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witchywithwhiskey · 2 days ago

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a king and his queen

pairing: mafia boss!bucky barnes x mafia princess!female reader

summary: you're still acclimating to life as the wife of the bratva's white wolf, and when your husband buys you some lingerie, it becomes an unexpected tipping point in your relationship.

warnings: 18+ content (minors dni!!!), arranged marriage, reader demonstrates trauma responses and has anxiety from past familial verbal abuse (not explicitly shown, just implied), smut, piv sex, unprotected sex, dry sex, possessive sex, mirror sex, creampie, bdsm dynamics (gentle dom Bucky Barnes, talk of punishments, consent checks/reassurances), choking, biting, roughness, dirty talk, praise kink, pet names (moya zhena - my wife, moya koroleva - my queen, baby), aftercare, lots of feelings, some angst, some fluff, happy ending

word count: 6.3k

a/n: for week 7 of @buckybarnesevents's Hot Bucky Summer event, y'all voted for me to use the optional prompt of lingerie—and i'm quite happy with how this one turned out! it's a bit...darker and more different in some ways than most of my fics, but it was cathartic to write. there's more build-up to the sex in this fic because the dynamic between these two was so important to establish, but i enjoyed it, so i hope y'all do too! please make sure to read the warnings! enjoy ♡

prompt: “Put this on.” | [Blindfolds | Lingerie | Gag/Collars]

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

“Put this on.”

The order pulled your attention from the mirror of your vanity, where you were putting the final touches on your jewelry for the evening. Your makeup was already done, all that was left was to get dressed.

And it seemed your new husband, the notorious head of the Russian mafia in New York City, the feared White Wolf—James “Bucky” Barnes—had opinions on what exactly you’d wear to your cousin’s birthday party.

You’d tensed at his sudden appearance in your bedroom and, immediately, you tried to parse his tone to determine whether he was angry with you—or frustrated, or irritated, or annoyed, or anything else that might mean you were in for trouble.

It was a habit you’d formed while growing up in your father’s household, where quickly figuring out a man’s tone could be the difference between escape and something much worse. The habit had become so ingrained, you hardly recognized yourself doing it anymore.

But like every other time Bucky had issued a command for you, you couldn’t quite read his tone.

Your husband’s voice when he spoke to you wasn’t overly warm, but it wasn’t cold either. He sounded like a man used to people doing what he said, so much so that he was almost…bored of it.

You didn’t know exactly what that meant, but you’d long ago learned that if a man in the mafia gave you an order, you followed it as fast as possible.

So while you were thinking all this through, you’d grabbed the luxurious paper bag your husband had held out to you and headed toward your walk-in closet. The dress you’d chosen for the party was already hanging up, ready for you to put on, but you’d wear whatever Bucky told you to wear.

It was your job, after all, to keep the peace between your family and Bucky’s Bratva. It was the whole point of your marriage to the White Wolf—and part of keeping that peace meant your husband would accompany you to parties hosted by your father, like the celebration that evening.

Scurrying inside the closet with the bag, you paused and marveled all over again at the sheer size of the room.

Like everything else in Bucky’s home, it was opulent and gorgeous, with clean white surfaces and dark brown wooden accents. There were multiple full-length mirrors and, alongside the racks and shelves holding your clothes and shoes, the space was big enough to fit a few ottomans, chairs and benches, all upholstered with the same sumptuous pink velvet.

Before you could turn and close the door, Bucky’s voice broke through your thoughts.

“Let me see how it looks before you put your dress on.”

You’d assumed the garment he’d given you was a dress, so his words sent a little tremble down your spine when you realized they meant something else was in the bag. Still, you gave your husband a quick nod over your shoulder and shut the door to your closet.

Despite the trepidation you felt, your curiosity was piqued, and you peered into the bag. Under layers of soft tissue paper, you discovered something silky, lacy and beautiful.

Heat filled your cheeks as you pulled out the expensive lingerie and held it carefully in your hands. The matching set was exquisite, and nicer than anything you’d owned in your entire life—which was saying something since you’d never wanted for anything.

Excited to wear something so beautiful, you put it on quickly. Once done, you had to stop and stare at yourself in one of the full-length mirrors.

The warm recessed lighting in the closet shone on your body, giving you a perfect view of everywhere the lingerie clung to your skin. The silk and lace hugged your curves lovingly, like the garment was tailor-made to your body, the color complementing your skin tone perfectly.

It suddenly occurred to you that your husband, the Bratva boss you’d been taught to fear, had hand-picked this lingerie for you. He must’ve even given the seamstress your measurements so that it fit you so well.

The thought of Bucky going to all that trouble and doing all that for you had warmth blooming in your core, a soft throbbing beginning between your thighs.

Your husband didn’t seem much like the mean, cruel man you’d expected when you married him. On your wedding night, when you’d consummated your marriage, Bucky had been patient, gentle even. Until he’d been unable to help himself, and then he’d fucked you like a man possessed.

But you’d enjoyed seeing the tightly controlled mafia man let loose. It had felt like you’d seen a side to him no one else ever had. And, even more, you’d enjoyed the way he’d made you unravel beneath him. He’d worked your body better than you’d ever thought possible, making you feel unspeakable pleasure.

In fact, in the few weeks since that night, you hadn’t been able to stop thinking about your husband, about his handsome face and his skillful hands.

You had to keep reminding yourself that just because you knew him intimately, it didn’t mean you truly knew him. Or that you could trust that he was what he appeared to be—a kinder, gentler mafia boss than you’d ever known. But he kept surprising you.

After your wedding night, Bucky had gifted you your own suite of rooms within his sprawling mansion, and it was there that you slept, in your own space separate from him. Occasionally, he came to you in the darkest hours of the night, asking for your consent before fucking you just as good as that first time.

But he never fell asleep with you, which felt like a sign that he wanted nothing more than an alliance with your family and an infrequent bedmate.

Which meant that on the nights he didn’t come to you, you found yourself tossing and turning, forced to pleasure yourself while only the memories of your husband could get you to completion.

It occurred to you that you could go to him, but that seemed like too much of a risk. To ask your husband for anything meant trusting him with your honesty, and you’d never dare do that. Not when you still didn’t know for certain how he felt about you.

Much of your time in the weeks since your wedding to the White Wolf had been spent trying to puzzle out his feelings for you, all while you’d been keeping your own emotions buried deep in your heart. It felt too dangerous to admit, even to yourself, that you’d grown…fond of your husband.

But seeing the beautiful lingerie Bucky had chosen meticulously for you had an effect on the impenetrable walls around your heart. It almost felt like something inside you cracked open a tiny bit, and you found yourself rubbing idly at your chest, a warmth blooming beneath your sternum that scared you a little.

With a jolt of awareness, you realized you’d been lingering in your closet longer than you’d meant to, and you checked the time on your phone. Cursing to yourself, you realized you’d taken too long putting on the lingerie.

If you didn’t get dressed right away, you and Bucky would be late to the party, and that would not be tolerated by your father.

Forgetting the second order your husband gave you, you grabbed the dress you’d set aside for the party and shimmied into it, quickly zipping it up as much as you could as you stepped into a pair of matching high heels. Walking out of the closet, you were still fiddling with the zipper when you came to an abrupt halt at the look on Bucky’s face.

He was standing closer to the door of the closet than you’d expected, and his blue eyes were bright with an unreadable expression as they swept up your body. You skin warmed at the way he took in your calves and the shape of your thighs, then the way your legs disappeared beneath the hem of your dress.

“I gave you an instruction, moya zhena,” Bucky rumbled, in that same indecipherable tone he always seemed to use with you, though you detected something like curiosity in it. “Why did you not follow it?”

Your heart jumped up into your throat as you recognized your error; your first instinct was to cower away from your husband and beg for forgiveness. But when your eyes flitted frantically across his face and down to his shoulders, you were surprised to find he wasn’t angry.

Bucky was relaxed, his shoulders loose and sloped, his hands tucked into the pockets of his slacks. His expression held no hint of fury at your disobedience, just a quiet interest as he waited for your answer.

You were so disarmed by Bucky’s reaction, you blurted out the truth.

“We’re going to be late,” you said, and despite your best efforts, you heard a slight waver in your tone.

Bucky’s eyes flashed, his gaze darting to your mouth for a moment before returning to yours. You couldn’t read his expression, which didn’t do anything to help the anxiety churning in your belly.

“My father doesn’t tolerate lateness.” As you spoke, you looked toward the door, and shifted your weight from one foot to the other.

You knew how your father would act if you and Bucky were late—you’d been on the receiving end of his verbal lashings and punishments enough times to know all too well. So you hoped your husband would take the hint and allow you to leave quickly.

A rumbling sound caught your attention, and your racing thoughts came to a halt as you glanced back at Bucky, who was looking decidedly more deadly, even though nothing in his posture had shifted.

He still looked calm and at ease, and something about it settled you, even as you picked up on his anger. Instinctively, you knew it wasn’t directed at you.

“You no longer live under his command, moya koroleva,” Bucky said, his voice infinitesimally softer than you’d ever heard it. He prowled closer to you, his gait as slow and careful as a predator stalking some exceptionally skittish prey. “You are my wife, and he cannot touch you—he cannot punish you.”

Something in your belly swooped, warmth blooming between your thighs even as your knees trembled. Bucky’s voice held so much self-assuredness, and possessiveness, that you almost believed him. You almost believed you were free of your father’s rule.

Then Bucky smirked, the curve of his mouth as sharp as the blade of a knife. “That’s my job.”

Horror rushed through you at his words, since it suddenly occurred to you that you might’ve been wrong about your husband. You’d thought him different from your father, but if he was speaking of punishments—of punishing you—then perhaps they were more alike than you’d thought.

On instinct, you took a step back.

Bucky went still, this smirk slipping from his face. He was close enough to reach for you, but his hands remained in his pockets. The only movement was the slight tilting of his head as he studied you closely.

“Do you trust me, moya zhena?” he asked, his voice surprisingly gentle.

You’d thought you might—one day—but in that moment, you didn’t think so. And for some reason, you couldn’t bring yourself to lie to your husband and tell him you did. So what you settled on was, “‘No’ feels like the wrong answer.”

Bucky’s eyes sparkled with humor and the edges of his mouth flickered as if he wanted to smile but was restraining himself. He took another step toward you, this time moving even slower than he had before, as if trying not to scare you.

Then, he pulled a hand from his pocket, his movements slow and deliberate as he reached for you. You let his fingers catch your chin in a firm grip and hold you so that you could nothing but stare into his eyes.

Your husband had beautiful blue eyes, and a handsome face that was typically all sharp edges, though in that moment he seemed somehow gentler. Despite your anxiety, you softened slightly into his grip, something instinctual in your body deciding Bucky wasn’t a threat—at least for the moment.

“The truth is never the wrong answer,” he said, his thumb sweeping just below your lower lip. His eyes darkened as he watched the path it traced against your skin, and you could feel him getting distracted by your mouth.

But his words had you pressing your lips into a thin line. You couldn’t believe a mafia boss as feared as the Bratva’s White Wolf could be so naive as to think lies weren’t the currency of the world you both lived in, even within families—even within marriages.

“In my experience, it often is,” you said, choosing your words carefully so you didn’t disrespect your husband and add another infraction to your record for that night.

Bucky’s eyes narrowed fractionally, and he stared at you so intensely, you wanted to shift uncomfortably on your feet. But you knew your husband well enough to know he’d catch the movement and know what it meant. So you kept your expression blank and held yourself still. You’d had enough practice in your life to hide your reactions well.

Still, somehow you sensed that Bucky could read every thought as it passed through your head and every emotion that swept through your heart. It rattled you more than you cared to admit, even to yourself.

It was almost a relief when, after a moment of charged silence, Bucky spoke.

“How about this, an addendum to our wedding vows,” he said, his voice calculatingly thoughtful as he watched for your reaction.

He must’ve liked the way your eyes flicked to his, and must’ve seen the curiosity in your gaze, because he went on. “You may lie to anyone—to everyone else, if you so wish. But never to me.”

You blinked in surprise, trying to process his words, trying to root out their hidden meaning. There must be a trick or a trap, but you couldn’t find one. And Bucky kept talking before you could ask any questions that might help you discern his secret agenda.

“If you promise never to lie to me, I vow that I will never punish you for telling the truth.”

You were quiet for a long moment, absorbing Bucky’s words and looking for the trap in them. It took an embarrassingly long moment for you to realize what was right in front of you—it wasn’t a trick. He was asking you to trust him, and he was offering his trust in return.

Even as the thought occurred to you, though, you shoved it aside, believing it impossible. Bratva men like the White Wolf didn’t offer an equal exchange of trust, they ruled with an iron fist. In your life, you’d seen the fear men wielded, especially over the women in their lives.

There wasn’t much trust in the mafia. There was dominance and submission, fear and power. Loyalty was taken through the threat of violence, or the threat violence upon someone you cared about.

So, it was with a desire not to be punished that you agreed to Bucky’s offer.

“OK,” you said simply, meeting your husband’s gaze. When he raised his eyebrow and tilted his head, silently urging you on, you continued, “I promise never to lie to you, husband.”

Bucky nodded, accepting your answer, though his eyes looked stormy and conflicted. Although you’d given him what he’d asked for, he didn’t seem entirely pleased.

He stepped back, his hand dropping from your face, and you found you missed the warmth of his touch. You missed the spiciness of his cologne, and the way his presence had wrapped around you like a cloak of comfort.

Before you could examine those thoughts further, Bucky gripped your shoulder and deftly spun you around on your heels, his big hand falling to the small of your back. He propelled you gently, but firmly, into your walk-in closet, stopping you in front of one of the large ottomans in the center of the room.

It was plush and circular, with a full-length mirror on the wall on the opposite side of the room. In it, you could see the way you stood with your shoulders huddled, your body dwarfed by the broadness of your husband at your back.

“Do you care about this dress?” Bucky asked, his hands sliding up your shoulders until his thumbs rested against your spine where the zipper was still partially undone.

The feeling of his fingers on your bare skin sent tingles of pleasure skittering down your spine, and it took all your self-control not to shiver under the delightful weight of your husband’s hands.

“I—”

It occurred to you to lie, but when you caught Bucky’s eye in the mirror, you sensed he’d know somehow. And it seemed like such an easy thing to tell the truth about, that you didn’t want to risk angering him so soon.

“Yes, it’s one of my favorites.”

Bucky gave another nod, and his fingers squeezed your shoulders lightly, as if rewarding you for your honesty. Then he pulled down the zipper and peeled the dress off your body until it pooled on the plush carpet at your feet.

Instinctively, your arms lifted to cover yourself, forgetting that your husband had seen you naked on plenty enough occasions. But those had all been in your bed under much more forgiving lighting.

Bucky growled a quick, “Don’t,” and you jerked your arms back to your sides.

“Good girl.”

His gruff praise slid down your spine and settled heavily between your thighs, but you were too focused on watching what he was doing to question your reaction.

Bucky knelt down and picked up your dress with careful fingers, finding a hanger and hanging it back up before returning his attention to you.

“Turn around,” he said, his voice so low and rough it reminded you of the way he’d speak to you in bed, when he was buried inside you, urging your body to meet his own so that you could both find your pleasure.

Slightly distracted by the faint pulsing between your thighs, you turned to face your husband, your eyes finding his and watching him closely.

Bucky’s gave swept a slow perusal of your body, lingering on the way the lingerie he’d given you hugged your tits and cupped your mound, accentuating all your curves and swathing your body in luxurious, satiny lace. Your husband’s eyes seemed to darken the longer he looked at you, his pupils blowing wide.

“How does it feel?” he asked, his voice so impossibly gruff, it took you a moment to understand his question.

“It…it feels good,” you answered honestly, still getting used to telling your husband the truth, though it was getting easier. “It makes me feel…pretty.”

“Pretty—fuck that, you’re gorgeous, moya zhena,” Bucky rasped, dragging his eyes up to yours.

Your breath caught in your throat at the sheer intensity in your husband’s gaze.

“This is all I wanted,” he went on. “I wanted to see you like this, wearing the lingerie I bought for you, before we went to the party.”

He stepped closer and you swayed slightly on your feet, your body yearning for him like a flower longs for the sun.

“I wanted to have this memory of you in my mind when we went to the party and know I’m the only man who will ever see you like this, looking more beautiful than the moon and stars—looking like mine.”

You sucked in a sharp gasp, the sound loud in the quiet of the walk-in closet, which suddenly felt too small, even as Bucky felt too far away.

Heat flooded your core at your husband’s words, and the ravenous hunger beneath them. Perhaps because of the tenuous trust between you and Bucky, or because you couldn’t seem to help yourself around your husband, your body responded to his possessiveness with a hungry ache of its own.

“But you tried to deprive me of this vision of beauty,” Bucky continued, prowling toward you, making your heart skip a beat with excitement. “And that I can’t abide.”

When he reached for you, spinning you around again until you faced the mirror and he was holding you gently but firmly, whatever unease you’d felt that evening evaporated entirely. All you could feel was a need thrumming beneath your skin, one you were certain only he could sate.

“I’m not going to hurt you, moya zhena,” he said, holding your gaze unwaveringly in the mirror. He paused, waiting until you nodded your understanding before he went on. “But I am going to make sure you feel me all night—and never forget who you belong to.”

A beat passed, and it took you a long moment to realize Bucky was giving you a chance to escape whatever he planned to do to you. You surprised yourself when you didn’t take it. Instead you nodded, watching Bucky’s eyes darken in his reflection, the corners of his mouth curling into a pleased smirk.

With Bucky’s promise hanging heavy in the air between you, he guided you down onto the ottoman, his touch gentle and firm as he arranged you on your hands and knees. You heard him undo his zipper, and felt his knuckles brush against your ass as he pumped his cock to full hardness.

Despite everything that had happened that evening, you felt yourself warming for him. Your slit dampened for your husband as if your body knew it belonged to him. It was almost dizzying, the way your heart raced excitedly, and your mind struggled to keep up.

Behind you, Bucky hooked his finger in the gusset of your panties and pulled them aside, then pressed the tip of his bare cock to your tight entrance. You were starting to be ready for him, but you weren’t nearly wet enough to take him comfortably, and it suddenly hit you what your husband planned to do.

You tensed, and looked into the mirror, catching Bucky’s eye. You could see him cataloging the range of emotions as they flitted across your face—doubt, intrigue, hunger, need. He seemed to be reassured when he didn’t see any fear in your eyes.

“I said I wouldn’t hurt you, moya zhena,” he reminded you, his tone almost kind. You swallowed and nodded at his reflection. “But I didn’t say this wouldn’t be uncomfortable.”

He pushed his hips forward, his expression heated as he watched your face go slack at the feel of him. The head of your husband’s cock was blunt and unyielding as it breached your tight hole, and you felt every thick millimeter of his tip sinking into your pussy.

A gasp caught in your throat, your breath freezing in your lungs. Your body went still as every shred of your being focused on the feeling of your husband’s cock pushing inside you. You were a little wet for him, but not nearly enough to make penetration easy—but that was exactly the point.

Bucky didn’t rush it, and true to his word, he didn’t hurt you. Once the tip of his cock pressed into your pussy, he pulled out and pushed inside again, driving the air from your lungs and forcing you to breathe again.

You felt yourself relax infinitesimally at the first sparks of pleasure, and you were rewarded by your husband stroking his hand soothingly down your spine, urging you to soften even more.

“That’s it, moya zhena, let me in,” he rumbled above you.

You lifted your head, not knowing when it had dropped between your shoulders, so you could catch his eye in the mirror. He pinned you with his gaze just as surely as he’d pinned you with his hands.

“Just breathe and take it, baby, take your husband’s cock.”

Bucky’s words had a soft moan slipping free from your lips and you settled more deeply into your position on the ottoman, your shoulders lowering and your spine arching so your ass was presented to your husband. He rumbled a pleased sound in his throat and refocused on shoving the head of his cock into your pussy.

He repeated the movement over and over again, fucking you with the tip of his hard length as you gradually opened for him. His cock slid a little bit deeper with every thrust, and you felt every delicious inch of his thick shaft stretching you bit by bit, making your tight hole take him more and more as you grew wetter and wetter for him.

When he was halfway buried inside you, the pleasurable ache of his cock pushing inside you became too much and your arms gave out. Your upper body slumped to the plush velvet ottoman, your lips falling open in a helpless moan.

Above you, Bucky chuckled, his palm stroking down your spine again before it settled possessively on your hip. You felt your husband curl over your back, his other hand tipping your face toward the mirror so you could still watch him looming over you.

“You’re doing so well for me, baby, keep your eyes on me,” he rumbled encouragingly, rocking his hips so his cock pushed even deeper inside your pussy.

Your eyes widened as the delicious stinging stretch of him plunging further inside your heat. He felt so big, so impossibly thick, it shorted out something in your mind. All you could do was take him, feel him, submit to him.

“Fuck, you feel so tight like this—you’re taking my cock so well, moya zhena.”

A sudden sob of pleasure bubbled from your lips at Bucky’s praise, your heart feeling like it was cracking open to reveal its soft, tender inside. You didn’t understand what was happening to you as tears sprang to your eyes, but your husband seemingly did.

Bucky wrapped his arms securely around your body, cooing soothing noises in your ear as he stroked your sides and your arms and everywhere he could reach. All the while, he fucked deeper into you, making you feel every solid inch of him until you were nearly overwhelmed with it—with him.

When there was only an inch left to go of his cock pushing into your pussy, Bucky murmured in your ear, “Deep breath, baby.”

Obediently, you sucked in a deep lungful of air, and Bucky plunged inside you to the hilt.

The sound that wrenched free from your throat was part devastating pleasure, part overwhelming relief. It was as if a dam broke deep in your soul at the feeling of your husband’s cock finally fully seated inside you.

Tears streamed from your eyes, and small tremors wracked your body, but before you could determine whether you’d come just from Bucky’s cock entering you completely, he was tightening his arms and hauling you up from where you’d been slumped over.

One of your husband’s hands slid around your throat, pinning your shoulders to his chest, while the other lay possessively over your lower belly, holding your body impaled on his hard length.

The change in position had Bucky’s cock slipping a little out of your tight hole. He raised a knee up onto the ottoman, pulling you back into his lap and allowing gravity to help you sink down on his shaft until he was buried to the root once again.

Then, he stared at your reflection. The image of your bodies connected, the lingerie contrasting with your skin—his cock buried in your cunt. You could feel the prickling awareness of his gaze as it caressed your curves and worshipped every inch of you.

“You are a goddess, moya zhena,” Bucky rumbled in your ear, and you lifted heavy-lidded eyes to meet his in the mirror. You found an endless well of appreciation in your husband’s gaze that would have knocked you over if he wasn’t holding you up. “You are my queen, and the only orders you obey are mine, do you understand?”

You realized, suddenly and with startling clarity, that you’d been right all along. Bucky was truly nothing like what you’d thought or expected him to be. He wasn’t cruel. He didn’t want to gain your loyalty through fear.

He wanted your trust, but he wanted it freely given. He wanted to build you up, to lend you the power he had fought for, all in exchange for simply being his.

It was almost too much for your mind to process, but your body seemed to understand, and your lips parted, spilling the words you’d learned out of curiosity about your husband and his culture.

“Yes, moy korol,” you said, holding Bucky’s gaze in the mirror.

You watched your husband’s eyes darken at your words—“my king”—a rush of pride filling your belly when a pleased smile flickered at the corners of his mouth.

“You’re learning Russian, moya zhena?” he asked, so much warmth filling his tone, he sounded nothing like the man who’d entered your bedroom earlier that evening.

“I thought it might be useful,” you dared to quip back, your voice breathless, a tentative smile on your face as you watched your husband’s reflection.

Bucky’s hand around your throat shifted, his fingertips pressing to your jaw and turning your head so he could look at you properly. He grinned down at you for a moment, affection sparkling in his bright eyes, before brushing a sweet kiss to your mouth.

It was the first time he’d kissed you that evening, and you sucked in a sharp breath of pleasure as the almost familiar taste of him burst on your lips.

“I’ll help you,” he murmured against your mouth, pressing his smile into your skin. “We’ll start tomorrow.”

You returned his smile, but before you could thank him, Bucky was pulling his hips back and driving his cock into your cunt with such a sharp slam, it had your tits bouncing and a gasp wrenching from your lips.

Both of you turned back to the mirror, watching as he did it again, making you feel every hard inch of his cock in your tight pussy. Bucky’s eyes blazed with heat as he watched your body shift and bounce in the reflection, your lips falling open on a helpless moan as you took every hard thrust.

“Fuck, moya zhena, you’re a divine vision sent from the gods to torment me,” Bucky growled, his fingers tightening around your throat as he fucked you, rumbling filthy words in your ear. “You’ve never looked more gorgeous than impaled on my cock, wearing the lingerie I bought for you—you’ve never looked more mine.”

“Bu-Bucky, oh god,” you cried, your eyes sliding closed from the pleasure of his cock spearing into you, dragging against every sensitive inch of your inner walls. He felt so big, so good, so torturously perfect inside you.

“Eyes open, baby,” Bucky commanded, biting your jaw in warning. Your eyes flew open and went straight to your husband’s face, watching the pleased smile curve his lips. “Keep those pretty eyes on me, I want to watch you come apart on my cock.”

Your gaze felt tethered to your husband’s, holding his eyes unwaveringly in the mirror as he pounded into you. Vaguely, you were aware of your face contorting with pleasure as Bucky rutted into your tight cunt, but all you could focus on was the feeling of his thick shaft inside you and the dark, feral hunger in his eyes.

It wasn’t long before Bucky’s rhythm turned harder, wilder, as he got close to his peak. Your husband’s hand slid down from your belly to find your clit, and he rubbed the delicate pearl until you were shaking and crying in his arms. Bucky’s hand tightened around your throat, choking you lightly and making your pussy pulse around his hard length.

“Come on my cock, moya koroleva, I want to feel your cunt milking me dry while I fill you with my seed,” Bucky growled, his voice gruff and nearly indiscernible. “You’re going to be dripping with my come all night at this party, feeling me between your thighs until I can get back into this pussy and pump you full again tonight.”

“Bucky!” you screamed your husband’s name as your release crashed over you, spurred by his words and his cock and his fingers on your clit. You shook wildly in his arms, your eyes nearly closing as pleasure overwhelmed you, but you managed to keep them open just enough to watch your husband lose himself in your body.

Bucky rutted into your cunt a few more times, shoving his cock deeper with every thrust, until he buried himself to the hilt. His hand squeezed your throat reflexively, and his teeth sank into your shoulder, biting down hard as he muffled a load roar against your skin.

You felt him pulse and throb in your pussy, your fluttering walls clenching around his hard length as if greedily milking the seed from his cock. The two of you coming together was a messy, beautiful thing, your sounds of pleasure filling the walk-in closet.

For a few minutes more, you writhed against each other, eking out every last ounce of pleasure from your releases as your bodies slowly calmed. Before you’d fully caught your breath, Bucky turned your face to his again so he could kiss you, and you sighed happily against your husband’s lips.

Something had shifted between the two of you—you knew it as surely as you knew you were married to the White Wolf. Bucky cared for you, he wanted you to trust him, and you wanted the same.

For the first time since you’d learned you were to be married to the head of the Bratva, you thought you might actually find some happiness with your husband. You hoped you might even find love with Bucky Barnes. It almost seemed too good to be true.

When you were both finally sated, Bucky eased his cock from your pussy as gently as possible. It still stung a little, your sensitive inner walls raw from the way he’d pushed inside you almost dry, but you welcomed the ache. You knew you’d feel your husband for the entire night, and it delighted you to no end.

“Did you hate your punishment, baby?” Bucky asked, his eyes searching your face as he helped you down from the ottoman, bearing your weight as your knees shook.

“No, moy korol,” you murmured, grabbing his hand and bringing it up to your lips. You kissed his palm, just beneath his wedding ring, and smiled serenely at him. “I like that I’ll be able to feel you all night,” you said, telling him the truth, just as you’d promised.

Bucky studied you for a moment, as if making sure you were being honest, and when he realized you were, his eyes darkened. He captured your mouth in a fierce kiss, hauling you against his chest and bending you backward with the ferocity of it, which you met with your own unfettered passion.

Once you finally parted, Bucky helped you back into your dress, and waited patiently as you fixed your makeup and your hair. He watched you with barely concealed heat in his gaze and a ghost of a smile on his lips, affection clear in every line of his face.

It settled something deep inside you to finally know how your husband felt about you, and when you were ready, you reached for him. Bucky caught your hand and tucked you into his side, holding you in such a way that you felt more safe and secure than you ever had before.

Then, you left for the party.

When you arrived, you knew you were extremely late, and some of the anxiety you’d felt earlier in the night resurfaced. You clung to Bucky’s arm as you watched your father storm over, the expression on his face so furious, it took all your self-control not to flinch.

The closer your father got, the more tightly you curled yourself around Bucky’s bicep, and your husband silently took note of your reaction. His hand covered one of yours where it was tucked into his elbow, and he gave you a reassuring squeeze that offered you strength.

“You’re late,” your father began as soon as he was close enough for his hissed words to be heard, but not overheard. Before he could continue, though, Bucky cut him off.

“Moya koroleva is never late,” he said in a voice so icy cold, it nearly sent a shiver down your spine. You’d never heard him speak to you like that, and you were glad for it, because that tone was blisteringly brutal. “We arrive precisely when we mean to.”

With that, Bucky gave your father a scathing look and swept you away into the party, getting you a drink before depositing you with some of your trusted friends and family. Then, he gave you some space to enjoy yourself, though you could always feel him hovering in your periphery.

It didn’t feel smothering, only comforting, and you were able to finally relax under your husband’s warm, watchful eye while you chatted with your loved ones.

You ended up enjoying the party, catching up with those you hadn’t seen in a while, and delighting in all the gossip you’d missed while settling into your husband’s home.

Occasionally throughout the evening, Bucky allowed you to tug him onto the dance floor. Though he dragged his feet a little, he seemed happy to have you in his arms for a little while.

When you arrived home late that night, Bucky unwrapped you like you were a gift from the gods, worshipping your body for hours with his mouth on your pussy. You were so ready when he finally slid his cock inside you, your pussy made obscene wet sounds as he buried himself to the hilt, both of you moaning at how good it felt.

Then, you enjoyed the rest of your night as husband and wife—as a king and his queen.

thank you for reading!! comments and reblogs are always appreciated ♡

Hot Bucky Summer 2025 masterlist

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heartyluv · 1 day ago

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Note: Writer’s block is strong, but I’m stronger 💯💪🏽. In all seriousness, for this fic to turn out so simple, it took me so long to do… That’s how I know the block is serious. And I am apologizing in advance if this is one of my not-so-great works, but I wanted to try and do somethingggg. Don’t throw tomatoes at me for this lolllll. But regardless, I hope you enjoy, luvlys. Even if it’s just a little.

Contains: Confessing feelins, use of pips/pipsqueak, dry humping (there’s not much happenin. this fic honestly makes me think of a scene out of a romcom or something. a dirty one)

Word Count: 2.9K (who would’ve thunk)

Summary: Caleb makes you wanna stop, drop and roll into his arms.

Firefighter&Roommate!Caleb/Reader

It’s nearly ten o’clock at night when you hear keys rattling just outside the front door, the familiar sound of them being used eliciting a loud click from the lock as it’s turned to grant entry to the only other person who has access.

You turn your head to see Caleb walk in and toss his duffel bag down by the shoe rack before toeing off his heavy duty black boots. Just as you prepare to greet him and ask about his day, your roommate lifts the hem of his dark navy blue t-shirt to lazily wipe the sweat from his hairline.

The innocent action stops your filthy mind dead in its tracks and your breath gets caught in your throat when you watch his defined abs ripple, the impressive muscle gain a sight you’ll never get used to seeing no matter how many times you have. With a clenched jaw and impure thoughts, you selfishly let your greedy eyes gawk at the faint veins beneath his smooth skin that trail up a little ways past his belt buckle like a roadmap to the unknown before he stands upright again.

He’s fast but you’re quicker, swiftly redirecting your attention back to the piping hot pot of food in front of you before you’re caught. You press your lips together and continue to stir the dish you didn’t intend to start so late while he mumbled to himself about how hot and humid it was outside.

Striving to get your last bit of work done before you shut your computer down for the night is why you’re in the kitchen cooking what might be classified as more of a hefty late night snack rather than dinner.

When you chose to complete paperwork that needed to be submitted to your boss and finalize a few reports instead of calling it a night when the time came, it was all worth it in the end as you had no workload to follow you into the weekend. But in turn for being so consumed, rather than being fed and in bed like you’re used to, you were standing over a steamy stovetop and preparing something to kill the hunger you left idle for too long.

Finding something small and simple would’ve been easier, but you wanted a nice home cooked meal after your demanding day of emails and video meetings. Perhaps knowing how much Caleb appreciates the same when he got off one of his long shifts at the firehouse could be tacked onto your list of reasons.

“You’re home early,” you finally speak after mentally composing yourself, schooling your tone to be right as rain so your voice didn’t expose itself for being on the same level of bothered that your body is on.

“Didn’t think I’d see the day where you’d be cookin’ this late.” There’s a cheeky smile behind that, you can hear it. “Smells goods.”

Being your best friend since high school, Caleb knows a lot about you. How you don’t like cauliflower, you prefer wintertime over the summer, and the most important factoid of all—how much you dislike cooking.

It’s not because you don’t have the skill. In fact, you love the food that you make.

But you hated the smell that lingered in your space and on your body even more.

You were the kind of individual who preferred to have dinner done as early as possible so you could wash the remnants off of your skin and be in a fresh change of clothes before enjoying the fruits of your labor with windows wide open.

“But yeah,” he added. “Two of the guys who originally called out decided to come in and that cut my 24 early. Chief told me I could go and I wasn’t waiting around for him to change his mind.”

You hear him walk along the carpet before stepping onto the tile of the kitchen floor as he makes his way to the fridge. A brief cracking of separating plastic sounds when he twists the cap off a water bottle, and you hear him chugging the cold liquid down soon after.

“Cooking stew when it’s 85 degrees with the sun down might be one of the craziest decisions I’ve ever seen you make, pips,” he chuckles, his sudden close proximity startling you when his playful jab is made a little too close to your ear as he looks over your shoulder to inspect.

You huff out a gentle laugh past your nose and playfully shake your head, doing your best to not be swayed by the panty-wetting presence exuding from the unit of a man with his chest nearly pressed to your back.

See, this is what you promised yourself you would not do.

When Caleb welcomed you with open arms once you made the decision to move out of your building after they stunned you and other tenants with a sudden ridiculous rent increase, you swore that your relationship would remain appropriate and platonic.

You made a promise to yourself that the crush you’ve had on him since you were teens had to be kept under control if you were going to be living with your best friend who didn’t seem to know that everything he did played over and over in your mind like a broken record.

You vowed, that no matter how many times you’ve seen his dick print through his sweats or his toned stomach that made you want to know how he’d react if you used your tongue to paint him the perfect picture, you wouldn’t risk what you had.

That was the least you could do. For your own sanity.

Refusing to move back in with your parents, regardless of your feelings, it was just natural for you to take him up on his offer after he gave you his spare bedroom.

You were an adult. You could brush off some feelings to have a roof over your head. And to share it with someone who was still your bestie at the end of the day? Certainly you’d be fine.

And you have been thus far in the past year of you cohabiting with him.

Until you weren’t.

You found that it was one thing to try and shrug away the rapid thumping of your heart when you’d see him a few times a month.

It was easier to regulate yourself when you’d hear him speak over the phone, only because you could slip your hand in between your thighs immediately after hanging up.

There was a sense of security and reassurance that the distance brought.

But since all of that happens now on such a regular and consistent basis, pushing those things down didn’t exist without it being beyond torturous. To say that your last few months here have been a test of your resolve was an understatement.

“I’m gonna shower before you get in there.” You finally breathe correctly when he pulls away, the mix of his gentle cologne and natural scent nearly making your knees buckle as they worked in tandem to cloud your already shot senses.

“You’re picking the movie tonight!” he calls out before retreating down the hallway, and you’re glad he doesn’t spark any further conversation.

You give him a thumbs up, unsure if he actually saw it, and hope that you can pull yourself all the way together before he returns to unintentionally ruin you some more.

The self control you did manage to scrounge up was crushed like a grape the moment you saw him after your own shower.

“Need to cool down before I throw on some clothes,” he told you, then plopped his large body beside you on the couch with his bowl of food in hand, sporting nothing but a pair of boxers.

Consuming your stew felt impossible each time he laughed at the film you selected and even more so when he’d spread his legs wider like he had something of great size that seemed to need all the space it could get.

And you only knew any of this because of the involuntary side-eyed glances you hoped were subtle enough to miss.

I just have to finish eating, clean up, and I can head to bed.

But of course, a man as observant as Caleb couldn’t reward you with a mission so easily accomplished.

“You haven’t looked at me since I got home.”

Your forkful of beef and rice stops at your lips.

“And you’re barely speakin’. I noticed, but didn’t say anything at first when I came in. We cool, pips?”

You clear your throat, your appetite definitely nonexistent now.

“Oh…no, w-we’re cool,” you stutter.

“Yeah?” The porcelain bowl clatters when he places the empty dish on the coffee table. “Then look at me.”

You don’t think he’s serious until he grabs the remote and pauses the media on the television. Anxiety courses through you when you feel him shift, and you’re certain that his gaze is now burning a hole into the side of your head as he waits for you to prove to him that you’re telling the truth.

You release an incomplete breath that doesn’t want to reach the bottom of your lungs when you shakily exhale. Ripping the bandaid off, you—hesitantly—give his eyes your own.

The lamps on either side of the couch on their respective end tables is the only reason why you can see the doubt and hint of concern swirling in his irises.

He crosses his arms and you have to catch yourself before you watch the way his pecs press together and biceps bulge with zero effort.

All the years he’s spent building and maintaining the artwork that is him should be inspiring, even motivational, but all it does is make you ravenous.

It’s something you frequently experience when he wears those tight shirts that accentuates his physique with the suspenders dangling on the sides when he’s in uniform, or even after he nonchalantly shows off the scars littered across his skin from the emergencies he’s bravely ran into and training he’s done.

“You’re lying.”

“I’m not!” you squeak, and he tilts his head with a knowing smirk.

“You gonna tell me what has you so stuck up or do I need to resort to somethin’ else to figure it out?”

“Caleb, you’re overthinking things. And I’m eating. You can’t do—” He snatches your bowl and places it beside his.

“Nothing but you is in the way now. Fess up.”

He places a hand on your thigh in reassurance, but it just makes your insides scream.

“C’monnn, if I did something, I want you to tell me. Did I leave dirty clothes on the floor? Got soot on the carpet? Haven’t been responding to your messages quick enough? I know I’m not behind on the rent.”

You smile at how he tries to make light of an honestly ridiculous situation.

Try telling yourself it’s ridiculous when you’re fantasizing about his strong thighs and happy trail that you struggle behaving about.

But the last thing you anticipated to come from this interrogation and your continued silence is Caleb moving like he’s a lightweight assassin, tackling you down onto the large sectional couch with ease as if you’re made of feathers.

Your legs spread for him without it being a question that needed to be asked.

“Caleb!” you yelp, your wrists twisting in his firm yet seemingly tender grip that he holds down beside your head.

The determined firefighter leans down and blows ticklish relentless raspberries into your neck, your back arching off the soft surface in your failed attempts to escape and from uncontrollable laughter.

“Gonna tell me now?” he teases breathlessly before repeating the process when all you do is giggle in response.

“I did! I did!” you exclaim, tears forming in your eyes from how hysterical he’s made you.

But the playfulness is immediately replaced with something different when his hard cock presses into you, the thickness seemingly trying to fit right in between your clothed pussy lips.

When he groans and you whimper, you realize that all of your attempts to not be in this position has just been tossed out every window available. To make it worse, you can’t stop squirming and he won’t stop pushing his hips forward.

“I’m sorry,” he apologizes lowly, but makes no attempt to move away.

“You don’t need to be. It’s a natural response…”

“Is it?”

This time there’s no mistaking his intentions, the length of his dick brushing right up against your clit. Your mouth falls open and your eyes screw shut from the blissful spark, but Caleb doesn’t go easy on you.

“Look at me, roomie. What I tell you?”

Your chest rises and falls with uncertainty before you listen.

“We’re close to crossing a line we can’t come back from, aren’t we?” he titters before hissing when the movement it causes makes him rub against you. “Tell me what you’re thinking.”

“It’s never been…about anything but you…” you confess, trying to focus on the friction you’re aching for him to give you and not the admission you’ve just put the fate of in his hands.

“Me? I don’t think I understand what you mean. You have to give me more than that, pipsqueak.”

“I can’t do this.” You try to move your hands and cover your embarrassed face.

“What are you so afraid of?”

“We’re friends, Caleb…Best friends. That’s all we’ve ever been.”

“Friends take care of each other, last time I checked. But just because that’s what we are now, it doesn’t mean it’s all we’re supposed to be.”

Studying you with a newfound passion, it's almost as if Caleb's been bestowed with 20/20 vision from how clearly he’s able to see through you, more than before.

“You want me to get off?”

You shake your head side to side shyly, a profound need building in your gut.

“So tell me what you want,” he whispers.

“I don’t want to ruin anything…”

“Pips, the only thing you’re capable of ruining is me. Have I told you that? I’m sure I have. But you always thought it was insignificant. Always thought I meant nothin’ by it.”

A calloused hand releases your wrist to lift your shirt so that he can get a clear view of where he sits between your plush thighs, his throbbing cock restricted beneath black underwear a perfect contrast to your pink panties.

If he could take a picture of the way you’re nestling against each other like you should be, like you should’ve always been, he would.

“That’s my fault. Maybe now’s the time for me to show you how much I need you to,” he continues, his hooded stare mesmerized by how well you fit.

He surges upwards once more, never giving pause this time when he starts to grind into you with a mind numbing momentum. When he sees how easily you succumb to him, going faster was the only viable option.

“That f-feels—” Your tits slightly jump beneath your oversized top with every push of his rigid body into your softer one.

“So fucking good…” he finishes for you, rutting against your cunt like a man starved. The precum that seeps from his tip to make a mess on himself only urges him on along with your mewls and the wet patch he sees forming when your panties dig in between your pussy to be suffocated like he soon aims to be.

Both of his hands move to grip into the cushions beneath you to keep steady, the sensation building in his base already becoming too difficult to hold back. But he refuses to come until you do.

You drag your palms over his shoulders, moving your body wantonly to meet him for each shadowed thrust as if you could feel him inside of where you’ve never had him before.

“You’re so pretty…” Caleb murmurs as he peers down to watch your plump sex strain against the simple fabric that hides you from him, appreciating what he can get until the day comes where you give him more.

He moans like you’re the best thing he’s ever felt, taking hold of your hips like they’re a lifeline to keep himself rooted in your sweet spot after you sheepishly begged him to stay right there. The erotic melody of the creaking couch and your shared ragged breaths become a crucial part in both of you understanding that there has always been something underlying beneath the guise of friendship.

“Both of us have wasted too much time,” he pants, his muscles tensing with every amount of pressure applied the more confident he grows as he skillfully moves in a way that makes you see stars. His cheeks are blotchy with red patches and hair tussled from exertion, but he’s never looked more enchanting.

More…yours.

“I’m not letting us make that mistake a-again..”

“Caleb…” Calling for him is the only coherent thing you find yourself capable of doing. He spreads you wider, using every inch of himself to bring you both over the edge.

Your taut bundle of nerves being stimulated by the weight of his heavy cock and the friction applied from your surely ruined panties makes you feel lightheaded in the most intoxicating way imaginable.

“I’m…I think—”

“Me too, pips. Hmph..Fuck, me too…”

Caleb nearly collapsed on top of you when you wailed with pleasure, nails digging into his skin as your orgasm washed through you at the same time that he spilled into his once clean boxers like he had no self control. He keeps grinding against you tiredly with his face buried in your neck and kisses placed below your ear, the sticky load pulsing out of his dick making him wish it was buried inside you instead.

Once he completely stops and you lay languidly, he slowly sits up, licks his lips, and looks down at you with a smile.

“Hi.”

“Hey,” you blush.

“I guess we’re due for a conversation, right?”

You nod. “A lot of ground to cover.”

“So long as we cover it together, we’ll be just fine.”

“I hope so.” You brush his hair away from his brows, a habit you’ve never shaken.

“I know so, ‘cause you’ve always had a fire in me that could never be put out.”

You purse your lips and narrow your eyes jokingly. “Did you just make a firefighter joke?”

“…That depends. Did it work? Make your heart flutter?”

“It…Maybe let’s just talk?” you grin.

“It didn’t work,” he confirms, laughing right along with you.

“Yeah, pips. Let’s talk.”

🍎 Tags: @innergardentoadpony @teacupwaifu @mcdepressed290 @calebapplepie @xcelfer @honeymoonfleur @obeythebutler @ajyoursgirl @notsurewhattocallthisblog8888 @honeycrispangels @dummiebunny @sucre-princesse @brailsthesmolgurl @grlyeetswrld @beesin03 @dramaticalsachan @moonchildjae00 @multisstuff @littledarlingsthings @purpleamethyst25 @meadowinthesky @grackerzzz @nod4mnm3rcyy @loveinorion @cowaungabungabby @gravity-pilot @nyanahogini @rosiesluv @goochfiddler99 @torturedbabyapple @kiyadeleine @carcelswaifu @blushofeve @whattnanii @ashirelle @sylvieisoffline @saturnquartz @dewmarionette @horanghaeegr @iconoclastoc @hilliserose @ur-l0cal-crypt1d

♾️ Tags: @starryeyed-apple @asiatic-apple @sensual-study @sweetcalebb @asiaticapple @raemanova @awquaz @callads7 @floatinginaer @crimsonsylus @aquarianbeat @inutrasha94 @jadestone2 @lamogliedizayne

Creds to @firefly-graphics for the dividers!

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace caleb #caleb x reader #caleb x you #caleb smut #lads x you #lads caleb #lads smut #caleb xia

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narcjsistx · 2 days ago

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i’ll just say "does your boyfriend pay for your nails?" just this, trust me <3

BLUELOCK: sae itoshi and micheal kaiser

Hearing your friends talk about how their boyfriends spoil them is often amusing. You enjoy watching how they unintentionally feel like queens of the world, and that genuinely pleases you. It's funny to you how, while they speak, they show off their long necklaces and their enhanced lips — things they only have thanks to their boyfriends' money

They talk and often make you feel almost inferior, simply because you're not someone who likes to show your private life — especially when it comes to your boyfriend's privacy

"So, does your boyfriend at least pay for your nails?"

You laugh, looking at your hands: no, he doesn’t pay for your nails. Your fingers are covered in rings from the world’s top brands, but the biggest one stands out on your ring finger: a natural and sparkling diamond, worth about the same as an entire stadium. He gave it to you a few weeks ago, during your last vacation in the Maldives, where your bank account remained untouched. A trip organized only because, a few days earlier, you had liked a post where the resort was mentioned — a like that he noticed very well

You think about how, in front of the whole world, he's precise, technical, charismatic — but with you, he’s the perfect definition of a clingy cat. You know perfectly well that if work didn’t call him away every day, he’d spend hours with his head nestled between your thighs, his arms wrapped tightly around your waist, and you forced to stroke his hair

You think about how, twice a week, his only goal is to take you to your favorite restaurant — one of the most expensive in your city. These are dates you’ve been treating yourselves to for quite some time now, and yet, more often than not, you don’t even feel like going — because he comes back truly exhausted from his training, and it genuinely hurts you to see him too full or too tired. Still, you’ve never managed to get him to stay home on those planned date nights — not when his fatigue seems to vanish the moment he sees you in his favorite dress, the one he bought you years ago, and that still makes his head turn as soon as he even sees the color

You think about how there's not a night where you wear the same lingerie as last time. Your boyfriend loves only the finest things, especially when they’re on you: expensive silk, soft velvet, even the cutest little bows. Every time he buys a new one it doesn't last long because he has the habit of ripping it off of you — he thinks that's the best way to fuck you right

You think about how he handles everything involving you with absolute precision: never getting too familiar with other girls, never making an inappropriate comment when talking about you on TV — and never, ever making a mistake that would make you feel anything less than truly the most important thing in the world. When people ask you why you fell in love, you simply think about how he, despite being a world famous player, has never made you feel the weight of his job

Not even when he’s tired, he still cooks for you

Not even when your feet hurt from wearing heels, and he lifts you using just one arm while holding your heels in the other

Not even when, after scoring a goal, he looks at you as if you gave him the strength and the luck to score

Not when he kisses you as if his life depended on it, while he's deep inside you, whispering the nicest things to you while he's ruining you with the same grit he has on the field

So no, your boyfriend doesn’t pay for your nails

Usually, he pays the beauty salon directly to come to your home and do your nails with the best in the business, sparing you even the effort of driving to the beauty salon

✶ beautiful dividers by @pommecita !!

✶ 𝐌𝐘 𝐌𝐀𝐒𝐓𝐄𝐑𝐋𝐈𝐒𝐓 ; take a look, trust me!

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darkfaceuwu · 2 days ago

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What kind of Ex-boyfriends are they?

Featuring: Phainon, Mydei, Anaxa, Aventurine, Sunday, Dr. Ratio, Boothill.

-how they feel, think, and try to remedy their mistakes.

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Ex-boyfriend Phainon is the most cheesiest, the most whiniest guy you could find. He's overbearing in a good way. Even after a break-up, he instists to text you, to check upon you, and gives you hints to take him back. For example he texts you: "Hey, how're you doing. Today, I've been sparring with Mydei and heard he's going through break-up. CRAZY RIGHT? Like, I don't want to match with him in that single era. If someone could help me?👀 ". You replied to him: "Good luck with that Phainon 👍" He can only answer you back: Was it too soon to ask? 💔🥹 You replied to him: ???

Let's say he's a heartbroken zombie. He's whining to everyone of his crisis. For him, this is the end of the world. It's a pure cycle of the suffering he's going through, and right now, he hopes he could start from the beginning again. Start a new cycle where he would give you a world, his soul, his everything just to hold you in his arms again and happily gaze with you at the dawn of sunlight.

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Ex-boyfriend Mydei is even quieter than before. He's more vulnerable to questions. He's never been the one to open up, but he's also a very honest person . Since break-up, he has many thoughts about what he could prevent from happening. Unfortunately for him, people notice this slight change in his behavior. Cough* Cough* Phainon is the one who delivers questions in the middle of sparring. "It's weird for you to be this sloppy. I mean, your girlfriend didn't come to cheer for you today. I totally understand how terrible it is . But maybe you should go to her? I mean, this is way too easy. I need to impress someone very important about my so-called victory, you know Mydei, who am I talking about, hmm?" He wiggles his eyebrows at him. Mydei pauses, looks at Phainon, and then he mumbles: "If I could go, I would be there already." Phainon looks at him, and slowly, his face morphs into a giant gasp . "No way , I'm so sorry for your loss, Mydeimos." Mydei straight up glares at him and utters in disgust : "No, you fool. They are alive." Phainon's eyes widen, and then he whips his phone out. Mydei's eye twitches, and he starts debating himself if he should knock him out or leave. He chose to leave. Normally, he would knock him out, but after break-up, he is weakened . That's what he thinks. After that, he has a resolve to amend his mistakes.

He really tried to be nonchalant about this break-up, respect your wishes, but he can't. As a Kremnons warrior, he can't show weakness. As a Kremnons warrior, he will fix it by cooking you Golden Honeycakes. After all, dedication has to go through the stomach and then energize the soul to be ready for the next battle. And he hopes to win this "battle" after all . If it doesn't go right, then he would be ready to finally leave you and leave everything behind. He would accept ascension to Nikkador and march to a never-ending battle against a black tide.

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Ex-boyfriend Anaxa is bewildered. He can't believe this happened to him. He researched everything about relationships, and he failed one . He didn't pass. Well, he tries to solve this unique phenomenon. But he only thinks of his perspective. Anaxa has a hard time admitting he might be in the wrong. He's way too proud of that. So his solution is very simple. He's ready to debunk your arguments of his wrongdoings, a.k.a. gaslight you. The first thing what he has to do is to find you. He strolls around the marketplace of Okhema and looks among the stalls. He recognizes a Chrysos Heir among the people. A gloomy-looking Kremnon prince with a basket , comparing the size of an egg to one other. Strange thinks Anaxa, and then he sees a silouthe of you . His pace fastened. He caught up to you, and he breathed out: " I need to discuss some things with you." As you two leave a crowd , silence remains between you.

Anaxa confidently breaks a silence by calling out your name. Ready to throw his prepared arguments, but then he gazes at you . And the solution clicks in his head. "I would like to offer you an exchange of my feelings how I still feel about you, and i would like to make this equalent . I hope to hear from you the same share of your feelings. I fear that if yours will differentiate from mine, it is a failure of my equalent exchange, and I may never gaze at you with my one eye again. " He ends this sentence with a sad smile on his face.

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Ex-boyfriend Aventurine is meddlesome. He only starts to meddle with you when he sees your daily life problems rise up . He has a phone with apps that track your activity and what you're doing and what you are looking for. And now he can see you're starving. Of course you are. Without him, it's hard to eat alone. He's not totally panicking that you're moving on and do your chores like any normal person do. You're browsing through the grocery shop app and searching for their weekly sale of products. Aventurine sees that, and he thinks now his chance to woo you back. As you scroll through an app, your phone rings a notification. Aventurine sent you $ +50,000 with a note "Don't starve yourself darling~" through his bank account. You swiftly go through contacts unblock him because, yes, he's been spamming you all the time . You send him back his money and write him one massage, ignoring his happy massages of you finally unblocking him. "Aventurine, your money does not flatter me any slightly. Don't send me any if you want to fix this . It won't be through money. " And after that, you block him again. Aventurine is stunned for a second, then rereads a massage and sighs . So there's a chance to fix it. He immediately cancels his plans to cheer his dear friend Ratio from heartbreak. This is way more important in his eyes. Now he needs to meet you, but how to notify you? Well, this physically hurts him, but send, and now he has to wait for your response.

$+0,01 from Aventurine in a note: " I would like to meet with you this evening, come to an IPC spaceship at this hour. Can't wait to see you, gemstone~." You, of course, debate yourself if you should go . But in the end you want to see him so you go there. Aventurine waits for you at the spaceship. When he finally sees you, he sighs a relief. Complimenting you like always, giving you favorite flowers and setting a dinner for you two only. You start to think maybe he ignored your massage, but then you gaze through a window, and your breath hitches. You can see a planet, Signonia IV. Aventurine stood up from a chair, and he started to compare you and his homeland . How important you are to him. He admits that you're the one gemstone that he won't let IPC to own.

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Ex-boyfriend Sunday is tender in a way he speaks to you. He respects your sudden distance. He wishes for another chance to explain himself, but he won't push you. He starts to reminisce about you. About early memories of you being happy. Now, when you two meet each other in a parlor car of Astral Express, your eyes try to distract themselves from his presence before you. Your eyes land in an advertisement of an article :" Is planet Amphoreus destroyed of wrongdoings from heartbroken deity? By The production of The Herta.com ." Not only does this tears his soul to shreds, but it devastates him to his core to see you unhappy. In his dream, he wishes for pure land, happiness, and never-ending laughter, and it takes a shape of paradise . In this paradise, you are the centrum, a last shine after sunset, and a remaining calmness afterward. Without you, how can he build a paradise ? A paradise he is longing for the most. As days passes the silence remains, and only occasional greetings and farewells are bid to each other.

He needs to step up for his dream to become true even though he might never reach it. He utters your name dreamily and looks at you like you descended from heaven. He starts to confess his feelings again . What you really mean to him . And he makes a vow to you. "Oh, tripple-faced soul , if I break your trust again, please sear my tongue and palms with hot iron so that I will not able to fabricate false vows and I shall be able to let you go from my heart cage to your new freedom" He ends the prayer and he looks at you , uncovering his soul to you : "If you could take me back I would be the happiest man alive but if it's not what you wish . I will let go of you dove . In our past sweet dreams, only I will remain. " He ends this with closed eyes and defeated smile.

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Ex-boyfriend Ratio is the most infuriating person ever. This break-up has hurt his ego. Not only did you break up, but you talked back to him with such weak arguments and refused to listen to him. Him? The Veritas Ratio? How foolish. He can only seeathe his teeth at everyone and furrows his eyebrows deeper. Of course, a nuisance like Aventurine claims to be the one to help his dearest friend in need and then cancels him out of nowhere. Proclaiming he 've got a very important lady to manage. Ratio can only tsk at him. If you pass nearby, he stops everything that he's doing and marches towards you. Immediately accuse you of your mistakes in the intelligence guild , making drama out of nowhere so he could have recognition from you. Days go by, and your banter with him never ceases. Everything that you do . He has to have a say in it. It's so frustrating for you, honestly. It's up to you now when you seclude him from the halls. You ask him simple question : " What do you want from me ?" And this startles him.

He claims himself to be self knowing. But he doesn't have an answer suitable for the truth. You are someone who was able to stir so much emotion out of him in these past few days. He knows he misses you . You were his muse. Someone he could sculpt about in his imagination. And now he lost you. As you look at him expectingly. His gaze lowers down, and he can give only a sigh of exhaustion. " The utter truth of my past behavior is of my yearning of you. I do need you. And I admit that for you, I fallen to a bliss of ignorance. Discarded my true motive to talk to you and only angered you further. As far as this makes me an overheels idiot for you. " He gives you a frustrated look , expecting to be humiliated by you. After your stunned silence, he can only wait with a slight glimmer of a hope for your answer of truth.

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Ex-boyfriend Boothill after break-up is out of it. He's slowed down . He can only sit at the bar and sigh to himself. What now? How do I apologize thoughtfully? He always jumps recklessly into an action with his gun. As a cowboy, it's only his nature. But now he can only sulk. He slowly stood up and dragged his feet out of the bar. Maybe he should visit next town . After all, no one is here for him anymore. Also, no one to assassinate from IPC. As he drags himself further into an alley, he notices a small crowd surrounding the area. Some of the bloodhounds sniff around that area. He should leave and not alert them. As he turns around, someone briefly passes him, humming cheerful tone and running his hand through his blonde hair multiple times. Of course, Boothill recognizes him. It's an IPC's stoneheart, Aventurine. And he's headed into a space docks. Boothill slowly chuckles, reaching for his gun to give him a proper hello from him. When he starts to walk behind him, he hears a ruckus going from the crowd behind him, a certain someone voice. And Fudge him , it's your voice, and you sound troubled! No good. He immediately spins around with newfound energy towards you. Uttering words to a blonde man behind him: "You're fudging excuse of a lucky twink man." Aventurine stops in his tracks, blinking confused. Faraway from him, Boothill leaps into air and starts blasting his gun around the crowd, no question asked. As he startles your "agressors" in a process, he destroys some of the Penacony festival stalls. A stall with flowers were hit, and from the impact, some of them flew far away, hitting certain blondie.

You stumble back from shock. Almost hitting a ground. Boothill immediately swoops you into his arms, looks down at you lovingly with a rose in his mouth. Why does he have a rose ? Well, he tried to swallow a bullet for a round two, but somehow, a rose from flower shop came in. In the moment, destroyed fireworks started to explode into a red explosions. It looks like you're in a romantic cutscene, lights shining around this town, and in the middle, it's just you two. This scene doesn't last long enough as a crowd starts to unite. Boothill chooses to retreat with you in his arms. Everything happens so fast . Now you find yourself at the top of the building with Boothill. You two stare at each other. His hold doesn't waver, but his eyes do . He gives you an apology. " I'm sorry we have to find each other this close again, partner, but the truth is this galaxy ranger cowboy misses you fudging much. And I would be forked if I wouldn't ask you for another chance. Would you climb in the saddle and take off for a ride with me for the rest of our lives?". This is his way of proposing and offering his remaining human heart.

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The End~

505 notes · View notes

my-castles-crumbling · 2 days ago

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elevator - jegulus - @into-the-jeggyverse - word count: 375

“Absolutely not.” Regulus grimaced and moved to leave the small, cramped space as soon as the slightly-squeaky metal doors screamed open to reveal the taller man’s devastatingly handsome face. Hell no. Not here, at the Ministry. Not when he’d been doing so well avoiding his own personal kryptonite.

James Potter, however, just grinned and moved to get into the elevator with him. “Can’t even stand to be in the same space as me, Reggie? That’s not how you felt last week. What was it you whispered in my ear? “C’mon, Jamie. Please. I wa–”

“Shut up,” he hissed, running out as James walked into the lift. “Fuck off, Potter.”

“Seems as if you don’t have very much self-control, Reg,” the taller man smirked back, one arm stuck out wildly to force the doors to stay open, to force this encounter to continue.

“No,” he argued through gritted teeth, internally yelling at himself to just walk away already. “I just know that you have an affinity for cliches, and I don’t want to be propositioned for a quick snog on an elevator when I have important things–”

“Then get back on. Why waste time on the stairs? I promise, I won’t start anything.” James’s eyes were challenging, and Regulus knew that he was right. It was stupid to waste time, and if he was promising to behave, then nothing would happen, right? As long as Regulus kept to the opposite wall…

–

One minute later, Remus Lupin waited for the elevator, eager to leave the Ministry and get back home. He needed a nap and a stiff drink, and certainly had no patience for anything else ridiculous to happen today.

So, of course, life though it’d be funny to make the elevator doors open to the horrific image of James Potter and Regulus Black, wrapped completely around each other, snogging like they needed each other more than air.

“Oi!” Remus yelled, caught completely off-guard.

Both men jumped away from each other, making little yelps of shock, only for James to say immediately, “He started it this time!” waving a pointing finger at Regulus.

And Regulus, bright red and panting, didn’t even deny it.

“I…need a drink,” was all Remus said, too irritated to make a proper comment.

428 notes · View notes

skzophreniic · 3 days ago

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⍣ ೋ cw: explicit content, smut, public sex (secluded nature trail + lakeside), sneaking around, teasing, praise kink, unprotected sex (be safe irl), mild exhibitionism, ridiculous levels of sexual tension, glowing moss (important), Camp SKZamp crack energy

⍣ ೋ notes: nature walk gone wrong. that's all imma say.

It starts with a knock.

Not on the door, but on the window—soft, steady, familiar. You know the rhythm without turning. Three short taps. One pause. Then two more. A code, of sorts. One that belongs to him.

Outside, the woods hum with life. Bugs, birds, wind moving through high branches. Somewhere, a cricket chirps twice, then stops. Inside the cabin, it’s stifling. Your fan’s been useless since mid-July, its blades clicking aimlessly as it tries and fails to push air into the thick night.

You slip out of bed in silence, toes brushing against cool wood. The rest of the bunk is asleep, or pretending to be. You don’t risk the flashlight. Just pull the curtain back with one finger.

He’s already smiling.

Felix, in that stupid sleeveless staff shirt he cuts even shorter when he thinks no one’s looking. Hair a little damp. Cheeks flushed. His backpack slung lazily over one shoulder.

He crooks a finger at you.

You mouth, again?

He just grins.

Yeah. Again.

You roll your eyes, but you’re already slipping on your shorts.

There’s no point pretending you won’t go. You went last night. And the night before that. Every time he knocks, you follow—even if it’s too late, too hot, too risky. Even if your legs ache from that hike he “accidentally” made twice as long, even if you swore earlier that you wouldn’t sweat through another damn shirt for a flower he found near the compost bins.

But this is different.

This time, he hadn’t promised mushrooms or birdsong. He hadn’t even bothered to come up with a fake nature fact like “glowworms only shine at peak moonlight” (which, by the way, is bullshit—he made that up).

No, this time he leaned against your windowsill and said: “Bring that little bikini… or don’t.”

So yeah. You’re going.

You slip out the window with barely a creak, feet hitting dirt and pine needles. He’s already reaching for your hand.

“You’re late,” he says, but he’s smiling when he says it. “I almost left without you.”

“You’d be halfway back before you realized you missed me.”

“I’d never miss you,” he says, and it’s so easy—so smooth—it should sound fake.

It doesn’t.

You roll your eyes again, but there’s no heat behind it. You’re already moving toward him, already letting him tug you down the path like it’s habit. Like it’s muscle memory. Like your body knows the way to his before you do.

It’s hot tonight—thicker than usual. The trees feel closer, the air damp and heavy, pressing into your skin like a second layer. The gravel underfoot is warm from the day’s sun, and the back of your neck is damp before you’ve even cleared the trailhead.

Felix doesn’t care.

He’s in one of those muscle tanks with the sides cut low, the kind that shows off his ribs, the sweat collecting in the dip of his collarbone. He doesn’t even bother pretending this is a nature walk. His hand finds your waist after the second bend. Slides up beneath your shirt like it belongs there.

“You didn’t wear the bikini,” he murmurs against your ear.

“I wore the top.”

“Where’s the bottom?”

You smirk. “Wouldn’t you like to know.”

He grins, wide and crooked, and then he’s kissing you and you let yourself lean into it. Let him press you up against a tree, one thigh sliding between yours like he knows exactly where you’re already aching.

His hands don’t hesitate.

They’ve done this before—every night for the last week, under the cover of tree branches and tangled shadows, out of earshot from campers and clipboards and curfews. He knows exactly how to touch you. How to map your hips and pull that little gasp from your throat, how to bracket your thighs and press right there, where you’re already pulsing for him.

You squirm, just enough to feel the drag of your shorts catching on his thigh. It’s too much and not enough, and the second he hears you whimper—just a little—he groans, low and shameless, mouth dragging open across your collarbone.

You laugh, breathless, but it dies quickly when his hand sneaks beneath your waistband, just enough to brush the crease where your thigh meets your hip.

“Felix,” you warn, squirming against him. “We’re not even halfway there.”

“I know,” he pants, but his fingers don’t stop. They dip lower, glide between your legs with that same maddening slowness he always starts with—like he enjoys the buildup just as much as the finish. Maybe more.

You brace yourself against the tree behind you, forehead pressed to bark, your breath already catching.

“Bin said the lake’s prettier when the moon’s highest,” he murmurs, voice thick against your skin. “Said I should take someone I really—”

He stops short. You feel him swallow.

This time it’s you who pulls him off the path. A half-step behind a tree, your back against the bark, tugging him down by the collar of his tank like it’s instinct. He follows willingly, hands already under your shirt, tongue already in your mouth.

“I knew you missed me,” he breathes.

“Shut up.”

His hand slips lower. Over your ass. Squeezing hard enough to make you gasp.

“I bet you touched yourself last night,” he whispers, teeth catching your earlobe. “After I left.”

You don’t answer.

He tilts his head. “Did you?”

Still nothing.

He grins. “Wanna show me what you did?”

“Felix—”

“Just a preview. We’ll still go to the lake. Promise.”

You let him press you harder into the tree, let him palm you through your shorts until your thighs twitch, let him slide two fingers beneath the waistband and dip down, slow, like he’s unwrapping a secret.

“Fuck,” he breathes, finding you bare. “You really didn’t wear the bottom.”

His breath hitches—sharp, reverent—and then he laughs, low and ragged like it’s been punched out of him.

“Jesus.”

You grin, even as your pulse spikes, even as your hips roll into the curve of his palm like you need it—because you do. Because it’s been like this every night since the first time he kissed you in the boathouse after lights out, hands shaking, lips searching. Like every time you see him, the ache comes back stronger. Like you’re not even trying to resist anymore.

His fingers find your clit, slow and sure, and your smug little smile shatters on a gasp.

You jerk against him, the sudden pressure lighting every nerve in your body like a live wire. And he feels it—God, he feels it. He breathes out a curse against your neck, a hot puff of air that makes you clench around nothing.

“Fuck, baby,” he whispers, drawing slow, lazy circles over your clit like he’s got all the time in the world. “Already so sensitive. You let me play with this every night and it still gets like this for me?”

You don’t answer. Can’t. Not when your mouth’s fallen open, head tipped back against the tree, fingers scrabbling at the fabric of his shirt like you’re trying to find something to hold onto—anything to anchor you while he ruins you under the stars.

He leans in closer, tongue flicking the shell of your ear.

“You gonna let me make you cum right here?”

You nod, frantic.

“Yeah?”

Another nod. A whimper this time, desperate.

He huffs a laugh and presses harder, fingertips teasing at the edge of unbearable. “Not yet.”

You groan, squirming, your hips chasing him now, legs starting to shake.

“You’re such a tease,” you pant, half a sob, your nails digging into his shoulder, into the heat of his back through his thin tank. “You’re evil.”

“I’m being nice,” Felix murmurs, and you can hear the grin in his voice. He’s not even pretending otherwise. His fingers slow, barely there now, just the faintest drag over your slick skin, enough to keep your thighs quivering but not enough to give you anything. “If I wasn’t, you’d already be crying.”

Your breath catches, sharp.

And he feels it.

“Mm,” he hums, right against your throat. “You like that?”

You try to shake your head, but it’s not convincing. He presses two fingers just beside your clit, not quite touching, and your whole body jerks again.

“You do.” He grins. “God, you’re filthy.”

“So are you.”

“I’m not the one who came out here with no panties.”

“I wore the top.”

He laughs, low and wicked, and then suddenly he’s sucking at your pulse point—hard enough to leave a mark—and your legs nearly give out again. His fingers slide down and press in this time, two of them, pushing past the slick resistance like they belong there.

You gasp, high and helpless, forehead falling to his chest.

“Oh my god—”

“There she is,” he says softly, curling his fingers just right. “Been waiting for you.”

Your thighs are shaking, hips grinding down to meet every thrust, your whole body moving without conscious thought. It’s instinct now. Muscle memory. Need.

And Felix—he doesn’t let up. Keeps his mouth hot on your neck, his hand buried between your legs, fucking you with slow, purposeful strokes that have you clenching around him so tight it nearly knocks the breath out of him.

“You’re gonna cum,” he whispers. “I can feel it. You always get so tight for me right before—”

You whine, loud, maybe a little too loud, and he moves his other hand to cover your mouth fast.

“Shhh,” he breathes, voice tight. “You want someone to hear you?”

You shake your head against his palm, eyes wild, vision blurring.

“You gonna stay quiet for me, baby?” he asks, thrusting his fingers deep again. “You gonna let me make you cum just like this?”

You nod. Or try to. But then he rubs his thumb over your clit at the same time he curls inside you and—

You break.

The orgasm rips through you fast and hot and sudden, crashing over you like a wave. Your whole body seizes. You cry out into his hand, biting down on the pad of his palm as your cunt clenches around his fingers, soaking his wrist, his shirt, probably the fucking moss.

“Fuck,” he hisses, watching your face like it’s the only thing that matters in the world. “Look at you. So pretty when you fall apart.”

You’re trembling when he finally pulls his hand away from your mouth, from between your legs, slowly. Like he can’t quite bring himself to let go.

But he does.

And then he kisses you.

Hard.

Wet.

Ruined.

And you kiss him back like you want to crawl into his lungs and live there.

It takes a minute—maybe two—before either of you can breathe properly again. Before your legs feel steady enough to walk. Before you even remember where you’re supposed to be going.

He tucks your hair behind your ear and rests his forehead against yours.

“You still wanna see the lake?” he whispers.

You stare at him. Still panting. Still pulsing.

“Are you gonna do that again?”

He grins.

“Not on the trail.”

You squint. “So...?”

He steps back. Adjusts his shorts. Wipes his soaked fingers down the side of his thigh like a menace. Then he tips his head toward the glow in the trees.

He takes your hand.

Not like before—flirty and casual and cocky—but gentle. Warm. Firm.

“You’ll thank me when you see it,” he murmurs. “I told you I had something pretty to show you.”

“I thought that was it,” you mutter, still dizzy.

He grins but doesn’t answer. Just starts walking again, tugging you down the path like your bones haven’t just been replaced with static.

The rest of the trail passes in a blur of pine needles and stifled moans.

He’s relentless.

Not with his fingers now—he’s mercifully left you alone there—but with his hands on your waist, the way he keeps brushing your ass as you walk in front of him, whispering things into your ear.

He’s grinning the whole way. You don’t speak.

You can’t speak.

Not without giving yourself away to the trees, to the dark, to anyone who might be walking the camp perimeter right now.

By the time the lake opens in front of you, you’re seconds from grabbing him by the tank and dragging him down with you into the water just to cool the ache.

But then—he stops.

You nearly run into him, chest pressed to his back. He reaches behind himself to pull you forward, positioning you in front of him again.

“Look.”

And you do.

And your breath catches in your throat.

Because you thought it would be like last time—just the dock, maybe some moonlight—but this is something else entirely.

The moss is glowing. Not faintly. Not subtly. But fully, glowing blue and green and silver in patches that stretch down the entire bank, wrapping around the dock like spilled starlight. It looks like the lake itself is alive. Like the whole place is breathing.

“Felix…”

“I found it last week,” he says quietly. “Didn’t wanna show you until it was really bright.”

You turn your head to look at him. His face is soft now. Honest. Flushed from the walk, hair stuck to his forehead. His lips are parted like he wants to kiss you again but knows better.

You lean in anyway.

He lets you.

This kiss is slower. Gentle. Your hands find his face, his jaw. His curl-dampened curls. And his arms wrap around your waist, pulling you in like gravity.

“Why’d you bring me here?” you whisper.

He pauses. Swallows.

“Because you’re mine,” he says, so softly you barely hear it. “And I wanted you to have something beautiful.”

Your breath catches.

And then he’s backing you up the dock, step by step, until your legs hit the edge of it.

The wood is warm behind your calves, baked by the sun and still clinging to the heat of the day. The air’s cooler here by the water, but not by much—it’s the kind of night that sweats through your skin and never lets go.

Felix steps closer. Doesn’t push. Doesn’t rush. Just looks at you like he can’t believe you’re real. Like the moss and the lake and the glow of it all could never compare.

His hands find your hips.

Not greedy. Not groping. Just… reverent. Like he’s taking you in, inch by inch, before he does what you both know is coming.

“You wore the top,” he murmurs, eyes dropping to where the fabric hugs your chest.

You arch a brow. “You told me to.”

“Mmh,” he hums. “Good girl.”

Your stomach flips.

Because that—his voice, low and hot and curling around the edges of praise like he knows exactly what it does to you—that was the real reason. Not the view. Not the glow.

He wanted you in this because it’s easy to take off. Because it frames you just right. Because his hands already know how to slide beneath the straps and tug until they fall, and he does, slowly, the fabric peeling away from your skin as he drops to his knees in front of you.

He slides one strap down. Then the other.

And you let him. You let him look.

Because the glow behind you is nothing compared to the look on his face now—eyes wide and dark and hungry, mouth parted, chest heaving like he just ran the trail again with you on his back.

“Fuck,” he whispers. “You’re unreal.”

His fingers skim up your ribs, slow like he’s scared you’ll disappear, and when he cups your breasts, he sighs—like he’s home.

“You wore this top just to kill me,” he says, thumbing at your nipples through the thin fabric, watching them pebble under his touch. “You like teasing me like that?”

“You told me to wear it.” You say. “Besides, I like the way you look at me when I wear it.”

He groans, low and rough, and you smile—because you know exactly what you’re doing. You step closer, your bare chest brushing his, and slip your arms around his neck, tugging him in until your lips almost touch.

“And I like the way you act,” you murmur, “when I take it off.”

He doesn’t even answer.

Just kisses you hard—filthy, open-mouthed, all teeth and tongue. His hands are everywhere now—palming, squeezing, kneading like he wants to memorize the weight of you. Like he’s been dying to do this since the moment he saw you sweating through that top by the fire pit.

And you don’t just let him.

You match him.

One hand fisting in his shirt, yanking it up and over his head, the other sliding down, past the waistband of his shorts. He gasps into your mouth when your fingers wrap around him—already hard, already twitching.

“Fuck,” he chokes. “You—mm—baby–”

He’s already melting. You feel it in the way his hips jerk forward into your hand, in the way he moans against your mouth like he’s seconds from losing all higher brain function. His forehead drops to your shoulder.

“Jesus Christ,” he mutters. “I’m supposed to be the authority figure here.”

You laugh, breathless, and stroke him again—just to hear that strangled noise he makes. “Yeah? You gonna write me up?”

“I’ll do more than write you up,” he pants.

“Ooh,” you tease, dragging your thumb across the tip, “Counselor Lee, is this part of the core curriculum?”

He growls. “Shut up.”

“Make me.”

And he does.

He kisses you like he’s trying to drown you in it, like the lake below is irrelevant compared to the flood he’s dragging out of your lungs. Your hand never stops moving, slow and steady, and he can’t even fake control anymore. His hips are twitching, his voice is breaking, and when you give his balls a gentle squeeze—

“Fuckfuckfuck—okay—okay—stop,” he gasps, grabbing your wrist.

You giggle but let go, hand slipping from the heat of him. He’s still panting when he leans in, nudging your nose with his, eyes fluttering shut like he’s trying to calm himself.

“I wasn’t kidding,” he murmurs, thumbing gently over one nipple. “You look so fucking good in this light.”

The moss still glows behind you, soft and quiet, casting a cool shimmer over the dock and your skin. He touches you like he’s trying to commit the whole picture to memory—like later, when you’re gone and the summer’s over, this is what he’ll hold on to.

Then, slowly, he sinks to his knees.

“Lie back for me.”

Your breath catches.

“Felix—”

“I’ll be gentle,” he promises. “I just wanna make you feel good.”

And when you lie back—when your spine hits the warm wood, when your thighs fall open and he settles between them—he takes his time.

He doesn’t rush to fuck you.

He kisses his way down your stomach, slow and reverent. Lets his palms glide over the insides of your thighs. You squirm under the weight of his gaze, the press of his touch, the way his thumbs trace soft circles into your hips like he’s trying to soothe you before he devours you.

You expect him to go lower.

But instead, he returns to your chest—bending to press a kiss between your breasts, then lower, then again, mouth dragging over flushed skin until his lips close around one nipple.

You gasp, body arching.

He hums, like it’s exactly what he wanted to hear, then sucks harder—tongue flicking just right, fingers teasing the other, mouth hot and wet and unrelenting.

“Felix—” you whimper.

“You wore this for me,” he mutters between kisses, “Just because I asked you to?”

You can’t answer. Not when he’s mouthing at your tits like he’s obsessed—switching sides only when the first is soaked and puffy from attention, licking, sucking, panting against your skin like he’s addicted.

“You always get like this,” he says, voice thick. “So needy. Like you need me or you’ll die.”

You nod, breathless. “I do.”

He sits back on his knees just enough to line himself up, one hand steadying your thigh, the other guiding his cock to your entrance—slow, careful, teasing.

“My baby. This okay?”

You reach for him, eyes locked, heart thudding.

“Please.”

And then he’s pushing in.

Not all at once. Not fast. But deep—inch by inch—until he bottoms out with a groan that sounds like it’s been clawing its way out of him since the second he saw you tonight.

Your hands scramble for his shoulders, your thighs trembling around his hips. You’re stretched wide, completely full, and he hasn’t even moved yet—but God, it already feels like too much.

“Look at me,” he breathes, pulling back just slightly before driving in again. “Baby, please. Wanna see.”

You force your eyes open—barely, hazy from the stretch, the pressure, the heat—and find him watching you like it’s the only thing that’ll keep him grounded. His brows are pinched, jaw slack, curls clinging to his forehead from the walk and the weight of this, of you.

“Good girl,” he whispers, voice wrecked, and the sound sends something electric right through your core.

He rocks into you again—slow, deep, deliberate—and it knocks the breath out of your lungs. He groans at the feel of it, hips stuttering like your body’s already got him too close.

The way he looks at you like you’re everything—makes the rest of the world fall away.

The lake. The camp. The rules. The risk.

None of it matters.

Not when it’s him. Not when it’s this.

Not when every drag of his cock sends sparks up your spine and every whisper of your name against your skin feels like a promise.

You’re not going to survive the rest of summer.

And neither is he.

🎥 Camp SKZamp: Confessional Booth – Counselor Lee Felix [TIME STAMP: 2:37 A.M.]

[Felix is sitting in a folding chair. His hair’s a mess. His shirt is inside out. There’s a smudge on his neck that looks suspiciously like a hickey.]

Felix: Look. I know what you’re thinking. “She’s a camper, dude.” “She’s not supposed to sneak out after curfew.” “You’re literally a counselor, what are you doing?” And, like—yeah. You’re not wrong.

[He glances toward the camera, sheepish. Then grins.]

But have you seen her in that bikini top?

[Cut to static.]

Felix, now leaning forward, hands gesturing wildly: It’s not like I planned to take her to the mossy glow zone and rail her on the dock. That’s just what happened. I was gonna be romantic! I was romantic! I brought her to see magic nature shit! It was practically educational!

[Beat.]

Okay maybe not that educational.

[He scratches his head.]

Also, if the dock is… like… creaky tomorrow morning? No it’s not. Shut up.

[Cut to static.]

Felix, squinting into the lens: If the program coordinator sees this, I swear to God, this interview is off the record.

[Fade to black.]

Taglist:

@nightmarenyxx @miyaluvvsyou @jisuperboard @fackeraccount @silly250 @lov3rachan @lze325 @angel-writes-here @jesuisstay @lov3rachan @lze325 @scribblesnsketches05 @jesuisstay @slut4junho @wickedbutlovely @woozarts @pixie-felix @dessianna1 @skzlover24 @seungminnieinthebuilding @bbokaricentral @inaribu00 @matchacha65 @yxna-bliss @breakmeoff @m-325 @pixiefelixie @rebelmooon @seochangbinnnnnnnnnnn @dontneedgrace

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gf2bellamy · 2 days ago

Note

established relationship high school au where the reader accidentally gets him roped into a detention and hes freaking out bc hes never had a detention before and hes all frazzled and adorable, maybe sneaking around in the library or talking during class because they’re just so obsessed with eachother

detention — spencer reid

pairing: spencer reid x fem!reader ( no use of y/n ) content warnings: highschool au, spencer is the normal highschool age, established relationship a/n: i love writing high school au‘s

Spencer hadn’t moved in what felt like forever.

His head was still resting on his folded arms on the picnic table, his curls spilling over the sleeve of his sweater. He’d been slumped like that for at least five minutes, while you sat across from him, nervously picking at your clothes. You bit your lip to hold back a giggle.

“I’m so sorry, Spencer,” you said gently, leaning forward and running your fingers through his hair, twirling a soft curl around your fingertip. He just hummed.

You were currently tucked away at one of the quieter outdoor lunch spots behind the school, where no one ever really came except maybe drama kids running lines or people skipping class.

“Not your fault,” he mumbled into his sleeves.

You tilted your head. “I mean… it kind of is?”

That earned you a look. He finally lifted his head, his cheek creased from the fabric of his sleeve, eyes filled with anxiety and disappointment only a straight-A student could understand. “I talked too,” he said, voice barely above a whisper.

“Spencer, it’s just detention.” You tried to hide the smile tugging at your lips as he pouted, clearly not comforted by that at all.

To you, it wasn’t the end of the world. But to him, it was monumental. You knew this was a big deal in his world, and even if you didn’t fully get it, you wanted to be kind about it.

He narrowed his eyes. “Just detention,” he repeated, like the words tasted bad in his mouth.

“Sorry,” you said, smiling sheepishly. “I know it’s horrible.”

He sighed. “Yeah. It is.” You kept playing with his hair, as if it would soothe the worry out of him. He didn’t pull away. You couldn’t help but think how incredibly adorable he looked, even like this. Especially like this. His nose was pink from the breeze and his curls were tousled from sulking.

“Spencer, seriously. We’ll be okay,” you whispered, fingers still in his hair.

He didn’t respond right away. Then, finally, he shook his head, eyes cast downward. “I’ve never gotten detention before,” he said quietly.

“I know,” you said, your voice soft with sympathy. “I’m really, really sorry.”

He sat up a little straighter, and this time, he looked you in the eye. “No, no,” he said quickly. “Don’t blame yourself. I chose to talk to you.” He sighed, finally shifting to lean on one elbow. “I mean… our conversation was nice. So it wasn’t like it was for nothing.”

You giggled, nudging your sneaker against his under the table. “Yes, clearly. Because talking about the history of love letters is very important during Algebra.”

He gave you a helpless shrug, trying not to smile. “Well… sort of?” he defended. “What if I write you one? Then it’s important to know the historical context.”

You shook your head, a wide grin breaking across your face as your heart fluttered in your chest. “You’re awfully romantic, Spencer Reid. You know that?”

He gave a small snort and dropped his head back into his arms with an exaggerated groan. “Yeah. Look what it cost me.”

You burst into laughter, your hand returning to his curls. “Okay, now eat something,” you said, nudging your tray toward him and shuffling some fries in his direction. “You need energy before you go face your doom in detention.”

Spencer raised his head slowly. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”You grinned innocently. “Maybe a little.”

Before he could protest, you picked up a fry and gently held it out to him. He opened his mouth, letting you pop the fry in. He chewed slowly, eyes on you the entire time, like he was trying not to smile. You grabbed a fry for yourself and plopping it in your mouth as you grinned at him. He shook his head, but there was a hint of fondness in his expression now, the earlier stress melting away. You saw it in the way his shoulders relaxed, in the tiny twitch at the corner of his mouth that threatened a real smile.

“Maybe detention won’t be that bad,” you mused, chewing thoughtfully. “You’ll have me there, after all.”

Spencer snorted. “That’s exactly what got me into this mess in the first place.” You tilted your head. “Worth it?”

He didn’t answer right away. Just looked at you for a long moment, his eyes soft behind the fringe of his hair. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Worth it.”

Once the final bell rang, you were already waiting outside Spencer’s classroom. You could hear the shuffle of his steps before you even saw him, and just by the way his shoes dragged on the floor, you could tell how freaked out he was. Without a word, you reached out and grabbed his hand, threading your fingers through his and giving a soft squeeze. You gently tugged him down the hallway toward the detention room.

“I don’t like this,” he mumbled as you got closer.

“I know you don’t, Spencer,” you said softly, glancing up at him. “But it’s just an hour. You’ll survive. And you’ve got me.”

You stopped just short of the door, letting a couple of other students pass by and shuffle inside.

“Okay, how about this,” you offered, trying to sound as optimistic as possible. “You can work on your science stuff. What was that guy’s name? Carl…?”

Spencer’s eyes lit up just a little. “Yes, yes—Carl Sagan. He did an experimental demonstration of the production of amino acids from basic chemicals by exposure to light.”

You smiled warmly, even though you understood none of that. “Yes. That,” you said, nodding like it made perfect sense. He gave you a look. He knew you had no idea what he’d just said. But instead of teasing you, this time he grabbed your hand and pulled you into the room.

Predictably, Spencer made a beeline for the front row, his grip loosening as he moved toward the first desk he saw. But you tugged him back gently with a shake of your head. “No way. Back row. We're doing this with some dignity.”

He hesitated. Eventually, he gave in with a sigh, letting you pull him to the back of the room. He slid into the seat beside you, dropping his backpack on the floor, sounding just as defeated as he felt. The teacher finally walked in, wearing the exact kind of stern expression you'd expect from someone forced to supervise detention on a Friday afternoon. He scanned the room, as if every single student inside was a rebel or a troublemaker. Spencer immediately shrank in his seat, going rigid beside you. You reached over and gently took his hand under the desk, giving it a small squeeze. To your relief, he squeezed back.

The teacher gave a reminder to work silently and then turned his attention to whatever was on his computer. You turned your focus to your English literature homework, while Spencer beside you was fully immersed in his science work.

About halfway through, you noticed him rustling through his backpack with increasing frustration. He rifled through every folder, every pocket, until he finally just froze, staring blankly into the depths of his bag.

You glanced sideways and caught the pout on his face. Silently, you tore a page from your notebook, scribbling quickly: What’s wrong?You nudged the note toward him, watching your teacher out of the corner of your eye to make sure he wasn’t paying attention.

Spencer blinked at the paper, then reached for his pen, cautiously, like he wasn’t sure if this counted as breaking detention rules. You waited patiently while he wrote. It took him five minutes. Clearly terrifed that the teacher would catch him. After what felt like forever, he finally slid the note back.

I forgot my science book in my locker. – S.R.

You had to bite down on your bottom lip to keep from giggling. The fact that he signed it with his initials, was just so Spencer.

But when you looked up, you noticed the disappointment on his face. This was more than forgetting a textbook. This was ruining a routine, a plan, possibly even something that could have comforted him in this dreadful hour.

You breathed out a small, quiet “oh,” your heart pinching a little.

That’s when you formed a plan. You raised your hand. “Mr. Johnson? Can I use the bathroom?”

The teacher barely looked up from his computer, just gave a vague nod and wave of his hand. You squeezed Spencer’s arm gently before getting up, shooting him a tiny reassuring smile as he continued to sulk beside you.

Once outside, you didn’t go anywhere near the bathroom. Instead, you beelined for his locker. Of course you knew his combination. You spun the lock quickly and tugged it open, immediately spotting the science book on the top shelf. You grabbed it, and just in case he finished early (because, let’s face it, Spencer Reid always finished his work early), you pulled out another random book.

Then you started your slow stroll back to the classroom. You didn’t want to make it obvious you’d just sprinted down the hall and cracked open someone’s locker. So you wandered, meandering past empty bulletin boards and lockers, thinking about Spencer.

About how sweet he was. About how much guilt you still felt for dragging him into this in the first place. He’d insisted over and over that he didn’t blame you, and you believed him, but you also knew how much this meant to him. His perfect record. His need to follow the rules. His love for order and expectations.

You sighed, clutching the books to your chest as you walked. You promised yourself you’d make it up to him. Somehow.

When you slipped back into the classroom, to your luck, Mr. Johnson still didn’t look up.You tiptoed over to the back row, sliding into your seat beside Spencer as quietly as possible. His head turned just slightly toward you, his pout still lingering, until you nudged the two books toward him. His eyes widened immediately, blinking like he wasn’t sure he was seeing it right.

“You—how—?” he started in a whisper.

You just shrugged, trying not to grin. “Magic,” you mouthed.

Spencer’s lips parted in surprise, then tugged into the warmest smile you'd seen all day. He looked down at the books, then at you.

Spencer looked genuinely happy now. You could tell. The blush creeping up his neck and into his cheeks was a dead giveaway. That, and the way his hand rested lightly on your thigh under the desk for just a second, a grateful squeeze that said more than words could.

You bit your lip to hide your smile, failing miserably. You glanced at your notebook and noticed that Spencer had filled out half of your English homework while you were gone. His handwriting nearly looking the same as yours. You let out a breath of joy. Spencer flinched slightly at the sound, his blush deepening until it reached the tips of his ears. You smiled to yourself, cheeks warm, as you continued working beside him.

And then, just like that, the hour was up.

The moment the clock hit the top of the hour, you and Spencer both stood quickly and practically bolted out of the classroom. You were halfway down the hall before either of you spoke. You stopped by his locker.

“Thank you for saving me in there,” he said, opening his locker but looking over at you more than his books.

You smiled back, brighter than ever. “Oh, you’re welcome.”

He leaned in suddenly and wrapped his arms around you, catching you a little off guard, but in the best possible way. “Seriously,” he mumbled near your ear. “That was really… really nice of you.”

You squeezed him tighter, pressing your cheek into his shoulder. “It was my fault, after all.”

He started to shake his head, but you pulled back just enough to kiss his cheek, just enough to leave him blinking.His eyes widened slightly, and the pink in his cheeks bloomed again, bright and immediate.

You smiled, stepping back slowly. “You’re welcome, Spencer.”

Spencer smiled softly as he closed his locker. Without a word, he reached for your hand, his fingers lacing through yours.Once you both stepped outside, the late afternoon sun wrapped around you in golden warmth. The air was cooler now, touched by the breeze that always followed summer heat. You walked quietly at first, your joined hands swinging lightly between you.

“That wasn’t so bad,” Spencer murmured eventually.

You turned to grin at him, the sunlight catching in his curls. “Told you, Spence,” you said brightly. “You have to always trust your girlfriend.” You gave his arm a playful poke with your free hand, and Spencer smiled again.

He loved hearing the word girlfriend. Even now, it still felt a little unreal when you said it. But here you were, hand in his, walking beside him in the golden light.

As you continued down the quiet sidewalk, the world around you felt different. It was later than your usual walk home, so the neighborhood looked a little different. You noticed things you’d never paid attention to before, like the man stepping into the little yellow house where, on most days, you only ever saw the kids running ahead and their mom chasing after them.

You smiled a little, watching the kids light up as the man dropped his briefcase to lift them into a hug.

Farther down the road, you passed a kindergarten building where a grandmother knelt patiently beside a small girl. The little one was tugging dramatically at her backpack straps, grumbling about how heavy her bag was. The woman just chuckled, ruffling the girl’s hair before picking up the bag herself. You and Spencer both smiled at the scene. The breeze carried the smell of freshly cut grass and distant barbecue, and for a while, you just walked quietly.

Eventually, you reached the front of your house.

Spencer’s house was closer, you both knew that. But he refused, absolutely refused, to let you walk home alone, no matter how many times you insisted you’d be fine. It was non-negotiable.

You turned toward him on the porch, words already forming. “I’m so—”

But Spencer cut you off gently. “No. Stop,” he said, his voice soft, a small smile tugging at his lips. “It’s not your fault.” He looked at you and his expression turned just a little more earnest. “At least now I’m getting the full normal high school experience I never thought I’d have.”

“Exactly,” you said brightly, grinning up at him. “A girlfriend who gets you into detention for talking about love letters.”

Spencer let out a laugh as he nodded. “Exactly.” He paused. “Which reminds me…” he murmured, turning his bag around to his side. He fumbled for a second, unzipping one of the pockets with careful fingers. You tilted your head curiously as he pulled out a neatly folded envelope. He handed it to you without a word.

You looked down and saw your name written on the front in elegant handwriting. “What’s this?” you asked, already knowing but not quite believing it.

Spencer bit his lip nervously, shifting on his feet. “A love letter,” he said, almost in a whisper. Then he winced, as if the words embarrassed him more than he expected. “There’s… there’s a reason I was talking about the history of love letters earlier,” he added sheepishly, rubbing the back of his neck.

You stared down at the letter, momentarily speechless. Spencer’s eyes flicked between your face and the envelope, and then his fingers brushed gently against the paper in your hands.

“Do—do you not want it?” he whispered. He was already starting to pull his hand back, to retreat into that shell you’d seen before, when he thought he’d said too much, felt too much.

That’s when you threw your arms around him. You hugged him so tightly he actually staggered a bit, letting out a small surprised oof as he caught himself. You held the letter safely behind his back, careful not to crumple it, but you couldn’t hold back how full your heart felt.

“You’re the best boyfriend ever. You know that?” you whispered into his ear. Spencer’s arms came up slowly to wrap around you, holding you just as tightly. You could feel his smile against your temple.

You felt Spencer freeze when you started to gently tug at the envelope behind his back, trying to open it. He pulled away instantly, eyes wide.

“Not now,” he said, a little panicked. His cheeks were flushed, bright pink and climbing fast. “Wait until I’m home. Please.”

You blinked at him in surprise and then giggled, your arms still loosely looped around his neck. “How cheesy is it?” you teased.

“Not answering that,” Spencer said quickly, shaking his head so dramatically that you couldn’t help but laugh harder.

You grinned, brushing your thumb softly along the curve of his neck, the same way you always did when you wanted to calm him or fluster him. “Can we see each other tomorrow?” you asked gently.

Tomorrow was Saturday. A whole day to yourselves, no school and no detention. But there was a part of you that wondered if, after reading the letter, he might want to hide for a week out of sheer embarrassment. Or combust.

Spencer nodded almost immediately.

“Ice cream?” you both said at the same time. There was a beat of silence before you both smiled so wide, your cheeks hurt. You slowly let your arms fall from around him, your hand still clutching the envelope close to your chest.

“I’ll see you tomorrow, then,” you said softly, practically glowing with happiness.

“See you tomorrow,” Spencer echoed, a little breathless.

Then, with a burst of courage, he leaned in and pressed a soft kiss to your cheek, lingering for a heartbeat longer than usual. You felt the warmth bloom under your skin instantly. He stepped back slowly and once he was at the edge of the walkway, he stopped completely, only moving again once you’d stepped inside and closed the door behind you. And even then, he waited a second longer.

Just in case you peeked out one more time.

#spencer reid x reader #criminal minds fanfic #criminal minds fanfiction #spencer reid #spencer reid fluff #criminal minds x reader #criminal minds x you #criminal minds #spencer reid x you #criminal minds fic #spencer reid fanfic #spencer reid fanfiction

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pitlanepeach · 1 day ago

Text

White Mercedes | Chapter Nineteen

Oscar Piastri x Anneliese Wolff (OFC)

Series Masterlist

Summary — It was just supposed to be a game. Once a month. No names. No questions. A few hours where she could surrender fully—because everywhere else in her life, she was drowning.

But Oscar Piastri was all quiet power and brutal precision. He didn’t ask who she was, and she didn’t offer. Not her name. Not the harsh reality of her past. Definitely not the part about being Toto Wolff’s daughter.

But it’s not a game anymore. It’s a secret with teeth. And when it all comes crashing down, she doesn’t know if it’s her heart or his career that’ll break first.

Warnings — BDSM themes, realistic and flawed characters, Dom!Oscar, Sub!OFC, slow burn romance, lots of smut (obviously), strong language, drug-addiction, suicidal thoughts/ideation, past-suicide attempts, vaguely mentioned past sexual assault.

Notes — Longest chapter yet and it's the first smutty one.... Lord have mercy

Feed the writer with your reactions/thoughts/feelings!<3

CHAPTER NINETEEN

It takes Anneliese three hours to get ready to leave that night.

Jack spends the first hour perched on her vanity stool, legs swinging, offering brutal, unfiltered commentary on every dress she holds up.

“Yuck.”

“Itchy.”

“Too sparkly.”

“That one makes your arms look weird.”

She ends up in a soft slip of black silk that brushes her ankles and clings in all the right places. No sequins, no fuss—just simple and feminine.

Jack gives it an excited thumbs-up, nodding quickly. “That’s pretty.”

“Thank you so much for your help, Jack Attack,” she says, reaching out to ruffle his curls.

He shrugs like it was no big deal and slides off the stool with all the solemnity of a child finishing an important day’s work. He disappears down the hallway in search of juice—or destruction. Maybe both.

The second hour belongs to her father.

He knocks once—softly—and opens the door before she answers, hovering in the doorway like he’s not quite sure he’s allowed to come in.

She catches his reflection in the mirror and lifts one brow. “Need something?”

“No.” He steps inside anyway, shoulders stiff beneath his button-down. “Just… checking in. Wondering how you’re feeling after last night.”

She hums noncommittally, twisting her hair up and securing it with a clip. “I’m okay.”

“Good,” he says, and then doesn’t move. He looks around like he’s never seen her room before, even though he’s fixed the door hinge and changed the lightbulb in the closet more times than she can count.

He finally sits down on the edge of her bed. Not facing her, exactly—just angled toward the bookshelf like it might offer him an escape route. His hands fold in his lap.

She lets him stay.

He comments on the stack of books next to her bed. Asks if she’s finished the Murakami novel yet, and makes a passing comment about Jack’s sudden obsession with crocodiles. Tells her about Susie’s desire to have a second garden wall erected.

All of it sounds casual.

But his eyes, every so often, flick to her reflection in the mirror—watching her work through the quiet rituals of putting herself together. Liner. Perfume. A steady hand on a small brush, sweeping highlighter along the ridge of her cheekbone.

He doesn’t ask the real question. Not yet.

She smooths the dress down over her hips, takes one last look at herself.

And then: the throat clear. Light. Hesitant. “Are things…” he begins, then tries again. “Are things serious? Between you and Piastri?”

Her hands still mid-adjustment.

The mirror catches the expression before she can hide it—something half-startled, half-fond. Not quite a smile, but not far off. “I don’t know yet,” she says honestly. “It’s still new. But he… he makes me feel really happy. And safe.”

Toto nods. Slow. Thoughtful. Like he’s cataloging that, weighing it against a hundred fears he doesn’t know how to name. “That’s very important,” he says, finally.

She turns from the mirror to face him fully, one hand still resting on the dresser. Her voice is gentler now. Lower. “Are you… worried because he’s a driver?” she asks.

He doesn’t answer right away. Then, with a breath, her Papa says, “Yes. A little.”

She nods. Swallows. Her hands twist slightly in front of her. “I can… I’ll stop seeing him,” she says, and her voice almost breaks on it. “If you tell me you don’t want me to date him. I’d walk away. End things.”

God, it hurts to say—like yanking out a piece of her ribcage and laying it at his feet. But she owes him that. After everything he’s done for her. After every time he’s had to fix her.

Her papa’s head lifts.

And the look on his face—It’s not relief. It’s something closer to sorrow. “I would never ask you to do that,” he says, voice rough. “Not unless I truly thought he was going to hurt you. But that boy… he drove halfway across the city in the middle of the night because you called.”

She feels her eyes burn suddenly. Her throat clogs.

“You haven’t always made good decisions,” he says gently. “But this time… I—I think that Oscar Piastri is a good man, and he is very lucky to have you, maus.”

There’s a beat.

Then she walks over and hugs him—careful, tight. Like she’s trying to say thank you and I’m sorry and I love you all at once.

He wraps his arms around her without hesitation and kisses the top of her head. “Be safe,” he murmurs.

“I will.”

“And text if you don’t intend to come home tonight—so that Susie and I know to turn off the porch light.”

“Of course.”

He lets her go reluctantly, pats her shoulder, and heads for the door.

She exhales once he’s gone, like she’s been holding her breath the entire time.

Then she walks to her full-length mirror, bites her bottom lip, and reaches for the black Sharpie she’d pulled out of her sewing kit. And with a perfectly steady hand, she writes Oscar’s racing number on the inside of her wrist.

—

Oscar had his mic muted, his camera on, and his polite nodding face engaged. Somewhere in the grid, Lando was slouched on his sofa, hair still wet from a shower, wearing a McLaren hoodie and the world’s most exaggerated expression of boredom.

Oscar saw it coming five seconds before it happened.

A private chat window pinged open.

lando: so. how’s little miss wolf?

Oscar didn’t react. Or tried not to. He kept his eyes on the strategy slide being presented and typed without twitching a muscle.

oscar: she’s ok.

Another ping.

lando: give. me. more. details.

Oscar’s fingers hovered over the keys. He squinted at the shared screen like he was weighing a tyre strategy, not considering how much personal information to spill in a McLaren Zoom meeting.

oscar: she slept over last night

oscar: we talked

oscar: she seems okay after last night

oscar: things are good

lando: good? that’s so BORING

Oscar snorted and caught it just in time to mute his mic. He didn’t have to look to know Lando was grinning at him.

oscar: i don’t know

oscar: i just really like her

There was a pause.

lando: oh my god ur in lurvvvvv

Oscar pinched the bridge of his nose, lips twitching.

oscar: leave it out mate

lando: have u taken her on a proper date yet??

lando: WAIT

lando: HAVE U MET TOTO YET??????????

oscar: lando we’ve both met toto a million times

lando: YEAH BUT NOT AS HIS DAUGHTERS POTENTIAL BOYFRIEND

Oscar leaned back in his chair, trying not to laugh.

oscar: can you focus

oscar: they’re literally talking about our long-run pace

lando: which has been shit all year

lando: this is not news

lando: WAIT

lando: DO U THINK TOTO WILL TRY TO STEAL U TO MERC?????

Oscar’s typing paused.

oscar: no probably not

lando: seriously tho

lando: you are so brave

lando: i would’ve pissed myself if that man looked at me the way he probably looked at you

oscar: yeah

oscar: he didn’t say anything

oscar: just looked at me like: don’t fuck this up

There was a pause.

lando: good luck with that LMAOOOO

lando: if he does try to steal you zak is gonna have a breakdown

Oscar gave a helpless little shake of his head, trying not to grin.

oscar: mate

lando: no but really

lando: proud of you

lando: ana’s amazing

lando: don’t mess it up

Oscar glanced at the meeting again—someone from engineering was now deep in the weeds on energy recovery.

oscar: doing my best

When he unmuted to agree with a fuel strategy point, his voice was calm, steady, professional.

But under the table, his foot tapped a quiet rhythm against the floor.

Oscar’s face didn’t change, not outwardly—he kept nodding along as the call shifted to tyre allocation logistics—but under his skin, everything buzzed.

The screen blurred at the edges. His brain wasn’t on strategy anymore. It was already slipping forward, fast and hot, to tonight. To her.

To the way she’d looked that morning, tired but luminous, curled in his passenger seat with sunlight in her hair and yesterday’s pain still clinging to the creases beside her eyes. The way she’d said I need to let go for a while, like she was handing him the lock and trusting he’d find the key.

He hadn’t stopped thinking about her since. Not even during training. Not even through the first half of this painfully long Zoom call. Not even now, when someone was asking for his input on the Austria quali sims.

He cleared his throat and offered a few sentences. The correct ones, probably.

But the rest of him was somewhere else entirely. Back in her driveway, her hands twisted in his shirt. That look in her eyes.

Oscar shifted slightly in his seat, jaw tight. The collar of his T-shirt felt suddenly too warm. His foot tapped faster.

He could already feel it—the music in his bones, the low pulse of the club, the lights flickering like heartbeats. Her fingers curled in his again. Her body, pressed flush against his. Her trust, handed over in quiet increments. Not words. Just permission.

He could imagine her eyes on him across the floor. The tension of restraint coiled tight in her frame. The way she would let go for him—fully. Unapologetically.

His hand twitched where it rested near his laptop.

If Lando noticed the shift in his posture—more alert now, more wired than bored—he didn’t say anything. But a new message popped up in the private chat all the same.

lando: bro ur thinking about her aren’t you

Oscar didn’t reply.

Didn’t need to. His pulse was doing all the talking.

He was. He really, really was.

—

The sun had dipped below the hills hours ago, and the house was cast in that soft hush that only came when Jack was finally asleep. The kitchen was mostly dark—just the under-cabinet lights glowing warm and low, enough to see without waking the house.

Ana padded in barefoot, her silk dress swaying around her ankles, her hair pinned up with a few soft wisps tumbling loose. She was already flushed with nerves and excitement, already thinking of the music, of his hands at her waist, of—

“Looking for something to eat before you go?”

She startled slightly and turned. Susie was stood near the counter with a teacup in hand, her robe belted loosely around her waist, her expression fond and just a little amused.

Ana exhaled, sheepish. “Just a spoon of honey. For nerves.”

Susie set down her tea. “You look beautiful.”

The words hit like a warm breeze. Ana ducked her head, smiling down into the glow of the honey jar. “Thank you.”

“No, I mean it.” Susie stepped closer, studying her like a piece of art. “That dress is… stunning. You’re luminous.”

Ana’s cheeks went scarlet. “Stop,” she whispered, grinning. “You’ll make me cry and ruin my mascara.”

Susie only laughed gently. But her eyes flicked downward—Ana’s hands, where she was steadying the jar. The number on her wrist, scrawled in black ink.

There was a quiet beat.

“Ah,” Susie said mildly. “Maybe don’t let your father see that.”

Ana blinked. Then looked down at her wrist and winced. “Oh. Yeah. Of course.”

She rubbed at it quickly with her thumb, but it was too fresh to smudge—and she didn’t really want to get rid of it anyway. Still, she turned it inward, like that might make it invisible.

Susie didn’t say anything more about it. Just stepped forward and pressed a soft kiss to her cheek, fingers warm and maternal at the base of her jaw.

“Possessiveness,” Susie murmured, “is a very nice trait. When a man knows how to handle it correctly.”

Ana’s stomach fluttered.

Susie pulled back with a knowing smile and reached for her tea.

“Have a good night, darling girl.”

Ana stood there for a long second, honey jar in one hand, heart glowing.

Then she tucked her wrist close, slipped out the back door with her heels in the other hand, and walked toward the gates—where Oscar was parked and waiting for her.

—

The city rolled by in a blur of amber streetlights and dusky reflections, rain just starting to speckle the windshield in light, misty taps. Oscar’s car hummed along the road, cocooned in quiet, save for the soft click of the indicator and the low thrum of the stereo—ambient, rhythmic, something that made the air feel heavier in the best way.

Ana sat in the passenger seat, legs crossed at the ankle, her black silk dress rippling gently with each bump in the road.

“Alright, sweet girl,” Oscar said, voice low, warm with that familiar edge of control. “Let’s walk through how tonight’s going to go.”

She turned her head, heart picking up.

“We get in,” he continued, his hand shifting on the wheel. “You’ll stay close to me unless I tell you otherwise. If I introduce you to someone, I expect you to be polite. If I give you an order, I expect you to listen.”

Her lips parted. A shiver skated up her spine.

Oscar flicked his eyes toward her, just for a second. “Colour system. Remind me.”

She swallowed. “Green means good. Yellow means slow down. Red means stop.”

“Good girl.”

Her thighs pressed together, the words lighting her blood like fire.

“And your safeword?”

She smiled faintly, nerves and trust tangled together in her chest. “Scuderia.”

He nodded once, satisfied. “Use it. Whenever you want.”

“I know.”

Silence stretched again, thick and electric. Oscar adjusted his grip on the steering wheel, his knuckles pale. “Now tell me,” he said, voice dipping a bit… lower. “What are your limits tonight?”

Ana blinked, caught slightly off guard.

He gave her time, didn’t look at her. Just let the question settle in the air between them.

She exhaled shakily. “I don’t think I have any.”

That made him glance at her again—sharp, but unreadable.

“I mean—” She flushed. “You saw me. Last night. At my worst. And—Naked. And you didn’t… you didn’t even stare. You didn’t take advantage of me. You just held me. Kept me safe.” She looked at him fully now, her voice steady even as it trembled. “So I trust you, Oscar. With all of it. To make me feel good.”

Oscar didn’t say anything for a moment. But his hand slid off the wheel to rest between them again, palm open.

Ana placed her hand in his. His fingers closed around hers, firm and sure.

“Alright then,” he murmured.

Ana’s breath caught—not from fear, but from the slow-blooming anticipation curling through her like smoke. The kind that made her chest ache and her thighs press tighter.

She let herself glance at him—his profile cut sharp against the faint golden blur of passing headlights. One hand on the wheel, the other still holding hers, thumb brushing slow arcs over her knuckles like he could feel her pulse and was matching its rhythm.

Her eyes dropped to their joined hands. The simplicity of it made her throat tighten.

Something was shifting inside her. Not just want. Not just heat. But something deeper. Something that trembled on the edge of belief.

She looked out the window again. Tried to focus on anything else—the silver gleam of the road signs, the sweep of buildings, the occasional splash of puddles under their tyres. But her heart was a metronome in her ears, and her skin itched with suppressed words.

When she finally spoke, it burst out of her like steam from a kettle, unplanned and messy.

“…No one’s ever made me cum before.”

Oscar didn’t swerve.

But his hand flexed around hers.

And his knuckles went white around the steering wheel.

Ana’s cheeks burned. She almost wanted to snatch the words back. To shove them back down into the locked drawer where all the things she never said out loud went to die. But she didn’t. She sat with it. With him. Letting the truth stretch between them like a live wire.

Oscar’s jaw ticked once. He didn’t look at her right away, but when he did, it was deliberate. Measured.

“That won’t be a problem,” he said quietly.

Ana’s breath hitched.

Because he didn’t say it with arrogance. Or cockiness. He said it like a promise.

He turned his eyes back to the road, his thumb still stroking her hand. “But thank you,” he added. “For telling me that.”

She blinked, startled. “For telling you—?”

“Your body,” he said softly. “Is not something I’m entitled to. Your honesty, your trust? I don’t take any of those things lightly.”

She stared at him, completely undone by how calm he was. How serious. “God,” she whispered, half to herself. “You’re going to ruin me.”

Oscar gave the faintest smile, more breath than expression. “That’s the idea.”

—

It was easy to forget, in Oscar’s orbit, that Lucian and Jules didn’t know.

Didn’t know about the family dinner. Didn’t know what Nate had said—or what he’d caused. Didn’t know about the panic spiral that followed, the near miss that still sat like a ticking bomb in Ana’s chest.

Didn’t know that one careless, cruel night had nearly unraveled eight months of white-knuckled work.

With Oscar, everything felt held. Softened. Like the sharp edges of her life had dulled into something survivable. Like she could breathe without bleeding.

But outside that quiet? There were fractures. Gaps in the story she hadn’t filled in yet. People who didn’t know how close she’d come to slipping.

Jules was at the door when they arrived, mid-laugh, head tipped back in that easy way Ana adored. She was chatting with the doorman—same guy as always—who grinned like a man entirely under her spell.

Jules was impossible not to love.

Dark hair, smoky eyes, band tee and boots—and still the softest soul Ana had ever known. She looked like she ate men alive, but Ana had once held her while she cried twenty minutes over a baby bird with a broken wing.

The second she spotted Ana, Jules abandoned the conversation with a squeal, launching herself into her best friend’s arms.

“Oh my god, finally. I thought you’d never get here,” she grinned, hugging her tight and swaying side to side. “You look hot. Like, drop-dead gorgeous.”

Ana laughed into her shoulder, warmth blooming in her chest. “So do you. You always do.”

They pulled apart, and Jules peered around Ana with a teasing smirk. “And hi again, Mr. Pretty Boy.”

Oscar offered a small nod, hands in his pockets. “Jules.”

“You behaving yourself?” she asked, brow lifted.

“Don’t brat me,” Oscar said lightly, the warning laced with just enough amusement to make Jules snort.

“Alright, alright, buzzkill.” She grabbed Ana’s arm. “Come on. Inside.”

As they neared the velvet rope, Ana leaned in, voice low. “Hey—Jules. Wait.”

Jules caught the shift instantly. “What is it?”

Ana hesitated. “Nate… said some stuff. Last night. At family dinner. He—he got in my head again. Bad.”

Jules stopped walking. “Ana…”

“I’m okay,” she said quickly. “I promise. I didn’t use. But it was close. And I’m sorry I didn’t call—I just… Oscar came.”

Jules’ expression shifted, all affection giving way to steel. “Do you want me to kill him? Because I can make it look like an accident.”

Ana huffed out a breathy laugh, eyes stinging. “No. Just… don’t tell Lucian. Please.”

Jules paused. “Oh.”

“I know he meant it,” Ana whispered. “When he said if Nate hurt me again, he’d kill him.”

Jules nodded slowly. She knew her brother. Lucian didn’t make empty threats.

They stood there for a long beat, the muffled bass from the club pulsing through the walls.

Then Jules sighed. “Okay. I hate keeping things from him, but… I don’t really want to spend my weekends visiting my brother in prison again. So—fine. We don’t tell him.”

“Thank you.”

Jules bumped her shoulder gently. “But if you ever need backup…”

“I know.”

“Good. Now come on. I want to steal you for at least ten minutes before your Sir claims you for the rest of the night.” She grinned. “Should we get virgin wallbangers? Lucian created like, a whole new virgin cocktail menu, and he says it’s because of increased demand, but we both know it’s because of you.”

Ana smiled, real and wide, the tension in her chest loosening for the first time all day.

Behind them, Oscar followed at a slow pace, hands still in his pockets, eyes quietly tracking their every step into the velvet-lit dark.

—

Oscar didn’t linger.

After settling Ana and Jules at the bar, he leaned in close behind her, a hand brushing her lower back. “Be good,” he murmured, voice low and private. “Don’t leave Jules’ side.”

Ana nodded, eyes wide and soft. “I won’t.”

He pressed a kiss to her temple—quick, grounding—and turned away before he could change his mind.

The route to Lucian’s office was familiar now. Dim lighting, velvet-lined halls, the muffled thump of bass behind thick walls. Staff nodded at him without stopping. They knew who he was.

The guard by the private hall barely looked up—just opened the door with a silent nod.

Inside, Lucian was behind his desk, sleeves rolled to the elbows, cigarette burning slow in a crystal tray. He didn’t look surprised—just lifted a brow, as if he’d been waiting.

“Alright, mate,” Lucian said.

Oscar shut the door behind him, stayed standing.

“Ana made a deal with Jules earlier,” he said. “Thought they could whisper about it and I wouldn’t hear. They both decided they didn’t want you to know.”

Lucian’s hand paused midair, cigarette halfway to his lips. “Know what?”

Oscar didn’t flinch. “It’s not… pretty.”

Lucian didn’t blink. His stillness was a warning in itself.

“Last night. Wolff family dinner. Nate said something—cruel. Deliberate. It pushed her into a full downward spiral. I had to go get her… she was in her old dealers’ neighbourhood.”

Lucian didn’t move. His eyes just darkened. “Did she use?”

“No,” Oscar said, flat. “But it was close. Really close.”

The silence in the room was taut, a wire pulled to snapping.

“I brought her back to my apartment,” Oscar added. “Stayed with her all night. Made sure she was safe. But it wasn’t nothing.”

Lucian placed the cigarette back in the tray with care. “Her and Jules agreed not to tell me?”

“They’re afraid that you’ll go after him—do something that’ll end up with you behind bars.”

“I will,” Lucian said flatly. “Go after him. You understand that, don’t you?”

“I do,” Oscar replied. “But that’s not why I’m here.”

Lucian narrowed his eyes. “No?”

Oscar shifted just slightly. “If we’re going to keep her safe… it has to be all of us. No secrets.”

Lucian’s mouth curved, the expression unreadable. “You sound like a man who’s planning to be around for a long time.”

Oscar held his gaze. “I am.”

Lucian studied him then—measured, quiet. The way a man might assess a weapon before choosing to draw it. Finally, he nodded once.

“Thank you for telling me.”

Oscar gave a tight nod back. “Wouldn’t keep something like that from you. I know you care about her.”

Lucian reached for the cigarette again, tone calm but charged. “Still. You’re a good man, Piastri.”

Oscar turned to leave.

“Hey,” Lucian said, voice low.

Oscar paused.

“They won’t find out that you told me.”

Oscar met his eyes. “I know.”

Lucian didn’t smile. “But I’m going to fuck that man up beyond his wildest dreams.”

Oscar knew that this time, his intentions weren’t physical. Could read between the lines.

Which is why he said, “Make it hurt.”

Then walked out, closing the door softly behind him.

—

The hallway outside Lucian’s office was still and dim, bathed in low gold light. A moment passed before he moved—just stood there, exhaling through his nose.

He could still feel Lucian’s words buzzing faintly in his chest, like the echo of distant thunder. “You’re a good man, Piastri.”

He didn’t take compliments easily. Especially not ones like that. Not from men like Lucian, who didn’t hand them out unless they meant it. Unless they saw something and decided you were worth their time.

Oscar didn’t need Lucian’s blessing. But it didn’t hurt to have it.

His phone buzzed in his pocket.

iMessage — Jules > Oscar

Jules

Your girl is starting to fidget. Stop gossiping with my brother and come collect her pls.

—

Oscar huffed a small laugh under his breath.

He made his way back through the corridor, passing the main floor of the club where bodies moved under strobe lights, faces lit in quick flashes—desire and indulgence and half-drunk bravado in every glance. Oscar paused at the edge of the bar.

Ana was right where he’d left her, perched on a stool, laughing at something Jules was saying. Her shoulders were relaxed now, her fingers wrapped around a sweating glass of something yellow. There was a flush to her cheeks, the silk of her dress catching soft light every time she moved.

She looked up. Found him instantly.

Her smile faltered for just a breath—just long enough for him to see it. the shift. The awareness. That quiet little pull that lived between them. Always.

He crooked a finger at her.

Ana stood almost automatically. Jules gave her a little nudge, teasing and knowing.

Oscar held her gaze as she came to him, heart skittering a little at the way she moved. Uncertain, but willing. Like every step was a question she already knew the answer to.

When she reached him, he leaned in, brushed his lips close to her ear. “Nice chat with Jules?”

She smiled, and Oscar swore that the dark club glowed for a second. “Yeah. I tried a new drink, and the bartender said that he has a checklist so that I can keep track of the ones I’ve tried and rate them all out of ten.”

Oscar smiled indulgently. “That’s fun, baby.”

She bit her lip. “I know.”

He touched her cheekbone with his thumb, touching the hint of glitter she’d put there. “You ready?”

She nodded jerkingly.

“Words, sweet girl.”

“Yes. Ready.”

—

The room that Oscar led her to was… quiet. Low-lit. There were no mirrors. No sharp corners. Just deep leather, warm wood, and a long velvet chaise that stretched along the far wall, bathed in soft amber from a single dimmed fixture above.

Ana stepped in slowly, her heels clicking once on the floor before the sound was swallowed whole by the plush rug. Oscar shut the door behind them with a quiet snick.

She didn’t speak. She didn’t have to.

Oscar moved first—crossing to a panel near the wall and adjusting the dimmer until the lights softened even further, casting her in gentle gold. “That better?”

Ana nodded once, her hands curling gently in front of her.

He turned to face her fully, his voice lower now. Intimate. “Limits?”

“Same as earlier. I—None. I trust you,” she breathed.

“Good girl.”

Her breath caught, lashes fluttering just slightly. His praise—gentle and deliberate—fed pieces of her mind that she had no idea were so hungry for it.

Oscar moved closer, slow and unthreatening. “Come here,” he said, holding out a hand.

She stepped toward him immediately. He took both of her hands in his and rubbed his thumbs gently over her knuckles. Her pulse was quick. “You’re safe in here,” he said. “You know that, don’t you?”

Ana nodded again, a little faster. “Of course.”

He leaned in slightly, just enough for his next words to brush against the shell of her ear. “I won’t do anything you don’t want. You can stop me any time—Scuderia. You can tell me to slow down—yellow. You don’t owe me anything, not even your obedience.”

Ana’s spine straightened instinctively. “I want to give it to you,” she whispered. “I want you to have that.”

Oscar let out a soft, pleased sound. He brushed her hair behind her ear and let his fingers linger at her jaw. “Take your dress off for me, sweet girl.”

Her breath hitched—but her hands moved to the straps almost immediately. She slid the silky fabric down over her hips, letting it puddle at her feet. A black lace set clung to her skin beneath, soft and sheer—something elegant and just a little sinful. Her nipples peaked against the lace, thighs pressed close, like she didn’t quite know what to do with herself now that she was standing in nothing but lingerie.

Oscar took his time watching. Admiring.

She was pretty sure her entire body flushed red under his heated scrutiny.

Then he stepped forward and guided her gently, reverently, to stand in the soft pool of light near the chaise. She let him. “You’re beautiful,” he said. “Do you know that?”

She didn’t answer. But her lips parted, just a little.

Oscar’s voice dropped. “Get on your knees for me.”

Her breath caught. “Here?”

“Yes,” he said softly. “I want to see you crawl to me. You can do that, can’t you? Show me how much you want to give me.”

The silence was electric.

Then, slowly—carefully—Ana sank to her knees on the velvet rug. Her palms pressed to the floor. Her heart thundered in her ears. But she looked up at him, and she moved.

Oscar's eyes went dark. He watched every inch she gave him, every small motion. When she reached him, he cupped her face in both hands.

“Good girl,” he said again, and something in her unfurled completely.

For a long stretch of time, he just looked at her—his hands still framing her face, thumbs stroking softly across her cheekbones, like she was the most fragile and exquisite thing he’d ever seen.

“You’re doing so well,” he murmured. “Look at you. On your knees, so pretty for me.”

Ana’s lips parted again—almost like she was about to say thank you. But the words got lost somewhere in her throat, stuck behind the heat and the way her heart was trying to crawl into her mouth.

Oscar dropped to one knee.

Not all the way to the floor—just enough to bring their eyes to the same level. Enough to let her feel the shift in his focus as his gaze dipped, slow and lingering, down the curve of her body. His hands moved next—tracing over the delicate straps of her bra, the line of lace at her ribs, the satin waistband of her panties. But not once did he touch anything overt. Not yet.

He was showing her. Marking the boundaries of what was his to claim.

“I want to touch you,” he said quietly. “Can I?”

Her nod was immediate.

But Oscar gave her a gentle look, tilting his head. “Words, baby.”

“Yes,” she whispered. “Please.”

His hand moved to the back of her neck, drawing her closer. She leaned into the pressure, her body responding before her mind could fully catch up.

“Good girl,” he said again, and the way she shivered made his lips curl faintly.

He took his time, then.

His hands roamed slowly over her body—not rough, never rushed. Just slow slides of palm and knuckle over warm skin, coaxing her into softness, into breath. He eased her upright onto her knees, pressed a palm to the curve of her back and guided her to arch just slightly, until her chest lifted into his waiting mouth.

He kissed over the lace. Gentle, breathy. His tongue traced the seam between fabric and skin, warm breath ghosting over her nipple until it was painfully tight beneath the sheer black.

Ana’s fingers flexed against her thighs. She didn’t move. Didn’t ask for more. Just trembled under the weight of his attention, trying to stay still for him.

Oscar pulled back only slightly, enough to look up at her. “You like being good for me?”

She nodded. “So much.”

His thumb stroked just below her ribs. “You’re not shy now.”

“I am,” she breathed. “I am. Just—I—“ She moaned miserably at her lack of fluency. “Osc—Sir—Please.”

Oscar hummed softly, pleased. He stood then—fluid, easy—and held out a hand. “Come up onto the chair. On your knees, just like you are now.”

She obeyed instantly, rising and climbing onto the velvet, the soft cushion cool against her skin. She faced him as she knelt, her thighs slightly parted, the stretch of her body offered like something sacred.

Oscar stepped closer, undoing the button of his trousers with one hand. She heard the soft metallic slide of his belt. The shift of fabric.

Ana’s eyes dropped, instinctive and eager, but he caught her chin in his hand and tilted her face up again.

“Eyes on me, baby. You don’t get to look until I say.”

Her breath hitched. “Okay.”

“You ready to show me how well you can take orders?” he asked softly.

Her whole body warmed, lashes lowering. “Yes.”

Oscar’s gaze swept over her slowly—soaking her in, her flushed cheeks, her parted lips, the careful curve of her back as she waited.

Still watching her, he sat.

Not sprawling. Not lounging. He sat upright, legs spread slightly, one arm draped loosely over the backrest, the other resting along his thigh, hand open, waiting for her.

Then he nodded once to his right thigh. “Come here.”

Ana shuffled over without even a split-second of hesitation.

Her hands trembled slightly as she climbed over his leg, settling one knee on either side, the slick heat of her pressed against the soft fabric of his trousers; the scrap of black lace the only thing protecting her from direct contact. She gasped—a shaky inhale that betrayed her sensitivity.

Oscar caught that sound and held it, let it thrum in the space between them.

“Good girl,” he said. “Now I want you to make yourself feel good.”

She froze—just for a second.

She looked up at him, like she needed to check, like she needed to know that she wasn’t mishearing.

He leaned in, just a little. “Go on. I want you to take what you need. Rub that pretty pussy on my thigh until you come.”

Her mouth parted with a tiny, barely-there sound—like shock and pleasure had met somewhere in her chest and tried to get out at the same time.

Then she moved.

Slow, tentative at first—rocking forward, pressing down. The friction of his tailored trousers met her in the most delicious way. Rough, unyielding. Her lace panties were soaked in seconds.

Oscar let his hand come to rest on her waist. Not guiding. Just there. Steady. Warm.

“That’s it,” he murmured. “Just like that. You look so good like this, Ana. So fucking sweet.”

She whined softly and dropped her head, hips shifting forward again.

Oscar tsked gently. “No hiding. Let me see you.”

She lifted her gaze back to his, breath shallow, cheeks burning.

“That’s my girl,” he said. “Good. You like how that feels?”

“Y-yeah.”

“You want to make a mess all over my trousers?”

Her teeth caught her bottom lip, a shaky laugh escaping her. “God. Yes.”

He grinned—something dark and warm and utterly in control. “Then do it. Keep going, baby. Take what you need.”

She rode harder now, the friction against her clit maddening in the best way. Oscar flexed his thigh slightly, just enough to give her something more, something firm to grind against.

And still, he didn’t rush her. Didn’t tell her to speed up. Just let her find it—her own rhythm, her own pleasure.

“You’re doing so good for me,” he whispered. “So fucking good. I love watching you fall apart like this.”

Ana whimpered, hands clutching at his shoulders now as she rocked faster, chasing it. Her whole body trembled. She was close—so close it almost scared her. But his hands never left her. His voice stayed calm, low, anchoring.

“Come for me, Ana,” he said. “Be good and come for me just like this.”

Her hips stuttered once, twice—and then she was gasping, mouth falling open around a silent cry as the orgasm tore through her. Her thighs clenched around him. Her entire body arched into his.

Oscar held her through it. Didn’t let her fall. His hand cupped the back of her head, pulling her close until her forehead dropped to his collarbone, breath ragged against his throat.

“That’s my girl.” He whispered.

Ana didn’t notice, at first, that she was still moving.

Not exactly on purpose.

Her hips had stilled in the immediate aftermath—body limp and shaky in Oscar’s hold—but then he shifted his leg again, just slightly, and the friction returned. It was softer now. Less desperate. But she felt it.

And she didn’t move away.

Oscar’s hand was still stroking her spine. His other hand rose to cradle the back of her neck, thumb brushing slow arcs beneath her ear.

“You okay?” he murmured.

Ana nodded, fuzzy and slow. “Mhm.”

“You did so well for me, baby. Took what you needed. Gave me everything.” He pressed a kiss to her temple. “But I think you’ve got more in you.”

Her brows twitched. “I—I already came.”

“I know,” he said, voice like warm silk. “But you’re a greedy girl, aren’t you?”

She blinked against his shirt. Her thighs were trembling, but there was a deep, low ache that hadn’t left her. She wasn’t sure if it had ever gone away. It had just shifted for a moment, softened.

Now it was back. Hotter.

“I don’t—” She pulled her head back, confused. “I thought… I thought you stop after—”

“Not always,” Oscar said gently. But his eyes were dark. “You trust me?”

She nodded, already swaying a little toward him again. “Mhm.”

He smiled, eyes dark with something reverent. “Then keep going, sweet girl. Just like before. I’ll hold you.”

Ana made a soft, uncertain sound—but her hips obeyed before her mouth could argue. She rocked again—slower this time. The fabric of his trousers was damp with her release, and the fresh drag of it against her oversensitive clit made her whole body twitch.

“Ah—” she gasped, clinging to his shoulders.

“That’s it,” Oscar whispered. “I’ve got you. Let yourself feel it.”

It burned. Sweet and sharp at the same time. Not painful, not quite. But intense. Strange. She didn’t understand why her body was reacting like this—like there was a second wave beneath the first, deeper and more overwhelming.

“Oscar,” she whimpered, confused, unsure if she wanted to stop or keep going. “I— I don’t—”

“You’re okay,” he said, hands steadying her hips now, guiding just enough. “You’re safe. Let me show you what your body can do. Don’t fight it, baby. You’re doing so well.”

Her legs were shaking. Her thighs ached. And still, she moved. Chased something she couldn’t quite name.

Tears pricked her eyes from the sheer force of sensation.

“That’s my good girl,” he breathed, tilting her hips just so—pressing her into the perfect spot. “You’re so sensitive. So perfect like this. Let it happen.”

Ana let out a broken little sob and clung tighter. The second orgasm hit her like a wave pulling her under—hot and fast and dizzying. Her thighs clenched, her head dropped back, and for a few suspended seconds, she wasn’t sure where she was.

She just was.

Floating. Trembling. Held.

Oscar pulled her close, her face buried in the warm line of his throat, and let her come down at her own pace.

“You did so good for me,” he whispered. “You’re okay. I’ve got you. Let yourself melt. That’s it. Float, baby.”

And she did.

Completely weightless. Drenched in praise. Wrapped in something she’d never felt before and didn’t know how to name.

NEXT CHAPTER

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bodhiscurls · 1 day ago

Text

you and i- we're in this for life. ( clark kent )

open the door baby, let me in and see you all pretty. it's your wedding day, you've dreamed of this for moment for months to finally marry the love of your life so why does it feel like you just can't breathe. it's the shoes, the dress, the people you don't even know waiting for you outside- good thing clark doesn't believe in it being bad luck to see the bride before the wedding- he has the best luck in the world to be marrying you.

pairing: clark kent x fem! reader

themes: fluff, fluff, fluff, minor angst- wedding breakdown, clark kent being the best partner ever

the knocks that land at the door are gentle; his knuckles kiss the wooden panels three times in a comforting rememberance.

its the same three knocks he lands at your desk when he whispers a 'good morning' into your hair as he hands you the first coffee of the day. the same three thuds that softly ask for entrance when you're in the bathroom; soaking in the tub after a long day of work and he just wants to sit with you, to be near you and fill his heart whole again.

three thuds that let you know he's here, he will always be here and it's entirely your call to answer.

"baby?" his voice heats at the door, rumbling through the frame and vibrating through the walls of your heart. you try and get some words out in return, but there's something hot and heavy twisting the veins in your body. blood rushes to your ears and you feel yourself drowning.

he calls out for you again, this time concern laced through his soft voice and he rattles the door knob.

locked of course.

you needed some time alone to just think about anything other than how huge and heavy this gown your mother chose feels on you, how the straps to your shoes feel a little too tight how you're trying so damn hard not to cry and spoil the makeup you got up at eight am for. it's all just a little too much for you and even now, there's people waiting outside who you've never heard of- waiting to see you mess up the most important day of your life.

"honey?" the struggle against the door is real, in the blur of a breakdown you can hear his body firmly sling itself against the door before rattling the doorknob all over. "please tell me you're okay in there, or god i'm gonna get all sweaty breaking this shit down," he heaves another body slam into the door and stills once your breath lands in the air after what feels like forever.

"c-clark," you get out, hands bracing the door- palms feeling the coolness of the frame as you try your hardest to hold your weight up. your shoulders are hunched over as you bend to catch your breath. eyes crinkled shut in fear of opening them and unleashing the river of tears for sure to destroy your makeup.

"love," he returns gently, "it's me, i'm here now. just breathe for me okay?" and he can't see the nod you deliver shakily but resumes nonetheless. "one in we go, two breathe out, one," and you hear him loudly inhale, "two," a comforting exhale. he repeats it four times and you follow on to his steady rhythm, heart desperately returning to its rest state as you count alongside him.

"one," you mumble to yourself, regaining control, "two," and the breaths feel lighter, your head slowly returning from the fog and you keep going like that; numbers and chests fluttering filling the silence. the seconds pass and the thundering thoughts die down as a soft "good girl" whispers through the barrier that separates the two of you.

"clark?" you call and his response is immediate.

"yes, my love?"

"i'm scared," you sheepishly admit, eyes trained upwards to the door where you imagine him facing you on the other side.

"of what, honey?" and the question is so gentle it heats you to a pool of warmth and melts your soul.

"of letting you down," your voice cracks as you lay yourself bare. "of letting them all down," and your back slides down the length of the door as you sit in a pile of ruffles and tulle. your head rests in your hands and you try not to cry again, its just been a constant effort of that today.

"oh honey," he soothes and thats one of your favourite things about clark kent. he's a force to be reckoned with, a hell of a journalist and built like a brick- but he's also tender, soft hearted and the sweetest human you've ever met- who would bleed himself out to give you a means to float ahead. "you could never let me down," and the sounds of him sitting on the opposite side fill your ears. "not in any world," he swears. "if this isn't what you want, i'm not going to be angry, sweetheart."

and you instantly bite down the bile rising and shake your head no, "no," you plead, "i want this more than anything- you, more than anything," and he murmurs in comfort.

"you wanna talk me through whats going on right now?"

"it's silly"

"it is not," he stresses firmly, serious to his core.

"well, argh, for one, i can't breathe in this silly dress and i've been awake since eight and i haven't had anything to eat and-" the panic swirls in your throat as you count on your fingers all the things that have gone wrong today. you've dreamt of marrying the love of your life ever since he slid the ring on your finger or possibly even from the moment you knew you loved him enough to work towards forever with, this just isn't how you imagined it.

"so we take off the dress," he shrugs and you scoff in disbelief.

"it took lois, my mother AND my sister to get me in this thing!"

"and i promise you darlin' it won't take me long to get you out of it," the flirt in his drawl sending butterflies swirming in your stomach and you blush a deepen rose at the insinuation.

it's working, he thinks. you're slowly coming out of your head and back to him on earth.

"we loose the dress, we get you something to eat, maybe take a nap and then we get married," you can hear the smile in his voice, the order and direction that steers you clear in clarity.

"and then what will i wear?" you play along, leaning the back of your head against the frame. you imagine him on the opposite site, his skin on yours- his big firm arms wrapped around you tight enough to hold you together but loose enough to give you all the room to breathe.

"you can borrow one of my shirts," he offers and you bark out a laugh so loud and beautiful clark would like to bottle it; savour it and drink it on the nights he's spent away from you. "oh come on," he teases, "you've never had a problem with that before." you shake out another laugh, the tulle settling around you in a pool on the floor. you're no longer drowning, but afloat with your sailor of a partner clark kent.

"you gonna open the door for me, sweetheart?" he finally asks the burning question and you swallow the phlegm gathered in your throat.

"can't", you mumble offhandedly, "bad luck to see the bride before the wedding and the "what?" he shouts is outrageous.

"and who in the hell says that?" his recoil is comical.

"i don't know," you chuckle, "but rules are rules, kent."

"well i say fuck the rules, kent," and you can hear the mischief laced in his voice and twinkle in those vibrant sea eyes. something warm and firery lands in your veins at him calling you by his name; like youre his and have always been and now you've never been more sure of the future you'd like. "there's no such thing as bad luck, not when i'm the luckiest person on damn planet earth to be marrying you right now, doll."

you don't answer right away, but stand slowly, dust yourself off before turning the lock. at the first click, clark is on his feet in an instant, almost too quickly and just like that the wind knocks out of him completely. he stands there, gaping, drinking you in till the very last breath and its still not enough.

you stand there, tear stained with vulnerability, suddenly bashful under his attention. you rock on your two feet, twisting your hands behind your back as your fiance is stunned into silence.

"oh don't get all shy on me now, say something," you almost whine.

"i'm trying to find the words," he attempts at closing his mouth left wide open and thinks for any word that could come close to describing how utterly gorgeous, downright stunning you look- but nothing can even begin to scratch the surface, nevermind even exist in the same timeline. "you are beyond perfect- you are magical," he whispers in awe and takes the first step of forever towards you. you meet him halfway, his arms drawn to your hips and clawing at the bottom of your back as yours land on his chest. the embrace is sweet and all you've ever known. you stand as the sun, centre of his universe as he rotates around you in awe. you rest your head on his chest and he softly sways the two of you in a silent dance- a mock of your first dance to be had in the next few hours.

he lets you stay like that for a few minutes, regaining your pace and composure. "you sure you still want to do this today?" his murmur is hot on your neck, breath tickling just under your jaw where his lips hover dangerously.

"please," you whisper, tilting your head upwards to him, meeting him halfway and destroying the inches of air that separate the two of you in a long kiss. it's slow, paced, filled withe knowledge that clark kent gets to kiss you for an eternity; any moment of any given day. filled with the yearning he still feels for you and the patience that has guided you to where you two stand today. you pull apart for a single moment to breathe in his existence before clark's lips chase after yours to savour another taste. he kisses you a little bit more urgently this time, bending you at the waist and moulding his body into yours; marvelling at how perfect you slot against him like the missing puzzle piece hes searched planets for.

"then we get rid of everyone," he nods to himself, "and then we get you out of this dress, eh?"

the smirk is loud, confident and makes you blush a pink so heavy and vivid- matching the same sunset later that night that he marries you under. you're dressed in a pair of slacks and one of clark's dress shirts; an excited smile printed into your face permanently. clark holds his hand in yours as he walks you down the first step into a lifetime of forevers with you, matching your outfit to his- his wedding attire sans the fancy blazer and waistcoat. he's even unbuttoned the top two, flashing a you-satisfied amount of skin as he relishes under your attention as he walks you down the garden of the home the two of you have made.

you meet lois, your sister and jimmy who stand at the end and when clark whispers his vows, marking them into your soul and you returning the same branding he kisses you like its the very first time, holds you like its the last. the butterflies in your stomach have graduated to a zoo as clark swirls you around the garden under a sky that bleeds day into night, glistening under a sea of stars that twinkle at your laughter and guide clark home into your arms.

and when the small party's over and your guests have left your home, clark carries you upstairs slightly buzzed as the two of you are high on the excitement of being newlyweds. he holds you in his big arms, undresses you for the second time that day and when he lowers you into your bed, whispering a sweet oath of "you and i, we're in this for life," against your skin, theres nothing more you can do than sigh in bliss and gratitude that this is your life. it's the start of something not new, but what you've always known and what you feel like to your core is what you've always been meant to do.

clark kent was made for loving you and you would return that tenfold, in every lifetime he would stay by your side just as he promised to before you spoke a soft and true, "i do," cementing his existence to yours.

note: i wanted to do something very cute to say thank you for 2k on baby, it's you!!! my first clark fic that was special to me and i think is special to you to garner that kind of attention- nonetheless im extremely grateful and it means the world to go through all the reblogs, comments and mentions on it so thank you for gifting me that pleasure. i hope you enjoy this and as always let me know what you think, i love you & my inbox is always open even if you just wanna come say hi! i love hearing what you have to say and i hope you have a good one wherever you are <33

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frooglet · 2 days ago

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i love this.

Storytime:

My lil brother has autism, and he is on the mid to high functioning end of the spectrum. He is only a toddler though, and doesn't know about masking at all. He acts out, he plays rough, he says things he shouldn't, he throws tantrums, he doesn't understand most things, he doesn't listen, he can't convey emotions very well, etc etc.

Now, I've known 𝙢𝙮 little brother for all of his life. And bc we homeschool, that's a lot of life, and I'm normally the one who spends the most time with him. And everyone in my house can admit, I'm his "favorite person". I know how to calm him down when he's upset, I know how to talk to him without angering him, I know (most times) what he's feeling and why, I know (most times) how to help him solve problems, and those are the majority of the reasons 𝙬𝙝𝙮 I am his favorite.

Me and my cousin are relatively close, we see each other once a year on a family vacation, and I love her, it's always fun seeing her. I don't hold anything against her ← that's important to remember.

My cousin has a nephew who also has autism.

Her nephew and my little brother (time to give them names! My little brother will be "Tin Can" and her nephew will be "Winny".) both have autism, and are around similar ages.

My cousin has been around TinCan far less than she's been around Winny. I've seen how Winny behaves: he's respectful, he's considerate, he doesn't act out when he's upset (most times), he knows how to interact with other people, etc etc.

TinCan does not do that.

Conversation me and my cousin had last time I saw her:

Her: "Why is TinCan so upset? Is he okay?"

Me: "Yes, he's okay, he just gets upset like that sometimes. Give him space to act out, then he'll be willing to talk."

Her: "But why is he acting out like that? That's not normal."

Me: "Well, he has autism, so for him it's-"

Her, cutting me off: "My nephew has autism too, and he doesn't act like that."

Me, a bit taken aback: "Oh... But you know, autism is a spectrum, and-"

Her: "Yes, I know, but still... Shouldn't you get him to behave?"

Me, now offended: "Listen, autism is a spectrum, like I said. My little brother behaves just fine in our household. Just because you're not used to it, that doesn't give you a right to say how he is or isn't "behaving"."

Her, also a bit offended: "Okay, I know that, but being autistic isn't an excuse for acting out. That's all I'm saying. Especially if there is a way to help it-"

Me, cutting her off: "A way to help it? Maybe for your nephew, but he might not behave the same because he isn't on the exact same level as neurodivergent as TinCan is. Don't go assuming every single autistic child has the same triggers. The same way of speaking. The same behaviors 𝙤𝙧 𝙚𝙫𝙚𝙣 the same ways of calming down. I know what works for my little brother, and it's 𝙣𝙤𝙩 the same as what works for your nephew. That doesn't mean I'm using this as an excuse for TinCan to behave the way he does. Don't you think I'm trying to make sure he doesn't behave like this? Do you think I 𝙬𝙖𝙣𝙩 him to screaming at everything and punching everyone all the time? That's insane."

Her: "Okay, yah, I get that... But still. I think you should try and figure out how to control him better."

And once she used that wording, even after all that, I knew it was pointless. I told her to drop the conversation, and any other time she was talking to me about TinCan or neurodivergency at all, I told her to 𝙣𝙤𝙩 talk to me about it.

I love the "glasses are disability" thing because it applies to basically every complaint abled people have about disability

"You're not even that bad, why would you get that?" Have you ever used a magnifying glass for small details or zoomed in on a picture

"Why do you have that accommodation TODAY?" Why do you wear reading glasses when you're reading

"It seems like your 'needs' are inconsistent." Yeah and you wear sunglasses when it's sunny and not all the time

"But you can technically walk without that." Yeah and if I put the page really close to your face you could read it, it would just hurt and be hugely impractical, inconvenient, and limiting

"But you COULD go without it all the time, you don't NEED it to live." And maybe you could technically see without your glasses, doesn't mean it's comfortable or practical day to day

"If you REALLY had a hard time seeing you would have glasses." Have you ever known someone who couldn't afford a new pair of glasses? Or eye appointments? Someone who needed vision therapy or special prism glasses? Someone whose vision only gets bad during migraines or seizures? Someone with astigmatism that glasses can't help? Someone who didn't qualify for LASIK?

"You only use it when you're out in public." Have you ever gotten up to use the bathroom at night without putting on your glasses

"Decorating it is just trying to get attention, and it's a medical device so stop glamorizing it." Do you hate any patterned or colorful glasses frames too? Art with characters who wear glasses? People who make OCs with glasses? Glasses chains, prescription sunglasses, aesthetic fake glasses with tinted lenses?

"There are secretly lots of people just using aids for fun and attention." There are secretly lots of people wearing fake glasses or colored contacts for fun and attention, it does not affect you

"We need to find fakers, they're stealing disabled resources!" Someone pretending to need glasses is "taking" a seat in the front from someone who might need it more. That sucks and they shouldn't do that. But I'm not going to scrutinize every person who wears glasses to see if I think they really need that seat. You personally are not the arbiter of who is (based on the random times you've seen them) secretly not disabled

"My friend has that and doesn't act like that." Does every pair of glasses in production, or even every pair close to your prescription, work for you? Is your vision identical to every other nearsighted person?

"If you can do X why can't you do Y? Some people with that can do Y."/"But if you have that how can you do X? People with that can't usually do X." Some people are nearsighted and some people are farsighted and some people are both. Some farsighted people can read some without glasses and some can't. And good distance vision doesn't mean you don't ever need glasses, it's just an entirely different reason you'd need glasses

"You're too young to need that." And there are young people who need bifocal lenses

"Why don't you use this DIFFERENT aid though, it would look like you didn't even have an aid." Why doesn't everyone in the world wear contacts

"Why can't I/my friend/my kid play with it?" Do you let random strangers and children try on your glasses at the grocery store

"I was just trying to help, I thought you'd need a push/you were in the way." Are you cool with me suddenly pulling your glasses off your face to clean them, or because the glare was distracting me

"You'll eventually stop using it though right?" Are you planning on no longer needing glasses someday

Disabled people are free to add

I am aware this is not a 1-to-1 perfectly accurate post. Do not come into the notes trying to "um actually this isn't a perfect comparison." I know. Just don't

#sometimes you just can't win #Charlie's input #important #neurodivergency #I'm also autistic just fyi #maybe that's also why me and my little brother understand each other better #Maybe not him to me #But I sort of see myself in him and the way he behaves #So I understand a little bit better what he needs in the moment to calm down #I love him :]

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xiaominghao · 3 days ago

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8:45 pm

Genre: fluff.

Pairing: Joshua x reader.

Warnings: none.

“It’s getting late baby,” Joshua said from the other side of the door. Not hearing any response, he decided to enter the room. “The party has just…”

You were sitting in front of the dresser mirror, looking at its reflection with some frustration while holding the eyeliner in your hand. That only meant one thing: today was not a good day for eyeliner. Joshua smiled as he understood the situation, it wasn’t the first time neither the last this was going to happen.

“Do you want me to get the wet wipes?” he asked from the threshold of the door.

“No, I’m fine, it’s just that…”

“Just that…?”

You swallowed hard and turned your face towards him. “I’m afraid something might go wrong.”

Your left eye was perfectly lined, so much so that Joshua had to come closer to take a better look at your great work.

“It looks stunning” he said, “You’re doing just fine.”

“But, what if the right one turns out bad?” You took a deep breath, putting on a scene dramatic enough to make Joshua laugh. “Hey, I’m serious over here!”

“Can I give a try?” Joshua took seat near you, as you squinted your eyes. Were his intentios that pure?. “I promise I’m not up to anything.”

“Do you really promise that?” You pouted at him.

Joshua extended his hand and you handed him the eyeliner, a bit distrustfully. “Trust me.”

Joshua began to do your eyeliner as if it was such an important job, gentle yet dedicated, like he had done it before a lot of times. He looked so confident and reliable that you couldn’t help but feel a little dizzy (in the best way possible). When you think that it is impossible to fall even more for him, Joshua always do something to remember that you’re always wrong.

“And… it’s done,” he smiled at you, “tell me what you think.”

You let out a sigh of surprise after looking your reflection in the mirror, it was such a well-done job that no one would realize the problems it caused.

“Josh, you’re the best!” you exclaimed cheerfully. “Where did you learn to be so good?”

“Thanks, I know” Joshua laughed with a false modesty that made you laugh. “It’s just a couple things I learned at job”.

“Handsome, hard-working and cheeky,” you joked as he gave you a side-eyed smile, “You're like de pandora box.”

“Thanks, I know that too” He sweetly pinched one of your cheeks and then offered you his hand. “Shall we go?”

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h0estar · 3 days ago

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jinshi becoming the emperor is a popular ending that some fans want. however, while i do see the appeal, i'm still actively against it, and the reasons most fans give for why he shouldn't become emperor feel a bit lacking.

it's always:

he's insecure

he's horrible at delegating tasks

he's too kind, and the emperor's role would force him to act against his morals, and the weight of it all would eventually kill him emotionally, mentally, spiritually, and physically.

BUT i have yet to see anyone else bring up jinshi's line in LN 13, where he explicitly states that the reason he is not interested in the throne is because he does not want to be in a position where NO ONE CAN STAND BESIDE HIM—not even the empress.

while most of the listed reasons are correct, i feel this one holds the most importance. not just because it came directly from jinshi himself, but because it speaks to who he is as a character and person. it's not solely because he dislikes the heavy responsibility that comes with ruling a nation, or he feels like he's lacking in many areas, but because he has a bleeding heart that longs for nothing more than a real, genuine connection with people all his life.

i once read in a reddit thread where someone made a distinction between the current emperor and jinshi. they said, ‘one is the son of heaven and the other is just a man.’ that sentence has stuck with me ever since.

jinshi is someone who has longed to be seen all his life. not as a celestial nymph or a heavenly being, but just a man—a human being who can be scarred, wounded, bruised, brought low, and show weakness. an emperor's position does not—cannot—allow any of that.

he works well when he's actively involved with the people he wants to help; he thrives when he sees his beloved apothecary getting to do what she loves, and he has no issues getting mocked and insulted if it means helping people in any way he can.

i just feel like jinshi has so much love to give. let him walk with the people he cares for deeply! let him be imperfect like everyone else! don't place him somewhere so high up, not even the love of his life can reach him.

i hope the author knows how to conclude his character, given how deliberately she's been writing him. jinshi is undoubtedly a great leader, but i don't think he will ever become a great emperor.

#knh thoughts #jinshi is my fave character if that wasn't obvious enough #we have maomao to thank for her words and actions in LN 9 as well <3 #the apothecary diaries #kusuriya no hitorigoto #jinshi #maomao #jinmao

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ivyues · 7 hours ago

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Heartfelt Slip-Ups: Stray Kids’ reactions to accidental 1st ‘I love you’s

request: "[...] Could it be where you say I love you for the 1st time while leaving for work, gym or studio session & you kiss them goodbye & accidentally say I love you for the 1st time then ask to forget it lol but fluffy?" A/N: hope you like it – sorry that the one you requested is the shortest (*_ _)人

Bang Chan (him)

The time difference had never felt so cruel.

It was late afternoon where you were, sunlight filtering lazily through your window, while on the other side of the world, in some hotel room lit only by a dim lamp and the soft blue glow of his phone, Chris was desperately fighting off sleep, but it was a losing battle.

“Babe…” you said softly through the screen, “your eyes are literally closing mid-sentence.”

“I’m not that tired,” he replied, words slurred, his cheek squished against the hotel pillow as he lay sideways, camera angled haphazardly. He blinked slowly, lids heavy. “M’fine. Just… resting my eyes while I talk to you.”

You chuckled, fondness bubbling up in your chest. “You have a concert tomorrow, Chris. You need sleep. Real sleep.”

“But I miss you,” he mumbled, voice barely audible. His gaze was soft, unfocused. “Can’t sleep without hearing you talk. It’s like… my brain knows you're far away, and it hates it.”

Your heart ached in that way it always did when you saw how much he cared. “I miss you too,” you said, voice quieter now, “but you need to rest, love. For me? You’ve done a thousand things today.”

He grumbled something incoherent, clearly not ready to let go of you, but he knew you were right.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he muttered, yawning.

“Get some real sleep, okay? And drink water when you wake up.”

“Y’know,” he started, voice even softer, “you take better care of me than I do.”

You smiled. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He lingered for a beat longer, eyes fluttering.

“I love you.”

And then click. Call ended.

You stared at the blank screen, pulse thudding.

Did he just—?

The words rang in your ears, your chest tight with sudden butterflies, your heart beating wildly against your ribs. Neither of you have said it before – not out loud. Not yet. There had been so many almosts, but he’d never actually said it.

You brought a hand to your mouth, half laughing, half gasping. The warmth spreading through you was electric and impossible to contain. You sat there for a long time, staring at the “Call Ended” screen, smile creeping wider by the second.

-----

The Next Morning, your phone buzzed.

Channie🖤: by any chance… did i carelessly say something rather special yesterday?

You stared at the message, and it made you laugh.

You: you might’ve said something small

You: three words

You: quite important

You: started with “I”

There was a pause. Then three dots. Then nothing. Then more dots.

Channie🖤: …I SAID THAT?!

You: You did 😳

Channie🖤: WHAT!!! I DIDN’T EVEN— I THOUGHT I DREAMED THAT 😭

Channie🖤: omg omg i wanted to say it properly not like THAT

Channie🖤: was it… okay?

You smiled, typing back slowly.

You: It was perfect. I love you too, sleepyhead 💛

Another pause.

Channie🖤: 🥺 so i didn’t ruin it?

You: Nope. You made it unforgettable.

Lee Know (you)

The two of you were sprawled on the couch as a movie flickered in the background. Humming softly, he rested one arm behind his head, the other absentmindedly tracing patterns on your thigh. Your head was on his chest, heart comfortably synced with his slow, steady breaths.

You were warm. Content. Sleepy.

And in that state, words slipped from your mouth without asking your brain first.

“I love you,” you mumbled, into his shirt low and muffled.

It took you a second to even realize what you’d said. And then another half-second to panic.

Your body went rigid.

Minho hummed, face unreadable, eyes still on the movie. He hummed. Just a soft, low note, like someone vaguely acknowledging the weather forecast.

“What?” you said, eyes wide.

“Hmm?” he asked, blinking.

You stared at him, waiting for the teasing, the smirk, the jokes about you being a hopeless romantic. But nothing came. He just tugged you gently back into his side.

“You good?” he asked, voice calm.

“…Yeah,” you muttered, stunned.

-----

You spent the rest of the week spiraling. He hadn’t teased you, hadn’t even acknowledged the slip. Maybe he didn’t hear? Maybe he didn’t feel the same? Or maybe it was too soon? But he hummed! Was that a “cool” hum or a “noted” hum or a “panic now” hum? You’d practically convinced yourself it was nothing and that maybe, just maybe, he had really just been too chill to notice.

Until three days later.

The two of you were in his kitchen, washing the dishes after dinner. He flicked a bit of water at your forehead and you let out a dramatic yelp.

“Lee Minho!” you shrieked. “You are so annoying!”

He smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter. “That so?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes. Borderline maddening.”

He leaned in a little, just enough to make your little heart beat a bit faster. “Huh,” he said, mock thoughtful. “That’s weird, ’cause last week you were saying how much you loovvee me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You remember,” he said, grin growing wide and evil. “We were all cuddled up and warm, watching that movie. And you said... what was it…? Ah, right. ‘I love you.’”

You smacked his arm, face burning. “I knew you heard it!”

“I did,” he said smugly. “Just wanted to see how long you’d pretend it didn’t happen.”

You groaned and turned to the side. “Because you didn’t say a godamn word! What was I supposed to do?”

He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I love you too,” he said, quiet now. “Just thought I’d let you suffer a little first.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he said with a wink, “you love me.”

You slapped him again – a bit harder this time – but didn’t pull away from his arms.

Changbin (him)

You were sitting on the couch in Changbin’s studio, scrolling through your phone while he sat at his desk, fidgeting with a new beat. He was humming absentmindedly, being in his element and in a good mood.

You took a sip of water.

“I think this is my favorite track I’ve done in a while,” he said, spinning slightly in his chair to look at you. “I might actually keep this one just for myself. Play it for you when I miss you. Because, you know—”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “I love you and stuff.”

You choked.

You spat.

Water went everywhere – mostly in a graceful arc onto the floor, but also a fine mist landed directly on Changbin’s face.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Did you just SPIT on me?”

“I—” You coughed, waving your hand in the air, eyes wide. “Did you just say—?”

“Oh my god,” he muttered, grabbing a tissue and wiping his cheek. “I confess my undying love and this is what I get? A mouthful of salvia to the face?”

You were still processing. “Changbin, you can’t just—casually say ‘I love you’ like that while I’m drinking!”

“I can and I did!” he said, half standing now. “What kind of reaction is ‘Water Gun’—are you Squirtle?! I bare my soul and you nearly drown me!”

You burst into laughter, half from nerves, half from disbelief.

“I’m sorry!” you gasped, still laughing. “I was just—surprised! I didn’t think you were gonna—today?! Like that?! While talking about a beat?!”

He sighed, tossing the tissue in the trash. “I thought it was romantic. Thought I was being cute.”

You rolled your eyes, though your smile was soft now, your heart catching up with the moment. “Wait, actually, though—were you serious?”

He paused. His joking demeanor faltered just a bit, his shoulders straightening, eyes darting to yours and away again. “I mean… yeah. Kind of. But also—”

And now he was fidgeting again. “It's kinda like a habit. I say it all the time to Hyunjin, you know. Like, when I bring him coffee, or when he lets me win at Mario Kart—I’ll be like, ‘Ugh, I love you, husband.’ Like that.”

You blinked. “So I’m… just the concubine?”

“No! I mean—no offense to Hyunjin, I love that man, but not like—” He groaned and flopped back into his chair, spinning to the side. “It just comes out sometimes, okay? I say it as a joke. But, that doesn’t mean it’s not real. Just because I said it like an idiot, doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it.”

Your heart clenched. Gently, you got up from the couch and walked over to his chair, placing a hand on his.

He glanced up at you with cautious eyes.

You smiled. “I think I love you too. You idiot.”

His entire face lit up like a sunrise – relief, joy, and smugness all tangled up in a grin. “So you admit it. You love me and you spat on me. That’s commitment.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Don’t make me do it again.”

“Too late,” he said, standing and wrapping his arms around you in a warm, crushing hug. “You’re mine now. Saliva and all.”

“Gross.”

“Romantic.”

“Squirtle still says no.”

“Hyunjin’s gonna be so jealous.”

You snorted. “Honestly, I’m kinda jealous he got an ‘I love you’ before I did.”

“Okay, well he didn’t water board me, so maybe he deserved it more.”

“You did not just say that—!”

Hyunjin (you)

You stood by the door, his hoodie draped over your shoulders, still warm from him. Hyunjin leaned against the frame, messy hair, sleepy eyes, and that teasing smile he always wore when he didn't want you to leave.

“Text me when you get there, okay?”

“I will." You paused, smiled up at him and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "Love you—"

You froze.

He blinked.

You blinked.

The world went silent.

“...What?” he said, eyes wide.

Your stomach dropped. Crap. “Oh my god,” you said, covering your face. “Can you just forget that I said that?”

Hyunjin stared at you, mouth slightly open, then suddenly threw his head back with a groan. “Yah! You can’t just—say it like that! And I certainly can’t ‘just forget about it’, you just told me you loved me!”

You gaped. “You—what?!”

He pointed an accusing finger at you, eyes narrowed in mock betrayal. “I had plans, okay?! Literal Pinterest board levels of planning!”

You stared, part embarrassed, part very confused. “You had… what kind of plans?”

“I was going to confess properly.” he said, crossing his arms. “Do you know how long I’ve been sitting on the perfect moment? There were candles involved. A lake. Maybe even rose petals—if I could sneak them past the guys without them mocking me for the rest of my life!”

You blinked, then bit your lip, something warm blooming quietly in your chest. Your heart melted – just a little – at the thought of him wanting to make something so small and simple feel special. The effort, the sweetness… that was so him.

“And now you go and say ‘love you’ like you’re saying ‘see ya later.’ Do you know how unfair that is?!”

You took a slow step forward, biting your lip to stop from grinning. “So… you do love me?”

He stared at you for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “Obviously. But now it’s ruined! I had a whole speech. There were metaphors.”

“Metaphors?”

“Yeah. You’ve heard me write lyrics, babe. I was gonna make you weep.”

You laughed and wrapped your arms around his waist. “I’m sorry for ruining your romantic Pinterest proposal.”

“You should be,” he grumbled, but he was already holding you back.

“But,” you whispered, resting your head against his chest, “I really do love you, you know.”

He sighed like he was giving in, but you felt his lips press gently to the top of your head. “Fine. But I’m still giving the speech.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“And I want tears. Real ones.”

You tilted your head back, eyes sparkling. “I’ll bring tissues.”

Han (him)

The train was minutes from leaving, the soft chime echoing over the station speakers as people bustled past. You turned to Han, wrapping your arms around his hoodie-clad frame. His hair was a mess, tousled in all directions like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his eyes were wide, a little glassy with sleep.

“I’ll text you when I get there,” you said, brushing your lips against his cheek.

But he surprised you by pulling his mask down and turning his head last-second to catch your mouth with his instead – clumsy, soft, but real.

The kiss was brief, barely a few seconds, but it left his ears glowing pink and your stomach tangled in butterflies. As you pulled back, you smiled and whispered, “Bye.”

And that’s when he blurted it out.

“I love you.”

The silence between you stretched in the shape of your widened eyes. His mouth opened – then closed – then opened again in horror.

Then—

“No—wait! I didn’t mean—I mean I did mean I did, but not like that, but also totally like that—AHH—” Han buried his face in his hands. “I knew I should’ve just waved. Who kisses and thinks clearly?!”

“You… love me?” you echoed, voice barely a whisper, like testing the shape of the words on your tongue.

He peeked at you through his fingers, sheepish and red. “I mean, I’ve thought it, like, obviously—I mean—look at you! But I didn’t mean to say it! Not now! Not—like—a drive-by love confession?!”

You blinked, then started laughing – soft at first, then breathless. He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

“Stop laughing, I’m spiraling.”

“No,” you said between giggles, stepping closer to pry his fingers off his face. “It’s just... Hannie?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering in your chest. “You write me songs. You’ve already said those words in so many ways without actually saying them.”

He froze.

“And... I love you too. Just so you don’t spiral forever.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then his expression cracked into the brightest, most ridiculous smile you’d ever seen on him.

“Wait—Wait! You—oh my god—no, wait. Don’t get on the train! We need to talk about this for 45 more minutes!”

You laughed again, already walking backwards toward the platform and slowly letting go of his hands.

“Facetime me later, you drama king,” you called.

“Just so you know, I’m writing a ballad about this!” he shouted back.

Of course he was. And you were so looking forward to hearing it.

Felix (you)

You were standing at his doorstep, the moment to say goodbye felt heavier than usual.

He gave you a small smile, his eyes flickering with a mix of nervousness and warmth. “I hope you got home safe last time.”

You smiled back, feeling a flutter in your chest. “Yeah, I did. Thanks to you.”

He hesitated, then whispered, “I… um, I had a really good time today.”

You nodded, your voice soft as you said goodbye, “Me too… I love you.”

The words escaped before you could stop them, and immediately your face flushed hot with embarrassment. You looked down, suddenly overwhelmed, and before Felix could say anything, you turned on your heel and practically ran down the stairs, your heart racing. “Bye!”

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

You made it to the bottom step before fumbling with your phone, hands trembling with anxiety. Your cheeks were on fire and you felt like you were about to cry. You just told Felix you loved him. Loudly. Casually. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t going to change everything.

Your phone buzzed.

Lix🐥: Did you mean that? 😳

Your hands shook as you typed back.

You: No! I didn’t say anything! I take it back!

Lix🐥: You can’t just take something like that back…

You bit your lip, trying to keep your cool.

You: I’m just not ready for this.

He responded after a few seconds.

Lix🐥: Me neither but…well, I kinda feel the same way… 😶😶

You: Wait, what?

Lix🐥: Yeah. I didn’t want to say it first ‘cause I was nervous. But I do… love you.

Your breath hitched and you let out a nervous chuckle.

You: I can’t believe that we’re doing this over text.

Lix🐥: You could also just come back up here, you know 🫢

Your heart thudded in your ears.

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. But nothing you could say felt big enough for what was happening. So instead, you just stared at the blinking cursor.

You could also just come back up, you know.

You glanced up the staircase.

For a second, your brain screamed every excuse—it’s too soon, you’re being impulsive, what if this ruins things, what if you misunderstood him, what if, what if—

Then, before you could fully talk yourself out of it, your feet were moving – one step, two, three steps – faster until you were back at the top of the stairs, standing outside his door again, completely breathless.

You raised your hand to knock, but before you could, the door creaked open.

Felix stood there, hair slightly messy like he’d run his fingers through it too many times, his expression caught somewhere between terrified and radiant. His cheeks were just as red as yours felt.

Neither of you said anything at first.

Then he laughed – soft, breathless, disbelieving.

“I thought you might run the other way,” he said, voice low.

“I almost did,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I kinda meant it.”

His smile was slow, tentative, but real. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Without another word, he stepped forward, arms slipping around you gently, like he didn’t want to scare you away. But you melted into it, your hands gripping the back of his shirt.

The hug lingered – warm and quiet and absolutely terrifying in the best way.

You pulled back just slightly to look at him. “So… what now?”

He grinned, the nervous kind that made your heart do backflips. “Now we start whatever this is. Together.”

Seungmin (him)

Seungmin was unusually quiet today as you strolled through the park – not in a brooding way, more in a content, peaceful kind of silence. The kind of quiet that made you feel safe. His fingers brushed yours in lazy circles as he held your hand, and every now and then, he’d bump your shoulder playfully.

You were mid-rant about the terrible instant coffee you tried earlier, flailing your arms to illustrate your suffering, when he chuckled and said it.

Not loudly. Not even on purpose, it seemed.

“You're such an idiot, I love you.”

You froze. Mid-step, mid-sentence, eyes widening like you’d seen a ghost.

His steps slowed just half a second. A blink.

You watched his eyes widen for a split second as wekk, like even he hadn’t realized what just slipped out of his mouth. But instead of acknowledging it, he cleared his throat, casually looked up at the trees and said,

“Did you see that squirrel just now? Super chubby.”

…Squirrel?

He nodded solemnly, like this was the most pressing matter of the moment. “Definitely been stealing picnic food.”

You gaped at him. Not because of the squirrel. Because of him.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was doing everything except look at you. Examining the sky. Adjusting his cap. Even tugging his hoodie sleeve over his hand to ‘itch his wrist,’ which he never did.

Meanwhile, internally, he was combusting.

‘You IDIOT. It’s too early. Or is it? Did she hear it? Of course she did. She’s not even breathing. Oh god, she’s not breathing. Is she okay? What if she thinks I didn’t mean it—’

“Seungmin,” you finally croaked.

He turned to you, brows raised so innocently it was almost insulting. “Hmm?”

You opened your mouth, closed it. Your heart was racing, your cheeks hot. You were still trying to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

“You—you just—”

“I what?” he asked way too quickly.

“…The squirrel?”

He gave you a serious nod. “Yeah. Surprisingly round.”

You stared at each other.

And then, you burst out laughing. You couldn't help it. He looked so panicked behind the deadpan act, like he was hanging on by a thread and trying so hard not to make it worse. Your laughter only seemed to make him squirm more, but then – you saw the tiniest smile creep up on his lips. Still pretending nothing happened. Still pretending his heart wasn’t absolutely racing.

You leaned into his shoulder, trying to steady your breathing. “I think the squirrel’s in love with you,” you teased.

He blinked. Then looked away again, a small huff of laughter escaping him. “…That’s crazy,” he muttered. “It didn’t even get me coffee.”

You didn’t say ‘I love you too’. Not yet. But your hand squeezed his tighter.

And maybe that was enough – for now.

Inside, he was still freaking out. But outside, he was smiling.

I.N (you)

“I’ll see you tonight, right?” you said, fingers smoothing the collar of his hoodie out of reflex. You didn’t even think about it anymore. It was just something your hands did.

He caught your wrist, his fingers warm around yours. “Text me when you get there. And when you get off.”

“You say that every time,” you said, trying to make it light. Like it didn’t always twist something in your chest.

“And you never do,” he grinned, pulling you closer.

You kissed him before your nerves stoped you. Just a quick thing. Meant to be harmless. But when you pulled back, your lips still brushing his—

“I love you,” you murmured against his lips.

You didn’t mean to. Not like that. Not now. The words just slipped through before the gate could shut.

Everything stopped. Him. You. The air. Time.

Your eyes widened, the weight of what you’d said crashing into your chest like a wave. You stepped back instinctively, hand flying to your mouth like you could shove the words back in.

“I—I didn’t mean to say that,” you stammered, cheeks flaming. “Forget I said that! Oh my god.”

Jeongin blinked, then swallowed.

“You didn’t... mean it?” His voice was quiet. Not teasing this time. Just uncertain.

You shook your head too quickly. “No! I mean — I don’t know. It just slipped out. I wasn’t thinking. It’s complicated, right?” You laughed nervously, and the sound felt brittle. “I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

He looked down, then ran a hand through his hair, clearly thrown. “Okay. Yeah. No, I get it. Totally.”

A pause stretched between you, taut and trembling.

“It’s not that it’s weird,” he said finally. “It’s just… new.”

You swallowed hard, your heartbeat loud in your ears. “I just don't want to scare you off. Or pressure you. I don’t even know if I’m ready for... that. Saying those words like they’re simple.”

“Neither am I,” he said, voice low. “But maybe we don’t have to figure it all out tonight. Maybe we just... be in this.”

You gave a shaky laugh. “I’m two seconds away from jumping out the window, by the way.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’d prefer you used the door. Less dramatic. Less broken bones.”

You cracked a smile, despite the knot in your stomach. He was still here. That meant something. “Seriously though. That was embarrassing.”

“Yeah,” he said, and his grin softened, “but I’m kind of glad you said it.”

You looked up at him, startled. “You are?”

He nodded, and this time, there was something certain behind it. “Yeah. Even if we don’t know what to do with it yet.”

For a moment, the noise of the city faded. It was just the two of you, caught in the warm glow of something unspoken – something almost said.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Not relief, exactly. Just... less panic.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But tonight – text me when you get there. And when you get off.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t wobble this time. “Yeah, yeah. I will just.. not sleep tonight, I guess.”

masterlist

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prototypesteve · 13 hours ago

Text

I was that character.

Before I understood what I really was, I was assigned Heterosexual By Default, like nearly everyone in Generation X.

There’s a lot to explore. I think I need, at most, another year to finish recovering from what was a bad, bad 12 years of trying to become something I was told I was, but that I wasn’t, not to mention the nightmarish confused lead-up.

But I think it’s important to get that stuff represented. Ellis’ story in Loveless is powerful, but brief, and as someone who had an experience Ellis’, you have to read a lot between the lines, and even that was almost too close, and too real. But I think people like me need to know that what they went through wasn’t just a farce or a few cute “oh, you don’t like this, do you?” Awkward moments. For some of us it was more like hiding and losing ourselves, and “knowing” we were alone in this experience so no rescue was coming other than maybe some kind of disaster of people discovered how we really felt, even though we weren’t sure how to explain how we really felt.

The space between first hearing the word “sex” as a kid, and first hearing the words “asexual is also an orientation” is, for older asexuals, often a large, and very dark space that we’ve painted over with garish, dismissive, “oh haha yeah that,” emotional graffiti.

Photo: Panoramic 180° view from the middle of Merlin’s Cave, a natural tunnel near Tintagel, in Cornwall. I still do not know what possessed me to go into this place.

Photos below: The view from about 5-10 meters inside the tunnel. A wider view of the land mass the cave tunnel cuts through, and a view of the not-at-all upsetting entrance to Merlin’s Cave.

“Come on in. We have stories.”

You know what? Forget the discourse. This is no longer my hill to die on.

You wanna ship canonically aspec characters because “aro/ace people can still date/have sex”? Okay, then. LET’S DO IT. I wanna see an aromantic character with an alloromantic love interest. I wanna see that confession of undying love and the moment when the aro character says they will never feel the same way—not romantically.

I wanna see the asexual character with their allosexual partner. I wanna see that moment when the ace characters tries sex with their partner for the first time because they want to make them happy only to realize that they are 100% sex repulsed.

I wanna see the two demiromantics who don’t even know if what they feel is romantic attraction, but they adore each other and just want to make healthy snacks together and destroy each other at Mario Kart.

I wanna see the two aces who love sensual affection and are figuring out what they define as sexual or not.

I wanna see the romance + sex neutral aroace who happily and consensually does whatever makes their partner happy…but their partner still struggles with feeling undesired.

Oh, babe. You thought shipping an aspec character would be just like shipping an allo character?

#asexual #asexuality #aromantic #aromanticism #asexual representation #aromantic representation #it won’t be pretty or cute or what you’re expecting but it will be real #Alastor sit down I have a story for you that will make you fear the Walkman Demon the way they fear the Radio Demon

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cloudyzeusy · 2 days ago

Note

Can you maybe write for sugar baby bakugou again maybe with the CEO reader having to go on a business trip and wouldn’t be home for a week of so?

One Week Too Long

pairing: sugar baby!katsuki X top male reader

It was late at night and the click of your suitcase was to be heard in your room, over the distant hum of Tokyo traffic.

Beyond the glass windows, the city glowed softly- alive and constant, indifferent to the silence inside.

Bakugo was currently shirtless, in just sweatpants. His arms were crossed, jaw clenched, leg bouncing. You tried to ignore the weight of his gaze burning into the side of your face- fustrated.

He shifted for the fifth time, arms crossed like a grumpy statue carved from gold and muscle.

Bakugou had been lying on your bed for twenty minutes or so, saying nothing- but sulking so loudly you could hear it.

He has also taken to sighing loudly clearly fishing for your attention. But nothing was going to change your mind.

Finally he broke the silence."Why the fuck do you need to be gone that long? Can’t you send one of your damn assistant drones to handle it?” He grumbled.

You weren't fazed by his irritation, you had seen every side of after all.

After folding the last piece into your suitcase, you got up and walked toward the bed. “It’s an important merger. If I don’t go, the deal falls apart. I’ll only be gone for seven days.” You explaind gently but firmly for the tenth time.“You can survive without me for a little while, can’t you?”

As you passed him to grab your phone he grabbed your wrist. “But this whole week’s bullshit.” His brow furrowed, he was trying to act tough, but it didn’t quite land he looked more like a sulky boyfriend than 'Dynamight'.

You moved closer to him running a hand through his hair. He leaned into it despite the eye roll he sent your way. You knelt at the edge of the bed so you could properly comfort him. “I’ll call you every day. Morning and night. No excuses.”

“Tch. The bed’s gonna be cold without you.” He muttered but you knew what he actually meant 'I'll miss you'.

“You know I hate leaving you. I’ll bring back that whiskey you like. And maybe a few surprises.” You promised softly.

“I’m not some pet you throw money at when you’re busy.” He snorted but didn’t pull away. Then a few seconds later...

“Better be fuckin’ good surprises.”

You smirked at that and leaned in for a goodbye kiss, letting your fingers slide into his hair—soft, thick, just a little messy from how many times he’d run his hands through it tonight. Katsuki’s arms came around your waist instantly, tight and possessive, like if he just held you hard enough, maybe you wouldn’t go.

Your mouths hovered a breath apart, your noses brushing. His breath hitched- sharp and shallow and you felt it ghost across your lips, warm and impatient.

When you finally kissed him, it was slow and steady. His lips were warm and just a little chapped, like he’d been chewing at them the whole time you were packing.

He made a sound low in his throat, not quite a growl but more like a hum of relief. As if your mouth on his was the only thing grounding him.

Your hand tightened in his hair as his grip on your waist pulled you even closer. Just the way he clung to you like he was afraid the second you pulled away, you’d disappear.

After Bakugou slightly moved back to say raspily. “Call me every night. No excuses. Or I’m flying my ass out there.”

“Promise. Every night.” You brushed your thumb over his cheek.

You zipped up your suitcase and turned toward the bedroom light. Bakugou tugged the blanket over his lap like it might replace your warmth.

“Seven days,” You whispered. “Just seven.”

“Too fuckin’ long,” he muttered, eyes never leaving you, even as you closed the door behind you.

It was day 3 of your trip and Katsuki laid on your side of the bed, staring at the ceiling like it had answers. The glow of his phone screen was the only light in the dark room. 1:42 a.m. Yet there was still nothing.

He had kept checking his phone throughout the day for any new missed calls, new messages- but other than the one blurry photo you sent earlier with the caption “crazy day. miss u,” there was nothing.

He had then taken to scrolling through texts. Rereading voice messages from Day 2.

He swiped down on the screen again. Still no new messages. His thumb hovered over your contact name for the hundredth time.

“Tch,” He muttered, rolling to his side. “ You said you’d call.”

He kept tossing the blanket off, then pulling them back on as he couldn’t sleep.

Finally he had had enough pulling up your number. He stared at the mic button for a long second, then pressed it.

“You forgot.” The words came out sharper than he meant.“Bet you’re too busy-” he scoffed under his breath. “-wearin’ that tight-ass blazer, flashin’ that look you only give me…”

Yes he sounded pouty and jealous bit he sidnt care at this point. He was a sugar baby after all(he had gotten used to saying that).

He stared at the blinking mic icon again, thumb hovering. This time, his voice came out softer.

“...Just wanna hear your voice, dumbass.”

He got up rummaging through your closet and found one of your shirts, half-folded on the closet shelf, and pulled it close.

It smelled like you- clean, expensive. It was the only thing in the room that did.

He curled up on the bed, one hand fisted in the fabric, the other still holding the phone.

“Call me, damn it,” He whispered to the dark, even though he knew you wouldn’t hear it. Wrapped in your scent, Katsuki finally closed his eyes.

The champagne flute twirled in your fingers as you nodded through another pointless conversation.

You had been to 3 of these cocktail parties already to 'keep up appearances' as your first assistant put it. But you had had enough they were all the same exact thing.

You didn’t even hear anything he said. You were too busy imagining Katsuki's voice instead.

It didn't help the sleazy executive's case that he was trying to flirt with you. He was getting on your nerves with his loud laugh, cheap cologne and how he kept touching your arm.

You finally had enough when he called you “handsome” with a smirk.

You pulled out your phone under the table to tease Katsuki over text.

> This guy’s trying to flirt with me. You’d hate him.

As soon as you sent the text he read it immediately as if he was just waiting for you to text.

His FaceTime request popped up within seconds. And he didn't even bother to greet you.

You smiled softly as you accepted and Bakugou’s face filled the screen- lit by his bedside lamp, glaring at you.

“Show me his face so I know who to kill.” He bit out, definitely not joking.

You let out a low laugh, discreetly tipping your phone toward the guy just for fun.

“You’re so dramatic. He doesn’t even bench half what you do.”

“I don’t care who talks to you. At the end of the night, I’m the only one you come home to.”

“Go somewhere private. Now. I don’t care if it’s the damn coat closet. Move.”

You excuse yourself from the crowd with a polite nod and a half-hearted smile, barely listening as the exec keeps talking. Katsuki’s face was still frozen on the screen, eyes sharp like he’s seconds away from flying out to find you himself.

Your voice is low, almost a warning: “Don’t hang up.”

You weave through the maze of people, past clinking glasses and fake laughter, until you slip out a side door into a quiet hallway. There was a few potted plants, some abstract art, but most importantly privacy.

You spot a tucked-away corner just before the restrooms and duck into it. There was a low light and no footsteps nearby.

“Better?” You murmured into the camera. “No one else here but you.”

Katsuki's smirk is slow and dangerous.

“Good. Now put the phone somewhere steady. I want both your hands free.”

You leaned against the cool wall of the empty hallway, phone balanced in your hand as Bakugou’s face filled the screen. He wasn’t lounging anymore. He had one arm behind his head, abs flexed, the other resting idly by his side.

His eyes dragged over you through the screen, hungry.

“You miss me, don’t you?”

His voice came through your phone’s speaker, low and rasping. You exhaled hard, letting your head fall back against the wall.

“Bet your cock’s hard just from hearing my voice.”

You didn’t answer, just bit your lip, your free hand moving to loosen your tie. You slipped the knot loose and reached for your shirt buttons, undoing them slowly with one hand, eyes locked on him the whole time.

He watched silently, fire in his gaze. “Touch yourself. Think of me. Let me hear how much you miss me.”

Your fingers slipped lower. The buckle of your belt clinked open loud in the quiet space around you.

You hissed softly as you palmed yourself through the fabric of your slacks, the pressure instantly relieving.

You pulled out your cock from your boxers camera angled towards it so Katsuki could see exactly what he was missing.

Katsuki’s voice was commanding as he said “Stroke it slow. I wanna hear how desperate you are.”

You obeyed without thinking, hand wrapping around yourself as you let out a quiet, shuddering breath. The soft, slick sound of your movements filled the space between you, echoed faintly through the phone.

Katsuki didn’t touch himself. He didn’t need to. His pleasure was in watching, in hearing you unravel from nothing but his voice.

He licked his lips slowly, eyes half-lidded, hungry. “Yeah... just like that. Don’t fuckin’ rush it.”

Your hips twitched, the tightness building far too fast. You groaned low in your throat, breath catching.

“Don’t cum until I say so.”

His tone sharpened, low and cutting. You forced your hand to slow, trembling with the effort.

“Katsuki...” You gasped, voice hoarse. “I need you.”

That made him smirk- cocky and cruel in the way only he could be. But his eyes softened just enough to let the truth slip through: he missed you just as much.

“Say it again.”

“I need you.”

“Say my name.”

You moaned for him, wrecked and breathless. “Katsuki...”

“Louder.”

“Katsuki-” You bit your lip, head falling back against the wall. “Can’t wait ‘til I’m home. Gonna ruin you.”

He growled softly, teeth sinking into his bottom lip, though he still didn’t touch himself.

“You better. You fuckin’ better ruin me, daddy.”

And then, quieter: “Now. Come for me.”

You didn’t need to be told twice.

Your body tensed, jaw clenching as the climax ripped through you. You came with a low groan, hand tight around yourself, back arching off the wall.

The aftershocks made your thighs tremble. You blinked up at the ceiling, chest heaving, the quiet of the hallway pulling you back down.

And through the speaker low, and so smug- his voice cut through the haze.

“Good. You’re mine. No one else gets you like that.”

You glanced down at the screen. Bakugou hadn’t moved, hadn’t touched himself, but his eyes burned like he had. He was smirking now, lazy and proud, lips parted just enough to show teeth.

“You better be on the first flight home. I want you here. In this bed. Tomorrow.”

You wiped your hand on your inner shirt, fingers still shaking a little as you caught your breath. The sight of him- stretched out on your bed in your shirt, made your mouth dry all over again.

You exhaled slowly, dragging your fingers through your hair as your breath evened out. You zipped up your trousers back up.

You brought the phone back to your ear, voice still rough, but steady this time.

“Last meeting’s tomorrow,” You said, tucking your shirt back in with one hand. “I’ll be home before you wake up.”

There was a pause- long enough to make you think the call had dropped- until you heard his voice again.

“Damn right you will. And you’re not leavin’ me again.”

Then the line went dead.

You stared at your reflection in the dark glass of the nearby window, lips twitching into a small smile.

Not a chance in hell.

You unlocked the penthouse door as quietly as you could, rolling your suitcase in behind you. The lights were low, golden and soft just the way he liked them when winding down for the night.

You had expected silence or maybe the distant hum of the city through the windows. Maybe Bakugou asleep, curled into your side of the bed like he’d done on the nights you missed your calls.

Instead, you saw him sitting on the couch waiting impatiently.

The low table in front of him held your favorite whiskey. One glass in his hand and another beside it was left untouched.

His eyes cut to you the second the door clicked shut.

You dropped your keys onto the entryway tray, voice low. “I missed you.”

He didn’t say a damn word.

Didn’t ask how the trip went.

Didn’t ask about the flight.

Didn’t ask if you were tired.

He slammed the glass down, stood in one sharp motion, and strode to you like he was ready to fight.

You barely had time to take a breath before his hands fisted in your shirt, dragging you down into a kiss. His mouth crashed against yours, frantic and you let him take what he needed.

His hands roamed up your chest, nails scratching over fabric, and you pressed him back into the nearest wall, pinning him there like gravity itself was helping you prove a point.

“I fuckin’ hate you,” He breathed between kisses, lips swollen. “Hate when you’re gone. Hate when my chest hurts like this.”

“I know,” You whispered, dragging your mouth along his throat. “I’m home now.”

“Not good enough.”

Your mouth found his again, teeth clashing. He pulled at your jacket like it personally offended him, like every layer separating you was the enemy. You hoisted him up by the thighs, his legs instinctively locking around your waist as you walked him toward the bedroom, never once breaking the kiss.

His thighs trembled around your waist, still caged there from when you carried him in. You had him laid out against the sheets now back arched, mouth open and panting like you’d taken all the air out of the room just by touching him.

“You’re gonna kill me,” Bakugou muttered, trying to sound annoyed, but his voice cracked on the last syllable. “Leavin’ me all fuckin’ week and comin’ home lookin’ like that.”

“Like what?” You murmured, dragging your mouth along the sharp line of his jaw, then lower, over the flushed stretch of his throat.

“Like you’re gonna fuckin’ devour me.”

Your grin wolfish.“That’s the idea.”

He gasped when your teeth scraped his collarbone. Your other hand gripped his hip tight, pressing him down against the mattress as you ground your hips between his legs- just once and he swore, head tipping back like he couldn’t decide if he wanted to curse you or beg.

“Katsuki.” Your voice was low, gravel-edged from need. “Look at me.”

He did. Red eyes glossy, pupils blown wide, lips bitten pink and trembling.

“Tell me whose you are.”

“You already- fuck you already know,” He choked out, bucking against you.

"Say it anyway.”

You slid down his body slowly, savouring the way his breath hitched every time your lips brushed his skin. His chest heaved when you kissed just under his navel, his fists clutching the sheets tight.

“I’m yours,” he finally rasped. “I’m always yours. Only yours.”

You shoved his legs apart and licked into the sweat-slick crease of his thigh like a man starved. He let out a desperate noise- one you’d only ever dragged out of him when he was like this: needy.

You didn’t make him wait long.

One slick push in and his back arched off the mattress with a broken gasp. His thighs trembled around your hips. You kissed hickeys all over his body, while your hands pinned him down and your hips began to move.

It wasn’t fast. Not at first.

You wanted him to feel every inch of you inside him, every bit of the stretch. Wanted desperately to imprint yourself on him again, like your body could convince him you weren’t going anywhere.

“You miss this?” You whispered into the shell of his ear. “Miss me inside you?”

He whimpered. Couldn’t even speak. Just nodded fast and clung to your arms like he’d fall apart without you.

“Didn’t even touch yourself, did you?” You groaned, nipping at his neck. “Wanted to save it for me.”

His voice was thin and cracking when he said, “Wasn’t the same. It’s never the fuckin’ same.”

You kissed him again, harder this time your rhythm picking up, pace growing punishing. And Bakugou was loud now, no longer trying to hold it in. He was panting your name between moans, his hands tangling in your hair as you rocked into him again and again.

“Fuck, fuck- I’m gonna-”

“Let go, Katsuki. I’ve got you.”

He came with a strangled cry, body locking tight around you. You kept fucking him through it, riding out every wave of it, until you were barely holding yourself together.

You spilled inside him with a low groan, buried so deep in him it felt like there was no part of him that wasn’t yours.

You didn’t pull out right away.

You just stayed there, holding him close, your breath ragged in his ear.

You cleaned him up carefully, letting him hiss when the washcloth passed over sensitive skin. He mumbled something snarky, but he was too tired to sound convincing and when you pulled the blankets over both of you, he immediately curled into your chest like muscle memory.

His fingers fisted your shirt. He didn’t even realize he was doing it.

“One fuckin’ week,” he muttered again, voice half-slurred with exhaustion. “And I was losin’ my damn mind…”

“I know,” You whispered into his hair. “I’m not leaving you like that again.”

“You better not,” he grumbled. “I’ll riot and handcuff myself to your suitcase.”

You laughed softly and kissed the top of his head. “Deal.”

He drifted off like that—wrapped in your arms, still fisting your shirt like he was scared you’d slip away in the night.

But you weren't ever leaving.

You never wanted to go through that week apart again.

So, quietly you started rearranging your schedule. Cutting down on those long trips that was longer than a day, moving meetings around, and booking flights only when absolutely necessary.

Every decision you made had him in the back of your mind- his face, that fierce gaze, the way he held onto you like he was afraid you’d disappear.

The first big change was giving him a key to your office.

He didn’t ask for it outright. You just showed up one day, key in hand, and watched his eyes sharpen with something like surprise but maybe grudging approval.

“Now you can come whenever,” you said with a smirk.

He didn’t smile. Instead, he took the key and said, “Good.”

From then on, he started tagging along more.

Sometimes he’d sit silently in the corner, arms crossed, glaring down anyone who dared interrupt your calls or meetings. Other times, he’d lean back on the office couch, scrolling through his phone or just watching you work.

(Like a true sugar baby)

One evening, you found yourself working late again. The glow of your laptop screen was the only light in the room.

Katsuki was curled up on the couch beside you, head resting on your lap, his breathing slow and even.

You reached down to run your fingers through his hair, careful not to wake him.

He was yours- stubborn and fiercely protective- and here, in this small quiet moment, you wouldn’t change it for anything.

#zeus's asks #zeusy☁️#sub character #top male reader #seme male reader #x top male reader #bnha #katsuki x male reader #katsuki bakugo x reader #mha x reader

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