#feeling a bit fragile tonight

[foxybouquet]

Watched this again. 💔 I’m not over him and I’m never going to be.

His sweet face💋💋💋

Please don’t ever go.

[dare-g]

I've been to a number of 35mm showings lately and even when they're new releases the films have noticable damage to them and I am wondering why that is? Is it just inevitable wear and tare because film is fragile? Is someone rough with them? Something else?

[brunchable]

𝙄 𝘿𝙤𝙣'𝙩 𝙒𝙖𝙣𝙩 𝙔𝙤𝙪 𝙇𝙞𝙠𝙚 𝙖 𝘽𝙚𝙨𝙩 𝙁𝙧𝙞𝙚𝙣𝙙

Part Two

Pairings: Bucky Barnes x f!Reader

Themes: Heavy Mutual Pinining, Heavy Sexual Tension, Longing, Yearning, Right Person-Wrong Time. Friends to Lovers, a bit Angsty but Happy Ending. SMUT: Touch Hungry Bucky, Kiss Hungry Bucky, Bucky being obsessed with tiddies, unprotected piv, creampie.

Summary: Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled you in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.

A/N: This is a Two Shot, so another one will be coming soon.

tags: @hzdhrtss @winterslove1917 @classicrebound

The first time it really hits is when you see him with her.

It’s a crowded room, warm bodies pressed close together, the low hum of music barely louder than the thudding in your chest as you watch Bucky Barnes wrap his arm around the waist of a woman you don’t know. 

She’s beautiful, of course—someone you'd expect to be by his side. Her laugh is soft, melting into his as he leans in close, whispering something that lights her face up, his lips brushing her ear like he can’t help himself.

You glance down at your drink, the sudden bitterness pooling in your throat harder to swallow than the wine. You tell yourself to look away, that it’s none of your business who he holds, but you can’t. Every time you look up, he’s there, still wrapped around her, laughing at something she’s said, his hand resting on her back in a way that feels too familiar, too tender. You know that look—the way his fingers splay protectively, pulling her close like she belongs to him. Like he’s finally let someone in.

It’s torture, standing there with a smile plastered on your face, pretending not to notice. Pretending that it doesn’t crush you.

Because when you’re alone—when you’re single—he’s taken. And when he’s got nobody, you do. Every single time. You’ve gotten used to seeing him across rooms, with someone else in his arms, with that look in his eyes that you wish, desperately, could be meant for you.

And he’s always looking at you that same way, that glance just a second too long, that warmth held back by a fragile thread of restraint. Just enough to keep the lines from blurring.

Tonight, he finally looks away.

When he glances up, catches sight of you, his smile falters. For a moment, it’s just the two of you, and something soft flickers in his eyes—something like regret, the same regret you carry. But her hand tightens on his arm, and he turns back to her, his smile returning, wider than before. You hate how easily he can pull away from you, how quickly he can make you feel invisible.

“Hey, Bucky,” you manage, your voice steady though it feels like your chest is caving in.

He looks at you, an unreadable expression on his face. 

“Hey.” His gaze drops, and for a second, you think he might actually say something, that he might admit that this hurts him too. But then she shifts closer, and he wraps his arm around her more firmly, giving you a look that’s both a dare and a dismissal.

“This is Emily,” he says, and she gives you a polite, too-sweet smile.

“Oh.” You swallow, forcing yourself to meet her gaze. “I didn’t know… I hadn’t realized you were…” You can’t finish, the words catching in your throat.

“Yeah.” Bucky’s tone is almost too casual, too final. “We’re together.”

The finality of it slices through you, sharp and clean. You nod, trying to hold onto whatever scraps of dignity you have left, but all you can manage is, “Well… congratulations. I’m… I’m glad you’re happy.”

There’s a flicker of something behind his eyes—anger? Hurt? But his jaw tightens, and he nods, looking away as if to spare you. 

“Thanks. I appreciate it,” he says, his voice steady, controlled.

Emily pulls him closer, a satisfied smile curving her lips as she glances at you. 

“He’s incredible, isn’t he?” she says, and there’s a challenge in her tone, a silent declaration that she’s won, that whatever you think you had with him is nothing compared to this. She presses a kiss to his cheek, her fingers curling possessively around his shoulder as she tilts her head, catching his gaze.

“Yeah,” you murmur, your voice hollow. “Yeah, he is.”

And for a brief, desperate second, you think he might look at you—really look at you, see how much this is tearing you apart. But he doesn’t. His gaze is on her, soft and full of warmth, a look he’s given you a thousand times. And it feels like he’s choosing her, like he’s making the decision to let go of whatever fragile orbit kept you two circling each other all this time.

You turn away, trying to hold yourself together, but the ache in your chest is all-consuming, a raw, relentless reminder that he’s moved on. That he’s chosen her.

And as you walk away, you can still hear their laughter, the sound twisting like a knife in your chest, leaving you wondering if he was ever yours to lose.

And then one night, fate flips, and you’re the one with someone new by your side.

It’s been months since you last saw Bucky. You assumed he was out of your life for good, until tonight, when you walk into the cozy warmth of a private dining room in a restaurant, your hand firmly held by your boyfriend Andrew. It’s Steve’s dinner party, a small gathering of friends, and the lighthearted chatter fills the air, mixing with the warm glow from the dimmed overhead lights.

You’re laughing at something your boyfriend said as you step into the room, but your laughter dies in your throat when you see him.

Bucky is seated across the table, leaning back casually in his chair, but the moment his eyes meet yours, a spark flickers there—surprise, mingled with something darker, something that quickens your pulse. You hadn’t expected him to be here tonight, and judging by the way his gaze lingers, he hadn’t expected you either.

Steve stands, grinning as he greets you and Andrew, and you introduce him to everyone. You smile, trying to seem natural as you move around the table, your hand still resting in your boyfriend’s. But it feels wrong, the warmth of your boyfriend’s fingers against yours suddenly strange, like it doesn’t quite belong.

When you reach Bucky, he stands, his jaw tense, his eyes unwavering as he offers a hand to shake. You almost expect him to make some dry remark, to cover up whatever unspoken tension lies between you. But he’s silent as he grips Andrew’s hand firmly, while looking at you. His fingers are steady, a touch too tight, like he’s barely holding something back.

“So, you’re the boyfriend,” Bucky says, his voice calm but laced with something you can’t quite place.

Your boyfriend laughs, unaware of the tension. “Yeah, I am. And you’re the famous Bucky I keep hearing about.”

Bucky’s lips twitch into a half-smile, but his eyes remain cold. 

“I’m sure you have.” He releases your boyfriend’s hand, his gaze shifting back to you, lingering a second too long before he forces himself to look away.

It should feel like a victory—that, for once, you’re the one who’s found happiness while he’s left to watch. But the second you meet his eyes, the air shifts. You feel the weight of everything unspoken, of the years that have passed with both of you just out of reach, orbiting each other but never colliding.

You take your seat next to your boyfriend, aware of every brush of his arm against yours, every gentle squeeze of his hand on your knee under the table. He leans close, murmuring something soft and sweet, and you offer a small smile, but your focus is entirely on Bucky, sitting across the table, his gaze flickering between you and Andrew, his jaw set with that same restrained tension.

As the night wears on, Bucky remains quiet, only contributing here and there to the conversation, but each time he speaks, his words feel weighted, almost directed at you.

“So,” he says, finally breaking the silence, his voice cutting through the chatter, “I’m guessing you’re happy?”

The question is simple enough, but there’s a challenge hidden beneath it, a question he doesn’t ask outright.

“Yes, I am,” you say, your voice firmer than you feel, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. “Happier than I’ve been in a long time.”

Your boyfriend glances over, squeezing your hand, unaware of the undercurrents in the room. 

“She’s stuck with me now,” he jokes, nudging you. “No escape.”

You laugh softly, but the sound feels hollow, especially when you catch Bucky’s expression—something dark and raw flashing in his eyes before he schools his features again.

“Good for you both,” Bucky replies, the smile on his face not quite reaching his eyes. “It’s about time.”

There’s a pause, the kind that seems to echo louder than any conversation, and you can feel Bucky’s gaze burning into you, filled with a thousand things he can’t say. Your chest tightens as the weight of everything unsaid settles heavily between you, filling the air with a tension you’re certain everyone can feel.

As people start to leave, you find yourself alone with Bucky by the door. Your boyfriend is across the room, saying goodbyes, and it’s just you and Bucky in the dimly lit entryway, a fragile bubble of space and time.

“So…” His voice is low, almost too soft, his eyes searching yours. “This is it, then?”

There’s a vulnerability in his words that pierces through you, a rawness you’ve never heard before. It’s as if he’s waiting for you to deny it.

You glance away, your voice barely a whisper. “Yep. This is it.”

A shadow crosses his face, and he just stands there, watching you, his gaze heavy. He doesn’t say anything for awhile, his hand lingering just inches from yours, as though he’s contemplating reaching out, breaking whatever boundary lies between you. The air feels thick, and you wonder if he can hear the frantic beat of your heart.

But he lets his hand fall back to his side. 

“Guess there’s nothing left to say,” he murmurs, a bitter edge coloring his voice. His eyes linger on you, as if he’s memorizing every detail, every second of this final, silent goodbye.

You open your mouth, but the words die on your lips, caught between everything you want to say and everything you can’t. You reach out, almost instinctively, but Andrew calls your name from across the room, his voice shattering the fragile stillness.

Bucky’s gaze flickers, and he takes a step back, his expression falling into something guarded. 

“Take care, doll,” he says softly, the words laced with both a goodbye and a promise. His eyes linger on you one last time, and then he’s gone, slipping out into the night.

He’d spent years replacing your lips with so many others, all in an attempt to forget the mark you left on him.

Bucky can't decide if the universe loves him or hates him. Maybe it loves to hate him. Maybe it's mischievous. Because he’s in love. He’s madly, deeply, painfully in love with a girl that he knows he’ll never have. Because the heavens created arguably the most perfect creature in their repertoire, dangled her in front of him for his entire life, and chose to rip you away before he had the chance to tell you how he felt.

× × × × 

Present

It’s one of those nights, another dinner gathering among friends, the kind that’s almost become routine. You’re already seated in the cozy living room, surrounded by the familiar warmth of Steve’s place. The soft glow of lamps and low bable of conversation wrap around you like a comfortable blanket, and for the first time in a long time, you’re truly at ease.

Beside you, Sam nudges your shoulder. 

“Hey Boo,” he says, a teasing smirk tugging at his lips, “remember when you and Bucky were practically attached at the hip? What happened there?”

The question catches you off guard, and you feel warmth creeping up your neck as a few heads turn, curious eyes glancing your way. You roll your eyes, nudging him back. 

“Leave it to you to bring that up, Sam.”

He chuckles, unrelenting. “C’mon, just saying. You two were tight. I mean, tight.”

You let out a small, nervous laugh, feeling the weight of a few more gazes on you, even if they aren’t pushing the question. 

“It’s… complicated,” you finally say, giving him a look that tells him to drop it. But Sam just chuckles, clearly amused, like he knows something no one else does.

“Complicated.” He echoes with a slow nod, a knowing grin spreading. “Right. Complicated.”

“You’re so annoying,” you mutter, barely suppressing a smile, but you can’t deny the fondness in your tone. Sam just winks, nudging you again, and the others quickly move on, the brief moment of attention fading as conversation flows around you.

And that’s when the front door opens, and you hear his voice.

“Sorry I’m late,” Bucky calls out, his deep voice filling the space effortlessly as he steps in, slightly flushed from the cold outside. His eyes scan the room, and the moment they land on you, you swear the air shifts, that it crackles with something electric, something only the two of you seem to feel.

Your heart stumbles over itself as he walks further into the room, tugging off his jacket and offering smiles and nods to everyone. But it’s like a magnetic pull—his eyes keep flickering back to you, and each time it does, your stomach does a nervous, excited flip.

He looks good. Better than good, really. There’s a slight scruff along his jaw, and his hair falls just so, framing his face in a way that makes you want to reach out and touch it. When he finally reaches the empty chair directly across from you, he stops, fingers lingering on the back of it.

“Mind if I sit here?” he asks, his voice low, and there’s something almost hesitant in his eyes, like he’s waiting for permission to be close to you.

You shake your head, trying to keep your cool, even though every part of you is screaming, yes, sit, sit right here and don’t you dare move.

“No, go ahead,” you reply, hoping your voice sounds steady.

He sits, close enough that you could reach out and touch him if you wanted, and the faint scent of his cologne drifts over, warm and familiar, making your head spin.

As he settles in, he leans slightly closer, a soft smile tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Long time no see.”

“Feels that way, doesn’t it?” you murmur, feeling your cheeks warm under his gaze. Every subtle movement, every small smile he throws your way feels like it’s weaving a thread around you both, pulling you in.

The conversation around you resumes, but it’s like you’re in a bubble, the two of you orbiting each other again. Every so often, his knee brushes yours under the table, just enough to send a shiver up your spine, to make you bite back a smile. His hand rests on the table between you, his fingers drumming absently, and you find yourself staring at them, remembering every time those hands had nearly, almost touched yours.

After a lull in conversation, he clears his throat, glancing at you sideways. 

“So… where’s the boyfriend?” he asks, almost casually, but you catch the underlying question. His tone is light, but his eyes are cautious, searching yours, looking for an answer he can’t ask outright.

You raise a brow, unable to hide the grin pulling at your lips. 

“Well,” you say, tilting your head slightly as you meet his gaze, “the lack of presence should answer your question.”

For a second, Bucky just stares, and then a slow, dawning smile spreads across his face, his whole expression softening, the guardedness falling away. He looks like he’s holding back from saying something, his fingers tapping out a rhythm on the table, his knee pressing just a little more against yours as he leans in.

And before you can think twice, you match his question with your own, barely above a whisper. “And where’s your girlfriend, Bucky?”

“Nonexistent.” he said almost instantly.

His eyes hold yours, and something subtle shifts in them—a hint of a smile playing at his lips, but he doesn’t look away though he plays it off with a small, casual shrug. “Guess I’ve been waiting for the right person.”

You nod, feeling the smile tugging at your lips despite yourself. 

“Nice,” you say, trying to keep it casual, though your heart’s picking up a pace of its own.

“Yeah… nice.” He lets out a quiet chuckle, raising an eyebrow as if he’s catching onto your attempt at nonchalance. 

Deafening silence settles between you, but it’s charged, a silent exchange that makes you feel more breathless than words ever could. Neither of you seems to move, his knee still brushing yours under the table, and it feels like he’s lingering in your space, right on that line between friend and something more. 

You glance around, feeling the tension rise, and blow your bangs out of your eyes, hoping it might ease the knot in your stomach. But when you sneak a look at him, he’s still staring, his gaze solid, unblinking, and suddenly you’re hyper aware of every tiny shift in the air between you. Your cheeks warm, and you look away quickly, pressing your lips together, but it only makes your heart pound harder.

Your cheeks warm instantly, and you quickly look away, focusing hard on the table.

A small smile tugs at his lips, his voice soft. “Do I make you uncomfortable?”

Your pulse quickens, and you swallow, forcing yourself to meet his gaze. 

“Maybe a little,” you admit, voice barely above a whisper.

A spark lights in his eyes, and his smile widens, soft but undeniably mischievous. 

“Good,” he murmurs, his knee pressing just a fraction closer to yours, enough to send a thrill up your spine. “Because, for the record… you make me a little nervous too.”

Your heart does a flip, and you feel a grin tug at your lips despite yourself. 

“I make you nervous?” You try to keep the surprise out of your voice, but he just nods, his gaze intense, that teasing warmth settling over his expression.

“Yeah, you do,” he says, his tone light but honest, like he’s been waiting to say it. “Especially when you look at me like that.”

“Like what?” you ask, barely breathing.

“Like you’re about to bolt… but part of you doesn’t want to.” His voice is low, and his eyes search yours, as if he’s daring you to deny it.

You feel the smile you’ve been holding back break through, your heart racing as the last of the distance between you seems to dissolve. Just as you’re about to respond, a voice calls from the dining room, breaking the tension as everyone calls you both to join.

“Guess we should go, huh?” Bucky lets out a soft chuckle, pulling back just slightly, though his gaze lingers on yours for a heartbeat longer. 

“Yeah,” you manage, feeling a little breathless.

But as you both stand and head to the dining room, his hand brushes yours, just enough for his pinky to link with yours for a brief, secret moment. The warmth of that tiny touch lingers, and you can’t help but feel like something just shifted between you, something new and thrilling, waiting just under the surface.

× × × ×

As you both step into the dining room, Sam raises an eyebrow, a smirk tugging at his lips. “There they are,” he teases, his voice just loud enough to draw everyone’s attention. “We were wondering what’s taking so long.”

Heat creeps up your cheeks, and you catch Bucky’s gaze, a subtle, knowing smile tugging at the corners of his lips. You feel your pulse quicken, but you don’t say anything, slipping into the room to find only two empty seats—right beside each other.

Bucky gestures to the chair beside him, waiting until you sit before settling in next to you. He settles in beside you, his broad shoulders and steady presence enveloping the space, making you feel smaller.

Conversations swirl around the table, but you’re painfully aware of every tiny shift Bucky makes. The subtle brush of his arm against yours, the steady warmth radiating from his shoulder—it all has your heart racing. His hand rests on the table beside yours, fingers drumming lightly, and your pulse hammers as his knee presses just slightly against yours under the table, a connection so subtle yet electric that it makes your skin tingle.

Then he adjusts his position, angling himself more toward the group—and you. The small movement brings him even closer, and you’re immediately enveloped in his scent, something warm and cedar-like, filling the air around you until it feels almost overwhelming, in the best possible way. You take a slow breath, fighting the urge to close the distance even more, feeling trapped between wanting to be near him and feeling breathless because of it.

As Bucky joins the conversation, you find yourself watching him, captivated by the way he leans in, his voice low and steady, his easy confidence only pulling you in deeper. His lips curve as he speaks, and you can’t help but linger on every detail, the way his eyes light up, the rough timbre of his laugh, every tiny thing about him that’s impossibly distracting.

And then, in the middle of a sentence, his eyes flick back to you, catching you looking. You quickly look away, feeling your cheeks burn as you fixate on your plate, hoping he didn’t notice the way you’d been studying him.

But out of the corner of your eye, you catch the faintest smirk tugging at his lips, like he knows exactly what he’s doing to you. His pinky grazes yours again, a gentle, teasing touch, sending a thrill up your spine as he continues his conversation, his presence unmistakable and impossible to ignore.

You try to focus on anything else, but his gaze keeps finding you, even when you’re not looking. And with every shared glance, every quiet brush of his fingers, the air grows thicker, charged with something unspoken, as if each tiny touch is daring you to lean in, to close that final distance.

You’re doing everything you can to keep your composure, to focus on the laughter and stories being shared. But Bucky’s presence beside you is inescapable, it’s a thrill that’s leaving you silent, lost in your own thoughts as the night goes on.

Sam’s voice suddenly cuts through, pulling you back to reality. 

“Hey,” he says, smirking as he leans back in his chair, his gaze playful but sharp. “You’re unusually quiet tonight. What’s going on with you?”

Feeling everyone’s eyes on you, you force a small laugh, trying to brush off the tension simmering under your skin. 

“Just… food coma, I guess,” you say, waving a hand and attempting a casual smile. 

Sam raises an eyebrow, clearly amused.

“Food coma? Really?” He drags out the words, as if he’s not buying it for a second, and you can see the teasing glint in his eyes. “Pasta’s got you this speechless?”

Beside you, Bucky’s lips twitch, and you can feel his gaze, that familiar, subtle amusement making it impossible not to blush. You risk a quick glance at him, only to find him looking back with that same knowing smirk, like he can see right through every excuse.

“Maybe she’s just tired of all your talking, Sam,” Bucky says smoothly, draping his arm over the back of your chair as he speaks. The movement is so casual, so effortless, that it almost seems like an afterthought. But the warmth of his arm behind you, his fingers just brushing the curve of your shoulder, makes your heart race in ways you can’t ignore. His tone stays casual, but there’s a hint of laughter in his eyes as he looks at Sam, his thumb grazing your shoulder in a subtle, grounding touch.

Sam raises his hands in mock surrender, grinning. “Alright, alright. Just thought I’d check,” he says, throwing a playful wink in your direction.

You feel yourself sink back just slightly, leaning into the warmth of his arm, and it’s impossible to ignore the way his fingers stay near your shoulder, steady and unassuming but unmistakably there. The conversations resume around you, but the space between you and Bucky feels even smaller, the quiet thrill of his touch pulling you in.

He leans in slightly, his voice dropping so only you can hear. 

“That food coma excuse was almost convincing,” he murmurs, his eyes glinting with playful challenge as he watches your reaction.

× × × ×

As the night winds down, people start to gather their things, saying their goodbyes. You slip on your coat, waiting for Sam to finish up his goodbyes, but he suddenly turns to Steve with a grin.

“Hey, Rogers,” Sam says, clapping Steve on the shoulder. “How about we hit that bar down the street? Just a quick nightcap.”

You raise an eyebrow, deadpanning as you fold your arms. “Seriously, Sam?”

He flashes you an unapologetic grin, shrugging. “What? You’re always saying you’re an independent woman. I figured a little alone time wouldn’t hurt.”

���Unbelievable.” You shake your head, muttering, “You’re an asshole.”

Sam just laughs, looking over his shoulder. 

“Hey, maybe Bucky can give you a lift. It’ll be like old times.” He gives you a wink, completely ignoring the way your cheeks warm.

You glance at Bucky, trying to keep your expression neutral. “It’s fine, really,” you say quickly. “I’ll just grab an Uber.”

“Suit yourself,” Sam says, grabbing his jacket and heading out with Steve. “But you know Bucky’s free.” He gives you one last smirk before slipping out the door, leaving you standing there with Bucky, who’s leaning casually against the wall, one eyebrow raised in amusement.

“Need a ride?” he asks, his voice warm, that familiar glint in his eyes that makes your stomach flutter.

You open your mouth to decline, still feeling a bit of resistance. “It’s fine. Really. I’ll just grab an Uber.”

Bucky chuckles softly, tilting his head toward the door. “I’ll drop you off. It’s fine.”

You hold his gaze for a few seconds, trying to gauge his sincerity, but there’s that familiar steadiness in his eyes, a quiet patience that leaves you with no real reason to argue. Finally, you sigh, giving in with a reluctant nod.

The car ride starts in silence, the engine’s low hum filling the tense quiet between you, only occasionally interrupted by the soft rattle of snowflakes pelting against the windows as the blizzard starts to gather strength. 

You shift in your seat, fidgeting, your hands smoothing over your coat, your fingers picking at invisible lint. Nothing feels comfortable. Every second, your eyes flick to the window, tracing the passing streetlights, trying to focus on anything but him.

But you can feel him there. The warmth of him beside you, the steady, calm presence that somehow has you on edge, unable to breathe fully. His familiar scent fills the car—a mix of cedar and something undeniably him—sharp and soothing all at once, making the small space feel even smaller.

You cross your arms, uncross them, uncross your legs, then cross them again, pressing your back firmly into the seat as if that might stop the quick, relentless beat of your heart. But each turn he makes, each slight shift of his shoulders, sends a fresh rush of awareness through you, and your mind is racing, trying to keep pace with the pulsing tension that seems to settle between you like a third presence.

Finally, desperate for a distraction, you reach over and flip on the radio, hoping for anything to ease the silence. But the first song is almost too on the nose, the lyrics hitting like they were made for this moment:

"All of this silence and patience, pining and anticipation, my hands are shaking from holding back from you…”

A breath catches in your throat, and before the verse can continue, you reach over and quickly press the button again, changing the station, feeling heat rise to your cheeks.

The next station crackles to life, and it’s somehow worse.

“Cause when I got somebody, you don’t and when you got somebody, I don’t. I wish that the time would line up so we could just give in…”

Your pulse races, and you switch stations again, more urgently this time, and the next song fills the car with a familiar pop beat.

“You ain’t my boyfriend and I ain’t your girlfriend. But you don’t want me to see nobody else and I don’t want you to see nobody…”

You press the power button, cutting off the music entirely, and the silence that follows feels heavier than before. Your fingers tighten around the edge of your coat, and out of the corner of your eye, you see him glancing your way, the faintest hint of a smirk tugging at his lips.

Bucky clears his throat, his voice a low murmur. “Trouble finding a station?”

You manage a quick, nervous laugh, eyes fixed on the road ahead. 

“Yeah… something like that.”

He just nods, his gaze returning to the road, but you catch the lingering smile in his expression, like he’s perfectly aware of the tension simmering between you, the unspoken things filling the silence.

And as the quiet stretches, you can hear his breathing, steady and unhurried, and it only makes you more aware of your own. You try to breathe normally, in and out, but each breath feels too loud, too obvious, like you’re trying and failing to hide something you both already know.

× × × × 

Bucky pulls up in your driveway, and for a moment, the relief you thought you’d feel at reaching home is overshadowed by something else—something closer to disappointment. The quiet tension that’s been hanging between you feels almost unfinished, and you find yourself wishing the ride could somehow stretch on just a little longer.

He leaves the engine idling, the faint rumble filling the silence as you both sit there, neither moving to get out. After a few seconds, you clear your throat, glancing over at him with a small, reluctant smile.

“Thanks for the ride,” you say, voice softer than you intended.

Bucky nods, returning your smile, but you can see a similar reluctance flicker across his face as he glances toward the house. 

“Anytime,” he murmurs.

Your eyes drift to the porch, and you remember the old habit the two of you shared, back when he’d drop by after a night out with everyone—those late nights with coffee and the dessert your mom always made, the one he loved and never turned down.

The memory brings a small smile to your lips, and before you can second-guess yourself, you look back at him. 

“Actually… my mom made her chocolate tart. The one you like. If you’re up for coffee and dessert, that is,” you say, feeling a twinge of nerves despite the casual invitation.

He raises an eyebrow, clearly caught off guard, but you catch the hint of warmth in his eyes. 

“Chocolate tart, huh?” he echoes, a slight smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “You know I can’t say no to that.”

You shrug, playing it off, but your heart races as you nod toward the door. 

“Figured it’d be a shame to let it go to waste. Besides,” you add, trying to keep your tone light, “it’s been a while since we did coffee and dessert.”

Bucky’s smile widens, and he cuts the engine, pocketing his keys before glancing at you with that familiar spark in his eyes. 

“Guess it’s tradition,” he says, opening his door. “Wouldn’t want to break it.”

You step out, leading him up the walkway, and as you unlock the door, the feeling of anticipation settles back over you, even stronger now. It’s like the tension from the car ride has followed you inside. 

As you head into the kitchen, Bucky follows, his gaze drifting over the familiar space. He takes in the room, noticing what’s changed and what’s stayed the same. The same cozy lamp in the corner, casting a warm glow over the soft cushions on the couch, the same framed photos on the wall—but a few new things catch his attention.

A navy-blue jacket, draped over the armchair, too large to be yours. A set of keys on the counter with a small metal keychain that he doesn’t recognize. And a book on the coffee table, a spy thriller with a bookmark halfway through. He frowns slightly, his mind racing as he takes in these small, unfamiliar details, each one lighting a spark of jealousy that flares bright, unbidden.

He hadn’t asked about Andrew—hadn’t wanted to. But now, surrounded by small traces of him, the thought of someone else being part of this space, of sharing moments with you that once might have been his, digs into him with an unexpected force. The sight of it sparks something sharp and unbidden within him, jealousy flaring up like a match struck in the dark. He swallows, trying to ignore it, trying to remind himself that he has no right to feel this way, but the thought of Andrew’s things still lingering here sends his mind racing.

In the kitchen, you’re busy slicing the chocolate tart, setting two plates with practiced ease as you fill the silence with the familiar rhythm of preparing coffee. But every now and then, you feel his gaze on you, heavy and searching, like he’s taking in every detail of the room and of you.

Bucky clears his throat softly, his voice low as he leans against the doorway, watching you pour the coffee. “Things… feel different here,” he says, trying to keep his tone casual, but there’s a roughness in his voice that betrays him.

Your eyes follow his gaze to the jacket, and a flicker of understanding crosses your face. You give a small, almost sheepish laugh. 

“Oh, that. He left it here ages ago. I keep meaning to get rid of it, but it’s… just kind of stayed.” You shrug, looking away as if embarrassed by the attachment. “Guess I’m just lazy.”

He nods, the answer somehow not as satisfying as he’d hoped. His gaze shifts back to the room, trying to reconcile this familiar space with the small hints of someone else. 

“Ah,” he says, his tone lighter. “I get it. Hard to let go of things sometimes.”

You nod, a knowing look in your eyes, as if you both understand the layers beneath his words. You hand him his plate, the rich scent of chocolate and coffee filling the room as he takes it, his fingers brushing yours for a brief, lingering moment.

Settling down at the table, he watches you from across the coffee cup, the quiet tension between you only growing thicker. And as he takes a bite of the chocolate tart, the flavors familiar and nostalgic, he can’t help but feel like he’s grasping at something he’s been missing for too long.

You try to focus on your coffee, but Bucky’s gaze is unwavering, fixed solely on you. He takes another slow bite of the chocolate tart, and the way his eyes soften, paired with the slight curve of his lips. It’s like he’s seeing something he missed, something he can’t look away from.

After a beat, you feel the heat rising in your cheeks, unable to take it anymore. 

“What?” you murmur, trying to keep your voice steady, but your heart’s racing too fast.

For a moment, he doesn’t answer. He just holds your gaze, eyes dark, thoughtful, and a little teasing, as if he’s enjoying watching you squirm. 

“Just… wondering why it took so long to get back here— it feels good to be here. With you.” His voice is low, quiet, but there’s a warmth behind it that makes your stomach flip.

You glance down, biting back a smile, but you can feel his gaze still on you, unrelenting, like he’s waiting for you to look back. 

“It’s just dessert, Bucky,” you murmur, trying to keep the moment light, but your cheeks betray you, a blush blooming under his attention.

“Maybe,” he replies, his tone teasing, eyes glinting. “But it’s the best damn dessert I’ve had in a long time.” He takes a slow bite of the tart, watching you with that infuriatingly soft gaze that makes it impossible to breathe.

"Christ..." you mutter under your breath, barely aware you’ve said it aloud. His gaze is so intense, it feels like he’s peeling away every defense you’ve carefully built.

“Didn’t mean to make you uncomfortable,” he murmurs, but there’s a teasing lilt in his voice, like he’s testing just how far he can push.

You let out a shaky laugh, glancing down at your coffee to avoid those piercing eyes. 

“You’re not… it’s just—” You don’t know how to finish the thought, every word slipping away under his unwavering stare.

He lets the silence hang for a beat, the corner of his mouth lifting into a smirk that’s equal parts infuriating and heart-stopping. Then he leans forward, just a bit closer, his eyes still locked on you, the teasing glint in them intensifying.

“You sure about that?” he murmurs, voice low and velvet-smooth. His fingers toy with the edge of his coffee cup, but his attention never wavers, every inch of him focused on you. “Because if I’m honest… I think I like watching you get flustered. Kind of makes me wonder what else I could do to make you look at me like that.”

Your breath catches, and you feel your pulse race, cheeks burning as his words sink in, every nerve suddenly buzzing. You’re caught, and he knows it, the challenge in his gaze daring you to look away—but you don’t, rooted to the spot, every nerve in your body humming.

But in that moment of stunned silence, something in your expression shifts, your eyes widening ever so slightly. It’s not discomfort, but a soft vulnerability—an openness he wasn’t expecting.

He misreads it entirely.

Bucky straightens abruptly, his face softening as he lets out a quick, self-conscious laugh, breaking eye contact. “I—sorry,” he says, rubbing the back of his neck, his smirk fading. “I’m just messing with you. Didn’t mean to… you know, make things weird.”

Your heart clenches at the quickness with which he pulls back, his retreat sudden, like he’s trying to undo the last few moments. You open your mouth, words rushing to the tip of your tongue to stop him, to explain, to tell him he hadn’t made you uncomfortable at all.

“Bucky…” you say softly, reaching out before you can think twice. The moment your fingers brush his hand, he glances up, eyes wide, almost searching yours for permission.

And before you can lose your nerve, you let the words slip, your voice barely a whisper. “You didn’t make me uncomfortable… I just… wasn’t expecting that.”

The tension between you flares back to life, sharper, deeper, as he studies you, realization dawning in his gaze, as if he’s daring himself to believe what you’re saying.

× × × × 

The blizzard outside has intensified, blanketing everything in a thick layer of snow that doesn’t look like it’ll be easing up anytime soon. By the time you both finish your coffee and dessert, the wind is howling against the windows, and the soft glow from the streetlights barely penetrates the wall of snow outside.

You walk to the window, peering out into the swirling white, and let out a small sigh. 

“Looks like it’s getting worse,” you murmur, more to yourself than to Bucky, the words carrying a quiet invitation you don’t fully realize.

Behind you, he steps closer, joining you by the window, his hand resting on the edge of the sill as he gazes out into the storm. 

“Guess I might have to wait it out,” he says, a hint of reluctance in his voice, though his eyes flicker with something warmer as they meet yours. His tone is casual, almost nonchalant, but the unspoken question lingers between you.

You turn to face him, folding your arms, trying to play it off casually. 

“Yeah, probably not the best idea to be out there in this.” You pause, giving him a small smile. “I mean, I have a couch. Wouldn’t be the first time you crashed here.”

He chuckles softly, nodding. 

“Right. Wouldn’t want to risk life and limb just to get home.” There’s a glimmer of amusement in his gaze, like he’s just as reluctant as you are to let the night end.

You manage a laugh, a quiet, slightly nervous sound as you gesture towards the living room. 

“The couch is all yours if you want it. I can grab a spare blanket.” The offer feels both genuine and like an excuse, a small plea for him to stay, if only a bit longer.

“Thanks,” he says, his voice soft, a warmth in his tone that makes your heart skip. “Appreciate it.”

As you disappear down the hall to fetch a blanket and pillow, he lingers in the living room, glancing around the familiar space. He’s barely acknowledged how much he’s missed this—missed you—and now, surrounded by small remnants of your life, it all feels heavier than he expected, like he’s on the brink of something he’s not ready to let go of.

You return with a thick blanket and a pillow, handing them to him as he sets them down on the couch. 

“Here you go. It’s not much, but… I think you’ll survive,” you say, though there’s something tentative in your voice, almost as if you’re testing the waters, hoping he’ll stay a little closer.

Bucky chuckles, sitting on the edge of the couch, his hands settling over his knees as he looks up at you. 

“Yeah, I’ve handled worse, I think,” he replies, his gaze lingering just a bit too long.

A quiet pause stretches between you, neither of you moving. Outside, the snow falls in thick, relentless waves, cocooning you both in this shared moment, and you feel the weight of what’s left unsaid, lingering like an invitation neither of you dares to speak aloud.

Finally, you clear your throat, offering a small smile. 

“Well… goodnight, Bucky,” you say, your voice softer than you intended, and you find yourself hesitating, like you’re reluctant to leave.

He nods, his gaze holding yours for a moment longer than necessary. “Goodnight, doll.”

× × × ×

Bucky was asleep on the couch. Your couch. Crashing at your place, as he had so many nights before.

The man you wanted more than you’d ever wanted anyone in your life.

You couldn't sleep, tossing and turning and thinking of him lying not thirty feet away from you on the other side of your bedroom wall. He had stayed over countless times, what was it about tonight that had you squirming beneath the sheets? 

God, the subtle, masculine scent of him, the warmth of his body so close to yours—maybe he'd actually seen the little shiver of sexual awareness that had rippled through you during dinner.

Whatever it was, you were suffering now. His smile, his voice, his deep, infectious laugh...so what if he had been your friend since, so what if he could be a bit of a doofus at times—okay, a lot of the time—so what if you were both single now and feeling that familiar itch, that longing, that uncomfortable awareness of being without someone just a bit too long.

Fuck.

You both had talked about this. Once—a long time ago. You had agreed; getting involved wasn't the right thing to do—look how many friendships were ruined by relationships.

You threw back the duvet and swung your legs over the side of the bed, wiggling your toes nervously as you bit your lip. 

You needed a drink, that's what you needed. Not that kind of drink—although God knew you weren't far from it. You needed a cool glass of water from the pitcher in the fridge and maybe some splashed on your face for good measure. 

Then you could come back to bed and read. Or listen to some music. Or... something. You had an early start in the morning, you had to find some way to get some sleep. If you were really quiet, you could slip right past him and he'd never even know you'd been out of your room.

You creaked open your bedroom door and listened for the sound of his quiet snoring. Sure enough, the soft sounds of sleep drifted towards you and you straightened, relaxing a little. 

He was sleeping just fine. He wasn't tossing and turning thinking about you.

You slipped out into the chilly living room, and shivered involuntarily. You'd set the thermostat low in the living room to save energy, completely forgetting to turn it up for his sake, so while your bedroom was toasty warm, the living room was cold and still. 

Guiltily you cast your eyes over his sleeping form, sprawled inelegantly over the couch with one hand thrown over his eyes and one leg up over the back of the sofa. He wore only a t-shirt and boxers, and lying with the blanket kicked to the floor instead to cover himself with, he looked vulnerable somehow, and uncomfortable.

And incredibly, almost achingly sexy.

Your eyes roamed over him in blatant appreciation. He was a powerhouse of strength, with thick, chiseled muscles that seemed almost carved from stone. Broad shoulders tapered down to a torso built from years of dedication, and his arms were thick with veins and ridges that caught the light. 

Your gaze slid down his powerful legs, the defined muscle of his thighs flexing beneath the hem of his shorts. He was the embodiment of rugged masculinity, intense and undeniably commanding. His stubbled jaw caught your eye, and you let your gaze linger on his lips—the lips you’d dreamed of tasting so many times...too many times, in fact. So often that sometimes you imagined the fantasy as if it were a memory. So delicious, so sensual and hot.

Only he wasn't hot—you try to tell yourself. You dragged yourself back to reality, frowning as you looked down at him. He was cold.

You went back to the bedroom and pulled an extra blanket off the closet shelf, and carried it back to lay across his sleeping form. He stirred slightly as you draped it over him, and his eyelids fluttered open.             

“Hmmm…” Bucky mumbled thickly, his voice hoarse and low. “Good morning.”

“It's not morning, it's two a.m,” you whispered. “I was just getting you another blanket. Go back to sleep.”

“Mmmmm…” he said, cuddling it around him.

He pulled his leg down off the couch and straightened himself out, stretching languidly, shuddering, like a cat. You loved watching the way his muscles tensed and relaxed. You loved watching him do anything, in fact.

“It's so cold,” You said by way of an unasked-for explanation, and looked away from his body. His eyes were still closed so you could have looked a little longer, but didn't want to risk it.

“Cold?” he murmured. “Just a second.” He pushed aside the blanket and reached for you, tugging you down towards him.

You gasped and lost your footing, sitting down hard on the couch beside him. He pulled you down and enveloped you in his arms, pulling you tight against his chest.

He flipped the blanket over top of both of you. “There. I'll keep you warm.”

A sleepy duskiness coloured his voice, and something in the intimacy of it, the familiarity of it, made your heart flutter rebelliously in your chest. He smelled so damn good, like a mixture of soap and the sweet warm and musky scent of cedar wood. He drew you in closer, molding his body against yours, and God help you, you allowed him. You settled in more comfortably beside him, your leg thrown over his, your arm stretched across his chest.

“I was saying you must be cold,” you whispered. “Not telling you I was.”

“I know.” Bucky said without missing a beat.

You lay there, entwined, quiet, saying nothing more. You rested your head against his chest and could feel more than hear the lazy beat of his heart, and the quiet, smooth passage of his breath. His hand languidly caressed your arm, the rhythm growing slower as he drifted back to sleep. 

Sleep threatened to claim you, too, so you stirred, trying to disentangle from him. You'd have to be near your alarm clock or you'd never get up in time.

“No, don't go,” Bucky murmured as you tried to move. He held you tighter.

“I have to,” you whispered. “I have to get some sleep, I have to get up in a few hours.”

“Stay.”

“I can't.”

He was gradually coming awake, slowly becoming more oriented. He shifted position slightly so that he was more on his side, looking down at you as he rested his head on his bent elbow. He stretched his other arm across you and pulled you closer, gently caressing you back.

“Stay,” he said again. His voice was clearer now. He was fully awake. Still slightly dazed from sleep, but awake.

You hesitated, letting your gaze roam over his face. Finally you whispered, “We talked about this a long time ago, remember?”

“I know. I'm sorry. I just...I want you to stay.”

In the dim moonlight spilling in through the French doors his features were muted, but his eyes—his eyes were large and dark, taking you in with a mixture of hope and trepidation. Bucky moistened his lips, his pupils growing even larger as they roamed over your face and you could feel the pace of his heart pick up and his breathing increase. 

His gaze moved down to your lips and his brow creased in an expression that could have been longing, or frustration, or both. He raised his eyes slowly to meet yours, the haze of desire stealing slowly into his gaze.

“You're not nothing to me,” he said, almost to himself. “That's precisely the problem.”

How on earth were you supposed to resist such a sensual, beautiful, soulful man? Stay? How could you not?

“Please,” he whispered. “Stay. . . I have something I need to get off my chest.”

Your resolve was crumbling as you felt your chest tighten. You looked into his eyes and barely managed to whisper the words. 

“What’s that?”

“This.” 

He lowered his head slowly and kissed you, brushing your lips softly, sensuously, as if in no particular hurry. As if he had all the time in the world to savor you, to taste you, to send pleasure rippling through you with every touch of his lips. He murmured softly as he gently nipped at your bottom lip, teasing your, biting and then kissing-better the lips he was bruising.

You could feel the pleasure he was taking in kissing you, the slow—tortuously slow—pleasure he was enjoying for himself and teasing out of you as he lingered in your mouth. Bucky’s hand slid along your jaw, tilting your face up to him, his thumb caressing your cheek as he kissed you. He broke the kiss and looked down at you in wonder, his eyes glittering in the dim light, then brought your face up to his and kissed you again.

You opened your mouth to him and his tongue slipped in to tangle sensuously with yours. He angled his head from one side to the other, exploring your mouth and pressing kisses along the edges of your lips. You kissed his cheeks, his chin, his light stubble gently razing your lips and making them all the more sensitive. When you found his lips again, their soft warmth was intoxicating and you deepened the kiss, teasing his tongue with your own.

You kissed him back sensually, with equal possessiveness and enjoyment, and knew that your response was emboldening him.

Bucky tensed and pressed against you, his kiss growing firmer and more insistent. His mouth moved over yours expertly, wringing pleasure from you in breaths that came faster and little cries that escaped into the quiet of the room. Your soft moans made him tense even more, and you could feel his arousal along the length of your leg, hard and urgent like the rest of his body. 

You were both warm now, and he threw back the blanket before settling back down on top of you, returning to the slow, rhythmic dance of kissing, teasing, and tasting that was just about driving you mad.

You slipped your hands up over your head, thinking to wrap them around him, but he found them and clasped your wrists together with his left hand and kept them there, holding you down with gentle pressure as he bent to kiss you more deeply. 

The sensation of being held by him, of being pinned down, gently, but with no doubt as to his strength, rushed through you in unfamiliar torrents of excitement. He entwined his fingers in yours, easing up the pressure, dipping his head between your upraised arms to kiss you deeply, slowly, torturously.

As his tongue tangled with yours the fingers of his right hand trailed up the side of your body, stopping at the swell of your breast. He ran his hand over you gently, tentatively, feeling the weight of it beneath him and groaning softly. He slipped his hand inside your robe and cupped you bare flesh, his warm hand gently squeezing, caressing, as he groaned again and grew even harder. His thumb circled over your nipple and you gasped, arching against him at the sudden sting of pleasure. He pushed aside the robe further, revealing your breast with its tight nipple, unbearably aroused by his touch.

"You are so beautiful," he whispered, gazing at you breast. He lowered his lips to your nipple and gently kissed it, his tongue tasting and savoring it the way he had just been savoring your mouth.

The wet warmth of his mouth on your sensitive flesh made you ache with a tension and desire you had never felt before. When his tongue swirled around you nipple languidly, when he took the sensitive bud into his mouth and suckled softly, you felt the exquisite torture of it flow down through you body to you very core. How could this feel so damn good? Just the lightest brush of his lips, his tongue, his teeth on your nipple and you felt almost ready to climax.

His free hand slid around to the small of your back and he lifted you gently, sliding you further down the couch and farther under him. You were completely beneath him now, and completely held by him, one strong hand gently pressing your wrists into the sofa cushions and the other splayed across you back while he bent his head and kissed and sucked and teased you breast. You almost couldn't bear the sensation as your nipple grew harder, more tender, and the pleasure started liquifying between your legs.

"Yes..." you breathed. You arched again, wanting him to release you from his mouth and yet hoping that he never would. "Oh my God, Bucky, that feels so good..."

Bucky lets go of your wrists and brings his hand down to your other breast, pushing aside your robe to free you completely. He caressed you, sensuously feeling the roundness of you, and trailed his lips across the rising swell, kissing and tasting and smiling at the way your soft flesh moved under his tongue. He gently grasped your breast and brought your nipple up to his mouth, which grew hard and exquisitely tender under his tongue. His fingers continued to tease your other nipple, the one still stinging from the feel of his mouth on it, still aching to feel it again.

You arched into him, sinking your hand into his hair and pressing him to your breast. The pleasure of his mouth and hands on you was making you weak, making you shiver with pleasure and need, all down the length of you and in between your legs. You could feel  yourself growing wet and ready for him, the pleasure so intense, so unlike anything you'd ever felt before.

You heard yourself moaning softly, whimpering, making sounds you had never made before, all but dizzy with desire and sensation. With every little sound you made he groaned, or his erection surged against you, or he fell onto your breasts again with increased hunger. Your response to him was as intoxicating to him as his mouth was to you—you could feel it in his every movement, his every ragged breath.

“I need you, Bucky.” You pleaded softly. “Please.”

He rose over you, bracing his arms on either side of you. His eyes blazed with heat as he looked down at you, at you eyes, your mouth, your breasts. He took your mouth expertly, hungrily, kissing you fiercely with a dominance that thrilled you. He moved to trail hot kisses down your neck, licking the sensitive skin near your collarbone, barely skimming you with his tongue as if wanting the merest taste. You gripped his shoulders, and turned your head to the side, aching at the sensation of his mouth on you, kissing, licking, tasting. 

You moaned at the feel of his tongue on your neck and the gentle pressure of his lips pressing kisses against your skin. You needed to feel him, to taste his salty sweet skin, his maleness, him.

As if he could read your thoughts he lifted up from you to pull his shirt over his head and let it fall to the floor. You reached up and ran your hands over his chest, and as he fell on you again his mouth found yours hungrily and his hand slid into your hair, gripping the top of your head possessively as you kissed.

You had never felt so possessed, so taken, so overwhelmed by a man. You broke the kiss and sought his neck, his shoulder, his tense muscles straining as he held himself above you. You branded your own hot trail of kisses into his skin, felt him strain against you at the sensation. You loved the taste of him, so male and wonderful beneath your lips.

"Baby. . ." His voice was hoarse, breathless. 

For one brief moment uncertainty flashed in his eyes and he looked as though he wanted to say something. But when your lips found his again he lost the thought and succumbed to the kiss, slanting over your mouth, teasing your tongue with his.

You ran your hands down his back to the waistband of his boxers, and dipped your hands beneath the elastic to roam over his flesh. He tensed at your touch and you felt him suck in a breath as you moved your hands around to the front. 

He was very hard, and you curled your fingers—which couldn’t wrap around him fully—as you gripped his ass with your other hand. He groaned softly and kissed you even more deeply, surging against you with an almost desperate urgency. You began to stroke him, your fingers gently gliding up and down his smooth shaft until he suddenly let out a groan and broke away, stopping your hand with his own.

“Fuck,” he said breathlessly, heat blazing in his eyes. “I can't. . .”

Alarm flared in you. “What's wrong?”

“I won't last long. . .”

“Oh, is that all?” You gently pushed his hand away and began to tentatively stroke him again.

He moaned, closing his eyes briefly, enjoying the pleasure. “If you keep doing that. . .”

“What?” You prompted, nibbling on his lower lips as you stroked.

“I'll have to fuck you.”

“Good.” You took his lips again and you fell into a rhythmic kiss, as if you had been kissing each other forever. He moaned softly into your mouth as you stroked him, making soft noises of your own into his mouth.

Bucky broke the kiss, his breathing sharp and shallow, and gazed down at you, pressing his forehead to yours.

“Are you sure about this?” His voice was quiet, urgent, almost desperate.

“Yes,” you breathed, pushing his boxers down with your free hand. He lifted up his hips to help you and shrugged out of them, kicking them to the floor.

“I didn't mean for this to happen, at least not tonight,” he said, his breath jagged and quiet as you continued to stroke him. “I've wanted you for so long, but—”

“I know,” You murmured, kissing his neck as your hand slid over his thick length again and again. His body was rigid with tension and you tried to relax him with your mouth, your whispers, the feel of your body. But you knew he wouldn't relax as long as you were stroking him. You paused and he relaxed slightly, but his eyes still burning and his breath still came unevenly.

“Are you sure?” He asked again, his eyes showing fear through the haze of desire. Heat blazed between them, and you felt such a desperate need in him that you wanted to soothe him, comfort him. But doing so with words seemed the wrong thing to do.

"Mhmmm," You murmured instead, kissing his jaw, his neck, the sensitive skin beneath his ear. He groaned softly as you ran your fingers over his shaft, teasing, tempting, letting you fingernails trail along the sensitive skin below. You cupped him and squeezed gently as he groaned louder, pleasure that sounded almost painful. you laughed softly, kissing along his collarbone, his shoulder, his neck.

“You know how I feel about you. . . ” he managed, his voice little more than a breath. “Don't you? That I—”

"Shhhh," You said, coming back to meet his eyes. He looked so afraid, so vulnerable, and yet so filled with desire. You knew, then, everything you needed to know. And every word he needed to hear. "Please. . . Baby. . .it's okay. We can talk later. Right now. . .please. . . just shut up and fuck me."

His fear melted into a smile so warm, so open, so full of relief that he almost looked ready to cry. He took your mouth again, arching over you as he claimed you. Before his kisses had been searching and sensuous, now they seemed driven by pure desire. He ground his lips on yours  masterfully, taking what he wanted, what he needed.

You could feel the raw need in him, the need for acceptance, the need to let pure passion overcome his fear. Every meeting of your lips sent another jolt through you, every taste of his tongue made you desperate for more, and you knew he was reeling from the same powerful sensations that you were. You could feel him starting to let go, to abandon himself to you, to enjoy making you abandon  yourself to him. 

Here was the lust you had always hoped was there, the powerful sexuality always just below the surface, the desire you had hoped and prayed he felt for you. It was here, pressed against you, an urgent cock and a hard, warm body, roaming lips and soft, male moans of pleasure and need. A careful heart revealing itself to yours.

You moved beneath him, pressing your hips against him to ease the heat that radiated from between your legs. The ache was exquisite, your need growing more urgent as you felt his erection surge and strengthen.

You felt his hand on your knee and then slowly, so damn slowly, he began to trail his fingers up along the inside of your thighs, which parted so easily at his gentle persuasion. His touch was electric, yet soft and sensual, and wherever his fingers played you felt a fiery tingle that made you shiver. Finally his fingers trailed delicately over your sensitive cunt, teasing you, tantalizing you, until you cried softly, silently begging him to touch you most sensitive place.

With a smile that you could feel more than see, his fingers slipped into your slick warmth and you cried out, a spasm of pleasure overwhelming you. He silenced your cry with his mouth, his tongue tangling with yours  while his fingers slipped deeply inside you and stroked, as languidly and rhythmically as you were stroking him.

“Oh my g—” You cried, writhing at the pleasure of his fingers sliding slowly in and out of you, then pulling out to trail up higher and caress your folds. When his fingers danced over your clit you arched you back, your breath leaving you in a gasp. The electricity of his touch, so gentle and sensuous, sent spasms of pleasure rippling through you. 

He didn't hurry the pace, just stroked you with an even, sensual rhythm as he kissed  you. He was holding you, his arm surrounding you, pressing his body to yours, his mouth never far from your lips, your neck, your ear, his eyes never far from yours. You had never felt so close to someone, so protected in his arms, so cherished and adored.

His fingers dipped down to enter you again and his thumb continued the slow, exquisite torture above. Just when you thought you'd go over the edge he'd pull away, pause, caress a different part of you and send you on the upward spiral again and again, or slide his fingers into you over and over while his thumb swirled and caressed and rubbed, driving you mad with an aching desire. 

He smiled down at you, nipped at your lips, pressed his forehead to yours and trailed kisses down your eyelids, your cheeks, until claiming your mouth again, his tongue mimicking the sweet, sensuous motion of his fingers and thumb.

He grew rock hard in your hand as you moaned with each breath, as you came closer and closer to the edge. You could feel him restraining himself, wanting only to pleasure you, anticipating your climax. But it wasn't what you wanted. On a ragged breath you stopped his hand.

"I want you," you said urgently. "Please, Bucky. . .fuck me."

He gazed at you, teetering on a moment of indecision. His chest rose and fell sharply with his labored breath, and he brought a trembling hand up to your hip and gripped you, holding you, moving to settle between your legs and pausing at your entrance.

"Please, I want you inside me." your voice dropped to a whisper so urgent you hardly recognized it yourself. "Please don't make me beg."

And whatever strength he had left vanished.

"Oh baby. . ." He moved forward and slid into you, a breathless throaty sound of pure male pleasure escaping his lips. "Oh my God. . ."

He paused for a moment, looking down at you with heavy-lidded desire, visibly enjoying the new sensation of being so deep inside  you. You were slick and hot, more than ready for him, and as you body adjusted to him, to the exquisite, aching stretch he was causing, you squirmed beneath him on a moan of primal pleasure. He pulled out slowly, torturously, and slid himself in again, filling you completely.

You closed your eyes and moaned, gripping his ass as he lifted your hips up to him, angling you so he could fill you more deeply. He began to thrust, slowly, rhythmically, his hips moving sensuously, making you muscles tighten around him as he plunged into you again and again, your movements coming so easily, so naturally, so deliciously slowly.

You lifted your legs to wrap them around him, loving the way it tilted you back so that his every thrust felt deeper, felt like it was reaching new depths of pleasure in you.

“Yes, yes, yes. . .like that. . .oh my god, Bucky. . .you fill me up so good.” 

He ran his hand possessively along your leg, pausing to look down at your joined bodies as he thrust into you. He raised himself up, his arms braced on the other side of you to keep his weight off you, and moved so he could thrust more freely, more quickly, building the tempo. He pressed his lips to your forehead gently as he drove into you, his breath ragged, panting, yours matching his intensity and need.

“Ugh—you drive me insane, I love hearing you moan my name—don’t stop.”

You could feel him getting close, nearing the edge of his own release, and he slowed, lowering his head to nuzzle your neck as the rhythm of his hips paused, and then resumed again, more slowly this time, building again, savoring you body the way his lips had savored you mouth, the way his tongue had devoured you breasts. His arm slid around you back again, holding you, lifting you up to him as he took your breast in his mouth and teased it with his tongue. His mouth was hungrier this time, sucking your nipple, flicking his tongue over it with such abandon that you felt it in your core. His passion was growing, and you could sense that his desire to be slow and tender with you was losing the battle against his raw primitive need.

You gripped him, lost in the dizzying sensations he was causing in you. His mouth on you, his hand roaming over you, gripping your ass as he thrust into you in a relentless rhythm. You were limp in his embrace, held in place for him to possess, to plunder, to pleasure. You had never been held like that before, and the primal intensity of it, the feeling of being so completely owned by his desire, overwhelmed  you. You were his, completely, your body as loose as a rag doll in his arms. You gripped his straining arms as he sent pleasure coursing through you, gripping you as he thrust and withdrew, plunged and pulled out, drove into you over and over again in breathless ecstasy.

“Keep fucking me like that—Yes! Oh my God, harder, please. . . B-Bucky!”

Waves of pleasure grew stronger and stronger in you, pushing you towards the ultimate pleasure, building with increasing urgency as his rhythm grew faster and harder. 

“Oh—like that? You like that?”

He groaned as he kissed your neck, your collarbone, your breast, and drove himself into you with such exquisite need. You gripped his buttocks, feeling the powerful muscles contracting with each thrust, drawing him deeper into you. When he tore away from your lips and looked down into your eyes you felt the waves rise, growing stronger and higher and faster until with a shattered cry you came, trembling as the pleasure spasmed through you.

His eyes never left yours as he thrust into you, groaning from the exquisite pleasure of your spasming pussy. 

“Shit—fuck, you’re gonna make me come. Ohhhh—” Bucky moaned.

You were so incredibly tight, gripping his cock as you came, milking him as he struggled to last just a moment longer, lost in the heaven of you hot, wet heat. Your cries of pleasure echoed throughout the darkened room and when you whispered his name on a soft, sweet whimper he found his own release, jetting into you over and over again as he cried out in an agony of pleasure and a torrent, a chorus, of your name.

Finally, finally, his hips slowed and he lowered his head and kissed you gently, sensuously, as softly as he had when he had first pulled you down to him. Then he lowered his head to your neck and let himself rest there, lying against you, his heart thundering, his breath ragged and heavy. You lowered your legs from around his waist and wrapped your arms around him instead, cradling him to  you. you rested your head against the top of his and felt your own breath slowing, your own heartbeat returning to normal. His cock was still hard inside you and he shuddered as you clenched around him.

"God, you're incredible." He exhaled a long, deep breath.

He rose up and kissed you, shuddering with each aftershock as his cock surged inside  you. You could feel your inner muscles clenching around him, not releasing him yet, teasing the last drops of pleasure from him. 

He lay his head down against you again, breathing out a sigh that was both release and contentment as the last tremors rippled through him. You loved this feeling, this sensation of his body trembling with the afterglow of pleasure, pleasure you had given him, just as your body was tingling from the intense pleasure he had given you.

He held you to him, sliding out of you slowly, and shifted slightly so that you fit against him perfectly, settling into the warmth and comfort of his arms encircling you.

“Holy shit,” he whispered again, pressing his lips to your temple and leaving them there for a long minute before letting go.

“I'm so glad you stayed over,” you said quietly, kissing the soft skin of his neck.

He stilled for a moment, and you looked up at him, trying to read whatever might be revealed in his eyes. In the darkness both of you were inscrutable, until he leaned closer and bumped your cheek with his nose before lightly pressing his lips to yours for a sweet, soulful kiss.

“So does this mean we're not friends anymore?” He asked, in between luscious nips at your lips.

“You tell me,” you said sleepily, unable to resist his slow, savoring kisses.

You felt his smile as he kissed you languidly, with deliberate slowness, each kiss deepening into something more intimate than the last. Finally his lips stilled and you felt him fall asleep beside you, his breathing soft and slow.

You wanted to stay awake, to freeze this moment in time, to make it last. you wished you could lay there forever, tucked in beside him, your bodies curled to get you. But even as you tried to stay awake, gently caressing the arm that draped over you protectively. you gradually succumbed to a peaceful, contented sleep.

[peachesofteal]

Raspberry Girl Previous + masterlist + AO3 Simon Riley/female reader CW: 18+ intoxication, sexual content, daddy kink, caretaking, blurry lines of consent.

You’re painfully unaware, though to you, he’s sure it's bliss. 

In your own little world, you stand at the long wooden table, fingers moving across the trackpad of a laptop, a pair of too big glasses sliding down your nose. The left lens is smudged, the smear only getting worse every time you push them up with the back of your hand. There’s a whirlwind of stuff around you, bowls and bags and measuring cups, cracked egg shells and sprinkles scattered across the wood, multi colored icing separated into different containers, and you're so into your work you don't even realize he's in the doorway. 

He almost feels bad for scaring you when he clears his throat. Almost. 

“Oh my god,” you whirl, hand pressed to your chest, half ready to bolt. “S-sorry, I didn’t- I didn’t know you were there.” 

Is that anyway to say hi to your daddy sweetheart?

“Good morning.” He eyes the twenty four ounce mason jar to your left. It’s one quarter full, coffee and cream swirling to the bottom. Too much caffeine. 

“Good morning, hi.” You smile, sweet and shy but more emboldened. It’s been a few days since he fed you bites of lemon meringue pie, a few days since he went home and stroked his cock to the memory of your mouth parting for him, eyes half lidded looking up through your lashes. 

Since then, you’ve a bit more brave, encouraged by his careful coaxing, text messages at night and throughout the day to check in, visits in the morning as he heads to base. 

He’s leading his little lamb right into her shepherd’s arms. 

“What’re you working on?” 

“Funfetti birthday cake.” You slide your glasses back up your face. They’re a mess and he can’t resist fixing it, pulling them off, wiping the lenses with bottom of his shirt. You freeze. Little deer in his headlights. 

“Didn’t know you wore glasses.” He places them back where they belong, righting them when they slip, and confirming what he already knew. They’re too big. You need new ones. 

“Th-thank you. I do for reading. And… er, screens. Reading on screens, mostly, though I need them for books too so I guess just… reading in general.” He understands the pause now, the moments when you’ve become self conscious, embarrassed, or you’re looking for the words you need, anxiously trying to piece it all together, step into a skin that doesn't quite fit. 

A rhythm the world doesn't understand. Too cruel, impatient, cold, it has no care for fragile things, too easily reflecting a mirror of his former self. 

He files the bit about you needing to wear glasses when you read, another notation in the long list he’s already memorized, organized, and moves onto his next inquiry. “Who’s the birthday cake for?” 

“Mara. It’s her birthday. They’re…” you make a face like you’ve sniffed spoiled milk, “we’re going out to a pub to celebrate.” He stiffens. On one hand, he’s proud of you. On the other, the idea of you in a pub raises the hair on the back of his neck, has him a bit out of his mind. 

He’s not interested in clipping your wings, but going out to a pub with no one to watch over you? Not bloody likely. “Tonight?” 

“Mhm.” You’re rubbing a stick of butter in a round pan. “Funfetti is the classic birthday cake. You know, the vanilla cake with the sprinkles?” He shakes his head. “Oh. Well, um, it is. It's mostly a kid thing now, but I think it's the ultimate birthday cake. Birthdays are supposed to be fun but you know... they kind of suck when you're an adult. Anyway... funfetti is fun so, that's why...” 

“Maybe you can save me a slice. Where are you going?” 

“Save you…" your brows crease as you try to process what he's said. "Doc’s.” You’ve dropped the stick of butter abruptly, greasy fingers gripping the edge of the pan. Doc’s. It’s a younger crowd, a bit posh, but still a bit dark. Has a bit of an edge. 

It’s been a few weeks since he’s gotten a pint with Kyle and Johnny anyway. 

He smiles, strokes the backs of his knuckles down your cheek, satisfied when you lean in for more, disappointed the few minutes he had to drop in are now over. “I’ve gotta go baby, be good for me.” Your mouth drops open so wide he thinks he might be able to fit his cock in it. 

“Oh, okay. I- I will.” 

What did you forget?

Daddy. I will, daddy.

“That ‘er?” Kyle motions with his beer bottle towards the table where you stand nervously at the edge, floral flecked dress swaying just above your knees. You've looped a white ribbon through your hair, the beacon of a gentle soul that seems to be calling out to every muppet in the building, every wandering eye fueling a fire burning in his blood. 

“Yeah.” His stomach is sour. Even a neat pour of whiskey and pint didn’t settle him. 

You’re trying so hard. Smiling and nodding and listening to everyone, clutching your drink like it’s a lifeline. Mara seems to understand the grace you need, but no one else in the group gets it, and some of them give you weird looks, or worse, look at each other when you’re not paying attention in annoyance. Your only friend at the table catches a few of them and shoots stern glares as she shakes her head, but it doesn’t change much. 

“She looks uncomfortable,” Johnny grunts, his scrupulous eye never missing a thing. Someone asks you a question, and you stumble over your answer, looking away to the wall when a girl to your left blatantly smirks, and then sneers directly in your face. Simon’s blood boils. 

“She’s different from them, it’s hard for her.” It's the easiest way to explain it. You’re one in a million. His one in a million. 

The table laughs at something, and you frantically flick over each person’s face, trying to pick up on a joke you clearly did not understand. Eventually, you just settle for another smile, resigned to watch it all from the outside as conversation flows from person to person, but never towards you. 

Sweet girl. He wants to take you home where you’re safe and happy and carefree, where you can be yourself and not have to worry about trying to keep up or facing everyone’s judgement. Where he can hold your perfect and precious heart in his hand and protect it. Where he can fuck the memory of this night right out of you, bounce you on his cock until the only thing you know how to do is come for him, over and over again. 

He misses the exact moment the cake appears among the stacks of shot glasses. Your anxiety ramps up as everyone starts to eat their slices, shoulders high beneath your ears, fingers knotted together too tight. It’s an eternity before the first person looks at you, mouth half full and thrilled, their enthusiasm alleviating some of the weight that's been sitting on his chest, and yours. Whatever they say seems to lessen the weight because you’re smiling again, excited, and as more people turn your way, the smile turns to a full on beam, your words from the other night echoing in his ears. 

I like feeding people. 

Another hour passes before he decides to call it, the group now spread across the pub, scattered around different tables, at the bar, outside smoking. You’re in a corner with your back to the room talking to Mara, and when he appears in her line of sight, she spots him immediately, grabbing your arm, mouthing something he doesn’t catch. 

You turn- 

And light up like a fucking Christmas tree. 

“Captain Riley!” The alcohol has made you bold, slow synapses firing less rapidly, providing a longer lead time, somewhat preventing you from second guessing or withholding yourself. 

“Hi baby.”

“I’m just gonna…” Mara tries to move away but you reach for her. 

“Happy Birthday Mar. Thanks for inviting,” you hiccup, “me.” She gives you a squeeze. 

“Thanks for coming, and for the cake, it was amazing. Made me feel like I was kid, ya know? When birthdays really mattered.” Sadness flickers in her eyes, and then disappears in a glaze of intoxication. “Anyway, see you Monday?” 

“Yep.” She gives you one more hug before slipping away, and you sigh. 

“She loved her cake.” 

“Yeah?” 

“Yeah.” You’ve got this dreamy look on your face, sleepy and sweet, a little kitten who’s ready to curl up for a nap. 

Cast a line. See if you’re biting. 

“How’re you gettin’ home?” 

“An uber?” You lick your lips. “Or… uh. A Lyft?” You lurch to the side and he darts forward to steady you, movement too fast for you to track, all of it ending up as a surprise, like you weren’t even in your body for a moment. “Th-thanks.” You study his hand, where it sits on your arm. “You know you’re so big?” His lips twitch to the side of his mouth. 

“Yeah sweetheart. I’m big.” You’re still staring at his hand. “D’you need a ride home?” 

“Huh?” He's held this in the back of his mind all night as a possibility, built a tentative plan for this opportunity too golden to pass up. No fucking way are you going home in a rideshare or with anyone else. 

“I’m taking you home.” You shrug at the declaration with little trepidation and take his hand. 

So sweet and full of trust. 

He never specified which home. 

When the gravel of his driveway crunches under the truck’s tires, you don’t stir, and you don’t wake up when he turns it off or opens the passenger side door, your head lolling against your shoulder. 

“Sweetheart,” He keeps his voice low, reaching across your lap to unbuckle your seatbelt, brushing against your breasts, soft exhales puffing little clouds across his skin. “We’re here.” 

“Hmm?” you crack an eye open and then shake your head, “no ‘m sleeping.” Your cheek is warm in his palm, and he kisses it, trying to rouse you, gauge your reaction. Your awareness. Your nose wrinkles. “Stop.” 

“C’mon, you'll be more comfortable inside.” You whimper when he jostles you, pinning a palm to your temple. 

“My head hurts.” Poor baby. 

“I know,” he pulls you up out of the seat and into his chest, carefully supporting your balance. He’s taking liberties now, wrapping an arm around your waist, curling his fingers along the nape of your neck, brushing his lips across your forehead when you whine, high pitched and crackled, broken under the weight of too much alcohol and need for more sleep. “I know baby, Let’s get you into bed.” You lay your cheek on his chest and sigh. 

“Okay.” 

“Spit.” He holds the cup under your lips and you do as he asks diligently, bubbly white toothpaste getting caught on the corner of your mouth. 

Getting you upstairs and into his room went just as he anticipated. A little anxiety, a little uncertainty, all of it gently soothed until you were sitting on his bed and he was taking off your shoes, reassuring you, promising everything was okay and you were right where you belonged. 

“You’re safe with me sweetheart. I’m going to take care of you.” 

Now, you’re perched on the closed toilet lid in his bathroom as he finishes brushing your teeth, sleepy and serene, naked thighs peeking out from beneath the hem of his t-shirt. 

You’re completely unguarded, vulnerable, another layer peeled back, another piece he lays claim to. 

His sweet little fawn. 

He knew all along this was underneath the weight you carried. That when you finally felt safe and cherished and cared for, you’d bloom, be yourself without the pressure of everything else. Deep down, beneath the expectations of how everyone thinks you should talk, or act, or behave, behind all the coping mechanisms you’ve taught yourself, buried under mountains of complexity, is his precious little girl who needs her hand held and her tears wiped. Who’s brilliant and beautiful and different, and has never had the space to just be. 

Now, you'll be able to do just that while he takes care of the rest. He'll decide. You’ll have boundaries. You’ll have rules. You’ll have daddy and he’ll take away the endless pressure that closes in on you from all sides, he'll ensure you get what you need. There will be less worry, less fear and unlimited opportunities to be. 

“My face.” You tilt your chin back with your eyes closed, and he chuckles. 

“What about it?” 

“My,” hiccup, “makeup.” He turns the tap on warm, testing the temp until he’s satisfied, and soaks a washcloth. 

“Keep your eyes closed.” You sit still as he works, dabbing away everything on your eyelids and lashes, wiping underneath to catch anything he missed. “There we go.” You sway in his grip and slur.

“Bed now?” 

“Last thing.” There’s a glass of water and naproxen on the counter, and you swallow them without question. He hides his grimace. That will need to be addressed in the morning. When you try to put the glass back on the counter, he shakes his head. “All of it,” you manage to get the rest of the water down, and he squeezes your hip. “That’s my girl.” 

“You’re warm.” Your arm is slung over his middle, a cold foot tucked between his knees, mouth half open on his pillow. Completely uninhibited, nearly asleep. 

His cock is hard against his stomach beneath the waistband of his sweatpants, aching with a fullness he can’t relieve. He’s been hard since he undressed you, peeled your bra off and held you to his chest as he unhooked it, felt your perfect, pretty breasts and nipples against him as he tugged his shirt over your head. You were bashful, buried your face into his neck with a trembling giggle, but refused to let go, sunk your fingernails into his biceps as your hands shook. His sweet, shy girl. 

He rubs your back, works his fingers in the knots between your shoulders, watching your lashes flutter as you try to fight sleep.  

“Tomorrow…” There’s a last minute flash of uncertainty, and he presses his lips to your forehead. 

“It’s okay, we’ll talk at breakfast sweetheart. It’s time for bed.” Tomorrow. You'll be fighting a battle tomorrow, a hangover, anxiety, an endless spiral of confusion and doubt, but he'll be here to guide you through it. 

The only way out is through. 

It will be a lot easier on both of you if you're able to get some sleep. 

“Yeah, ’s past my bedtime.” You whisper with a hazy, playful smile on the wisp of a giggle. "We should have pancakes for breakfast." Your easy, peaceful state encourages him to go a step further. Cast a line, see if you’re biting. 

"If you close your eyes and go to sleep, Daddy will make you pancakes in the morning." You nod with a yawn, tucking your face between the pillow and his shoulder. 

"Mmkay then. Night." It's not a protest, it's not a flinch, it's not a moment of disgust, and satisfaction roars, rips through him like bullet, this instinct and desire long honed finally settling in the place where it belongs. In you. 

"Goodnight baby." He stares at the ceiling as you disappear into dreams and plans his mission. Plots his checkpoints, sets his objectives. Lead, decide, control. 

Bring you home. Permanently. 

[fleurfiles]

SOMETHING NEW with caitlyn kiramman

୧ ‧₊˚ your sex life with your girlfriend, caitlyn, was sweet, but a little too…vanilla. so, you tell her exactly what you want, and she fulfills your wishes in more ways than you could think of.

pairings and aus. oldergf!caitlyn kiramman 𝑥 fem!reader

warnings. smut. swearing. light choking. orgasm denial. mention of a safe word, though not used. cum play. bondage/tying up. mommy kink. caitlyn being a big softie for her gf.

gabi’s quick thoughts. none. just this. sorry for the bad ending oops i really had nothing to say </3

word count. 5.5k

masterlist ‧₊˚ taglist

you don’t even knock.

your nerves are too loud for politeness, and your thoughts have been spiraling all morning. you need to say it now, or you won’t say it at all.

you and caitlyn had been dating for months, and she was absolutely lovely in every way. she was passionate, full of care, and she always told you how special you were to her, which, you appreciate. 

but, there was something missing. 

you and caitlyn first had intimacy around three months in. it was the most romantic and sweet thing you had ever experienced, and after, she held you for hours until the both of you drifted off to sleep. 

however, now a couple months later, you were wanting a bit more. it was relatively the same each time— you had gentle sex, with light kisses and fragile touches, cleaned up, and fell asleep. it wasn’t that you hated it— no, quite the opposite— but you were dying to try something new from time to time. you were just too scared to tell her. 

would she be down for it? or would it be repulsive to her? you had no idea. 

caitlyn was always pretty closed off when it came to talking about fantasies or things she wanted to try, which was a surprise, considering she had four years on you, and was way more experienced. you honestly didn’t have a clue if she was into anything other than standard vanilla sex, and at first, it didn’t raise any questions. but you were burning with passion, for such a deeper need that she could only fulfill. 

so, here you stood, right behind her closed door with clammy hands and a heart beating with anxiety. it wasn’t that you feel like you couldn’t talk about it, but everything was just so new, and the fear of messing up swallowed the desire to be direct with what you wanted. 

reluctantly, you pushed the door open, and stopped dead in the doorway. 

“cait, can we talk—?”

there are guards in her room. two of them, standing straight-backed near her window like they’re made of stone, and you have to take a double-take to make sure that they’re even breathing. caitlyn is sitting at her desk, reading something with too many signatures at the bottom, completely honed in. 

she looks up, startled, but clearly pleased to see you. her eyes soften, “darling—”

“i didn’t know you had people in here,” you mumble, one foot already back in the hall, regretting every step that led you here. you should’ve just waited, or called— but it was too late for that now. 

“what’s wrong?” she stands from her chair, already walking toward you, and you already know that there’s a slim chance you can get out of this. her voice lowers, gentle, like she thinks you’re hurt. her chin tilts, “you look like you’ve seen a ghost.” 

you hesitate. you were going to wait until tonight, to maybe whisper it in her ear while you curled up beside her, or maybe say it in a way that didn’t feel so serious. but now you’re standing here in front of her, heart stuttering, hands cold, yet the words are burning up the back of your throat.

“honey, just tell me. surely it can’t be that—“

“i wanted to talk about… um… our sex life.”

it gets so quiet that you hear one of the guards clear his throat in attempt to mask clear discomfort, and caitlyn blinks. her cheeks flush instantly, a pink hue blossoming over her cheeks, spreading to the tips of her ears. you can’t feel her, but you know she’s burning hot. 

“oh,” she says stiffly, pretending to cough, “oh. well then, um…g-guards, you may be dismissed.”

they file out wordlessly, though one of them definitely walks a little faster than the other, and you swear that you can hear one of them pretending to gag, followed by a giggle as they leave. the door shuts with a soft click, and you’re left alone with her, the tension humming in the air like static.

you fiddle with the hem of your sleeve.

“i shouldn’t have just…said it like that,” you murmur out nervously, still messing with the loose frays on your sleeve.  “i didn’t know they were gonna be in here, and now you probably think i’m—”

“no,” your girlfriend cuts in quickly, “i mean— yes, they were here, but no, i don’t think anything bad. just… surprised.”

“you never talk about it,” you say, quieter now, trying to avoid eye contact as best you could. “…and sometimes i feel like i shouldn’t bring it up because you’re always so composed. i just feel like everything’s so taboo between the two of us.”

she takes your hands, thumbs brushing over your knuckles, and looks at you with sweet, glossy eyes. her voice softens, “oh, i’m sorry, darling. i just… i’ve never been the kind of person who finds it easy to talk about those things. even when i want to.”

you nod, heart slowing down. she was right— knowing her upbringing, that probably wasn’t her focus at all. sure, she’s had flings and short-lived relationships, but you were the first girl that she was really with. none of this probably came easy for her, and you didn’t blame her. 

“babe, i wanted to….um. try…some things?” you confess, twisting your foot against the hardwood floors awkwardly. you swallow, trying to ease up, “something new. but not just that— i want us to be able to talk about ‘it’ without it feeling so… fragile. like if i say the wrong word, you’ll shut down. i’m scared of that.”

caitlyn exhales like she’s been holding her breath since you walked in. she pulls you in, forehead against yours, a gentle hand coming up to rub the small of your back, lowering gently to the lowest part. 

“i’m not shutting down,” she whispers into you, “i’m just… learning how to be more upfront about things. when i was younger, it wasn’t really on my mind, you know, love?”

you close your eyes, leaning farther into her embrace, letting her arms fully close around you, circling around your back and up your shoulders. “do you wanna talk now?” you ask her, your voice low, but oozing with nervousness.

she kisses your cheek, then your jaw, then a little lower, lips brushing your neck, sending gentle chills up your spine. you shiver against her as she pulls your face up with her hands, eyes boring into yours. 

she cracks a gentle smile, “we can talk, and then maybe… we can show each other what we want.”

you smile, a little breathless.

“okay.”

and the moment the words leave your mouth, you see something shift in her. it isn’t anything like usual— hesitant and reserved, but instead, it’s something akin to a quiet focus. 

she doesn’t rush at all. she lifts your hand to her mouth first, pressing a kiss to your knuckles like it’s the most gentle thing in the world. her voice is barely above a whisper as her eyes flutter up at you— her usual glassy, bright blue eyes now shadowed over with something you don’t recognize. 

“tell me what you want to try.”

your cheeks heat, but you hold her gaze, careful not to falter. this is what you’ve been wanting for so long, and now that the moment’s finally here, you want to do any and everything but back out. 

“i want you to stop being so careful. with me.”

she tilts her head, partially in confusion, partially because she wants you to elaborate more. so, you clarify.

“you’re always gentle, and so very sweet. which…i love that, don’t get me wrong— but i want more than just sweetness sometimes. i want you tell me what to do and when to do it— i just…i want you to do whatever you want.”

her eyes flick down to your lips. she’s listening attentively, taking in each word like it really matters— which, to her, it does.

you’re slightly nervous now, and a little embarrassed, heat flaring in your cheeks. you physically can’t look at her without doubling over, and you do so— falling into her, saying the rest against her collarbone, your voice barely above the sound of her breath.

“i want to see what you’re like when you’re not being nice. i want…i want you to be mean. rough with me.” 

something flickers in caitlyn, and you feel her nod, her hand coming up to gently stroke your hair. “are you sure?”

“yes.” you reply almost instantly, and that’s all it takes for cait. 

she doesn’t rush, but there’s a purpose to her actions now, a confidence that settles into her spine as she backs you toward her bed. the air shifts with it, and you feel your heartbeat speed up, anticipation curling in your stomach when she kisses you differently this time.

not the soft, tender brush of lips she usually gives you before sleep or bidding you goodbye. this one is deeper, hungrier, like it’s making up for every time she held back. her hands stay at your waist for a second, then trail lower, fingers slipping beneath the hem of your shirt, testing the waters just a little bit. 

she pulls back just slightly.

“i want you to tell me if i go too far,” she says, and she’s nothing but serious. you nod fervently, but she shakes her head, her index finger curling underneath your chin and tilting it up, forcing you to look at her. 

“tell me.”

“yes ma’am.” you squeak out, nodding again, your skin tingly and hot. 

“what a good girl.” she coos, and before you even have enough time to react, her hands find the hem of your t-shirt— which, is really her’s— pulling it off, her fingers brushing over every inch of your smooth skin like she’s committing it to memory. she kisses the space below your collarbone, then lower, and lower, and when you gasp her name, she murmurs “yes, love?” like she’s teasing, but her hands are shaking just a little.

she’s nervous, but she masks it well. you can tell she’s starting to ease up by the way she kisses you and grabs your ass, and not just a little tap like she usually does. her hands are roaming all around you, hungry for you, desperate to make you feel good. 

you reach for her shirt too— unbuttoning it, one by one, until her chest is bare beneath you, excusing a black, lacy bra that she’s wearing. her hair falls forward, brushing your shoulder, and she leans in again, mouth hot against your neck now, teeth grazing just enough to make your breath hitch.

you discard her shirt to the floor like it’s worth nothing, grabbing her face to pull her lips back onto yours. you’re both messily trying to reach the bed, stumbling over shirts and other items that are scattered about her bedroom. 

cait pulls you down onto her crisply made bed, covers shifting as she flips you underneath her with a swift movement, not breaking the kiss. a tiny moan passes through your lips as her fingers toy with the waistband of your jeans, and you can practically hear your own heartbeat in your ears, anticipation rising. 

she shifts down to kiss your jaw, then your throat, then across your chest, slow and methodical like she’s tracing a map she’s read a hundred times but only now dares to touch. she presses her thigh between yours, and you arch into it, your breath catching in your throat.

“c-cait—”

“i know,” she murmurs, her voice dripping honey as she shifts down, her hand reaching the button on your jeans. as soon as she looks up at you for confirmation, you breathe out a helpless plea, and she nods, grinning. 

she slides her fingers onto the buttons, undoing each one carefully, amused at how shaky you get with each one she takes out slow and purposeful, until you’re gasping her name again, this time raw and open. 

with a little bit of force, plus your shimmying, she moves your bottoms down until they reach your ankles, sliding them off and throwing them behind her without another look. 

caitlyn gives you a half-smile when her eyes land on your pretty blue panties, the one with the lace and bow at the top that she had picked out for you. you offer up a sheepish smile, legs squeezed shut, “hi.”

“hi, pretty,” she gleams, tapping your thighs lightly, “open ‘em.”

you oblige, your legs spreading slowly for her, and she lets out a quiet giggle when she sees the giant wet spot at your core. she wets her lips with her tongue, “eager much, huh, babe?” 

you grow shy, your head falling into your shoulder as you nod silently. 

“let me take care of you.” 

caitlyn’s face falls in between your thighs, kissing them repeatedly, landing on all your sweet spots that she knows all too well. both her hands find the waistband of your panties, pulling them down, and you shiver at the new temperature of air. 

she, once again, throws your underwear onto the floor like it’s a piece of trash, cooing out at how pretty you look— and she tells you that, too. 

“you make it so hard to hold back,” she whispers honestly, “i…i don’t think i want to anymore.”

“then don’t.”

and she doesn’t.

“just—“ she brings her wrist up to her mouth, her teeth trapping the edge of a hair tie as her hands cup around her scalp, pooling her hair into a ponytail. she slides the elastic up her fingers and your eyes are glued to her, watching her nimble fingers dwindle, securing her hair and blowing a loose piece away from her face. 

your feel your eyes widen, just a bit. you don’t have much time to react before her middle and ring finger are placed against your sopping pussy, collecting your juices on her fingertips, spreading the wetness to your clit, teasing you. you shudder.

“w-wait, caitlyn,” you interrupt before she can go any further, and she looks up at you, “hm?”

“…nevermind.” you shake your head. 

she hums, but she’s not convinced. her hand slides up to your thigh, slower now, more deliberate. she squeezes it gently, “no. there’s something else.”

you bite your lip.

she shifts closer, blue eyes watching you with that sharp, focused look that always makes your stomach turn instantly. 

“you promised,” she reminds you gently, “that you’d tell me what you wanted.”

you hesitate. it’s not that you don’t want to— it’s just… different this time. harder to say. it’s more than just her changing her demeanor, it’s an action, once that you weren’t sure if she’d be interested in. 

“is it something you’re afraid i won’t like?” she asks gently, not pushing, but just out of pure wonder.

you shake your head.

“then what is it?”

your voice is barely a whisper when you say, “you’ll think it’s too much.”

caitlyn’s gaze softens, but she doesn’t let up. she leans in, brushing her lips just below your dripping core.

“tell me anyway.”

your throat works as you breathe out, honest, “i want you to tie me up.”

there’s a beat of silence, but it’s not uncomfortable. you can tell she’s thinking about what you just said, gears turning like she’s full of ideas.

she pulls back just slightly, just enough to see your face. “you want me to—”

“not in a scary way,” you rush out, cheeks burning, “just… soft. but firm. like you’re in control. i don’t know.” you look away from her, “gosh, i feel stupid.”

“look at me,” she says, and when you do, her expression makes you forget how to breathe. she’s not judging you or looking hesitant, but instead, her eyes are lit up like she’s been wanting to do that all along. 

“you’re not stupid,” she says slowly, “you’re perfect.”

you barely get a sound out before she speaks again, “stay right there.”

you nod, breathless, and watch as she stands up and crosses the room— calm and composed, but she’s got a new pep in her step. she opens a drawer at her desk and rummages around for a second before she returns with a soft, navy silk scarf and that look in her eyes again, the one that makes your knees go weak even when you’re lying down.

“hands up.” she orders, and it isn’t laced with that usual tenderness— no, this was a command, and you follow it.

you lift them slowly. you’re nervous and excited all at once, and the mixture is dizzying. she moves to the side of the bed and she binds your wrists together behind your back, gently but tight enough that you can feel it. her fingers linger after, tracing the new vulnerability she’s created.

“still okay?” she asks, watching your face to make sure you’re alright.

you nod again for what feels like the hundredth time, “yes, please. i need you.”

cait smiles. not her usual amused, aristocratic smirk— not at all. this one is deeper, much darker, and you whine at that, at that look, where you both know the exact same thing. 

she’s gonna make you fall apart. 

she kisses down your neck, your chest, taking her time while your arms stay pinned over your head. she moves lower until she’s sprawled underneath you, her nose laying on top of her clit. she starts off slowly, licking into you slow and precise, holding your thighs open as you gasp her name. you squirm and she presses your hips down with a firm hand, murmuring against your skin, “easy, love. i’ve got you.”

and you know she does. 

her tongue finds your clit almost instantly, toying with the sensitive bud. you sigh, basking in her touch, fingers curling in the sheets where you can, the scarf tight behind your back as your body arches helplessly.

you can’t even hide how loud the moan is. it slips out like a secret, but it’s still very audible. you weren’t expecting her to be this good at what you asked for, nor this focused. this deliberate.

caitlyn doesn’t say anything at first— she just hums low, like she’s pleased with herself. her lips are soft, her tongue precise, her grip on your thighs firm and immovable. it’s everything you asked for— commanding, but still cait, like always. 

then, suddenly, her lips pull away from you with a pop, and you whine out helpless, body shifting on the covers. she pulls her fingers to her mouth and wets them, eyes glued on you, lining them up with your wet pussy. slowly, she pushes them inside you— so deep that you can feel it so high up. she curls them tight and you gasp, and then, she’s gone. 

caitlyn pumps her fingers in and out in a harsh rhythm, fingertips curling as her thumb comes up to rub your clit in sloppy, quick circles. it’s nearly too much for you— it throws you into a haze of nothing but pleasure, the only sounds filling the room being your heavy breathing and the wetness from your cunt. she’s unrelenting, and it’s all you could ever want. 

you whisper her name like a prayer, squirming beneath her touch, but she tuts at you mockingly. 

“don’t run from it,” she murmurs, lips brushing against your sensitive thighs, “you said you wanted me in control, didn’t you?  i’m just giving you what you asked for.”

you whimper at the words, your body already on edge, your wrists aching in the best way. you want more. God, you want so much more.

you don’t even realize you’re crying out until her fingers quicken even faster— rapidly pushing inside you with practiced ease, curling just right, drawing a gasp from your throat that’s half-shock, half-desperation.

“f-fuck, cait—”

“that’s it,” she praises, voice low, “take it. be a good girl and take it.”

your legs are shaking, and she’s not even moving that fast. that’s the thing— she’s not trying to break you, but she’s trying to unravel you. 

her thumb circulates against your clit as her fingers work you open, and your whole body stutters beneath the intensity. you’re so worked up that you almost try to reach out before realizing that you’re tied up— you’re twitching, gasping, panting like it’s too much, but you don’t want her to stop. not even for a second.

she leans forward, teeth grazing your skin, “you like being tied up for me?” she asks you softly, but mockingly, “you like not being able to touch me? hm?” 

you nod desperately, your head thrown back as a string of curses slip through your teeth, “i love it,” you take a second to breathe, “i love it— please, c-caitlyn, don’t stop—”

your girlfriend chuckles— low, dangerous, but seemingly affectionate. her pace quickens slightly, and she’s cooing little praises beneath you as your back arches. you’re so close that it hurts.

“you’re so pretty when you’re like this,” caitlyn tells you, voice raw now, and her usual sweetness is long gone. “falling apart for me, making all these sweet little sounds— fuck, i need you.” 

you feel your walls tightening around her, crying out against her palm, practically begging for whatever else she can give. 

you feel your legs shake and your breath hitch, and you’re so close you feel like your body’s gonna snap. “c-cait, cait, baby— i’m gonna—“

but caitlyn… caitlyn has other plans.

just when you’re about to tip over the edge, she pulls back— fingers drenched, eyes dark, her breathing steady, while yours is completely shattered.

“you thought you were gonna cum, didn’t you?” she questions, thumb tracing a line over your inner thigh as she looks up at you with that look, and you shiver at that.

you nod, dazed and wide-eyed. “yes— baby, please, i—”

“did i say you could? did you even ask?” 

your breath catches in your throat again, this time from the shift in her tone. it’s not cruel, no, never cruel— but stern. in control, just what you had asked for. 

“well, n-no,” you admit, voice small, “but i thought—”

“you don’t get to think tonight,” caitlyn cuts in gently, and she leans up and kisses your trembling lips, “you asked me to take charge. so i am. you’ll cum when i want you to.”

your head drops back against the pillows, a whine building in your throat. she’s already kissing her way back down your body, hands pressing your thighs wide open again. 

you’re too sensitive now. every touch feels like a wild fire. your toes curl, your spine twists, and her tongue is back on your clit like nothing ever stopped— but you know now. you know she won’t let you finish, at least, not until you ask nicely— and even then, you know who’s really in control. 

and somehow, that makes it worse, yet so much hotter.

you cry out again, hips lifting, your legs shaking, and the feeling is so much stronger than before, but she pulls away just before you can get close. 

again.

“caitlyn,” you’re literally begging now, tears stinging against your eyes, “please, i’ll do anything, i’ll be so good. but i just need—” 

“i know,” she whispers, kissing the inside of your thigh gently, and it’s reassuring, “i know, darling. you’re doing so well. but not yet.”

you lose count of how many times she edges you like that— over and over, winding you up like a string she’s pulling tighter and tighter, and refusing to let you let go. she holds your hips down when you squirm, hushes you when you sob, kisses you so sweetly, and still won’t let you fall apart.

“tell me your safeword,” she murmurs, hands smoothing over your stomach with one hand, the other still buried deep inside of your cunt, fingers still at work. “just so i know you still remember.”

you nod through tears, eyes blurry and unfocused, “blueberry.”

she kisses your thighs, “good girl.”

then, she starts all over again. not completely— just enough to work you back up, her mouth replacing her thumb on your clit, and you feel like you’re seeing stars. 

you bury your face in a pillow, the need for stability gnawing at you. you can’t hold on, so you smush your face into the silky case, still wrecked. “please, cait…honey, i-i want to cum. i need to. i’ve been so…so good— and it hurts. please, cait!” 

caitlyn pulls away from your pussy and hums, thinking it over a few times, and then she grins.

“on my fingers or my tongue?”

you blink, gasping, surprised that she was even going to let you finish off. “wh-what?”

“you get one,” she tells you, “and you better cum hard, because i’m not letting you get another one.”

it doesn’t take much thought to answer her question. you choose her tongue, which she favors, and it’s inside you in seconds.

and when you cum— finally, completely, crying into the sheets— you scream her name like it’s the only thing that’ll save you. your whole body locks, and she talks you through it the entire time.

“yeah, that’s it, darling— cum for me.”

“such a pretty girl.”

“i know, i know, but you’re a big girl. you can take it.”

you don’t remember how long it takes for you to catch your breath. you just know that when you do, caitlyn’s right there, smiling. she’s brushing your hair back, her thumb tracing your cheekbone. “still breathing?”

you nod. barely.

“good,” she says, kissing you slowly, sweetly. “i love you.” she reminds you. 

you’re still laid out beneath her, body flushed and soft from the first round, when your free hands reach up to touch her again. your fingers trail up her clothed thigh, light and wanting, but she catches your wrist— not roughly. just firm.

you pause, eyes flicking up, “you don’t want me to touch you?”

caitlyn hesitates. she doesn’t pull you away, not exactly, but her grip lingers for a second, her thumb rubbing absent circles into your skin.

“i do,” she affirms softly, “i do, it’s just… i want to treat you tonight.”

you blink, a little breathless, “treat me?”

caitlyn exhales, and it’s a little shaky. her cheeks are flushed, and you can tell she’s nervous from something she hasn’t said yet, something she’s clearly been holding back.

“it’s stupid,” she murmurs, half-smiling like she’s already bracing to be teased, “i’ve just… i like being the one in charge. with you. i like taking care of you. and…” she trails off, lips parting like she’s not sure if she should finish.

“caitlyn,” you call out her her, and she hums. “baby, you can tell me. this is for both of us, and if you want something, i want you to let me know.” 

“okay,” she whispers slowly, more to brace herself than to respond to your statement. her eyes cast downward like she’s suddenly shy, and you blink up at her, surprised. “i’ve been thinking about something, a word— something i want you to say. but only if you’re comfortable.”

you nod, a little nervous now, but curious, “kiramman, spit it out.” 

you can tell she wants to, but she’s reluctant. she shakes her head and pulls you into her by your hips and kisses you, her fingers dancing against your nude hips, and you forget all about it. not wanting to push her. she throws your leg over hers, her hands roaming all over. she moans into you, “i want to touch you again.” 

you feel like your skin is ignited. you’re wanting more than you can handle, your sensitivity still heightened, but you don’t care. you let caitlyn flip you underneath her, let her place sloppy kisses all over your body, let her tongue graze your clit until your legs shake. 

she finds herself under you once again, her tongue drawing sloppy figure 8’s on your clit, then down to your pussy. you’re so sensitive that you’re already getting close, and caitlyn can tell— she always does. 

when you whimper out, she shushes you, “stop that, darling, let mommy make you feel good. it’s okay, i know— i’m not going anywhere.”

you stop. “caitlyn?”

she stops, and looks up at you. “yes?” 

“what did you just say?” 

she draws a slow breath in, “w-what do you mean?”

“let who make me feel good?”

there’s a pause, and you raise an eyebrow at her, smiling. she looks away for a second and almost laughs— and you know she’s embarrassed, which makes your heart squeeze. 

caitlyn sighs, “you’ve never called me anything like that before. but sometimes, when you let go like that… when you let me take care of you…” she swallows. “i think about you calling me…you know—“

“mommy?”

“right.” she agrees, looking anywhere but in your eyes. 

you stare at her for a long moment, heart skipping. caitlyn, flushed and trying so hard to stay composed, still has her hand pressed to your thigh. she's avoiding your eyes, which is rare. but you know her now— know her well enough to see the part of her that tries to hide when she's so vulnerable.

"you could've just said that," you murmur, voice breathy, warm. "you know i'd do anything for you."

her gaze finally meets yours, and something in it softens. she’s still shy, but she’s loosened up. "it's not just about the name, it's... what it means when you say it."

"and what does it mean?" 

caitlyn takes a breath, then crawls back up over you slowly, her body sliding over yours. her hand wraps gently around your throat— not squeezing, just holding— and the shift is immediate. she's in control again, and she knows it, basking in it. 

"it means you're mine," she whispers with a smile, “and i take care of what's mine. always.” 

you whimper at that, at the return of her weight. she watches you unravel beneath her again, and it must be all the permission she needs, because the next second, she's kissing you— rougher this time, messily, like this is the last time. 

quickly, her hands are between your legs again before you can say anything else, parting you with the same unrelenting precision she always has. she fingers you like she knows you inside and out, because she does. she’s so deep that it almost hurts, but the pleasure’s greater than the pain, and you moan out at that.

“cait, please—“ your sentence dies on your tongue, and just when you start to squirm, chasing the edge, she pulls back. 

“ask nicely.” she orders you, and without thinking, you plead, your head dropping into her shoulder. 

“please— m-mommy, please let me cum—“

the groan she lets out is deep, guttural, like you've just unhinged something in her. she doesn't waste another second— her fingers press inside you, slow but firm, and her mouth is back on your throat, your chest, anywhere she can reach. her other hand holds you down when your hips buck, and when you whimper again, she shushes you gently.

"just relax. mommy's gonna take care of everything."

and she does.

she builds you up so slowly you feel like you're losing your mind, touching you just how you like— soft but commanding, her pace teasing yet cruel. you squirm, and she tightens her grip on your hip.

you feel the coil in your stomach pulse, and you cry out, back lifting off of the covers, but caitlyn doesn’t stop. she just kisses your shoulder, “cum for mommy, baby.”

you feel everything in you snap open, your body shaking in periodic spurts, your back falling back into the sweaty covers beneath you. caitlyn helps you ride out your high and you swear you’ve died and came back to life. 

you both sigh and fall into the sheets, looking at each other before giggling silently. caitlyn cups your cheek, “was that…okay?”

“yeah,” you nod and kiss her plump lips, “more than okay.” 

₊⊹ taglist: @drunkinyourbenz

[yeagersss]

Sukuna x Blind!Reader (Part 2)

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For some reason he found himself going back to you.

As hard as it was for him to admit it but you—a fragile, blind woman had managed to pique his interest.

So every once in a week, he left his temple and found himself wandering to your house in a state of boredom. Sometimes he encountered someone—a human, a curse or a wild animal. He slaughtered them without a second thought.

You managed to tell it's him just by the sound of his heavy footsteps and according to you, his scent.

"Copper, ash and sandalwood. That's how I can tell it's you." You told him enthusiastically.

Sukuna doesn't do much when he's at your place. He sits on the tatami mat and observes you as you move around, rambling about whatever you did that day.

And it turns out. You weren't lying when you said you have a system.

You knew every nook and cranny of your little house. You knew where everything was. What to do and how to do it. Your blindness did not stop you from living your simple yet fulfilling life.

It was interesting to see you navigating around. It was either with your walking stick or by touching the walls. You explained it to him with a soft smile on your face.

"I can tell I'm in the kitchen because there's a scratch on the wall near the shelves." You explained, feeling around for it and when you did, you beamed and went inside to prepare something for Sukuna.

Your dishes were simple. Miso soup, fish, rice and sometimes chopped fruits or vegetables on the side. Nothing rich and grand like Uraume prepares for him.

But the fact that you actually manage to prepare it properly and not screw it up was— sort of—impressive.

"Do you like it, my lord?" You asked while nibbling on your grilled fish.

"Passable." Was all Sukuna grunted. You pouted at that.

His lower left eye was fixed on you. "You should eat more meat. Don't you get tired of eating fish all day?"

You hummed, chewing your meal slowly in thought. "Mm... I have eaten rabbit meat before... But meat is really expensive and it's not like I can hunt for it." You said with a soft giggle.

And then during his next visit, he brought something for you.

You greeted him with your usual smile. "Good morning, my lor—eep!" You exclaimed, startled when something was tossed on the wooden floor with a loud thud.

"W-What was that?!"

"A boar."

"A boar?!"

"It's dead. Stop worrying." Sukuna said, running a hand across the dead animal's fur. "This is what we're eating tonight."

You relaxed and perked up at his words in interest but then the stench of blood hits your nose and you gasped.

"My lord, I just finished cleaning the floor!" You whined.

"So?"

"So—" You frowned and marched right up to him, your eyes unintentionally fixed on his chest with a glare. "At least warn me next time you decide to bring a dead animal inside the house!"

Sukuna stared down at you. His lips quirking up in amusement that you—a tiny, little blind woman who barely reached his chest was scolding him of all people.

... It was... adorable. So to speak.

He smirked. "And what if I don't?" He asked, enjoying the fact that he was riling you up.

Your lip jutted out in an angry pout. "Then... Then I will not speak to you the next time you visit." You huffed, crossing your arms.

"Hah! Impossible. I will make sure you can't ignore me."

"I won't cook anything for you."

"Go ahead. I shall simply raid your pantry and eat everything that is there."

You turned back to him and glared at his chest again. "You're insufferable!"

He grinned, enjoying this senseless, little argument he was having with you. For some reason, it got his heart acting up.

"At least look me in the eyes when you argue with me, woman."

You frowned at that and tilted your head a bit up. Your clouded eyes where fixed on his collarbone now. He snorts. "Not even close."

Your breath hitched when you felt his finger curl beneath your chin and he tilted your head up and up and up...

"There we go." He hummed in delight as he gazed at your face with a certain intensity. His eyes drinking in each and every one of your features. He watched the way your cheeks tainted pink and your lips curled into a silent oh as you noted this detail about him. That he is far taller than any man you have ever met.

He lets go of you and steps back, a frown on his face as he changes the topic. "Are you simply going to stand there gawking at me, woman? It's time to prepare the meat."

You opened your mouth to protest that you were incapable of gawking at anyone but were cut off when your stomach grumbled.

You flushed in embarrassment while his lips perked up slightly.

It was strange having him in the kitchen helping you.

Well, besides cutting up the boar meat, his help consisted of standing in the corner telling you what to do. With some trial and error, you managed to prepare a dish with some herbs and rice.

"This is so good!" You exclaimed happily.

"Hmph. Not bad."

You beamed at that. Despite his words, you could tell by the tone of his voice that he liked it.

--

"Do you love poetry, my lord?"

Both of you were sitting by the river one day. The question stirring up after a minute of silence.

Instinctively, Sukuna opened his mouth to say no. But he stopped. At this point, is it really necessary to hide his guilty pleasure for the arts from you?

"Yes."

You smiled. "Oh! That's nice! Yesterday I was in the village and a poet was reading his works in the main market." You hummed, tapping your chin in thought. "It was about the tragedies of love but... It didn't particularly move me and his voice was too shrilly."

Sukuna couldn't help but snort at that. "That was no poet. It was a con man simply tricking gullible humans into tossing coins to him."

You smiled at that. "Ah... It's no wonder I was getting such bad vibes from him."

Sukuna frowned. "And you don't get these so-called "bad vibes" from me?"

You laughed softly. "No at all! Oh! Wait here! I want to show you something." You said, eagerly grabbing your walking stick and standing up to go into your house.

You came back a few minutes later. A scroll in hand and you sat back down next to him.

He noted you were closer than earlier. Your knee gently brushing against his.

You sat there in silence for a moment, your fingertips gently brushing against the scroll in your hand as if it was your most delicate possession. Then you untied and slowly opened it.

"This is my mother's collection." You mumbled softly. "She was an... avid reader and writer. She loved writing about nature. The beauty and life in it."

You were looking straight ahead with your clouded eyes in a solemn gaze. "It's also why I live here. It's easy to get inspiration when you live in a place like this." You giggled humorlessly.

Sukuna stared at you with narrowed eyes. "Why are you telling me this?"

You quickly wiped your unshed tears away. "No reason! I simply got sentimental." You sniffled.

You hold out the scroll to him. "Would you like to read it, my lord?"

He found himself unable to refuse. In a way, he was curious to see your mother's works. He took the scroll from your hand, noting just how dusty it was. The pages were turning yellow from the corner. It seems that it had been stored away for years, completely untouched and this was the first time it was taken out since then.

His eyes scanned across each syllable. He had to admit, he was quite impressed. Not only was the calligraphy quite elegant but the meaning behind the poems were thought provoking too.

Next to him, you shifted softly. His lower set of eyes went to you, taking in your slumped posture. Your eyes were downcasted while you nervously wringed your hands.

When he finished reading the first poem, he read the second one out loud.

He watched the way you perked up. Your breath hitched in a soft gasp. A delicate smile graced your lips and your cheeks flushed a soft shade of red.

You intently listened to your mother's poems as the King of Curses narrated them in his deep, baritone voice.

And somewhere along the way, you found yourself leaning against him in utter content. "You have a very beautiful voice, my lord." You whispered shyly.

Sukuna, on the other hand, stiffened at your soft gesture and comment. He had paused his reading to stare at you. You— the blind woman who was somehow so brave enough to lean against him like he made you feel safe and happy. Like you were utterly grateful to him.

He went back to reading out loud again, wondering deeply why his heart felt so light and warm.

[inkykeiji]

purge me, purgatory

character: caleb warnings: 18+ minors do not interact, pseudo-cest, noncon that turns into dubcon, a hint of dacryphilia, toxic masculinity, reader is a bit of a brat, size difference, manipulation, praise, caleb can get a little mean, nightmares, toxic relationship, power dynamics, pet names words: 5.3k

notes: i started working on this piece before caleb had even been released and i am SO glad i finally finished editing it. this also wasn’t supposed to be nearly as long as it became but alas, such is my curse (◞‸◟；) please heed the warnings above and stay safe!

You know Caleb has nightmares. You’ve seen the toll they take on him: exhaustion hanging heavy over hunched shoulders, staining sunken eyes with rings of purple, face twisted into a grimace as he collapses in the chair across the table from you, an untouched bowl of apple oatmeal steaming in front of him.

“Another one?” you’d always say, voice so kind and cautious, so wan and worried, bottom lip caught between your teeth muddling the question. 

“Yeah,” he’d always respond, dragging a hand down his face as if he’s trying to scrub the fatigue from his features. “But don’t worry about me, pipsqueak. I’m okay.” 

You know Caleb has nightmares—but they’ve never been as bad as this one. 

Because tonight, it wakes you from your slumber, roused gently from sleep’s embrace by the rough whimpers seeping through the thin drywall separating your bedroom from his. 

They sound painful, terrified little noises that keep catching on the uneven hitches of his breath or splintering sharply in his throat, unintelligible pleads sprinkled throughout, too muffled for you to make out the content and chopped up by hiccups.

A dull, dense pang sears through your heart at his yelped out No!, emotion growing thick in your throat and stinging your eyes. Fingers curling in linen, you hug your blanket to your chest, a feeble attempt to quell the ache.

There’s nothing worse than hearing your big brother—your one and only protector, always—in such intense agony. 

And it isn’t stopping. 

It’s too much to bear, your nose beginning to twitch with the threat of tears, and you kick your legs free from your duvet, bare feet hitting cold hardwood a moment later. 

“C-Caleb?” your timid voice soaks into the wood of his bedroom door, followed by a soft rap of knuckles. “Caleb, are you alright?” 

You’re met with a deafening silence, so thick you swear you can feel it weighing down on your chest, lungs crushed beneath the force, ears ringing with it.

“Caleb?” you press your ear flush to the door, eyes squeezed shut in concentration—the ruffling of sheets, the quiet groan of a bedspring, and then, a sniffle. 

Something cracks in your chest, splits itself open so big and so wide it has you hunching over in pain, shoulders curling inward as if your body is trying to keep from tearing apart, one hand flattened over your sternum, the other gripping the brass doorknob.

Another sniffle and the knob is turning, the door falling open, your body stumbling through the threshold. 

Your breathing is laboured, ragged and unevenly shoved from your lungs by a rapidly palpitating heart, a choked version of his name mangling itself in your throat.

“Hey, sweetheart,” he says, but his voice is thin, weak, fragile, fingertips thumbing aggressively at his eyes, flesh mopping up remnants of teardrops.

It’s a tone of voice that you’ve never heard before, a tone that turns your blood to shards of ice in your veins, a tone that has unease blooming at the base of your spine, crawling up the notches one by one. 

Because Caleb has never been afraid before; you’ve never seen Caleb afraid before. Out of the two of you, he’s always been the strong one, the brave one, the ‘I-can-and-I-will-take-on-anything’ one. He’s always been your guardian angel, your watchdog, your shield from all the bad and scary things in the world. 

You thought he always would be—it is what he promised, after all. 

But right now he looks so small surrounded by a crumpled sea of cotton, tufts of hair clinging to his sweat-drenched temples, muscles tense and rigid, like a predator ready to pounce at the slightest hint of danger.

It has you rushing towards him, falling into his waiting arms—trembling, but safe—and clutching at the collar of his worn t-shirt. Instinctively, your face nuzzles into the crook of his neck, cedar and peppermint streaming down your throat to fill your lungs with him. Your chest swells with his essence, held deep within your core, a natural sedative, your heart beginning to slow.

Home; your big brother will always smell like home. 

You allow yourself another moment to steep in his scent before you finally pull back to look at him, hands clasped tightly around his neck, fingers toying with the strands of hair at the nape of his neck—a nervous habit for you, a calming sensation for him.

“What happened?” 

“Nightmare,” he chuckles, but the word is shaky. “Pretty standard stuff. Nothin’ to be concerned about, pipsqueak.” 

And his facade of nonchalant is good, but it isn’t good enough to fool you.

Frenetic eyes search his face, noting the sheen of cold sweat glazing his skin, the salt that has dried his lashes in thick spikes, the panic swimming in violet irises, concern weighting the corners of your lips. 

“Caleb,” you begin slowly, “you woke me up.” 

His brow furrows, eyes narrowing slightly.

“I…Did? Has that ever happened before?” 

And that’s all it takes, really, to have Caleb switching into his Big Brother Mode, stern and straight to business, the need to know if he’s disrupted your precious sleep before much more important than the terror he was experiencing mere moments ago, as if your comfort matters more than his own. 

“No,” your fingers push into his hair and his head dips, a hum vibrating in his chest. “This one was bad. I can tell.” 

“I’m fine,” he murmurs, his neck curving more, his forehead nearly bumping against your collarbone.

“I’m worried it’ll come back the moment you close your eyes,” you admit, nails raking along his scalp, a shiver coursing through his body, following your ministrations. 

“How many times do I gotta tell you? You don’t need to worry about me.” 

And although it’s supposed to be a reprimand, it comes out soft, no heat to his voice as his head follows your touch, tilting to the side and allowing your fingers more room to move.

He has told you, many times before in many different tones, but that doesn’t mean you’ll ever actually listen. 

It isn’t your fault; you can’t help how much you care for him.

“Just because I don’t have to, doesn’t mean I won’t,” you huff out, a bite to your voice. “It doesn’t matter how many times you say it; it isn’t going to stop me from caring about you, so you might as well—”

He looks up suddenly, brows knitted and eyes hard. 

“Who’s the big brother here, huh?” violet scours your face, his gaze bright and sharp, searching for an answer. “Who’s job is it to take care of who?”

“It is our job to take care of each other,” you say, palms flattening to the sides of his head and inhibiting him from looking away. “It’s a joint effort, Caleb.” 

The hinges of his jaw flex beneath your touch, a forceful sigh flaring his nostrils, his shoulders deflating a little in your stark stubbornness. An argument is nipping at the tip of his tongue, desperate to pry past his lips and reassert authority, but his teeth clench, molars grinding together. 

“Why don’t I stay with you tonight?” you continue, thumb smoothing out that thick vein in his forehead. “Might make you feel better if you’re not alone—kind of like the way we used to make blanket forts in the living room during really bad thunderstorms.” 

“Oh, you don’t have to do that—” 

“Come on,” you whisper, brushing a strand of damp hair back from his temple. “Let your little sister take care of you for once, yeah?” 

“I’m fine—I’ll be fine—”

“You always say I make everything better, so…” you shrug, eyes searching his. “Let me make this better. Please.” 

The sincerity straining your voice is potent, so much so that he swears he can feel it surrounding him in a suffocating embrace, soaking into his skin and permeating his muscles with something dense and heavy. It weighs him down, roots him to your aura, immobilizing him physically and mentally, the sweetest poison.

Swallowing, he looks away from your piercing eyes.

“It’s not—”

“Caleb,” you whine out, petulant, his name dripping out stringy and thick through a pout. “What is with this reluctance to allow me to take care of you every once in a while? It’s not fair.” 

You sound like a fucking child, and for a moment Caleb is transported back to your shared youth, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has encountered many times before, that telltale pout a lethal weapon he has yet to find a defence from, an antidote for.

And you, well, you know this—he knows you know this, your infamous brattiness finally making an appearance, usually a foolproof way to get what you want from him, even it if comes with a hefty dose of reprimand. 

Your gaze, glassy and hard, is framed by furrowed brows, nose scrunched up in typical distaste.

His stare searches your own, and you hold your expression open for him—so willing, so wanting—his own eyes darkening with something you can’t quite place. A shiver skitters up your spine, but you swallow against the unease, continuing. 

“I want to help,” you say. “Please.” 

It isn’t right—he doesn’t need your help, shouldn’t need your help, fated to the role of big brother and, by extension, Man of the House; if anything, it should always be him comforting you. 

Well, that, and the undeniable fact that having you in such close proximity—so intimate, sharing a bed after a nightmare—is tantalizing, and that makes it dangerous. 

But he doesn’t know how to say any of that, how to thread those thoughts into sentences and push them from his disinclined tongue.

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. 

Either way, it doesn’t matter, because in the end you get your way, just like you always do—just like he always lets you. 

“Alright,” he finally says, the word nothing more than a defeated huff of breath. “Alright.”

Disappointment sinks hard and heavy in his chest, and Caleb bites his cheek, disgusted with himself. It’s stupid to feel such dismay; he should be used to this by now. Maybe he had hoped that this time, he would be strong enough to deny you. How utterly silly of him to believe he was capable of such a feat.

“Gosh,” you roll your eyes, playfully nudging his nose with your own. “Don’t sound so excited.”

But your amusement is not contagious, Caleb’s expression steadfastly dismal, your smile fading as your brow crinkles in confusion.

“Hush, now,” he says, but his voice is gentle, pressing a chaste kiss to your forehead. “You need rest.” 

The numbers glowing on his nightstand indicate that yes, you do need rest, you both need rest, and you nod, allowing Caleb to manhandle the two of you beneath his blankets.

The delicate scent of warm toffee and fresh orchid engulf him, one of Caleb’s strong arms curled around your waist, slotting your back up against his chest.

“Sleep,” he instructs, the order rumbling his ribs, his voice low and gruff. “My little protector.” 

“Shut up,” you mumble, but your eyes slip shut. “You’ll be thanking me in the morning.”

But Caleb’s not so sure. 

Because despite your presence being warm and comforting and full of home, Caleb can’t fucking sleep. 

Because you are too fucking close. Abnormally close; inappropriately close, and it’s driving him up the Goddamn wall. 

He’s tried everything—first shuffling away a little, just to put a couple inches of space between your bodies; close enough for you to still feel his presence, and for him to still feel yours, but not too close to be considered indecorous. 

When that didn’t work, when your body sensed the loss and instinctually sought out his own, Caleb shoved himself so his back was pressed flush to the drywall—as far as he could possibly get without physically removing himself from the bed entirely—but that didn’t help, either. 

Because you’re like a little magnet, attracted to his body heat, burrowing through wrinkled sheets to glue yourself to his form as if it is natural, normal, entirely intuitive. 

Even in sleep, you’re greedy. 

Caleb supposes he’s even worse. 

Caleb could, realistically, turn away from you—present you with his sculpted back and protect his front from your unconscious attacks; or leave the bed entirely, opting to sleep on the too-small, too-scratchy sofa in the living room downstairs so he doesn’t have to worry about hands with minds of their owns—hands desperate to touch and grope and mark, hands that can’t keep to themselves. Caleb could wake you up and firmly insist that you go back to your own bed, exercising his Big Brother Authority and overruling any and all of your rebuttals and arguments—but he doesn’t, because he can’t. 

Because he’s fucking weak, weak to his own wicked whims, a slave to his sins, drowning in his own desire. It’s too good of an opportunity to give up, his deepest, darkest indulgences presented to him on a platinum platter, crafted by the devil himself. And Caleb isn’t strong enough to resist it’s enticing allure, ironclad willpower melted to sticky silver in the heat of your body, seeping from your flesh into his, poisoning his blood and his brain.

That’s what you do to him; you eat up his logic and spit it back out, mangled and gross, you consume his highly prized self respect and military-grade discipline and reduce him to something desperate and degenerate. 

And eventually, finally, his worst nightmare comes true. 

It’s stifling in his bed, the fabric of his t-shirt damp with sweat—yours, his, does it matter?—and plastered to his body. His tongue has turned to sand in his mouth, dry and grating and heavy. Swallowing does nothing to alleviate the discomfort, the action rough and sticky, the gummy walls of his throat sticking together with the motion.

Water would be nice, but there’s no way for Caleb to slip from your embrace—a thigh thrown over his hip, a palm pressed to his sternum—without ruining your peaceful slumber. 

And you do look oh-so-peaceful; so serene, so ethereal, so fucking breathtaking that it’d be a crime to spoil such a sight.

Moonbeams stream through the window, painting you in strokes of translucent silver. It catches on the beads of sweat adorning your neck, dewdrops that glitter with the steady throb of your jugular, and Caleb feels saliva begin to flood the underside of his tongue, thick and slimy. 

Sweat has water in it, doesn’t it? 

It happens before he even has a chance to think it through, a primal desire his body knew needed to be met, tongue unfurling from its cavern slow and sick to trace along that jagged pulse.

Your neck arches into his taste, offering him more—such a good little sister, you are—and he takes, a slave to temptation, tongue flattening against your flesh and licking one long, wide stripe from the notch of your collarbone to the hinge of your jaw.

It’s delicious, better than anything he could’ve ever imagined, and Caleb laps at you again, harder this time, rougher this time. 

Your essence, salty sweat and bitter perfume, explodes on his tastebuds, and something rattles, roars to life, deep within his chest. It ignites a hunger within him that cannot be sated— dark, desirous, depraved as it claws at his sternum, no matter how much he takes, it always wants more, his desperate attempt to feed it only working to make it more voracious.

It awakens the monster rooted at the core of his soul, a sordid creature borne of something illicit and sinister and wrong many years ago. It sparks the ever-simmering addiction kindling in his rotten, charred heart—a craving that flares higher, burns brighter with every passing second, leaving him intoxicated and stupid, drunk on your aura.

If he doesn’t cut it out he’s going to lick your skin raw—how many licks to get to your sugary sweet center?—your saccharine sweat staining his tongue. 

His mouth latches over your collarbone and sucks, tongue swirling around the knob as his teeth scrape, nipping superficially. Tiny tangles of capillaries snap beneath the force, violet flooding the tissues beneath the thin barrier of skin—and oh, how sweet your blood must taste, how shameful to have it trapped beneath your flesh. 

A soft moan vibrates in your throat as Caleb seals the mark with another heavy lave, pressing a singular kiss to the rapidly developing bruise. Pulling back slightly, violet eyes sweep across the mess he’s made of your flesh, fleeting marks that will fade much too quickly for his liking.

A callused thumb ghosts over the bloom, an involuntary whimper catching in his throat. 

“So pretty,” he breathes to himself, caressing the mark again. 

A delicate shiver quivers through your flesh, procured by his airy words, and Caleb coos, tongue washing over your skin again in a crude caress, his hot breath cool against the glaze of saliva he’s painted in its wake. 

“Y’like that?” he whispers, the question barely more than a wisp wafting over your soaked skin. “Y’want me to do it again?” 

You answer with the softest mewl and a groan rumbles his ribcage, his hips snuggling between your spread thighs, a dainty wheeze pressed from your chest as his weight bears down on you. 

His tongue lolls out from between his teeth, thick strings of drool dripping off the tip to drizzle along your neck, sopped up a mere moment later as the slick muscle rolls along your flesh, following the scrape of his front teeth. 

Another gentle tremble ripples through your form—such precious responses to your big brother’s mouth!—and he runs his teeth along the curve of your throat again, revelling in how such simple actions can pull such gorgeous reactions from you, entirely subconscious. 

That must mean you like it, right? Such responses clearly connote your enjoyment, don’t they? You ought to know, on some subconscious level, that it is your big brother doing this—that it is Caleb’s lips and Caleb’s tongue and Caleb’s spit, that it is Caleb that you are reacting to.

It’s impossible to quell the slow gyrating of his hips as he feasts on your flesh, aching cock grinding against your thigh in messy little circles, fully hard and tenting flannel. He can feel the small pool of pre-cum steadily garnishing the slit, leaking through his PJ pants to leave shimmering smears of his perverted pleasure along the silky skin of your inner thigh.

He’s getting greedy—he knows he is, but he just can’t seem to restrain himself, your essence too alluring to resist; a compulsion, uncontrollable and unquenchable.

He should stop before you wake to your big brother gnawing at your neck and humping your thigh; really, that’s what any good, decent big brother would do. Your rest is important, after all. 

He should do a lot of things.

But he doesn’t, because he can’t. 

Or maybe he just doesn’t want to. 

The sensations are overwhelming; something he’s spent several years denying himself, something he’s spent several years dreaming about—it doesn’t count if it’s just in his head, right?—and he finds himself drowning in it, embraced in the ecstasy.

“God, fuck,” he whimpers, curse cracking in his throat. “You feel so—so good.”

Forehead pressed into the crown of your head, his breath is sweltering and damp along your hairline, rough little moans spilling from his lips with each rut of his pelvis. 

“Y’so perfect for me, letting me use you like this,” he manages to gasp out, eyes squeezed shut, imagining how stunning you must look in the throes of pleasure; dazed eyes glazed with lust and rolling back in your skull, lips licked raw and mouth dropped open as the sweetest symphony plays on your tongue, spine bowing off his mattress as pure rapture climbs the notched vertebrae.

Oh, what he’d give to see such a sight, just once.

He wishes he could trick himself into thinking that a singular instance of experiencing such beauty would be enough to keep him from committing such a heinous act of indecency ever again, but he knows that isn’t true. 

Because already he wants more, gluttonous for your body, yearning to be buried in the warmth of your sweet little cunt; and he’s barely taken anything at all yet. Caleb can’t imagine what sort of creature this monster would evolve into under such circumstances. Too much is never enough. 

Caleb sure as hell can’t trick himself into believing such nonsense, but he sure as hell can trick you. 

He doesn’t realize you’ve awoken until he hears your tiny voice, muffled by his chest, fingers pressing into his tensing abs. 

“Cae—Caleb?” his hips stutter at the sudden sound—so quiet, so scared—his cock twitching against your leg. “What are you doing?”

“Shh,” he hushes you, body sliding down yours so he can search your face, so you can see the sincerity, the desperation, shining in his gaze, his cock pressed hot and hard against your core. “Just—” his hips roll once, a groan catching in his throat as his shaft is enveloped by your swollen lips, so easy to feel through the flimsy fabric of your pyjama shorts. “—Enjoy it.” 

“Wh-What?”

“Come on, just this once.” 

“Caleb,” you begin, and the fear in your voice, tinged with a sick sort of curiosity, has another moan clawing at the back of his tongue, hips rolling into yours slow and purposeful. “This isn’t right…” 

“No one has to know,” he slurs out, nuzzling his cheek against your temple in a crude form of comfort. “We keep so many secrets—what’s one more?”

“No, Caleb—” your hands furl into fists, pushing into lean muscle, and a dark, decadent sound of amusement drips from Caleb’s lips. Oh, how pathetically precious the you think you could ever shove him off. 

But your squirming is beginning to annoy him, that telltale aggression building in his chest—an anger only you seem to evoke, especially when you’re being uncooperative—and he snarls, pulling back a little to fix you with an unimpressed look, his hips pinning you to his bed. 

“Tell me it doesn’t feel good,” he glares at you, his words a cross between a growl and a whine, and it’s hard to tell if it’s a demand or a plead. “Go on, fucking tell me. Say ‘it doesn’t feel good, Caleb. Your cock doesn’t feel good, Caleb’. Come on.” 

Your lids clamp shut in the face of his intense, invasive stare, tears blossoming along the seam of your lashes, a pitiful squeak catching in your throat as your head shakes.

“No? Why not?” A hand wreathes itself around your jaw, blunt nails biting into your cheeks, the pain causing your eyes to spring open. “Is it because you can’t?” 

The question has that same taunting tone he’s used since you were kids—that infuriatingly blasé I’m-better-than-you cadence, the one that proclaims that you’re stupid and he’s superior, that he always wins—and a fierce flame of determination ignites within your ribs, eyes hardened and teeth barred. 

“It—It doesn’t feel—Oh, oh, Cae—”

And you’re trying, trying so desperately to force those words from your tongue, to spit them from your lips and devour the smugness glinting in his eyes, but then he’s moving again, the slick head of his cock rubbing over your clit in precise movements—back and forth, back and forth. 

That isn’t fair, but when has Caleb ever played fair, really?

He’s got you completely trapped beneath his body now, his knees digging into the mattress as he shifts his weight, forcing your thighs open wider.

“What was that? I didn’t quite catch it.” 

“I—It’s not—It doesn’t—” A mewl of frustration slices your sentence, chased by a groan of defeat. 

“C’mon, angel, spit it out already if it doesn’t feel good.” 

Squinting in the face of his mocking stare, you steel yourself, throat rippling with a thick swallow of resolve. 

“We shouldn’t—” The sentence splinters with a whine, your words pulled taught between virtue and desire. 

Tears cloud your eyes, rendering Caleb nothing more than a shimmering blur, and you blink rapidly in an attempt to clear them, tiny droplets caught by your lashes. 

“You’re a terrible liar, y’know that?” he breathes, the question damp on the shell of your ear. “I can feel how turned on you are, silly little girl.” 

His hips rock forward once in accentuation, the movement slow and purposeful, as if to prove a point. His clothed cock glides over your drenched cunt with ease and the head strokes your swollen clit again, another torrent of heat rushing to the apex of your thighs. 

“And you know what this tells me?” his voice drops to a whisper. “It tells me you like it.”

Pins of humiliation erupt across your cheeks, tingling heat flooding your face. A soft sob stutters your chest, head shaking in weak denial—a denial that you like it, or simply a denial that this isn’t moral, neither of you can be sure.

“Besides, don’t you wanna take my mind off that stupid nightmare?” His voice drops an octave, deep and devious, chills skittering across your skin. “This—” he rolls his hips once in emphasis, “this will help.” 

“Cae…” 

And he can hear it; can hear the internal struggle reflected in your voice, a tug-of-war between the need to please and the obligation to do what’s right.

“Come on, be a good little sister for me—you said you wanted to make me feel better, right? This will make me feel better. This will make me forget all about it.” 

This will bring him to the crest of bliss, the closest to Heaven he’s sure he’ll ever get. 

“I…I don’t—” 

“Why can’t you just enjoy it with me, huh?” Caleb murmurs, dragging the words along your jaw then planting a kiss to the corner of your mouth. “Give in to it. Just this once.”

It doesn’t take much coaxing before you’re nodding into his neck, body gone slack beneath his own; you’ve always been so easy for him, so eager to obey even with venom in your mouth and fire in your eyes. Caleb supposes that’s just a big brother’s influence. 

Because no matter how much you retaliate, how much you taunt and tease him, you have always wanted to be his good little girl. Praise from Caleb is sacred, precious, and rarely doled out. It must be savoured, protected, cherished. 

And so you allow your big brother to find comfort in you, in the warmth of your body, in the melody of your moans, praying that this short-lived ecstasy will be enough to cleanse his mind of its nightmares.

“There’s my good girl,” he hums, pleasant and triumphant, the reverence sealed with a chaste kiss to the edge of your hairline. 

Then he’s pulling away and sitting back on his heels, an arrogant little smirk materializing on his lips at the discontented whine that sounds at the back of your throat. Violet stares down at you with such passion it nearly burns, his callused palms pushing your knees open wider, following the V of your thighs until finally, finally, he reaches the apex. 

“Fucking Christ.”

Drenched silk outlines the contours of your cunt—No undies, huh? How naughty—and Caleb reaches out, tracing the shape, pointer finger ghosting over every bump and dip and curve. 

“Gorgeous,” he breathes to himself, gaze hungry and unblinking, enchanted by your body—enraptured by your arousal, captivated by your reactions; the way every graze of his fingertip sends a delicate wave of pleasure tremoring through your flesh; the way his touch makes your lashes dither, unsure if they want to stay open or snap shut. “Let me see it.”

Potent lust leaves his voice husky, and while his sentence is a statement, it comes out as a plead—desperate, desirous. 

Vying fingers pull your sleep shorts aside to reveal your glistening cunt, a whine vibrating deep in the back of his throat. Chest heaving with yearning, his trance stays unbroken, his mouth parted and his tongue pulsing with each of his heavy breaths. 

For a moment everything is still, silent, Caleb revelling in the radiance of your body.

Then something snaps, the final thread of thin resistance broken, and he’s surging forward, teeth catching on your upper lip as his mouth collides with yours, procuring the prettiest little yelp to crack in your chest. He swallows it down greedily, tongue breaking through the barriers of lips and teeth to lavish your mouth in his spit. 

His hips are moving again, shoved snug between your spread thighs, sharp hipbones carving bruises into supple flesh. Each forceful roll of his pelvis has his cockhead catching on your hole—so close, so close—a vicious shudder coursing through his form.

And he can feel it, he can feel your cunt through the thin flannel of his pyjamas—teasing him, taunting him, tempting him, each gentle contraction begging for him to stuff it full—another groan rattling from his mouth into yours. 

It’s all simultaneously too much and not enough, the soft breaths of his name exhaled hot and heavy onto his waiting tongue and the eager fluttering of your cunt desperate to suck him in and the nails scrabbling at the back his neck and—and Caleb feels like he’s going to burst out of his fucking skin, flesh starting to split at the seams, if he doesn’t get more, now. 

He’s hardly aware of what he’s doing, moving on pure instinct as a hand snakes between your bodies and paws at the waistband of his pants, the heel of his palm pushing it down just enough to free his aching cock.

A faint Caleb, no, wait! tugs at the back of his consciousness, blotted out by sheer lust as his palm wraps around the base of his cock, head bumping purposefully against your hole. 

The cry that shatters in your throat as he shoves himself into your cunt is nothing short of gorgeous, his own responding whine straining his throat. One quick, hard thrust to bury himself to the hilt is all it takes before his cock is throbbing, filling you with copious amounts of cum—so much, too much, and Christ, when has he ever cum like this?

It’s so intense that it has his whole body tensing, pleasure whiting his vision and wiping his mind and all he can smell, feel, taste is you, you, you—toffee and orchid shooting straight to his brain, your body knotted with his, hips rocking up in desperate little movements as you try to fuck yourself on his spent cock, your sounds of pleasure sweet on his tongue and he licks into your mouth, starved for more. 

“Caleb, Caleb, Caleb!” 

“M’here, baby,” he slurs against your mouth, rubbing his lips into yours. “M’here, come on, make a mess for me.” 

He isn’t even sure you cum—something he’ll berate himself for in the morning—but in the moment it doesn’t even matter, his brain so poisoned by the pleasure that it’s turned to a pulsating mush, intoxication flooding his veins as he submerges himself in you. His hips stutter as his cock twitches with those last few ribbons of cream, almost as if he’s trying to fuck his seed deeper into you, before his trembling muscles finally give out, Caleb collapsing on top of you. 

“God,” he gasps out, lips moving against the crown of your head. “Th-Thank you.” 

The gratitude is punctuated by a kiss to your hair, his breath hot and erratic on your scalp. 

“Thank you,” he says again, a singular arm twined around your waist as he manhandles you both onto your sides, your body cradled close to his chest.

And for the first time in a long time, Caleb falls into a peaceful sleep. 

[sugawhaaa]

ATEEZ HEADCANONS

The type of women they like in bed...

Warnings//genre:: SMUT, BDSM, choking, oral (f rec) face sitting (Mingi) fingering (Seonghwa, San, Jongho) vibrator (Yeosang, Jongho) biting (Yunho, Wooyoung)

Pairing:: ot8!Ateez x fem!reader

A/N:: I wrote this all in like 3 hours so pls tell me if I misspelled things and stuff 😭🙏 also...should I do a skz ver 👀

Ateez headcanon masterlist:: 🍓

Princess, in the sense he can treat you like the only woman in the world.

Hongjoong has a bit of a flip to him in bed; sometimes he'll be gentle, soft and caring, treating you like a fragile artifact, and other nights he's got you tied up, sobbing, and choking. However, he always needs that little princess in his lady to obey him, feel herself emotionally, and acknowledge his forms of love and lust.

Hongjoong has you sitting on the edge of the bed as the two of you physically and mentally prepare for a pleasure-filled night. Hongjoong kneels down below you and gently unclasps the hook on the side of your skirt and tugs down the zipper. He pulls the soft fabric down your legs until it falls below your feet. He smirks softly as he sees your pink panties but he draws his attention to your stockings instead, the pretty white fabric with little bows at the top. Hongjoong hooks his fingers around the top of the sock before pulling it down your shin. He then holds up your foot by your lower ankle before tossing to sock aside. He repeats the same process for the other stocking before abruptly picking you up and laying you on the bed.

Though there were no words spoken something about that process was so romantic to you. Some might say it was tedious and unnecessary but this was Hongjoong's way of showing he cares. He's gentle, soft, and thorough in his work of love.

Romantic, so he can feel the connection of not only your bodies.

Love and lust are very similar and tightly bonded in Seonghwa's body and mind. Sex is emotional, passionate and most of all, romantic. He needs his woman to care for him like he cares for her because sex is his way of showing he loves you enough to embrace his lust. He needs you to trust him and not only be his sex partner but also his lover.

Seonghwa looms over you in the rose petal filled bath as his hands roam over your body through a soft graze. "I thought we were in here to bathe?" You tease with a little smile and Seonghwa chuckles lowly.

"C'mon baby, you know me," He kisses your neck softly, the skin slick from the water. "Will you let me steer tonight in a new direction?" He asks bluntly, his fingers tickling the inside of your thighs. His words leaked lust mixed with a hunger for passion. Before you can properly answer Seonghwa has his wet forehead pressed against yours, his breath heavy against your lips. "I miss you so much darling," He pulls you into a deep kiss, his hands tangled in your damp hair.

Desperate, he needs the feeling of being wanted so hungrily.

He wants his partner to crave him just as much as he desires them, that is the bond that makes his love and lust so strong. Sex is more than a physical experience, it's emotional, psychological and love. However he likes to be able to indulge whenever and feel the same level of intensity through desperacy.

As soon as Yunho comes through the door you have your hands on him, feeling him up and pulling him close. Yunho can't help but smile at your clinginess and he embraces your hunger. "I missed you," You say as if it wasn't obvious already.

"I missed you too babygirl," He brings his wide hand up to your head, petting your hair as you mark his neck. He lets out a low moan as you do so. "Is my princess feeling needy?" He tilts his head with a little smirk and you pull back to nod. "Want me to take care of you? Love you? Pleasure you?" Yunho was just as excited as you, his hands travelling down to your ass and groping it softly. He scoops you up into his arms before carrying you to the bed.

Confident, someone that will intimidate him and make him step out of his comfort zone a little.

Yeosang can be confident in himself for sure but having a lady to overpower his own confidence is a sensation he can't describe in words. Not to say he needs or wants to be humbled but it's more of who's taking the wheel, not necessarily steering.

Yeosang lays against the bed with his lips beautifully parted as he lets out quiet and soft moans between rapid breaths. His cock stands tall as you roll the vibrator up and down his cock. He tosses his head back as you increase the intensity. "Ah, baby," He jerks forward but you quickly hush him. He nods with a whine and lays back down. "I've never felt anything like this," He whimpers and you grin.

"Probably because you've never used a vibrator before," You tease and Yeosang smiles with a little chuckle.

"Yeah maybe-ah!" He jumps as you press the vibrator hard against his balls. He tries to squirm and wiggle away but you hold him close. Within seconds he's gripping the sheets and cumming onto his tummy and your hand. "Fuck," He groans before going limp. As he rests against the bed, his body still shivering, he smiles slightly. "Thank you Y/N," he sighs. "I don't think I could do that without you,"

Needy, a girl who will come crawling to him with need.

San absolutely loves sex, any kind of sex he can get really, but what he really likes is that raw need, raw hunger, raw pleasure. He wants a girl who will always need, not want, but need him. This makes sex more embodied. He likes when his girl is so blinded by lust that she loses all of decency.

San's wide body towers of yours as you lay helplessly against the bed. You are craving him, starving for sex and he is more than willing to give it to you. "Tell me what you're thinking baby, I want to give you everything you want," He kisses your collarbone as his hands glide over you skin, lingering on sensitive bits.

"I-I don't even know. I just need you," You plead as your eyes water with desperation, not quite tears, but definitely glossy. San can't help but smirk as he sees the desperation in your eyes. He brings his fingers down to your core and glides his finger through your folds, stopping at your clit to flick it softly.

"I'll give you everything you need and more," He kisses your neck softly.

Chubby, a girl with lot's of meat on her bones that he can grab.

Mingi loves to grope with his big, wide and strong hands. He knows what his fingers are good for but he likes to use them to knead flesh instead. Not to mention he just finds a bigger body attractive in general. The way the skin ripples with each thrust, tits bouncing with each pound and most of all the sound the skin makes when it hits his.

"Sit down," Mingi encourages you as he lays below your dripping cunt. "All of your weight," He nods determinedly as he holds your ass in his palms, a faint red outline left from his hands.

"Are you sure?" You ask again and he nods vigorously. You sigh as you cave into his doe eyes and begin to rest your core against his face. He moans of your soft, sensitive skin finally makes contact with his lips. He instantly begins to moan and groan as he eats you out, his hands kneading at your thighs. From the sensation of your skin alone Mingi's cock twitches in the air, he may even cum from squeezing your meat.

Clingy, a girl that will get needy for him and his touch.

Wooyoung is whiny and needy, always needing some kind of attention, so a girl that clings to him is exactly what he needs. He needs someone who won't mind his constant presence and need, this includes when he's horny. He needs a girl who won't mind when he rubs himself against you first thing in the morning when he gets morning wood, or won't mind if he wants to jack off while you shower.

As you stir awake you feel some weight and warmth against your thigh. As you peel your eyes open you instantly understand the situation, Wooyoung woke up hard as a rock again and he's using you to get off. You don't even mind at this point, if anything you like it. He's so desperate and needy that he just uses you. "I'm sorry," He whimpers as he leans in closer to your ear. "I had another dream about you," He admits before moaning louder. "I can't help myself," He sounds like he's about to cry, which could be for many reasons. You put a gentle arm around him as he continues to hump your leg.

"It's okay baby, keep going," You encourage and he lets out a whimper before burying his face in your shoulder. A surge of excitement rolls through him now that you're awake and watching him. He suddenly pulls back.

"I wanna fuck you...please,"

Patient, a girl who will take her time to feel all the feelings.

Unlike the others Jongho is patient and needs his partner to be able to follow his pace. He likes to build up the pleasure like building blocks. He starts slow and gradually works his way up to the highest peak possible. Jongho needs his woman to understand that he will get her there, it'll just take time.

"Shh, shh, you've been doing so good," Jongho whispers to you as you whine to cum, begging him to drag you to the high you know he can bring you to, but only he can. "Take deep breaths, relax your muscles," He encourages and though you are upset at him for not letting you cum yet, you do as he says. He then brings out a vibrator and excitement rushes through your body like a strike of lightening. He turns it on and the buzzing sound has you seeing stars. Jongho brings the toy down to your clit and rubs it in little circles.

Instantly, your eyes widen and your legs jerk up. Your jaw feels like it's been wired open as you let out soft moans.

"Fuck~" You moan loudly as tears build in your eyes; you knew your orgasm was close and it got you so excited. "I'm cumming!" You shout out as your back arches off of Jongho's chest. Tears pour down your cheeks and saliva drips from your lips. You felt so high as your body twitches and shakes from pleasure. Jongho doesn't say anything but he is secretly smirking to himself.

[kurokawaia]

Can i req a boyfriend shoto x reader in which they started dating in their second year but had their first time when they were in their third year? Any scenario situated on this prompt <3 absolutely love your work

FIRST TIME

Todoroki Shoto 彡 Fem!Reader

MDNI 18+ | NSFW | WARNINGS : if you dont like this then scroll or block! shoto todoroki x fem!reader, they are 18 in their third year! 18 y/o shoto, 18 y/o reader, first time sex, nsfw, x fem!reader, smut, piv, fingering, slight overstimulation, shoto being shoto, missionary, praise, lots of fluffy unsure moments, protection, kissing, hickies + more . (total word count 3.2k+) (oneshot smut)

SYNOPSIS :: after being together since the start of your second year at U.A, when the third year rolls around, it just feels right to have both of each other

It happens slowly. It wasn't an immediate switch from the regular soft and gentle stuff the both of you do, it's a slow transition. When the pecks started to become slow, deep kisses, to the point where you're clawing into Shoto's clothes and his fingers are tangled in your hair, his hand tightly wrapped around your waist. After that happens, the air feels heavy until you can't breathe and want more. 

It's a quiet night. Everyone is asleep, it's past curfew, borderline midnight and there Shoto and you are, snuggled up together in your bed after watching a movie together. However, you weren't tired, not one single bit because something feels different. All you could focus on was the absentminded shapes Shoto was tracing onto your stomach.  

The silence isn't uncomfortable, in fact, it's all you could ever want with Shoto, it's never uncomfortable with him. Tonight feels different, not because anything happened but because you can feel it. So bad that there's something. 

Tonight had been different though. Not because anything dramatic happened—but because you both felt it. That quiet awareness building between you, like a fragile thread humming with potential. You could see it in the way his eyes lingered on you, not with urgency, but with a reverence that made your heartache.

"I'm nervous," you confessed in a whisper. 

But why did you even say that? You weren't too sure yourself. What are you nervous about?

Shoto frowns softly, confused, kissing your forehead gently, trying to calm you. "About what?"

You ignore his question and shake your head, a smile grazing your lips, a laugh falling past. "It's okay, I don't know why I said that."

"Alright, but if you anything, please tell me?" he asks and you nod against his neck, snuggling further into his body. 

"I will," you reply, your nerves calming and you feel completely at peace now, holding Shoto close to you, your heart beats in sync. Lifting your head from his shoulder, hesitantly, you ask, "Sho... can I... kiss you?"

He momentarily frowns, fingers comfortably grazing your cheek before you let your face rest in the palm of his hand. "You don't need to ask," Shoto replies quietly, not needing to speak any louder due to how close you already are. 

Slowly, you place a kiss on the corner of his mouth and you don't know what came over you when you moved, pressing further onto his lips. "I... I feel safe with you," you whispered, your cheeks flushing. 

He smiled, pressing a gentle kiss to your forehead. "That's okay. We can take things slow. I just want you to know how much I care about you, how much I love you."

You looked up at him, your eyes shining. "I love you too. I'm just not used to feeling this way, but I want to be with you."

He pulled you closer, his lips brushing against yours in a tender kiss. "We'll take it one step at a time," he murmured against your lips. "As long as we're together, that's all that matters."

But the kiss wasn't tender for too long. Shoto had slipped his tongue into your mouth and a gasp fell out of your lips. You gripped his shirt in surprise. Shoto's tongue was entangling with your own and you almost didn't know what to do. It obviously wasn't the first time that the two of you had made out but it still made you nervous under his touch. He was towering over you, his hand entangled in your hair as he tilted your face up and an arm wrapped tightly around your waist.

You felt as if you were going to faint when he was getting into it, more than usual, your heart was beating so fast you thought you were going to pass out. You didn't even know what to do, Shoto was dominating you in such a loving way it made your tummy swell with butterflies and a throbbing fall to your clit.

You were beginning to not be able to intake any breaths and you tense underneath Shoto's touch. You truly were getting more and more flustered by the minute. Leaning into his hold, you tapped quickly on his shoulder and he pulled away from the kiss alarmed, not even realising your flustered and breathless state causing his eyes to widen in worry.

He leaned back slightly to see if you were okay, mentally cursing himself for being too intense with you. Your forehead was leaning on his shoulder while your hands trembled clenching his shirt, flustered and breathless.

"I'm so sorry," Todoroki hastily uttered and in reply, you nodded your head against his shoulder.

"It's okay," you reassured quietly.

What Shoto didn't see was how red your cheeks were and how hot your body felt on the inside, this sensation was absolutely overwhelming and you didn't know what to do.

"Are you-"

You lifted your head up after a few seconds, hoping that you had calmed yourself down but it didn't really work.

"I am!" you replied, interrupting him.

Shoto's eyes widened when he saw the state of you. Your cheeks were flushed in a deep shade of a pinkish red and your hands were trembling on his shoulders. What he felt just then, what he is realising is that he can feel how hot your body is heating up.

You didn't know what this need was so you hesitantly asked Shoto, "could I... kiss you again?" you asked with a quiet voice, looking down, not wanting to meet his gaze in fear he said no.

Oh, how silly you were, you could kiss Shoto whenever you wanted, with or without asking and he would just fall even more in love with you.

His eyes softened, and he leaned down, brushing his lips against mine. "Of course," he whispered against your mouth, his voice filled with warmth and longing.

You hesitantly wrapped your arms around his neck, pulling him closer as our lips met once more. This time, the kiss was deeper, more intense. You could feel the electricity between you, a magnetic pull that made it impossible to resist each other.

your hands explored the contours of his back, feeling the strength and warmth of his muscles. Shoto's hands moved with a gentle but insistent touch, tracing the lines of your body, and making you shiver with anticipation.

As our bodies pressed closer, you could feel Shoto's heartbeat against yours, a steady rhythm that matched the intensity of our emotions. You wanted to memorize every sensation, every touch, knowing that this moment signifed the relationship between you both

Shoto's lips left mine, trailing a path of kisses down your neck, making you gasp with pleasure. His hands moved with a tender urgency, exploring the curves of your body with a reverence that made you feel cherished and loved.

You pulled him back up to you, our eyes locking as we paused for a breath. "I love you," You whispered, your voice filled with sincerity.

"I love you too," he replied. "{Y/n}," he asked breathless

His hand gently cupped your cheek, lifting your chin until your eyes met. His touch was reassuring, his eyes filled with warmth and understanding. "Yes?" You asked softly, swallowing a lump in your throat.

"I... I want to take things further," he said.

Your body froze, your mind pausing whatever it was thinking about. "You... can," you whisper, gazing into his eyes, realising that what he wanted to engage with you was sex.

After walking over to the futon, Shoto laid you down carefully, as if you would break and you were a nervous wreck but Shoto soothed that. He was straddling your lower abdomen and you could feel the large bulge in his sweats as he leaned down to kiss you.

Your tongues danced with each other before he pressed a kiss to the side of your lips and then trailed down slowly, the kisses reassuring you that you would be okay. He trailed down your collarbone and chest, making sure to leave soft, faint red marks in its wake. Throughout the entire procedure, you let out panting breaths and strengthened your grip on his body.

Your reactions only send continuous flushes of butterflies to Shoto's dick. The need that he had for you was restless as he tried so hard to contain himself and be as soft with you, he didn't want to hurt you.

"Sho," you said breathlessly and he could've melted right there and then, the way you said his name sounded so much more intimate than how you would sound when it was just a simple make-out session.

He lets out a hum of approval against your skin and tension ripples through your body at the vibrations as he continues leaving the same soft red marks down your jaw and on your neck. Shoto pulled away, giving you a soft kiss. "Can I... take your...." he trailed off slowly and you nodded, knowing what he was referring to, your silk pj's.

"Yes," you replied nervously.

"You don't have to if you don't want to," Shoto reassured, placing a kiss on your lips. "I'm not forcing you."

"No! I want to," you replied almost too quickly that an embarrassed flush came to your cheeks.

You tensed when Shoto's hands trailed down to your waist, your body arching slightly into his touch. He hesitantly unbuttoned the rest of the buttons to the top and slid your pants off. You watched his eyes widen at the sight of the fabric slipping to the side of your chest and stomach. "Can I-?"

"You can," you say, cutting him off.

A breathless sigh leaves your mouth when his hot hand trailed up your lower stomach to experimentally squeeze the mounds of flesh. You let out a moan when Shoto's lips began to press and suck gently on the top of your breast. You covered your mouth embarrassed while you looked away from him. "Sorry," you mumbled.

"You sound so pretty," he whispers in your ear, causing your cheeks to heat up. His free hand pulled the hand away from your mouth. He leaned up a bit, pulling you gently with him and slipped the silk off your shoulders, placing the material somewhere near us before he lay you down on the mattress again.

His lips pressed against yours once more while a hand skimmed slowly down your body. you felt the tip of his finger tug only slightly at your underwear and you grasped his wrist, the kiss breaking.

"Do you want to stop? You don't have to do this if you don't want to," he reassures but you shake your head, signalling that I wasn't implying that.

"It's not that, I really want to," you replied breathlessly before an embarrassed flush rose onto your cheeks. "Could you take off your..."

"Huh? Oh, of course," he hummed, his lips pressing the side of your jaw. you watched him slip himself out of sweats, you see the imprint of his dick press painfully against his underwear and you swallowed deeply before he straddled you once you. Shoto did that without any complaint, he must really love you all that much.

Todoroki pressed a reassuring kiss on your jaw before the tips of his fingers pulled the cotton down your legs, the cool air of the room causing chills to tingle down your pale skin. "You're so pretty," Shoto says breathlessly causing butterflies to swirl in your stomach.

His fingers venture further down, tracing a path along your slick slit. The touch is electrifying, causing you to tremble in his hold, your body responding to his every movement. A helpless whimper escapes your lips, a testament to the overwhelming pleasure that courses through you.

"So wet," Shoto mumbles before looking back up to you. "Are you okay?"

"Yes," you replied quietly, opening your eyes down to Shoto. "Please, can you... touch me more."

"I'll do whatever you want me do to," he replied and you let a small smile grace your lips.

At your reply, Shoto's fingers experimentally push past v slick folds, his fingers pressing past your clit, and a surge of pleasure courses through you, leaving you breathless and desperate for more. A moan left your mouth as your back arched at his touch. your reaction caused him to press down slightly more and your legs squeezed around his waist, moans stringing out your mouth.

you felt his fingers slide down and he found your seeping hols, drenched with arousal. I felt a finger slowly slide inside your heat, a whimper leaving your mouth. "Does this feel good?" he asked and you nodded frantically.

"So good," you whimpered as he slowly pumped in and out your soaked walls. "Making me feel so good."

"Really?" He asked and you moaned as he inserted another finger into your walls.

"Yeah, so so good," you whimper. "So good for me, Sho."

The sensation is overwhelming, a perfect blend of pleasure and intensity that leaves you unable to contain your moans. you press your lips against his shoulder, muffling the sounds that escape from deep within you. His fingers explore the depths of your core, igniting a fire that consumes your every thought. Each movement, each curl, sends shockwaves of pleasure radiating through your body.

you surrender to the intoxicating rhythm of his touch, the combination of his skilled fingers and the intensity of our connection pushes you closer to the edge, teetering on the precipice of release. It's a moment of pure bliss, where time stands still, and you are consumed by the overwhelming pleasure that courses through your veins.

As Todoroki's fingers continued their relentless rhythm, pumping in and out of your seeping hole, there was an unfamiliar tightness growing in your lower abdomen, pleasure tightened inside your stomach. you wrap your shaky legs around him, seeking to anchor yourself to him amidst the overwhelming pleasure. your body quivers with anticipation, responding to his every touch, every movement.

you chant his name into his neck as praises leave your mouth, your voice filled with desire and need. The tears welling in your eyes are not from pain but from the overwhelming pleasure that threatens to consume you entirely.

In response to your plea, sucks the skin around your neck once more, groaning against your neck, his voice laced with desire. He begins to press your clit with the pad of his thumb, adding another layer of pleasure to the already intense sensations. The touch is electrifying, causing you to arch your back in response.

"Please, Sho," you sob. "I need to..."

"I've got you," Shoto reassured, intertwining your mouths together, his mouth swallowing the moans that slipped out your mouth.

The pleasure builds, the tension mounting with each passing second until you are on the precipice of release. It's a moment of pure surrender, where pleasure reigns supreme, and you are consumed by the overwhelming ecstasy that engulfs me.

Waves of ecstasy wash over you, leaving your legs trembling and weak from the intensity of the sensations. He slips his fingers from your hole and you continue to tremble from the aftermath of the orgasm. you managed to release yourself from Shoto's neck and move away from his hold.

"How are you feeling?" Shoto asks cupping your cheeks.

"Good," you breathe out slowly while looking into his eyes. "But, I want to make you feel good too."

"You don't need-"

"Please," you beg and you watch him swallow deeply, tension showing on his body.

He asked once more. "Are you sure?"

I nod. "Please."

"Alright," He smiled gently moving off you to get himself out of his underwear and your eyes widened as you saw the size of his length. (yes he is wearing protection, we dont want a highschool pregnancy guys) Shoto moves over you, you place your hands on his chest.

He delicately bites the shell of your ear making you let out a quiet whimper. you could feel him smile against your ear at your reaction. Shoto's touch caused you to dig your nails slightly into his chest leaving light crescent marks causing more deep exhales of breaths to get caught in your ear.

Todoroki moved his head and his body suddenly firmly pressed against mine and you whimpered at the feeling of his dick pressing up against your stomach. His lips mingled with mine his minty taste and smell overflowed your senses making it a complete euphoria for you. you cupped the back of his neck to create a deeper angle for him to explore deeper into your mouth with our tongues continuing to entangle with each other.

He groans into your mouth, the hand that was trailing down your thigh moved swiftly back to your waist and the other intertwined with your hair at the base of your neck, pulling you closer to him. you let out breathy sighs into him as your own hand interlaced with his black and your other wrapped around behind his neck.

His other hand moved its way down to tightly lift your thigh up which made his body mould closer to mine making you feel his dick press up against your soaked core. The kiss slows down and turns soft and almost desperate it's as if he wants to take his time with you, savouring every inch of your taste, to take his sweet time to memorise you.

"You're doing so good," Shoto pants agasint your lips and you didn't have time to reply as he pressed them against you once more. "I'm going to do it now. If it hurts, please tell me, I don't want to hurt you."

"Okay," you reply.

He presses his lips against mine to take your mind off the pain that's probably soon to come. you feel a hard tip get lubricated at your entrance making your back arch into him as you let out a strangled moan of pleasure into his mouth. He continues to push further into you making your eyebrows furrow together in pain but the pleasure is still overwhelming your senses making tears prick at your eyes.

"Oh, you feel so good," Shoto whimpers into your neck. "You're so perfect."

"You feel so good," you moan. The feeling of pure ecstasy of him fully entered you, the pain gone.

you feel his dick scraping across your plush walls in all the right places as he slowly exited your cunt, but not fully. Our moans and whimpers get swallowed by each other. you feel his thrusts speed up and you moan in response, your walls clenching around him causing the grip Shoto held on your thigh and waist to tighten.

The coil in your stomach getting tighter and your moans slightly became higher. Todoroki continued to groan into your neck after he pulled away from the heated kiss.

You say moaning throughout your sentence, "Feels so good-"

"I'm close-," He groans.

"Me too," you choke out.

you felt the coil in your stomach snap as your back arched painfully into Shoto's bare chest causing him to groan and his arms moved to wrap tightly around you. After a few more pumps he came, letting a few more rolls of his hips into you to help ride out both our highs before he pulled out slowly, making sure not to hurt you.

Shoto slumped down beside you before he slipped the condom off his length and walked over to the bathroom with a warm, damp wash cloth to clean you up and after he did so, you did the same.

(lets say they upgrade and get private bathrooms in their 3rd yr)

"I love you so much," you tell him as we lay down together, our legs and arms entangling, bare bodies pressed against each other.

"I love you more," Shoto replies, holding you tighter.

Do not copy, steal, modify, etc. Relogs and like are appreciated.

[unboundprompts]

hi! i wanted to ask how could i write a scene of a band performing and make it flow smoothly? Reactions to it and inner dialogue of the leader singer while performing?

I hope that makes sense!

Thank you :)

How to Write a Band Performance

Set the Atmosphere with Sound and Sensory Details

Use sensory language to capture the energy of the music, the movement on stage, and the audience’s reaction. Think about the sounds of instruments, the lights, the thrum of bass vibrating through the floor, or how the crowd looks.

Example: The drums kicked in, a thunderous heartbeat that pulsed through the packed venue. Strings followed, filling the air with an electric charge, and the lights dimmed just enough for the crowd to lean in, hungry for the next note.

Anchor the Lead Singer’s Focus

The lead singer might catch moments in the crowd, like a fan mouthing every lyric, someone laughing, or even seeing familiar faces in the sea of people. These little connections add a human touch and make the performance feel alive.

Example: He spotted a girl in the front row, eyes closed, every word leaving her lips like a prayer. She knew each lyric by heart, maybe better than he did. That look kept him grounded—kept him singing.

Use Inner Dialogue to Show Nerves, Confidence, or Distraction

Let the lead singer’s mind wander a bit, but keep it tethered to the music. They might think of something unrelated that they suppress to stay focused, or maybe they reflect on what this song means to them, especially if it’s deeply personal or symbolic.

Example: Here we go. Breathe. Just like rehearsal. But it was never just like rehearsal. Each word brought him back to the night he wrote it—a night he barely survived. He shook off the thought. No. Tonight, it’s just for them.

Describe Body Movements and How They Connect to Emotion

Physical sensations can be as telling as dialogue. The lead singer might feel the warmth of the spotlight, the stickiness of sweat on their skin, or the way their voice feels strong, raw, or strained.

Example: He gripped the mic stand, fingers tight, and leaned forward. His voice cracked on a high note, but he let it, gave it to the crowd raw. They wanted his truth, his realness. That was all he had to give.

Show the Crowd’s Reaction

Describe reactions like a wave, where energy ebbs and flows. The crowd might sway during slower parts, roar during the chorus, or go silent in the song’s more intimate moments. This back-and-forth dance adds rhythm to the scene.

Example: As the first chorus hit, the crowd became a sea of outstretched hands, fingers clawing for a piece of the music. A roar rose, then softened as they sang with him, their voices tangling with his own, something fragile and fierce all at once.

Balance Between Action and Inner Thoughts

To keep the scene flowing, alternate between what the singer does (interacting with the mic, moving on stage) and what they think. Too much inner dialogue could slow down the scene, so give action and reaction space to keep the reader engaged.

Example: He took a step back, holding the last note, letting it resonate through the space. He stole a glance at his bandmates. They were lost in the music too, faces set, eyes closed. It felt like the old days—a secret between them, shared with everyone.

End with a Climactic Moment or a Release of Tension

End the scene with a dramatic finish, like a powerful note, a burst of applause, or even silence if it’s an emotional song. The lead singer could feel relieved, drained, or exhilarated by the end.

Example: As the last chord faded, a brief silence hung over the crowd—a pause, a heartbeat—before it shattered with applause. He closed his eyes, letting it wash over him, knowing that for now, the song was enough.

[sunshinesfreckless]

Flower Petals and Candles

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Pairing: Hyunjin x Fem!Reader

Summary: Your request to finally lose your virginity catches Hyunjin a bit off guard…

Warnings: As you can probably guess, there’s sex in this fic—minors, please leave!

A/N: Dear anonymous requester, I hope this is what you were looking for 😔🤍

───୨ৎ────────୨ৎ───────୨ৎ───

Hyunjin was never in a rush with her.

Every kiss, every gentle touch, every stolen glance across the room held a kind of reverence—as if she were something fragile and sacred. And she could feel it, deep in her bones. The way his fingers would curl protectively around hers. The way his eyes would soften the second he looked at her. He didn’t just love her. He cherished her.

He knew she was a virgin. And never—not once—did he try to rush her, pressure her, or even hint at it. He waited. Patiently. Like she was worth waiting a lifetime for.

But he hadn’t expected her to be ready… tonight.

His lips were already hot and slow against hers, breath mingling, tongues teasing, his body pressed back against the couch as she straddled him—her knees on either side of his thighs, her fingers tangled in his hair. The kiss deepened. Messier. Wetter. Needier. Her hips rolled instinctively against his.

Then she broke the kiss, eyes glassy and wide, looking directly into his.

“I want you to have sex with me.”

The air in the room seemed to stop. His heart thudded painfully hard in his chest.

Hyunjin blinked. “W-What?”

“I mean it,” she whispered, voice small but sure.

His breath caught. He had told her everything. About his past. About the other girls. About how he used to be. And how he wasn’t that guy anymore—not with her. But she knew he still kept condoms in the drawer. Just in case.

This moment shouldn’t have caught him off guard. But it did.

“Oh God,” he muttered, eyes wide. “No, no, no—not now.”

She pouted adorably, her bottom lip jutting out. “Why not…?”

“I wanted to… prepare. Candles, flowers, clean sheets, music, the works,” he rambled in a panic, rubbing his forehead. “You deserve it all, baby.”

Her giggle melted his chest. “Jinnie… I don’t want flowers or candles or some perfect Pinterest night. I want you.” Her hand slid down his chest, slowly grazing his abdomen until it found the bulge beneath his sweats. “And this.”

Hyunjin groaned. His eyes rolled back for a split second as he fought for composure.

“You are a vixen,” he whispered, voice dark with awe. “But… at least let me light one candle. Okay?”

She nodded with a smile, he lifted her off his Lap and sat her on the Sofa. He stood, walking over to his dresser to grab a simple vanilla-scented candle and lit it. The warm, flickering light painted his features gold and shadowed. And when he came back to her, she was still sitting there—skirt riding up slightly, cheeks flushed, hair mussed from their kissing.

God, she was beautiful. He took her back to his lap so fast.

He cupped her cheeks and kissed her again, slower this time. Intentional. She whimpered softly, gripping his wrists as his hands slid under her skirt.

His brows lifted the moment he felt lace and the thin string of her lingerie.

He leaned back, lips hovering close to hers. “You wore this for me?”

She nodded shyly. “ Take my clothes off,” she whispered, almost like she was scared to break the spell.

His breath hitched. Carefully, reverently, he reached for the hem of her shirt and pulled it over her head, revealing a delicate white lace set with tiny embroidered flowers. The candlelight kissed her skin in gold.

Hyunjin’s jaw went slack.

“Fuck… muse…” His voice was hoarse. “You look gorgeous. Like… unreal.”

She bit her lip, glancing down nervously, but he was already peppering kisses across her collarbone. Down to the swell of her chest.

“I’m going to go slow,” he murmured against her skin. “You tell me to stop and I will. No questions asked. Okay?”

She nodded.

Still seated on his lap, she leaned into his chest, breathing uneven and shallow as he trailed warm kisses along her throat.

“Come here,” he murmured, arms sliding under her thighs.

She gasped when he stood with her effortlessly, lifting her like she weighed nothing. Her legs instinctively wrapped around his waist, her arms around his shoulders as he carried her toward the bed. The candlelight flickered behind them, casting long shadows against the walls, wrapping the moment in a soft golden haze.

He gently laid her down in the center of his bed, the cool sheets a contrast to her heated skin. She watched as he stood at the edge of the mattress, eyes dark and hungry but soft. Reverent.

“Just stay there,” he said, his voice a low, breathy command. “Don’t move.”

She nodded, lips parted, heart pounding.

Then he pulled his shirt over his head.

Her breath hitched.

Hyunjin was art. Lean, sculpted muscle, sharp collarbones, that tight V-line disappearing into the waistband of his sweats. He ran a hand through his hair, his toned chest rising and falling as he looked down at her like she was the most perfect thing he’d ever seen.

And when he pushed down his sweatpants—no boxers underneath—her breath caught fully in her throat.

Jesus Christ.

He was thick. Long. Already hard. And somehow more beautiful than she had imagined. Her thighs pressed together instinctively, her core aching with anticipation.

His smirk deepened when he noticed. “Already needy for me, sweetheart?”

She whimpered in response, and he chuckled softly, crawling up the bed until he was hovering over her again.

“Can I take this off?” he asked, fingers brushing the strap of her lace bra.

“Please,” she whispered.

Hyunjin kissed her as his fingers slid behind her back, unhooking the bra easily. He pulled it away from her chest slowly, like unwrapping a gift. His eyes roamed, his mouth already parting.

“You’re so fucking perfect.”

He dipped his head, lips brushing over one breast while his hand gently cupped the other. Then his mouth closed over her nipple, tongue swirling, sucking lightly.

She gasped, arching into him.

He gave the other breast the same attention, dragging his teeth just enough to make her squirm, and then kissed his way down her belly.

His hands slid up under her skirt and hooked around the waistband of her lace panties.

“Let me see all of you,” he whispered.

She lifted her hips for him. He slid the lace down slowly, keeping eye contact as he tossed them aside. She could see the tension in his arms, in the way his jaw flexed—Hyunjin was barely holding it together.

He kissed her inner thighs softly. One, then the other.

“Tell me if it’s too much,” he murmured, pressing a kiss right above her center.

She nodded breathlessly, fingers already clutching the sheets.

He brought one hand up and gently slid a finger between her folds, groaning low in his throat.

“Fuck, you’re already so wet for me…”

He circled her clit softly, slowly, then slid one finger in—deep, gentle, curling ever so slightly. She gasped, her hips lifting, and he immediately paused.

“You okay?” he asked.

She nodded, eyes fluttering. “Feels… good. Don’t stop.”

He kept going—adding a second finger, moving them in and out slowly, opening her up. She was tight. So fucking tight. And the thought that he was going to be the first inside her nearly made him lose control.

He kissed up her body again, mouth finding hers in a slow, deep kiss.

“Ready?” he whispered against her lips, forehead pressed to hers.

“Yes,” she breathed.

Hyunjin reached into the nightstand drawer, his fingers fumbling slightly—not from nervousness, but from the sheer need building in his chest. He ripped the foil packet open and rolled the condom on with one hand, the other resting on her thigh, grounding both of them.

When he looked at her, his eyes softened. “You okay?”

She nodded shyly, her cheeks warm. “I want this.”

“Yeah?” He leaned down to kiss her again, slower this time, his voice barely above a whisper. “You sure you’re ready for all of me, baby?”

She laughed breathlessly. “I think so… I mean, it’s you.”

That crooked, dangerous little smirk curved on his lips. “Exactly. Have you seen me?”

She swatted his arm playfully, giggling. “Don’t be cocky—okay, wait, that was a terrible choice of words.”

He laughed too, low and warm. “Too late. You’re about to find out just how cocky I can be.”

She rolled her eyes and pulled him back in for a kiss, tugging him closer between her thighs. Then she felt it—him—pressing against her entrance, thick and hot and very, very real.

Hyunjin’s brows knit the moment he tried to ease in. Her whole body tensed under him like a taut wire, and she instinctively flinched.

“Wait—ah, sorry,” she gasped. “It’s just—tight. I didn’t expect—”

Hyunjin froze immediately, his thumb brushing across her cheek. “Hey, hey… it’s okay. You’re not doing anything wrong.”

She gave him a frustrated pout. “I want to relax. But my body’s freaking out. I feel like I’m trying to shove a watermelon through a keyhole.”

He laughed again, burying his face in the crook of her neck, chest shaking.

“Stop laughing!” she whined, but she was giggling too. “This is not the time!”

“I’m not laughing at you,” he said, propping himself up again. “I’m laughing because you just compared my dick to a watermelon. My ego is inflated for life now.”

She groaned and covered her face with both hands. “This is so awkward.”

He gently peeled her hands away, pressing a kiss to each of her knuckles. “Baby, this is us. If your first time doesn’t include laughter and a few clumsy moments, it’s not real. But I got you, okay?”

He kissed her forehead, her nose, her lips. Soft. Reassuring.

“Breathe with me,” he whispered, voice low and calming. “In through your nose… hold… and out…”

She followed him, matching his breath. Again. Slower.

His hand caressed up and down her thigh, soothing her muscles. “You’re doing perfect. Let’s just stay like this a second.”

His fingers moved lower, brushing her folds again, gently circling her clit with feather-light pressure. Not trying to push. Just pleasure. Just comfort.

She whimpered softly, her hips tilting toward his hand without realizing it.

“Better?” he murmured.

She nodded, biting her lip. “Yeah… it feels really nice.”

He leaned in again, mouth ghosting over her ear. “I’ll go slow. I’ll stop whenever you say. But you’re ready. I promise.”

She looked at him, searching his eyes. That warmth, that care… it was always there. Always.

“Okay,” she whispered. “Try again.”

He lined himself up again, holding himself steady at her entrance with one hand, the other cradling her face. This time, as he slowly pushed in—inch by careful inch—she focused on breathing, focused on him. The stretch still burned, but not as sharply. And he didn’t rush. He let her feel every second of it.

She gasped, fingers digging into his shoulders. “You’re so big…”

“Fuck,” he groaned, gritting his teeth as he slid deeper. “You’re so tight, baby. Like—insanely tight. I don’t want to hurt you.”

“You’re not. Just… go slow.”

He kissed her again, and finally, with a shaky breath, he bottomed out, buried completely inside her.

They both stilled, hearts pounding.

“Holy shit,” he murmured into her neck, voice wrecked. “You’re squeezing me so good.”

She gave a breathless laugh. “Maybe your watermelon comment wasn’t that far off.”

He laughed too, chest pressed against hers, body trembling from restraint.

“God, I love you,” he said, forehead against hers. “I love you so much it hurts.”

She cupped his face. “Then show me.” Hyunjin stayed buried deep inside her for a moment longer, letting her adjust—every muscle in his body taut with restraint. His forearms were locked on either side of her head, his jaw clenched as her body pulsed tightly around him.

He pulled back just an inch—then slid back in slowly, and her soft gasp made his abs tense.

“Like that?” he asked, watching her face closely.

She nodded again, her hands sliding up his back, nails lightly dragging down his skin. “Yeah. More.”

Hyunjin’s hips began to move with gentle precision, rolling into her slow and deep, grinding into her like he wanted to live inside her. Each thrust was met with a breathless moan, her body gradually relaxing under him, molding to him like they were made to fit.

He groaned, his voice breaking. “You’re taking me so good, baby…”

Her thighs wrapped tighter around his waist as she whispered his name, over and over, like a mantra.

“Look at me,” he said, cupping her cheek, his hips moving in a lazy, sensual rhythm. “I want to see you.”

She forced her eyes open, meeting his gaze—and it nearly undid him. The way she looked at him. So open, so trusting, so his.

“I’m not gonna last long,” he warned with a breathless laugh. “You feel too fucking perfect.”

She moaned as he rolled his hips a little harder, deeper, and her back arched off the mattress, her head falling back in bliss.

“You’re hitting something—fuck—”

“I know,” he whispered, lips brushing her jaw. “Right there? Yeah?”

He shifted his angle, thrusting with a slow, deliberate push that had her legs trembling and toes curling.

“Hyun—oh my god, don’t stop—”

“I’m not,” he growled. “Not gonna stop. Gonna make you cum on me, baby. Let me feel it.”

She was close. He could feel it in the way her walls clenched around him, the shaky moans she tried to muffle against his skin. He snaked a hand between them, fingers finding her clit, circling fast and tight.

That did it.

She shattered under him with a broken cry, her body convulsing around his cock, nails digging into his shoulder blades. He nearly lost it from the way she squeezed him—tight, desperate, pulling him in deeper.

“Shit, baby—” he gasped. “You’re—fuck—I’m gonna—”

His rhythm faltered as his orgasm slammed into him, hips stuttering as he spilled into the condom with a deep, guttural moan of her name. He collapsed over her, chest heaving, forehead pressed to hers as they both tried to catch their breath.

The room was filled with the soft sound of breathing, skin slick with sweat, candlelight flickering lazily beside them.

After a long moment, he kissed her—slow, tender, full of emotion.

“You okay?” he whispered.

She nodded, smiling softly, skin still flushed. “That was… everything.”

He chuckled, brushing her hair from her face. “You’re everything.”

He kissed her again, then pulled out carefully, discarding the condom and grabbing a warm towel to gently clean her up. His touch was soft, reverent—like she was glass.

Then he slipped under the covers with her, pulling her against his chest, arms wrapped around her tightly.

“Still mad about the lack of flowers and candles?” She asked with a teasing grin.

She giggled into his skin. “. Because you were more than enough.”

He smirked and whispered against her hair, “Round two will have the candles. And maybe a few petals.”

[barleyo]

Wicked Away.

Scandalabra X F! Reader (smut)

A/N: i love this stupid candle more than words can explain. he's got that dandyish charm that makes me wanna pounce him. and he's a cuck? and a canon mommy kink? oh, yes, yes please! comments and reblogs are appreciated!

Tags: mommy kink, use of "mistress", f-dom/m-sub, cucking, jealousy, cunnilingus, fingering, praise

Wordcount: 1.9k

Your relationship with Scandalabra was odd to some and downright weird to other objects. He always seemed to goad others into looking at you with the same lust that his eyes held for you, urging them to admit how attractive they found you. They assumed it was just the scandal of it that he was after, but it wasn't just that. 

Everyone knew that he was a bit of a spy in his own right, watching others' relationships grow and blossom, getting off on knowing the happenings around the house. What they didn't know, was that the watching aspect carried over into his relationship with you. What he got off on more than anything was you retelling your sexual escapades with the others in the house, delving into all the details for him. Imagining you pinned under a strong, sexy man like Dunk or Abel made the gears in his head stutter. You with another girl in the house, a pretty dame? His pantaloons grew uncomfortably tight at that, as well.

You two had this arrangement going for some time. You never judged Scandalabra for what he liked, in fact, it excited you almost as much as it did him. Seeing your sweet dandy get worked up over picturing you with another? Lip bitten between his adorably gapped teeth as he struggled to fight off his blush? It was a sight for sore eyes. 

Deeper than just the cucking, though, Scandalabra adored that part, you took care of his need with equal vigor. You were tender and gentle, not too rough with a fragile flower like himself, not in the way you were with Kristoff or Volt and Eddie. 

No, you fucked others, and he didn't mind it because at the end of the day, you were his and only he got the gentle, sweet caress of your manicured hand over his thigh. Only he received loving eyes boring into his as you pulled his pants down, teeth taking purchase of his waistband as you tugged. Only he got you fully—you, his mommy. His mistress. His lover. 

At least, that's what he thought, until Stepford's name passed your lips during one of your "debriefing" nights.

Scandalabra had drawn you a luxurious bath, filled with bubbles and silky oils. This was how he preferred these nights. Watching you glow with content and comfort while he struggled not to fall apart at the seams.

He kneeled outside the tub, filing your fingernails for you as while you sunk deeper into the water, sighing in relief. 

"You treat me so well, sweet boy," you muttered tiredly, feeling the steam envelope you. "I suppose you want your story for the night, hm?"

He nodded in excitement. You had just come back from a special night, a new "date" with another object in the house. He had been reeling all day, his ears burning to hear all about it. 

"Yes, do tell, mistress." He shifted on his knees, leaning closer. His slender fingers reached for your other hand. 

"Well, as you know, I've been talking to someone new lately. Quite sexy, of course."

"Naturally." 

"He's a sweet thing, much like you. Not like the others we've been seeing," you said. 

Scandalabra's heart gushed at the way you said "we." It was true, technically both of you were experiencing the sexual encounters. It made him feel like a part of you. That was all he ever wanted. 

He continued to listen and grabbed a bottle of red nail polish. You shook your head and waved it away, requesting a different color. Anything for you. He put back the offending bottle and grabbed a soft pink shade.

"Who was it tonight?"

You ignored his question and began reliving the details. You knew how he loved to be tantalized, teased, and toyed with. 

You felt him slowly dab the lacquer onto your nails, taking great care to avoid your cuticles. "He was so sensitive. I felt so bad for the poor thing—came as soon as I tried to use my hands. He was apologetic, so sweet."

Normally, Scandalabra would be burning up by now, given the bits and pieces you were serving him, but not now. He found himself... jealous. His teeth bit the inside of his cheek rather than his lips. His eyebrows furrowed in envy rather than pleasure. 

"Other hand, please, mistress," he asked, uncharacteristically quiet. "Two coats, don't you think?"

You saw the sheerness of the polish already on your nails and agreed, but not before eyeing him curiously. What was wrong? By this point, you usually wouldn't be able to keep him off of you. He'd be begging for more details, more to picture. 

"Once we were done, Stepford said the sweetest thing," you continued, clearing your throat, "something about me being a wonderful mommy, oh, it was precious."

So that's how it was. Scandalabra felt angry tears prick his eyes, tilting his head down so you wouldn't notice.

His voice was drained of any excitement. "How scandalous," he said without any of his usual vivacity. 

You two finished the night in silence. What you thought was a serene, calmness was actually a raging storm brewing just under your nose. 

It was bigger than fantasy now. It was far too real.

When you fucked the admittedly more masculine, dominant guys around the house, Scandalabra was fine. One the rare occasion you would get with a woman, he was unbothered. He still had a side of you to himself. You were getting your fill of something he couldn't provide from others, that was okay. In fact, he encouraged it! He wanted it.

But Stepford?

Stepford, a submissive pretty boy? A dandy, much like Scandalabra himself, with a need for your tenderness, your soft, guiding touch? That killed him. He was meant to be your only, when it came to that. The only pathetic, needy wretch under your care.

It felt like you were replacing him. Looking for something you already had. It ate at him like a virus.

Did Stepford cling to you the way he did? Oh, he felt sick. Did Stepford call you his darling mistress? Did Stepford ask you to kiss down his chest and tummy? Scandalabra felt himself retch. Did you call Stepford pretty? Did you stroke his hair and press loving, open-mouth kisses against his lips?

This green-eyed monster inside of him started to grow and turn him into something different—something primal. A worm of sorts wriggled into his mind and told him that he needed to show you that he was still there, that he still mattered. That he could still be your only.

He found himself in his favorite place: between your thighs, grinding into the sheets under him like a bitch in heat. 

He was enthralled by your taste. Every time you let him do this, he was in heaven. Sure, he loved to be taken care of, but he was anything but a selfish lover. What sort of shameful boy would he be if he didn't return the favor, and then some? 

His tongue flattened against your core, trailing from your dripping hole to your clit, paving a sinful path from bottom to top. His eyes were just as unfocused as his mind. 

He was drowning in both his thoughts and your taste. If he could just get you to cum again, and maybe once more after that, then perhaps you'd see how good he could be for you. 

He pulled back from your cunt for a brief moment, spitting onto your bud. He watched his saliva trickle down from your clit to the sheets below you. He shuddered.

"Do you feel good, mommy?" he asked, his eyes glazed over and hopeful, searching over your face for pleasure. 

A soft moan formed in the back of your throat as you trailed your hands through his hair. You gripped a handful of it and stroked it with your thumb. "Mhm..."

He placed his hands on your thighs, pushing your legs open further. Scandalabra huffed brattishly.

"No," he whined with your slick still dripping down his chin, his mouth coated. The sight made you grow weak. He looked like he did after you would kiss him, with gloss and shine smearing over his lips. "Need you to say it. Need to hear it—tell me!"

"Baby—"

He cut you off with a harsh lick, choosing to abuse your sensitive clit. "No," he repeated between licks, "tell me. You have to. You—you must tell me, tell me that I'm your best boy," he hastily inserted his fingers into you, curling them with intention. "Please, mommy. Don't you want me?"

The eyes that met yours were wet and hopeless. 

If you weren't so blinded by pleasure, you would've started crying yourself at the sight of your precious Scandalabra. Your grip of his hair tightened. 

"I don't want you," you said softly, yanking him to look up at you, pausing his ministrations. "I need you. I need you more than anything, and you know that, sweet boy."

"Then w-why are you replacing me?" he asked with a choked sob, nails digging crescent marks into your plush thighs, still thrown over his shoulders. 

You stammered, mouth gaping slightly. "Replacing you? What do you mean?" You brought your other hand down to stroke his cheek, trying to coax the answer out of him. "Is it me being with others? I told you that if that ever started to bother you, to tell me. Muffin, I thought you liked it, no?"

He sighed and shook his head. 

"It's not that. I do love it, I love when you tell me everything and share. Sometimes it feels like I'm really there, watching you, and that excites me, but," he paused, suddenly feeling childish in his worries, "why Stepford? What's so special about him?" 

He bit his tongue when he felt the question "what does he have that I don't?" rise in his mouth. 

"What?"

"Stepford! Why would you choose him when you have me? He's just—just a worse version of me," he spat, nuzzling into your thigh for comfort. "You don't need him when you have me. I don't want you to have another... pretty boy. Am I not enough?"

Suddenly, you felt the tension between your brows soften. This was a much easier fix than you thought. 

"Oh, Scandy, you silly thing," you cooed, tracing one hand through his hair and one down his back. "I don't need anyone else. You are enough for all of my needs. I don't need to see any of the others in the house, including Stepford."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, you take care of all my needs. I only sleep with others because you think it's fun. I think so too—but you are the only thing in this world that mommy needs."

His eyes looked up at you from between your legs, searching for truth. He found it.

"You are my only," you said. "You always will be."

Scandalabra thought about that for a moment. His finger slowly, gently ran over your clit. "Well, maybe there's room for one more. Maybe," he chewed him bottom lip, "you could bring Stepford over one day and I could, ah, finally get to watch? Watch in person, I mean?"

"Anything for you. Consider it done, Scandy." 

[witherby]

If the last fic takes place before the Batfam knew about Conners existence, I just wanna see Mouse explain to them that a Superman cosplayer saved them lol

I love that. "Yeah some cosplayer saved my life. 10/10 would let him do it again."

Littlest Wayne: Information Gathering

Masterlist is Here!

"You and Superman need to come straight to the Cave when you return to Earth."

"I miss you, too, babe," Hal smirks, gliding just above the ground on a planet he and Clark are guarding for a major diplomatic conference. "Tryna get the debrief out of the way so we can get me out of by boxer briefs right after?"

"Mouse was in a hostage situation in Metropolis today that was too overcast for them to get out of."

Hal's good mood plummets. He almost shouts for Clark to get his ass over to him so they can immediately head back.

"Are they —"

"Alive, and relatively unharmed considering the severity of the event."

"What does relatively mean in this context, B?" Hal snaps. "Relatively unharmed by vigilante standards or by civilian standards? Are they in the hospital?"

"Some bad bruising to the temple and a low-grade burn on the right arm. They're safe."

Bruce's calm tone and steady cadence helps relax Hal. His shoulders un-tense and he lets out a sigh.

"Alright. But there's more to it, otherwise you wouldn't have contacted me."

Bruce hums in that quiet way he does when he's pleased by Hal's deductive reasoning. It makes him smile and miss him that much more, and he's only been gone two days.

"They were rescued by a new Meta. Called himself Superman."

"Look at you, crackin' jokes on an official League line. Never thought I'd see the day!"

"..."

"You're not joking. There's a second Superman flying around?"

"A Superboy, by the looks of it. He's the real deal — the flight, the strength, and the suit all points to another Kryptonian. This will make three, after Supergirl."

Hal furrows his brow. He lets his feet hit the ground and starts to pace, kicking up little bits of purple dirt. This planet is ridiculously fragile. It's part of the reason he and Clark are protecting it during these peace talks.

"Is it a baby? Don't remember either Kara or Lois looking pregnant."

"A teenager. Around Mouse's age, by the looks of him, and very inexperienced from what scattered footage I can find of the event."

"Which makes no sense. There's something up if he's a teen but still can't use his powers right. Supes told us he could hone his almost perfectly before he was old enough to drive a car. A new scheme by Luthor or Waller, maybe?"

"I knew I married you for a reason."

"Keep praising me like that and there won't be time for a debrief when I get home."

Bruce hums again. His considering sound. The Green Lantern suit feels very constricting, all of a sudden.

"You don't need to rush your mission to get back. There is one more thing you need to know prior to return, however."

"I'm all ears."

"Mouse described the Superboy as... handsome."

Hal falls to his hands and knees, kicking up a small cloud of purple dust.

"No, no, nooo! They're just a baby!"

"Well. They're seventeen."

"Well I say they're too young for romance! Yesterday they were afraid of Cooties!!"

"Time flies. It's inevitable."

"We're gonna wrap these peace talks up tonight."

Bruce sounds amused on the other end of the line, like he hasn't just crushed Hal's entire world three sentences ago.

"You aren't due back for another week."

"We're wrapping it up tonight!"

"Okay. Agent A will know to set your plate tomorrow."

"Can he make some of those mini quiches? I'm gonna need comfort food to get over this."

"I'll pass the request along."

"And can you wear the see-through robe you were given after you shot that Dior commercial?"

"...if you slick back your hair, yes."

Hal grins. He's still not happy about his youngest kid growing up so fast, but this is a nice consolation prize.

--

True to his word, Hal and Clark get the peace talks concluded by nightfall and head back to Earth. Clark is given the general run-down of what happened on the way, and his curiosity and insistence on getting answers lets Hal know it'll be a long night. He's gonna slick his hair back anyway. He misses his husband, dammit.

You sit at the meeting table in the Bat Cave, feet propped on top exactly like Jason does it, with your hands stuffed in the pockets of your hoodie. You stare groggily at Hal and Clark as they fly in from their trip, shuffling to your feet to give them both sleepy hugs.

"Welcome back," you yawn. "Dad said you have questions?"

"Hey, Mousey," Hal grins, ruffling your hair. You grumble and wave his hand away, then grumble louder when Clark does the exact same thing. "Just got some follow-up questions about the field trip, then we'll let you get back to bed."

You go back to your seat and slump into it, rubbing your eyes. "Kay."

"Did the boy you met tell you his name?" Clark asks, sitting to your right. There's a dossier sitting on the table that he flips open, glancing over the information Bruce collected with Tim's help. He frowns at a still image pulled from his interview on TV.

"Just called himself Superman," you explain. "He had a version of your suit on. It looked legit. I'm guessing he's not your son, based on the way you're looking at the file."

"He is not. Did he seem to be acting maliciously or under someone's control? Was he flesh and blood or robotic?" Clark asks. "Did he hurt anyone? Did he try to hurt you?"

"No," you say, "he was warm. He's flesh and blood and definitely saved us from that fire. In fact he seemed...uh.."

You wave your hand around vaguely and pick over the best way to phrase this.

"Okay! There's a boy at school named Rory. He transferred to Gotham Academy this year after being homeschooled."

"Mousey," Hal speaks up, "I know you're tired, but we kinda gotta stay on track —"

"I am!" You insist. "I am, I swear. Look, it was obvious Rory was homeschooled because he didn't know how to, like, socialize properly? He asked a lot of questions that feel like common-sense if you're used to going to public schools and talking to people outside your family. The Superman cosplayer kind of acted like that."

"Cosplayer?" Clark mouths at Hal, who waves him off.

"So you think he's never been out there doing any hero stuff before that day?"

You shrug and nod. "I think he's never been out at all before that day. He reminded me a lot of Rory on his first day of school."

"But he didn't hurt you?" Hal asks.

"I promise, he didn't. He spoke to me like twice and then brought me to the EMTs to get looked at. Then Jason showed up and brought me home after making sure the school knew I wouldn't be taking the bus back from Metropolis."

"Last question," Clark promises, recapturing your attention. "Can you find him right now? With your shadows?"

"Uh, I can try."

Your gaze becomes a little distant. The shadows cast from one of the overhead lights shifts and dissolves into the ground, zipping out of the cave. Hal and Clark wait silently as you work, feeling for the presence of the boy that saved you just a day before.

"... M e t r o p o l i s..." You mutter, voice taking on that faint, echoing quality it does whenever you speak through the darkness. "...A r o o m...c o n c i o u s...k n o w s I s e e..."

"Come back, Mouse," Hal says, urgent. You take a moment to get your bearings, yawning and rubbing your face. "He knows you used your power to find him?"

You nod. "He saw my shadow move in the corner of his room. Guys, it's so bare and dark. He's got a cot, an alarm clock, and one blanket in there. It looks like some room you'd stick a sick person in to quarantine them."

"Where in Metropolis is he? That doesn't sound like the Solitary Confinement cells in the prison."

"It's not a jail. It looked like a lab, I think?"

"Lex Luthor," Hal and Clark state at the same time. Clark stands up, drawing you into another gentle hug, then heads for the exit.

"Thank you for your help, Mouse! Sleep well."

"Bye, uncle Clark. Have a good night," you call after him. When Hal stands, you rise with him, stretching. "Can I go to bed, now?"

"Yeah, hon," Hal nods, pressing his hand to your back and guiding you to the stairs. "We'll head up together. I'll tell your dad what we learned when he comes back from patrol."

"Kay," you mumble, climbing the steps with another wide yawn. "M'sleeping in tomorrow. Being up at two am sucks."

Hal chuckles. "Yeah, it does. We'll put your breakfast in some Tupperware for when you get up, then."

Once the two of you climb through the grandfather clock and reenter the manor proper, you give Hal one more goodnight hug, then excuse yourself to go to bed. Your eyes are closed as you shuffle into your room and nudge the door closed behind you, navigating the space from memory. It's not until you start climbing back into bed that you feel a dip in it that shouldn't be there.

The dip of another person's weight.

You snap your eyes open and you inhale to scream. A hand presses itself to your mouth, and you find yourself staring at those brilliant blues from yesterday.

"Waitwaitwait-" the boy gasps, whisper-shouting. "Please!!"

You push his hand off and he lifts them both up in placation, floating off the bed and several feet away from you.

"What do you want!?" You whisper-yell back. "Why are you in my room!? That's creepy!"

He grimaces, knees curling towards his chest. In the low light, you can see color painting his cheeks.

"I wanted to come see you," he murmurs.

"Why?"

"I don't know your name."

You're completely flummoxed. You shake your head and shrug.

"Do you need to?" You ask.

The boy floats a little closer, his gaze intense. He looks at you like...he looks at you like you're the most important thing in the world right now. It makes your stomach swoop.

"Yes," he says, completely sincere. "I'm...I can't...there's this..."

His brow furrows. He's exceptionally easy to read, like he's never known how to be anything except fully, authentically himself. It's a welcome change in a family of vigilante detectives with emotional intimacy issues. It'll help you know if he's trying to deceive you, too.

Quietly, you give him your name. His eyes snap to yours and he repeats it, lips shaping the vowels and consonants with an unusual reverence. You can feel your own face getting a little warm.

"I'm...Conner," the boy says. His eyes dart to your mouth. You oblige.

"Hi, Conner," you mutter. His whole body un-tenses, looking like a puppet with his strings cut as he almost dangles in the air.

"Can I —" Conner cuts himself off. He drifts closer to you. You shift back, feeling cornered from where you kneel in your bed. "Ah. I wanted... I don't know how to say..."

Exhausted and confused, you gesture at him to hurry it up a little. You know you should probably alert someone that the new Meta boy is literally floating four feet away from you right now, but you know he isn't here to cause harm.

"It's late," you speak up. "Can you try a little harder to get the point across so I can sleep?"

"Yes," Conner says quickly, obediently. "Call for me."

You blink heavily. Your mind feels like sludge. "Elaborate."

"When you need something," he specifies. "If you're in danger, or lonely, or just...or just want to. Please. Call for me and I'll come to you."

"Why?" You yawn. It's getting harder to stay conscious. You let your body fall over until you collide with the pillows, eyes slipping closed. "Why me?"

Conner floats above you, reaching down to tuck a strand of hair behind your ear with more reverence than is appropriate for having barely met. His fingers brush against the bruise on your temple, featherlight.

"Because it's you," he says, as your consciousness fades. "Something in my heart is yours... I hope that's okay."

You hum, managing a barely discernible "kay," in your last seconds of awareness before sleep pulls you under.

In your subconscious mind, you register warmth wrap around you for a moment, and then you're alone with nothing but a cracked window as evidence anyone had ever been there.

[songbirdseung]

𝑰  𝑩𝑬𝑻  𝑶𝑵  𝒀𝑶𝑼  /  𝑺𝑰𝑴  𝑱𝑨𝑬𝒀𝑼𝑵

𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐮𝐬𝐮𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐥𝐢𝐤𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬. 𝐘𝐨𝐮 𝐰𝐞𝐫𝐞𝐧’𝐭 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐭𝐲𝐩𝐞 𝐭𝐨 𝐠𝐢𝐯𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐞 𝐬𝐢𝐥𝐞𝐧𝐭 𝐭𝐫𝐞𝐚𝐭𝐦𝐞𝐧𝐭, 𝐛𝐮𝐭 𝐭𝐨𝐧𝐢𝐠𝐡𝐭, 𝐲𝐨𝐮 𝐣𝐮𝐬𝐭 𝐜𝐨𝐮𝐥𝐝𝐧’𝐭 𝐝𝐞𝐚𝐥 𝐰𝐢𝐭𝐡 𝐡𝐢𝐦. (𝐧𝐨𝐭 𝐩𝐫𝐨𝐮𝐝 𝐨𝐟 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐨𝐧𝐞, 𝐢 𝐨𝐫𝐢𝐠𝐢𝐧𝐚𝐥𝐥𝐲 𝐰𝐫𝐨𝐭𝐞 𝐭𝐡𝐢𝐬 𝐢𝐧 𝟐𝟎𝟐𝟎)

You and Jake never really fought. Sure, there were disagreements but what couple didn’t have those?

You were always understanding, always patient. You didn’t yell, didn’t complain. You talked things out, met each other halfway. And Jake? He loved that about you.

But tonight, frustration had bubbled over, resentment lingering in your chest like a heavy weight.

For the past two weeks, Jake had been coming home late, very late. He barely spoke to you, barely acknowledged you, and when he did? It was always complaints.

"You’re being so lazy lately.""The house is a mess.""What do you even do all day?"

You had held it in. Swallowed it down, convincing yourself that he was just stressed. That he didn’t mean it. That maybe you were overthinking things.

But tonight, when he brushed past you again, barely sparing you a glance, something in you snapped.

“You know what, Jake? If I’m so lazy, why don’t you do everything yourself?”

He had turned, eyes wide, completely unprepared for the outburst.

“Woah, what’s wrong with you?”

What’s wrong with me?

The audacity.

“You’ve been ignoring me for weeks,” you shot back, voice sharp. “You come home late, don’t talk to me, and when you do, it’s just to complain. What’s your problem?”

Jake blinked, momentarily stunned, before his expression hardened. “I’m busy, Y/N. I have a job. I can’t just sit around all day doing nothing.”

It was a low blow. A really low blow. And he knew it.

Your hands clenched into fists at your sides.

“You don’t get to treat me like this just because you’re stressed,” you hissed, eyes burning. “And you definitely don’t get to act like I do nothing when I’ve been supporting you this whole time.”

He opened his mouth, but you weren’t interested in hearing it. Instead, you turned on your heel and stormed into the bedroom, slamming the door shut behind you.

And now, hours later, you were curled up on the bed, trying to sleep while Jake was exiled to the couch.

You knew he had been trying to make amends. He had apologized at least ten times throughout the night, coming to the bedroom door, knocking softly, whispering, "Babe, I'm sorry. Can we talk?"

You only answered with a firm, “Goodnight, Jake.”

You weren’t usually like this. You weren’t the type to give the silent treatment, but tonight, you just couldn’t deal with him.

Jake, meanwhile, was on the couch, staring at the ceiling in regret.

This was not how tonight was supposed to go. He hated that he made you feel unappreciated. He knew he had been an ass. He also knew that apologizing through a locked door wasn’t going to cut it.

So, with enough determination, he wrapped himself in a blanket, grabbed his pillow, and padded his way to the bedroom.

When the door creaked open, you turned to face him, only to be met with the most pitiful sight.

There he stood, wrapped up in the blanket like a burrito, pillow clutched in his arms, his big brown eyes looking at you with pure desperation.

You almost caved on the spot.

Almost.

“What do you want?” you asked, keeping your I’m still mad attitude, sitting up slightly.

“Well,” he said, voice small, “I can’t sleep without you. You know that.”

You narrowed your eyes, but Jake took the opportunity to shuffle closer, eventually crawling onto the bed. His gaze never left you as he inched nearer, hesitantly reaching for your wrist.

“Please forgive me,” he murmured, giving your hand a gentle tug, pulling you down next to him. His arms wrapped around you instantly, closing every bit of space between you.

His voice was softer now, almost fragile. “I know you’ve been stressed with studying, and I shouldn’t have taken my stress out on you. I didn’t mean any of those things. I’m really, really sorry.”

Your anger was melting. It always did with him.

You sighed, finally looking up at him. “I’m sorry too. For yelling and not just… talking about it.”

Jake shook his head. “No. You should have yelled at me. I deserved it.”

You rolled your eyes but let a small smile slip through. “Let’s not fight anymore, okay?”

He grinned, leaning in to nuzzle against you. “Deal.”

[papayainsectorone]

Teach me more

════════════════════════

summary: Weeks after the tender one-night encounter, Oscar reaches out, sparking a quiet, intimate reunion where vulnerability and longing open the door to something deeper.

content: 18+! smut, nsfw descriptions, oral sex, praise kink, Soft angst, gentle intimacy

word count: 6,5k

pairing: oscar piastri x fem!reader

a thought: this was just screaming for more parts

teach me series

════════════════════════

It’s been a few weeks.

Not that you’ve been counting. Not exactly.

Life moved on, at least on the surface.

You're sitting in bed, the dull glow of your phone lighting up your face, when a message flashes across your screen from a number you don’t recognize.

Hey. Um. It’s Oscar. I think I forgot to get your number that night.

A pause. Then another bubble.

Unless you meant not to give it to me. In which case—sorry for texting. I just. I’ve been thinking about you. A lot.

You freeze for a second, thumb hovering over the screen, a little breath caught in your chest. His name feels strange here, ordinary among the chaos of your inbox. Like a secret slipping into the light.

The night at the hotel hadn’t exactly ended with a plan. Just soft kisses, flushed skin, words whispered against each other’s mouths before sleep pulled you both under. You left the next morning with a kiss to his shoulder, the room still warm with his scent. He had stirred, but only slightly. You didn’t think much of it at the time.

You hadn’t expected this.

Another buzz.

I didn’t mean to wait this long. I kept thinking I’d find the right time. But I think I was just nervous. I don’t know what I’m doing. But I want to talk to you again. Is that okay?

You stare at the message a little longer than necessary. The honesty in it—awkward, gentle, completely unpolished—makes something flutter quietly in your chest.

You type a reply, then delete it. Try again. Keep it simple.

Hi, Oscar. Of course it’s okay. I’m glad you reached out.

A moment passes. Then another.

And then your phone lights up again.

Can I see you?

That’s when it hits you—not just the memory, but the weight of what it felt like to hold him, guide him, watch him break apart in your hands. You remember the way he looked at you, like you were something fragile and holy all at once. And now he wants to come back. Or maybe not just come back—maybe he wants something more.

You glance around your room. It’s quiet. The night is early. You’re not wearing anything special—just soft joggers and a loose shirt—but your heart’s thudding like something important is about to happen.

You type:

You free tonight?

The reply is almost instant.

I can be.

You give him the address. No more questions. No hesitation.

Just a quiet understanding settling between you.

And as you set the phone down and head to the mirror to check yourself, brush your fingers through your hair, adjust the curve of your lips—just a little—you feel it.

That same spark from before. But different now.

Not a reunion.

A continuation.

He doesn’t knock like someone unsure of their welcome.

It’s more like a quiet question at your door—three light taps and then stillness. You open it to find Oscar standing there in a hoodie too big for him and jeans that hang a little loose on his hips, like he forgot how to be casual and dressed in what made him feel safest. His hair’s a bit messier than before, curls that weren’t quite tamed, and his eyes meet yours for half a second before they dart away.

But he smiles.

It’s small, sheepish, and utterly sincere.

“Hey,” he says.

You step back to let him in, and he walks past you slowly, the space between you briefly electric as his shoulder brushes yours. He smells the same—something warm and quiet, like fabric softener and something you can’t name but remember instantly.

You both stand there in the soft light of the living room, the quiet stretching between you—not tense, just... full. He’s hovering like he’s not sure how to greet you. His arms shift like he’s thinking about hugging you but second-guessing himself.

You tilt your head and smirk a little, stepping closer.

“Oscar,” you say, a lightness in your voice. “Come here.”

He goes scarlet.

It blooms up his neck to his ears, blooming across his cheeks. But he laughs—half-breathless, half-mortified—and finally, finally moves in.

The hug is shy at first. He steps into your space and wraps his arms around you like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to hold tight. But when you press in, close and warm and solid against him, he exhales. His arms tighten just slightly.

You feel him sink.

Not all the way, not yet—but it’s a beginning. His cheek rests just briefly against your shoulder, and for a second, you just breathe together.

Then he pulls back, eyes still pink around the edges, and says with a crooked smile, “That... might be the best welcome I’ve ever gotten.”

“Then you should come over more often.”

You guide him toward the couch. He hesitates before sitting, like he’s still not sure what this is—what you're expecting, what he's allowed to want. But he follows, folding down onto the cushions with a little exhale like he’s been holding something in since the second he texted you.

You sit beside him, close but not crowding. The silence stretches again—comfortably this time—and you just let it. You can see him working something out behind those soft brown eyes. Turning it over. Trying to get brave enough to speak it.

You don’t push. You never have to.

Finally, his voice comes quiet and tentative. “I’ve been thinking about you,” he says. “Since that night.”

Your heart gives a little stutter, but your smile stays easy, inviting. “Yeah?”

He nods. Then: “I… I wanted to text you. Right after. But I didn’t have your number. And I didn’t want to ask at the front desk, because…” He flushes again. “I think I forgot how to function as a person for a few days after.”

You laugh, soft and low.

His smile flickers wider for a second before his expression turns shy again, his gaze dropping to his hands. He fidgets with a thread on his sleeve, and when he speaks again, it’s barely above a whisper.

“I want to return the favor.”

You blink, then tilt your head slightly, warmth blooming low in your chest. “You want to…?”

He looks up—eyes big, cheeks pink. “Do something for you. Like you did for me. Not because I feel like I owe you or anything, just… I’ve never done it before. Not properly. And I—” He swallows.

You let the quiet sit between you for a few seconds longer before reaching out and laying your hand gently over his. “You sure?”

He nods, quick and eager. “I’ve been thinking about it. About how you made me feel that night. And I want to do that for you. If you want to teach me that is.”

That earnestness in him is still there—the nervous edges, the twitch of uncertainty—but there’s something steadier underneath it now. A real desire to learn, to explore, to care for you the way you cared for him.

You squeeze his hand gently. “Okay,” you say.

You shift a little on the couch, angling your body toward his, your knee brushing his. He hasn’t stopped glancing at your mouth—not in a lewd way, more like he’s curious. Hungry, maybe. Definitely nervous.

You smile softly and nudge him with your shoulder. “So… do you want to do it now?”

Oscar’s eyes snap to yours. “Wh-what?”

You laugh under your breath. “You want to try, right? Giving. Touching. All that?”

“Oh. Right. Yeah. No—I mean yes. Fuck.” He rubs his hands over his jeans, like he’s trying to wipe the nerves off his palms. “If you want to. But you obviously don’t have to. I didn’t mean like right now unless you—unless you're cool with it. Not that I expect—shit.”

You tilt your head at him, smiling slowly. “Oscar.”

“Yeah?”

“Last time I had your dick in my mouth. You really don’t need to be this nervous.”

He turns a vivid shade of red and drops his face into his hands with a groan. “You cannot just say that so casually.”

You lean closer, bumping his shoulder with yours. “I absolutely can. Come here.”

When you open your arms, he hesitates only for a second before melting into your hug. He’s warm, solid, and still a little tense—but there’s a relief in the way he exhales against your neck that makes your chest squeeze. Like this is the part he didn’t know he needed. Just being close. Just being held.

You murmur against his ear, “So… do you want to?”

His voice is a whisper. “Yeah.”

“Okay.” You pull back slightly, enough to see his face. His cheeks are flushed, lips parted. “Then let’s start with a kiss.”

He swallows. “You mean like… now?”

You don’t say anything. Just smile and wait.

He swallows again, the nervousness still there, but his eyes search yours for permission. It’s all in the way he’s leaning in just a little, testing the waters. You don’t say anything at first, letting the silence hang for just a beat longer than necessary. Then, you give him a soft nod.

“Yeah,” you murmur, “just kiss me, Oscar.”

It’s like a switch flips inside him. His hand, still on your waist, moves to the back of your neck, pulling you just a little closer. He pauses there, waiting—his lips brushing lightly against yours. Soft. Almost unsure.

You smile against him, keeping it light but encouraging. “Relax. Let go a little.”

His lips move gently over yours again, this time with a little more intent, a little more pressure. He’s still a little tentative, but his breathing’s deepening, and his hand around your neck gives a small tug, pulling you closer, testing the boundaries of your proximity.

You let him guide you, not rushing him but making sure he knows what feels good. As he leans into the kiss more, you shift slightly, tilting your head just enough to show him the right angle. You let your lips part a little, just a breath away, enough to encourage him to follow your lead.

“Open your mouth a little,” you whisper, just above a breath. “Not too much—just enough for a kiss to deepen.”

Oscar does it—hesitant at first, but you feel the way his body relaxes into the movement, his chest pressing against yours. He gets it. The tension is starting to fade, but he’s still figuring it out. You kiss him back slowly, just enough to keep him moving in the right direction, giving him the confidence to let go of that nervousness and trust his instincts.

You pull back for a second, just enough to look into his eyes. “That’s good. Now, try this: gently move your lips over mine. Like you’re tracing a line. Just… feel the way my lips feel against yours.”

His brow furrows in concentration, but he does as you say, shifting his lips against yours slowly, like he’s mapping out the motions. It’s clumsy at first, but there’s something so sweet in the way he’s trying. His hands, a little unsure at first, are now gently guiding you closer. His touch on your neck is warm, secure, and his other hand—after a moment’s hesitation—moves to your side, resting there.

You can feel the way his breath stutters when you respond to his kiss, your hands moving to his shoulders and guiding him closer. “Good. You’re doing great. Now—try to move with me.”

His eyes flutter open for just a moment, unsure but eager. “Move with you?”

“Yeah.” You grin softly, guiding his hands with yours so they settle around your back, your body shifting a little, pressing him closer. “It’s not about thinking too much. Just feel the rhythm. When I move, you move. Follow my lead.”

Oscar takes a deep breath, his hands tightening around you, and he follows your motion. It’s like a dance. A slow, soft one where every shift, every touch, feels like a conversation between your bodies. His kiss deepens again, but this time with more trust, more confidence.

“You’ve got it,” you whisper, and the words seem to fuel him more than you expect. He lets his lips linger longer this time, his hand moving from your back to the side of your face, cupping it gently. You can feel the way he’s starting to get lost in the moment, the way he’s learning to just let go and feel what you’re doing together.

“You’re really good at this,” you murmur, a teasing edge to your voice. His face flushes, but he doesn’t pull away, leaning in even more, following the rhythm you’ve set. His lips press firmly against yours, his movements more fluid now, like he’s finding a way to match your pace.

You can feel the intensity growing, and you guide his hand—gently, slowly—down your body, just showing him the way. “Let your hands move, Oscar. It’s okay to touch. Just pay attention to how I react.”

He hesitates only for a moment before he slides his hand lower, his touch tentative, like he’s still unsure of himself. You let out a small, satisfied hum against his mouth as his hand brushes against your waist, and that seems to be enough to push him forward.

You pull back again, just a bit, watching him. “That’s it. Just keep following. Trust your instincts.”

As Oscar’s hands slide under your shirt, his touch is careful, almost reverent, like he's trying to navigate uncharted territory. He’s already getting the hang of kissing, but the way his fingers hover, hesitant, grazing lightly over your skin, tells you he's still not entirely sure of what to do next.

You break the kiss, just enough to murmur softly against his lips, keeping him close. "You're doing great, Oscar. Just take it slow." Your voice is warm, reassuring, the kind of softness that encourages him to keep going, but without rushing him. “The touching, the way you move... it gets easier when you lose some clothes. Let your hands explore, but do it slowly, okay? You’ll find the rhythm.”

He nods, the nerves still there, but his gaze is a little more focused now, more intent as his hand inches higher, moving carefully up your side. There’s a slight hesitation, then his fingers brush over the curve of your breast, just the faintest touch, and you can feel the way he holds his breath, waiting for your reaction.

Your hands slide up his arms, guiding him a little, showing him the way. “You’re almost there. Don’t overthink it. Just feel the way I react.”

His fingers linger for a moment longer, like he's trying to figure out if that’s okay, but you can feel the way his thumb moves in small, tentative circles over your skin, testing the response. It’s delicate. He’s waiting for some sign that it’s right. You let him feel the way your body leans into his touch, how your chest lifts slightly under his hand as you breathe deeper.

“Good,” you whisper, “Keep moving like that.”

Oscar’s breath quickens, and the kiss he presses to your lips is a little more urgent now, as if he’s feeding off the way you respond to him, the way your body relaxes under his hands. His fingers trace the edge of your bra now, still tentative but searching for the next step.

You pull back slightly, enough to look into his eyes. “Don’t be afraid to touch more, Osc. I want you to feel confident. You don’t have to rush, but trust your instincts. Just let your hands go where they want to go.”

His eyes flicker with uncertainty, but there's something else there too—a flicker of curiosity, of determination.

“Relax,” you murmur, a soft smile playing at the corners of your lips. “You’re fine. You don’t have to worry about making a mistake. Just take your time.”

The moment is quiet except for the sound of his breath and the gentle rustle of clothing. He shifts again, this time pulling back a little to give himself a moment to think. His fingers tug lightly at the hem of your shirt, pulling it up slowly, cautiously, as if waiting for a sign from you.

You let him do it, your hands resting on his shoulders, letting him feel the movement, feel the control shift a little more in his favor. The shirt comes off, tossed to the side, and you stay close, your bodies pressed against each other, both of you warm, hearts racing a little faster. His hands, now bare against your skin, move with more confidence, cupping your breast gently.

“Good,” you say again, your voice soft but filled with approval. “You’re doing great.”

Oscar’s fingers flex slightly, still unsure but starting to gain more confidence. The kisses become deeper, slower, and as his thumb brushes against your nipple, you feel a small gasp escape you, your body responding instinctively to the sensation. You shift a little, pulling him closer as your lips move against his, offering more encouragement.

“See?” you murmur, lips still on his, the breath between you hot. “You’re getting it. Trust yourself.”

He kisses you with a new sense of purpose now, the nervous tension still present but not overwhelming, replaced by something else—something softer, more intimate. His hand moves again, cupping your breast more fully, his fingers kneading gently, exploring. You feel the way his thumb traces slow, deliberate circles, and it makes your breath hitch slightly.

His lips part from yours just long enough for him to whisper, “Is this okay?”

You smile softly, cupping his cheek with your hand. “Yes, Osc. It’s more than okay.”

You guide him, letting him learn the rhythm of your movements, the way you react to his touch. He’s learning, discovering how to move with you, how to match your pace. There’s a new sense of confidence in him now, the kind that comes from knowing you’re there, guiding him, encouraging him with every movement, every kiss.

And when his lips press against your neck, when his hands move to the small of your back and pull you closer, you know that this moment—the slow, tentative exploration—is becoming something more. It’s not just about giving. It’s about feeling each other, learning each other’s rhythm, and trusting in the connection you’re building together.

“Good,” you whisper against his ear. “You’re doing everything right, Osc.”

And with that, he kisses you again, his movements a little bolder this time, more assured, as if he’s finally letting go of the last bit of hesitation. And you welcome it, savoring the feeling of him learning, trusting, and most importantly—letting himself be the one to give.

He pulls back slightly, lips still tingling from the kiss, his chest rising and falling with a little more urgency. His hands hover over you, not quite sure where to go next. The intensity in his eyes is undeniable, but there’s still a trace of nervousness that’s impossible to miss. His voice is quiet, barely a whisper, but filled with eagerness.

“I want to do more,” he says, the words tumbling out with a kind of vulnerability that makes your chest tighten.

You smirk, a playful glint in your eyes. “Okay,” you reply, voice teasing as you lean in just a little closer. “But how’s that gonna work with my pants still on?”

Oscar’s face flushes instantly, his gaze darting down to your pants as if he’s just realized the physical barrier between you. His breath catches, and you can see the way his mind works overtime, trying to figure out the next step.

You watch the way his hands twitch at his sides, clearly debating whether or not to move, before he hesitantly mutters, “Okay, so... uh, how do I... do I just pull them off?”

You laugh softly, leaning back a little to give him space, your voice smooth and teasing. “It’s not complicated, Osc. You can just take them off.”

His fingers tremble as he watches you, his breath quick and shallow. There’s an eagerness in the way he shifts his weight, but also an unmistakable hesitation, like he’s testing the waters, unsure of the next step. His hands hover near your waistband, a question in his eyes as he looks up at you, searching for some kind of reassurance.

“You’re doing great, Osc,” you murmur, offering a gentle smile to calm the nerves still showing on his face. You can see the uncertainty in his eyes, but also a quiet determination, like he’s ready to move forward.

With a soft exhale, he nods and slowly lowers his hands, fingers brushing lightly over the fabric of your pants. He pauses, and you can tell he’s still figuring out the rhythm, unsure of the exact moment when it’s okay to go further. The tension between you both is palpable now—his body language speaks volumes, his eyes wide and still a little shy, but his touch more deliberate.

“Just... take your time,” you add softly.

He swallows, his throat tight with nervous energy. “Okay...” he whispers, more to himself than to you, before gently pulling at the waistband of your pants, easing them down just a little at first. His movements are hesitant at first, then grow more sure as he pulls them further down your legs.

As your pants fall to the floor, Oscar stops, eyes flicking between your face and the exposed skin of your lower body. His breath is shallow, chest rising and falling as he hesitates, unsure of what comes next.

His lips are still close to yours, but he pulls back slightly, a flush creeping up his neck. He clears his throat, then, with a nervous glance, his voice barely audible, he asks, “Can... can you take your bra off?”

You smile softly at his shyness, the way his hands are still unsure, his movements delicate like he’s handling something fragile. You giggle, the sound light and teasing as you reach up and tug at your own shirt. “You can do it too, Oscar.”

He looks at you, cheeks flushed a deeper red, embarrassment making him fumble slightly with his words. “I—I don’t know, I think that’s complicated.”

You gently guide his hand, placing it against your back, your fingers trailing over his skin, feeling how his breath catches at the contact. "It's that easy," you whisper, giving him a reassuring smile.

Oscar’s hand trembles slightly as he reaches for the clasp of your bra, and for a moment, you feel a hint of hesitation from him again. His fingers brush over the fabric, then find the clasp. The tension in his hand is almost cute, a stark contrast to the quiet confidence he’ll soon find in himself.

With a soft click, the clasp releases, and you help him slip it off your shoulders. He watches you carefully, almost mesmerized by the movement, eyes wide with a mix of curiosity and awe.

You let the bra fall to the floor, your skin now exposed, and Oscar’s gaze lingers on you, his breath quickening as he takes in the sight of you before him. You notice how his eyes darken, the uncertainty still there, but now there's a spark of something else—a hunger that's new to him, but unmistakable.

His hands, once hesitant, now hover near your waist, fingers grazing the soft curve of your body as if he's unsure where to touch next, the weight of his touch still gentle, unsure.

Oscar’s eyes flicker downward—just briefly, but enough that you catch it. His gaze lingers at your chest, hesitant, as if he’s thinking something but unsure whether he’s allowed to want it. It’s shy, not presumptuous—like he’s asking without speaking, uncertain whether it’s okay to take that next step.

You smile softly, reading him with ease. No need for him to stumble over the words. You lift your hands slowly and place them gently over your chest, just above your heart, then slide them outward in a quiet invitation.

“It’s alright,” you say, voice barely above a whisper. “You can touch them.”

His throat works as he swallows hard, eyes darting up to meet yours—like he’s making sure you mean it. And when he sees the patience there, the warmth, he nods a little, more to himself than to you. Slowly, his hands come up, tentative at first, brushing lightly against your skin. His touch is feather-light, reverent, almost like he’s still trying to convince himself this is real.

You can feel the faint tremble in his fingertips, but it doesn’t distract from the care behind every movement. He’s paying attention—watching your breathing, your reactions, adjusting as he goes.

“You’re doing great, Osc,” you murmur, your voice a steady anchor.

He lets out a quiet breath, almost a laugh, the corners of his mouth twitching. “You always say that.”

“Because it’s true.”

He leans in again, and this time, his mouth brushes over your collarbone, tentative and soft. You feel the warmth of his breath before the touch of his lips, the slow press of his mouth moving down, finding new terrain with care. When he brings his lips lower, there’s a pause again—checking, gauging.

You tilt your head and say gently, “Try using your mouth. Just… go slow. Feel what I do.”

His eyes meet yours once more, wide and focused, and then he nods. The next kiss he places is more deliberate. Then another. His lips find their way over your skin, curious, unhurried. His mouth is warm, his movements careful, and when he finally brings them to the soft curve of your chest, there’s a deep inhale from him—like he’s taking in the gravity of being allowed this closeness.

You rest your hand lightly on the back of his neck, a steady presence as he explores. The gentleness in him is unmistakable—every motion driven not just by want, but by intent to care, to learn, to give. And though there’s still a touch of awkwardness in his pace, there’s something so earnest in it that you can’t help but be moved.

When he looks up again, your eyes meet, and you catch the flicker of a question there—half uncertainty, half hope. You don’t need him to say it aloud. Instead, you brush your thumb gently across his jaw, nodding once. Go on.

He dips his head again, slower this time, guided not just by your reassurance but by something beginning to settle in him—an instinct, a quiet want to understand what makes you feel good.

His mouth finds your nipple, warm lips pressing gently against the softest part of your chest. Then, after a breath, he lets his tongue move—tentative at first, a careful sweep over the most sensitive skin.

You exhale sharply, your body reacting before your mind can catch up, and a soft moan escapes you—quiet but unmistakable.

Oscar freezes.

He pulls back a little, wide-eyed, almost as if he’s afraid he did something wrong. But you can see it—behind the surprise, there’s something else. A flicker of pride, of wonder, like he hadn’t expected to cause that sound. Like he’s just realized what it means to have that kind of effect.

You don’t make him wait in the silence. You rest a hand against his cheek, anchoring him again.

“That was so good,” you say softly, breath still uneven. “ Keep going.”

His lips part slightly. “Oh.”

There’s a flush creeping up his neck again, but now it’s mixed with something else—something less uncertain. Like he’s starting to believe he can do this, that he’s allowed to want to make you feel good.

He nods a little, almost to himself, and then lowers his head again. This time with purpose. His mouth moves more deliberately, tongue tracing over your skin in slow, careful motions. He listens—truly listens—with his whole body. To every shift in your breath, every sound you make, adjusting, learning.

His hands stay light on your waist, grounding him, giving him balance as he explores, and you let yourself feel the sincerity in each movement. There’s no rush in him, no ego. Just a quiet, growing desire to understand what it means to give.

Your breath comes quicker now, soft and uneven, as his mouth lingers and learns. He’s warm above you, steady in a way that grounds you—but you can still feel the slight tremble in his limbs, like all of this is still so new and so much.

Your hips shift gently beneath him, a quiet arching of your back, searching for more contact, more of him. A soft sound escapes—his name, just a murmur: “Oscar…”

He pauses for a heartbeat, breath brushing your skin, eyes flicking up again like he’s listening with his whole body.

You reach for his hand resting at your waist—warm and tentative—and guide it slowly with yours. There’s no resistance, only his quiet breath hitching in his throat as he lets you move him, trusting the way you wordlessly teach him what you want.

You draw his hand lower, inch by inch, between your thighs, your own fingers still covering his. His palm presses against you over your underwear, and even through the thin fabric, the sensation is enough to pull another quiet sound from your throat.

His whole body stills at the sound, like he’s memorizing it.

He swallows, nods once, and his thumb shifts slightly under your hand, tracing gently, carefully. It’s not practiced—but it’s focused. He’s tuned into every reaction you give him, like you’re the only thing in the world he wants to understand right now.

You press your hand gently over his again, showing him the motion, the pressure, how to move just right. Each small adjustment draws more breathless sounds from your throat—soft, unfiltered, real—and he absorbs every one like a secret meant only for him.

Then, in a hush, like it’s just dawning on him:

“You’re… wet.”

You can’t help the smile that pulls at your lips, even through the haze of building sensation. “You did that,” you murmur, tilting your head so your nose brushes his.

Oscar blinks once, like he’s not sure he heard you right. But then something shifts behind his eyes—like pride, like wonder—and it warms his expression all the way through. He smiles, shy and stunned, and the sight of it makes something tighten in your chest.

His fingers hesitate again at the edge of your underwear, barely grazing. He looks at you, asking without words—but his voice follows anyway, low and reverent:

“Can I take them off?”

Your breath catches. You nod, brushing your lips over his. “Fuck yes.”

His hand trembles as he hooks his fingers at the waistband, and he moves slowly—like he’s still making sure it’s okay, like the act itself feels like more than undressing. Like he’s unwrapping something delicate, something he wants to treat with reverence.

And even though he’s the one undressing you, he looks the most undone.

Oscar’s breath stirs the space between you, shallow and uneven. His eyes flicker over your face, like he’s trying to commit every expression to memory. And even as he keeps touching you, something shifts—less uncertainty, more instinct.

You feel it in the way his fingers move—still careful, but surer now, guided by the sounds you make, the way your body leans into his. He’s learning you like a language he’s just begun to understand, but one he’s determined to speak fluently.

And then—like his hand has a mind of its own—you feel his touch dip lower, sliding down with a growing sense of purpose.

You inhale sharply, your hips shifting on instinct. Oscar freezes for just a second, eyes searching yours as if silently asking: Was that okay?

You nod, biting your lip, breath catching as you whisper, “Keep going.”

His fingers flex, moving carefully, reverently, like he’s trying to match every movement to the rhythm of your breath. And when he brushes right where you’re aching for more, a soft sound escapes you—one you weren’t planning to make.

It hits him like a shot of light. His gaze flashes up, cheeks flushed, lips parted in quiet awe. He doesn't speak—but you can see it in his face. He felt that. Felt you.

And he wants more of it.

You guide his hand a little more, hips lifting instinctively as you press his fingers exactly where you need them. Oscar watches, lips slightly parted, stunned again by how much you trust him with this. With yourself.

Your breath hitches, and so does his.

The position is a little twisted now—your legs parted, his arm angled awkwardly between you. He hesitates, glancing down, then shifts with quiet determination, settling lower. His body moves between your thighs, shoulders easing into place like he’s not even thinking about it—just following the path you’ve traced out for him.

And then his head dips, hovering just above you.

You watch the realization settle on his face—how close he is now. His breath is warm against your skin, uneven with nerves but anchored by something steadier underneath. Curiosity. Want.

He looks up at you again, seeking something wordless.

You nod.

He exhales through his nose, slow and shaky, before leaning in—not rushed, not certain, but ready to try.

His eyes flick up at you again, wide and a little wild with nerves—and something else. Hunger. Wonder.

You whisper, soft and sure, “Just like you did with my nipples, Osc.”

Something clicks.

He nods slowly, almost imperceptibly, and then he lowers his head again. You feel the first hesitant brush of his mouth—warm, gentle—like he’s still testing what this means, what it does to you. His lips part, tongue moving with cautious care, mirroring the rhythm he found earlier.

Your breath catches.

That’s all the encouragement he needs. His hands tighten slightly on your thighs, anchoring himself there, and he does it again—more confidently this time. You moan, soft and open, and you feel the way he reacts to it, the way he leans in, driven by every sound you make. It’s almost as if he’s listening with his whole body.

You shift your hips just enough to guide him, not too much, not to overwhelm. He gets it—he always gets it. That focus, that eagerness to learn, to give, pulses in every slow stroke of his tongue. He’s shaky, but present. Nervous, but determined.

You thread your fingers through his hair, murmuring praise, letting the sound of his name fall like a reward. And even through the nervous tension in his shoulders, you can feel it: the beginnings of confidence. He’s starting to feel the effect he has on you.

Your hips twitch under his mouth, a stuttered gasp escaping as the feeling mounts—his tongue moving with growing rhythm, driven by each sound you let slip. You murmur his name again, soft and unguarded, and something in it must hit him because his grip tightens slightly at your hip, like he’s holding on for dear life.

But there’s still one of his hands, fisted in the sheets like he doesn’t know what to do with it. You reach down, unraveling his grip with care, your fingers weaving between his. He hesitates, lips still working against you, until you guide his hand lower.

You line up his fingers, just where you want him, and press gently, urging him inward. It’s slow—you’re slow—because this part matters, too. Not just what he’s doing, but that he’s learning how to do it, that he’s feeling it.

When the tips of his fingers slip inside, you let go.

He stills for half a breath, mouth never leaving you, and for a moment you think he might ask again, but then—you feel it. The tiniest movement. A slow, tentative curl of his fingers, careful and attentive. And then again, a little deeper, more sure.

Your body arches up, a soft, broken moan slipping from your lips.

That sound does something to him—you can feel it in the way he leans in more, how his tongue and fingers begin to find a rhythm, syncing with the rise and fall of your hips. He’s watching, even when he’s not looking. Listening, even when you can’t speak.

There’s reverence in his movements, but also a growing hunger. Like now that he’s seen what he can do to you, he wants more of it—wants all of it.

And then it hits.

When he feels it—really feels it—the way you clench around his fingers, the way your body pulses and quakes, and a groan escapes him, low and guttural. It vibrates against your core, deep and unfiltered, and the sound alone sends another jolt through you. Your hand still tangled in his hair, fingers twisting, and he responds in kind—tightening his grip around your thigh like he needs to ground himself just as much as you do.

Like a slow, rising wave that suddenly crashes—your breath catches, your back arches, toes curling tight as that first ripple of release rushes through you. It builds and breaks again, and again, thighs tightening around his shoulders as if your body can’t bear the intensity of it without anchoring to him. You hear yourself—soft, desperate sounds leaving your lips without permission—and he doesn’t stop. Not until the tremors begin to crest.

He rides it out with you, mouth still pressed to your skin like he’s drinking you in, letting you unravel completely beneath him.

You’re still catching your breath, body loose and trembling, when he finally slows down. His fingers still for the first time in what feels like forever, and he leans back slightly, face flushed, chest rising and falling. His lips glisten, his cheeks are pink, and his wide eyes search yours—hopeful, almost stunned.

You laugh—a breathy, wrecked kind of sound—and run a hand through your hair. “Fuck, I— I never felt it that hard, Osc.” You’re not sure your voice even sounds like yours. “That was… that was amazing.”

His whole face lights up like he’s just won something he didn’t think he could. “Really? Oh my God—really?” He sits back on his heels, grinning helplessly. “It felt so good—doing that. I’m just… I’m glad it was good for you.”

You nod, still trying to catch your breath. And then you notice—his face, painted in the evidence of what he’s just done. He looks blissed out, messy, proud. You barely have time to say anything before he glances down at his fingers—still slick—and without thinking twice, lifts them to his mouth, licking them clean.

Your eyes widen. “Oh fuck…”

He grins at your reaction, clearly pleased with himself now, and you reach for him—pulling him in until he’s draped over you, your hands moving gently over the warm, freckled expanse of his back. You kiss the curve of his shoulder and whisper, “Do you want me to do something for you too?”

He lets out a small, flustered laugh against your skin. “Uhm,” he starts, shifting his hips a little—and that’s when you see it. The small, darkened patch near his waistband. “I think you already did enough,” he says, cheeks turning crimson again. “I really… I really loved the sounds you made and when you - .... when i felt it.”

You blink—then let out a soft, incredulous breath of laughter, overwhelmed and charmed in the same breath.

“Holy shit,” you murmur, hand curling protectively around the back of his head as he nestles against you.

He hums.

The room is quiet now, save for the soft sound of your breathing, both of you still trying to come down from the intensity of what just happened. Oscar rests his head against your chest, his body warm and solid against yours. You run your fingers through his hair absentmindedly, lost in the feeling of him close to you—like it’s all finally starting to settle.

You both know what just happened, but neither of you rushes to fill the silence. Instead, you just hold each other, the weight of the moment still fresh, both of you feeling the aftershocks of the closeness you just shared.

Oscar sighs softly, his voice a little rough when he speaks. “That was… wow. I don’t even know how to say it. I’ve never felt anything like that before.”

You chuckle softly, brushing a lock of hair from his forehead. “It’s okay to be speechless. I think I might be too.”

His hand finds yours, fingers intertwining, and you squeeze gently, your voice soft as you look at him with a playful, yet sincere grin. “I can’t believe this is really the first time you’re doing this.”

Oscar meets your gaze, his cheeks flushed as he smiles. “I have a great teacher.”

Your heart skips at the sincerity in his tone. “Well, you’re a quick learner, Osc,” you tease, reaching up to gently ruffle his hair. “I think I’m impressed.”

Oscar chuckles softly, the shyness still there, but it’s mixed with a sense of quiet pride. “Guess I had a good example.”

The warmth between you doesn’t fade. It lingers, soft and steady, as you both settle into the quiet, the world outside fading away for just a while longer.

And for the first time, it feels like something more than just a shared experience. It feels like connection. Like the beginning of something deeper.

Oscar squeezes your hand, pulling you a little closer. “Can we… just stay like this for a bit?”

“Of course,” you whisper, your heart a little lighter than it was before.

And in the comfort of the quiet, you both drift into a peaceful silence—knowing there’s more ahead, but for now, content just being here.

PREVIOUS PART - NEXT PART

[mattsundaes]

IS IT CASUAL NOW?

issei matsukawa x f!reader

Casually asking your werewolf roommate to put his scent on you to ward off creeps is...well. It's platonic, until it's not.

wc: 2k tags: 18+ only, werewolf!matsukawa, roommates to lovers speed run, dry humping, mattsun's big dick, werewolf scenting -> 2k event

“Matsukawa.”

Your roommate looks up from where he’s idly scrolling through his phone on the couch, eyes widening a fraction once he sees your outfit. 

Self-consciously, you tug at the hem of the short dress, steeling yourself to ask the question that’s been idling in your mind all afternoon. “I’m supposed to be going to The Black Crow tonight for my friend’s birthday—”

“My condolences,” he cuts in, face blanching slightly as he puts his phone down on the coffee table. 

Sighing, you nod. “Yeah, it wasn’t my first pick either. But anyway, I kind of wanted to ask you for a favor.”

He winces. “Please don’t tell me your friend is still trying to get you to hook her up with me.”

It’s embarrassing how relieved you were when he shot that down months ago—not that you’d ever tell him that. 

You shake your head, snorting. “No, definitely not. I just…I want to have a good time without having to deal with the weirdos that always hang around there. And one of the girls in my lit class the other day was talking about how nice it is to have a were boyfriend, because she’s always scented when she goes out now. Nobody bothers her.”

Matsukawa waits patiently for you to continue.

“SoIwasmaybewonderingifyou’dscentmebeforeIleave.”

He blinks.

“As a friend,” you add, for good measure, to punctuate your mortifying word vomit. 

He blinks again, lips parting.

Heart pounding with embarrassment, you turn on your heel and squeak out, “God, I knew that was going to be weird. Forget I said anything please and thanks. Bye!”

“Wait.”

You’re stopped by a hand loosely wrapping its way around your wrist, Matsukawa leaning forward off of the couch cushions. 

Soul three-quarters into its journey of leaving your body, you slowly turn to face him once more.

“I don’t mind. I just want to make sure you know what you’re asking for.” 

There’s something slightly odd that wavers in his voice when he says it, his throat bobbing as he swallows. 

“You just have to like, hold me for a little bit, right?”

He looks up at the ceiling before returning his gaze to you. “Yeah, uh. It’s not that. You’re a human, so it might not affect you in the same way. But it’s…scenting is very intimate for my kind. I don’t want to make you uncomfortable, if it ends up being too much.”

Crossing your arms, you furrow your brow. “We’ve been friends for like, eight years, Mattsun. We’ve hugged plenty of times. I’ll be fine.”

Scratching the back of his head, he nods, gesturing for you to come and sit next to him on the couch. “Just tell me if you want me to stop, okay?”

He puts an arm around you, his skin warm against your bare shoulders. Your heart knocks against your ribcage at his proximity, as it always has, but that’s a secret you’ll keep firmly locked behind your teeth. You asked Matsukawa to do this because you trust him, nothing more. 

Slowly, gentle notes of pine begin to settle over you, drifting and settling like delicate needles atop freshly fallen snow. 

It’s subtle, but something inside of you stirs all the same, rising like dust motes in a cracked window’s breeze.

Your skin prickles.

Your toes curl. 

Matsukawa leans in, his nose pressed to the side of your neck, and like a carefully twisting dial, the smell is amplified. A sweet, herbal scent dances across your nostrils, tickling the back of your throat—lavender. A field of purple flowers sways delicately in the wind, and you feel warm all over.

Your tongue rests heavily in your mouth.

“Is this okay?” he asks, lips moving against your neck as he speaks.

Your ribcage shudders beneath the weight of what’s blooming behind it, a trellis for the edges of your fragile heartstrings. 

You nod.

Matsukawa inhales and begins to drag his nose down the side of your neck, the day-old stubble on his cheeks tickling your skin as he rubs his face against it.

Lemon. The clean scent of lemon trickles in, buried beneath the pine and lavender. You want to tip your head back and part your lips, feel drops of sour juice sink onto your tongue. 

(You want Matsukawa to grasp your chin, to slip his thumb into your mouth and hold your tongue there as you inhale—)

Your fingers dig into the couch cushions.

You swallow. 

Matsukawa’s wavy black hair is soft against your face as he moves to the base of your throat. And it’s funny, because you know the eucalyptus scent of his shampoo like the back of your hand, can picture the brown bottle where it sits nestled between your shaving cream and body wash.

But right now, while you specifically remember the sight of his dripping wet hair this morning when he walked into the kitchen after showering, right now—

You can’t smell it at all.

Not over the all-consuming scents that permeate you from head to toe. 

“Oh,” you gasp, unable to hold back the noise that slips out of you, gut churning at the sensation as his lips skirt your collarbone.

He pauses, slowly going to pull away, and before you can think better of it, you thread your fingers in his hair.

“No, no,” you exhale, a little dazed. “It’s fine, it’s…keep going.”

He’s still for a moment.

“Please,” you add.

Matsukawa breathes out, his breath hot and damp against your sternum, and you roll your shoulders.

Pine and lavender and lemon and heat—

“I should move to your other side to get the rest—”

You shift, not waiting for him to finish his sentence as you start to throw a leg over his lap, your body acting before your mind can fully contemplate the action. Matsukawa grunts, and the room sways as strong hands grip your waist, pulling you fully into his lap in one swift movement. Your dress is rucked up enough to allow your thighs to spread wide, and you try not to think about the way your panties are now on clear display. 

Forehead falling against his, you’re both quiet, save for the sounds of your breathing.

“Okay?” he asks, voice a little rough.

“Yeah.”

Matsukawa leans back in, bringing his face to the other side of your neck that he’s yet to rub his scent on. It’s more difficult to mask how affected you are by this, now that you’re straddling his lap. Your mind floats untethered in a lush forest, and you unconsciously press closer.

Something rumbles in Matsukawa’s chest, and the hand that’s still curled around your hip flexes, thumb pressing into your hipbone. His free hand slides up to the back of your neck, fingers slipping through the hair at your nape. 

Lush lavender interspersed with pine needles.

Matsukawa’s face strays a haphazard path as he scents his way across all of the exposed skin he can reach, his breathing going a bit ragged. 

Lemons and tall trees and a soft forest floor.

You tilt your head to the side, and he buries his face in the tender juncture between your shoulder and neck.

“Matsukawa,” you exhale. 

Matsukawa shifts, and teeth graze your skin.

You’re on the verge of combusting. 

“Issei, please.”

It was an accident, the slip of his name. But Matsukawa just shudders beneath you, one hand cupping the side of your face. “I can stop, if you want.”

He misunderstood.

And you’ve slipped so deeply into the cradle of his lap, his erection now lies flush against your cotton panties.

“No,” you whisper. “No, I don’t want you to stop.”

“Why?” he rasps. 

Your lips move of their own volition, “It feels so good.”

He growls, but the sound is somehow soft. It goes right to the simmering heat between your legs all the same. “Yeah?”

You nod, inhaling slowly as you run a hand over your sternum, body arching into his. 

“Then enjoy it,” he murmurs, both hands now on your hips.

He breathes hot and heavy against your shoulder, and you card your fingers through his black hair. Giving in to the urge, you tug, just a little. Just hard enough for him to—

“Hah—” he exhales, tongue sliding in a firm, broad stroke over the low neckline of your dress, skirting the swell of your breasts. 

Matsukawa rocks his hips upward, fingers pressing into your skin, and you gasp at the friction of his hard cock against your swollen clit. You belatedly realize just how wet your panties are, the material now soaked through with sticky arousal as it clings to your sopping folds. 

“You have no idea,” he grounds out. “How good you smell.”

“Me?” you ask, breathless. You thought scents were strictly a werewolf thing. 

He nods, dragging his nose from the hollow of your throat to the sensitive spot behind your earlobe. “Humans can't smell themselves, but wolves can.”

He inhales deeply.

“Salt water and oranges,” he groans.

Your chest flutters at this new information, and he nips at your earlobe.

“But when you’re—” He groans, rocking his cock against your clothed cunt again. “When you’re like this…”

In any other situation, you might be mortified over what he’s implying. But right now, all you can do is whimper as he places a hot, open-mouthed kiss over the corner of your jaw and tells you how you smell when you’re aroused with a gravel-rough voice that will fucking haunt you until you die, probably. 

“It gets sweeter…like a peach,” Matsukawa murmurs. “Drives me fuckin’ crazy.”

Oh.

Your cunt aches as you dry hump his erection, mouth watering at the sheer length of it. When you look down, the back of your neck heats up as you see the dark stain on his gray sweatpants, your slick arousal having soaked clear through your underwear.

He must see you looking, because one of his hands slides to the small of your back to urge you to keep going as he murmurs, “I don’t mind.”

You gasp when he presses up into you harder, and the zap of pleasure that ricochets in your chest and settles in your gut leaves you dizzy with need. Shiny precum pools on his abdomen, the head of his cock flushed red as it pokes out from the waistband of his pants. 

“Issei, can you—” your chest heaves as you try to get the words out. “Will you ki—”

Matsukawa doesn’t let you finish, one large hand cupping the back of your head as he brings his mouth crashing into yours. He swallows down your gasp of surprise, the moan of pleasure that leaves you at the feeling of his plush lips slotted against your own. 

His stubble caresses your chin as his tongue skirts the seam of your mouth, beckoning your lips to part. Matsukawa deepens the kiss, his other hand wholly palming your ass while you drag yourself up and down his length. It’s possessive, the way he’s touching you now. Your entire body shudders and trembles with pleasure, your raw nerves alight as your composure slips with each thrust.

Pine and lavender and lemon and Issei, Issei, Issei—

You don’t realize you’re crying out his name until you feel him cup your face and start to murmur your own, his pupils blown wide with lust as he watches you come in his lap. 

When you can finally breathe again, you look down to find thick ropes of cum all over his t-shirt as he tugs up the waistband of his pants to cover his spent cock. 

Pine.

Lavender.

Lemon.

Issei.

He blinks a few times, dragging a hand through his hair before he stares at you, dazed.

Your phone vibrates on the coffee table, and there’s a banging noise at the front door, followed by the distant shout of one of your friends yelling, “Let’s paaaaaarty!”

But what the fuck just happened—

You glance between the door and Matsukawa, and he gives you a lopsided smile. “Go.”

Sighing, you start to pull yourself out of his lap, but a firm grip on your hip stops you. Matsukawa takes your chin between his thumb and pointer finger, pressing a soft kiss to your lips before he adds, “We’ll talk about this later.”