week.”

“She was hot,” Barty shrugs. “I told her I respected her. I also told her 'Evan at home had better hands than she could ever dream of', so it’s fine. Balanced.”

Evan chokes on a laugh. “Is that what you said?”

“I did,” Barty says proudly. “She gave me her eyeliner brand as a peace offering. Look.”

He turns and reveals a black tube of something wedged between a rainbow pride boa and a half-full bottle of rosé on the dresser.

Evan lets out a long, drawn-out sigh. “You know, I came home thinking we might have dinner. Watch something. Be normal.”

“This is normal,” Barty says, placing a dramatic hand over his paint-slicked heart. “You date a man who has a very expressive artistic side and an unstable relationship with impulse control. You knew what this was.”

Evan tilts his head. “You have the trans flag on your leg.”

“I do.”

“Do you want to talk about that?”

Barty goes quiet for a second, the paintbrush hovering in mid-air.

“…Maybe later.”

Evan nods, the mood shifting a little in the way it always does when Barty lets him past the sarcasm and glitter.

Then Barty smirks. “Right now I want you to admit that I look fabulous.”

Evan steps forward again, lifting his hand to trace the edge of the pink stripe on Barty’s chest. The paint is still a bit tacky, and Evan tries not to think too hard about how good the colors look on him. How Barty’s always had a knack for making chaos look like art.

“You look like someone let a gay raccoon loose in a craft store.”

Barty grins, proud. “Thank you.”

“Wasn’t a compliment.”

“Yes, it was.”

“Alright, fine,” Evan says, stepping even closer, hands now resting on Barty’s waist, smearing a bit of purple onto his thumbs. “You look like a queer fever dream, and somehow I still want to kiss you.”

Barty raises an eyebrow. “Do it.”

“You’re covered in paint.”

“So?”

Evan leans in, pressing a kiss to the corner of Barty’s mouth. When he pulls back, there’s a smear of blue on his lips.

“Fuck,” he mutters, rubbing at it. “You’re lucky I love you.”

“I am lucky. I’m dating a beautiful, mildly judgmental man who lets me paint myself like a pride parade float.”

Evan sighs again, but there’s a softness to it now. “So. Do we wash this off or…?”

Barty shrugs. “We could go out like this.”

“I am not letting you into a restaurant with the lesbian flag on your thigh and nothing else.”

“Coward.”

“Degenerate.”

“Gay.”

Evan rolls his eyes, leans in, and kisses him again.

This time, he doesn't even try to wipe the paint away.

[terriblesoup]

That quiet moment

A/N: So yes, I am supposed to be on a break, every time I think I finally reached the bottom of the pit I find out I can still feel the sun's warm threats on my face so here you go, a distraction.

Synopsis: Sylus and his love married and she calls him her husband.

Tags: fluff, sfw, very cute(to my standards), very short.

Word count: 480. (Don't judge me it's all I could pull, sleep deprived)

The room was quiet but not still. Somewhere, a candle flickered on the nightstand, casting long golden shadows across the linen-draped walls and painting the room in a warm, honey-soft hush. The night curled itself around the windows, and the world outside had gone silent, save for the occasional rustle of wind brushing against the glass like a dream trying to come in.

She sat on his lap, knees tucked on either side of him, her forehead resting against his. Her laughter had softened now, melted into that familiar quiet only love could shape. Her hands, ever tender, cupped his face like she was holding a vow made flesh. With each kiss she pressed against his brow, his cheek, the tip of his nose, she whispered the word like a hymn, like a promise she had waited too long to speak aloud.

"My husband," she said against his temple, another kiss. "My husband," against the corner of his lips. "My husband," laid gently on the line of his jaw.

His chest rose slowly beneath her, as if he feared any sharper breath might shatter the moment. One of her hands drifted down, her fingers splayed across the steady thrum of his heart. The ring on her finger, uniquely crafted, ancient in design and hers alone, caught the light and gleamed like moonlight off still water. It rested there, on his chest, as if marking something sacred.

They spoke then. Not of tomorrow, not of plans or worries or the mundane things that clamor for attention in daylight. They spoke of the past, their pasts. The sharp edges and buried sorrows, the regrets.

He looked at her with that gaze that always softened her, always undid her, and said, "I’ve made mistakes. We both have. But the only thing I regret now is not marrying you sooner. So I could've heard you call me that sooner."

She smiled then, wide and warm, brushing her nose gently against his.

"No," she murmured. "From the moment you entered my heart, my mind decided it already. It whispered it every time I looked at you. My husband. Long before I ever said it out loud."

His breath hitched, just slightly. He turned his head to kiss her cheek, slow and sure. When he pulled back, his voice was velvet and gold.

"Then I look forward," he said, brushing a strand of hair from her face, "to when you call me the father of your children."

Her laugh came soft and full, a sound he would carry into every lifetime. She tucked her head into the crook of his neck, the weight of her love settled warmly into his arms. Their eyes, caught briefly in the candlelight, gleamed with the kind of tenderness that only comes when hearts are no longer afraid.

Outside, the wind pressed close against the windows again. But inside, they held each other. And that was enough.

Dividers by @uzmacchiato

[n3ptoonz]

'All That Jazz'

Pairing: Professor!Bucky/Professor!F!Reader

Fandom: MCU

Warnings/tags: Smut; Explicit, reader is older - as in like "same age" as him (like mid to late thirties), reader is a foreign theatre teacher; speaks a different language (unspecified), reader is like the complete opposite of bucky, guys i had so much fun writing this, plot, subtle tension, technically public sx, HEELS, freaked out lover boy, body worship, yes he's wearing the suit like in the picture above, light masochism- DAMN - not proofreading allat.

Word count: 3.7k+ ... hahaha 😅

i'm trying out aesthetics/decorated posts, don't mind me🙂‍↕️

italicize text in quotations means a different language is being spoken - pictures used are not depictions

did i get this idea when i saw that quote from sebastian saying when he saw women wear heels sometimes he'd think about what she looks like only wearing heels...? don't even worry bout that bruh-

Bucky has been teaching AP US History at NYU for about five years now and has never worked up the courage to talk to you for more than just a conversation about grades or the occasional gossip about students or staff. You were extroverted and smiley. It's taken a while to get used to people calling him James instead of Bucky, but he kind of looked forward to hearing you say it in your sweet, honey-like voice. Everyday since he's gotten the job and seen you in the halls, you've worn a different color/patterned hat and stylish outfit that hugged your form just right, often tied together with a scarf around the neck. It drove him a little crazy to say the least.

Sometimes his students would tease him and tell him to just go for it already, to which he just brushes off and playfully glares at them. And there was that one time he saw you strutting towards the elevator in a blazer and pencil skirt brought together by a pair of red pumps. For the rest of that day he could only think about how you looked with only those heels on...But anyway!

Today was a slow day of grading essays before the midterm. He was knee deep in assignments and just wanted to get it over with.

You are former broadway show runner that hailed from a different country and took up teaching a decade ago in New York City. You were always so sweet and kind to everyone you've met. Theatrical and eccentric in a good way. Your hair was always uniquely styled, a few gray strands that you wore proudly. Your accent was rich as the fabrics you wore and your smile was to die for. You took particular interest in the introverted James Bucky Barnes, as you had never met someone like him before. But you found that to be a good thing.

It wasn't abnormal for you to frequently visit his classroom whether he was teaching or not. Your students often teased you too about how often you went out of your way to go to a whole floor below yours just to see him.

Three light knocks came to the door of his classroom before you popped your head in. You beamed your typical smile at him with a small wave.

"Hello, James," you chimed. "I hope I am not intruding on your grading process?" you asked, still standing at the door.

Bucky looked up from the stack of essays he had been grading, slightly startled but pleased to see you standing at the doorway. He set down his pen and leaned back in his chair, offering you a small smile in return. "Hey, ah, no, not at all. I could use a break from these essays," he replied, gesturing to the pile on his desk. "What brings you in?"

"I was just thinking about the upcoming midterm and wanted to bounce some ideas off you," you explained, stepping further into the classroom. "But now that I said it out loud, it sounds...boring." you added and turned to him. "Perhaps an evening at the jazz bar down the road isn't too big of an ask?"

You looked at him with those bright, expressive eyes, your smile still playing at the corners of your lips. It was clear you had taken a liking to the reserved history professor, appreciating his quiet intensity and sharp mind. The students' teasing remarks about your frequent visits to his classroom only served to encourage you, showing you that your interest in him was not unnoticed or unwelcome.

Bucky raised an eyebrow at your suggestion, a hint of surprise flickering across his face before a slow, genuine smile spread across his lips. "An evening at the bar, huh? That does sound more interesting than grading these essays," he mused, glancing back at the stack of papers on his desk.

He folded his arms across his chest, leaning casually against the edge of his desk as he considered your offer. "I suppose I could stand to take a break from the academic world for a little while. There are a few things I've been wanting to discuss with you as well," he admitted, his blue eyes meeting yours.

Bucky knew he should probably keep things professional, but there was something about your open mindedness for life and eccentric charm that made him want to let his guard down, even if only a little.

"Tell you what, why don't we meet there around 7? I can finish up here and then join you for a drink and a chat," he proposed, already looking forward to spending more time in your company.

"Sounds perfect! I should be able to get a good amount of grading done in an hour and a half. Good call." you nodded and sauntered over to the door. "Goodbye for now. And don't even be a minute late." you playfully narrowed your eyes and pointed at him before you chuckled and left out the door; the sound of your heels receding down the hallway.

Bucky watched as you sauntered out of his classroom, your playful warning and the sound of her heels echoing in his ears. He couldn't help but chuckle softly to himself but also mutter something not-so-appropriate under his breath. He ran his hands over his face and scratched his beard in thought. Thoughts of you and wondering if he just completely missed that you essentially asked him out on a date after work. Huh.

Finally, after what felt like an eternity, the clock was at 6:50. Bucky gathered up the graded essays and put them away in a drawer, straightening his tie and grabbing his coat--burnt orange, like his suit--before heading out of the classroom. After the short elevator ride to the ground floor, he exited the building and spotted the bar just a short distance away.

You were already at the bar with a glass of wine and swaying to the music when he walked in and spotted you. You glanced in his direction as he approached, that familiar smile flashing at him again.

"James!" you chimed and gestured for him to sit down. "Thought you might stand me up." you added in a teasing way given that he was definitely a minute late.

"Wouldn't dream of it." he said as he sat down, ordering for himself before looking back at you. "So, what did you want to discuss about the upcoming midterm?" he asked in a genuinely curious tone. He figured he play it safe, but he couldn't help but notice now that you look a little different than earlier. You weren't wearing a hat or scarf, your dress shirt was three buttons loose at the top and your lipstick was touched up. You appeared more...laidback; inviting.

You hummed and swirled the wine in the glass after taking a sip. "This is a little embarrassing," you said with a small chuckle. "I was really just finding an excuse to come talk to you. My midterms are very different from other curricula as it pertains to materials and...well, I guess I didn't want to sound too forward inviting you out for drinks on a school night." you added as you took another sip of wine.

Bucky nodded and laughed to himself. So he was correct in assuming this was like a date. Noted.

He took a sip of his whiskey as it arrived, the smooth burn familiar and welcome. "Well, I'm glad you found an excuse to invite me out for drinks," he replied, his voice deep and sincere. "Doesn't bother me at all."

Bucky allowed his gaze to linger on you for a moment, taking in the sight of you with the top few buttons of your shirt undone and your lips touched with a fresh coat of lipstick. The look was inviting, alluring, and he found himself clouded once again. All the possibilities laid bare in his mind with you sitting right in front of him. Seldom an ounce of shame.

"We could make this like a regular thing." he continued. The words left his lips before he could process the proposition but you didn't look put off by it. Not even a little bit. Instead, you gave a considering look.

"Sounds like a plan." you said, cheers-ing with his glass and finishing your drink. You leaned on the counter and just looked at him, admiring his features.

"So what does free time usually look like for Professor Barnes?" you asked as you tapped the rim of the glass in idle rhythm. Bucky took another swig of liquid courage before answering.

"Well, as you can probably imagine, my free time is usually spent in the pursuit of knowledge and learning," he began, a hint of playful weariness in his voice. "But I enjoy just sitting in the quiet sometimes. Going for walks to clear the mess that is my mind for a while, some reading, all that jazz."

He paused before continuing, realizing his answer might've been dry or a downer. "Though I must admit, lately my free time has been taken over by thoughts of a certain charming professor from upstairs," he added, his pretty blue eyes locked with yours as a slow smile spread across his face.

Good save, Barnes.

You gave him a look of 'Oh, really?' written all over your face, no words needed as you finished the last of your wine before standing up and holding out your hand.

"Would you like to dance?" you proposed. Your tone was one of why the hell not? What do we have to lose? Bucky stared for a moment, chuckling to himself. He hasn't danced since 1943, it feels like. He wasn't one for the activity, let alone has he ever had the chance to share it like this with a beautiful, talented woman such as yourself. He followed suit and finished his glass before standing up and taking your hand, a small embarrassed smirk on his face. Your heart fluttered at the sight of his eyes crinkling with joy.

"Why the hell not?" he said, letting you lead the way to the floor littered with people dancing together to the song You'd Be So Nice To Come Home To sung live. In a strange way, it brought Bucky back. To a time he thought long forgotten. A time he wanted to forget. Yet being here with you was game changer for sure.

"I have to warn you, though. It's been a while and I'm not as light on my feet as I used to be." he continued with a sheepish laugh under his breath. You waved it off and held both of his hands.

"Not a problem. Let's start steady, just follow me." you said, moving with every other beat so it wasn't too fast for him. He caught on faster than he thought. He matched your moves and rhythm in record time. This was the first time in a while he genuinely smiled. His grin was so wide and his grip on your hands was grounding.

"Someone's a fast learner!" you chirped. "'Been a while' my ass."

Bucky laughed and twirled you in his hand, taking your hands again and letting the song take him over.

"What can I say? I finally have a proper partner." he said, spinning you again. His heart stopped for a second at his own words. Did he just say that?

This time you ended up pulled flush to his chest. Bucky looked down at you with light pink cheeks as he cleared his throat. Just realizing his palm was resting comfortably on the small of your back.

"I didn't- I meant like-"

"I know what you meant." you said with a head tilt and lightly patted his chest in reassurance. You were both panting from the surge of energy that suddenly hit you both during the song. His lips pulled into a short knowing smile. As the song was coming to an end, something clicked in his brain, like he was teleported back to 1942. He held you tighter and dipped you, his face hovering over yours as if it was just you two in the room. Your gasp wasn't missed when you clutched onto his shoulders. You looked up at him like he was crazy, but not in a bad way.

When he slowly brought you back up, he saw a bright young woman in her twenties. A girl he wanted to impress, maybe get some ice cream with later. A girl he just wanted to walk around the city and hold hands with. He would be in uniform and try to sound as cool as possible with soldier talk.

Nobody else dancing around them mattered. And he knew it couldn't be the one glass of whiskey he ordered because he can't get drunk. It was you.

Maybe it was always you.

Neither one of you has uttered a word in the last sixty seconds. Just staring and holding each other. He wanted to say something first but his mouth had gone dry. He blinked and he was brought back to the present. A woman that looked around his age giving him the same look he was probably giving her.

"We should head back." you said. You saw him blink a few more times, as if to snap out of his own thoughts before he reluctantly let you go. He rubbed the back of his neck and gestured towards the exit. He didn't have anything else to say, really. This kind of thing--all of it--was lost on him. It's not like he's never been in love before, but damn it he truly thought he forgot what that felt like. What it was. What it meant to him and what it would mean for anyone he might fall for again.

Perhaps he's being a little dramatic, right? That was your job!

It was a quiet walk back to school. The university building in immediate distance yet it felt a mile away. Bucky felt awkward. Like maybe he messed up somehow with his lover boy bullshit. He had hoped he didn't. And if he did, he'd do anything in his power to fix it.

You, on the other hand, were trying to compose yourself. The attraction you felt towards him was suffocating. The tension between you two given any time you were together could be sliced in half. Now? You couldn't breathe. And the faint cologne on his collar was never a help.

The elevator ride was no better. Close yet so far. You two could barely make eye contact.

Once at his classroom, you haven't a clue why you walked in. You stopped at the door, gripping the knob for dear life. Your muscles contracted with something you haven't felt in years. That familiar sensation in your chest that spread to the rest of your body. You watched him awkwardly walk over to his desk and move some papers around like he was reading something. You could tell now that he thought he did something wrong.

Bucky ran his hand over his beard and sighed before turning to you. "I, uh," he started, taking a few steps towards you with his hand in his pocket. "If I came on too strong..."

He was still talking when you closed the door behind you and walked over to him, a finger to his lips as you pushed him backwards to the whiteboard. He looked at you with a bit of surprise. Shocked at your boldness but also that you made it clear he didn't mistake anything.

You slid your finger from his lips to his jaw, urging him to lean forward to meet your lips. You gave him a simple kiss. You wanted to pull back and maybe make a witty remark about how nervous he was, but he was activated now. You only invited him in and he's moving like he owns the place.

His hands slid around your back to hold you closer than ever. His strong arms unyielding but safe. He even made sure his metal arm wasn't using as much pressure as his flesh one.

It didn't take long for the kiss to get heated. The wine on your tongue nearly as sweet as you. The whiskey on his almost just as intoxicating. You could feel his arousal pressing against your thigh through your skirt, practically screaming to be released from its confines. The serum running through his veins allowed him hold his breath longer than the average person. However, Earth to Bucky, she can't breathe!

He backed away with a soft pant. His eyes half-lidded while the sound of you catching your breath filled this corner of the classroom. He could only think about how you looked with only those heels on...

"You're beautiful." he said, the back of his hand caressing your cheekbone. His gaze by itself was consuming you whole. Part of your focus was your smeared lipstick on his lips and his arms holding you like you were married for years in every timeline.

Bucky kissed you again as he lifted you by your hips to carry you to his desk. Once you were sat down he started to undo your buttons with fervor. There went your shirt in three seconds tops. Then your skirt, which took longer because he loved how it looked sliding down those thighs along with your panties. He sucked marks onto your neck as the skirt hit the floor, leaving you completely bare after he unclipped your bra without missing a beat.

He didn't bother with your shoes and you wondered why. So, when you went to remove them he stopped you, looking you dead in the eyes.

"These stay on." he said, pressing a kiss to your knuckle. He crouched down before you and started to tail kisses up your legs--tip of the shoe first. "Tell me about your favorite play." he whispered against your foot and kept kissing. You shuddered and gripped his desk. The sight before you almost too much to bear.

You started on about your favorite play, when you saw it, where you saw it, how it made you feel. Occasionally pausing in between thoughts so you didn't lose them due to this man worshipping every inch of your body. Bucky gave a longer kiss to a birthmark, smiling to himself when you softly gasped.

Once he reached your thighs, he slowly pried them open but his eyes were on your face. Watching what he's doing right. The most bizarre thing was that he was still fully clothed. His bulge the most obvious thing in the room against those tight ass pants--that did wonders for his ass, by the way.

In the blink of in eye, your lips meet again, your legs wrap around him, and he's inside of you. He groaned and cursed like he took a bite from his favorite food of all time.

You could get lost in the pools of his irises. They were just so blue. James Barnes, akin to a siren without uttering a word.

He wanted to set a slow pace, he really did, but damn it girl he nearly slipped out several times because of how wet you were from him just admiring your legs and you looked butt ass naked in only heels. This wasn't some shit you'd get back home so definitely weren't going back anytime soon.

When your heel scraped his back a little bit, he moaned into your shoulder. Your eyes widened just a tad. Bucky was tucked securely inside of you, thrusting and humping you like he'd die if he stopped. You were half hazy, trying to keep down your own sounds of pleasure but you were aware enough to lift your leg and drag your heel on his clothed back again. He moaned louder, gripping your hips tighter.

"Please," he whispered desperately. "Oh, baby, I'm not ready to be a father."

You twitched underneath him and ran your fingers through his hair, the other hand scratching his back to hold yourself back. That unraveling feeling was rapidly approaching you were seeing stars. Your breaths irregular and your walls clamping down on him. Almost like you were telling him it was okay.

"Shit-" he hissed in response as his hand slid up your waist so he wouldn't lose his grip. The pace increased in an instant and his climax was drawing near too. You felt so good against him. Your skin. Your lips. Your silky walls. The messy, squelching sound that echoed off the walls was a song he'd have on repeat. He made love to you with everything he had. Everything that was mildly irritating him today went into every stroke.

Your heel scraped against him one more time, just a little harder by accident and he was gone. His limbs weakened but he pulled out in time. Quiet, weak whimpers coming from him. Something...Something about that alone got him so excited. Maybe it really felt like he was in the 40s again. It was like sneaking into somewhere he wasn't supposed to be and fucking where he wasn't supposed to with a dame he wasn't sure he was taking home.

Your climax hit you two seconds after; an array of praises and filthy words flying out of your mouth under your breath and in your native tongue. Your back arched upwards and your feet pointed, making the heel dig into his side for a second. You clenched your jaw so a string of moans didn't wake up the entire social studies department.

Bucky huffed a heavy breath and stood up straight. His hand taking yours and pulling you up to meet him chest to chest. Holding you once again so you wouldn't fall over. He kissed you on the forehead and rubbed your back in the places that the desk definitely left marks, but you didn't look tired though. You carefully pried him off of you and pushed him backwards towards his desk chair with just your index finger, sitting him down before crawling into his lap.

"The suit stays on."

[randomfandomswriting]

Mingi x Plus Size fem!Reader

When a secret crush on your friend leads to something more.

———

A/N: This came to me in a dream lol. I couldn’t help but think how Mingi would handle a bigger girl so I wanted to write something for us! (i am a bigger girl) So here it is! Please let me know what you think even if you’re Anon in my messages! and if you have any other one shot ideas (even fluff or angsty) im currently writing for Yunho/Mingi from Ateez and Yugyeom/Jackson/Mark from Got7… anyway i hope you enjoy!

Warnings: SMUT 18+ MDNI. unprotected sex (do not do this IRL this is fiction). Nothing too aggressive or rough, more passionate. in case it’s not clear: this is a work of FICTION.

Saturday night’s at Mingi’s apartment became a regular occurrence. It had been for months and tonight was no different. There were always snacks, drinks, and a good movie. The two of you would sit side by side and watch a familiar favorite and sometimes when feeling bold something new. You always looked forward to spending time with him, and if you were being honest you had a big crush on him. He didn’t seem to know, even though all your friends could figure it out. You wouldn’t dare tell him. How embarrassing would that be? To be rejected would mean things could or would change between you, and for now being his friend was good enough.

“That new girl at work asked me out.” He said sometime halfway through the movie, and your attention snapped to him. Watching as he put popcorn into his mouth.

“The one you were telling me about?” You ask. It had been a week or two since she started. Mingi told you all about how she’d follow him around the office and try to talk to him during lunch. He seemed unphased when he talked about it, but now it was interesting.

“Yeah.” He shrugged, placing the popcorn on his coffee table, “Tonight actually.” You felt your stomach churn.

“Oh” You managed throat going dry, sending you reaching for your drink, needing the alcohol to burn your throat so you didn’t say anything that sounded like a hint of jealousy. “Why didn’t you go? Can you still meet up with her? I can totally leave?”

He let out a short laugh, “Y/n, Saturday’s are our nights.”

You let out a short laugh too, your head spinning, “But Min… You could’ve skipped tonight if you wanted to go out with that girl… what does she look like anyway?”

He shrugged, “She has… blonde hair?” He furrowed his brows, “Honestly I don’t know… and besides that I didn’t want to go with her.”

You tried to mask the giant smile spreading across your lips, he clearly wasn’t interested in her, you tried to push, just to see. “Is she your type? Is she tall… thin? What color eyes?”

“Woah… I need to speak to my lawyer before an interrogation.” He chuckles, his deep voice rumbling. “I don’t like her.” he said, “She’s not my type.”

A silent cheer erupts inside of you, but now you have more questions. You’d seen girls who practically threw themselves at Mingi. He was handsome and tall. He was sweet and kind. You tried to think of a time he’d gone home with a girl, what she looked like, but you couldn’t think of one.

“What is your type?” You ask, the movie long forgotten though his eyes were fixed on the screen. He shook his head, a laugh escaping his lips again, his eyes moving over to you.

“God,” He sighs, “What's with you tonight?” his voice is playful so you don’t back track.

“I just thought about how I’ve never seen you with a girl… you never talk about it if you’re with them…”

“You don’t talk about guys you see…” He retorts, and you laugh.

“I don’t see guys.” You reply, finishing your glass of soju and reaching for the bottle.

“Why not?” He asks, you shrug taking a swing from your glass and looking back at him. You look for a lie, something so you don’t have to tell him because I like you stupid boy.

“I hate guys.” You muse, which isn’t a lie. He laughs. “Okay so now you.”

“I don’t see girls because the ones that throw themselves at me aren’t my type.” You raise your brows. Beautiful women have thrown themselves at him, you’ve seen it before, watched them flip their beautiful hair and flash pearly white grins. You let out another laugh, he had to be lying, you thought.

“So then what is Song Mingi’s type?” You ponder, and he blushes, your eyes widen. “Min!” You slap him playfully, “Is there something you want to tell me?” This whole time right in front of you it was clear, Mingi didn’t have a type of woman. He clearly liked men.

“You’re my type.” The words left his mouth casually, as he reached for the rest of the soju. You let out a short laugh, because, well, you were in shock. You watched as he finished off the soju. Your cheeks flushed more red, your skin burns hot. Maybe he was joking. He had to be right?

You hadn’t moved, you couldn’t even if you wanted to. You were frozen, and he made his way back. New bottle of soju in his hand. You just looked at him, and he took a few moments before looking at you.

“What?” He asked, “I- I don’t mean to make you uncomfortable.”

“I’m not.” you say quickly, “I’m not.”

“You’re the most silent I’ve ever heard.”

“I was just trying to see if you were joking.” He rolls his eyes, before they land on you.

“Why would I joke about that?” You sighed, maybe Mingi didn’t get it.

Growing up, in a bigger body meant things like that happened. You had to deal with people joking with you about dating or down right being disgusted by the idea. As you got older it became worse, with men wanting to keep you a secret, use you for sex, or meeting you and ghosting you soon after. That’s why you didn’t like to date. It was a mental torture.

“I just… I’m surprised.” You bring a hand over your face, “You’re just… You. and I’m me.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Mingi your a total babe.” You groan, “And I’m me.”

“You’re beautiful.” He snapped, “Every part of you. Including your sick little brain that tells you you’re not beautiful.” Your back to shock again, not to mention the butterflies he normally gave you felt more like giant birds. You had to pick your jaw up off the couch. “I like you. I’ve liked you for a while. And not just your looks either. Everything. You’re funny, smart, witty, kind… I just didn’t want to ruin our friendship, so since you don’t like me can we just please go back to watching the movie? We can forget I said anything, and just continue being friends.”

“And if I do like you?” The words leave your mouth faster than you can stop them, the soju giving you more courage that you would’ve had without it. He turns his head back toward you, now he’s in shock.

“Do you, really?” His brows furrow, and you hate how adorable he looks when confused. You nod, and watch as he closes the space between you, stopping to place his glass on the table, but his nose grazed yours. Your eyes flutter down and shut by the time his lips finally connect with yours, and it leaves you breathless. Still in shock it takes you a few seconds to take it in. The taste of soju on his tongue as it dips into your mouth leaves your head dizzy and your hands find his broad shoulders. Nails lightly digging into the fabric of his black t-shirt. His hands find the curves of your sides and more down to your hips, and though you usually hate it, you take comfort in the feeling of his big hands on you.

You had thought about what it would be like to kiss him for a while now, this was even better. He was good. He knew exactly how to move his lips and use his tongue, and you pulled him even closer to you, his body pressing against yours as your fingernails found the nape of his neck, gently running down his skin. He had done the same, daydreaming about kissing you, feeling your soft lips against his. He loved feeling your body, how soft you were in his hands, he loved feeling it when you even hugged him goodbye, this was heaven.

His hands moved up your curves fingers slipping under the hem of your shirt causing you to giggle, it tickled and you squirmed your lips parting from his.

“Is- Is that okay?” he asked and you nod, “We can stop if you want. Any time you want.”

“I don’t want you to stop.” You admit, blush creeping over your cheeks and he smirked, nudging you with his nose again, this time his fingers are hooking under your shirt, pulling it up over your head and you move to help him. Usually you’d feel like you needed to hide, but Mingi’s eyes on you made you want more of him. insecurity didn’t cross your mind as his lips met back with yours. He only lingered there for a few seconds, “You’re perfect.” he hums, his deep voice rolling out into your mouth making you move to kiss him. Your teeth gently nipping at his bottom lip, making him groan.

His lips only last there for a few more seconds before they’re moving down your neck and to your bare chest. His hands finding new places to grab and caress, your chest arching toward him involuntarily as he used his tongue to swipe against your warm skin. You couldn’t help but bite your bottom lip, his teeth sinking into the same spot he was kissing seconds ago. You moan as your body swells with heat. You notice the imbalance of clothes and reach to pull off his shirt, he moves to help you and clings back to your neck like two magnets snapping together. Your nails slide down his neck again, and over his shoulders and you can see the goosebumps that follow and he moans against your skin. You can feel him growing more and more hungry, his hands moving down your chest, a hand slipping under the waistband of your pants and between your thighs. You whimper your thighs parting to make room for him and his eyes find yours.

“So wet for me…” He rasps, “let me take you to my bedroom.” You nod rapidly, and he moves his hand to grab yours.

It’s a mad dash once you’re in there, your hands moving to his waistband as he moves to yours. He leans down to kiss you more, hungrier, sloppier than before. He gets your pants off and then his, before his big hands are back on you. He looks at you like a painting, and you’ve never felt more beautiful as his palms slowly move down your sides, every curve being caressed, his lips down your chest and stomach making you blush. He ends up on his knees in front of you and it makes your heart flutter to see his pretty eyes looking up at you. He looks so pretty on his knees, mouth ajar, lips swollen and pink, his tongue sweeping over them as he continues to admire every inch of you.

His fingers run up your legs and thighs and over the curves of your ass, where he gets a hand full and you giggle as his fingers hook into the waistband of your underwear, pulling them down. “Can I taste you?” He asks and you nod, blushing as he nods for you to sit on his bed. You sit back as he moves toward you, his lips finding your thighs, his hands hooking around and grabbing them apart, pulling you closer to his mouth. “I’ve dreamed about this.” He rasps as he begins to devour you.

One of your hands finds his hair, pushing it out of his face so you can see his pretty eyes, and he moans when your eyes meet his. His tongue laps at you, and he pushes further into you with his tongue as his fingers dig into your thighs holding you apart for him. He was good, and he was savoring the moment tasting you as he lapped at your arousal. His tongue moved up to your clit and his lips latched onto you making your moans falter into more of a cry, your head falling back onto the bed as you rolled your hips against his face. You couldn’t control yourself, and he was loving every second of being between your thick thighs. He was so vocal about it, his deep voice rumbled into you as he moaned and growled trying his best to keep you still. Your head is spinning when you feel a hand move from your thigh, and you can feel a long finger slipping into you easily, it makes you whimper and he adds another finger curling his fingers as he pumps them in and out of you.

“Mingi…” Your voice shakes as he continues to lap and suck on you, your orgasm starting to swell in the pit of your stomach, between his mouth and his fingers you weren’t able to hold it together. You were falling apart, your moans turning into squeaking whines, your voice shaking. He was hitting the right spot with his fingers and his tongue. He didn’t care to make a mess, burying his face between your legs, making sure he didn’t miss a beat in making you feel good.

“Come on, princess.” He growls, his fingers not stopping his relentless movements, “Cum in my mouth.” He rumbles and you didn’t have much of a choice, as you cried out a string of curses, your body shaking beneath him. Your vision was long gone as you squeezed your eyes shut your hands grasping for his bedsheets. He doesn’t stop his tongue, enjoying every last drop he can as you lay there your eyes closed.

“Fuck.” You breathe slowly pushing yourself up as he meets you halfway, red puffy lips still wet from you. You kiss him this time, sloppy, nasty, your tongue slipping into his mouth and when he returns his you suck on it, a hum from your throat. “My turn.” You pull away and he looks at you. Your hands reaching for the waistband of his sweatpants, you could tell he wasn’t wearing underwear, and it was confirmed as you pulled his long thick cock free. He’s hard already and you switch spots with him on the bed.

“I’ve dreamt about this…” He moans, as your hand wraps around him your eyes finding him as you lick a long wet line up his shaft, he bites his bottom lip, keeping his eyes on you. You stroke him slowly, using your saliva to keep him wet.

“Keep talking to me…” You say, “I want to hear how good I am.” You blink up at him before taking him into your mouth, just the tip at first.

“Keep those pretty eyes on me.” He rumbles, and you do as you use your tongue over his tip, swirling your saliva around him. “Take more, please.” He begs, and you oblige, stretching your mouth around him as he moans in a deep breathy voice, “So perfect.”

You start slowly, taking him as far back into your mouth as you can but making sure to pull all the way back. Your eyes still looking up at him as you take him further, into your throat, your eyes watering as you bob there, and he moans even louder. You moan too, around his length and the vibration makes him shudder. Watching his head fall back you take pride in it. You got him right where you want him and you take him until you gag but don’t pull off yet. You don’t dare as you bob your head more, and he growls a hand coming up into your hair, a tight grip on it as you suck in your cheeks pulling off him, your hands coming up to stroke him as you pull away, taking a breath his eyes finding yours.

You know you probably look rough, there’s saliva dripping from your lips, your eyeliner is definitely smudged from this or when he made you cum. But you’re watching Mingi lose control, his face red, his eyes fixated on you.

“You beautiful girl.” He rasps, and you wrap your lips around him again. His grip on your hair somehow grows tighter but he’s not pushing you, just holding you still. Then you feel his hips thrust up, his cock sliding into your throat easier now, and you moan around him. Your hands finding his bare thighs, your fingernails gently but firmly scraping into his skin as he fucks your mouth slowly. You’re expecting him to finish like this, you want him too, his brows furrowing as he lets deep moans roll from his throat. “Not like this.” He groans and you suck off him again, taking another breath he pulls you toward him, eagerly, his lips hungry.

“How do you want me?” You whimper, your lips still lingering on his. This ignited something feral in him.

“Turn around, grab that pillow… both of them…” You listen to him, following every instruction, “Under your hips, good.” You stick your ass out for him, without him asking and he growls at the sight of you, every single curve on display as you look back at him. A hand slaps your ass and you whimper and giggle moving your hips back towards him as he gets closer, lining himself up with you, and you brace yourself for him, your fingers curling into his sheets holding tight as he moves agonizingly slow into you. The stretch alone feels good, your mouth falling open as you moan. “So fucking good.” He groans, his palms gliding over your ass to your hips, grabbing tightly as he thrusts himself fully into you.

The feeling of him filling you is addicting, you need him to move but instead you grind back onto him, “Fuck.” You whimper, moving again. He lets you move, use him like a toy.

“Just like that.” He rasps, “Show me how good my cock makes you feel.” You throw it back harder, a little faster and you crave to hear him moaning more and more. His eyes admire the way your body moves, every jiggle and every bounce making him want more. You keep up a steady pace, the two of you just sounds of bodies crashing together and moans, whimpers, and growls. Your stamina starts to weaken as your stomach starts to flutter with the start of another orgasm, and you clench around him sloppily, sinking onto his cock until he takes over. His pace is relentless, energized, you don’t even move now, just trying to hold steady as he pounds into you. Your body trembles as he hits your spot and your brain gets foggy.

“fuck.” You cry, “Mingi…” you whine.

“C’mere. I want to watch you as you cum again.” He groans, and you hate the feeling of him sliding out of you, leaving you empty as you move over to face him, his hands scrambling for the pillows, “put these under your hips.” he instructs and you nod quickly moving them and he helps you into the perfect spot before slowly sinking into you, both of you letting out a shaking moan. He picks back up to the pace he was at, and you watch as his eyes fall shut, he uses his entire body to press against you as he grunts your hands reaching for his bare broad shoulders.

“Mingi—“ You cry, “I’m so close.” His hips slam into you faster, your words falling back into nonsense as one hand grips your hips, the other moving to your clit making your legs shake as both motions make your orgasm start to peak. Before you can feel him twitch inside of you, his own words become a deep growl as he releases inside of you. You followed behind, your eyes tearing as you cried out. Your body jerks away from him as your brain turns into mush, your body on fire as you continue to tremble beneath him. He stays inside of you, and you don’t want him to go yet as he leans toward you, his lips kissing yours lazily.

“Fuck.” He groans, and you nod in agreement.

“Yeah.” You breathe heavily, he slowly slides out of you, the two of you gasp in response. He doesn’t go far, immediately cuddling into your side, head nuzzling into the crook of your neck. His lips pressing against your skin, his hand coming up to turn your face toward him. “You’ve daydreamed about this?” You smirk, his nose nudging yours as he smirks nodding, suddenly sheepish.

“It was better than I’d imagined.” He grins. You laugh and shake your head before kissing him again.

“You should’ve told me…” He sighs. “We could’ve done this sooner.” You giggle again.

“Better late than never.” You shrug and he laughs now too. He sits up, and looks down at you with a smile on his lips. He looks so pretty now too, even with swollen lips and messy hair.

“Okay perfect girl, let’s get you cleaned up and get some food… and then we can do this again.” You let out a laugh as he puts his hands out to you, helping you up.

“We have all the time in the world now.” You smile, and he does too.

“I’m not wasting anymore.” He smiles before pulling you up with him.

[vivwritesfics]

Drive Me Crazy

Chapter Four

Max and Charles aren't exactly a pack. But they want to be, especially when the half feral little werewolf starts driving in Carlos's place after an injury. Unfortunately, things aren't always that simple

Lestappen X Reader Werewolf AU

Chapter One Chapter Two Chapter Three

"You're okay, Beastie. You did good."

It hadn't been an easy race for either Ferrari driver. You and Charles had both struggled, through no fault of your own, during the race. The strategy was shit and the car struggled on track.

"You're okay, Beastie," your handler said, combing her fingers through your hair. "You can stop now. You can breathe."

She was trying to calm you down, Charles realised as he watched you.

Beastie. What an awful nickname, simply awful. Charles watched as your handler handed you earbuds. Your hands shook as you placed them into your ears, a whimper leaving your lips.

Beastie. You weren't a beast. Charles could see it, and he was sure that everybody else could see it, too. You weren't a beast; you just wanted to be free.

He strode across the garage, strode over to you. "What're you listening to?" He asked, his voice soft.

A whimper left your lips and you clawed at your shock collar. "Woah, woah," he whispered and grabbed a hold of your hands, stopping you from hurting yourself. "You're okay, Birdy."

Birdy. Charles wasn't very sure where it came from, but it felt right. It suited you. Birdy. You just wanted to be free. Free as a bird. Another noise left your lips, one that Charles was unable to place. "Wanna tell me what you're listening to?" He asked and pushed your hair out of your face.

You wouldn't answer. Charles knew this, he wasn't expect you to open your mouth to answer, but to somehow communicate it to him. Maybe pull your earbud from your ear and offer it too him instead.

Your handler stepped forward. "She discovered your music last night," she said and nodded to Charles. "She finds it's calming, so I thought it might help take her out of 'Race Space'."

"Race Space?"

Race Space. The headspace you went into as soon as you were in the car. It left you acting on instinct, going for every gap and having no self preservation. It would have been terrifying to watch, if you had anybody that cared about you."

"She likes my music?" Charles couldn't stop himself from answering as he looked at you. You liked his music. At that very moment, you were listening to his music. "Birdy," he whispered, unable to stop himself from grinning.

Charles couldn't help but think about it for the next few hours. As he flew back to Monaco, sharing a jet with Pierre. Maybe one day you could share a jet with them, too. But you weren't in the position for a private jet yet. Once you were a proper driver, no longer driving in the place of an injured Carlos, Charles would take you everywhere in his private yet, he decided.

And then you'd be flying. As free as a bird.

"You're attached," Max said as he watched Charles.

Sitting at the piano, Charles couldn't stop himself from thinking about you. He pressed a couple of the keys, no song really coming from it. "I am," he confirmed, giving a small nod. "I really am, Max."

Max released a sigh as he walked over. He slipped onto the bench beside Charles and wrapped his arms around him. "What're we gonna do about it?" He asked.

"I don't know, Max," Charles answered through a sigh. "I really don't know."

***

Home. A small room with several locks on the door to keep people safe from you. Locked in, Charles's music playing on a loop. This was better, you knew. You locked away from the rest of the world.

Birdy.

You had been a beast for so long that Birdy felt weird. Weird, but not exactly wrong. Birdy, because you wanted to fly away and be free. Birdy was fitting, you realised.

Birdy.

You liked it. Really liked it. Far better than Beasty. A beast was what you had been turned into, not what you wanted to be. You were never supposed to be a beast and you no longer wanted to be one.

Birdy.

The music stopped and you released a whimper. Tapping at the iPod screen, you got the music playing again, the piano filling the room. Your eyes closed as you laid back on your bed, holding your pillow against your chest.

Charles was nice. He was real nice, in a way nobody but your handler had been before. Why had you tried to bite him? Why had you acted out like that? But, still, he was sweet to you. Sweet, even after you had attempted to attack him.

You wouldn't, not again. You wouldn't attack the next time he was nice to you. It was easy to picture it in your mind, your muzzle removed as you hugged Charles, nuzzling yourself against his chest. But you were looking at it through rose coloured glasses.

It wouldn't be as simple as not attacking and you knew that. The reaction was involuntary: You couldn't help it. Couldn't stop yourself from lashing out and trying to hurt him. 

You couldn't wait for the next race weekend. 

"Birdy," you whispered to yourself and started his music again. "Birdy. Birdy. Birdy." 

You didn't have to wait long, just a week. That week you spent training, in the gym, listening to your trainer like an obedient dog. When she said run, you ran. When she said lift, you lifted. 

There was just one reason why you didn't like the gym. It allowed you to let out your aggression in a way that stopped anybody from getting hurt. But the collar around your neck and the muzzle attached to your face made the gym uncomfortable, skin beneath them prickling. 

On the Tuesday, you flew to Miami. You were sedated for the entirety of the flight. It didn't take away your fear, just stopped you from acting on it. 

You woke up in the taxi on your way to the hotel. How disorienting it was, to suddenly regain conscious in a different part of the world, so similar to your home, yet somehow different. 

You panicked. Not enough to hurt anybody in the car with you. But your nails dug into your palms, pressing deep enough to draw blood.

"Enough of that, Beasty," your handler commented and patted your knee. Maybe she was trying to give you comfort. Whatever it was, it didn't help.

She got you into the hotel, her grip on your sleeve acting as a leash. As soon as she had your key (she always kept your room key. It was almost a threat: If you left you couldn't get back in), she led you to the stairs. 

No lifts, you were too feral for that. They were too much like cages, and you didn't do cages. 

“Rest, little Beast,” she said as you placed your bags in your room. Rest. You've done enough resting already. You didn't need anymore rest. “I'll come get you in the morning.”

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