#but she’s fragile and insecure too | Explore Tumblr posts and blogs

push-the-heartbrake · 4 months ago

Text

𝙄 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙣𝙖 𝘽𝙚 𝙔𝙤𝙪𝙧𝙨 // 𝙎.𝙍

Second instalment | Series masterlist

Summary: “Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.” — or the one where Spencer finds in himself his first serious relationship and must navigate intimacy for the first time too.

Pairing: Spencer Reid x Fem! Reader (she/her)

Word count: 14.2k

Warnings: 18+ Minors DNI ♡ Virgin!Spencer, dry humping, Spencer cums in his pants bc why not, fingering (f! receiving), some insecurities and sex used as a coping mechanism mentioned but otherwise very fluffy.

A/N: Happy (belated) Valentine! Set in the same universe as THIS, so go read that first if you want to know more about how they met and their dynamic. English is not my first language and please tell me what you think? That's all for now ♡

The early morning light seeped through the heavy curtains—thick and dark, softening the edges of the dawn—yet still, the light found its way, spilling in through the gaps, casting pale, golden shadows across the unmade bed. You stirred beneath the weight of the blanket, tangled around your bare legs, drifting in that fragile space between slumber and waking. The air was cold—the kind of raw, unrelenting cold only January could bring—lingering in the room, palpable even beneath the warmth of the sheets.

Sheets. They were Spencer’s dark green sheets.

You stretched, finally waking up. The room was filled with nothing but the low hum of the radiator and the audible breaths from the man beside you. The world outside is still asleep. Soon, car engines would rumble to life, footsteps would slap against wet pavement, and the sky would brighten into daylight. But for now, your tired eyes had nothing else to focus on but his steady breathing.

You shifted onto your side, the mattress dipping slightly beneath your weight. Spencer was lying there, still soundly asleep. His hair was a mess as it fell over his forehead, lips parted with the slow rhythm of his breath. Your heart did a… thing—an erratic, fluttering thing that Spencer would probably have a precise physiological explanation for. To you, it was just nerve-wracking. You wanted to reach out, to brush the hair from his face, to trace the line of his jaw, to simply exist closer. Alas, a small space remained between you, as if you’d drifted apart in the night. Cuddling wasn’t off-limits, but whatever was unfolding between you two was still new.

So new that it was scary for you both.

New in the sense that touches didn’t come instinctively, that words didn’t fall from your lips without second-guessing yourself—that every. single. advance. felt like a make-or-break moment.

Like—whoops—you kissed him too hard, too long, and now he was going to think that all you wanted was to sleep with him.

You didn’t. Or you did, but it wasn’t why you liked him.

You liked that he was smart, that he could ramble on for hours just like you could—except he usually made more sense. You liked that he was sensitive, that it felt like you could tell him anything (even though you never did). You liked that he was observant, that he noticed the small things most people overlooked. Like how he’d bring you dinner from your favorite restaurant during your evening shifts at the library. How he’d carry your bag on the way home because bringing work home with you meant lugging around a fuck-ton of books. How he knew you liked honey in your tea but couldn’t stand when it was substituted with sugar. The little things.

That he was stupidly attractive and that you had raging hormones inside of you truly came second to all of that.

Right on cue, Spencer’s eyes fluttered open, pulling you from your train of thought. With tired movements, he stirred around in bed, finally finding you to look at.

Your heart clenched at the sight of him.

“Your hair is getting long, Spence,” you mumbled, your voice gruff from not having spoken yet today.

Spencer’s lips pressed together in a small, sleepy frown as he blinked at you in slow, uncoordinated intervals. His hand moved from underneath the blanket to softly tug backwards at the hair that hung before his eyes.

He’d gone from being terrified of you seeing him shirtless to almost always sleeping without wearing anything on his upper body. You heard yourself sigh at the view of his exposed neck and collarbones as the covers slipped down. His skin looked so soft. You knew that it was. Yet it wasn’t just yours to touch. You didn’t dare to.

Flipping onto your stomach, you smushed your face into the pillow, breathing in the scent of the laundry detergent he used. A simple, clean, and understated scent that went up your nostrils and clouded your brain like it was a fucking drug.

You saw in your periphery how Spencer rested his hand next to your face on the mattress, casually with his palm flat against it. It almost tickled in your fingers, wanting to reach out and touch him.

A sound slipped from him, something between a sigh and a groan, low and strained. He shifted, but not closer. His hand twitched against the mattress, fingers flexing once before going still. Freezing, almost.

Your brows furrowed. “Why do you look so uncomfortable?”

“No, uhm—”

You pushed up slightly, watching his expression. “Spencer, is something wrong?”

“Stop talking, please,” he muttered, eyes squeezed shut.

You blinked at his sudden plea, concern creeping in just as he bolted upright, sheets falling from his body and landing messily on the bed again.

“I need to go to the bathroom,” he announced.

You propped yourself up on your elbows, brows drawing together. “That’s all?”

Spencer didn’t answer immediately. Instead, his hand shot out, grabbing his pillow with a clumsy sort of urgency. He held it in front of himself, almost like a shield.

Your gaze flickered between him and the pillow, realization hitting like a slow burn. “You’re taking your pillow to the bathroom—oh!”

Heat flooded your face as the truth settled. A grin threatened to pull at your lips, but you bit down on it, trying to keep your expression neutral. Spencer’s back went impossibly straighter, his grip on the pillow tightening like it had betrayed him. You fought the urge to tease him. His entire body radiated embarrassment, his cheeks a deep shade of red, and for all the things Spencer was—brilliant, logical, analytical—he was also so deeply, painfully shy about certain things.

Morning wood was a normal phenomenon. You knew that Spencer knew that. In a weird way, you felt a sense of pride because of it. It had happened while he was sleeping next to you. Sure, it was an involuntary response many times. But Spencer had also literally asked you to stop talking because you affected him. Didn’t make it any less mortifying for him, though.

“Spencer, you don’t have to be embarrassed,” you said gently.

He didn’t respond. Instead, he all but rushed into the bathroom, shutting the door with a sharp, definitive click.

You exhaled a quiet chuckle, shaking your head, falling back onto the mattress. “Did you just lock the door?”

From inside the bathroom, you could hear rattling. His voice came, muffled but unmistakably miserable. “Can we please forget that this ever happened?”

“I mean, yeah we could do that. Or we could talk about it like adults.”

Silence.

Your lips formed into a grin.

“Are you at least taking care of it in there?”

More silence.

Then, finally, a defeated, “I’m—I’m gonna wait it out.”

You couldn’t help the small laugh that bubbled up, rolling onto your side to cuddle back into the covers. “Suit yourself.”

A few minutes passed before the door creaked open again. Spencer hesitated in the hallway outside his bedroom, looking both exhausted and like he wanted to disappear. His face was still a little pink, his hair a mess from sleep and, presumably, from pressing his forehead against the cool tile of the bathroom wall. The pillow was no longer needed as a shield. No imprint could be seen through the flannel of his pajama pants, because of course, you looked.

You tilted your head, your smile softening. “Over now?”

“I need to get to work,” he said, rubbing a hand over his face. “But we’ll talk about it later, okay?”

You sat up fully, resting against the headboard, watching as he moved toward his dresser, already reaching for a change of clothes. “You’ll get a case and be gone for a week,” you pointed out. “I know how this works.”

His hands stilled for a moment.

“So,” you continued, “can I talk while you get ready?”

Spencer hesitated, then gave a slow nod. He kept his focus on his dresser as he changed out his sleepwear for his everyday attire.

You took a breath. “I know that we’ve… experienced different things—”

“I haven’t experienced anything,” Spencer cut you off.

“You made out with Lila Archer in a pool. That’s something.”

He huffed, throwing you a look over his shoulder.

“Okay. Low blow. I’m sorry for that.”

One drunken night out with the team (well, sober for you and Spencer), and you had found out so many things about Spencer that he probably would’ve never told you himself.

You sort of knew to not make fun of him because of his lack of experience, but you also had this thing where your brain just said the first thing it could think of in every goddamned situation. It got you in trouble, but in this case it almost felt necessary to show him how casual a conversation about intimacy could be.

You kicked the covers off of your legs and sat on the edge of the bed before you continued talking. “We’ve lived different lives, done different things, but if we want to figure us out together, then we have to talk about the sexual stuff too—”

“But I don’t know how,” Spencer pointed out, walking around the room to face you, standing so close but not close enough. A few inches forward and his legs would be touching yours.

You sighed. “I’m not saying we do it all right now. I guess I’m more asking how you feel about it. If you can explain it without running off to hide the next time you wake up with a boner?”

Spencer’s face twisted at your direct use of words, and you could easily spot it. All for being casual… when your crude words might actually do more harm than good.

He sat down next to you, still half-dressed with a button-up shirt undone and his tie in a tight grip in his hand.

“I don’t take opportunities,” he simply stated.

You frowned in confusion. “Yeah, you do.”

He hadn’t reached his level of success without recognizing opportunities and pursuing them. His intellect alone wouldn’t have guaranteed anything. He had to view the world as something to learn from, to make something good or at least knowledgeable from it, which he had in your eyes.

“No,” he corrected, turning slightly. “I mean, like social ones. I don’t put myself out there. And now I’m a grown man with no experience. That feels wrong.”

“Wrong in what way?”

Spencer’s jaw clenched as he swallowed, his gaze dropping to where your hands rested in your lap. He exhaled, his fingers curling against his palm. “It feels like I should’ve just gotten drunk in college and gotten it over with.”

A surprised snort came from you before you could stop it. “Spencer, you were a child when you went to college.”

He huffed out a quiet laugh. “Yeah,” he admitted, “the first time.”

You shook your head, smile lingering. “Well, you still shouldn’t have done anything you weren’t comfortable with. And if you aren’t comfortable now either, that’s fine. But please, talk to me about it before you push me away.”

Spencer’s fingers flexed once before he reached for your hand, threading his fingers through yours. You liked when he was the one to initiate contact because that meant you weren’t crossing any of his boundaries.

“I don’t want to push you away. I’ve just never felt this way before,” he murmured, voice hesitant. His grip on your hand tightened slightly. “And it scares me. Honestly. But the idea of never moving past this, of never trying for something more… that scares me even more.”

You squeezed his hand in return.

“Okay. That’s good for me to know. We can work with that.”

You hadn’t realized how tense the mood was until you saw Spencer visibly relax at your words, his shoulders slouching down as he let go of your hand to start buttoning his shirt.

“I guess I should get ready too,” you murmured.

Before your legs could even hit the floor, Spencer’s palm pressed against your bare thigh, his touch gentle but firm, halting you in place.

“You know you don’t have to leave just because I am,” he said. His gaze, soft and lingering, traced over your face. “You’re allowed to stay. Sleep some more. You’re working the night shift, right?”

You hummed in confirmation, only focused on the warmth from his hand spreading through to your skin, creating a ball of fire in your stomach. Your little sleep shorts did nothing to cover the skin he was touching. He probably wasn’t even aware of how he was affecting you, seeing the contact as simply innocent.

“Mhm, so stay,” he urged. “There’s stuff in the fridge to make breakfast.”

Spencer shifted, scanning the dimly lit room until he spotted his bag on the floor. Leaning over the side of the bed, he rummaged through it before pulling out his keys. With a small jingle, he dangled them in front of you.

“I’ll leave you my home keys. Lock when you leave and throw them in my mail slot.”

Your fingers closed around them, the metal cool against your palm. He had a little keychain with the Las Vegas welcome sign. That the sweetest man you’d ever met was from Sin City was still a juxtaposition you almost couldn’t believe.

“Spence?”

He tilted his head, looking at you musingly.

You smiled, your fingers treading to tug lightly on the sleeve of his shirt.

“Kiss me before you go.”

For a second, he just sat there.

Then, slowly, the bed dipped as he braced himself against the mattress, his palm planting next to your waist. His nose brushed yours, and the warmth of his breath ghosted against your lips. There was a pause—a heartbeat—before he closed the space between you.

He kissed you, soft and hesitant at first.

If you asked Spencer, he probably knew the exact amount of kisses you’d shared. Or he could at least calculate some sort of estimated number. You just knew that it was still a new, almost paralyzing feeling for you. You couldn’t even begin to fathom the nerves that he was feeling.

But when you kissed him back with more intent, when your fingers curled lightly into the fabric of his shirt, you felt it. The way he melted, just a little.

When he pulled back, his forehead lingered against yours, breath unsteady.

Neither of you spoke. You didn’t need to.

Then, with a reluctant sigh, he straightened, stepping back to finish getting ready. You crawled back beneath the covers, letting your head hit the pillow once again.

You watched him with quiet amusement as he pulled on a sweater, smoothing it down with precise, almost methodical movements. His hands moved quickly—buttoning his cuffs, slipping on his watch—but there was an unspoken hesitation in the air, something that made him pause every so often.

“You’re staring,” you pointed out.

He huffed a small breath through his nose, shaking his head as he picked up his bag. “I’m… acknowledging.”

You raised a brow. “Acknowledging what?”

Spencer didn’t answer. He simply smiled and swung the strap of his messenger bag over his shoulder, adjusting it absently before making his way to the front door. Just as his fingers curled around the handle, he hesitated.

And then, slowly, he turned back.

You were still in his bed, tangled in the sheets, looking entirely at home. He almost wanted to laugh at how it made him feel, seeing your bare foot stick out or how your hair was a little messy from sleep.

Spencer wished he understood why his heart did a… thing every time he looked at you. The thing, where it felt like it was doing somersaults around in his ribcage.

He swallowed, forcing himself to speak. “I don’t do this,” he admitted. “I don’t casually wake up with someone and… feel okay about leaving.”

You smiled, smushing your cheek against the pillow. “You’re not leaving. You’re going to work.”

“You don’t mind me rushing out?”

“I love having a big bed all to myself. Go to work, genius. I’m a phone call away.”

Spencer’s grip on his bedroom door tightened before he finally turned to leave. He stepped into the hallway but couldn’t help himself—one last glance. One last look at you in his bed, at the imprint he had left beside you, at the way you had settled into his space so effortlessly.

As he walked to the train station, a pep in his step, he had the time to reflect on what had actually happened this morning and how it was something that he had never actually experienced before.

Someone else seeing him aroused.

And his stupid inability to talk about sex. Well, he’d had to do it for a few different cases. But that was objective facts about the human psyche and sexuality as a concept. This was as subjective as it could be. It was literally about his own… penis.

His inability to have sex was an even worse subject for him to think about. Inability was maybe the wrong word. Was it more about how he hadn’t wanted to?

You were right, though. He hadn’t seen the point in doing it in college, not because he was emotionless and only focused on his studies and career, but because if he had done it, it wouldn’t have been meaningful. He needed sex to be meaningful to serve the purpose he felt like it would have in his life.

It’d be pointless for him to have pointless sex. That was clear, and still true.

But then you’d stormed into his life with your unapologetic way of being—your sharp wit and easy laughter. You had your own layers he had yet to peel back, but it didn’t scare him as much as it did excite him to know you that way. You, with your warmth and your patience, with the way you made him feel wanted without expectation, like he wasn’t some puzzle missing too many pieces to be worth solving.

And you were the furthest thing from pointless to him. Intimacy with you didn’t feel like something to analyze or rationalize. It felt like something to want.

Life felt futile without a sense of contribution, without the feeling that his experiences grew with him rather than passing by like scenery outside the window of a bus. The people around him changed, but he remained the same as he had been at age fifteen—only more rugged, more worn-out, and with a face that now bore the knowledge of what Dilaudid did to the body. He couldn’t let that stay the same anymore. He had to learn to see it differently.

Fuck, he needed to figure this out.

⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

Spencer turned off the engine as he parked, letting the windshield wipers go one more time to take away the last lingering raindrops. It was late in the evening, and the streetlights reflected gold through the windows. He sent you a quick text that he had arrived before stepping out of his car. The cool February air hit him as he adjusted his scarf, his own breath fogging up his glasses that he had to wear when he drove.

He scanned the street for the house number in the address you had texted him, spotting it quickly. The building itself was a modest townhouse. A little worn down but full of character, with overgrown and leafless rosebushes lining the front of it. The windows of your friend’s apartment glowed warmly against the night, the silhouettes of moving figures behind sheer curtains. He could hear muffled voices, occasional bursts of laughter, and the faint notes of an indie song playing scratchily from a speaker. He recognized it as something you’d listen to, but nothing more distinct than that.

He hesitated near the entrance, slowly walking up the stairs to the front door, taking in the view showing through the curtains.

Girls' night. Spencer was no stranger to the concept. He and Morgan had been turned down plenty of times when they’d tried to tag along with the women of the BAU after work. He’d also seen them the next day—giggly, whispering, exchanging knowing looks about whatever had happened. He wondered if you’d be the same. Would you come back all giggly, or did girls' night mean something different depending on the group? He didn’t know your friends, after all.

A second later, the door swung open, and there you were—stepping out into the night, huddled in your coat. You didn’t notice him right away, busy adjusting your bag over your shoulder as you waved something off behind you, closing the door with a thud.

Something being one of your friends that Spencer could just about see a sliver of.

Turning around, he watched as you almost got scared of his presence, not expecting him to be standing so close. You lifted your hands to your face in mild shock, and Spencer couldn’t help but let out a little laugh.

“Red?” he asked, tilting his head in mild curiosity.

Your nails. Newly painted a bright red color. So painting nails was part of girls’ night. For weeks after you started seeing each other, Spencer had quietly wondered how your nails were always so perfectly done. He now knew that one of your friends was training to be a nail technician and would gladly accept anyone whose fingers she could practice on.

You glanced down at your hands as if just remembering them. “For Valentine’s Day,” you replied matter-of-factly.

Spencer hummed, taking the opportunity to hold one of your hands in his own. Was he supposed to ask you to be his Valentine? Before he could respond with anything more, the muffled sound of laughter and movement from behind the door stopped him in his tracks. And he watched you shift uncomfortably because of it.

“Can we walk to the car, now?” you asked, almost dragging him down the entrance stairs, your eyes flickering between the door and where his car was parked.

“Why are you in such a hurry?” he croaked out, almost immediately clocking what he thought was embarrassment from your side. Down the stairs, he gripped your hand stronger, making you unable to walk further. “Do you not want your friends to see me?”

The way you instantly turned to face him, eyes wide with disbelief, made something tighten in his chest.

“You really think that?” you asked, voice soft, a little breathless, like the idea alone was absurd. “Spencer, no—it’s the opposite, really.”

He blinked, lips parting slightly, but before he could ask what that meant, you sighed and pointed with your free hand up to the apartment again. “My friends are standing in the window trying to get a look at you.”

Looking up, the sheer curtains betrayed them. All of them huddled close to the window to see… well, what were they supposed to see?

“I’ll get a text in approximately 30 seconds where they will guesstimate the size of your penis and how you are in bed.”

You deadpanned the words. Spencer would never understand how you did it. It didn’t faze you in the slightest, as you moved to get your phone from your coat pocket.

Spencer choked. “What? But we’ve never—”

Sure enough, your phone buzzed with a new text message. He didn’t get another word in before you read it out loud.

“Grower, not a shower. 4 inches soft. Probably kinky in a subtle way, like he’ll tie your hands up while asking about your day.”

His throat bobbed as he swallowed, adjusting his glasses like that would somehow hide the way his flustered blush was spreading up all the way to his ears. He barely managed to form a coherent thought, let alone a response.

Instead, his brain short-circuited, flashing between two equally mortifying thoughts: (1) The fact that your friends—people he had never even spoken to—were speculating about his sex life. And (2), the fact that you were standing here, repeating it all so casually, without any indication that it embarrassed you in the slightest.

Did they really think that? Did you?

And worse—could they be right?

Because, if he was being honest, Spencer had thought about it. A lot. Maybe more than was healthy. He thought about the way it would feel, the sound you would make. The way he imagined your body to look naked was some sort of fictional image burned into his mind like some old TV screen. Would he like to tie you up? Would that hurt your wrists?

He had thought about it so much that the idea of it actually happening made him feel like his entire body would shut down.

And that was the problem, wasn’t it?

He was scared that you were so special to him, and that he could never be special enough to you. Because you’d done it all before. Even your friends knew that. To the point where they expected it from you—that your sexual endeavors were common enough that they became a casual topic of conversation. Spencer believed that Morgan might faint if he told him that he’d been thinking of having sex with you, like obsessively thinking. If it did happen, you’d always be special to him. Hell, even if it never happened, you were special enough to probably linger in his mind for decades. To you, it was possible for him to just be another number. A notch in your bedpost. Not that you’d ever describe it like that. He knew that. But still, the premise remained.

“See?” you said, nudging him lightly, snapping him out of his spiraling thoughts. “We should’ve started walking when I said it because now you’re all embarrassed.”

“I’m not—” he started, but faltered, because clearly, he was. “Could they really guess all that from just looking at me?”

“I don’t know, you’re the profiler,” you pointed out, trying to drag him closer to the car again, but Spencer stayed rooted. “They’re mostly doing it to mess with me because I refused to share any gossip with them tonight.”

“Is that what girls’ night means? You just sit around and gossip?” he wondered out loud.

You snorted, shaking your head. “Oh, like you don’t know the ins and outs of Morgan’s love life?”

“That’s different,” he argued immediately. “I never ask to know anything, but he tells me anyway.”

You shot him a pointed look. “And you listen.”

He opened his mouth to counter, but quickly shut it again because, well… you had a point. Instead, he huffed, looking down at the sidewalk as he let you make your way to the car.

After a beat of silence, he glanced over at you, still holding your hand in his. “But really, do I look like I would… act like that?”

The hesitation in his tone made you pause, turning your head to take him in properly. He wasn’t just flustered anymore—he was genuinely unsure because he had never even considered how people perceived him in a… sexual manner.

You exhaled, tilting your head at him. “I don’t know what you want me to say—that you practically have a sign on your forehead saying virgin? Would that be better?”

“No, no,” he said quickly. “I just…” He exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. “I don’t know how to talk about this.”

Your expression softened. “I know that, which is why I wanted us to go immediately.”

He opened his mouth, grasping for something to say that would make him feel like he had some semblance of control over the situation. “You didn’t have to read that text out loud.”

“It’s impossible to lie to you. You know that.”

By the time you both reached the car, Spencer rushed ahead, opening the passenger door for you. It was instinct, something he did without thinking. But when he turned back to see you watching him, something flickered in your expression.

“I should learn how to talk about it, though.” He cleared his throat. “That’d be useful for when it eventually happens.”

He watched you smile as he said it. He hinted at it actually happening. That it was something he wanted.

“We don’t have to hurry,” you assured as you slid into your seat.

Spencer swallowed hard, moving around to the driver’s side. He slipped into his seat, hands gripping the wheel, eyes stubbornly focused straight ahead as he started driving. He could feel your gaze on him, patient but knowing.

You knew him. Even after quite a short time. He couldn’t exactly remember the date on which he first saw you at the library. But it had been 36 days since your first kiss on New Year’s Eve. And you knew him.

He didn’t have to hide a single part of himself from you. Because you seemed to like them all. Or, at least, understand them all. From the shy little boy who was too smart for his own good, seeing his mother get sick and his father turn absent—to the messy adult version of him who had struggled with addiction and closeness in any sort of relationship. You understood them all, though the layers. And you liked some of them to the point where it made you visibly affected. And you protected him in ways that he protected himself too.

Spencer could only hope to get to know you well enough to understand all versions of you. That you’d let him in, even to your darkest corners. Because he liked you so much it hurt, and felt protective over you in a way that wasn’t even comparable to the most helpless of victims he’d encountered.

“Don’t do that thing with your tongue.”

That startled him enough to glance at you. “What thing?”

“Poking the inside of your cheek with it and looking all smug.”

Spencer blinked, confused. He hadn’t even realized that he was doing anything, completely lost in his own head. “Is it disturbing for you?”

“No, it’s distracting. You look hot.”

“Oh.” He blinked, clearly not expecting that answer. “S-should I drive to your place or mine?”

Smooth segue, Spencer. Really smooth.

“You’re assuming we’re spending the night together? Awfully presumptuous, Spence,” you said, placing a hand on your chest to mimic being offended.

Spencer tried to keep his face straight, forcing a serious answer from you.

“Drive to your place, it’s bigger.”

“But I’ve never even seen your apartment,” he argued.

“For good reason,” you muttered. “It’s messy.”

“I do not care.”

“Fine, my place it is,” you sighed, telling him where to drive. “But if you’re mean about it, I’m kicking you out.”

Spencer only nodded.

He saw you relax into your seat after that, turning the heat down in the car, humming along quietly to whatever was playing the radio. Spencer thought about how he could easily get used to having you next to him, especially in simple moments like this. Picking you up, or coming home from work and seeing you in his space. Or maybe him being in your space. It almost clouded his brain, the easy domesticity. He had to remind himself that he was driving a couple of times.

And then he thought of it. A joke, really. He could do that sometimes—think of something to say in conversations long after they had ended. Usually it was to save himself from remembering something embarrassing or unfitting that he’d actually said, but this time, he just wanted to make you laugh.

“It’s more like 5 inches soft, by the way.”

“Excuse me?”

You squealed, leaning forward while also staring at him with eyes wide open. Your hand gripped the car door, and Spencer was momentarily scared your nails would scratch the interior.

He grinned, acting unbothered. “Just thought I’d let you know.”

You exhaled sharply, your hand still gripping the door, trying (and failing) at holding back a giggle. “I’ll deflower you right in this car if you want to.”

Spencer felt the color drain from his face at the sound of your words. He couldn’t beat you at your own game. That game being dropping the most sexually charged remarks in casual conversation.

“No?” you teased. “Then stop with the dirty talk.”

This was going to be a very long short drive.

.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚ ⋆.˚𖦹⋆✮⋆.˚

On Valentine’s Day, Spencer found himself at the train station after coming home from a difficult case in Detroit. It had been such a long and simultaneously hurried process that he hadn’t even realized that they were coming back home on Valentine’s Day. Garcia’s homemade pink cupcakes waiting for them at the office had refreshed his mind.

So, now he stood at the train station in D.C., unsure of whether to go home, to the library, or to your apartment. Mostly he worried about you picking up his phone call, pacing the platform with his phone pressed against his ear. Or maybe he was worried you wouldn’t pick up at all. Your shift had just ended. You should be able to answer. He really should’ve asked you to be his Valentine instead of waiting until the 14th to even think about it, or what if you found it all to be capitalist bullshit anyway—

“Hi Spence! How’s Michigan?”

Your happy voice coming through the speaker in his phone halted his spiraling thoughts.

“Hi—Uhm, I’m actually home, or at the station. We could wrap up early and not have to spend another night.”

“Well, that’s good, I guess. Successful case?” you wondered, breathing heavily. He could picture you walking around the library with quick steps, which was what you were doing by the sound of it.

“Curiosity killed the cat,” Spencer answered. He’d noticed that you were often too curious for your own good. Every time he could tell you details from a case, you regretted it afterwards, not actually wanting to know such gruesome things. “Why does it sound like you’ve just run a marathon?”

You let out a breathless laugh. “We had a bunch of arts and crafts for the kids today, and they made a whole mess. Glue, glitter, paper scraps everywhere. And I swear, once kids figure out how to use scissors, they think they’re unstoppable.”

A faint smile tugged at Spencer’s lips as he imagined it. You were so good with the kids coming to the activities organized by the library.

“Sounds chaotic.”

“Oh, it was,” you confirmed. “Somehow, a three-year-old managed to glue his own sleeve to the table, which, honestly, is kind of impressive.”

Spencer chuckled, rubbing at his temple. “Remind me again why you do this voluntarily?”

“Because it’s cute,” you shot back. “And because somebody has to make sure kids don’t leave libraries thinking they’re just boring old book storage units.”

His smile widened, but before he could respond, you hesitated.

“So, uhm…” you started.

Spencer picked up on it immediately. “You’re running late?”

“Yeah, you could say that.”

He glanced at the clock. He hadn’t even made it home yet, and he already knew you were going to exhaust yourself staying behind to clean up. “You know, we don’t have to—”

“But I’ll tell you what,” you interrupted, voice decisive. “Since you’re on my side of town, why don’t you go to my place, and then I’ll show up when I’m done cleaning up?”

Spencer hesitated. He still wasn’t entirely used to the casual intimacy of something as simple as waiting for you at your place. But then again, this—the way you made space for him so effortlessly—was exactly why it had never felt overwhelming.

You didn’t press him for an answer, just kept going, voice slightly distracted like you were already multitasking. “I’ll tell my neighbor to leave my extra set of keys under my doormat right now.”

Spencer nodded before realizing you couldn’t see him. “That’d be great,” he said instead. “I’ll see you later.”

There was a pause, just long enough for him to picture you—probably still standing in the middle of the library, hands on your hips, surveying the mess before sighing and getting back to work.

Then, softer, “Mhm. Buh-bye, Spence.”

The call ended with a quiet click, and for a long moment, Spencer just stood there, staring at his phone.

Being in your apartment alone? Yeah, no. That was weird.

* * *

Spencer arrived at your building just as the streetlights flickered on, the city settling into early evening. A bouquet of tulips in his hand, clenched in a tight grip as he made his way up to your level. They were a mixture of red, white, and orange tulips.

He remembered Garcia once going on a rant about how no woman had red roses as her favorite flower and that men only gave them as gifts as custom and because they hadn’t cared enough to get to know the woman’s actual favorite flower.

At his quick stop at a flower shop, Spencer had cursed himself for never asking about your favorite flower. But he at least knew he couldn’t buy roses. If not for you, then for the sake of Garcia not being disappointed in him.

So tulips it was. They were a symbol of affection, after all. He’d read about their symbolism stemming from the Persian tale of Farhad and Shirin. A tragic love story not too far from mirroring Romeo and Juliet. And the colors—red was for love, white was for honesty, and orange was for understanding. Spencer wasn’t sure if he’d tell you all of that. Maybe if you asked. But it was still a nice thought for him to know that his gift had a meaning as is, beyond his intention.

He rounded the corner to your door, only to pause when he spotted an older woman standing by it, hands clasped in front of her as if she had been waiting for him. Her hair was a soft gray, pulled back into a bun, and she wore a thick cardigan. Kind eyes appraised him from behind gold-rimmed glasses, and when her gaze dropped to the flowers, her lips twitched in approval.

“Tulips?” she mused. “Good choice.”

Spencer blinked, caught slightly off guard. “Oh—uh, thank you?”

Her smile deepened knowingly. “You must be Spencer.”

“I am, yes.”

She gave a small nod, then reached into her cardigan pocket, pulling out a keyring. “I’m Edith, the neighbor with her keys,” she explained simply. “She asked me to leave them under the doormat, but I figured I’d wait and hand them off in person.”

“Oh, right! Thank you,” Spencer said, taking them carefully from her outstretched hand.

The woman didn’t step away immediately. Instead, she studied him for a long moment, eyes twinkling with something he couldn’t quite place. And then, in a softer voice, she added, “I know it’s not my place to pry, but be kind to her.”

Spencer’s brow furrowed slightly. “Of course,” he said quickly.

The neighbor hummed, satisfied but not entirely done.

“You’re very welcome to take care of that girl,” she said gently. “Because I don’t think anyone else does.”

It wasn’t pity in her voice. It wasn’t sadness, either. It was just an observation, simple and steady, spoken by someone who had been watching quietly from the sidelines, possibly for a long time.

He swallowed, fingers curling slightly around the keys in his palm, not having the time to overthink what she’d said.

“I will.”

The woman nodded once before turning to walk up the stairs, heading back to her own apartment.

Spencer watched her go, then turned back to your door.

He let himself inside, stepping into your space. Spencer had adored your apartment ever since the first time you had him over, that time he’d picked you up from girls’ night.

It was a small space, crowded with your things. You’d moved in fresh out of high school. It was something about not being able to wait any longer to get out of your mother’s house. Then you’d stayed in the same apartment all through college and when you started working at the library.

And yes, it was messy. But you were a bit of a mess yourself, so it only made sense. It wasn’t unclean in any way, but you placed things around you without any rhyme or reason. You were still able to find everything, though. Spencer had noticed that quite quickly, observing you in your own space. While he’d lounged in the bed after one of your now very casual sleepovers, he’d seen you find your sweater hung on the kitchen door and your favorite tea mug on the bathroom sink.

There wasn’t a pattern. He had a pattern for most things in his own apartment. But this made sense to you.

Spencer dropped your keys in a bowl on a table in your entryway. He didn’t want to feel any responsibility over them. It was weird enough to be alone in your space.

The apartment was eerily quiet as he kicked off his shoes and took a seat on your couch, the tulips placed on your coffee table. He’d wait for you to put them in water, not wanting to go through your kitchen cabinets looking for a vase.

He thought he could read for a while or maybe turn on the TV. But he didn’t end up doing anything. He mostly looked around the room, twiddling with his fingers as his eyes lingered on your bookshelf and on the artwork you had decided to hang on the wall.

The blanket draped over the couch, was it handmade? The coasters on your coffee table, were they souvenirs? The Polaroid pictures blu-tacked to your bedroom door, who were they off?

Spencer could spend hours asking you questions, he thought. He’d find your reasonings interesting even if they weren’t.

If it had gone ten minutes or an hour when you barged in through the door with the loudest sigh he’d ever heard, Spencer couldn’t answer. You didn’t even say hi when you saw him sitting on your couch, you just dropped your coat to the floor and smiled, taking in the sight.

“Tulips?” you exclaimed, dropping your bag on the floor too the second you noticed the bouquet lying on the coffee table. Toeing off your Converse on the way over, you looked at him, eyes wide with excitement. “I freaking love tulips!”

Spencer shifted where he sat, lips curving into a small smile. “I hoped so.”

“But why? For Valentine’s day?”

His face warmed, and he hummed in acknowledgment as you picked up the flowers, inhaling their scent.

Spencer watched as you busied yourself placing them in a vase of water, moving around the kitchen like it was second nature. He was about to tell you to leave them in their wrapping to soak for an hour before cutting the stems, but you seemed to already know that. It was supposed to make them last longer. You loved tulips enough to know that. Spencer saw that as a positive indication.

“I totally didn’t plan anything special for today,” you admitted, walking back into the living room and placing the flowers back on the table. “Did you want us to do something?”

“Not really,” he answered. “I just got home from a case, and you have acrylic paint on your shirt. Safe to assume we’re both too tired to go out?”

You glanced down at your stained crewneck and groaned. “Ugh. Yeah. That tracks.”

Your next move shouldn’t have surprised Spencer as much as it did.

Standing in front of him, you lifted the sweater over your head, the shirt you had on underneath rising with it slightly. The skin of your stomach exposed to him, but what he focused on was how your belt cinched at your waist and how your slacks basically fitted like a second skin before they flared out at the legs.

“How do you get them to fit so well?” he asked before thinking.

With your head peeking out from the sweater as you tugged it off, hair getting messy in the process, you raised your eyebrows in amusement. “Spencer, are you staring at my ass?”

His mouth opened, then closed again. He had definitely been looking.

You only laughed, shaking your head. “I tailor them myself.”

Spencer exhaled, grateful for the shift in conversation. “That makes sense,” he mumbled. “They look nice.”

You walked off to your bedroom, throwing the stained sweatshirt into your hamper of dirty laundry like you were the next big thing in the NBA.

By the sound of it, you were changing out of your clothes completely. If Spencer had stretched his neck, he might’ve been able to see it through the door. But he didn’t. It didn’t feel appropriate even though he suspected that you left the door wide open on purpose.

You tiptoed back into the living room wearing shorts and a big t-shirt, your bare feet barely making a sound across the old wooden floors. Spencer should be used to seeing you look so casual, but he was unsure if he ever would be.

“I got you that book you were looking for, by the way. Someone returned it today,” you started to say as you bent over to rummage through your bag. “And uh… this,” you hesitated, handing him not only the book but also a bright pink slip of paper. “A very insistent little girl told me I had to make my own.”

You’d made a Valentine’s card. For him. You’d made it for him. Holding the pink paper in his hands, Spencer’s heart squeezed at the sight—messy crayon doodles, slightly uneven letters spelling out Happy Valentine’s Day. It was simple, kind of ridiculous, and absolutely perfect.

He couldn’t get a word out, simply staring at it.

You plopped down on the couch beside him, sprawling out with ease, moving pillows and blankets around. At first, you bent your knees to not touch him, but then on instinct you moved them to be in Spencer’s lap as he got the book and card out of the way.

Your toes matched the red nail polish on your fingers. He hadn’t noticed that before.

“Why did you want it, anyway? Didn’t think it was your kind of poetry,” you asked, not bothered by his lack of reaction to the card.

Although, maybe his silence was enough for you to see through him like glass. He’d never gotten a Valentine’s Day gift before. Garcia got everyone cupcakes, sure, but he’d never received one with romantic intentions.

“It isn’t. But you read it and seemed to enjoy it.” Spencer straightened, finally finding something to say. Answering questions was something he could manage. “Also, the poem about being a vacuum cleaner seemed too odd to ignore.”

You’d mentioned it once at the library. The second time you talked to each other. He’d been reading a book on Nobel Prize winners, and you’d approached him, offering him tea and questioning him about his job. A John Cooper Clarke poetry collection in your lap. There was something about a poem and a vacuum cleaner. He remembered thinking that he had to read it, no matter how stupid it sounded.

You snorted. “Yeah, it’s… weirdly moving.”

Spencer placed the card on the coffee table, patting it with his palm like it meant something. He’d have to save it. Put it on his fridge or make a shoebox of memories with you.

He then started going through the book. It was muscle memory for him. If he had a book in his hands, he would read it immediately.

The poetry was so simple, it only would’ve taken him minutes to finish the entire thing. But once he read a line out loud to you, seeing a happy and content smile, he knew he couldn’t hurry through it. So, he read it to you instead.

The couch was just big enough for the two of you—him sitting upright against the armrest, and you sprawled across the cushions with your feet in his lap, half-buried under a blanket. With nervous fingers, he’d started to trace absentminded patterns on your shin.

The air smelled faintly of old books and lavender, your signature candle flickering softly on the coffee table next to the tulips. Every now and then, Spencer would pause between stanzas, glancing over at you like he was gauging your reaction. Most of the time you interrupted him yourself, feeling the need to question something.

“I wanna be your vacuum cleaner, breathing in your dust.”

You blinked at the ceiling. “What does that even mean?”

“I think it’s a metaphor.”

“For what? Codependency?”

“Or devotion,” Spencer theorized.

“I wanna be your Ford Cortina, I will never rust.”

You squinted. “Is that a reliable car?”

“Pretty sure they’re not. Must be irony,” he answered.

The next interruption wasn’t your doing. You felt the shift before you saw it—his gaze lingering, the gentle press of his fingers against your shin turning more intentional.

“What?” you asked out of curiosity. “Did I miss a spot when I shaved or something?”

“No, uhm…” He ran his thumb lightly over a faint line near your knee. “Is this a scar or a birthmark?”

“Scar, I think.” You twisted slightly to glance down. “Might be from when I tried to pick up skateboarding.”

Spencer’s lips quirked. Yeah, that sounded about right.

“Does it look gross?” you asked.

He couldn’t fathom a scar looking gross. Not when it was healed. Because if he thought that about someone else’s scars, what would they think about his?

“I’m not one to speak when it comes to scars,” he mumbled, hesitant.

“I think yours are kinda badass, from stuff you’ve lived through,” you reassured him, a light sparking in your eyes.

“Skateboarding is cool,” Spencer tried to argue.

“I never even managed to stand on the board,” you muttered, a smile shining through. “I have another scar on my ribs from scratching my entire side on the sidewalk.”

He had momentarily forgotten about the book. His focus was only on the skin his fingertips traced and how the scar made a little indent from where it had been scratched open.

“Can I see it?” Spencer asked without thinking.

“Not without, like, flashing you my boobs,” you answered plainly.

Spencer’s fingers abruptly stopped moving as he first thought he hadn’t heard you right. Then he realized that he had asked to see a scar on your ribs. And your ribs were close to your breasts. That was how the human body was shaped.

“Oh—” His brain seemed to stutter, like a skipping record. “Would that…?”

“You don’t think it’d be a bad idea?” You sat up from your lying position, taking the book in your hands as you bent your legs over his lap. “I could do it. It’s not crossing any boundaries for me. I just don’t want to make you uncomfortable.”

“You don’t make me uncomfortable,” he murmured.

You smiled back, shifting so you could press a soft kiss to the side of his jaw. He tensed slightly beneath you—not in rejection, but in that way he always did when he wasn’t sure what to do.

“Good,” you whispered.

For a second, you just looked at him. He could sense that you were trying to read his reaction. He wasn’t sure he had a reaction. Or at least one that was reasonable.

Tucking your lower lip between your teeth, a small sigh escaped you. Spencer only briefly had time to wonder if you were disappointed, but your attention turned back to the book, a finger tracing the page to find the next line of the poem.

“If you like your coffee hot, let me be your coffee pot.”

You snorted. “Okay, now he’s just saying words.”

Spencer cleared his throat, trying to concentrate on something other than the fact that you basically wanted to be shirtless in front of him.

“Isn’t that the point of writing? Putting words together?”

“Smartass.” You scrunched your nose at him.

He let his eyes linger on the page for a while before he read the next words. He didn’t realize their meaning until they left his mouth.

“You call the shots, I wanna be yours.”

You were so close to him. He could hear your breaths, feel them if he focused. The bare skin of your legs touching his covered ones, a burning sensation through the fabric. It was like his ears started ringing by how quickly his heart was beating. He could only wonder if yours was beating even half as fast.

Spencer wasn’t avoiding eye contact—not exactly—but he was looking at you like he was working through a puzzle, like he was waiting for the right words to magically fall into place before saying them.

“I have to start thinking rationally about this,” he murmured, almost to himself.

You furrowed your brows. “This meaning sex?”

“I guess…” He hesitated, his lips pressing together. “It’s about you, in general.”

“And by that, you mean?”

“It’s biology,” he stated, the beginning of a ramble. “Attraction is a chemical process driven by neurotransmitters. It releases dopamine and oxytocin that are associated with the feelings of reward and attachment. The limbic system is highly active in people experiencing romantic attraction. Essentially, the brain treats attraction like an addiction, reinforcing behavior that leads to emotional and physical closeness.”

You tilted your head. “So… that’s what’s happening here? Biology?”

Spencer let out a breath that was almost a laugh. “It is. That’s why you make me incapable of thinking straight and why I get so nervous. I have to realize that it’s biology even though it feels like fiction to me. Does that even make sense?”

“Nope.”

“Great. Well—”

“Spencer.” You sat up fully this time, your legs folding beneath you as you shifted to face him, placing the book on the table with a thud. “There is nothing rational about love.”

Love. You’d used the word love.

He wanted to continue explaining, but he wasn’t sure he wanted it to make sense. Maybe you were right. Even though there was a scientific explanation for everything he was feeling, there was also a reason as to why people turned to fictional stories when they searched the matters of love. The feelings were allowed to be so irrational that they felt impossible.

“And that’s not me confessing my love for you, by the way. That’s kind of early, but we’re en route to love, right? Neither of us is in this only for sex?” you continued talking, your hand reaching out to hold his.

Spencer heard himself laugh. It would be the shittiest sex-only relationship ever, because, well, you weren’t having sex. But then he nodded, agreeing with you—you were in too deep to call it casual.

“Morgan called you my girlfriend today, and I didn’t even try to correct him. I used to always do that,” he said, something hesitant in the way he admitted it because he was still trying to make sense of it himself.

With an assertive move, you grabbed his hand. “Good. We’re on the same page.”

Spencer looked down at your joined hands before glancing back up at you. He swallowed. “I’m your…”

“You’re my boyfriend,” you confirmed, and the way his lips parted slightly, like he was tasting the word, made you squeeze his hand again.

“I’m your boyfriend.”

You nodded, smiling. “Yeah. And don’t overthink it, okay? We can just… be.”

You said it so simply. Easiest thing in the world. Spencer wanted to believe it was. His mind couldn’t accept it so easily, though. It worked overtime in general, but he wasn’t sure he had ever thought so much about the same thing. Being in a relationship, having a girlfriend, sex. He almost wished he could preoccupy his mind with other things, some difficult chess strategy or some foreign literature. But no. It was all you up there.

And what did you think about it? He didn’t know.

Spencer cleared his throat, saying, “I’m not sure I’ve asked you how you feel about all of this.”

“How do I feel about sex?”

You made a little confused face, and Spencer nodded as an answer, letting the room go quiet as you thought of what to say. You fiddled with the fringe of a blanket with your free hand, the other still holding Spencer’s.

“I think…” you exhaled. “I think you respect me more than I respect myself.”

Spencer found it miraculous that you were able to keep eye contact with him even though the smallest of tears formed on your waterline.

“What’s it been? Over a month? And you haven’t seen me naked,” you continued, almost a surprised tone in your voice.

45 days. It had been 45 days. He had to force himself to not say it out loud.

“You haven’t asked, or just… done. Nothing. I’m not sure I know how to react to that. I feel like I should have to throw myself at you to make you like me, but you’re not like that.”

“I like you just as you are,” Spencer whispered, unsure if it was the right moment for him to speak.

“I know that, but it’s new for me. I haven’t done all this with someone who actually cares before,” you said, voice sounding like you were constricting the words.

Your grip around his fingers tightened, and Spencer found himself rubbing circles on the back of your hand with the pad of his thumb. He didn’t dare to reach up and touch your face, but he wanted to.

Your lip noticeably quivered as you continued, “I haven’t always… valued intimacy the way I should have. And I haven’t exactly been with men who saw beauty in being with me instead of just lust.

It was strange, the way those words made his chest ache.

You’d mentioned it before—when he admitted he was a virgin, you’d said something about finding it a little amusing that someone could go so long without sex, especially when it had been a coping mechanism for you. He assumed that meant earlier in your life, but truth be told, he didn’t really know.

Spencer thought back to what Edith had said in the hallway. She’d said that no one had been taking care of you. That didn’t necessarily mean you’d been alone, just that you hadn’t always surrounded yourself with the best people.

And yet, looking at you now, he couldn’t see it. You made it look effortless—being warm, being kind, holding him close like it was second nature. How you were so well put together that no one would ever even notice things you’d been through unless you told them. And you didn’t tell anyone.

He struggled to picture it—the same girl who had made him a handmade Valentine’s card, who curled up against him on the couch like she belonged there, had also been the girl who once used to stumble home drunk or high, clinging to some guy whose name would be forgotten in the morning. The thought alone made his stomach twist. Someone having their way with you and your mind having convinced you that you didn’t have a choice—thinking that you were so desperate to be liked that you didn’t even mind if it was only for a moment.

It didn’t fit. You didn’t fit with that image.

Or maybe you did, and he just didn’t know it yet. There was still so much to learn about you, so much you hadn’t yet shared.

Spencer watched as you almost turned on yourself, his silence becoming too much for you to deal with. It hadn’t been his intention to make you uncomfortable, or to make your words seem even heavier than they were because of his lack of reaction.

“You’re not too good at talking about this either, are you? About what you want?” he wondered, keeping his eyes on you, trying to convey that his silence wasn’t judgment. It was attention.

A soft huff of laughter escaped you. “No, I guess I’m not.” You paused for a moment before adding, “But I like taking it slow. It makes it feel… different. Special, like it never has before.”

His chest tightened. Like it never has before.

He didn’t know what to say to that, didn’t know how to put into words the way it made him feel—some odd mixture of relief and sadness. He wished he didn’t, but it was relief he felt when he realized that while everything of this was new to him, some aspects were also new to you. The blind leading the blind in a way.

“I’m sort of scared of being too much for you,” you murmured. “Or for everyone, really.”

Spencer inhaled sharply, shaking his head almost instantly. “But you’re not—”

“And you don’t think you’re ever going to be enough, do you?” you interrupted, watching as the words hit him like a direct shot to the chest.

His lips parted, but no sound came out. He blinked at you, caught off guard, his fingers tightening around yours like he needed something to hold onto. It wasn’t a question. Not really. It was an observation. A fact. One he couldn’t even bring himself to deny. He felt inadequate in every sense when it came to intimacy.

You reached up, brushing your fingers against his cheek. “We make an interesting pair, huh?” you mused.

Spencer exhaled a quiet laugh, his eyes crinkling at the corners. Interesting was definitely a synonym for dysfunctional in this case.

“Yeah,” he murmured. “We really do.”

You smiled, leaning in until your forehead pressed against his. You were curled in his arms now, your chest touching his, hand resting on his shoulders as you searched his face. His breath hitched slightly, but he didn’t pull away. Instead, his fingers came up to rest gently against your jaw, his touch featherlight, reverent.

“Tell me what you’d like for us to do together.”

“I—” He swallowed. “I think I’d like to kiss you for a while. If that’s okay.”

You nodded gently. “Can I sit in your lap?”

Spencer couldn’t form a sentence to answer, but he lifted his hands, inviting you to move closer. Not closer than you ever had been before, but it was by far the most intimate position you’d found yourself in.

You straddled him, knees on either side of his hips and your ass pressed against his lap. Your exposed thighs painted before Spencer like a landscape of skin. Before he could look at your face, his eyes were glued to the slight pattern of your skin, with scattered scars and birthmarks.

Close enough, Spencer snuck in a light peck on your lips. The first of many, he hoped.

Your hands lingered by your side before you lifted them to slowly rest around his shoulders, tickling the skin of his neck, diving your fingers in his hair to stroke his scalp with gentle tugs. He liked it so much that a little noise left his mouth as he couldn’t help but feel his body melt against yours.

Spencer’s arms were stiff, palms pressed against the couch cushion. He didn’t know if or where to touch you.

You started to litter his face with little kisses—on his cheeks, jaw, and mouth. He canted forward to meet you halfway, overwhelmed by the feeling of your chest pressed against his.

Pulling back, you cupped his face, simply looking at him for a moment. “Your face should come with a warning sign. You’ve got bone structure like you were carved out of marble by Da Vinci or something,” you said, leaning back in to kiss him.

“You’re thinking of Michelangelo,” he mumbled, although the words got lost against your mouth.

“Huh?” You didn’t stop kissing him.

“Nothing.”

Yeah, it was nothing to bring up compared to what was going on.

He always felt like he had gotten the hang of kissing someone, but with you it was a new sensation every time. And with your tongue slipping inside his mouth, your teeth grazing his lips—an open-mouthed and messy make-out session—he might as well have been fifteen all over again.

You teased him, and he knew it. Panting in his mouth, gnawing his lips raw. And your hands, god your hands that never stopped wandering. It was innocent, fingers through his hair or running along his arms, but still enough for Spencer’s brain to go haywire.

He wasn’t sure it was intentional the first time you did it, but he felt your hips move against him. A slow brush forward that could’ve just been you adjusting your position. Spencer’s response was instant, a sharp breath leaving his mouth, entering yours. He was convinced it wasn’t intentional when you simply continued kissing him. But then you did it again. Not once, but repeatedly.

Spencer was getting harder with every instant your hips ground against his, and surely you noticed it too, because he could feel you smiling through the kisses.

“You’re allowed to touch me, y’know?”

His head snapped up at your words, stopping the kissing.

“But—uhm, where?”

You gave him a look—one of those knowing, amused looks. “Anywhere. Did you want to see the scar?”

His throat went dry. He managed a nod.

“So, touch my waist and take my shirt off.”

He didn’t expect you to be so direct. Maybe he should always expect that from you.

Spencer took his time, gazing at you sat on his lap. Your lips were wet from kissing, and you had mascara smudged under your eyes. He found you breathtaking, sitting there in a frumpy old t-shirt, smiling at him like he was the dumbest thing ever.

Carefully, he let his hand settle on your thigh, fingers barely touching your skin. He saw how your eyes followed the way his hands moved, slowly upward, sinking his fingers into the skin in a way that made it spill out between them.

When he finally reached the fabric of your shirt, he pushed it up, letting his eyes find yours as a way to reassure that it was indeed okay. You did nothing but nod, helping him slowly peel it over your head. Spencer was too busy looking at how cute your face scrunched up when the collar got caught around your head to see that you weren’t wearing a bra. When you carelessly tossed the shirt onto the floor and then let yourself just sit still in his lap, that was when Spencer took in the sight of you, bare aside from your shorts.

Spencer was pretty sure his eyes went as wide as dinner plates.

Taking him out of his trance, you started talking, doing a little shift with your hips and crossing your arms over your chest. “This might be the first time I’m nervous about being naked in front of someone.”

Spencer tilted his head, talking too fast for his own good. “You didn’t mind getting undressed when you had to help me shower after my injury.”

“Wearing a bra and shorts is not the same as being naked,” you stated.

He dared to move his hands again, finding your arms, absently tracing the skin. You relaxed, uncovering your chest again, letting him see your breasts again. Admittedly, he had a hard time focusing on your face, but he tried his best.

“What are you nervous about?”

He watched you hesitate, your lips pressing together before you shrugged. The movement was small, but Spencer saw through it. You were trying to sound casual, but the slight tightness in your voice betrayed you.

“What if you think I’ve got weird nipples or something?”

“T-they’re not weird,” he blurted, far too quickly, and immediately cringed at himself. He scrambled to recover. “Perfectly normal, in fact.”

“Perfectly normal?”

“Well…” He cleared his throat, cheeks still rosy. “They’re kind of pretty.”

You giggled in disbelief. “You think my nipples are pretty, Spence?”

“I think you’re pretty,” he corrected. “And they’re attached to you, so yeah. Pretty.”

“Well, why don’t you touch them, then?”

He couldn’t argue with that. As his hands traveled up the sides of your body, he began to stroke the underside of your breasts, taking in the way you reacted to his touch.

That was when he saw it. The entire reason you were in this position. A puny little scar on the right side of your ribs. Scratched your entire side on the sidewalk. No, it wasn’t longer than an inch.

Spencer could feel the faint ridge of the scar beneath his touch, but he wasn’t thinking about that anymore. He was thinking about how warm you were, how soft. He was thinking about how insanely close you were to him, how his breaths hit your skin as soon as they left his mouth.

He cupped your breasts fully, admiring the way they fit in his palms and how the ample skin felt malleable to the touch. Your nipples pebbled under his touch, and your breathing turned quicker as he twiddled them slightly between his fingers.

“You can kiss them too, y’know.”

Spencer took in the feeling of having some sort of control over his emotions and over the situation. Fuck yeah, could he kiss them. He started at your sternum with a soft peck, then traced down the valley between your breasts. He looked up at you through heavy eyelashes, his warm brown eyes staring you down as his lips explored. Your jaw slackened, nodding at him reassuringly.

When he took your nipple between them, he heard you hiss at how he purposely teased you. He sucked on the tender skin, mouth on one as he cupped the other. Spencer felt so lost in what was happening that he didn’t even realize he was almost biting down on your skin, grazing your nipple with his teeth until a high moan escaped you.

Your hips rutted forward again, his boner now something that couldn’t be ignored. And by the look of it, the friction was enough to cause you pleasure as well. Spencer wasn’t even sure he’d seen that as a possibility before. But your shorts were thin, and the material of his pants was rough enough to rub your heat every time you moved.

Spencer only pulled away when his lungs burned for air, releasing your nipple with a soft, wet pop. For a moment, he stared, mesmerized by the way it glistened with his saliva, a fleeting mark of what he’d done.

You looked at him, grinning.

His hands found a comfortable space in the divots on either side of your waist as he watched your hands fall from his shoulders down between you. You didn’t touch, or take things any further. They just simply rested on him—on the prominent tent in his slacks.

“Was, uhm… was this all that you wanted for us to try?” Spencer whispered.

The air in the room had somehow turned harder to inhale. Humid.

“I thought I’d start with something less explicit before I tell you that I want your dick inside of me.”

Spencer now forgot how to breathe. Completely.

A little giggle escaped you as you took his face in your hands, your palms cold against his skin. Or maybe he was just impossibly warm. He didn’t want to think about how he must have looked—hair a tousled mess, skin pinking, probably blushing all the way down to his toes.

You pushed his hair off his forehead, tilting your head as you asked, “I’ve made you all flustered, haven’t I?”

Spencer groaned, pressing his head back against the couch like he was seeking divine intervention. His boner, the elephant in the room, lodged in the space between your bodies, wasn’t enough for you to notice?

“Do you enjoy torturing me?”

You laughed, hands placed aimlessly on his chest. “I don’t. I just think it’s cute.”

He opened his eyes, peering at you warily. “What’s cute?”

“You.”

Spencer let out a long breath, shaking his head. “You can’t just call me cute after—” He huffed, rolling his eyes. “Never mind.”

You bit back a smile, leaning in again, your nose brushing his. “I mean it, though.”

His hands, which had remained mostly still against your waist, flexed slightly. “Me being cute?”

“No.” You kissed the corner of his mouth. “That I want you.”

Spencer’s breath caught, and for a moment, he just looked at you—like he was trying to memorize this moment, like he wanted to capture exactly how it felt to have you in his lap, saying things that he never thought he’d hear from you. Or anyone for that matter.

“We don’t have to be nervous,” you murmured. “I think we’re both allowed to want each other.”

“I do want you,” he admitted. “I just… I want to do this right.”

“You will. Let me take care of you, Spence.”

He didn’t have much else to say when your lips were back on his, tongue slipping into his mouth. Your hips, god your hips, began to move with more intent, practically squeezing his bulge between your crotch and himself. And your tits, moving with every bounce you made.

Every inch of his skin turned to goosebumps as your fingers sneaked under his shirt, ripping it from where it had been tucked in to his pants. You scratched his skin, and he could imagine the contrast between the red polish and his pale complexion.

Spencer no longer hesitated to explore you. His hands were in tight grips on your hips, wandering to the curve of your ass as he helped you move in rhythm. Glancing down between you, he swore he could see a damp spot blooming on the fabric of your shorts—but that wasn’t what captivated him most.

The best part was when you broke the kiss, gasping for air, your lips parted in a breathless moan. He could shamelessly watch how your face twisted in pleasure. You had an innocent delicacy to your facial features despite the raw need in your body’s movements.

Oh, was he really watching an angel…

The both of you quickly got lost in the hazy feeling of not knowing where his hands on you started and where your hands on him ended. Spencer heard how he whined with each of your movements, but he couldn’t have cared less, hips bucking uncontrollably, canting forward to meet your thrusts.

“Does it feel good?” you murmured, grazing your teeth against his lips.

A strangled breath was all he could reply with, his hands roaming endlessly for something to grab, something to ground him.

“Don’t stop, p-please.”

So he could form words, only that they were pathetic.

It didn’t take long between when Spencer realized that the friction alone would be enough for him to orgasm and it actually happening. He’d been too pent up for too long of a time to even think about holding it back. The feeling so rushed that he couldn’t warn you, or even say something to you. All that left his mouth were stuttered moans and curse words. He normally wasn’t one to use rude words, but this was uncontrollable.

“Oh god, oh fuck—”

He felt a warm liquid spreading from where his cock was tucked in pants, soaking through to stain the fabric. His body froze, and he tried his best to stop his panting breaths as ropes of cum continued to leak out. Out of instinct, his hands left your body, flying up to his achingly blushing cheeks.

You abruptly stopped moving at his reaction, taking in the sight for a second before your hands clutched around his wrists, moving his hands from covering his face.

“No, no. I’m not even giving you the right to be embarrassed right now, Spence,” you said sternly, your eyes flickering between him and evidence of his release. “That was like the hottest thing I’ve ever seen.”

He kissed you to shut you up. Soft, gentle kisses that calmed him down and made you rest your weight back down onto his thighs. Lost in the fact that he’d just had his first orgasm in front of someone else, his mind wandered to you, and if you’d enjoyed it as much as he had. But… you hadn’t finished, had you?

Spencer pulled away, distraught at the thought of taking but not giving. “You didn’t—”

“No, but that wasn’t the point of this,” you cut him off, further explaining, “Sex isn’t always about making the other person cum. This time, for instance, I think it was mostly about us getting more comfortable with each other.”

“But we still didn’t have sex.”

“Sex is whatever you want it to be.” You let out a little sigh, not out of annoyance but out of amusement. “If this is all that you’re comfortable with, then this is sex to you.”

That made sense, even to him. But now that he had gotten a little taste, he couldn’t wait to be comfortable for more.

“B-but I do want more,” he argued. “More of you.”

“We’ll get there.”

“You don’t want me to help you out now?”

He wasn’t sure where his sudden confidence came from, and by the look of it, neither did you. Your eyes went a little wide as you struggled to answer. Spencer felt a sense of pride at the fact he could make you nervous.

You shyly looked away, mumbling, “Only if you’re comfortable.”

“I am. I promise you that I am,” he assured you, turning your face by a light grip on your chin.

You could move your hips against him with all intent to make him feel good, but you got visibly flustered at the thought of him doing the same to you. Adorable.

“How—I mean, I could continue getting off on your thigh,” you said quickly, tucking your hair behind your ears in a practiced, nervous manner. “Or you could use your fingers.”

“Fingers. Can I use my fingers?”

You hummed while nodding, agreeing immediately, kissing him quickly.

Making room on the couch, you both tossed some of the decorative pillows on the floor before Spencer laid you down on your back, him halfway spooning your side so that you both would fit.

The kissing continued as Spencer thought of what to do. He’d read a lot about it. He should be able to figure it out. His hands found home, massaging the plush skin of your thighs, thinking that was a simple way to start. Your chest rose as his fingers trailed over your body. You were desperate.

But maybe so would anyone be if they’d essentially been very close to climaxing and then having it all ripped away.

Spencer felt so unconvincing as his fingers fumbled with the elastic waistband of your shorts. You were about to be so naked, and he was still fully dressed. You didn’t seem to mind, though. Actually, you were very quick to untie the shorts yourself, pushing them down your legs and then onto the floor.

Your panties were a simple white with little floral lace details. And he’d been right; you’d soaked right through them. He looked at you carefully, his brown eyes studying yours as his hand played with the lacy upper hem.

“Keep them on, just—fuck, touch me.”

He looked at you, twisting and turning under his touch, words falling out of your mouth carelessly.

Then his hand made contact with your warm, sticky skin.

First over your pubic bone and then over a slight thatch of hair.

Spencer brushed what he thought was your clit with featherlight touch, taking in your reaction before delving his fingers between your folds, a surprising feeling with how velvety smooth the pooling wetness he found was. His digits circled down over your entrance before retreating.

You bit your lip to the point where it looked painful, keeping everything on the inside, turning your head into his chest.

Spencer stopped moving his hand, using his free one to tilt your head right back, forcing eye contact. “I wanna hear you. Tell me what to do.”

“Move a little higher,” you said, a whine coming from your throat as soon as he followed suit. With a little calculating, Spencer concluded the little bud he was touching was your clit. “Oh, fuck—right there, Spence.”

He used his pointer and middle finger to slowly explore, moving in gentle circles, touching a place that made your stomach tense and breathing sharpen and separate. Spencer could look at you all day as you enjoyed yourself, letting out a little floating laugh between moans, crinkling your nose as he touched the spot again and again.

“Kiss me,” you asked between breaths, your eyelids getting heavy the faster his fingers moved.

His free hand stroked against your jawbone before he leaned down to kiss you, not knowing if he was doing it right. But apparently he was, by the way you whined under his mouth, eyes rolling back.

“Should I—” He swallowed. “Should I do something more? I read that many women can’t climax from penetration and that clitoral or oral stimulation is easier—”

Your eyes went wide as he spoke, interrupted by his continued movements. “Fuck, Spence—You wanna use your mouth on me?” You shook your head, hiding into his chest again. “No, this is enough. You’re enough.”

His fingers slipped between your folds with more ease, hearing the wet sounds he could bring from your pussy. The more he moved, the more he wanted to turn you into a sweet mess at the touch of his fingertips.

“God, you’re gonna make me—”

You tensed up, and Spencer felt it. And then you let it all go.

It was like you lost all stability in your bones, turning into a fluid source of warmth in Spencer’s embrace, as his fingers slid messily over your clit, losing momentum, your underwear soaked and stretched out over the back of his hand.

Spencer had been unsure of if he could notice if you faked an orgasm or not. He now knew that there was nothing fake about you. You let out a last, long breath, and Spencer slowly circled your clit before he pulled his hand away, letting it linger on your naked stomach.

“Was that okay?” he felt the need to ask.

You looked up at him, breathing still uneven and your eyes slightly dopey, practically collapsing in his arms. “Okay? Spencer, you were fucking amazing.”

As Spencer held you, right there on your couch, and you slid your palm over his his chest, resting it tight above the place where his heart was still erratically beating, he felt himself lose control over basically everything. The world narrowed down to you—your skin, your scent, your breathing. Not that much else mattered to him. He wasn’t sure it ever would again.

“I wish I met you earlier in life.”

The words left him before he could stop them, and maybe it was a little ridiculous—like meeting you earlier would have suddenly made life easier, like it would have changed anything at all. But still. He truly wished that.

You kissed his neck, murmuring, “We’ve got all the time in the world, Spencer.”

His fingers skimmed along your arm before settling at your waist, holding you close. You felt so softagainst him, so warm, but after a moment, he felt the residual stickiness of sweat and everything else clinging to both of you. His nose wrinkled slightly, and he knew you caught it before he even spoke.

“Do you wanna go change? Wash your hands? Can’t imagine it’s comfortable being sticky.”

You probably felt just as sticky as he did, but Spencer could tell—he knew—your suggestion had less to do with yourself and more to do with him, his germaphobia, and his sensory issues. Because you were always thinking about him, about the things that made him uncomfortable, about the ways you could make things easier for him without making a big deal out of it. And wasn’t that just the sweetest thing? Spencer thought so.

“Mhm,” he hummed, helping you stand from the couch, legs looking a bit wobbly. “And you should go pee. Prevents UTIs.”

“I know that,” you muttered.

He rolled his eyes, but the corners of his lips twitched. Sitting up himself, he let you slip away, watching as you padded across the wooded floors. He wasn’t sure he’d ever get used to seeing your body being so casually naked. But he would love the future time he’d spend trying to get used to it at least.

“You wanna watch a movie?” you asked, voice sounding almost drowsy, as you picked up your shorts and t-shirt that had been thrown on the floor. “I got The Princess Bride on Blu-ray, and we could order Indian food.”

Spencer could do nothing but smile, his mind echoing empty of thoughts. “Sure thing.”

Thank you for reading! Please tell me what you think ♡ And yes, for those of you who didn't know, the Arctic Monkeys song is originally a JCC poem.

#spencer reid x reader #spencer reid smut #spencer reid #criminal minds #doctor spencer reid #dr spencer reid #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds fic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid criminal minds #spencer reid fanfiction #spencer reid x you #spencer reid fluff #dr reid

3K notes · View notes

cinnasite · 1 month ago

Text

the science of sleeping with your best friend

꩜ pairing: timeskip!kenma kozume x virgin!female reader

꩜ warnings: explicit content, language

꩜ word count: 4.3k

꩜ synopsis: you relationship with kenma has always been understated—quiet moments, mutual understanding, and an unspoken connection. but when you open up about your insecurities regarding intimacy, things take a turn. one kiss, a subtle shift in dynamics, and suddenly everything you once knew feels entirely different. caught in a whirlwind of desire and growing affection, you find yourself grappling with feelings that you've ignored for years. is it too late to turn back or is this the beginning of something far deeper?

You vividly remember the day you moved to Japan. You were eleven, your nervousness amplified by the way the airport had smelled—metallic, unfamiliar, cold. Your mother stayed back in your hometown with your younger brother, and you followed your father across the ocean for his new job… your new life. You told yourself it was an adventure, trembling in anticipation.

It wasn’t. Not at first.

Making friends when you didn’t speak the language fluently and stood out in every classroom turned out to be less like an odyssey and more of a series of long, silent lunch breaks. Teachers tried, some classmates smiled, but nothing stuck. Not until high school.

Transferring to Nekoma High at fifteen was your father’s idea. He’d said something about the school’s progressive curriculum and cultural diversity. You hadn’t hoped for much until, one week into classes, the principal cornered you near the shoe lockers and asked if you’d consider being the manager for the boys’ volleyball team.

“It’s part of a new initiative. We’re looking to build an inclusive sports environment,” he said. “And you have excellent organisational skills from your transcript.” You said yes, mostly out of curiosity. And maybe because it was the first time someone had sought you out, instead of the other way around.

The first practice was awkward, to put it lightly. A room full of sweaty teenage guys and sharp whistles. You stood off to the side, notebook in hand, questioning every life choice that led you there with a resigned sigh. Until Kuroo Tetsurō slung an arm around your shoulders and said, “Don’t worry, you’re one of us now. You’ll get used to these knuckleheads.”

The team protested. You laughed for the first time in weeks. That’s how it all began.

They took you under their wing like a little sister, especially Kuroo—he treated you with a big-brother protectiveness that made the transition less lonely. Lev would tell you outrageous lies just to see you smile. Yamamoto always tried too hard to impress you but meant well. Yaku taught you how to be blunt in Japanese without accidentally insulting someone’s grandmother.

But the one you inexplicably gravitated toward was Kenma.

You were the same age, and the same reserved type, at least at first glance. Though unlike him, you didn’t mind talking. People were drawn to you in a way that surprised you. So, Kenma didn’t intimidate you. If anything, you felt safe around him. He was calm, observant, and never asked for more than you were willing to give.

You’d sit beside him during breaks, leaning over his shoulder as he played on his handheld console.

“You’re always watching,” he’d say without looking up.

“I like watching,” you’d plainly reply.

And when he let you try it out yourself—tentatively handing over his console like it was something fragile—you knew you had earned his trust. You’d talk about things beyond video games. Books. Movies. Your homesickness. His dislike of crowds. The weird comfort of silence. He was the only one who didn’t flinch when you talked about the divorce or missing your mom and brother.

By the end of your second year, you were inseparable. Everyone saw it—hell, even Kuroo made a habit of teasing you about it.

“She’s the Kenma whisperer,” he’d joke. “He actually talks around her.”

You dismissed it. You told yourself it was just friendship, that the small twists in your stomach when his shoulder brushed yours were normal. That the deliberate and soft way he looked at you was just how he looked at everyone.

But somewhere near the end of school, when the weight of the future started crawling into every conversation, you realised you felt something more. And it scared the hell out of you. You didn’t say anything. How could you risk losing what you had when it had taken you so long to find it?

After graduation, the team drifted as people often do. University took everyone in different directions, but you all stayed in touch. Kuroo’s group chats were relentless and reunions became an annual thing, something precious to look forward to.

With Kenma, your bond never faded. If anything, it grew.

Even when you were in different cities, the two of you never changed—late night phone calls, half-asleep messages, and meeting up whenever you could. Both of you still talked like no time had passed. Still knew each other in that rare, bone-deep way. However, you dated around, courtesy of your college roommate urging you to move on and get laid. You had simply nodded, telling yourself the crush was a remnant of adolescence. It had to be. It wasn’t healthy to keep holding on.

Tragically, it never went anywhere with the people you went out with. No one matched the way Kenma understood you without trying. No one matched the genuinity and the slow-burn thrill.

And now, in your twenties, with a stable job and a quiet apartment, you were beginning to admit that maybe it had never been just a crush.

But if that was true… what in the world were you supposed to do about it?

Kenma’s penthouse was everything you’d expect: clean lines, muted colors, and minimalist furniture. Expensive in a subtle way.

He was already curled up on the low couch when you stepped in, barefoot and hoodie-clad, legs tucked under himself like a cat. “You’re late,” he murmured without looking up from his nintendo.

“You’re lucky I even showed up,” you replied, dropping your bag by the door.

“Oh?” His eyes flicked up momentarily, amused. “Is this you playing hard to get?”

You rolled your eyes and sank into the seat beside him, close enough for your knees to brush. “If I was playing hard to get, you wouldn’t stand a chance.”

That earned a low hum of laughter. “So self-assured.”

The night unfolded the way it generally did—casual banter, leftover takeout, and dumb inside jokes that had survived since Nekoma. You both sat there, bodies angled toward each other, the city lights painting the walls with a faint gold.

At one point, he turned off the TV, but neither of you moved. There was a falter. A lapse stretching between words. Then, after much thought, you said it.

“Can I ask you something kind of... weird?”

Kenma blinked. “Sure.”

You took a breath. “Do you ever think you’re, like, bad in bed?”

His eyebrows rose. That certainly wasn’t what he’d imagined the conversation would jump to. You winced at yourself. “Okay, wow, that sounded way more self-deprecating than I meant it to.”

“Little bit.”

“I’m serious,” you said, shifting to face him fully. “I’ve dated, right? But it never really went anywhere. And when it did get physical, it just… didn’t go that far.”

Kenma didn’t interrupt. Merely listened.

“I mean, I’ve done stuff,” you continue rambling, suddenly fascinated by the hem of your sleeve. “A little oral. Some handjobs. But, um, I’ve never… had sex.”

There it was. Out in the open. You’d lobbed the confession between you like a live grenade, waiting for it to detonate. Only that it didn’t. The lack of response wasn’t exactly suffocating, though it did make you scream a little on the inside.

Kenma’s voice was gentler than you expected when it came. “Why are you thinking about this now?”

His words made you hesitate. “Because I’m trying to see people again. But every time I get close to someone, I panic. I keep doubting myself—what if I’m not good at it? What if they expect me to know what I’m doing and I don’t?”

A beat.

“And it’s not about being ashamed,” you added quickly. “I just want to feel... in control. Comfortable.”

Kenma studied you. “You could just tell them.”

“I know. But I don’t want it to be a thing. Like, ‘oh no, she’s a virgin, handle her with care.’” You wrinkled your nose. “I don’t want pity sex. Or worse, performance sex.” You dared a peep at him. “Have you…?”

He tilted his head. “Had sex?”

Your ears burned, unsure of whether you wanted to hear the answer. “Yeah.”

Kenma leaned back against the couch, arms crossed. “I have.”

The words sat in the air like smoke. You ignored the tightening of your chest. “Was it good?” you asked. Perhaps, a little too quickly.

He gave you a look. “You really want to know?”

You stammered. “Yes. No. Kind of. For research purposes.”

He smirked. “Of course.”

“Shut up.”

He was quiet for a moment before replying, “Some of it was good. Depends on the person, I guess.”

You hummed, eyes on his collarbone. “Would you ever, uh, be willing to show someone the ropes?”

A pause. “What do you mean?”

You didn’t answer right away. The apartment felt charged, causing your fingers to twist in your lap. Without meeting his gaze, you exhaled shakily.

“I was just thinking… if I ever wanted to figure this out—hypothetically—you’re the only person I’d trust not to make it weird.”

Kenma stilled, lips parting. “Hypothetically?”

“Yeah.”

Another pause. A longer one. “You’re asking me to have sex with you.”

Your stomach flipped. “I didn’t say that.”

“But that’s what you meant.”

You groaned. “Forget it. This was dumb. I shouldn’t have—”

“I didn’t say no.” Kenma looked at you. Not joking, not teasing—just looking. That same sincere care you’d known for years, now sharpened with something else.

Something almost hungry.

“Do you want me to?” he asked, voice low. “Help you?”

Your heart thundered. “Well, I—Only if… you want to.”

He leaned forward. “I want to. Let’s start with a kiss.”

You froze, eyes widening at the abruptness of it all.

“Since, you know,” he added casually, “we’re doing research.” You laughed—nervous, breathy—and nodded. “Right. For the glory of science.”

He moved in leisurely, giving you every chance to pull back. You didn’t. His lips brushed yours once. Gentle and testing, your breath hitching at the sensation. You kissed him again. More assertive than previously. As a result, his hand found your cheek. The angle changed, the excitement deepened.

You realised begrudgingly that your idea had stopped being hypothetical real fast.

Kenma and you grew feverish, your actions slow, then speedy, like you couldn’t get enough. You gripped his hoodie in an act of desperation. His fingers trailed along your waist, reluctant yet calculating. You felt his touch at the hem of your t-shirt and gasped, pulling back.

“I—I need to stop,” you whispered.

Kenma, breathing heavily, nodded. “Okay.”

You sat there, chests heaving, foreheads nearly touching.

“That was…” you began.

“Mhm,” he said, voice hoarse. “It was.”

You didn’t sleep together that night. Be that as it may, something had undoubtedly shifted. Something you couldn’t take back. Neither of you were prepared for what that first sensuous encounter had unlocked.

After the kiss, everything was different. Not in a dramatic, movie-like way, mind you. There were no whispered confessions or next-day declarations. You didn’t even text about it. Not directly, though every message after did have a different weight to it.

gamer boi: you left your ring on the bathroom sink

You: OMGTHANKYOU i’ve been searching for it all day :(

gamer boi: how did you even forget it?? isn’t it your favourite????

You: it’s not my fault someone kept me distracted with his mouth 🙄

gamer boi: don’t act like you didn’t enjoy it

The next time you saw Kenma, you were wearing a sundress with zero intentions of escalating anything. Apparently, it didn’t matter.

You were barely inside before Kenma tugged you in by the wrist, your back hitting the front door with a loud thud. His mouth was on yours again, hands roaming like he’d been starved of touch. His fingers curled around your waist, dragging you flush against him. You let out an embarrassingly needy whimper, arms looped around his neck for balance.

It was supposed to be another kiss. Nothing too intense, nothing too fiery. But soon his tongue brushed against yours—mischievously coaxing. When his knee slid between your thighs, you knew that you were done for.

Your nails dug into his shoulders and he groaned into your mouth.

“Okay?” he checked in, lips grazing your jaw.

You nodded, breathless. “Yeah. Just—you… it’s all very new. ”

He paused. “Tell me if you want to stop.”

“I will.”

That night, you didn’t go all the way either.

But you let him touch you. Really touch you.

You ended up in his lap on the couch, your dress hiked up, his t-shirt discarded somewhere on the floor. His motions were maddeningly drawn out—smoothing over your thighs, teasing under your panties, fingers slicking gently over you until you were shaking. One thing you’d grown to learn thanks to these electrifying escapades was that Kenma neither rushed nor demanded.

Just observed.

He watched you unravel, watched you fall apart with nothing more than his hand between your legs and his mouth pressed to your throat.

You’d returned the favour a week later—kneeling between his knees in that same living room, palms steady even though your mind was a mess. He had gripped your hair, but not harshly—more like he didn’t know what else to hold onto.

And after, when you wiped your mouth and leaned your cheek against his thigh, both of you panting hard, he murmured, “You’re dangerous when you’re confident.”

You smiled. “Guess the research is working, huh?”

His only answer was a smirk.

Life, as it usually does, got in the way. You were swamped at work and Kenma had his own obligations. Days passed. Weeks, even. You didn’t meet up with him, but you felt him everywhere. In your skin. In your thoughts. In the aching, restless emptiness of your bed. And worse: you missed him. Not just the way he touched you—but the him of it. His deadpan humour. The way he’d pause in conversation like he was thinking four moves ahead. The attractive rasp of his voice. The way he drank you in.

You missed your friend. You craved your… something.

You didn’t know what you were to him anymore. In spite of that, you knew that you needed him.

Kuroo’s reunion couldn’t have come at a better—or worse—time.

You’d dressed without overthinking it. Okay, maybe a little overthinking. The black corset hugged your curves like sin. The skirt hit mid-thigh, leaving appropriately enough to the imagination. The oversized leather blazer added a touch of effortlessness you didn’t actually feel. And the platform boots? Tall enough to be seductive.

When you walked into the high-end restaurant, every eye turned. On the contrary, you only looked for one.

Kenma was at the bar, drink in hand, dressed in a black button-up with the sleeves rolled to his forearms. His hair was tousled, face unreadable. But when he saw you, he froze. Eyes trailing down greedily, taking his sweet time. He didn’t smile or wave.

Later, after hours of group toasts, dodging Kuroo’s banter, and pretending you didn’t itch with anticipation, Kenma found you on the rooftop balcony.

The city buzzed beneath.

“You’ve been avoiding me,” you said, not turning around.

He stepped closer, “You’ve been busy.”

“So have you.”

All you hear for a few seconds is the cacophony of traffic and pedestrians.

“You look good tonight.”

You swallowed, your feet carrying you to him. “Yeah?”

Kenma appeared to be just as tormented as you. “Too good.”

“That a problem?”

He didn’t bother with an answer. Reaching for you, he hastily tugged you close. His mouth slanted over yours, hot and aching, weeks (he’d argue, proclaiming ‘years’) of self-control slipping like sand through fingers.

You didn’t even remember getting into the cab.

The moment Kenma’s apartment door shut behind you, it was chaos.

Lips crashing. Hands fumbling. Breath caught between kisses that were all teeth and tongue, no space for thought. Kenma backed you against the wall while you yanked at the buttons of his shirt like you were unwinding every second you’d spent pretending this wasn’t what you wanted. He dragged your blazer off, then your corset. His hands slid up your thighs, underneath your skirt, finding nothing but heat and skin.

“You planned this?” he muttered, strained, against your neck.

“I thought about you,” you whispered honestly.

He cursed, kissing you deeper—ravenous, like the time apart had built a pressure in him he could no longer contain. Soon, you were in his bed. Limbs knotting, bare. His weight on top of you was crushing—so real with almost a decade’s worth of tension, of friendship, of everything unspoken.

His touch skimmed up your stomach, pausing at the curve of your breast.

“I need you,” he said, hoarsely. “Tell me I can have you. Please.”

“I’m yours,” you reassured—just a whisper, but your whole body yearned to meet his. “I want you so bad, Kenma.”

He reached down between your thighs, fingers running through the mess there, working you open. You moaned, legs falling wider to allow him to move inside you better. You were drowning in sensation. His teeth nipped at your chest, hips grinding just barely against yours, and yet—

You wanted this. God, you wanted him. But—

“Wait,” you muttered, voice thin and trembling.

Kenma froze immediately. His eyes locked on yours, reading your face with terrifying precision. “What’s wrong? Did I hurt you?”

“No,” you said quickly. “No, I—”

Your hand pressed lightly to his chest. “I can’t—I can’t do this like it’s solely physical. Not with you.”

The room shifted.

“I thought I could,” your voice was so low, one might believe you weren’t speaking at all. “I told myself this was just for fun. A learning thing. ‘Research.’ But I can’t pretend anymore.”

You looked up at him, shame creeping in. “If I sleep with you, I’ll fall completely. I already have. It won’t just be sex to me. I don’t think it ever was.” You gulped, words turning rawer. “And if that’s not what you want… then this was a mistake.”

Tranquility. Thick. Cracking at the seams.

You felt your panic rise. “Sorry. I know I fucked things up, god. I should leave—"

“Stop,” Kenma finally spoke. Your blathering halted.

His fingers trailed up your cheek. “You think I’d let you in like this—have you like this—if it was just physical to me?” You didn’t answer. Couldn’t, really.

“I’ve been in love with you since high school, you idiot,” he said, and your stomach dropped. “I just never thought you’d want me back.”

You blinked up at him, stunned.

“When we kissed that day,” he continued, reverent, “everything changed. I didn’t want to risk scaring you away, so I thought if I gave you what you needed… eventually you’d see it too.”

He kissed your forehead. “See that I’d burn down the world for you.”

You gazed up at him, shaking slightly. “You’re not serious.”

He kissed your cheek. Your temple. Your nose. “I’m dead serious.”

Emotion swelled in your heart, hand cupping the side of his face. “Kenma…”

He leaned into the touch. “Talk to me.”

“I used to wait for practice to end just to walk home with you. I used to sit in the stands and pretend I was watching the match, but I was only watching you.”

The corner of his lips twitched. His hands ran down your sides.

“I thought I was broken for never wanting anyone the way my friends did,” you whispered. “But then you showed me it wasn’t about anyone. It was about you. It was always you.”

The atmosphere in the room grew charged with something sacred.

“I love you,” you declared, like the words were stolen from your ribs. Like they were always there between the two of you, waiting for someone to speak them to life.

Kenma was silent for one moment—just one—before… “I love you too,” he kissed you like a man reborn. This time, there was no rush.

He moved over you like he was making a vow—hands smoothing over every curve of your body, lips mapping every inch of your skin, like he was trying to memorise the sound of your breath as it caught in your throat.

When he lined himself up and pushed inside, it was slow. Intimate. He didn’t look away once. You clung to him, gaping at the fullness, the sheer gravity of him inside you.

“Alright?” he murmured, brows furrowing in concern.

You nodded, breath shaky. “Better than alright.”

He kissed you again, explosively possessive. After what felt like ages, he moved.

Each thrust was deliberate and claiming. His hand tangled with yours above your head. His other gripped your hip, holding you steady as he rocked into you, building a rhythm that made your back arch.

“I’ve dreamed about this,” he murmured into your ear. “Dreamed about you under me, begging for more.”

You moaned, eyelashes fluttering. “You have me now.”

“Trust me, I’m never letting go.”

Your bodies danced in a symphony that blurred the line between pleasure and worship. You came first, legs trembling. He followed right after, whining your name against your lips, pulsing with everything he felt and couldn’t say fast enough.

While you both lay there—spent and dizzy—you clung to each other. Because you knew this wasn’t the end.

You woke up to sunlight. Golden, slithering between silk curtains and spilling across the sheets in hazy lines.

Next to you was Kenma, his arm draped over your waist. The slight scrunch of his forehead indicated he was still deep in thought even while asleep. The sheets were rumpled around your legs, your body still sticky with sweat and afterglow, and every inch of you ached deliciously.

Oh my god, you thought with a giddy smile.

Your phone buzzed on the nightstand. You reached out, careful not to disturb Kenma, and blinked at the screen.

8 Messages from loser

1 Missed Call

1 Voice Note

You opened the texts, bracing yourself.

loser: where the hell are you?? kenma’s vanished too tf

loser: you better not have left. lev tried to arm wrestle yamamoto and lost. to YAMAMOTO

loser: i swear if you ghosted the reunion i’m kicking your ass

loser: wait

loser: waitttttttt

loser: OH MY GOD DID YOU AND KENMA LEAVE TOGETHER???!!!

loser: TELL ME THIS ISN’T HOW I’M FINDING OUT

loser: ANSWER ME FUCKER

You choked on your laugh, snorting into your palm. Kenma stirred beside you, yawning.

“Mmm… what time is it?” he mumbled, exhaustion evident in his voice.

“Too early for our best friend to be having a meltdown,” you giggled.

Kenma cracked one eye open. “Kuroo?”

You held your phone up. “He’s in panic mode.”

Kenma blinked. Then closed his eyes again and guided you down into his chest. “Ignore him.”

You laughed, cuddling into his warmth. His hair was mussed, bleached strands falling into his eyes. His fingers rubbed lazy circles into your back, like he couldn’t stop touching you in his tired state either.

“I still can’t believe last night happened,” you remarked dreamily.

Kenma nuzzled your shoulder. “I can. I’ve imagined it a thousand times.”

You flushed. “Okay, damn.”

He smirked against your skin. “You think I didn’t spend high school losing my mind over you?”

You were about to answer when his hand slid lower. Then lower still.

“Kenma—”

He rolled on top of you before you could finish. You sucked in a breath as his mouth found yours—inviting at first, then insatiable. Your legs parted instinctively as he settled between them, hardening length grinding slowly into your wetness. His body was still warm from sleep, but his touch was awake. Very awake.

“You’re gonna start something you can’t finish,” you warned.

He kissed your jaw. “Wanna bet?”

You fisted his hair, pulling him back to meet your eyes. “We’re seriously doing this again? First thing in the morning?”

“You’re naked in my bed,” he deadpanned. “If anything, this is on you.”

You were mid-laugh, mid-moan, mid-thigh squeeze when…

“I SWEAR TO GOD IF YOU—”

The bedroom door slammed open. You both stopped, unmoving.

Kenma’s mouth was on your neck. His hand was on your thigh. Your legs were definitely wrapped around his waist. Kuroo stood in the doorway like a horror movie freeze frame.

One hand still on the doorknob. Jaw hanging open. Eyebrow twitching.

You screeched and dove under the sheets like they could erase the last thirty seconds of reality. Kenma… just sighed. Still completely on top of you, showing no signs of clothing himself.

“Get out,” he said flatly.

Kuroo was pale. In a shocking display, he turned red. If possible, redder.

“I—WHAT—SHE’S NAKED—YOU’RE—WHAT—WHY—"

“By the way, I didn’t give you the code to my penthouse so you could come and go as you please,” Kenma muttered, frustrated.

“I thought you were dead!”

“Kuroo—” you poked your head out, expression absolutely boiling—“I’m begging you to forget this ever happened.”

“Oh no. This is burned into my soul. Wait till the group chat hears about this.”

Kenma finally stood up, arranging the blanket properly to cover you like a true gentleman. Instead of being embarrassed, he looked rather annoyed at being interrupted. Like this was your regular Saturday afternoon in the Kozume household.

Kuroo glanced between the two of you, hands on hips, processing.

Then he scoffed, “I watched you two lunatics dawdle around each other for YEARS. Years. You think I didn’t know?”

“Then, why are you surprised?” Kenma asked.

“Because I thought you’d tell me through a well-structured text, not with your fucking nipples out!”

You screamed in humiliation and retreated into the covers again.

Kenma shrugged. “We were busy.”

“Oh, no need to tell me.” Kuroo turned, still muttering to himself, “I'm gonna need bleach. For my eyes. For my brain. For my…”

The bedroom door slammed shut and it was peaceful for all of three seconds. At the same time, you and Kenma burst out laughing. He wrapped his arms around you, burying his face in your neck as you wheezed into the pillow, your body shaking.

“Never living that down,” you gasped.

“Worth it,” he whispered.

And then he kissed you again—slow and soft—like he had nowhere else to be.

1K notes · View notes

crustyfloor · 14 days ago

Text

My fragile god, fading fast. - ( english translation free on Patreon🫩)

Rather than sheltered, Mizi's life was surrounded by death and gore; she never got a break from it. When Shine adopted her, it was like a reprieve from all of the horror she's been through because she was loved, she may not have understood them, but she knew how much they cherished her, and it made her happy that she at least didn't feel like she was in immediate danger around them because she was such a beloved pet, as long as this alien loved her, she would be safe and survive.

Still, I think she was haunted by the implication that she was still always in danger, even in Shine's care, she was getting hurt, she was weak (While she was relieved to be with Shine because it didn't feel like she felt safe and cared for in the first place) . The differences and the inherent misunderstanding between Aliens and their "pets" are so key in this one. While Shine did care and genuinely believed they were doing the best for Mizi, they didn't understand her. It doesn't look cruel on the outside, but it's intentionally hidden in the subtlety. Shine is careless, insensitive, and makes mistakes because they don't understand humans; they are treated much like puppies. It's the quiet calmness and detachment and carefreeness, even as Mizi is in pain or crying in front of them, they lack the care of a human, despite trying to take the place of one. She was a pet for them to ogle and coo at until she would be too much to handle- "Raising a child isn't easy, huh. How about you buy her a TV?"

I think, then, Mizi wanted an escape from that place somehow. I think this is how she realized how weak and destructible other humans are on that stage, just like she felt about herself. Aliens are too different and too powerful to empathize and understand her, so she wanted to go to Alien stage to seek out what she was missing, to find some sort of solidarity, or she would die there and be freed

I'm glad this question was somewhat answered, because I've always wondered why it was Mizi's choice to go to Anakt Garden, but I think Mizi wanted to go to Alien stage so badly because she wanted to feel in control of something; she couldn't control losing her "provider", she couldn't control how the aliens perceived her. But she could control this. Because she hated feeling like the fragile one, like she could be "crushed", she wanted to feel like more than a pet; she wanted to be liked, to be understood when she couldn't find it in the aliens, it made her so lonely. So she wanted to be around humans who were also like her, weak, fragile. That explains why she was so drawn to Sua in the first place

Mizi's fascination and adoration of the way Sua is so perfect, so human, like herself, and weak, is fascinating... I especially love this sequence where Mizi is adoring her from bottom to top, not just because it's so tender, but because Mizi truly adores Sua like a god, because Sua is her god, it encapsulates how Mizi is obsessed, how in love with all that Sua is to her, and all the freedom and peace she feels in Sua's love and presence, the escape and guidance Sua was made her godlike to Mizi

In many ways, right now, when she speaks, she's projecting her own feelings of weakness and insecurity onto Sua, who is comparatively weaker and smaller than Mizi.

It comes from a place of wanting control; Sua is so perfect to her because she could be crushed, Mizi could hurt her, and Sua allows her that kind of control. She feeds into Mizi's insecurities and need for autonomy through control. Mizi doesn't mean to hurt Sua, but she is a traumatized person who takes it out on Sua because she knows no better than this; still, they try to understand and console each other despite all of it. (It's so.. ironic. In a way, they end up inevitably perpetuating their own pain and abuse by repeating the behavior and habits that hurt themselves and each other because this environment fosters these interactions; they can't do anything else about it, can't worry about 'healthy love' like this.) --Their love is more profound and unconditional than anything Mizi has ever had before, even with her owner, Shine, who would love her until she was difficult to manage, but not Sua. And Sua loved and trusted her completely, let Mizi have her completely. In many ways, Mizi found someone who wouldn't abandon her, accepted her completely and unconditionally, as flawed as she was, and no matter how many times she did things she wasn't proud of, even hurt Sua, Sua would always accept her, and in turn, Mizi would be a comfort and an escape for Sua too, such unconditional acceptance and love made them soothingly equal and reliant on each other to feed into each others delusions for a safe place just for them in the world (To Mizi, who hated feeling inadequate or weak, this must've been freeing even if Sua couldn't be completely understanding, they had each other in a world where it was one for oneself or you were under a constant threat otherwise)

-- Sua offers herself and never faults Mizi for what she does, or her feelings, no matter how ashamed Mizi is of it, or how her insecurities can manifest in the ugliest of ways because Mizi didn't know how to express herself in the first place. This is how Sua thinks she's fulfilling her desire to protect Mizi's innocence and to keep her safe by reassuring each other that their lives aren't up to the segyein, that they have each other. Mizi felt a sense of control and stability in Sua that she had never had in her life. Mizi's escapism and coping mechanism is finding security in repression, ignorance, or a facade. She couldn't feel at peace even in the safety of her Guardian no matter how "safe" she was, she wasn't understood, but she could feel at peace in the illusion of control and safety, of having someone that she perceived as weak and unable to "crush" and hurt her like so many others in her life could and did.

The psychology behind it is also super fascinating, from somebody so human, Mizi thinks of Sua like how the segyein think of all of them, as aforementioned, she's projecting what she's heard before, Shine calls her adorable even when she's in pain because her clumsiness and the defenselessness she exhibits as a human is funny and endearing to them, the aliens look down on them because humans are fragile. To Mizi, Sua is all (adorable, small, weak, unthreatening). In a situation where they are both two abused children under a similar threat by aliens who control them, Mizi finds security and comfort in the fact that they are both vulnerable, lacking power, and the idea that she has upper hand over Sua in this circumstance is like Mizi is trying to substitute a feeling of powerlessness with taking back a sense of control that she's never had before.

#alien stage #alnst #alien stage mizi #alnst mizi #mizisua

739 notes · View notes

firingstars · 7 days ago

Text

siren’s song [one-shot]

avengers!bucky x avengers!reader

summary: bucky hears music through the vents of his room every single night, but the team refuses to tell him for his own protection. after all, they know the music is coming from you- a secret member of the team, who happens to be able to control minds.

warnings: 18+, mdni, no use of y/n, language, alternating pov’s, the avengers don’t like you/are scared of you, bucky is your biggest and loudest defender, steve is a meanie but he’s bucky’s biggest and loudest defender,, reader is a lil insecure and depressed but eh she’s a tortured™️ artist so what did we expect, reader knows sign language and is expressed in bold text throughout the fic

word count: 10.9k

a/n: apologies in advance for any inaccurate to semi-accurate music descriptions T_T i am a washed singer/musician that hasn’t done music since i switched over to the healthcare industry </3

masterlist

Everyone treats him as if he is something breakable. Fragile. That one wrong move, one wrong word– one wrong breath is enough to shatter him.

In all honesty, Bucky can’t blame them completely. It took him a long time to get to where he is right now, and he still has to lie to himself to say that he’s doing okay. He still hopes that the lie will somehow manifest itself into truth if he tries hard enough.

Either way, it’s pissing him off.

The team acts as if they can’t hear the music that comes through the vents during random points of the day. Sometimes, it’s piano. Bucky can’t tell the difference between a violin or a viola, but he hears one of the two as well. There’s a low thrum of a cello every once in a while. He hears an acoustic guitar in the early mornings when the sun is barely breaking through the horizons.

Sometimes the melodies strike through his skin and grip his bones, never letting him go. Other times he’s soothed to sleep as if a gentle hand is caressing his head, lulling him to bed with each pluck of the string. He can’t deny that he’s enraptured by wherever this music is coming from.

At first, he thought Tony had F.R.I.D.A.Y playing music through the halls. He asked Tony about it– wondered why the music was played at such odd times without any rhyme or reason. Tony denied having any mood music and joked about him going crazy in the head. Bucky walked out of the lab without giving him another response.

Then, Bucky realized it was strongest in his own room, and got softer as he walked towards the common areas. He realized that the music was connected directly towards his vent. His next realization was that there was a person that had to be playing each one of those instruments.

Bucky dragged Steve into his room to show him the music next time it happened, demanding to know what was going on– to know where the music was filtering through from.

“What music, Buck?” Steve asked him, a polite look on his face. Bucky never wanted to punch him more– more than that day on those fucking hellicarriers when Steve was just a mission to him.

“Are you serious?” Bucky replied, eyebrows shooting towards the ceiling. “You don’t– you don’t hear that? The fucking– That’s Liebestraum No.3.”

Steve stared at Bucky, blinking at him like they didn’t speak the same language. Bucky let out a deep breath, frustration coursing through his veins as he did his best to not shout at the man that he considered his oldest, bestest friend.

“You don’t know who Franz Liszt is?” Bucky asked, trying to keep his voice even and calm. He was trying to practice the art of patience, but he was failing horribly with every passing second.

“How do you know who Franz Liszt is?” Steve retorted, almost looking worried.

“I had to do musical therapy as one of my– never mind. You seriously can’t hear the piano?” Bucky quickly said.

“Buck… Have you been sleeping well? Should we move your room somewhere else? Stark did mention that you asked him about music the other day, too.”

Bucky hated that tone of voice. Condescending. Borderline patronizing. As if Steve was talking to a child. Like he was fragile.

“Steve, no!” Bucky exclaimed, throwing his hands up in the air. “You know what– fuck. Never mind. Forget I mentioned anything.”

“Bucky,” Steve sighed, placing a hand on his shoulder. They lock eyes, Bucky frowning at him.

“What, Steve?” he grunted.

“Trust me– you’re better off not knowing.”

The music stopped coming through the vents for some time after Steve lied blatantly to Bucky’s face– Bucky knew they were all lying to him.

It was the same way they lied to him about the extra set of plates and cups that he noticed in the cupboards of the kitchen that no one claimed– but showed obvious wear of use. When Bucky asked who used those, they all just shrugged at him and changed the topic.

Bucky noticed mangoes in the fridge once. No one on the team ate mangoes, but there was always a fresh stock of mangoes that got brought in with each produce delivery. He noticed that the supply in the fridge dwindled down every few days until there was nothing left. He saw the peels in the trash. Nobody on the team smelled of mangoes.

When it was Wanda’s turn to cook, she would put a serving of food to the side before calling for everyone else to eat. No one would touch it. Bucky noticed that it would be eaten and gone the next day. He asked Sam one time who ate it, and got brushed off like he was insane for asking the question.

They were doing the same shit they were doing when they first brought him onto the team and he hated it.

Bucky knew that they were doing it to protect him. That this was supposed to be for him, and they only meant well, but fuck– he was getting tired of it. He would’ve thought that they trusted him by now. If anything, they were doing more damage to him than good by handling him with gloves. He didn’t even know what they were protecting him from. Someone else? Another person? He couldn’t voice this to any of them, not when he was already struggling to express himself.

Soon enough, the music returned through the vents again. Softer this time. As if whoever was playing was afraid to take up space.

Bucky laid in bed, eyes falling shut as he let out a breath. The notes blanketed over him like a warm hug, wrapping around him and soothing his aches and pains.

He was grateful that the lullabies were back.

Bucky could return to his dreamless sleeps.

“Nice work today,” Fury complimented as you washed your hands.

You watched as the sink turned from crimson to pink to clear. You used the brush from the sterile packet to scrub under your nails, removing any traces of dirt, blood, and other bodily fluids that you could have picked up from your interrogation. You shake your hands off in the sink, glancing through the mirror to look behind you. Fury's standing there, with a towel in hand for you.

“Thanks,” you muttered quietly in return, shutting the faucet off before turning around to take the cloth. He pulls it away from you for a second, and your eyes go to his face.

“That would have gone a lot faster if you had just used your ability on him first,” he told you, then lowered the towel into your wet hands. “Wouldn’t have to resort to all the mess.”

“It's a mess either way, Nick,” you replied with a sigh, drying your hands off. You throw the towel into the hamper of the locker room when you’re done.

“Have you made any progress with the team?” he asked, hands clasping behind his back as you followed him out into the hall.

“You’re funny,” you said, scoffing.

“I would like to deploy you on missions with them, you know,” he clicked his tongue on you.

“And yet, when you have me do interrogations, you have me in a soundproof room and have all other agents clear the floor,” you pointed out, shaking your head. “You also have me several feet underground. Don’t even get me started on the fact that my comms channels are cleared on my field missions.”

“It’s a safety precaution, agent.”

“You’re scared, Nick. That’s okay. They are, too,” you said, your voice soft. “I don’t blame you or them. I wouldn't trust me either."

Fury stopped walking, leaving you a few more steps ahead of him. You let out a deep sigh as you stop in your place, turning around to look at him. You’re so tired. You want nothing more than to return back to the main compound. You want to shower off the interrogation, cry, and maybe listen to Erik Satie to pretend like you’re not a weapon.

“You don’t make it easy for us to not be scared of you,” Fury said, looking you in the eyes.

“I’m just thankful that you talk to me,” you said, giving him a small smile.

Fury lets out a sigh, shaking his head. “You said that you have control over it. You have given me no reason to not trust that you won’t mess with my head the same way that you do with our enemies. Does it scare the hell out of me when I see what you can do? Sure it does. And I thank my lucky stars that I recruited you for our side. Trust is a two way street, agent. You need to start building your side of the bridge, too.”

He started walking once more, leaving you in the hall by yourself. You watched as his figure turned the hall, listened to his footsteps retreat and disappear into the air before you decided to do the same.

You took the same route that you always do– the same back hallway and stairs that you knew the other members of the team didn’t take.

It makes you laugh when you address them like that in your head. The team. As if you’re part of them. You were introduced to them a long time ago. Said maybe one, two– three full sentences to them before you saw the full distrust and distress on the faces of the original six members.

You really looked up to them. You heard stories of them during your time in captivity as a weapon. You daydreamed of them saving you from your lab, bringing you in, making you one of them. You thought about doing good for the world and rectifying the wrongs that you were forced to do under the hands of the captors that held you by the throat.

It wasn’t them that saved you. There was no fanfare. There was nothing special about the way you were saved.

Your lab was hijacked by a smaller, less elite group of agents. Fury was the one that came to you. Read your file, saw that you were enhanced, and asked if you would like to be part of something better.

That ‘something better’ stared at you with disgust.

It shattered your world.

You kept to yourself after that. They didn’t mistreat you by any means. Tony gave you your own floor in the compound once you all moved from the tower, and they left you alone. They ordered you mangoes and whatever else you asked for as long as you put the order in with F.R.I.D.A.Y..

You couldn’t blame them.

This was a team of people that held secrets. People that had been pulled apart from years of pain, mistrust, and horrors that you hadn’t been around to experience yourself. It was only natural that they wouldn’t trust you once they found out what you could do.

So, you worked alone. Your skillset was better for interrogations, and for solo missions. You were off field most of the time, but Fury still sent you out every once in a while. If there were some more time sensitive matters that needed to be fulfilled that were overlapping with the main team’s missions that couldn’t be handled by regular agents, he would deploy you.

If nothing else, Fury trusted you to do the job.

You shut the water to the shower off, running a hand down your face as you shook the thoughts away. Fury’s words got to you today. You normally didn’t think about this anymore. It had been too long. New members of the Avengers had joined. Nothing has changed. Well– Wanda gives you food when she cooks.

You once asked her why.

She told you- “Even monsters need to eat.”

It was the only time you spoke to her.

You pad through the open concept of your floor. You press a key of your piano, listening to the note bounce off the walls as you continue to walk. Your guitar is resting on the carpet beneath your unmade bed. Your cello and violin are neatly put to the side against the wall on their stands– and you vaguely think about the fact you need to clean your brass instruments soon. Your drum set remains neglected– you once received a noise complaint through F.R.I.D.A.Y and haven’t found the courage to pick up the sticks since.

You go towards the mini fridge, pulling it open, and pause.

“Shit,” you muttered, pulling in a lip between your teeth. It was empty.

It slipped your mind to have F.R.I.D.A.Y. bring a new delivery of snacks directly to your floor. You know you don’t have anything in the cupboards either. You’re a few days off from the end of the month. You check the time.

It’s barely one in the morning.

With the location of the compound, you won’t get any luck by going into the city to get food and come back. You have another interrogation scheduled first thing in the morning. You have training sessions with a few agents that aren’t aware of your abilities all afternoon, and then another interrogation in the evening if the Avengers complete their early morning mission and bring back their target as per scheduled. If you leave the compound right now, you won’t get enough time to sleep and be okay enough for the amount of shit you’ll have to deal with tomorrow.

Plus, your hands are itching to touch some strings tonight or you might go crazy.

You could forgo the meal. You really could.

The thought is immediately thrown out the window by a sharp pain in your stomach followed by a deep grumbling that you’re sure could wake up everyone in the compound.

You groan to yourself, reaching for a hoodie. You’ll have to head towards the common floors.

As you board the elevator, you really hope all of the team members are sleeping. You’re not in the mood to run into any of them today. Usually, you only come up here when you know that they’re on a mission or away from the compound celebrating or just out having a good time together– without you. They should be sleeping.

And yet– there he was.

The main person that you were warned to steer clear of.

Stormy eyes landed on you– you, who stood there with damp hair, a zip up hoodie and a tank top with cotton shorts and slippers. Shit.

You watched as the man bristled. He held a half eaten plum in his vibranium hand, all muscles tensed under the black shirt that he wore. The dog tags around his neck glistened under the kitchen lights as his body turned, his back straightening as he moved to square his shoulders to size you up. He was taller than you thought, but you had only seen him from afar. He had also cut his hair short– it was nice. His beard was also reduced to stubble now. You wondered if he did it himself or had someone else do it for him.

You swallowed, and took a few steps.

This was your place of work, too. You lived here, too.

“Who the fuck are you?” he demanded, his voice almost in a low growl.

You didn’t dare answer him. You were almost afraid to. Not that you would use your power on him by accident– but that Steve or someone else would throw you out of the one place that you could call home, even if this place made you feel like you were walking on glass.

You opened the fridge like you did a hundred times before, eyes scanning the shelves until your eyes landed on the fruit. There were two left.

You could feel his eyes burning holes into the back of your head. One wrong move, and you were certain that he would act on command. This was his home, too. For all he knew, you were a stranger. And from what you knew– he knew nothing of you.

You were slow in your movements as you went for the cutting board and the drawer, grabbing a dull knife to cut open the mangoes. You saw him flinch out of the corner of your eye when you brandished the knife, and slowed your movements down even more. You really weren’t trying to die tonight.

You just wanted some fucking mangoes.

Once you were finished, you reached into the cupboards to grab your bowl and placed your fruit inside, dropping your used utensils into the sink. You turned around, locking eyes with the soldier. His breath hitched as you did, and you stared at him for a few moments.

“I asked you a question,” he whispered.

He sounded scared.

You held your breath for a few moments before releasing it. Then, you gave him a sad smile. You shook your head at him. No. He was better off not knowing.

You tried to ignore the look on Bucky’s face before you turned away.

You were warned. Steve warned you twice.

Before Bucky was brought to the compound, Steve visited your floor. Told you to never show yourself before Bucky. Said that he didn’t need you to mess with his head– that Bucky had already gone through hell enough and didn’t need it to happen again.

He came again, a couple weeks back. He told you that your music was loud. And it broke your heart. He told you to quiet down– that Bucky was asking questions. You felt as if your voice had been ripped from you all over again. You felt like you had been back in that lab.

That night, you played Prelude in E minor until your fingers cramped, and your tear ducts dried up.

Bucky had gone through several wars. His body had been modified without his consent over and over again. He was frozen, defrosted, then frozen again countless times. Lies had been shoved down his throat that he was forced to digest. He watched as his body and mind was broken and beaten, and he used to hold no regard for the state that he found himself in because he was trained not to care.

Bucky cared now. He cared a lot.

And he was losing his fucking mind.

“Where do the targets go after we bring them back?” Bucky asked, removing his vest. He was dropping it off at Tony’s lab for inspection— something about Stark wanting to make some upgrades to everyone’s uniforms.

“They go to interrogation,” Steve responded, putting his shield down on an empty table.

“Who interrogates them?” Bucky pressed.

“Fury, I guess,” Sam shrugged, but didn’t meet Bucky’s eyes. He frowned.

“Since when the hell does Fury get his own hands dirty when he has an entire army of agents at his disposal?” he demanded.

“Exactly. Fury just delegates the task to someone, Buck,” Sam sighed, taking redwing off his back to inspect the damn thing. “What’s it matter to you anyway? We just handle the mission— do you want to do extra work or something?”

No. It was simply driving him crazy to be left in the dark.

Bucky didn’t respond, not when he knew that all answers would just lead him back into a circle. He left the lab, aware of how his teammates' shoulders sagged in relief at his departure. It was subtle, but he noticed. He always did.

All of them were hiding something from him. None of them would say a single word. They were great at skirting the issue, deflecting, or simply just changing the topic.

There was one person he hadn’t tried though. One more person that he was certain wouldn’t give him any bullshit, but would definitely never let him live it down. He knew that she would definitely tell the others if word got out, too.

He sucked in a breath and changed courses for the armory. She always spent time down there after a mission to look over her guns, make sure nothing was damaged or jammed. Bucky stood at the threshold of the door for a long time, staring at her back. He didn’t know what to say, or how to say it.

Thankfully, she broke the uncomfortable silence first.

“I deleted the footage from this morning,” Natasha said, putting the safety back on her gun.

“The footage?” Bucky echoed.

“Of you seeing our siren come out of her little cove to get her mangoes,” she clarified.

His eyes narrowed. Siren? Cove?

“Explain.”

Natasha let out a breath. She put away the last of her gadgets and weapons in the case, locking them safely away before turning around. She leaned against the counter, arms crossed over her chest.

“Are you sure you want to know?”

“Are you going to lie to my face like everyone else in this damn building?” he shot back.

“It’s for your own good, Barnes,” she sighed.

“Isn’t up to me to decide that?”

They stared at each other for what seemed like hours before she finally shook her head, relenting. She gestured towards the bench, moving to take a seat. Bucky sat down as well. Natasha said a name he’d never heard before– your name.

“We all collectively decided that we would keep her away from you,” she said, looking down at her hands. “Her abilities… let’s just say she wouldn’t need any fancy H.Y.D.R.A. machines to put your brain through a blender, Barnes.”

His spine straightened as his pulse quickened. He let out a slow breath, eyebrows furrowing.

“She’s enhanced– you called her a siren,” he said, the pieces coming together in his head.

“Whatever words come from her mouth– you can’t help but listen,” Natasha nodded slowly. “If she tells you to run, you run until your body gives out. If she tells you to scream, you’ll scream until your vocal chords are fried. If she tells your brain to explode in your head… well. She’ll be the last thing you ever see again.”

Bucky’s heart was pounding in his chest.

“Does she– she has control over it, right?” he managed to force out.

“Fury says that she does,” Natasha breathed out slowly. “Do I trust it? No. None of us do. She’s… part of the team, which is why she has clearance to the common areas. Fury wants her to be able to be deployed on missions with us, but none of us are comfortable with the idea of her using the ability with us on the field. She does solo work and interrogations, but otherwise I’m not really sure what she does here. I know Stark gave her an entire floor to herself. I think she blasts really fucking loud music. I think your vents are connected.”

Loud wasn’t the right word for it. Calming was a better word.

Even when the music you played was sad or melancholic, he felt peace that he hadn’t been able to know in so long. Even if you were doing a simple scale to warm up your cold fingertips, you were able to pull him out of the depths of his own mind. You brought him ease that he had forgotten he knew how to feel.

“Where’s her floor?”

You didn’t hear the elevator doors open, not with your headphones secured over your head. You had a day off today, and you decided to take yourself down to the city to pick out your first electric guitar. You spent a lot of time with the clerk at the shop, going back and forth between different brands of guitar, amps, and other things.

You even learned how to be able to connect the electric guitar to headphones so you wouldn’t get another noise complaint from your resident fossil, Captain America.

You sat on the floor, back against your bed, guitar on your lap with your laptop in front of you. You had your notebook beside it, ready to jot down anything that you felt was worthy of remembering for a later time.

Your fingers danced away at the strings, a smile fitting along your face as you closed your eyes. You were chasing the ghost of your past– the sound of your father’s amp crackling to life in the garage on a Saturday morning to wake you up. You, racing down the steps of the stairs as each note reverberated through your skeleton, screaming for you as you got closer and closer, distorting your reality as you–

You felt a weight in the room, breaking your immersion. You ripped the headphones off your skull, turning quickly, one hand reaching under your bed to where you knew you had a weapon.

Bucky’s hands went up in immediate surrender.

“I just want to talk,” he said, swallowing thickly.

Your breaths were still erratic, your eyebrows furrowed. Talk? What the hell would this man want to talk to you about?

He was truthful though. Nothing about his body language screamed that he was on guard. His eyes were on you– more on the fact that your hand was still under your bed. You forced your breathing to even out and slowly dragged your hand back to where he could see it, and watched as his hands lowered back to his sides as well.

You watched as his eyes went from you to your room. His eyes rested on your bed– the sheets still not tucked in properly because you never cared to fix them after waking up. The carpet under your bed so your feet didn’t have to touch the cold tile of the floor first thing in the morning.

Across from your bed were two couches facing each other with throw blankets strewn about, with a coffee table in the middle, and a TV mounted on the wall. On the table were music sheets that you had forgotten to organize and put away.

Right beside your 'living room' was your music area. You had several different instruments here, along with a full set up of production material for you to even record if you wanted to– because you did, sometimes. Only if you were in the mood for it. Not that you released anything. You were just bored by yourself, and you had the ability to do it.

And Bucky was standing in the middle of your makeshift dining-room-slash-kitchen. It was just a round table with a small fridge, half counter with a partial induction stove, and half sink area. You had a microwave to use, and some cupboards that you filled with snacks, plates, and utensils.

Suddenly, you felt self conscious over the fact of how lived in everything looked. You never had your area so closely examined the way he was looking at everything. Then again, you weren’t expecting any guests.

“Do you talk?” he suddenly asked.

You blinked. Your lips parted– and closed. You nodded in response after a few moments. Bucky’s eyes narrowed at you.

“Will you talk to me?” he asked, changing his question.

You shook your head immediately. Bucky let out a sigh, placing his hands on his hips. You could see the gears turning in his head as he tried to figure out what else to say to you.

“Is it because of your ability?”

You didn’t hide the shock on your face. You don’t know who’s more stupid– the person who told him, or him himself. Why would he come here if he knew what you are? What you could do to him?

Either way, you nodded to him.

“This is gonna get really annoying very fast– Can you do sign language?” he asked, surprising you again. He must've read the surprise on your face and quickly added, “I can read sign language.”

“How do you know sign language?” you asked him, tilting your head.

“I'm 110 years old. A spy. Assassin. I think I need to know a lot of things,” he dismissed. “Are you the one that plays that music every night?”

“I am,” you replied.

“You always play like you have something to say.”

“I believe music transcends all forms of language. We don’t need to be from the same country to be able to understand each other,” you quickly signed at him.

Bucky stares at you, eyebrows furrowed. Almost as if he’s trying to process your words. You frowned, letting out a deep sigh.

“Are you here to tell me that it’s too loud? I’ll stop if it is. I’m sorry.”

“What? No! I’m just asking,” he spoke so fast it surprised you. The next words that came out were so soft that it almost didn’t reach your ears. “I– It helps me sleep. Don’t stop. I find comfort in your songs.”

Bucky wasn’t looking at you anymore. His eyes were trained on the floor, staring at the plush of your carpet. Your lips were parted, but your heart was beating fast. You almost felt like crying. You wanted to cry.

A shuddering breath fell from his lips, disrupting the air in the room.

“I’ll sit here quietly. Can you play something?” he whispered, lifting his eyes to look at you again. “Anything. I don’t care what.”

Slowly, you rose from your place on the ground, pushing the guitar off your lap. You pulled a chair from the dining table for Bucky to sit at as you went for your piano, opening the cover. You could hear him take a seat, feel his eyes on you as you straighten your back. Your fingers ghosted over the ivory keys for just a moment as you contemplated what piece to play for him, your mind shuffling through everything you learned as a child– none of them fit this moment.

You played Bucky original pieces from that point forward. Whatever came to mind, you played for him.

You lost count of the amount of times that Bucky came down to your floor. Sometimes he would bring you your mangoes, along with some of his plums. Sometimes there would be new fruits for you to try before you would go and start your performance for him.

“Have you ever tried calamansi?” he asked one day as he walked through the door. You had barely had a chance to look up from your music score. You were sitting on the floor, pen in hand, crouched over the coffee table.

"A what?" you asked, eyes narrowing at him.

“Calamansi,” he repeated, putting down the orangey-yellow drink down in front of you on the coffee table, but not before putting a coaster under the glass. “It’s a fruit from the Philippines- we had a mission there, and I just got back. This is good. Drink it.”

You looked up at him as he took a seat on your couch. He crossed an ankle over his knee, a hand draping over the back of the cushion as he took a sip of his own calamansi drink, eyes still on you. Expectant. Waiting.

You reached for the drink yourself, a bit weary.

He must’ve sensed your hesitation, or at least seen it.

Bucky took the glass in your hand, swapping it with the one that he had already drank from. He drank that one, as well. You let out a small breath, giving him a smile. He returned it– he had no judgement on his face.

His smile only widened as surprise took your features with the first sip of the juice.

“See?” he said, pointing at the glass. “It’s good, right?

You could only nod in agreement before you both continued to finish off your drinks.

Bucky would often come at random points of the day. It was never at any set time. There had been times where he was already in your room, waiting for you to come back from an interrogation or a mission. Other times when you had been off from the day, and you had run into him in your backway hall, already heading down to your door. He would give you a nod at these times, and walk with you the rest of the way.

You had even grown used to waking up and finding him sitting at the dining table, scrolling through his phone or looking through files while waiting for you to wake up– sometimes you didn’t even play for him on these mornings.

“Did you even sleep last night?” you asked him, exiting the bathroom after washing up.

“Late, but I slept well after listening to you play. It wasn’t classical last night. Guitar, right?”

“I heard it on the radio the other day,” you sign with a shrug.

“I liked it. Can you add it to the playlist?” he asked, handing you his phone.

Another private, personal moment shared between you two. You don’t remember who started it. You two had several playlists shared.

You taught him how to make playlists. He sent you a playlist of songs that he liked, and you listened to each song religiously. You made him a playlist of music that you listened to and would continue to add songs that you played for him. There was a third playlist that you both would add songs to whenever you both felt like it.

“Any plans today?” you asked after handing his phone back to him.

“I’m hiding here, if that’s okay with you. Steve wants to run to the city and back. I don’t want to. He managed to get Sam to agree, but I think that’s fucking crazy,” he muttered.

You don’t hide the smile on your face as you nod at him, going through your cupboards to pull out instant oatmeal for the two of you to eat. He gratefully accepts, and you two start your morning off slow. He talks at you, and he will patiently wait for you to put down your spoon so you can sign at him.

You notice the way he pays attention to both your face and your hands to make sure he captures the entirety of the emotion behind the words you’re trying to convey to him.

You notice that he does the same exact thing when you play your music.

You could feel his eyes on your face when you’re playing, and you know it’s not just his ears that are listening to you. You can feel his heart opening with each note that you hit with your fingers, with each string that is strung. You can see the weight of the world being lifted off his shoulders in a way that you never thought was possible.

At some point, he abandoned the chair at the dining table and would sit beside you at the piano bench, his body keeping you warm. You didn’t mind it. In fact– you were the one that closed the distance, no longer satisfied with only your knees brushing against each other’s. Your thighs were fully pressed together now, and he could feel your muscles move as you pressed the pedal of the piano when you needed to.

“Your fingers don’t get tired after playing for so long?” Bucky asked you one night, his voice soft, afraid he would talk over the notes.

You smiled, glancing over to him. You met his eyes, shaking your head.

“You don’t even need to look at the keys to play either?” he asked, just as astounded. He sounded a bit breathless, in awe of you.

You let out a small laugh. This time, you shook your head in disbelief. You thought he was cute, but you couldn’t say that even if you wanted to tell him.

The piano’s final note faded on your fingertips, light and airy– you don’t remember the last time you played something in a more sorrow sounding tone. Though, Bucky does seem to enjoy your minor chorded music. He once told you that it evoked something deeper inside of him.

“What was that one called?” he asked you as you pulled on the piano cover.

“Another random piece from my mind,” you signed to him.

“Were you a prodigy before all this happened to you?”

You paused, your hands freezing. Bucky caught it, his eyes widening. His hands quickly clasped over yours, warming yours up– comforting you.

“You don’t have to answer that. I’m sorry,” he quickly apologized, awkward. “I fuckin’- shit. I was just talking without thinking. It was the music still in my head, doll.”

Your lips parted for a brief moment. You could see the panic in his eyes– the true regret he felt. He was scared you would pull away from him, maybe shut him out after all the time you had spent together.

You swallowed, giving him a smile as you gently took your hands from his.

“I was accepted by Julliard as an opera singer,” you signed. “My mother was a pianist. My father was a cellist. Music ran in my family. My brother was a scientist. He was the only one that didn’t do music… and he got involved with some bad people. People that–”

Your hands clenched into fists mid-air. You sucked in a trembling breath, looking everywhere but him.

And Bucky waited. Patiently. Like he always did. His attention never diverted from you.

You knew he knew. You were still scared. You knew what was done to his mind, but saying it to his face… You were afraid he would run from you.

You take a deep breath, preparing yourself. You know you're about to sign like a madwoman, maybe too fast for him to even understand you. That's okay. You just need to get it all out, even if it's sloppy or messy. It's how you feel, and you hope it's enough for him to understand.

“They took my voice from me and weaponized it. It took me years to learn how to talk without hurting someone. I could hurt you, Bucky. I could do worse things to you than H.Y.D.R.A. ever did. I don’t know why you keep coming to see me. I’m not saying that I would ever do anything to hurt you. That is the last thing that I would ever do! I really like you, Bucky. I wouldn’t play all these songs for you if I didn’t like you so much, but you need to know that I am the last person on Earth that you should be spending all this time with when I am the one that could hurt you the most–”

Your hands are being forced down, and you feel the cool touch of his vibranium hand cradling your face with so much care you could almost cry. You didn’t have the time to– not when the soft, plush of his lips were against yours. Not when his fingers were intertwining with yours, squeezing your hand as if he were trying to tell you that it was okay. That he understood you.

Your body reacted to him, allowing him to lead you in a dance to music that only the two of you could hear. Your heart was beating in time with his, feeling the trembling of his fingers against your face as if he was afraid of breaking you. This felt less of a kiss and more like a confession. You kissed him back all the same, feeling the fear that he felt too.

When your lips finally parted from each other, your eyes opened, and the song ended, you watched each other for a few moments.

“I don’t think you could do anything to ever hurt me, sweetheart,” he whispered, leaning his forehead against yours.

You tried to pull your hand away from his, to reply, but he didn’t let you. He held on firmer, but not hard enough to hurt. Your eyes widened as your lips parted. You were helpless.

Bucky pulled his forehead away from you, to be able to look at your face completely. His eyes scanned your face, every single part of you was bare under his eyes. He was waiting, and your heart was pounding. He wanted you to speak to him.

You pulled your bottom lip into your teeth for a moment as you steeled your resolve.

“I don’t trust myself to not hurt you,” you whispered, meeting his eyes.

You watched as his face shifted– pure adoration. You felt warm under his gaze, unable to tear yourself away from his watchful eyes. The look on his face is unguarded. Soft. Reverent and absolutely beautiful. You didn’t know it was possible for him to look at you like this– for anyone to look at you like this. You were glad it was Bucky. You never want Bucky to ever lay his eyes on anyone else the way he’s looking at you at this moment.

Your heart only seemed to clamber even louder in your chest, ringing even louder in your ears. You don’t even remember hearing applause this loud at your most successful concert.

Bucky collects your face in both hands, and his lips peppered all over your skin. Your eyes, your cheeks, your nose. The stubble of his beard brushed against your skin, and you could only let out a soft laugh, hooking your hands around his wrists as he continued to kiss your face all over before he finally stopped at your lips.

“You sound like heaven, doll,” he whispered against your mouth.

“I was made to sound this way,” you murmured back.

Bucky chuckled, shaking his head. He pressed another kiss to your lips before wrapping his arms around you, tucking your head under his chin.

“I trust you.”

The words are etched into your bones, digging into your soul and burying themselves into the depths of your heart as tears begin to spring to your eyes. Bucky holds you tighter, swaying side to side slowly as his hands rub your back gently, soothing you.

You melt into his chest, into the comfort he gives you, ear pressed above his beating heart. This is your favorite song, you think. Right next to the sound of his laughter.

Music is played between kisses now.

Your hands will be resting above his hands on the ivory keys, slowly guiding his to glide over the notes, only to hit the wrong ones as he turns to distract you with his lips.

Other times, you'll be sitting in bed together. His back will rest against the headboard, your back against his chest. Bucky's head will lean against yours as you strum along to your guitar, filling the space around you with romance, when his hand will come up and cup your face to demand your attention, guiding you to turn to him for a kiss.

Sometimes, your songs are completely disrupted with Bucky pulling you away from your instrument. He’ll replace your live talent with a song playing from the phone in his back pocket as he pulls you into his arms, taking one hand in his, while his other hand goes around your back.

“Dance with me, doll?” he grinned at you.

“Are you trying to relive your glory days, Sergeant?” you teased, hand hooking around his shoulder to press your body closer to his.

“What do you mean?” he asked, feigning innocence. “Music’s playing, there’s a pretty dame in front of me– it would be criminal not to dance right now.”

You could only laugh as he spins you around before returning you back into the security of his arms, pressing a sweet kiss to your forehead. You only pretend to give him a hard time, and he knows it. You love these soft moments of intimacy, where he reaches for you first.

“You would think after a month or two of dancing with me, you’d be less stiff, sweetheart,” he hummed in your ear.

“I’m sorry, not everyone was born in a time period where dance halls were the main source of entertainment,” you scoffed in response.

Bucky laughed, squeezing you tighter to him. “I had a seventy year break. You have no excuses.”

“Fuckin’ old man,” you grumbled, only to let out a shriek as he pinched your side in retaliation.

“You should respect your elders,” he clicked his tongue at you.

“I’m going to put you in a nursing home,” you threatened, but there’s no real heat to your voice, obviously.

He rolled his eyes in response. “I’ll be what? Almost 200 by the time that comes around? We’ll be in the nursing home together, baby.”

“You think we’ll still be together by then? Alive?” you asked.

“As long as I have a say in it, yes,” he nodded.

“You sound so sure,” you frowned at him.

“And you’re pessimistic. That’s my thing. Get a new hobby.”

You scoffed, shaking your head. You can’t hide the smile on your face. “I bet you liked it better when I didn’t talk.”

“No,” he quickly denied, taking your face in his hands. The swaying stops, and you’re forced to look at him. “Keep talking. I like hearing your voice, even if you say stupid shit.”

“Me being scared for the future is stupid shit?” you raise an eyebrow at him.

“… Maybe not that, but I’ll still disprove you,” he dismissed. “You make me look forward to the future, sweetheart. So I need you here. I’m kinda planning my future around you. Can’t have you gone.”

“That sounds like a lot of pressure, Buck,” you whispered.

“Good. Feel pressured,” he chuckled. “I need you to know you’re wanted. The songs you played before I came to you were so sad.”

You cringe a little. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be,” he hummed, thumbs brushing over your cheeks gently. “Because I get it. I understand.”

“… I know,” you nodded. Because you do.

You’ve spent many nights away from the music since the confession, since your hearts started beating in unison, just laying in your bed and whispering to each other.

He told you how he laid awake and listened to the music through the vents. How your songs managed to get him to sleep and calmed him down when nightmares plagued him. How you managed to comfort him in his darkest moments, when he felt worthless.

And he thanked you for it all.

Bucky only chuckled at you when you burst into tears. You apologized to him— saying it was so stupid to cry when he was the one that was hurting, but he was grateful you were crying for him.

During your quiet moments together, he would tell you how your music made him feel whole. That you would piece him together slowly, as if you were performing a reprise to his soul like he was a song that had butchered by the wrong conductor.

You told him he was getting cheesy with his analogies, but he would ask you if you thought he was charming. You would grin and tell him that if he kept it up, you might dedicate a whole concerto to him.

Just like that night, Bucky had a smile on his face as he leaned closer to you, as he angled your head upwards to meet his lips in a kiss. Your eyes are fluttering shut in anticipation, waiting to feel the soft pressure of his lips—

“Did you do something to him?”

You pulled away at the booming voice that echoed off the walls of your floor, your breath catching in your throat. You look past Bucky at the same time he turns around, and he pushes you behind him, to shield you from the people that just walked into your sanctuary.

“I asked you a question, agent. You better answer,” Steve demanded, his voice low.

“She didn’t do anything,” Bucky said, reaching for your hand behind him. He squeezed it.

“That’s what you would say if she did something,” Steve dismissed.

“Steve,” Bucky said, exasperated. “She didn’t do anything!”

“How are we supposed to trust that? To trust her?!” Sam demanded, pointing at you.

Dread filled your gut as you looked down.

“I trust her!” Bucky shouted back. “She didn’t do anything fucking wrong! Why are you treating her like some sort of criminal?!”

“Bucky, are you even aware of what she can do? Do to your brain?” Steve asked. Then, he continued, voice accusatory, “She’s worse than H.Y.D.R.A. combined if she wanted to be!”

“But she’s not, Steve! She’s never been!” Bucky said, his voice pleading and desperate.

Your heart was breaking. You couldn’t take this. You couldn’t listen to this anymore. Not just for your own sake, but for his, too.

These were Bucky’s friends. People that he trusted, people that he cared about. He told you that he cared about them— even though he was frustrated with the way they were handling him. You didn’t want him to argue with them. Not over you. Especially not over you.

“Bucky,” you whispered, watching his shoulders tense. His head whipped towards you. “It’s fine.”

“What? No, it’s not.”

“They’re not gonna listen either way. Just go,” you murmured, squeezing his hand. “I’m not worth the fight.”

His eyebrows furrowed, and he almost looked offended over your words. You watched as his lips parted, about to say something to refute your words, but you slipped your hand out of his.

The second you did, Steve was crossing the room, a hand on his shoulder to guide him out. You can see Steve muttering something to Bucky that you can’t hear, but you tear your eyes away. Sam is staring at you, gaze hardened.

“We’ll have someone come and take your toys away by the end of the day,” he said, jaw clenched. “We’ve been getting noise complaints.”

You don’t bother responding, and he doesn’t bother waiting for a response. You’re left alone in the silence of your floor, feeling colder than before.

Bucky’s head is getting scanned, even though he doesn’t fucking want to put his head in this machine. Everyone was pressing him to at least run through with it once, to at least be able to compare his scan with the brain scan results from your other victims.

He hates the way they phrased it.

“I’m not a fucking victim. I was there on purpose,” Bucky grunted, clenching his hands into fists.

“Terminator, why would you go visit the siren on purpose? Are you trying to die?” Tony asked, clicking away on the holographic keyboard.

On the other side of the glass, Steve and Sam are grilling Natasha. Bucky has no doubt they’re yelling at her for telling him about the truth. Natasha’s face is steeled, and she’s not saying a single word in response. She's just letting the two men yell at her.

Finally, the cap on his head ascends and Bucky gets the hell out of the chair. He exits the examination room, and goes into the fray.

“— irresponsible it is to expose him to that?” Steve demanded. “Answer me, Natasha!”

“Barnes is a grown adult who can make his own decisions,” Natasha said, her voice even. “And I told him the truth eight months ago. So clearly, he’s been seeing her of his own volition.”

“Or he’s been having his brain fucking scrambled for eight months, Nat!” Sam said, dragging a hand down his face.

“She used sign language with me for half of those months,” Bucky cut in, everyone turning to look at him. “She didn’t speak a fucking word to me.”

“What?” Steve asked, eyebrows furrowing.

“I made her talk to me,” Bucky said, voice rising. “I forced her.”

“This is for your own good,” Steve said, clenching his jaw. “She can—“

“She’s done nothing wrong! She can what, Steve? Hurt me? Guess what? I can hurt you. I have hurt you!”

Tension began to settle right over the room like a thick blanket. They could hear the slow breaths of everyone in the room.

“Scans in,” Tony said, opening the door behind Bucky and cutting the silence in half. “Surprisingly— uh… His brain is completely clear. No sign of siren song or anything.”

Bucky’s jaw clenched as he released a deep sigh from his nostrils. He turned on his heel, heading towards the exit.

“Where are you going, Buck?” Sam called out to him.

“To go comfort my girlfriend,” he grunted, fists clenched at his side.

The lab doors slid open before he reached them, Fury and Clint walking in a second later.

“No can do Barnes. Go buy her some flowers and chocolates later,” Fury said, dropping a file on the nearest table. “I need all of you on the field ASAP."

His eyebrow furrowed. “What?”

“Satellite feed shows movement in the abandoned mine shaft that Stark took care of a handful of years back in Arizona,” Clint said, sighing deeply. “We’re not sure if someone’s back in the lab down there or if it’s just a fluke, but we gotta go check it out either way. Can’t send a regular team since the tech down there’s pretty dangerous if it’s what we think it is.”

Bucky wants nothing more than to crawl into your bed and hold you in his arms, but that will have to wait. He, along with the others, moves to get suited up. Issues aside, there’s problems that need to be dealt with— problems that are definitely not a fluke.

This underground site was a hotspot for seismic activity and every two fucking seconds their eardrums would start exploding in their skulls. Steve and Bucky were especially affected, with their heightened sound due to the serum pumping in their veins.

Comms were especially ineffective, with the fact the frequency kept jamming the channel they were using.

It was jarring. It fucking hurt. Bucky found himself on his knees, hands pulled over his ears with teeth gritted in pain before a fist would connect with his jaw that he didn’t expect while he was down.

Bucky could faintly hear for Steve to shout at Tony over broken comms to find out where the machine was that created the sound waves and to break it, but Bucky was certain that Stark’s suit was having issues against the sonic cannon.

Bucky couldn't tell how much time had passed as he was getting thrown around, beaten up by hands that he couldn't even open his eyes to see. He couldn't even rip his own hands away from his ears to try and guard his head. There was no room to think.

Silence suddenly splashed over him like a bucket of water.

He can hear his own breaths.

Bucky lowers his hands, confusion rushing through his body as he locks eyes with Steve. Both soldiers have pure adrenaline rushing through their bodies. Then, they notice a new presence. You.

Their eyes turned towards you, finding that you’re squatting down in front of an enemy, the poor man’s face held in your hand in a crushing grip. He was holding a gun weakly in his hands, trying to raise it to use against you, but it was really no use.

You’re in your tactical gear— and it’s the first time Bucky’s ever seen you in it. A hood is pulled over your head, and a mask is pulled over your nose and mouth. All he can see is your eyes. You wear fingerless gloves, and there are holsters on your thighs with guns and daggers ready to use.

“𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓅 𝒷𝓇𝑒𝒶𝓉𝒽𝒾𝓃𝑔,” you whispered, your voice like a charm. The air shifted, vibrated with your words- not like the sonic cannon that was used to disarm them moments ago. It made you irresistible. They cannot help but fall into your trap, unable to fight against your command.

But you’re not speaking to Bucky or Steve.

Your eyes are glowing, swirling blue like the ocean— pulling in your victims into your song. You watched as his lips went from pink to blue, then you let him go. His body fell limp to the floor with a hard thud.

Both Bucky and Steve look around— all their assailants have stopped breathing. It’s only the two of them that are alive in this room.

You stand up tall, staring at the body for a few moments before turning towards Bucky, pulling both your hood and your mask off of your face. Concern is all over your features.

“You look like shit,” you breathed, holding his face in your hands.

“Well. That’s what happens when you can’t fight back,” he whispered, his voice hoarse as he leaned into your touch. “Why are you here?”

“Fury said he lost contact with you guys hours ago,” you quickly said, helping him to his feet. “I already extracted the others— they’re outside already. It’s just you two left.”

“Are you hurt?” he asked. He’s looking you over as if he can see through your gear.

“Do I look like I’m hurt?” you asked, frowning at him.

Bucky’s about to reply, to say something smart to make you smile. He doesn’t get the chance.

“You can control it,” Steve suddenly spoke, both of you turning to look at him. He looks conflicted. Angry. Not with you. With himself. “You— You weren’t just speaking to that one agent.”

“… I wasn’t,” you nodded, then turned away from him. “Come on. With the amount of vibrations that just happened, there’s no telling when this mine shaft will collapse.”

Bucky and Steve support each other’s weight as you lead them out. Stray agents try to come at the three of you, but crumble to their feet with a single word from your lips.

𝒮𝓉𝑜𝓅.

It’s silent in the quinjet when you’re all secured. The mine shaft fully collapsed with just enough time to spare, destroying everything and the remaining agents left inside.

The entire team is staring at you both. No one has said a word since the jet took to the sky, and you definitely aren’t going to be the one to speak first.

So, you decide to keep yourself busy. You’re sitting beside Bucky, a med kit opened up on your lap. Bucky has his head leaned back against the jet wall, eyes closed as he lets you do whatever you want— which is taking care of him.

“You would make a great dog trainer,” Tony suddenly said.

“Stark,” Bucky warned, eyes opening to glare at the man.

“I’m just saying. Does your ability work on just humans? Or all beings with a soul?”

“Um. I haven’t tried… animals,” you said softly, cautiously. You put down the bloodied gauze to switch out for a new one.

“You do talk normally! I thought you could only talk with sparkles and vibrations like sirens from folktales!” Tony exclaimed. You made a small face, frowning slightly as you cleaned the cut above Bucky’s eyebrow.

“Is he always this annoying?” you whispered to Bucky.

“I would say you get used to it, but I just ignore him, sweetheart. He doesn’t get any better,” Bucky whispered back.

You let out a soft snort, a smile fixing over your face. Bucky couldn’t help but mirror it as you placed the bandage on his face before moving over to his next wound.

“She smiled. Did you see that?” Clint murmured.

“I’m more floored by the fact Barnes smiled,” Natasha replied.

“Jesus,” Bucky grunted, the grin on his face disappearing.

“What happened to ignoring them?” you chuckled.

“I have a headache,” he replied to you. “A pounding one. None of these fucking idiots are making it any better.”

“Does tylenol work on super soldiers?” you murmured, rifling through the med kit. “Ibuprofen, maybe?”

“Probably not,” he sighed, looking at you. “I’ll try it though. Maybe a placebo effect will happen because I like you.”

You smacked his arm in his response, and he watched as a warmth crept up from your neck to your cheeks.

Bucky ignored the bug-eyed looks from everyone else in the jet as he took the gel capsules pill from your hand, and swallowed it down without complaint. He settled back into his seat to allow you to finish poking and prodding at his face until you were satisfied— even though he knew he would be fully healed by the time the jet landed.

Bucky would still kiss you later, and tell you he healed fast because you took care of him. You would believe him just because he said so.

“Debrief right away,” Steve ordered as the jet landed. Everyone grumbled as they got up, but they knew this was coming. The mission was a shitshow. You were fully prepared to go slink back into your corner of the compound when Steve’s eyes fell on you. “You, too.”

You paused, head whipping to Bucky a second later. He gave you a single nod.

You didn’t say a word during the debrief. You were stressed, even though all they were doing was arguing with each other over who took down the most agents before you came onto the field.

You didn’t realize debriefs were so laid back. The team laughed with each other. They were all still in their gear, still battered and bruised, but they were happy they were together. Happy to come back home, to be able to sit around at this table and be able to banter like this.

A bitter feeling was creeping up in your chest that you didn’t know how to stop.

You kept your gaze on the table, unable to make eye contact with anyone. You hoped they would all forget that you existed. You hoped to blend into the wall.

You felt Bucky’s pinky brush against yours under the table. In the corner of your eye, you saw him. He wasn’t looking at you, but his body was leaning towards you. Slowly, his pinky hooked into yours, comfort rushing through your body in waves.

“Well, I don’t know about you guys— but I am starved. Meeting over yet?” Sam asked, clapping his hands together.

“Sounds good,” Steve nodded.

That was all you needed to sprint out of your chair, the furniture clattering behind you abruptly as you raced for the exit. You could feel the weight of their eyes on you as you ripped the door open, running out.

You heard Bucky call out your name, heard him stand, heard his footsteps rush behind you.

You kept rushing down the hall, away from the conference room. You needed to put as much space between yourself and the rest of the team before you broke down.

Bucky finally caught you by the arm, turning you to face him.

“Doll,” he whispered, hands on your shoulders. “What’s going on?”

“What’s going on?” you echoed his words in a breathless whisper, trembling in his hands. You were so close to breaking, to falling apart. “What’s going on is that I hate your fucking friends. And I hate myself for admitting it out loud to you because I love you so much and I know you love them.”

Bucky’s lips parted, eyes searching your face as his hands slid down your arms slowly. You watch as he a slow breath escapes his lips as he nods.

“That’s okay. You can hate them,” he whispered back to you.

“What?” you demanded, shocked. “They’re your friends, Bucky! How can you say—”

“I hate the way they treat you,” he cut you off, shaking his head. “You don’t think I’m pissed off? They find out that you’re useful, so they invite you to a debrief and expect you to just be okay with the neglect and silent bullshit they’ve been putting you through this entire time? I’m livid, too.”

“I don’t want you to fight with them because of me,” you murmured, swallowing thickly. “They only hid things from you to protect you.”

“And I’m choosing to argue with them to protect you.” Bucky replied, cupping your face in his hands. “Not because you need a white knight or because you’re weak, but because I love you. And I love you for you— not due to the fact that you made me or that you charmed me into it.”

“I would never charm you into loving me,” you quickly said, horrified as you grabbed onto his waist, desperate for him to know you were being truthful.

“I know,” he said, chuckling. His eyes were soft as his thumbs grazed the tops of your cheeks. “I told you. I trust you, sweetheart. I’ve always trusted you, even if others don’t.”

You let out a shaking breath, biting the inside of your cheek.

“Now what?” you whispered to him. “What do we do from here?”

“I’ll join you on your solo missions,” he shrugged. “Not that you need my help. I watched you take down an entire room by yourself, but I don’t really feel like going on any missions with those asshoeles any time soon.”

“I don’t go on missions often, baby,” you said, frowning at him. “I usually do interrogations. I rarely use my ability.”

“Oh, so you do dirty work? I can do that, too. Is that why your hands are always scrubbed raw? You’re washing them too much? Let me do it for you,” he said, a grin finding its way on his face.

“Buck,” you said, a soft giggle escaping your lips.

“I’m serious, doll,” he said, humming. “Let me just move my shit to your room, too. I already spend most of my day with you, anyway.”

“Not like I can stop you.” You shook your head even though you were smiling.

Bucky’s lips quirked up just a bit more before he leaned in, finishing the kiss that he wasn’t able to give you earlier. You sighed into him, relaxing into his touch. Bucky held you closer to him, tenderly. Gently. Just as he always did.

“I’ll harass Sam to give back your instruments,” he whispered against your lips, making you laugh again. “Heard he took them away— fucking bitch. Doesn’t he know I need that shit to sleep?”

“I don’t think he does, baby,” you hummed, wrapping your arms around his neck to kiss him again.

“I’m telling you,” he muttered, between kisses, “they’re all stupid. I’ll just keep you to myself at this point. They don’t know what they’re missing.”

“You’re going to share me, Sergeant?” you asked, raising an eyebrow at him as you pulled away from his touch briefly.

Bucky paused for a moment, thinking over his words. Then, he tugs you back into him, lips meeting yours once more as your feet are lifted off the ground. He’s carrying you towards the back halls to your floor.

“No. I’m not. Keep hating them, sweetheart. You’re mine,” he murmured against your lips, a smile on his face.

masterlist

a/n: there was no smut in this fic bc it didn’t feel right given the characterizations i gave bucky and reader. if i write a second part to this, the smut would end up being super super soft and vulnerable bc the two of them are very very gentle with each other

taglist: @duacruel @natsomens @decthaxhrcv @shortandb1tchy @iyskgd @ifuckwithyouanyday @miss-chuchu @bighappypiels @snnoopyy @messrkarmaismygf13 @thebuckybarnesvault @aekzla @simp4f1 @its-in-the-woods @lvrrinx let me know if you would like to be added/removed to my general bucky taglist :)

504 notes · View notes

moonlightwritingf1 · 5 months ago

Text

At Her Mercy | LN4

💋 summary ━━━━━━━ For the first time in her relationship with Lando, Y/N takes charge in the bedroom, and Lando becomes submissive.

💋 pairing ━━━━━━━ Lando Norris x she!reader

💋 word count ━━━━━━━ 5.9k

💋 warnings ━━━━━━━ +18, sexual content, p in v, unprotected sex, oral sex (m receiving), fingering?, submissive Lando, creampie, hand job, strip tease, teasing

💋 author's note ━━━━━━━ I don't really like how this one turned out, but I hope you enjoy it.

Based on this request.

Y/N’s fingers trembled slightly as she adjusted the straps of her dress in the mirror. It was a simple black piece, not too revealing, but enough to make her feel confident—or as confident as she could muster. Her heart raced as she thought about what she was about to do. Tonight, she told herself, I’m taking control. It wasn’t just about the physical act; it was about proving something to herself, about breaking down the walls she had built so meticulously around her emotions.

She had been at Lando’s apartment in Monaco for the better part of the week. Their relationship was still new, fragile, and yet intense. Every touch, every glance, every word exchanged between them carried a weight she wasn’t sure she was ready to bear. But tonight, she was determined to push past her insecurities, to step into a role she had always shied away from.

Lando was in the living room, sprawled lazily on the couch, his attention half on the TV and half on his phone. He looked effortlessly handsome, as he always did, his boyish charm combined with a quiet confidence that both irritated and intrigued her. She took a deep breath, her pulse quickening as she approached him.

“Hey,” she said, her voice softer than she intended.

He looked up, a smirk playing on his lips. “Hey yourself. You look… stunning.”

She ignored the flutter in her chest, forcing herself to maintain eye contact. Stay focused. “I’ve been thinking,” she began, her tone deliberate. “About us. About… tonight.”

His eyebrows lifted, curiosity flickering in his eyes. “Oh? What about tonight?”

She stepped closer, her hands resting on her hips in a gesture she hoped looked confident rather than defensive. “I want to change things up. I want to be in control.”

Lando’s smirk widened, but there was a glimmer of something else in his expression—something deeper. “Is that so?” he drawled, leaning back against the couch cushions. “And what does that entail, exactly?”

Y/N felt her cheeks flush, but she refused to back down. She moved to stand in front of him, her knees brushing against his thighs. “It means,” she said slowly, her voice low but firm, “that I’m in charge. And you’re going to do exactly as I say.”

His breath hitched, and for the first time since she’d known him, Lando looked… uncertain. But intrigued. “Alright,” he murmured, his voice rougher than usual. “I’m all yours.”

She didn’t hesitate. Sinking onto his lap, she straddled him, her dress riding up slightly as she settled against him. His hands instinctively moved to her hips, but she caught his wrists, pinning them to his sides. “No,” she said firmly, her eyes locking with his. “I’m in control now.”

Lando’s jaw tightened, a flicker of frustration crossing his face before it melted into something darker, more primal. “Yes, ma’am,” he whispered, his tone dripping with submission.

Y/N’s breath caught in her throat. She hadn’t expected it to be this easy, for him to surrender so completely. But there was a fire in his eyes, a silent challenge that made her pulse race. She shifted slightly, grinding against him, and a low groan escaped his lips.

“Good boy,” she murmured, her voice a sultry purr that surprised even her. “You’re going to let me take what I want, aren’t you?”

His chest heaved, his hands twitching at his sides as if desperate to touch her. “Yes,” he rasped, his voice strained.

She leaned in closer, her lips brushing against his ear. “And what if I want…” she paused, her breath warm against his skin, “…everything?”

His eyes fluttered shut, a shudder running through him. “Then take it.”

Y/N’s heart pounded as she pulled back slightly, studying his face. His usual confidence was gone, replaced by a vulnerability that made her chest ache. She had always seen him as the one in control, the one who called the shots. But now, with his hands restrained and his body tense with anticipation, he looked… fragile. And it terrified her.

“Lando,” she whispered, her voice trembling. “Do you trust me?”

His eyes snapped open, locking onto hers with an intensity that took her breath away. “Always,” he said without hesitation.

Her resolve wavered for a moment, but she pushed past it, her hands moving to the hem of his shirt. Slowly, she tugged it up and over his head, exposing his toned chest. She traced a finger down the center of his torso, feeling the muscles twitch beneath her touch.

“You’re so beautiful,” she murmured, more to herself than to him.

His breath hitched, his chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. “Y/N…” he started, but she cut him off with a touch to his lips.

“Shh,” she whispered, her voice firm but gentle. “I’m in control, remember?”

He swallowed hard, nodding silently. She could see the conflict in his eyes—the need to take over, to reclaim the dominance he was so used to, warring with his desire to submit to her. And it thrilled her.

Sliding off his lap, she knelt in front of him, her hands resting on his thighs. “You’re going to let me take care of you,” she said, her tone leaving no room for argument.

Lando’s hands clenched into fists at his sides, but he didn’t move. “Whatever you want,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper.

She held his gaze as she reached for the waistband of his sweatpants, slowly pulling them down along with his boxers. His breathing quickened, his body tensing as she exposed him fully.

“Look at you,” she murmured, her voice a mix of awe and possessiveness. “All for me.”

His chest heaved, his eyes dark with desire. “Only for you,” he choked out.

She leaned in, her lips brushing against his inner thigh, and he let out a strangled moan. “Shh,” she whispered, her breath warm against his skin. “Let me take care of you.”

His body trembled beneath her touch, his hands gripping the edge of the couch as if it were the only thing keeping him grounded. She could feel the tension in him, the way he was holding himself back, and it only fueled her determination.

“Relax,” she murmured, her lips trailing higher. “Let go.”

“Y/N,” he gasped, his voice breaking. “I can’t…”

“Yes, you can,” she said firmly, her tone leaving no room for argument. “I’ve got you.”

And with that, she took him into her mouth, her hands gripping his hips to keep him still. His entire body tensed, a guttural moan escaping his lips as his head fell back against the couch.

“Fuck,” he choked out, his voice raw with desperation. “Y/N…”

She didn’t respond, her focus entirely on him, on the way his body responded to her touch, to her control. She could feel him trembling, hear the ragged breaths escaping his lips, and it only spurred her on.

“So good for me,” she murmured against his skin, her fingers tightening on his hips. “Just like that.”

His chest heaved, his hands gripping the couch so tightly his knuckles turned white. “Please,” he begged, his voice strained. “Don’t stop.”

She didn’t stop—not yet. Hovering above him, she took her time, savoring every inch of him, every flicker of vulnerability in his eyes. Her hand wrapped around his length, torturously slow, her thumb brushing over the sensitive tip before she leaned in, her lips parting to take him into her mouth. His hips jerked instinctively, but her free hand pressed firmly against his stomach, pinning him in place. “Don’t move,” she murmured, her voice low and commanding, the vibration of her words sending a shiver through him. “You’re mine tonight. Every part of you.”

Her tongue swirled around him, a deliberate, teasing motion that drew a ragged moan from his lips. She hollowed her cheeks, sucking him deeper, the warmth of her mouth contrasting with the cool air that brushed against his skin whenever she pulled back. Her eyes flicked up to meet his, and the intensity in her gaze made him gasp. She wasn’t just doing this—she was owning it, owning him. Her lips traced a path along his shaft, her tongue lapping at the veins that throbbed beneath his skin, her every movement calculated to drive him closer to the edge.

Lando’s hands clawed at the couch, his knuckles whitening as he fought to stay still, to not buck into her. His breath came in short, desperate gasps, his chest heaving as he tried to hold himself together. “Y/N,” he choked out, his voice raw and broken, “please, I... I can’t...”

“Shh,” she whispered, pulling back just enough to let the cool air kiss his wet skin. Her fingers tightened around him, her thumb circling the sensitive head. “You’ll take what I give you. When I give it to you.”

He whimpered, his head falling back against the couch, his entire body trembling with the effort to keep still. His muscles coiled like springs, his hips twitching under her touch, but he didn’t dare break her rules. Not now, when she was in complete control. Her mouth returned to him with a deliberate slowness, her lips sealing around him as she sucked him deeper, her tongue teasing the underside of his shaft. His breath hitched, his body tightening as she pushed him closer and closer to the edge.

But just as he was about to tip over, she pulled away, her lips leaving him with a soft *pop*. His hips jerked, an involuntary whine escaping his lips as the sudden loss of contact left him aching. “Y/N,” he groaned, his voice strained and desperate. “Please, I need... I’m so close...”

Her hand stilled, her fingers tightening around him just enough to hold him back. She leaned over him, her lips brushing against his ear as she whispered, “I’m not done with you yet.” Her voice was low, commanding, sending a shiver down his spine. “You’ll come when I say you can. Not a moment sooner.”

He groaned, his head falling back against the couch, his body trembling with need. “You’re killing me,” he rasped, his chest heaving.

Her lips curved into a smirk as she leaned back, her eyes dark with possession. “Good.” Her fingers trailed up his thigh, the light touch a cruel tease. “You’re mine tonight, Lando. Every part of you. And I’ve got plans for you.”

His breath hitched, his eyes locking onto hers, and for a moment, she could see the conflict in his gaze. The need to take control, to reclaim his dominance, warred with the desire to surrender completely to her. But when her nails dug into his thigh, just enough to sting, his resistance crumbled. “Yes,” he breathed, his voice barely above a whisper. “Anything you want.”

Her smirk widened, her fingers trailing back to his length, her touch featherlight but deliberate. “Good boy,” she murmured, her voice a sultry purr that sent a jolt through him. “Now, let’s see how much you can take.”

She rose from her knees, her dress cascading down her thighs as she stood before him. Lando’s eyes were wide, his chest rising and falling in uneven breaths as he watched her. His cock was hard, throbbing, and glistening with pre-cum, straining against his body as if begging for her touch. But she wasn’t going to give in—not yet. She was in control, and she was going to make him feel every second of it.

Her fingers slowly trailed along the hem of her dress, catching the fabric and lifting it inch by inch. She moved with deliberate slowness, her eyes locked onto his, watching the way his jaw tightened, his lips parting as he fought to keep still. The dress rose higher, revealing her thighs, her hips, the curve of her waist, and finally, the swell of her breasts. Lando’s hands twitched at his sides, his fingers curling into fists as he resisted the urge to reach for her.

She paused, the dress just barely covering her breasts, and tilted her head. “You’re not going to touch yourself, are you, Lando?” Her voice was soft, almost innocent, but the sharpness in her eyes betrayed her tone.

He shook his head, his breath hitching. “No. No, I won’t.”

“Good,” she purred, letting the dress fall from her fingers and pool at her feet. She stood before him, completely naked, her skin glowing in the dim light of the room. His eyes raked over her hungrily, his gaze lingering on the curve of her hips, the softness of her breasts, the way her body seemed to stretch out before him like a feast.

She stepped closer, her foot nudging his knees apart as she stood between them. His cock twitched, straining toward her, and she felt a surge of power rush through her. She loved this—loved the way he looked at her, loved the way he was completely at her mercy.

Her hands trailed down her body, her fingers brushing over her breasts, teasing the nipples into hard peaks as she watched his reaction. He groaned low in his throat, his hand twitching toward his cock, but she stopped him with a sharp look.

“I said don’t,” she warned, her voice firm. His hand froze mid-air, and he let it fall back to the couch, his fingers digging into the cushions.

She continued her slow descent, her hands sliding down her stomach, over her hips, and finally between her legs. She touched herself lightly, her fingers brushing over her folds, feeling the wetness that had already begun to gather there. His eyes were glued to her, his breath coming in short, desperate gasps as he watched her.

“You like watching me, don’t you?” she asked, her voice low and sultry.

He nodded, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed hard. “Yes. God, yes.”

She smiled, a wicked curve of her lips, and stepped even closer, her knees brushing against his. “Then watch.”

She slid her fingers deeper, exploring herself, feeling the way her body responded to his gaze, to the way he was practically trembling with need. She teased herself, her fingers circling her clit slowly, deliberately, drawing out the sensation until she felt the first sparks of pleasure ripple through her.

“Fuck,” he breathed, his voice hoarse. “You’re so beautiful.”

She didn’t respond, her focus entirely on herself, on the way her body was responding to her touch, to the way he was watching her. She could feel her wetness coating her fingers, could hear the soft, wet sounds as she moved against herself. She leaned back slightly, arching her back, letting her breasts thrust forward as she continued to touch herself.

“Lando,” she said, her voice breathy, “suck my nipples.”

He didn’t hesitate, his mouth latching onto her breast, his tongue swirling around her nipple as he sucked it into his mouth. She moaned softly, her fingers moving faster against herself as he continued to lavish attention on her breasts. His hands twitched at his sides, but he didn’t move them, his entire focus on her, on the way she was falling apart in his hands, on the way she was completely in control.

She could feel her climax building, the tension coiling tighter and tighter in her belly, but she forced herself to slow down, to draw it out. She wasn’t ready to let go yet—not when he was so completely at her mercy.

She pulled back slightly, her fingers stilling as she looked down at him. His eyes were dark with desire, his lips swollen from where he’d been sucking on her breast, and she felt a surge of power rush through her.

“You’re so good for me,” she murmured, her voice soft. “But I’m not done with you yet.”

She stepped back, her fingers trailing down her body, over her stomach, between her legs, and finally to her folds. She touched herself again, her fingers sliding into her wetness, feeling the way her body responded to her touch, to the way he was watching her.

She stepped back slightly, her fingers gliding out from her wetness, leaving a glistening trail. Lando’s eyes followed her hand, his mouth already softening, lips parting instinctively. She smirked, holding her damp fingers inches from his mouth.

“Open,” she commanded, her voice low and firm. He obeyed without hesitation, his tongue flicking out to taste her before she even brought her fingers to his lips. She pressed them into his mouth, and he moaned hungrily, sucking eagerly, his tongue swirling around her fingers as if he could never get enough of her taste. His eyes fluttered closed, lost in the sensation, his Adam’s apple bobbing as he swallowed.

“You’re so desperate,” she whispered, pulling her fingers away with a soft pop. His lips chased after them, a whine escaping his throat as she leaned back, leaving him wanting.

She climbed onto his lap in one deliberate motion, her legs straddling him, her knees sinking into the couch on either side of his hips. Her pussy hovered just above his cock, her wetness already slicking his length as she pressed down lightly, letting him feel the heat of her without letting him inside.

His breath hitched, his hands twitching toward her hips, but she caught his wrists, placing them firmly on the couch cushions. “Don’t,” she growled, her voice firm, and he immediately stilled, his fingers curling into the fabric beneath them.

She began to move, rocking her hips back and forth slowly, the length of his dick sliding against her, the wetness from her pussy coating him entirely. Her movements were deliberate, teasing, each stroke making him harder, more desperate.

His cock twitched beneath her, and she smirked, pressing down a little harder, the friction sending shivers up her spine. “Touch yourself, I dare you,” she taunted, her voice dripping with dominance.

He shook his head, his breath coming in ragged gasps. “I-I won’t. I’ll behave.” "Good boy.” she purred, her hips grinding in a slow circle, her clit brushing against him with every movement.

His eyes were glued to her, his gaze darting from her pussy to her breasts, her neck, her face, as if he couldn’t decide where to look, where to focus. “Y/N...” he whispered, his voice breaking.

“Mine,” she said simply, leaning forward, her breasts brushing against his chest. She could see the way he trembled beneath her, the way his hands strained to touch her but stayed put. “You belong to me. Say it.”

“Yours,” he choked out, his voice raw. “Only yours.” She moved faster, her hips rolling against him, the wetness between them creating a soft, obscene sound that only fueled her need. She was close, so close, the coil of pleasure tightening in her belly, her clit throbbing with each stroke against his cock.

“Ah—” she gasped, her movements faltering as she felt her climax building, but she stopped herself, pulling back slightly. His hips jerked upward instinctively, trying to follow her, but she planted a hand on his chest, holding him still.

“Patience,” she scolded, her voice cutting through his desperate whimper. She reached down, wrapping her hand around his cock, holding it steady as she positioned herself above him. He groaned, his head falling back against the couch, his hands gripping the cushions like a lifeline. She lowered herself slowly, inch by agonizing inch, the stretch of her pussy around his cock making her shudder. He was thick, filling her completely, the sensation overwhelming as she sank down onto him.

“Fuck,” she breathed, her voice shaky as she paused, adjusting to him. His cock twitched inside her, and she smirked through the haze of pleasure, leaning forward to whisper in his ear, “You’re so big, Lando.”

He moaned, his hands twitching again, but he didn’t dare move them. “Please,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Please what?” she teased, lifting her hips just enough to let the tip of his cock slide out before sinking down again. “Please... let me touch you.” She shook her head, her movements steadying as she began to ride him, her hips rising and falling in a slow, deliberate rhythm.

“Not yet. You need to earn it.” He whimpered, his hips bucking slightly, trying to meet her rhythm, but she pressed a hand firmly against his chest, stopping him.

“Behave,” she warned, her voice sharp, and he stilled immediately, his chest heaving with effort. “You’re so good for me,” she cooed, her voice softening as she picked up the pace, her hips grinding against him with every downward stroke.

He felt incredible inside her, every thrust sending sparks of pleasure coursing through her body. She could feel him twitching, hear the way his breath was coming in ragged gasps, and it only fueled her dominance. She leaned back, her hands on his thighs for leverage, her pussy gripping him tightly as she rode him harder, faster. His cock was hitting that perfect spot inside her, the sensation undeniable as she felt her climax building again.

“Lando...” she gasped, her voice breaking as she leaned forward, her hands gripping his shoulders.

“Yes,” he whispered, his hands finally moving, but only to cradle her hips gently, not daring to take control. “Please, Y/N, come for me.”

She moaned, her rhythm faltering as she felt herself tipping over the edge, her body tightening around him as the wave of pleasure crashed over her. Her head fell back, her mouth open in a silent cry as she rode out her orgasm, each gasp, each tremor making him shudder beneath her. When she finally stilled, her body still trembling, she looked down at him, her eyes dark with satisfaction. “You’re mine,” she whispered, her voice raw, and he nodded, his eyes glazed with want.

But she wasn't done yet. Her hips rose and fell with purpose, each movement grinding him deeper into her. His cock pulsed, twitching inside her, and she could feel the tension in his body, the way he was fighting so hard not to thrust upward, to let her keep control. She leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest, her lips hovering just above his ear.

“You’re so close, aren’t you?” Her voice was low, smug, and she felt him shiver beneath her. He nodded, his chest heaving, his hands gripping the couch cushions like they were his anchor.

“Yes,” he choked out, his voice strangled. “Please, Y/N...”

“Please what?” She lifted herself slightly, letting just the tip of his cock slide out of her before sinking down again, slow and deliberate, watching his face twist in pleasure.

“Please let me cum,” he whispered, his voice trembling, his eyes wide and desperate. His hands twitched, but he didn’t dare move them, didn’t dare try to touch her.

She smirked, her hips rolling in a slow, torturous circle. “Ask properly.” He groaned, his head falling back against the couch, his jaw clenched as he fought for the words.

“Please, Y/N... let me cum. I need it. I’m yours.” His voice broke on the last word, raw and unfiltered.

“Good boy.” She leaned back, her hands resting on his thighs for leverage, and began to ride him harder, faster, her pussy gripping him tightly with every downward stroke.

His cock hit just the right spot, sending jolts of pleasure coursing through her, but she kept her focus on him, on the way his body was trembling beneath her, on the way he was completely at her mercy. His hips jerked upward, unable to stay still any longer, but she stopped him with a sharp look, her hand pressing firmly against his chest.

“Don’t,” she warned, and he froze immediately, his breath hitching as he nodded.

“S-sorry,” he whispered, his voice ragged. “I’m trying, Y/N.”

She smirked, leaning forward again, her lips brushing against his. “You’re doing so good for me,” she cooed, her voice dripping with sweetness. “But I think it’s time.”

His eyes widened, and he opened his mouth to say something, but she swallowed it with a kiss, her tongue sliding against his as she began to move again, her hips grinding against him with purpose. She could feel him unraveling beneath her, his cock twitching, his breaths coming in short, desperate gasps.

“Let go, Lando,” she murmured against his lips, her voice firm but soft. “Cum inside me.”

His hands finally moved, but only to grip her hips gently, holding her steady as his body shook with the force of his orgasm. He cried out, his head falling back, his eyes squeezing shut as he spilled into her, his release hot and intense, filling her completely. She moaned, her own body trembling with pleasure as she felt his cock pulse inside her, each wave of his orgasm sending shivers through her. She stayed on top of him, her hips still moving slowly, drawing out every last bit of his pleasure until he was completely spent, his body limp beneath her.

“Good boy,” she whispered, leaning down to kiss him softly, her fingers brushing the sweat-dampened hair from his forehead.

“You did so well.” He blinked up at her, his eyes glazed but still filled with devotion.

“Yours,” he whispered, his voice hoarse but sure. “Always yours.”

She smiled, her own heart swelling with a strange mix of power and affection. “Always,” she murmured, her lips finding his again. And in that moment, she knew neither of them would have it any other way.

“Always,” he breathed, and she leaned down, capturing his lips in a searing kiss as she began to move again, her pussy still gripping him tightly. She wasn’t done with him, and he knew better than to object.

She stopped moving. Her body stilled on top of his, but the grip of her inner walls around his cock tightened, squeezing him with deliberate force. Lando groaned, his head tilting back against the couch, his hands instinctively gripping her thighs. But she didn’t let him take control—no, she was in charge now, and she would remind him of that.

“Ah—Y/N,” he choked out, his voice strained, his hips twitching beneath her as she held him captive inside her. She smirked, her lips curling into a small, satisfied smile as she leaned forward, her breasts brushing against his chest. Her hands slid up his shoulders, her nails lightly scraping his skin, sending shivers down his spine.

“Do you like that, Lando?” she purred, her voice low and teasing. Her hips shifted ever so slightly, the pressure of her pussy around his cock increasing just enough to make him gasp. “Do you like feeling me squeeze you? Knowing I could ruin you if I wanted to?”

He nodded frantically, his jaw clenched tight, his breaths coming in short, shallow gasps. “Yes,” he whispered, his voice barely audible. “Yes, Y/N, I—I love it. I love you.”

She tilted her head, her eyes narrowing as she studied his face, the way his pupils were blown wide with desire, the way his lips trembled as he struggled to hold himself together. “You’re so desperate,” she murmured, her voice soft but laced with dominance. “So eager to please me.”

His hands trembled on her thighs, but he didn’t dare move them, didn’t dare try to take control. “I am,” he admitted, his voice breaking. “I’ll do anything for you, Y/N. Anything.”

She smirked, her hands sliding down to his chest, her fingers tracing the lines of his muscles. “Anything?” she repeated, her tone teasing. “Prove it.”

With that, she lifted herself off him, her pussy sliding off his cock with a soft, wet sound. His cum leaked out of her, trailing down her thighs as she stood before him, her body glistening with sweat and arousal. She stared down at him, her eyes dark with satisfaction, as she brought two fingers to her entrance, sliding them inside herself slowly, deliberately.

“Fuck,” Lando breathed, his eyes glued to her hand, to the way her fingers disappeared into her wetness, the way she moaned softly as she touched herself. His cock twitched, semi hard and aching, desperate for her again.

She pulled her fingers out of her pussy, her arousal mixed with his cum coating her skin. She brought her fingers to her mouth, her eyes locking with his as she sucked them clean, her tongue swirling around the digits with deliberate slowness. Lando moaned, his hips jerking upward instinctively, but she stepped back, just out of reach.

She paused, her lips parting slightly as she tasted the mix of herself and him on her fingers. The salty tang of his cum mingled with the sweetness of her arousal, and she let out a low, throaty hum, savoring it. Her eyes hooded, fiiled with hunger, locked onto his, unrelenting. “You taste so good,” she murmured, her voice dripping with intent, each word deliberate, each syllable laced with control. She slid her fingers back into her pussy, slow and deliberate, feeling the heat of her own slickness coat them once more. The sound was obscenely wet, echoing softly in the room, and his breath hitched at the sight—at the way her body welcomed her touch, at the way her thighs trembled ever so slightly from the effort to keep herself upright.

Her gaze never wavered from his as she brought her fingers to her mouth again. This time, she took her index finger between her lips, sucking it clean with agonizing slowness, her tongue swirling around the digit, her cheeks hollowing as though she were savoring every drop. A soft moan escaped her, muffled by her fingers, but it sent a shiver through him nonetheless. When she finally pulled her finger free, her lips glistened and parted as she exhaled a shaky breath. Then she turned and walked toward the bathroom, her hips swaying with deliberate slowness. “Come on, Lando,” she called over her shoulder, her voice dripping with dominance. “Let’s take a shower.”

He hesitated for a moment, his chest still heaving, his cock semi hard and aching again, but he knew better than to disobey. He stumbled to his feet, his legs shaky as he followed her into the bathroom, where she was already turning on the water, steam beginning to fill the room.

She stepped into the shower, her back to him, and he followed, his eyes tracing the curves of her body as the water cascaded over her skin. She turned to face him, her eyes dark with satisfaction as she reached for the soap, lathering it between her hands before running them over his chest.

“How did it feel, Lando?” she asked, her voice soft but laced with dominance. “How did it feel to be completely at my mercy?”

He swallowed hard, his hands twitching at his sides as he fought the urge to touch her. “It—it felt amazing, Y/N,” he admitted, his voice hoarse. “I—I love it when you take control. When you make me yours.”

She smirked, her hands sliding down his chest, over his abs, and finally to his cock, her fingers wrapping around him with deliberate slowness. “Do you want me to take control again, Lando?” she purred, her eyes locking with his as her hand began to move, stroking him with measured precision.

“Yes,” he whispered, his voice trembling with need. “Please, Y/N, I need you. I’m yours. Always yours.”

She leaned forward, her lips brushing against his ear, her breath hot and deliberate. “Good boy,” she whispered, her voice low and commanding. Her hand tightened around his cock, her grip firm yet teasing, her fingers sliding up and down his length with a slow, calculated rhythm. Her thumb circled his tip, smearing the bead of precum that had gathered there, her other hand cupping his balls, applying just enough pressure to make him shudder beneath her touch.

He groaned, his hips bucking slightly, but she held him in place with her free hand splayed across his chest, her nails digging lightly into his skin. “You’re doing so well, Lando,” she murmured, her lips trailing down his jaw to his neck, where she pressed a series of open-mouthed kisses, each one a spark of heat that made him tremble. Her hand moved faster now, her fingers twisting slightly at the base, her thumb brushing over his tip with every stroke, her grip on his balls tightening just enough to make him gasp.

“Ah—Y/N,” he choked out, his voice raw, his hands twitching at his sides. “Please,” he whispered, his chest heaving as he fought to hold himself together. She pulled back slightly, her eyes meeting his, and she saw the desperation there, the raw need that mirrored her own. She smirked, leaning in to capture his lips in a searing kiss, her tongue sliding against his, her hand never slowing its pace on his cock.

Their kiss was messy, hungry, filled with the friction of teeth and lips and tongues. Her free hand tangled in his hair, pulling him closer, her hips grinding against his thigh as she deepened the kiss, her hand stroking him faster, harder, her grip on his balls tightening with each passing second.

"Touch me," she commanded, her lips breaking from his, her voice a low growl that sent shivers down his spine. His hands moved immediately, trembling slightly as they reached for her breasts, his fingers brushing over her nipples, already hardened with arousal. He groaned, his thumbs circling her sensitive peaks, his hands cupping her breasts with a reverence that made her arch into his touch.

She moaned softly, her hand still working his cock, her strokes quick and firm, her other hand still playing with his balls, her nails lightly scraping the sensitive skin. She kissed him again, her lips and tongue demanding, her breath mingling with his as she pulled back just enough to whisper against his mouth, “Cum for me, Lando.”

With a strangled cry, he obeyed, his release spilling over her hand, his body shaking with the force of his climax, his face buried in her neck as he whispered, broken and breathless, “Yours,” he gasped out, his body trembling as the last waves of his climax subsided, his lips pressing weakly against her skin. He pulled back slightly, his chest still heaving, his arms wrapped loosely around her. His eyes were heavy-lidded but gleamed with something new—something mischievous, something utterly him.

“You’re fucking terrifying when you’re like this, you know that?” The corner of his mouth twitched, his voice still rough but laced with teasing. His hands slid up her back, his fingers tracing lazy patterns over her skin, still slick with water from the shower.

Her eyes narrowed, a smirk tugging at her lips as she stepped back slightly, her fingers trailing down his chest until they reached the base of his cock, still hard despite the release she’d just wrung out of him. “Terrifying?” she repeated, her voice low, her fingers tightening ever so slightly. “Is that a complaint, Lando?”

“No,” he breathed, his hips twitching involuntarily, his eyes darkening as she held him in her grasp. “It’s... god, it’s hot. You’re so fucking hot like this.” His voice trailed off, trembling slightly as he leaned into her, his forehead resting against hers. “But it’s not just that,” he whispered, his voice softer, more vulnerable now. “You’re everything. The way you take control, the way you *see* me—it’s like you’re the only one who’s ever really known me, known what I need.” His hands cupped her face, his thumbs brushing over her cheeks. “You’re not just hot, Y/N. You’re... you’re my forever.” His lips brushed hers, barely a touch, but it was enough to make her breath catch. “And I’m yours.”

882 notes · View notes

plaguedarts · 1 month ago

Text

THE DOODLVERSE!

So this is basically just a collection of my personal designs/headcanons for the digital circus main cast :]

+ More headcanon info under Read More & a little life update at the end!

Okay headcanon info dump lets go!!!

Pomni: The circus's newest and squeakiest jester. She's incredibly good with numbers because her special interest is math. She's been diagnosed with Autism since she was young, but pursued an ADHD diagnosis as an adult. (Headcanon based on @bluepandadraws-log's comics). She's pansexual but doesn't really like to tell people about it unless they're close. Her tail seems to move of its own accord, and Pomni has very little control of it.

Ragatha: A dolly that's a lot tougher than she looks, with a complex for taking care of everybody except herself. Ragatha has many unaddressed "issues" that make her see herself as damaged and too far gone to be saved. She's never sought a diagnosis or therapy for any of it while she was still in the real world, so she isn't even aware that she shows symptoms of OCD. (Headcanon based on ‪@fridgevespidae comics). She's adapted to life at the circus but is by no means comfortable in it. Jax and Ragatha dated in the early days, but Ragatha wasn't all that attached to the relationship. She cared about Jax and still cares about him, but she just didn't LOVE him. She still isn't really sure if she likes guys, but liking girls is something she isn't ready to address yet.

Jax: A rabbitoid who entertains himself by any means possible (usually involving cartoonish violence). Despite how jerky he can be, deep down he cares about everyone else in the circus, especially Ragatha in particular. He's still not over his feelings for her even after all this time, and he's not sure how to cope with them. He's not sure how to cope with most things really. He definitely projects his own insecurities onto people, and he's got a fear of being alone with his thoughts. Can't be with people, can't be alone.

Kinger: The eldest of the group, a king piece who's largely lost his mind. He walks around with a hunch, yet his character model is still the tallest! He has a pet caterpillar toy named "Bug," and it's always crawling around somewhere on him. He may not always be of sound mind, but he only means well.

Gangle: A sweetheart with a mask as fragile as her feelings. Gangle remembers the anime shows she grew up watching more than her own life. She knew very early on that she was different from most people, and thought she had herself mostly figured out until she started questioning her gender identity and sexuality, not to mention being diagnosed with autism as an adult. She likes the label "pansexual," but still doesn't have a solid answer on her gender. For now, they call themselves a "demigirl." Zooble and Gangle are greatly able to relate to each other's struggles, making their bond even stronger. Gangle also has full control over her ribbon tail, often using it as a second appendage.

Zooble: Our local amalgamation of parts that really really doesn't want to be here! Zooble has tried to make the best out of their new body, but can't still can't find something that just feels like THEM. Though certain parts like the fox tail and cat leg seem to put them a bit more at ease. Without Gangle, they might have already gone insane. She's the only one that Zooble truly trusts. (Zooble is also in love with Gangle but in complete denial over it).

Okay now for the life update!

Soooooo I've been gone for quite a bit, and some of you might be curious as to why. I'm still alive as I can be, rest assured. I was just busy focusing on college since this was my final semester leading up to my graduation! It sucked and it burnt me out but I MADE IT!!!

I'm taking these next couple weeks to be lazy, but now I can focus a lot more on my art and stuff!

If you read this far give me a "🐛" because bugs are cool

531 notes · View notes

cameronsbabydoll · 5 months ago

Text

RAFE CAMERON MASTER LIST — ໒꒰՞ ܸ. .ܸ՞꒱ა

fluffy content

♡ fluffy head cannons

♡ tea party

♡ clumsy girlfriend

♡ single ladies

♡ “your the most jealous man i know”

♡ forehead kisses

♡ burnt cookies

♡ talking for you (blurb)

♡ roughness and politeness

♡ painfully shy

♡ jj maybank x rafe cameron x reader — intro

♡ “i can’t pay the mortgage” prank

♡ where you belong

♡ salvatore

♡ rafe with reader who’s always sleepy (literally me)

♡ rafe keeps a draw for all the stuff you leave around

♡ rafe comforting reader when she gets insecure during sex

♡ rafe with plus!size!reader

angst / comfort content

♡ deserved better

♡ fragile tears

♡ tummy ache

♡ silver platter

♡ ex!husband!rafe when he finds out you had another guy over while your son was there

♡ swan song

♡ throw up comfort

♡ rafe with a girl who doesn’t cry

smut / nsfw content — mdni 18+

♡ route 66

♡ thigh riding

♡ keep quiet

♡ food play

♡ a bunny and a wolf

♡ too much

♡ rafe with a girl with no gag reflex

♡ holding your bladder

♡ period sex

♡ reflected desire

♡ rafe fingering you but barry is there

♡ chocking him on accident

♡ inspired by this post from @rafesplaymate

♡ nerd!rafe with a breeding kink

♡ giving nerd!rafe head

♡ pervy!loser!rafe headcanons

♡ another man’s grip

♡ “extra credit”

♡ his fathers sins

♡ his favorite girl

miscellaneous

♡ screen time expansion

♡ hand kink

♡ christian!reader telling season 2 rafe that she’s waiting till marriage

703 notes · View notes

gojosconsort · 3 months ago

Note

Saw the requests are open and thought I’d drop something just a tad bit self indulgent🙂. Sukuna, in like a school au, 18 year old. Girl is very timid, and the most sensitive motherfucker ever. Very insecure and anxious. Something that doesn’t really match Sukuna’s personality, his words come out harsh or he seems cold most of the time. He is pushy, he is just how you write him, I guess¿?,. He really loves reader tho. He sometimes gets too frustrated by the reader’s reaction to his needs (ikyk), she’s the type to go home and cry because he said something harsh that he seems to find so normal, but he can figure her out, he knows he made her sad, so how will he react? Things like that.. reader also loves him, but he makes it really hard to stay with him, maybe she decides to break up with him? You write him real good, enjoy your writing so much, I tried being specific with the request but to summarise it angst because Sukuna is an ass but just can’t be away from reader:)))

SUKUNA’S FRAGILE GIRL ♡ // HEADCANONS

⁀➷ CONTENT. you’re the shy, anxious girl who somehow caught sukuna’s eye— he’s the school’s untouchable king but he loves you in his own way. problem is, his harshness keeps breaking you.

♡ PAIRING. afab!reader x school-tyrant!sukuna (both legal age)

♡ WARNINGS. mdni. angst, emotional distress, toxic relationship, harsh language, bullying tendencies, possessiveness, implied needs, but nothing graphic, kinda breakup, gaslighting vibes, sukuna being an asshole but soft in his own way

♡ AUTHOR’S NOTE. ohhh not typical what i’d write but i tried and hope u like it! ty for being so specific with the request, that helps A LOT <3

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who’s the guy everyone avoids—built like a tank, tattoos creeping up his neck even in this dumb uniform, and a glare that could kill. you’re the opposite—timid, always fidgeting, voice barely above a whisper. he spots you dropping your books in the hall one day and instead of walking by like everyone else, he picks them up, shoving them at you with a gruff, “watch it, brat.” you mumble a thank you, and he smirks—because something about you sticks in his head.

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who doesn’t ask you out—he just decides you’re his girlfriend. corners you after class, leaning against the wall, “you’re with me now, got it? don’t waste my time saying no.” you’re too scared to argue, nodding even though your stomach’s in knots. he’s pushy from the jump—grabs your wrist to drag you to his spot under the bleachers, snaps at you to stop “acting so damn nervous” around him. you love him, though—his rough attention feels like a spotlight, even if it burns.

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who doesn’t get why you’re so sensitive—says shit like, “quit looking so pathetic all the time,” when you flinch at his tone, or “what, you gonna cry over that?” when he ditches you to hang with his boys. you do cry, though—lock yourself in your room after school, sobbing into your pillow because his words cut deep, and he doesn’t even seem to care. he’s cold, harsh, like it’s nothing to him, but you can’t stop replaying it, wondering what you did wrong.

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who gets frustrated with your hesitance—leans in close one day behind the gym, voice low, “you’re mine, so fuckin’ act like it—stop freezing up.” he wants more—hands on you, lips crashing into yours, rough and demanding—but you’re a jittery mess, too anxious to keep up. he pulls back, pissed, “what’s your problem? i’m not gonna wait forever.” you stammer an apology, but he storms off, leaving you there, heart pounding, tears prickling your eyes.

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who knows he fucked up—he sees it in the way you avoid his gaze the next day, how your hands tremble when he’s near. you go home and cry again, harder this time, because you love him but he makes it so damn hard. he texts you late that night, blunt as ever, “you pissed at me or what?” you don’t reply, and it eats at him—he’s not dumb, he can tell you’re hurting, but he’s shit at saying sorry. instead, he shows up at your window, shouting, “open up, dumbass—i’m not leaving.”

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who climbs in when you let him, scowls and sharp edges, but there’s something softer in his eyes. “you’re too fuckin’ fragile, y’know that?” he mutters, sitting on your bed next to you. you snap—voice shaky but firm—“i can’t keep doing this, ‘kuna. you’re mean.” he freezes, jaw tight, then grabs your wrist, not rough this time, just desperate, “you’re not breaking up with me. i’ll figure this shit out before you’re gone.”

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who doesn’t apologize outright—he’s too proud—but he tries in his own way. starts sitting closer in class, not saying much, just watching you like he’s afraid you’ll bolt. when he’s horny and pushy again, he catches himself mid-snap, grumbling, “fuck, fine—tell me if it’s too much, alright?” it’s not perfect—he still calls you “weak” or “brat” when you tear up—but he’s learning, and you see it. you stay, because even when he’s an ass, you can’t shake how much he means to you.

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who fucks up big one day—yells at you in front of his friends after you flinch at his grip, “stop being such a damn baby!” you don’t cry there—you just turn and walk away, done. that night, you text him, “i can’t anymore. we’re over.” he reads it, doesn’t reply, but an hour later he’s at your door, banging loud enough to wake your parents, “open the fuckin’ door—i’m not losing you over this shit.” you let him in, tears streaming, and he’s pissed but wrecked too, “you’re mine, okay? i’ll fix it—just don’t go.”

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who doesn’t let you leave—not really. he’s still harsh, still sukuna, but he holds you tight that night, muttering into your hair, “i’m an asshole, yeah, i get it—just don’t fuckin’ run.” you’re a mess, sobbing into his chest, but you don’t push him away because you love him too, even if it’s a jagged kind of love. he kisses you rough, needy, and it’s not soft or sweet, but it’s his way of saying he’s not letting go.

BOYFRIEND!SUKUNA who wakes up the next morning after your breakdown next to you in your bed and stays there, staring at the ceiling, muttering to himself, “fuck, i’m such a dick.” when you stir, he’s awkward as hell, brushing your hair back with a clumsy hand, “you good, brat? no more crying, alright?” it’s not poetry, but it’s him and you decide to stay once more, caught between his cruelty and his care, and he’s too hooked to ever walk away.

————— ୨୧ —————

⁀➷ masterlist

#—amy writes : ryomen sukuna ★#ryomen sukuna smut #sukuna smut #sukuna x reader smut #jujutsu kaisen smut #jjk smut #jjk x reader smut #ryomen sukuna x reader #ryomen x reader #ryomen sukuna x you #jjk x reader #divider by cafekitsune

458 notes · View notes

leaawrites · 8 months ago

Text

I like you, because you're you

Lando Norris x fem!reader

Summary: in which, she likes him for who he is, not because of how he looks.

Warnings: insecurities (Lando), some mocking (?) (unintentional),

Wordcount: 0.7k

Masterlist

She had a type, there was no use in denying that. It looked almost like a pattern when you looked at her exes. It was almost scary how similar some of them looked.

And she may have dated one or two of them because she wasn’t over about the one before them, but those were exceptions. Those were the ones she met in a club a week after a new break up and was in desperate need to replace the heartbreak with something familiar, even when it was only a face filled with nostalgia of another for her.

It was never a serious problem for her when her friends joked about them looking like a family tree when put together, because it wasn’t totally exaggerated. It was never a problem until they started doing it at dinner with her new boyfriend. Saying how he looked like someone they knew, but couldn’t right place who it was he reminded them of. It wasn’t a problem until one said, “oh, yeah, you look like y/n’s last boyfriend. Same hair, same face structure. That must be it.” And all of them hummed in agreement. Laughing afterwards and waving it off as a joke he shouldn’t take too serious.

But Y/n knew Lando, and she knew that he thought about it. More than he should. She could see it in his eyes when they looked in hers - if they even did that evening. She knew by the way he tapped his fingers anxiously against his leg or the table. She knew from the way he chewed on his lip and how he sat in silence for most of the remaining night.

She knew and she didn’t say anything about it until they got to his apartment again, the door slamming behind him and her not even flinching because she saw it coming. Lando didn’t get angry often, he only got frustrated and closed off. Most times it was too late to make him open up when you noticed, but she knew that you just had to ask enough times to make him break.

“Lando,” she approached him, putting her lips on his shoulder and trying to catch his gaze, but Lando was focused on the skyline outside the window.

Monaco at night, a kind of peaceful you didn’t want to disturb but she knew she had to now.

“Lando, please talk to me,” she pushed a bit further, interlacing their fingers and laying her head against his back. Her thumb rubbing over his skin.

“What they said wasn’t appropriate and they shouldn’t have done it. And I know it’s a shitty perspective from you, but please talk to me. Yell or do whatever, just please talk to me,” she continued, almost sounding like she was begging. And if necessary, she would.

“Do you like me because I look like him?” He finally said, his voice shaking and quiet. It broke her heart, seeing her love so fragile. The clouds covering her sunshine. Him.

“I like you, because you’re you,” she quickly said, stepping around him and taking his head in her hands to make him look at her. She could see tears pooling in the corners of his eyes. She could see them threaten to spill over and spill out. “I could never not like you, no matter how you look. You’re so funny and charming and loving, it’s breaking me to see you so down.”

“You promise?” Lando asked, putting his hands on her waist.

“I promise,” she answered. “Forever and always.”

He pulled her closer, closing any remaining space between them. With her head against his chest, she could feel his heart beating against his ribcage. Furiously trying to break free. She kissed the place where it was at, trying to calm it down, trying to not make it worry. Lando put his head on top of hers, kissing her hair and letting his tears fall down on her.

#lando norris #lando norris x female reader #lando norris x y/n #lando norris x reader #lando x reader #f1 fandom #f1 grid #f1 imagine #f1 #f1 x reader #f1 x you #formula 1 x reader #formula 1 #formula one

742 notes · View notes

ego13 · 4 months ago

Text

think i should text my ex ── k.mj

─ while drinking with your ex-girlfriend, you both had no idea how the evening would end.

now playing : JAEHYUN ─ Roses

warnings, sensitive content : toy use (strap), rough sex, desparate sex, fingering, face sitting, cunnilingus, face fucking (kinda), breast play, porn with some plot, unprompted sex, hickeys, posessive behaviour, pet names, spanking, dry humping, switch!minjeong

word count : 3.5k+

authors note : this was a request from my pookie, but she asked me to leave her name anonymous, + I slightly changed her request, I hope you don't mind babe😭 AND I ACCIDENTALLY UPLOADED ONE OF MY DRAFTS, you didn't saw that..........

you don't call me

you moved on like you'd have enough

watching videos of her live performances where she acted like she was born to shine on stage, but you, alas, saw it too late. when you were going through a breakup with her, you couldn't even imagine in what direction her whole life could turn, and obviously, on the one hand, you felt envious that she became more successful only after you leave, but on the other hand, you were incredibly proud of her, incredibly happy that the little girl you knew from school had achieved everything she dreamed of in her life.

you've been in a relationship with your... boyfriend for a few months now? it's hard to call it a relationship, because with his presence you're just trying to patch up the hole in your heart due to the absence of your only girl which you need. he understood this, that's why he treated you like shit, because if there are no feelings, what's the point of treating a person as an equal?

and you understood that because of your insecurity and hopelessness you had driven yourself into this corner with no way out, but can you blame yourself for trying to make yourself feel better? the key word is trying, because you've been living for a month now with the thought that without minjeong in your life you'll never be as happy as you are with her.

and it's really true, you knew each other almost from childhood, understood each other at a glance and always supported each other, but something was bothering you, you thought that you had cooled towards her, you left without turning around, not even suspecting that this would become your biggest mistake in life.

not a day went by when you didn't reproach yourself for breaking the heart of someone like her, such a bright, gentle and fragile person, and it touched you to the depths of your soul. but we are all human, we all make mistakes, especially those wrong decisions after which it will be impossible to go back.

was it all in vain? yes. definitely yes, nothing can compare to the painful, ever-reminding and aching emptiness you experience every time you look through your shared photos, memorizing each of them and putting them somewhere in the depths of your mind. in each photograph, highlight the smallest detail about her.

her silly smile, the way her hand rested gently and unobtrusively on your waist in almost every photo, you smiled weakly without realizing it, remembering how shy and embarrassed she was, how her beautiful face would blush a crimson shade every time your hand even accidentally touched her own and the way she would occasionally tug it back, as if afraid you would think she was being pushy.

is it forced upon you? fuck, no, you would give anything to feel her palm next to yours again, remembering how cold her rough hands were forever, how her fingertips, worn down by the guitar strings, touched the tender skin of your back in the morning, connecting the moles with her touches like constellations, the way she confidently remembered the location of each one.

suddenly you felt a transparent tear drop running down your cheek, forcing you to finally come to your senses. there was a half-empty bottle of whiskey lying nearby, which you were about to finish in less than fifteen minutes, and it would seem that the drunker you are, the bolder you are, and it was really so, because you felt like you wanted to break the silence with minjeong that lasted almost two years right now.

your hand unconsciously reached for the phone that was lying on the small coffee table in front of the leather sofa you were sitting on. obviously it wasn't hard for you to find her number, and within a few seconds you were in an empty chat with her, replaying in my head every sweet message of hers and every ridiculous and perhaps even sometimes inappropriate joke of hers.

you: minjeong? is that you?

not expecting a response from her, you were ready to put your phone aside and regret a thousand times that you had written to her at all, until it vibrated from a new notification.

mj: y/n? why are you texting me?

you: nothing, just wanted to make sure that you're doing fine

you: and just letting you know that im so proud of you, minjeong

you: the fact that now you have everything that you've ever dreamt about

you: you are a great girl and I am very glad that I once had a chance to be in a relationship with you and see your talent in conception.

fresh tears had already started to flow freely down your face, ruining your makeup, but now it was the last one that worried you, happy moments with her started to play in your head again, making you sicker and sicker.

mj: thanks, y/n

mj: are you okay? i don't think you would text to me so late

you: no, im not okay, just missed you so much, yk

mj: missed me?

you: yeah, just a little

mj: are you sure that you missed me just a little, y/n?

you felt your hands tremble as you read her last message, fuck, you forgot that this person knows you inside and out, and now you tried to hide such an obvious stupidity from her, what a pitiful sight...

you: okay, not just a little, is this what you wanted to hear?

mj: yes, I just like it when people tell me only the truth, without lies

you: only truth? and if I ask you what you want now, will you be able to answer the truth?

it was obvious that alcohol had loosened your tongue, so now you didn't feel any responsibility, any fear after your words, which surprised you, because if you were sober now, you would definitely fall into the ground just from the thought of texting her.

mj: you

you: what do mean?

mj: you know what i mean, i want you, and you want me to tell the truth, this is what i am doing now

your fingertips trembled even more as heat coursed through your entire body, was she serious? you really couldn't believe it, maybe she missed you too? maybe she's also going crazy from the realization that you'll never be together? maybe she also looks through the photos of you and your happiness every night with tears in her eyes?

it all seemed unreal, unreal, seriously, you couldn't believe in your life that after so much time of silence, suffering and regrets she still wants, still loves, still remembers you?

you: are you serious?

mj: *1 photo attachment*

mj: I'm in the studio now, you can come if you want

opening the photo she sent you with anticipation, all you could see was her lap, on which lay her black, slightly worn and sticker-covered electric guitar. at that moment your palms started to sweat, sweating from the realization that it could happen.

you: I'll come, minjeong, just wait for me, please.

just ten minutes later you were standing right outside the door to her studio, a bag of alcohol in your hands, knowing that you both would need it, at least you clearly weren't planning on doing... this sober.

opening the door, she greeted you with only a weak but sincere smile, gesturing for you to come inside the simple music studio, with posters of her favorite artists hanging on the walls, several vinyl records lay on the table in front of the mixer console, and crumpled, written-on pieces of paper were clumsily scattered across the table.

"sorry for the mess," she said, scratching the back of her head awkwardly, what the fuck is this mess? did she seriously think this was important to you right now? what's important are the fucking scattered drafts of the text, and not her presence, which you've wanted to feel next to you for so long?

"I see that you didn't come empty-handed," She smirked, noticing the cardboard bag of glass bottles that clanked every time you took a step. you just nodded awkwardly at her words, placing it on the table in front of a small, modest sofa.

her attention immediately fell on the contents, looking at the bottles with interest until her choice settled on a bottle of elite gin, which she took out of the bag, placing it next to two glasses.

"so shall we celebrate our little reunion?" she giggled as she poured the bitter alcohol into a glass, clinking glasses with you and drinking the entire contents in one gulp, unlike you, while you took a few small sips you felt the alcohol burning your mouth, feeling the slightly sweet chocolate taste of gin, immediately grimacing.

"so much time has passed and you still haven't learned to drink," she smiled, nibbling on a slice of lemon, setting her glass aside until her gaze finally focused on you.

"well, how are you? how is your boyfriend?"

you immediately started complaining to her about her, telling her what an asshole he is, how he makes you feel inferior, her gaze immediately softened, as if she was truly sympathetically listening to your entire monologue.

"damn... he really is an asshole, I bet he couldn't even make you cum after all this time."

your eyes immediately widened, hearing the words that flew out of her mouth, you thought that you were hearing things, that this was all just a figment of your sick imagination.

"what?" you asked, hoping to clarify whether she had actually said what you wanted to hear, or whether your drunken mind had simply made it all up.

"i said, did he made you cum at least once?"

you nodded your head shyly, confirming her words, which made her smirk again, moving closer to you until your knees touched each other.

"then maybe I should remind you what it's like to be with a woman?" her hand immediately slid to your inner thigh, stroking it through the fabric of your pants, making you sigh heavily, it was like giving her the green light to do her thing, leaning in until your lips were barely a millimeter apart.

her other hand slid up from your thigh, tracing slowly along your ribcage and the side of your breast, stopping just short of being inappropriate. she could feel your soft curves through the thin fabric of your t-shirt. fingers found your nipple through the dress, pinching and rolling the hardened nub between them. her hot breath was heavy against your neck.

"you're so beautiful... i missed this," she said, crashing her lips against yours in a hungry, desperate kiss, her filthy tongue pushed past your lips, exploring your mouth and tangling with yours.

breaking the kiss, she trailed her lips down the column of your neck, sucking and biting at the delicate skin. her hands reached down and grabbed the hem of your t-shirt, yanking it up and over your head in one swift motion.

"god... look at you," minjeong breathed, her eyes roaming over your naked body hungrily, she leaned down and captured one of your nipples between her lips, sucking and flicking the hardened bud with her tongue, she growled, rolling your nipple between her fingers and giving it a sharp pinch, what made you groan loudly, leaning your back against the back of the sofa.

she started to switching between your tits, sucking and biting and licking until your nipples were stiff peaks, glistening with her saliva, kneading and squeezing your breasts roughly.

her other hand slid lower, slipping underneath the fabric of your jeans, to run a finger along your slit. she groaned at the feeling of your wetness, your arousal coating her digit.

"shit, you're so drenched," she muttered, not moving away from your chest like a small child who can’t get away from it. her fingers slowly massaged your clit, until her fingers dived under your panties, slowly sliding her finger inside, slowly stretching you out.

"tightest pussy ever, baby..." she buried her nose in the crook of your neck, gently biting the tender skin, leaving behind barely visible redness, slowly pushing into you, doing it so gently that the unpleasant sensations practically disappeared.

Her lips moved down to your other breast, sucking hard on the nipple as she sank a second finger knuckle-deep into your dripping core, thumb rubbed tight circles on your clit, pushing you closer to the edge.

her hand slid down to your ass, squeezing and kneading the firm globes as she rocked against you. she could feel your arousal coating your thighs, feeling you tremble in her arms from the impending orgasm.

minjeong felt your body convulsing beneath her as your orgasm crashed over you, your velvety walls clenching rhythmically around her fingers, making her bite her lower lip at the sight of you underneath her.

"oh, cumming so hard for me, yea?" she licked her lips, gasping surprisingly when your shaking hands pushed her, causing her to fall backwards onto the sofa, hands immediately dived under her skirt, causing her to let out a quiet moan, throwing her head back.

"what are you..." before she could finish speaking, another moan escaped her lips, feeling the pad of your thumb touch her clit, and the sight of you slowly kneeling down in front of the sofa made her blush.

slowly, deliberately you leaned closer, your breath ghosting over the lace of hsr panties, you could smell her arousal, could feel the heat emanating from her cunt, making you lick your lips in anticipation. you tossed the lace aside and settled between her now bare trembling thighs, the sight of her glistening folds making your mouth water, you missed seeing her like this, so needy and trembling.

you kept you touch gentle, well... at first, not wanting to overwhelm her, so you slowly traced your lips and tongue along her slit, teasing her, tasting her essence, you could feel how she was trembling, hear the hitch in her breath.

"i could devour you all night, minjeong-ah," you punctuated your words with a firm suck on her swollen clit, flicking the sensitive bud with the tip of her tongue, you could feel your squirming and gripping the skin of the sofa, a muffled whimper escaping her mouth, diving in and burying her face between her thighs, roughly squeezing them with his hands, not allowing her to bring her legs together, you licked and suckled her dripping sex with renewed fervor, wanted to make her fall apart on her tongue.

you could hear the desperate, muffled moans and whimpers escaping her mouth, her desparate sounds spurred you to redouble your efforts, tongue delving deeper, stroking and probing her dripping walls that was already clenching around nothing.

your nose pressed against that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of her thighs, and you rubbed it in tight circles, breathing in the heady scent of her arousal, you could feel her start to tremble and tense, her thighs squeezing around your head like a vice.

"fuck, fuck, fuck! yes... don't stop, don't you dare to fucking stop, y/n!"

after those words she finished with a loud, muffled whine, repeating the your name, feeling her body tremble in an attempt to recover from the waves of orgasm that washed over her, arching her back, you continued to lick and suckle gently, helping her out the waves of her intense orgasm, licking her clean.

as she slowly descended from her high, you placed soft, reverent kisses along her inner thighs, savoring the afterglow, until her shaking hands pulled you by the neck, pulling you into a lazy kiss, still breathing heavily from the intensity of her orgasm.

"you're divine, fuck, i can't get enough..." she smirked into the kiss as her hands grabbed your hips and sat you down on her lap, causing her skirt to ride up slightly.

"sit on my face, now," her stern voice struck you, but you understood that you had no right to disobey, sighing nervously, you watched with anticipation as she tied her hair into a messy ponytail while you positioned yourself on her, with your thighs on the both sides of her head, when she nodded, giving you a sign, you carefully moved lower, feeling her hot breath on your wet folds.

she leaned in, dragging the flat of her tongue along your inner thigh, feeling her quiver and sigh, her breath was hot against your sensitive skin, she smirked up at you, her chin glistening with your slick arousal, as she continued to pump her tongue in and out of your tight, wet cunt. her other hand slid up your stomach, palming a soft breast, pinching and rolling the stiff nipple between your fingers as she could feel how you was arching into her touch, the way your beautiful desperation written all over your delicate features.

fingers of her other hand was digging into the soft flesh of your ass as you instinctively spread your legs wider, she alternated between long, slow licks and rapid flicks of her tongue, teasing your clit mercilessly.

after only a few minutes she could feel the way your body tensing, your breath coming in short gasps as she brought you closer to the edge, she latched onto your clit, sucking and flicking her tongue over it rapidly, could feel your hips bucking against her face, how your thighs trembling around her head as she brought you closer and closer to your release.

you moaned, repeating her name, your voice echoing off the walls of her studio as your body convulsed with the intensity of your climax, your pussy spasmed and clenched around her tongue, gushing your release all over her hand and face.

"yes, baby, fucking drench my face," when you got down on her knees, she leaned down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, allowing you to taste yourself on her tongue. pulling away only after a few minutes, she smirked, did you see in her eyes a spark of something... incomprehensible? as if she had started something that she would not say.

"close your eyes and wait for me," she said, kissing you on the lips before pulling away, despite the stupidity of this situation, you still closed your eyes. while she was gone, all you could hear was a strange rustling in the room, when you were about to open your eyes and look at her, you felt something... hard and silicone press agains your thigh, causing you to open your eyes in surprise, seeing her rubbing her strap against your skin.

"you're fucking pervert, minjeong, does all guitarists keep things like this in their studio?" your words made her smirk, instead of answering she covered your mouth with her hand, "you talk too much, baby..."

she slid a hand between your thighs, her fingers trailing teasingly through your still dripping folds, which seemed to beckon and invite her inside.

she used her free hand to squeeze your ass and line herself up, the swollen head of her strap nudging insistently at your entrance, she raised her hips up, burying herself to the hilt in one powerful thrust, continued to grind her hips in slow, sensual circles, dragging the tip against your G-spot with each move.

"fuck... you're damn tight, y/n..." she could feel the way the you trembled and quaked beneath her, could hear the breathless little mewls and whimpers that spilled from your beautiful kiss-swollen lips which made her to tightened her grip on your thighs, kneading the soft flesh, pulling you harder against her with each roll of her hips, the wet, obscene sound of your fucking shamelessly filled the room, the lewd slap of skin against skin echoing off the walls.

she could feel her own climax building, the coil of pleasure winding tighter and tighter in her core, and after a few seconds you heard her breathing quicken, her movements became a little more jerky, but she almost immediately regained her pace.

"did you finish before me?" you giggled, to which you felt a rough slap on your ass, making you whine, "keep quiet," she punctuated her words with a sharp thrust of her hips, slamming up into your dripping cunt, and a series of repeated harsh slaps almost knocked you off.

minjeong could feel how your walls starting to flutter and clench around her, your body tensing as your climax approached, own surged up to meet your downward thrusts, driving her thick silicone cock deeper, harder, faster, the air was thick with the musky scent of sex and sweat, which slowly drove you both crazy.

with a final, rough thrust, minjeong buried herself inside your spasming cunt, she could feel how your release crashing over her in waves, your pussy gripping and rippling around her thick shaft like a vice.

"yes, baby... just like that, so beautiful for me, fucking only for me, not for your shitty boyfriend," as the final aftershocks of her orgasm. as the last feelings of your mutual climax began to subside, she slumped back against the couch, pulling your limp, sated body against her own as she slowly wrapped her arms around the you possessively, holding her close as you both struggled to catch your breath.

her heart raced beneath her ribs, her skin flushed and slick with sweat, pressed her lips to the top of your head, placing a surprisingly tender kiss in your wet disheveled hair.

"missed this, missed you..."

it's killing me to know

that there's someone else out there

buying you roses.

#gg x reader #girl group x reader #wlw #sapphic #kpop smut #aespa #aespa x fem reader #aespa x reader #girl group #girl group x fem reader #kim minjeong #aespa minjeong #aespa winter #winter #winter x reader #minjeong x reader

417 notes · View notes

mightydragoon · 1 month ago

Text

Why did Staff of Hermes convince me Percabeth is going to break up in the future?

The nail in the coffin for me when I was rereading the series in terms of me foreseeing that Percabeth will not make it as a couple in the future was this short story. The Staff of Hermes. Not the Judo Flip in MOA mind you which is pretty controversial or even the ending for The Bronze Dragon which is rage-inducing when I reflect upon it, but this short story.

It spoke to me how distant Percabeth were with each other and in terms of their rushed dynamic, how they are doomed as a couple.

Percy has never really been fully comfortable around Annabeth. Even their most romantic moments in BOTL for instance are tinged with anticipation for violence.

Like the volcano kiss

and Percy crashing his funeral

And of course, this comes up briefly in Staff of Hermes as well

The moments are presented as sweet, but the very fact that Percy anticipates being punched or slapped by Annabeth is revealing. It proves that the judo flip is in character for Annabeth but in many ways, Annabeth got worse as she got older. Given she actually flips Percy over and kicks his leg when he talking to Jason in MOA.

That's not even delving into Percy's major emotional insecurities when he is in a relationship with Annabeth, and how in MOA, he is constantly scared to open up to her about the future and uses the analogy of a "glass sculpture" to describe how fragile it feels to him to accidentally break it. Or even how it feels more apparent that Annabeth uses knowledge as a weapon of power to make Percy feel stupid in the relationship to feel superior.

That doesn't come across as someone who is eager to share information because they want to out of genuine passion, that's someone who uses it as a means of power and control.

The sad thing is for Annabeth's character, it makes way too much sense. MOA is a revealing glimpse into her personality but there was already hints of it in her interview in the Bronze Dragon. She does seem to like Percy, but any compliment she might have for him is backhanded at best and insulting at worst.

With that, Annabeth comes across as genuinely believing Percy is annoying her deliberately.

It reminded me of a TikTok I saw just recently where a woman was chatting with her husband about seeing Thunderbolts but he shut her down as it being just a movie. When she got upset, he said to her in order to try and ease the situation was "I love when you get excited it's just annoying sometimes." It was gutting to hear not to mention she was visibly upset and she excused her own husband's faults as a part of his healing journey. You can imagine the comment section in that video btw.

It reminded me of another scene, in fact just before the Judo Flip where Annabeth was blaming Percy for "leaving". She thought this.

Excruciating...

Not to gonna lie. That floored me when I reread that scene. I genuinely couldn't believe anyone would even think that about someone they loved. It's a bit like a man saying how much he hates his wife. Conflict does arise in relationships, but this seems like Annabeth is torn between loving and hating Percy and it's not the healthy sort either.

Not to mention she also said this later in the same book.

I know the flip was bad, but this was another layer where it feels like Annabeth genuinely dislikes Percy and oscillates between hate and love for him. Later on she also develops a fear of Percy after Tartarus, which begs the question why they are even together at this point. Annabeth also admitted she hated Percy does fit with her behaviour as she genuinely seems annoyed with Percy in the books but it becomes really questionable as she gets older and even how she acts towards him.

At one point, can we excuse Annabeth actions as a quirk of "trauma" as she is too young to know differently and using that as shield to excuse shitty behaviour as someone who is meant to be a role model.

Riordan doesn't understand the implications that is here. How it's not a healthy dynamic with Percy, who is also an abuse survivor with a fatal flaw of loyalty. His story means a lot to people and to not look into any of his relationships and how that impacted him would be doing that a disservice with the focus that was presented onto it.

Personal loyalty to stick with people no matter how they might treat you, good or bad. It provides a tragic lens onto Percy who might have Gabe as a reference but Gabe's abuse was more direct; he insulted Percy's intelligence with "brain boy", threatened to punch Percy lights out (and probably did that on occasion) and also financially took advantage of him. Annabeth's is a little different. I don't think Annabeth herself is aware of it completely, but it still doesn't erase the emotional belittling and pressure she puts on Percy throughout the series.

It doesn't change the fact that Percy asked her to stop with the nickname in the Bronze Dragon (and probably before as hinted in TTC) refusing to respect that boundary of Percy, who is never really fully at ease around Annabeth and has major emotional insecurities that have emerged so much more poignantly as a result of the relationship.

So why is the Staff of Hermes so special when this is littered throughout their dynamic across the books? Why was this the nail in the coffin for me?

Well, it's rather simple, actually. It's control.

The pair of them are on a date. Percy had clearly arranged matters. The Great Lawn is a lovely place in Central Park and the internary shows Percy took considerable care into the thought process behind it. We know from the first book Percy in not that fussed on olives and he had chocolates and lemondades with them.

Percy is not made of money, we know this firsthand from the first books but even the fact he able to do something like this for date is quite sweet and thoughtful.

Like that is the Great Lawn for reference. Not a bad place for a first date. On a lovely sunny day at that is.

Now it's infered from Frederick's background even before we further learn in Magnus Chase they come from generational wealth in Boston (and Annabeth technically inheriting the Mansion in the end) he is on the richer end. No one can afford housing in San Francisco that easily or be able to work on Sopwith Camels in TTC without a bit of money. That or Annabeth's stepmother is an underrated breadwinner.

Why is this relevant?

It's essentially Annabeth's expectations of what the date is meant to be in her mind versus what Percy could actually do.

Annabeth's character is one of privilege in the books (she is explicitly white coded not only from her appearance, along with her siblings, but also wealth), both from her home life and Camp by Chiron. Chiron informs Annabeth on nearly everything and presumably allowed her to be a Camp Counsellor at a young age. Despite not ready for some of those responsibilities as we see in her introduction, she is very rude to Percy who she should be able to empathise with his situation of losing a loved one (missed chance there to connect them by Rick), acts out against him and is deeply impatient in answering basic questions about Camp, which is her job. This is part of their poorly constructed Meet-Ugly in the books, and by the time Piper arrives, Annabeth is much better at her introductions but it doesn't change the fact that she wasn't fit for the task initially and presumably treated other Campers like that in search of the One. (I doubt she made many friends because of that)

We learn in The Lost Hero, Chiron rarely kept anything from Annabeth (with the exception of the initial theft of the Bolt and the Romans), and from what we see in the series, this is fairly true. Chiron allows her to know about the Great Prophecy from ten, but she also has information about the Labyrinth in BOTL, despite that being a secret. TLO also explores this, and one of the reasons she has the infamous "You're a coward" Percy scene is because Chiron informed her about where Percy was, and crucially neither of them informed Percy of the wartime developments like with Typhon.

I was never fussed on the You're A Coward scene and especially the dissipated resolution in it meant that the tension between the pair was never truly resolved. It never struck me as particularly romantic so to learn that was some people's favourite scene in TLO had me confused because of how frustrating it is. Especially since Percy was asking for confirmation about Rachel's vision and the possible direction. But because it's Rachel, Annabeth refuses to even entertain the possibility, despite the fact SHE said it.

Annabeth has never really liked Rachel but a part of that, I think comes down to mortality itself. Annabeth constantly dismisses Rachel is because she is "just a mortal." But even the way Annabeth talks about mortality is squint-worthy, given that she is meant to be his mortal tie through the Curse of Achilles.

Like the hidden meaning behind these scenes is Rachel and Annabeth are fighting over Percy but honestly, I think that is poorly done given how spiteful it comes across and how Annabeth says mortal like a slur. It's not even the first time we see her dismissive towards mortals either, she doesn't have a high opinion on her stepfamily in the first books and authorities like cops (which honestly fair) but it does spell a different layer to Annabeth's dislike of Rachel is connected with that dislike of mortals.

It's understandable that another reason why Annabeth might act the way she does is linked to her family and also her inherent pride in being a demigod, a divine child of Athena (Athena is the best after all), and a gift onto her father. Either way, it makes her a poor fit as a mortal tie for the Curse of Achilles.

I do think Riordan was using the Curse of Achilles as a crutch to pair Percy and Annabeth together and to rush the romance between them, given that is the primary reason they got together. But it still doesn't change the fact narratively as a mortal tie, Rachel or even Sally would've made more sense.

I don't even ship the pair but throughout TLO Percy and Rachel have a crucial impact on each other and the choices they make. As we see to Percy, Rachel is a reminder that there is something there for him in the mortal world and, you can see Rachel seeing Percy as an escape from her own life, given how she joined him on the Labyrinth quest on the spot. Rachel is present in reminding Percy he is not the Hero of the prophecy and was there when Percy gave the pithos to Hestia. Later on Percy does the same for her when her moment came with the Oracle.

This is the precursor to Percy turning down immortality and Rachel plays a critical component in that, but is ultimately the reminder for Percy of the broader picture, much like Annabeth is when Percy looks back and thinks of Camp and all those who died when he declines immortality. the only time I believe Percy's mortal tie to Annabeth made sense beyond a romantic level.

Percy is clearly more comfortable around Rachel.

And Percy made to feel guilty for his interactions around Rachel throughout TLO and much later with Annabeth, this is revealed she does this deliberately to Percy even after they have gotten together in order to assert control.

So at this point, it goes beyond Annabeth's jealousy and possessiveness and into control. Annabeth is a complicated character, but it still doesn't change how one can read into her actions and that in the text and present for all to see. Back to the Coward scene in TLO.

Annabeth is emotional and she does have decent reasons to be. She is scared for Percy. We see this when Percy reacts to the prophecy.

More than anything Annabeth is projecting her own emotional insecurity onto Percy in this scene. About his oncoming death and also his feelings towards her.

She is annoyed with Percy presumably not confessing to her when she clearly has emotions for him and for him spending time with Rachel instead. But she presents it as Percy being the coward and for running away, scared. Rather than actually confess her feelings herself. It should be Percy to be the one to do so. Percy is clearly not a coward running from his death and even in terms of their "romantic relationship" at this point, apart from a kiss which came out of nowhere there is not really a lot of reasons for them to be together (yet) Percy reads between those lines over why she is really annoyed.

This, among many scenes, continues a tension between Percy and Annabeth which is never truly resolved and its' not helped with Annabeth and Rachel making up off-screen, which doesn't make sense given how Annabeth seemed to have genuine emity towards Rachel's perceived crush on Percy.

This connects with who is well established as Annabeth as a prideful character but as controlling as well. Annabeth's pride possibly can't accept what she deems as a mediocre dinner for their first month anniversary.

It is genuinely gutting to see Percy, who was doing something nice and presumably this IS the special dinner Annabeth was thinking Percy "promised" her and what she expected him to do instead.

I presume this was the dinner Percy had in mind if he did promise, but for Annabeth she wanted something grander and more important; this wasn't it.

Annabeth wanted to pressure Percy despite him doing something nice; she wanted to keep Percy on his toes, as it were. That's not healthy.

Percy gives a lot in this relationship. He feels obligated to and as we see her, Annabeth expects a lot out of this relationship. A month anniversary is materialistic as hell. Annabeth is also not expected to do anything similar. I would understand Percy's anxiety even further if Annabeth had done something similarly nice, but that isn't the case here.

More often than not, Percy is expected to GIVE and Annabeth often TAKES in the relationship.

As someone who works on celebrating special occasions, this feels petty and ridiculous to expect from a partner. But it's also telling how the picnic dinner was not enough for Annabeth as well since Percy did still do something on their anniversary, even if unintentionally on the anniversary itself. It might not ever be enough for something so "simple".

We know from the series a lot of Percabeth moments are focused on grand and impressive feats. They had their first kiss in a volcano. Annabeth is his mortal tie. They both turned down immortality for each other(they hadn't) and they fell through in Tartarus and walked out together. Etc, Etc.

In many ways they have done a lot together, but it doesn't have the emotional weight it deserves. Percy and Annabeth frankly don't have the chemistry or a real emotional connection as people. Part of that, I think, is due to Riordan clearly trying to push them as a couple before them being friends, and Annabeth's character in particular suffered from this. Stranged from the Red String as it were.

This is meant to be a sweet and domestic moment, and it isn't even a bad idea for a date but it isn't enough. Annabeth had widely different expectations, which can also be a microcosm of how they have completely different views for the future and ideas on how that will turn out. Percy didn't believe a month anniversary was really that important or significant and honestly. He's right. It's not. But Annabeth is not satisfied with a mere picnic for a special dinner and talks about it being more like the year anniversary than a single month.

This is arguably one of their better stories together, too where we see good teamwork and some nice moments between them compared to others. One day I will get into the Bronze Dragon. But for me the focus on the dinner overshadows everything and that is a frequent problem with Percabeth, where there are so much negativity in the relationship I feel gobsmacked whenever I'm expected to clap like a seal whenever they do something positive.

It speaks to me how Percabeth don't really have a lot in common apart from being with each other, fighting threats, or just knowing each other for years.

Percy doesn't appear all that interested in architecture, and Annabeth isn't much into sea life or skateboarding. While Percy had few common threads with Rachel in BOTL which he acknowledged, they both have mutual interests in the environment and peace with each other, which we don't really get with Percabeth. Percabeth feels so performative and stale in comparison that I still struggle to even read them as friends, let alone lovers. Particularly as Annabeth doesn't really respect Percy all that much.

Percabeth desperately needed more time to develop, getting together on the same time a lot of their peers died and the pressure from Camp I don't believe helped later down the line.

Like this comes across as sweet and it is, after all, it's them getting together and then getting chucked in the water. It's a great and grand way to get together for the Finale, YAY!!!!. But it has way too many unresolved issues that we only see blossom even further in HOO with how rushed it was. I find it esoteric. The Curse and by extension, Percy's choice to turn down immortality, feeding into it. Grand reasons to get together but fragile on examination as you wonder what really connects them together and I refuse to see them as this cute and perfect couple, which is the gold standard when they are ironically quite basic.

It makes sense why Percy compares their relationship to a "glass sculpture" and how he really doesn't know Annabeth nor does she in return about Percy. A glass sculpture is something that is so fragile and can break with a good push. It is destined to crash and break. In contrast to Annabeth's grand ideas of making something that will last for thousands of years. (Annabeth also has a connection to glass in her architecture, which I will not get into today but trust me it is there and it is haunting me)

Percy has so much love for Annabeth and treats her with utmost respect in his narration, but that is not really shared to the same degree. It feels so jarring reading their perspectives and how idealised Percy pictures Annabeth in his head, like him remembering her in SON, versus how she acts towards him in MOA

Percabeth is built on grand and lofty moments from the first book which is highlighted with the forced one-sided rivalry all the way to the present to justify them being together. Rather than having something more genuine and real connecting them together.

Annabeth's expecting something more from Percy for their month anniversary is, I feel, emblematic of everything I despise about it.

The fact that Annabeth forgot proves it wasn't about the dinner but control. It was making Percy uncomfortable over "forgetting" despite him doing something nice for her anyway, and that was presumably what he originally had planned for her anyway. It was keeping him on his toes. It's small but very present.

The only reason she isn't mad is that she did get the dinner in the end, and presumably Annabeth knew full well Percy "forgot" but she kept pressuring him anyway. But the fact that she tells Percy to start planning for their second month anniversary...

I don't find that sweet, funny or the one bit pleasant. It feels so materialistic and inconsiderate to Percy, who had a lovely date planned for her with some of her favourite treats and foods. And it didn't look like she cared for that one bit.

That more than anything kills me. The lack of appreciation. And that killed any hopes of their relationship going forward for me.

In fact, she urges Percy to do more. Annabeth doesn't say she will try anything special herself for Percy. No, it's on Percy to pick up the bill here. As I said, Percy is the giver, and Annabeth is the taker in this relationship and that fact is constant.

This story made me read the series completely differently and this is more than a dinner. All Percy can think about is "surviving" a month as Annabeth's boyfriend and hopefully her seeing a future with him, which is quite bleak.

More than anything to me, it just feels tragic reading Percy's attempts to do something nice for his girlfriend being brushed off or discarded like this. Annabeth has a commanding personality, and she promised she would never make things easy for Percy. In that she's right.

This story proves to me, Annabeth will never be satisfied with Percy's attempts and Percy will never feel good enough in this relationship to feel content and genuinely happy in a way that doesn't feel like he's forcing himself to be.

But it did open my eyes and made me consider so much more about why Rick might write a certain way, what he might have been considering when writing Percabeth himself and the likely future they will have in a peacetime without the same worries of a war on the horizon. Cause I can't see it work.

339 notes · View notes

themilfsland · 3 months ago

Text

Can we switch?

Pairing(s): Wanda Maximoff X female!reader

Summary: when you find out your bottom (or maybe not anymore) emo girlfriend was holding back her desires because she was afraid of her powers but you encourage her to let it all go.

Words count: ~ 3.7

tags | content: soft but smutty , bottom!Wanda (until it changes), top!reader (or maybe not this time), fingering, strap-on, magic cock, cum inside, possessiveness.

A/n: I've been thinking a lot about Emo Wanda unraveling her top side.

Time flies, as the elders say. It feels like just yesterday that Wanda joined the Avengers. She took the title of the youngest on the team, which meant you were no longer the spoiled one or the center of attention. In a way, that was a relief — Steve and Tony weren’t breathing down your neck anymore — but it probably also meant the last slice of cake wouldn’t be saved for you anymore. It's a shame, really, since you’d gotten used to the little treats Clint gave you after missions.

You remember the wary look in her eyes during that first week. She was like one of those black cats at midnight, always slipping away, avoiding interactions, and when she was forced to join group activities, she would linger in the corner of the room. "She’s still getting used to things," Steve would say. Besides, it would be hypocritical of you to criticize her behaviour — during your first month with the team, you were just about the most antisocial person possible.

Things were perfectly normal for you until Sam had the brilliant idea of suggesting you help Wanda with her training and power control. Great. Now the newbie who doesn’t even say "good morning" to you was going to be your responsibility. Of course, you tried to argue your way out of it in every possible way — how could the second-youngest — you — member of the group have enough experience to teach someone else? Unfortunately, nothing worked. The team agreed, and not even Natasha had your back this time. The reasoning was simple: you have the ability to control the elements of nature, so you were apparently the best choice to help Wanda learn to manage her powers.

And it was from that tutoring mission that you and Wanda really got to know each other, getting even closer and today marks one year since you made your relationship official. Clint bet it would take you a month to admit you were in love; Nat, knowing you better, gave it a few more months — you were way too stubborn to confess your feelings that easily. And the truth? You were already in love with her by the second week of training. Some people like to ask, "Who felt it first and who felt it deeper?" In this case, you were the first to realize your feelings for Wanda, but she was the one who ended up feeling them more intensely.

Although everyone still teases you about how rocky the beginning was — they used to say you were like a cat and a dog in a fight — now you’re more like two lovebirds. Honestly, you blamed her at first — she never listened to you, said your advice wasn’t helpful, and claimed you were being mean with your words. But over time, you started to realize how fragile Wanda really was — not in terms of strength, but when it came to her emotions and self-esteem. She was scared of herself; her own powers terrified her.

You were certain about her insecurity over her self-control during one of your training sessions. You had asked her to attack you — she hesitated and sent a weak pulse of her red energy. It had been days of you pushing her to really strike, but all you ever got was that same soft red wave. That’s when you decided to provoke her — bad idea. Your not-so-friendly words earned you a flash of her red eyes, and the next thing you knew, her magic had thrown you hard against the training room wall. You were on the floor, hand on your head, trying to process what had just happened when Wanda was suddenly above you, frantically checking for injuries and apologizing over and over. You could hear the panic in her voice.

After that day, you began to see her differently — with an understanding that no one else seemed to have. And Wanda knew it too — that you were the only one who could truly see her without needing to read her mind. It wasn’t something you had to work for; it was effortless — like the gentle pull of ocean waves, a quiet feeling between you both that grew stronger with each passing day.

Wanda didn’t change with everyone else — but she changed with you. The first time she let you take care of her bandage, the first time she asked for your help to practice a specific move, the first time she released her magic to strike without being afraid of hurting you — and the first time she let you kiss her.

You were the one feeling insecure that day. You’d always been confident, sure of your actions — but kissing Wanda? Your whole body was trembling beneath the surface. You were certain about your feelings — you loved her and wanted to be more than just teammates. But when it came to her feelings? That’s where the doubts crept in. Sometimes it felt like she was on the same page, but other times it seemed like she only saw you as a battle partner.

In the end, it was Nat who got tired of watching the two of you dance around each other with no progress. She gave you a push — with a hint of a threat — and gave you the courage to make the first move. Credit where it’s due — she was right. Despite the nerves, it all worked out in the end. Better than just good — way better.

---

"Are you two really going to eat all that?" - Nat asked, leaning against the kitchen counter.

"Mmm, probably not, BUT that doesn’t mean you can have a piece," you said, spreading frosting on the last cupcake you’d baked. - "Maybe tomorrow, if there’s any left — and only because I’m a nice person."

"Hm, okay. Soooo..." - she ran her finger through the bowl of leftover chocolate frosting and licked it before continuing - "Do you think this is going to make it up to Wanda?"

"What do you mean by that?" - You knew exactly what she was referring to, but you decided to play dumb.

"Ah, Y/n. You know exactly what I’m talking about. Everyone saw how Wanda was after that party on Saturday, at Stark's" she said, swiping a bit more frosting. "Oh, and all week long after that. So…? Are you two good?"

"Yeah, yeah, I know about Saturday and yes, everything’s fine," you replied in a cold tone.

"Y/n," —-she stepped closer, taking the spoon and cupcake from your hand. - "I know you. Just spit it out already. Better to say it here than let it blow up later with Wanda and make things even worse," she said, eyebrow raised.

You let out a deep sigh before finally starting to vent.

"Okay, so… I didn’t do anything wrong, did I? I mean, if anything happened that night, it was Carol’s fault, she’s the one who started talking to me and sticking close to me the whole time. Why can’t Wanda see that? She’s the one who started avoiding me and..."

Natasha put a hand over your mouth, cutting you off.

"Hey, slow down. Breathe. Let's see..." - Nat said calmly. - "I don’t think you did anything wrong, but maybe you could have handled it better. Carol was hanging pretty close to you, and maybe Wanda saw more than just that. You know your girl — she’s jealous. Very jealous."

You rolled your eyes, and Nat shot you a disapproving look.

"What? Are you gonna disagree with me?" - she smirked. -"You might have taught her how to control her powers better, but her jealousy? Nope. You can feel how crazy she gets inside when she sees you with someone else. Anyway, that wildcat is yours."

She placed a hand on your shoulder, giving it a light squeeze. - "I know you two will work it out and honestly, this is probably the perfect chance. Oh, and happy one year of having to witness you two being disgustingly in love. Also, pleaseee… try to keep quiet tonight. There are nights I can hear her saying your name — and not in a very cool way…"

"Natasha!! Shut up!" - you pushed her hand off your shoulder and gave her a shove. -"Go bother someone else. I need to finish all this before she gets back."

"Ohh yess, I almost forgot about her very important commitment today with my little sestra. They’re probably out shopping for some new toys for you two to play with tonight," - she teased, winking as she walked out of the kitchen, laughing while you cursed at her.

---

Everything was set. Pillows and a blanket neatly arranged on the bed, a side table stocked with snacks and drinks, the TV playing her favourite sitcom, and the wrapped necklace you had bought for her sitting nearby. With the busy mission schedule this week, you knew you wouldn’t be able to plan anything big — but that didn’t mean you were going to let the day go unnoticed. Even if it was a simple night, it was your night to celebrate.

"Hey, baby, I’m back," - Wanda announced as she opened the bedroom door. - "Oh, what do we have here? What’s all this about?" she said, stepping closer and you noticed she was hiding something behind her back.

"Mmm, I don’t know… what could all this possibly mean???" - you teased, playing along with her. - "You first — what are you hiding back there?" - you asked, pulling her by the waist until your bodies were nearly touching.

"Hey, that’s not fair! I asked first," - she said, trying to give you a menacing look — but you knew she always melted when it came to you.

"Uh-huh, let’s see what we’ve got here..." - in a quick move, you snatched the package from her hand. - "Hmm, it says: ‘For my love.’ Well, I guess that’s for me then." -You winked and started opening the package.

It was a photo album — filled with polaroids you had taken together throughout the year, memories that made your heart overflow with happiness.

"I love it. It’s so beautiful and special. You’re special! Thank you, baby!" — you didn’t give her a chance to respond, stealing a kiss from her lips.

"Okay, enough. Now, where’s my present?" - she broke the kiss, raising an eyebrow as she stared at you.

"I see… my girl is so demanding. Happy one year, my darling." - you held out your hand, offering her a small box and an envelope.

She asked for your help to put the necklace on while she read the note inside. It was a surprise trip after the mission season — you figured it’d be a good idea to take a few days off, away from the team. And of course, she loved the surprise.

Gifts exchanged, you both settled into bed, wrapped up in each other’s arms as always, sharing another moment of quality time together.

---

Wanda was restless. Not even half an hour had passed since you started watching the sitcom, and she couldn’t sit still for more than five minutes. You had already ruled out the idea that she was just trying to get comfortable — there was definitely something bothering her.

"Wands, what’s wrong?"

"Nothing," she replied curtly.

It was obvious something was wrong. You adjusted your position on the bed and sat up.

"Come on, baby, tell me. What’s going on? I know you're overthinking about something." - you reached for her hand, lacing your fingers together and guiding her gaze to meet yours.

"I don’t know, it’s just that… I… you… you’re mine, right?" — there was uncertainty in her voice.

"What? Of course I’m yours — I’m all yours." - you let out a relieved sigh and a soft laugh, but you noticed that Wanda was still a bit tense.- "Hey, my love," - you gently cupped her chin, guiding her gaze back to you. - "There’s nothing for you to worry about. I’m all yours — only yours."

Wanda didn’t say anything, her expression unreadable — until she leaned into you, closing the space between your faces, her lips brushing softly against yours.

The kiss intensified, laced with both urgency and desperation which only meant one thing: she was needy. But it wasn’t just that. Beneath the craving to have you close, there was something else — possessiveness.

Before you realized it, she was straddling your lap — one hand slipping beneath your shirt, nails lightly raking down your back, while the other tangled in your hair, pulling you impossibly closer. Her lips stayed locked with yours, not even breaking for air.

You knew Wanda's needs all too well. Ever since you both started exploring your sex life together, you began to notice the little details — not just the things she likes and doesn’t like, but also the different kinds of intimacy you two share. It usually starts soft — gentle touches and tender caresses — and eventually, by the end, it might get a little rough, but not that much. Sometimes, after a stressful mission, Wanda likes to use sex as a form of relief — and honestly, you’re not complaining. It’s rougher, faster, and deeper — a pretty damn good way to unwind. And then there’s that kind — when she’s overwhelmed with possessiveness, usually driven by jealousy. Oh, that’s the wildest one. She’s hungry, relentless, and won’t stop until she’s fully satisfied. Either way, whatever type it is, she’s almost always the bottom one — just a detail, since it’s never been a problem for either of you.

Then it clicked — you finally understood why she was acting with such intensity. It was about that party. About Carol. She was still thinking about it. Your thoughts snapped back to the present when you heard a muffled moan from Wanda. That’s when you noticed that she was rubbing against your thigh. You could help her out already, but you’ve always liked watching her need grow. So instead of letting your hand wander down, you slid it under her shirt, dragging your nails across her stomach until you reached her boobs, squeezing it over the bra.

She let out a louder moan at the feel of your hand on her skin, breaking away from the kiss to rest her face against your shoulder. A breathless "please" escaped her lips near your ear — her hips moving faster, desperately seeking more contact. It was hard to deny her when she begged like that — so your hand slipped lower, sliding inside her shorts.

When your fingers touched her wet folds she couldn't hold a pity whimper out loud. She kept her pace, rubbing herself against your fingers that were touching her clit — and you let her have a little fun, keeping your fingers still.

It took less than five minutes for her to start begging again — she needed more, she needed you. So you did what she wanted, you pushed your finger inside her cunt, she was so wet it slipped in at once.

And there she was your neddy girlfriend — right on your lap, desperate as her hips moved, seeking the most contact possible, moaning in your ear.

You thrusted your finger faster and deep but it wasn't enough. Then she placed her hand on your neck, and you felt her nails digging into your skin. She looked into your eyes, and you met that gaze — the red eyes — you knew exactly what it meant, she was reaching her climax. - "I need one more finger, pleasee. Don't stop. One more." - She begged between moans.

You acted right away, thrusting another finger, rougher — trying to sync your movements with her hips. She was close, you could feel and see. Her red eyes glowing, she always keeps those when she's desperate in need, when she's about to lose control — she just needs to release.

"hmm tasty as always" - you said, licking your fingers that were sticky with her cum.

She gave a shy smile, still catching her breath. You brushed a strand of hair away from her face and tucked it behind her ear.

"Sooo, are we going to talk about this...?"

She stared at you, her expression hard to read, leaving you unsure of what was on her mind. Then, to your surprise, she grabbed the hem of your t-shirt and began to lift it in a gesture to take it off.

"I'm not done, I still need you" - she said while you let her finish taking off your t-shirt.

She gave you a look, and you nodded — you knew she would only talk normally once she was satisfied. She started taking off her clothes, and you stood up to finish taking off yours.

In a second, you were both naked. You reached the nightstand drawer to grab the strap-on and in a hurry, you started wearing, but before you could finish adjusting it, Wanda took your hand, making you look at her in confusion.

"I was thinking...maybe we could switch?"

You were surprised by what she asked, despite hearing the hesitation in her voice when she suggested it.

"Of course we can switch, baby!" - you took off the strap-on and reached out your hand to give it to her. -"Do you wanna help to adjust it?"

She took it from your hand but placed the object on the bed. - “I was thinking about try something different…” - You nodded as a sign that it was okay and she continued - "Soo... I learned how to get an enchanted strap-on but I'll be attached to my body so in theory I could feel everthing..." - she stopped and waited for your comment, you could feel she was a little anxious about it.

"That sounds awesome! What are you waiting for? Let's try it!" - your voice was full of excitement. Wanda returned a smile and cast her spell, and before you realized it, she literally got a magic cock.

"Oh my god, that's so hot." - You couldn’t hold yourself back. And neither could Wanda. She grabbed your arm, guiding you back onto the bed, and with one swift movement, you were beneath her.

She kissed you again, deep and intense, and you felt her desire stirring once more. Her hips started moving, pressing against your body and you could feel her hardness. You were so wet, ready to be filled up by her and her teasing was making you impatient.

"Wands please, I need to feel you inside."

She smiled with her lips still touching yours, getting a better position between your legs, and then you felt her cock pressing your entrance, slipping in slowly. You left a muffled moan.

"You are so wet already, baby" - she pushed all in and you felt your walls being stretched out. - "and you are so tight, you feel so nice."

You love Wanda in every way, but having her like this on top of you?, teasing you like that? It was definitely like paradise. Besides the new magic experience driving your mind crazy. It was so real and good.

She thrusted into you only a few more times at a slow pace but it wasn't enough. She gripped your waist and started pounding her cock faster. You were no longer able to control your moans - you needed her.

You felt her nails in your skin, her thrusts deeply touching your sensitive spot and you could tell she was feeling everything too. She got a rough pace and her eyes started getting red — the red eyes back. But suddenly, she slowed her movements, almost stopping, her hands now lighter on your hips and her thrusts steadier.

Something was wrong. You looked into her eyes — that now were back to normal, and placed your hand over hers resting on your waist. - "Wands? Are you okay? Something is not right I can feel it."

"Nothing is wrong." - She tried to ignore you, but you gave her a disapproving look. - "It's just... I don't want to hurt you." - her voice was low and you couldn't believe what she was saying.

"What? You will never hurt me. I want it all and..."

Wanda didn't let you finish. - "No, you can't be sure about that. You know how I get when my powers get stronger and it takes control of myself. I can't hurt you."

Now it was you who was ignoring Wanda’s words. In one swift movement, you wrapped your legs around her body, pulling her closer.

"I know you won't hurt me. It's okay to be insecure, but I'm with you" - Your hands squeezed hers and you continued - "Honestly baby, right now I need you. I need you to fuck me."

She locked eyes with you for a few seconds — it felt like you could hear every thought racing through her mind. But then her eyes started glowing red again. Oh, she was back — and so were her desires.

You felt her hand burning against your skin. Her movements getting faster, every thrust deep inside your cunt. You heard her moans mixed with your own.

Your walls tightened and she must felt that against her cock because she thrusted rougher — you knew the only thing on her mind this time was to fuck you recklessly. Your moans were desperate getting close to the edge, each stroke sending waves of pleasure crashing through your body.

"You are mine, all and only mine" - she kept saying those possessives words, by every in and out moviment.

You got the orgasm together, your pussy tighter against her cock and you felt her cum spitting inside. You wouldn’t be lying if you said you felt all of her magic coursing through your veins. You felt full of her.

She rested her body on top of yours, your faces inches apart, and you could feel Wanda’s breath, still uneven. - "You were amazing, my love." - You said stroking her back and pressing a soft kiss to her forehead. -"and so so hot."

"Maybe we should do this more often." - she smiled at you and stole a soft lips kiss.

"We definitely should. And without holding your magic back" - You cupped Wanda’s neck, pulling her face closer, and gave her a long, deep kiss.

#wanda maximoff #wanda x reader #wanda x you #wanda maximoff fanfiction #wanda fanfic #emo wanda maximoff #wlw #wlw post #lesbian #wanda x y/n #emo wanda switch #switch wanda #wanda mcu

330 notes · View notes