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societyfolklore · 3 months ago

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We Couldn’t Stop

Title: We Couldn’t Stop Pairing: Bucky Barnes x Female Reader x Steve Rogers

Summary: During a sweep of a forgotten HYDRA lab, you, Steve, and Bucky trigger an old aerosol dispersal system. No one realizes what hit you until it’s too late. Now stuck in quarantine- burning, aching, and caged in with two dominant, unraveling super soldiers- you’re forced to ride out the drug’s effects together.

Word Count: 7k

Warnings: / Explicit Content /18+, Minors DNI, Sex Pollen / Drugged Lust, Threesome MFM, Dubious Consent (due to drug influence), Double Penetration, Oral (F & M receiving), Praise Kink, Rough Sex/Overstimulationm Fingering, anal ply, cum play, Competitive Doms

A/N: my entry for @avengers-assemble-bingo for April Kinky Bingo Square: A3- Threesome Card Number: KB003

The mission was supposed to be a simple sweep- an old HYDRA lab buried deep beneath the forest floor, long abandoned, just a routine retrieval run for leftover tech and encrypted files that could pose a threat if they fell into the wrong hands. You, Steve, and Bucky had done that sort of thing more times than you could count. Clear the rooms, grab the drives, secure any volatile tech, and call for extraction. In and out. Easy.

You should’ve known better the moment you stepped inside. The facility was too quiet, too intact. Dust settled thick on the floors, but the lights still flickered dimly overhead, and the security systems were half-alive, humming low like they were waiting.

You were the one who found the sealed door- reinforced, heavily protected, and drawing power. It was locked down tight, tucked at the end of a corridor where the flickering lights didn’t quite reach. You called the others over.

"You think it’s storage?" Bucky asked, frowning at the biometric pad.

"Locked and powered," you muttered. "Could be data. Or maybe just a lab they forgot to scrub."

"Let's not poke the bear," Steve said, but he stepped up beside you anyway, scanning the door. "Looks like it's sealed for a reason."

That should've been the moment you backed off. But your fingers were already dancing over the keypad, overriding the old security system. The panel blinked. Clicked.

"I’ve almost got- "

The door hissed. Not wide- barely a few inches.

A soft spray hit you all in the face.

It came fast. Silent. A puff of pressurized mist like compressed air, followed by the faintest scent- ozone, chemical sweetness, almost floral.

You stumbled back, coughing once.

"What the hell was that?" Bucky barked, wiping his face with his sleeve.

Steve grabbed your arm, pulling you away from the door. "You okay? Did you breathe it in?"

"Yeah, but- I don’t feel anything."

"We’re all covered in it," Bucky snapped, glaring at the faint sheen settling over Steve’s shoulders. "Fucking hell."

"Close it," Steve ordered.

Bucky slammed the door shut, sealing it again with a growl. "Old security measure. Shit."

"We’ll report it," Steve said, but his jaw was clenched.

The spray clung to your skin. Sweet. Heavy. And whatever it was, it was in all three of you now.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

By the time the jet touched down back at the compound, you were already flushed and aching, your heart thudding too fast in your chest. Whatever had come out of that door- it clung to your skin, settled in your lungs, and made everything inside you feel off. You weren’t the only one affected. Bucky was pacing the perimeter of the quinjet like a caged animal. Steve hadn’t spoken for the last twenty minutes, but his white-knuckled grip on the back of a seat said everything.

You’d hoped the decontamination shower would be the end of it. But blood was still taken. Swabs run over your skin. Scans. More questions. Until finally, they left the three of you in the quarantine room- one sterile space, no outside contact, and cameras in every corner.

You wanted to apologize. This had been your mistake. But Bucky’s expression was pure storm as he continued to pace like a tiger in a zoo. Steve’s face was unreadable- steely, distant, controlled. So you kept your mouth shut and tried not to scratch at your skin like you desperately wanted.

Soft static crackled, and then Tony’s voice filled the room over the speaker. "It’s biochemical bonding serum," he said. "Looks like it's engineered to push subjects into a state of hyperarousal and submission, designed to override inhibition and drive instinctual behaviors."

Your stomach dropped. What kind of mess had you landed yourself in?

"How long?" Bucky snapped, voice sharp.

"We'll have to check back on the decay and metabolic rate, and we- "

"What Bruce means is- we don't know," Tony cut in. "For you guys, it might be a matter of hours. Little Miss Curiosity might be stuck with it in her system a little longer."

You flinched and shied away from the speaker, burying your face in your hands.

"We're working on it, don't stress. It shouldn't kill you," Tony added casually.

"Big fucking whoop," Bucky growled, pressing a fist into the wall. Steve shot him a look of disproval.

"Buck.." His tone warning.

"Just, try and stay calm, guys," Bruce said, trying to sound optimistic. "It'll be alright."

"Don’t make a mess," Tony said, his voice laced with sarcasm. "We’ll keep you posted."

And just like that, you were cut off again. Biochemical- engineered arousal.

"Well, you heard him," Steve sighed, leaning back against the wall, scrubbing a hand over his face. "We just have to keep our heads. It can’t last forever."

That was easy for him to say. Both Steve and Bucky had super soldier serum in their veins- enhanced bodies that could regulate, adapt, maybe even resist. You… you were human. And you could already feel your body reacting in ways that made your skin itch and your blood feel like it was boiling.

You didn't say anything. Just shifted your weight, trying not to squirm. The heat beneath your skin pulsed steadily now, like it was alive.

"This is fucked," Bucky muttered, pacing again. "They just dumped us in here like we’re some kind of experiment."

"They’re doing what they can," Steve said, tone calm but tight. "We don’t know enough yet. Getting worked up won’t help."

"Worked up?" Bucky turned on him, eyes flashing. "You don’t feel that?"

Steve’s jaw flexed. "Of course I feel it."

"Then quit acting like you don’t."

You glanced between them, heart racing. The tension in the room was building again, only this time it wasn’t from anger- it was something heavier. Thicker. Clinging to the air like smoke.

And under it all, that hum beneath your skin only grew louder.

Hours had passed.

You'd started pacing a little while ago, unable to sit still. Movement helped. Not much- but it was something. You were going through the water they'd left in the room like you were dying of thirst. You were hot, sticky, your tank damp and clinging to your body, and you were doing everything you could to ignore the throbbing pulse between your legs.

You kept moving. Pacing. Trying to shake it off.

Steve watched from the far cot, jaw tight. His shirt was damp, his breath shallow, but he was sitting like he was trying to pretend everything was normal.

Bucky was pacing again, eyes locked on you more often than not, his jaw clenched so tight it looked like it might crack. “She smells different,” he muttered. “Fuck.”

His words made the hairs on the back of your neck stand up. The rough, raw sound of his voice made your head twitch like it was a physical thing pulling at you.

"Gonna try and sleep," you muttered, not looking at either of them.

Maybe you'd be able to sleep through the worst of it. Maybe if you were lucky, your body would calm down. You slipped behind the thin curtain, stepping into the tiny corner of privacy around your cot. Laying down, the heat of your body only seemed to intensify. Your skin felt suffocated, and with a frustrated sigh, you peeled your tank top over your head, leaving you in just your bra, hoping the exposure would help you breathe easier.

It didn’t.

You curled onto your side, arms around your stomach, thighs pressed tight together. The ache between your legs was a constant, heavy throb now. Maybe… maybe you could just handle your own needs. Just enough to take the edge off. Anything to ease the ache.

Your hands trembled as you pulled the thin blanket around you and lay on the cot. There was a small curtain for privacy, but it did nothing to muffle the sounds when your fingers slipped beneath your waistband.

You tried to be quiet. Tried to hold your breath. But your body was on fire, and even the gentlest brush of your fingers sent you bucking.

A whimper escaped, broken and desperate.

And then you heard it- Steve’s voice. Low. Strained.

“Don’t- don’t do that.”

You froze. “I- I can’t- ”

Still, you didn’t stop. You rubbed faster, then slower, your fingers diving inside of you, pressing deeper, trying every angle- but nothing worked. Every shift of your hand sent sparks across your nerves, your breath hitching with each pulse of pressure, but the fire wouldn’t break. Your legs trembled, your toes curled, but it all stayed out of reach.

You changed angles, tried circling your clit with trembling fingers while your other hand held onto the edge of the cot like it could ground you. You rocked your hips up, whispered pleas into the dark, but it wasn’t enough. Not even close. You needed more- needed them- but all you had were your own shaking hands and the unbearable ache growing between your legs.

Your breath hitched again as frustration bloomed hot and frantic in your chest. You were soaking, your thighs slick, the air sticky with the scent of your arousal. Your skin was flushed and clammy, your body locked in this endless loop of need- and yet you still couldn’t fall over that edge. Not like this. Not alone.

"You gonna keep pretending you don’t want her?" Bucky asked, voice low and rough, growling on the other side of the curtain.

Steve didn’t move at first, but his voice followed, strained. "I can smell her arousal from here, Buck. You think I’m not affected?"

"She’s whimpering, Steve. Sounds like music to me."

"We’re not doing this. We can’t- "

"Fuck this. She needs someone."

"Don’t you fucking touch her," Steve snapped.

"Then you do something," Bucky fired back.

Silence followed. You pressed your fingers deeper, hips rocking, but it wasn’t working. You were going to explode- your body was wound so tight it hurt.

Your fingers weren’t enough. You begged, voice cracking, desperate and broken.

"Please... please someone- "

Someone pulled the curtain back. Bucky’s eyes were dark. Blown wide. He didn’t speak. It hurt. “I can’t…” you whimpered, barely able to speak. “It’s not working…”

Your hips shifted again instinctively, your fingers still caught between your thighs, but the tension was unbearable. You were so wet, so swollen with need, it was maddening- and yet release stayed just out of reach. Your body craved more than your own touch could give.

They both appeared, stepping past the curtain without a word. You could see it in their faces- this was affecting them just as much. Steve’s eyes were dark, jaw clenched. Bucky looked wrecked, barely human with how sharp and hungry his expression had become.

You writhed again on the cot, body shaking, and Steve moved first- his weight shifting over you as he pressed your shoulders down into the mattress with steady, unyielding hands.

"Stay still," he said, voice gravel-thick.

At the same time, Bucky grabbed your wrist and gently pulled your hand away from you.

You whined, hips arched up, as Bucky’s gaze dropped to your slick fingers. He looked transfixed. Obsessed. His mouth parted before he dragged his tongue along your digits, groaning low in his chest at the taste.

Then- without breaking eye contact- he brought your hand to Steve.

"Tell me again we shouldn’t do this," Bucky said, voice rough and knowing.

Steve hesitated, staring at your hand, your eyes, then your body.

"...Steve?" you pleaded, chest heaving. A bead of sweat slid down your ribs, slicking your skin as the heat inside you pulsed like a second heartbeat. "Help... please."

Steve’s jaw flexed. His eyes raked over your flushed, trembling body, lingering where your bra had ridden up from the way you were squirming, the curve of your thighs glistening in the low light.

Bucky didn’t speak. He just stood there beside him, wild-eyed and rigid, chest rising and falling with short, shallow breaths. The scent of you filled the air. Thick. Sweet. Desperate.

Steve exhaled through his nose, heavy and slow like he was trying to exhale restraint. It didn’t work.

"You’re going to regret begging so pretty, sweetheart," he murmured, finally moving closer, the promise behind his words like thunder rolling through your veins.

~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~#~

They were both on you.

You didn’t know who moved first- Steve’s hand slid up your thigh, firm and sure, while Bucky’s mouth was suddenly at your neck, teeth grazing the sensitive skin just below your ear. The tension shattered. Clothing came off in frantic tugs- your joggers peeled away, your bra unclasped and discarded. Steve’s tank was tossed aside. Bucky’s sweats hit the floor with a low rustle.

Heat and skin and breath surrounded you. Their bodies pressed in, solid and hot and overwhelming. Steve's chest pinned you down as he kissed you- hard and consuming- his tongue sliding against yours as he groaned into your mouth. His hands cupped your jaw, fingers splayed, tilting your head how he wanted it.

Bucky moved lower, lips trailing down your throat, teeth scraping along your collarbone. His hands gripped your hips, dragging you down the cot toward him with a roughness that made you moan. He kissed your stomach, your ribs, your inner thighs, worshipping each inch like it belonged to him.

You gasped, arching into the touch of both of them. Their mouths- wet and demanding. Their bodies- slick with sweat, grinding against you like they couldn't get close enough.

You'd all held out for so long. Now there was nothing but the letting go.

Every nerve ending in your body sparked like live wires with every touch- every graze of skin against skin sent jolts of unbearable sensation through you. It was impossible to stay still. Your limbs twitched, your hips rocked, your breath came in short, gasping pulls as your body tried to process too much, too fast.

“Don’t move,” Steve growled, voice rough but laced with something gentler beneath. “Too sensitive? No. You’re just not used to being handled right.”

Bucky pushed your legs open wider, guiding your knees apart until your calves hung off the edge of the cot, completely exposed, completely theirs. “She’s soaking,” Bucky breathed. “Fucking hell- she’s dripping down her thighs.” The cool air kissed your slick folds and made you shiver. Then his hand slid between your thighs again, and fingers plunged into you- two, maybe three. You didn’t even know whose they were anymore.

Steve’s mouth found your chest, teeth grazing over the top curve of your breast before his lips closed around your nipple. You sobbed, your body already arching upward from the overload.

The blonde growled against your skin, one hand gripping your jaw while the other tangled in your hair, yanking your head back just enough to bow your spine upward. You gasped, helpless, writhing between them, your body trembling from overstimulation.

“You’re taking it so well,” Steve murmured, voice low and rough. “Just like that. Good girl.”

“Look at her,” Bucky snarled. “That’s it, sweetheart- ride my hand. Come on. Take what you need.”

His fingers worked deep inside you, curling and thrusting, hitting that spot that made your legs twitch and your hips lift off the cot. His palm pressed against your clit with every motion, grinding you into the edge of bliss, holding you there with cruel precision. You could feel everything. Every ridge of his knuckles, every flex of his wrist. It was too much and not enough all at once.

You whimpered, your hands scrambling against the sheets, seeking something to hold onto as your body rocked with each relentless stroke. Steve bit gently at the underside of your jaw, his hand still twisted in your hair as he whispered praises that barely reached your ears over the rushing roar of need building inside you.

Steve’s mouth was on your chest again, sucking one nipple into the heat of his mouth while his hand massaged the other, groping you with a needy rhythm that only made it harder to breathe. His other hand had tangled itself in your hair again, gently tugging until your spine arched up off the cot, your body straining toward both of them.

Bucky’s metal thumb pressed into your clit, circling with just enough pressure to make your thighs jerk. Your breath hitched, head tipping back as you let out a broken moan.

"OH FUCK." you cried, fingers clawing at the side of the cot, knuckles white.

He didn’t stop. His fingers pumped into you, slick and steady, coaxing the sound out of your throat again and again. You felt like you were vibrating- nerve endings lit up with fire, each touch sparking through you like electricity.

“You hear that, punk?” Bucky’s voice dripped with ego. “That’s the sound of my fingers making her cry.” Steve shifted beside you, sitting up to watch, his eyes locked on where Bucky's fingers slid in and out of you. One of his hands moved down, low and out of sight, and you could see the tension in his jaw as he fought to keep control.

Bucky glanced back at him, grinning as he curled his fingers just right and made you cry out again.

"Look at her, Stevie," Bucky growled, his voice rough and ragged with arousal. He didn’t even look up, just watched his fingers slide in and out of you like it was the most important thing in the world. "She’s writhing just from my fingers. What happens when I put my cock in?"

"You’ll wait," Steve snapped, voice sharp, strained with barely checked control. He was flushed, jaw tight, clearly fighting the same battle Bucky was already losing.

"God, look at her," Bucky muttered again, breath coming faster. "Fuck, I want her mouth. I want every part."

You couldn’t answer. Your vision blurred. Every nerve in your body felt like it had snapped tight, vibrating with unbearable pressure.

And then it broke.

You came- hard.

Your whole body convulsed as the orgasm tore through you. Your legs kicked against the cot, arms flailing blindly for purchase. Steve had to hold you down, one hand braced across your chest, the other still tangled in your hair as your back arched and a strangled sob tore from your throat.

It didn’t end quickly. The drug made it last- your climax dragging on and on, crashing over you in waves so powerful they left you gasping, wrecked.

You felt Bucky’s fingers slow inside you, easing off just enough to let you ride it out without breaking. But they didn’t stop touching you. They didn’t let you go.

And worst of all, the haze in your head didn’t clear like you hoped it would.

You were still shaking. Still needy.

Still burning.

You were a panting mess, your skin still hot and your chest tight when one of them scooped you up and lay you out on the cool floor. The shock of it made you gasp, the chill a sudden relief against your fevered skin. You blinked your eyes open, dazed, limbs slack and breath ragged.

"You’re such a mess for us, baby," Bucky murmured, crouched above you now. His voice was low, ruined with hunger. "That sweet little body of yours wasn’t made to handle all this, was it?"

Your eyes found him- Bucky, kneeling near your face now, his cock hard and leaking, so close it blurred your thoughts. He looked feral, undone, lips parted like he was barely restraining himself.

Your tongue slipped out to lick your lips without thinking. The taste of your own sweat clung to your skin, but all you could focus on was him. The way his chest rose and fell, the way his fist clenched at his thigh.

Your mind narrowed to a single point of clarity.

You wanted him in your mouth.

You leaned forward slowly, licking the bead of precum off his tip before taking him in fully- hungry, needy, your lips stretching around the thick, velvet length of him. Bucky’s breath stuttered, and he let out a ragged groan as your mouth sealed around him.

“Fuck, that’s it,” he gasped, one hand flying to your hair, not to guide but to anchor himself. “So fucking pretty like this- taking me so deep. Look at those lips- look at that mouth.”

You moaned around him, the vibrations making him hiss. He was hot, heavy, pulsing against your tongue, and you hollowed your cheeks to take him deeper, until your nose pressed against the base and he swore low under his breath.

“Messy little mouth,” Bucky panted. “So eager. You needed this, didn’t you? Needed something to suck while we ruin the rest of you.”

You were lost in it- the taste of him, the heat, the way he twitched when your tongue flicked just right. Spit gathered at the corners of your mouth as you worked him with sloppy desperation, gagging slightly as you bobbed your head in a steady rhythm.

Just then, you felt Steve’s hands at your hips, steady and sure. He shifted your lower body, pulling your legs open and up until you were spread out for him on the floor.

“You liked Buck's fingers? Let’s see how you do on my cock,” Steve growled against your ear, his voice dark and thick with restraint.

You gasped around Bucky’s cock, the moan caught in your throat turning into a garbled sound of pleasure as Steve aligned himself behind you. His fingers dug into your thighs, holding you wide as his tip pressed against your entrance- already slick, fluttering, aching.

He pushed in slow, filling you inch by inch, and every nerve inside you lit up in electric spasms. Your muscles fluttered around him, clenching and pulsing as he stretched you open, the thick drag of him stealing your breath.

The pressure, the fullness, the stretch- it was overwhelming. You sobbed around Bucky, the vibration of your moan making him groan above you, his hips twitching as he fought not to thrust.

Steve bottomed out with a hiss, his hands gripping tighter like he needed the anchor. Inside you, he throbbed, deep and perfect. You felt stretched to the edge of your limits, your inner walls fluttering in frantic spasms around him, struggling to adjust and clench all at once. Your body didn’t know what to do- pull him in deeper or push him out.

It was too much. It was everything. Your head was spinning.

They started to move- slow at first. Steve dragging back only to sink in again, deliberate, controlled, while Bucky’s cock bumped the back of your throat as he rocked forward with a groan. You gagged, whined, clung to them both with your mouth and body.

You were stuck in it now. The lust. The drug. The heat. There was no thought left, only sensation. Only how it felt to be stretched open in two directions, trembling and gasping.

They didn’t talk to you anymore. They talked about you.

“She’s so sensitive,” Bucky growled. “Poor thing doesn’t know what to do with herself.”

Steve grunted, his pace picking up. “Tight as hell. She’s pulsing like she doesn’t know whether she wants to come or cry.”

You tried to moan but it came out a broken, garbled sound around Bucky’s cock. Your tongue dragged along the underside of him as he pushed deeper, your throat fluttering as you swallowed around the stretch. Spit dripped from the corners of your mouth, tears tracking down your cheeks, but you didn’t stop. You couldn’t.

Bucky’s hand tightened at the back of your head, not forcing, just holding you there, gazing down into your wet, dazed eyes. “That’s it, baby,” he groaned. “Fuck, look at you drooling all over me. You love it, don’t you?”

Your hips rocked back into Steve without meaning to as he thrust forward again, harder this time, grinding deep. Your nerves fired like sparks, the friction of his cock dragging against hypersensitive flesh sending bursts of pressure low in your belly. Your insides coiled, pleasure building with every thick, deliberate thrust, your body wound so tight it felt like you might snap apart.

“You’re doing so well for us,” Steve grunted, leaning down, his mouth hot at your ear. “Such a good girl, letting us use you like this.”

He hooked one of your legs over his shoulder, changing the angle, driving in deeper. The stretch made you cry out around Bucky’s cock, throat flexing as your moan turned to a sob.

"That's it," Steve growled, pace quickening. "Fuck, so fucking wet and warm... you gonna cum, sweetheart? Gotta feel you squeeze me while you swallow Bucky."

Your body arched, heat crashing through your spine as Steve hit that perfect spot again and again, each thrust sending a jolt through your core. Your throat tightened around Bucky's cock, the vibration of your desperate moans making him curse under his breath.

“Fuck- she’s so close,” Steve panted, driving harder. “You feel that? She’s fucking pulsing.”

You sobbed around Bucky, tears streaking your cheeks, the pressure in your belly a coil tightening with no escape.

“She’s gonna lose it,” Bucky panted, watching the way you writhed. “Look at how she’s trembling. She needs cock.”

And then it snapped.

Your climax hit like a bolt of lightning, seizing your body with white-hot tension as your inner walls clamped down around Steve’s cock. You wailed around Bucky’s length, the cry vibrating through him as he let out a guttural groan.

“Fuck, that mouth- ” Bucky growled, watching your teary eyes roll back. “I’m gonna- shit- ”

He spilled down your throat with a grunt, his cock twitching between your lips, his hand holding you steady as you swallowed every drop of him while he pulsed.

The clenching spasms of your climax milked Steve mercilessly, dragging his own orgasm from him with a ragged curse. He slammed in deep, staying buried as he came hard, filling you with warmth that only made the pleasure burn hotter.

“Take it,” he groaned, his breath broken against your shoulder. “Take it all. Good fucking girl.”

Bucky sat back on his heels, pulling himself from your mouth with a wet pop, still hard, his cock glistening with your spit. “"Fuck... you’re unreal..." he panted, shaking his head like he couldn’t believe what he was seeing..pupils blown as he looked down at you.

Steve finally pulled out with a groan, the loss of him sudden and jarring, making you whimper. His cum followed, warm and slick as it dripped from your stretched pussy, pooling between your thighs.

His gaze dropped between your legs, transfixed. His eyes went heavy-lidded as he watched it leak from you, dripping down to your slick, twitching rim. Slowly, his fingers moved to your core, smearing the mess down lower, spreading it deliberately to your other entrance.

You gasped, twitching from aftershocks, your body still sensitive everywhere. His fingertip teased your tight hole, rubbing softly, slicking it with a practiced ease. You whimpered, already overwhelmed, but the moan that spilled from you was pure need.

“Damn, Stevie- you didn’t fuck her right if she’s still aching like this,” Bucky drawled, voice hoarse and edged with a smirk, watching the way your hips shifted restlessly on the floor.

You whimpered, the heat still rolling inside you, every nerve ending alive and twitching. The aftershocks made your muscles flutter, your body too sensitive and still so hungry. Steve didn’t bite back. He was too focused- his fingers slick with his own cum as he spread it lower, smearing it over your pussy and then circling your tight, twitching rim.

And then one thick finger pressed inward.

You gasped, whole body jolting, a broken sound catching in your throat as your body tried to clamp down instinctively. But Steve worked slowly, steadily, easing the finger deeper, the stretch sharp and slow as he began to work you open.

You felt your core clench around nothing as Steve worked his finger deeper. “I need- please, I need more, I can’t- ” you gasped, voice trembling. Your head was a mess, fogged with lust and the aftershocks still sparking under your skin. Steve kept up the slow pump of his finger, pushing in deeper, working more of his cum into your ass to keep you slick and open.

“Hear that, Steve?” Bucky said, voice thick with amusement, already fisting his own cock in lazy, slow strokes. “She wants more.”

Steve’s gaze didn’t waver, his finger sinking deeper, curling. You whimpered again.

“Can’t say no, can we?” Bucky added, grinning.

“Oh, I think I know exactly what our girl needs...” Steve muttered, voice thick with heat and control, as his hand disappeared between your thighs.

Steve pulled his finger from your ass just as Bucky got down onto the floor, reaching out to haul you up into his lap. Steve’s arms hooking under yours, supporting your limp, boneless body as they moved you together like you weighed nothing.

“Let’s get you on Buck now...” Steve purred near your ear, voice thick and smooth, a slow heat curling down your spine.

Bucky’s cock was already there- thick, hard, and waiting. They guided you together, Steve steadying you from behind while Bucky angled his cock to your entrance.

As Steve lowered you, your legs wrapped weakly around Bucky’s hips, and you felt the first stretch as his tip slid inside. A guttural groan ripped from Bucky’s throat, his hands tightening on your thighs.

“Fuck, baby,” he gritted out, voice rough and reverent. “You always take me so damn good. Still so fucking tight- even after Steve blew you open? Shit.”

“That’s a girl,” Steve murmured, voice low with praise. “Nice and slow... Want you to feel every inch of him, don’t you?”

You just whimpered and nodded, the need to be filled consuming, overwhelming, as the pair of them helped you sink down onto Bucky’s cock, inch by perfect inch.

Your head fell back against Steve’s shoulder as you settled fully onto Bucky, who thrust up into you with steady pressure. The heat and stretch made your whole body tremble. You could barely breathe, still twitching from your earlier climax. Then Bucky's hands gripped your hips tight.

“Oh fuck,” he hissed, hips rolling upward as he began to move you, guiding you into a rhythm. “Look at you. Still aching. Like how I feel doll?”

The moan that spilled from your mouth didn’t even sound like you anymore- wrecked, raw, and desperate.

You were unraveling under Bucky’s rhythm- the way he filled you had your mind slipping, your thoughts scattering with every deep, slow thrust, how every thrust hit deep, high inside, brushing against that spot that made you shudder. Your head lolled back onto Steve’s shoulder, eyes fluttering, lips parted around desperate little gasps.

“She bites her lip when I go deep. You see that?” Bucky said with a rough chuckle, voice wrecked but smug. “She likes my rhythm.”

You didn’t even notice the way Steve bent you forward over Bucky, hands guiding your body like you were something precious and fragile and already ruined.

You didn’t have time to think too much before you felt Bucky’s hands grip your ass, pulling you open as Steve shifted behind you. It wasn’t until the thick, spongy head of his cock pressed against somewhere you’d never let anyone touch that your eyes snapped open in surprise.

The first inch pushed into your ass slowly, carefully, but it still stole your breath.

“It’s too much- I can’t- wait- ” you gasped, voice cracking with overwhelmed panic as your body instinctively tried to jerk away.

But Bucky rocked his hips upward, pushing deep into your pussy again, and the shockwave of pleasure was enough to paralyze your resistance.

“Shh... it’s okay,” Steve murmured, arms wrapping around you from behind as he continued to press in. His voice was thick and coaxing, his control iron-tight. “I’ve got you. You’re doing so good for us.”

You sobbed, your whole body fluttering around them as Steve sank in deeper, the thin wall between your holes trembling with every inch he took. The two of them groaned in unison, voices rough and reverent as they filled you together.

You were caught between them now. Two super soldiers, all three of you lost in lust and need. Your face twisted with sensation as they held you there- one thick cock filling your pussy, the other spreading your ass open inch by inch. Both sunk to the hilt. You were impossibly full. You were shaking. Overwhelmed. Unable to process the stretch, the heat, the drag of their bodies inside you. It was too much. And you needed more.

“You’re both so… big- I’m gonna- fuck- ” you sobbed. You couldn’t believe how sensitive you’d become- how just being filled, just being stretched, could reduce you to this. You weren’t even moving, yet your body was already bracing to come undone again. There was no going back. No holding on. Just surrender.

You came without moving, the sensation of fullness alone tipping you over. Your body seized in the middle, core clenching violently, squeezing down on both of them at once as pleasure ripped through you like a lightning bolt.

Your voice cracked into a scream. You were gone- shaking, convulsing, burning from the inside out as your orgasm dragged through you with devastating force.

Both of them groaned at the way your body squeezed them- tight and hot and trembling.

“Fuck,” Bucky grunted, rocking his hips once more. “Didn’t even have to move. Just had to be inside you.”

Steve chuckled darkly, voice low and wrecked in your ear. “She’s that sensitive. That fucking perfect.”

You couldn’t even answer. Your lips parted in a silent gasp as Steve’s hands slid up to cup your breasts, thumbs brushing across your stiff nipples as he started to move again. Slowly at first, easing back before pressing forward, dragging against that thin wall with every thick stroke.

Bucky's grip returned to your hips, steady and possessive, guiding you to rise and fall on his cock. Your body jolted with every motion, your moans soft and slurred.

“That’s it,” Steve cooed, hips snapping gently. “We’ll start slow…”

“I-I can’t- ” you whimpered, but your body was already moving, driven by instinct and need.

“I know you can take more,” he murmured. “Look how beautiful you are when you come apart. It'll feel better- just gotta keep going.”

And it did. It felt better than the denial. Better than the ache that came from holding back. The pleasure rolled through you like a drug, heavy and all-consuming.

Your hips started to move again, slowly grinding into Bucky as your walls fluttered around him. You didn’t know if it was need or instinct- maybe both- but you couldn’t stop. You were cock-drunk. Barely aware of anything except how good it felt to be filled this way.

“Breathe,” Steve whispered. “Just like that. Hold it- good girl.”

Then Steve pulled your hips back into him and pressed all the way in.

“You think you’re fucking her deep?” Steve growled at Bucky, voice low and wild. “Watch this.”

Bucky shoved his hand flat to your lower stomach and lifted his hips with a brutal thrust. You cried out, the stretch making your eyes roll back as he ground up into you. It was obscene how deep he reached, how thick he felt. You pawed at his chest, clinging to him with trembling fingers.

“..fuck fuck fuck...” you gasped, the breath knocked out of you before he eased his hips again, smug and steady.

“Told ya,” Bucky muttered with a grin.

But it didn’t stop there.

Bucky answered your gasps with harder thrusts. Steve listened for his name and answered with praise. His mouth latched to your neck, nipping and licking along your skin as he squeezed your breasts roughly, molding them in his palms.

“Did you hear that one? That was mine,” Steve muttered against your skin when you gasped his name.

Bucky answered with a sharp thrust that made your breath catch. “She moaned louder for me, sweetheart. Don’t get cocky.”

Each of them was locked into the game- testing reactions, adjusting pace, trying to claim the sounds that spilled from your lips. One made you cry out, the other drew a gasp. They used your body like a live wire for their competition, and you were helpless in the storm.

“She whimpers when I kiss her right here,” he growled, biting just beneath your ear.

Bucky’s hands gripped your hips tighter, fucking up into you hard enough to rock you against Steve’s chest. “She clenched around me when you said that,” he rasped. “Bet she’s trying to pick a favourite.”

You couldn’t keep up. Couldn’t think. You only managed to gasp whatever name escaped your lips first, and they both heard it- every time. And they responded with sharper thrusts, filthier praise.

“You’re so cock-drunk, you don’t even know who’s making you come anymore, do you?” Bucky said, voice rough.

“She’s beautiful like this,” Steve murmured, licking the sweat off your throat. “All wrecked. All ours.”

Then Bucky’s metal hand slid between your thighs again. His fingers brushed your clit, the coolness of steel a shocking chill of metal against your heat made you jolt, gasping as sparks danced up your spine.

“Oh- god - fuck- ” you sobbed, trembling uncontrollably as sparks shot up your spine.

“Breathe,” Steve ordered again. “Just like that. That’s our girl.”

They started to move faster now- driving into you in sync, pistoning in perfect rhythm. The slap of skin echoed, the slick sounds of your soaked cunt and the obscene wet pressure of being filled from both ends breaking whatever was left of your mind.

“You want to make her come, punk?” Bucky growled. “You gotta fuck her harder than that.”

“Shut up, jerk,” Steve snarled, thrusting harder. “We don’t need to break her. Just ruin her a little longer.”

“She’s shaking so bad. You keep her steady, Steve- I wanna see her face when she comes again.”

Your next orgasm ripped through you with a small wail, your features contorting as your body locked up tight. You clawed at them both- gripping Steve’s forearm, Bucky’s shoulder- as your walls fluttered around their cocks, milking them, begging for more without a word.

They didn’t stop. Didn’t give you time to come down. Steve groaned, his thrusts picking up as he rolled your nipples between his fingers. Bucky cursed, gripping your hips tighter, lifting and dropping you into him with growing urgency.

You felt them both losing control- felt their restraint slipping with every second you squeezed around them, heat and slickness pouring down your thighs.

“Fuck- fuck, she’s doing it again,” Bucky grunted.

Steve’s voice was a low growl in your ear. “She wants it. She’s not done. Not till we are.”

Then the pace shifted- harder, rougher, deeper. Their moans grew louder, matched only by the slap of skin on skin. Your head spun, your vision blurred.

And then they were coming again- Steve first, pulled tight to your back, his groan muffled in your shoulder. Then Bucky, buried deep beneath you, eyes locked on yours as he spilled inside you with a strangled moan.

You collapsed between them, limp and boneless, your body a trembling wreck held up only by their hands. You didn’t even try to move. There was no fight left in you- only the slow hum of satisfaction and overstimulation. Somewhere in the haze of your mind, a flicker of disbelief passed through you- how had you endured that? How had you survived the storm of them inside you? But there was no room for shame or second thoughts. Only surrender. And the quiet, overwhelming hum of being utterly, deliciously wrecked. You were too dazed to understand what was happening at first, the haze still thick behind your eyes. The humming under your skin hadn’t stopped, but it had dulled- muted to a low thrum that echoed in your bones. They were careful, even if your overstimulated body didn’t register it that way.

You whined, squirming, as they slowly pulled out of you. The stretch reversed, the heat slipping away, leaving you empty and raw. It wasn’t pain, but your body protested the loss with soft whimpers.

Someone pressed a water bottle to your lips, coaxing you to sip. You obeyed without thought, the coolness trickling down your throat a small mercy.

Another set of hands gently wiped you down. A cold, damp cloth slid between your legs, easing away the slick mess with slow, tender strokes.

Then your head was lowered into someone’s lap. Fingers carded through your hair.

“You did so well,” Steve murmured. “Look at you- perfect.”

You blinked slowly. Steve’s voice again, closer now: “Easy, sweetheart. Just breathe. I’ve got you.”

Your limbs twitched weakly, still responding to phantom pleasure. A quiet laugh came from Bucky.

“Still twitching. Still fucking gorgeous.”

You felt him kissing up your leg, mouth trailing along your calf, your knee, your inner thigh.

Then your legs were being moved again- lifted, spread with a gentleness that contrasted starkly with the earlier frenzy. There was no rush now, no urgency- just the soft reverence of Bucky's hands as he cradled your thighs like something precious, something breakable, as though he hadn’t just wrecked you minutes ago. You blinked, barely aware, as Bucky settled himself between them, laying flat, his breath hot against your oversensitive core.

He pressed a kiss there, soft and reverent, and your whole body jolted in response.

“And I’m not done tasting her,” he muttered, voice thick with need.

“Buck- she needs to recover,” Steve warned again, but his voice had softened to something indulgent.

“I’ll be gentle…” Bucky promised, his mouth already lowering, tongue dragging slow and careful over your aching folds as your head lolled back into Steve lap, eyes fluttering closed, lost to the warmth and the wetness and the impossible pleasure building again

TAGS: @buckybarnesfic, @ruexj283, @yesiamthatwierd @trojanaurora, @hextech-bros

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rosesaints · 17 days ago

Text

most wanted man.

pairing: bucky barnes x avenger!reader summary: you’re living at the watchtower, allegedly saving the world, definitely dodging yelena's increasingly nosy questions about your whereabouts, your skincare glow, and why bucky keeps “accidentally” leaving behind shirts in your shared apartment. she hasn’t cracked it yet, but she’s circling—muttering in russian, offering suspiciously specific threats, and watching you like you’re the main character in a rom-com that she didn’t agree to binge. word count: 7.4k content warnings: 18+ mdni, fem!reader, piv, handjob (m!receiving), car sex, public sex, kind of feral bucky, sloppy make-out sesh ftw, bucky barnes whines agenda, holding your jaw, nipple play, dirty talk, praise, spanking, dom/sub undertones, soft dom!bucky towards the end, soft dom!reader in the beginning, bucky manhandles you, basically picks you up (as much as possible in a tight car), switch supremacy, riding, dirty talk, protected sex, mild brat taming, getting caught series masterlist!

The thing about living with Yelena is—well.

There’s a lot of things, actually. Too many things, some might say. Too many things that, when combined, form a singular and inescapable truth: she is the human equivalent of a raccoon raised in the Red Room and then forcibly recruited into yet another murder band with really solid branding.

For starters, she eats like she thinks the concept of refrigeration is a government conspiracy. This is not hyperbole.

This is a woman who once stored an entire tuna melt on her nightstand “for later” and then forgot about it for three days. She doesn’t snack so much as she hoards, nesting bags of chips and half-eaten protein bars in her duvet like a squirrel preparing for a nuclear winter. You’ve lost three forks, two mugs, and a perfectly good wedge of brie to her culinary black hole of a room.

She calls it “keeping morale high.” You call it biohazardous.

And then there’s the commentary.

Yelena does not go silently into any domestic routine. She narrates everything, usually in the third person, often with the aggressive flair of a Russian Gordon Ramsay who may or may not be about to burn the place down for "fun." Cooking becomes a high-stakes battle. “We chop onion. We cry. Like weaklings. Like the British.”

Even brushing her teeth becomes some kind of militant monologue: “We polish enamel. We protect gum line. We prepare for battle.”

But the worst thing about Yelena—the thing that haunts you, the thing that makes you contemplate faking your own death just to escape—is how she inserts herself into your business like she’s been hired by Valentina to audit your emotional stability.

It started small.

A lingering glance. A muttered “Hmm.” But then she started doing rounds. Like, actual patrols.

She memorized your schedule—your schedule, which even you don’t know most days—and began clocking inconsistencies like she was training to be your paranoid grandmother. Which, in fairness, she probably already was in a past life.

“You are acting suspicious,” she says one night, appearing in the kitchen doorway.

You freeze mid-sip of your tea, which you were using in a vain attempt to lower your cortisol levels. “I literally just got back from training.”

“Yes,” she says slowly, chewing thoughtfully, “but who were you training with? And why do you smell like peppermint and sandalwood? That is not your usual body wash.”

Jesus, Yelena.

You lie. You say Ava. Or maybe it was Walker.

Someone harmless. Someone whose jawline does not inspire feral decisions. But Yelena is already narrowing her eyes in a way that suggests she is not only not buying it, but has also started a folder on you labeled “Case Study: Dumb Bitch in Denial.”

To be fair—yes, you have been sneaking out a bit.

Taking the long hallway detour to Bucky’s office. Slipping into maintenance closets when the cameras flicker, like a horny teenager in an Avengers-branded adaptation of Pretty Little Liars.

And yes, maybe your skin has looked better lately. The kind of better that usually implies someone else’s hands have been on it.

And maybe you’ve been humming. Humming. You don’t hum. You barely speak. You’re emotionally constipated and have the range of a well-dressed houseplant when it comes to processing affection. But ever since you and Bucky started whatever-this-is—quiet, combustible, behind-closed-doors soft things—you’ve been glowing.

You didn’t notice until Yelena did.

“Your lips,” she says, squinting at you across the living room like a sniper. “They are… flushed.”

You blink. “I… drank tea.”

“No. No, this is not ‘tea’ lips. This is ‘makeout’ lips. This is ‘I was pressed against wall for twenty minutes’ lips.”

You nearly drop your laptop. “What—why are you analyzing my lips?”

“Your shirt is on backwards. You think I do not notice this? I am assassin. I was trained in pattern recognition before I had baby teeth.”

Your hand flies instinctively to your collar. Fuck.

“You’ve been compromised,” she says gravely. “And I will find out who it is.”

That’s the other thing about Yelena. She doesn’t let things go. She once spent two weeks trying to track down who used the last of her cinnamon oatmeal packets. The culprit turned out to be Walker. Yelena retaliated by putting a dead fish in his air vents with a note that said “Justice.”

So now, you live in constant fear. Constant awareness. You are your own personal counterintelligence operation. You wash your sheets at weird hours. You delete texts like you’re in a spy movie. You and Bucky have perfected the art of the silent nod across mission briefings, which is very romantic in theory and very suspicious in practice.

The only reason you’re not already exposed is because Bucky, in all his war-ravaged, sad-eyed glory, is a professional.

The kind who can disassemble a rifle blindfolded, lie to a senator without blinking, and apparently conceal a full-blown romantic entanglement under the very noses of four other elite operatives and one former Russian assassin who has made it her personal mission to uncover your secrets.

He calls it courting. Earnestly. Like he’s in a Jane Austen novel.

You think it’s endearing, the way he says it so casually, like it’s the most obvious thing in the world. “Yeah, I’m courting you. Why else would I be fixing the carburetor on your bike and leaving your favorite tea in the cabinet?”

Meanwhile, Yelena is convinced this is all part of some elaborate domestic conspiracy.

“He is nesting,” she told you once, tone grave, arms crossed, fully dressed in camo pajama pants and a Hello Kitty-themed crop top. “He is nesting and preening. Like a bird. A bird who has found a mate.”

You had laughed. Mistake number one.

She narrowed her eyes. “Do you think I do not recognize courtship behavior when I see it? He shined his boots last night. At two in the morning. While humming 'Dream A Little Dream of Me’ That is not normal behavior.”

To her credit, it was suspicious.

Bucky also doesn’t hum. At most, he grunts. Occasionally sighs like someone in a World War II-era cigarette ad.

But lately?

Lately, he’s been a little… brighter.

In a subtle, grumpy, “please don’t perceive me” kind of way. He drinks his coffee slower in the mornings. Keeps extra protein bars in his pocket like he’s waiting for a chance to hand you one. Walks a little too close when you’re on missions, always on your left side, like it’s muscle memory.

Once, you caught him folding your laundry—folding it—like a man with a mortgage and a dog and a Sunday morning routine that involves jazz records and quiet domestic bliss.

It’s terrifying.

You don’t bring it up.

Not when he presses your knuckles to his mouth before you head out for recon. Not when he kisses your forehead in the elevator and then stands three feet away the second the doors open, arms crossed like he’s never touched you in his life. Not even when he starts wearing cologne again—light, warm, expensive-smelling—and swears he’s just “trying something new.”

(He’s not.)

Yelena knows something is up.

But Bucky is nothing if not disciplined. He can fake normalcy like it’s his job—because it was his job, once. And when he walks into the common area like he hasn’t just kissed you breathless in the weapons bay, nobody questions a thing.

“Are you seriously accusing me of dating Bucky?” you asked.

“Your ears are pink,” she says. “Means you’re lying.”

“Maybe I’m just warm,” you snap, elbow-deep in the cabinet pretending to look for the chia seeds you both know expired six months ago and that neither of you have ever used. “Because you keep interrogating me like I’m under oath.”

Yelena leans against the counter. “You are under oath. You are New Avenger. You live in Watchtower now. Shared housing. Shared responsibilities. Shared secrets.”

“That’s not how this works,” you mutter, but it’s too late—she’s already in full spiral mode.

Her eyes narrow. “I bet he wears dog tags. That’s why you’ve been lingering by the laundry chute. Looking wistful. Like wife in war movie. You think I do not see this?”

“Jesus Christ,” you mutter, abandoning the chia seed charade entirely and grabbing the first bag of stale pretzels you can find. “You need a hobby. Like embroidery. Or ketamine.”

“You know I cannot take up embroidery,” she sniffs, folding her arms with all the judgment of a Victorian ghost. “My hands are too calloused from killing.”

“Exactly my point,” you mutter, already backing out of the kitchen before she can hit you with another round of, ‘tell me which of your t-shirts now smells like man who definitely owns a motorcycle and a deeply tragic past.’

You retreat into your room and shut the door. Not slam it—that would be dramatic, and drama invites follow-ups, which you can’t afford. Not when your nerves are already strung tighter than the drawstring of Alexei's tactical sweatpants.

You sit on your bed, cross-legged, staring at your phone like it just wronged you personally. Which, honestly, it kind of has. It holds all the receipts—literal and emotional—and you’re half a scroll away from fully self-sabotaging. Again.

Still, your fingers drift toward your messages like you’re possessed. Like there’s a magnet in your thumbs and he’s the center of gravity.

You open the chat you’ve kept pinned for weeks. James Buchanan Barnes. No emojis, no nickname. Too obvious. Too dangerous. Too soft.

You type:

hey. u busy tonight?

You watch the little dot-dot-dot bubble appear faster than you expect, like he’s already on his phone, already thinking about you. You pretend that doesn’t make your stomach flip over.

No. What’s up?

was thinking movie? maybe that vintage theatre on 8th? something loud and action-y with too many explosions?

You picking the movie now? Bold of you.I’ll come by at 7.

You smile—grin, actually—and then immediately check yourself. Because if Yelena sees the grin, she will smell the grin, and the bloodbath that follows will be entirely your fault.

But still. You can’t help it. Because Bucky doesn’t just text like he cares—he texts like he already knows where you are, where you’ll be, and he’s not just showing up, he’s choosing to.

You glance at the clock. 6:12 p.m.

You text back:

bring your hoodie. the gray one. i’m stealing it.

He replies almost instantly.

Then I’m wearing something else. Can’t have you luring me in just to rob me blind.

You stifle your laugh into your pillow.

And outside your door, Yelena says through the thin wood with terrifying calm:

“…You’re giggling.”

You fling the pillow at the door with the force of a woman being hunted for sport. “I’m watching a TikTok!”

There’s a pause.

Then: “Is TikTok man also 108 years old and emotionally stunted?”

You groan. And text Bucky again.

new plan. fake our deaths. flee the country. start a goat farm in denmark.

Sounds peaceful. Pack your things. I’ll bring snacks.

You smile again. It’s stupid. It’s so stupid.

But it’s yours. For now. For tonight. And maybe, if you’re careful—if you’re quiet—it can stay that way a little longer.

By the time 7 p.m. rolls around, you’ve changed shirts twice, scrubbed concealer off your chin three separate times because it wasn’t settling right, and snapped at Yelena for daring to suggest you “chill.” Which is rich, coming from a woman who once threw a knife at a mosquito.

“I am chill,” you’d hissed, eyes bloodshot from mascara-related rage.

Yelena had just raised a brow and calmly returned to slicing an apple in the most violent, vertical way imaginable. “If that’s what we’re calling this now, then sure. You are chill. Like freezer meat. Cold and full of tension.”

She had not blinked once during the entire sentence.

Now, you’re pacing in the lobby of the Watchtower like a 1950s housewife waiting for her sailor husband to return from sea—if said housewife was also secretly armed and contemplating the logistics of a little kiss in front of several surveillance cameras and Valentina's favorite vending machine.

The ding of the elevator saves you from your spiraling.

And there he is.

Wearing that hoodie. The gray one. The one that smells like cedarwood soap and, unfairly, his new cologne. His hair’s pulled back into a loose knot, which means you’ll be thinking about his neck for the next several days, and his hands are shoved into his pockets like he’s not sure if he’s allowed to be here or if this is all some weird fever dream conjured by too much emotional growth.

“Hey,” he says, voice low, faint smile tugging at the corners of his mouth. “Sorry I’m late. Alexei stopped me to ask if I’ve ever seen Fast & Furious. I told him I lived through World War II. That seemed to confuse him.”

You snort. Loudly. You can’t help it. He looks good. Like really good. Like you might actually explode from how good.

“I like that you wore the hoodie,” you say casually.

Bucky gives a soft, knowing huff. “You said you were gonna steal it.”

“And I will. Just not yet. That’s how crime works. It’s about the long game.”

“Ah,” he says, and steps a little closer. Just enough to make your breath hitch. “You’re playing the long con. I’ll keep my eye on you.”

You hum. “You always do.”

And that—that gets him. A flicker in his gaze, like you’ve reached into his chest and plucked a string that hasn’t been played in years.

You walk beside him, shoulder to shoulder, down the corridor toward the basement (Because of course he offered to drive you both there. Just normal courtship things.)

You glance over at him while he’s not looking, which is stupid, because he catches you doing it, and you both spend the next fifteen seconds pretending to be very, very interested in a wall.

And then, because your chest is still fluttery and your thoughts are ricocheting off each other like marbles in a tin can, you say, “This is kind of a date, huh?”

Bucky doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t smirk. Just gives you this slow, assessing look like he’s not sure you meant to say that out loud but he’s not going to let you take it back.

“Is that okay?” he asks, and God—his voice. It’s too soft for someone who once jumped off a plane with a metal arm and a death wish.

“Yeah,” you say, and then a little quieter: “I kind of hoped it was.”

He exhales, and it feels like he’s letting go of something he’s been holding for a long, long time.

By the time you arrive, the sky’s a bruised lavender and the city’s beginning to blur into itself—just warm lights and strangers and the thrill of getting to be someone normal, even just for a night.

You don’t touch in the theater, not really, but your pinkies brush once on the armrest and neither of you move away.

He keeps glancing over during the trailers. You pretend not to notice. You are failing at pretending not to notice.

About halfway through the movie—some retro explosion-fest with muscle cars and quippy dialogue—Bucky leans over and murmurs, “You ever think about what it’d be like? If things were different?”

You don’t look at him. You keep your eyes on the screen. “All the time.”

He nods. Doesn’t speak again until the credits roll.

The ride after the movie is quiet in the way that matters—no tension, no fidgeting, no pressure to fill the silence. Just the engine hum of Bucky’s ancient, well-kept vintage Chevy Caprice Classic purring down the long stretch of road skirting the edge of the river, the windows cracked enough to let the warm summer night in.

You’ve kicked off your shoes. Your bare feet are propped on the dashboard, toes catching the wind as it blows through the window. He doesn’t complain, doesn’t tease, just occasionally glances over, like the sight of you there—tired, content, glowing under the streetlights—is a detail he wants to memorize.

There’s something playing low on the radio.

The kind of music that doesn't ask to be noticed. The kind you feel in your chest before you recognize it. Some folk-rock track he said reminded him of childhood. It’s mostly soft guitar and a voice that strains a little, rough around the edges.

Like Bucky himself, in a way.

You’re half turned in your seat, knees tucked toward him now, body loose and drowsy from the movie and the soda and the way he drove out of the city like he wanted to keep the night going just a little longer. Just the two of you, headlights carving out a path in the dark.

“Didn’t think you’d actually be free,” you say eventually, voice low and soft against the static buzz of the speakers.

The city lights slip past the windows in blurs of orange and white. Bucky keeps his eyes on the road, fingers loose on the wheel, but you see it—the twitch at the corner of his mouth, the flicker of amusement he tries to smother and fails.

“Why wouldn’t I?” he asks, like it’s the simplest thing in the world.

You shrug, adjusting the seatbelt that’s pressing into your collarbone. “Yelena’s been watching me like I’m some kind of long-con puzzle box. She's been grilling me because she suspects something.”

Bucky glances over. “She always suspects something.”

“Yeah, but this is different. She keeps giving me these looks. The kind where her eyebrows do that thing—you know the thing. The judgment arch.”

“I know the thing,” He laughs under his breath, almost fond. “She interrogated me once. Full eye contact. No blinking. Had a protein bar in one hand and a knife in the other. I told her we were just friends. She said I looked guilty and walked off muttering in Russian.”

“She’s not wrong,” you murmur. “You do look guilty.”

Bucky glances at you then, briefly, and there’s something tender in it. Something quiet and unspoken that makes your breath catch.

“You ever gonna tell her?” he asks.

You shrug again, watching the way his hand rests lazily on the wheel. “I don’t know. Sometimes it feels like if I tell her, it makes it real. Like we have to explain it to the world or something. What this is.”

Bucky is quiet for a few seconds. Then, “Do you not want it to be real?”

You blink, caught off guard. “I do. I—God, Bucky, I do.”

And it comes out sharper than you mean it to. Raw. Open.

You breathe in, steadying yourself. “I just… didn’t expect it. Us.”

He nods slowly, the lights from passing lampposts dragging across his face in quiet intervals. “Me neither.”

The conversation dips again. Not into silence, but into stillness. The kind that doesn’t ask anything from either of you. You drive past a bridge lit up gold and pale blue, and Bucky takes a left without saying anything, veering off onto a side road that winds through the trees.

He doesn’t ask if it’s okay. You don’t need him to.

You know where he’s going. There’s a little overlook near the riverbank. He parked there once after a mission when you couldn’t sleep. You didn’t talk much that night—just sat on the hood of his car with his jacket slung over your shoulders, watching the ripples in the dark water and letting the space between you breathe.

That was probably when it started for you.

Not the affection. That came later. But the noticing.

You noticed the way he always offered you the front seat. Not because of some outdated gender rule, but because he liked knowing you were close, where he could see you.

You noticed how he remembered the smallest details—that you don’t like popcorn with butter, that certain elevator music makes you anxious, that you hate being touched when you’re overwhelmed but that sometimes, when things are quiet, you lean into him like you need the weight of another person just to feel solid again.

And Bucky—he noticed you back.

He noticed the way you never let anyone else carry your gear, even if you were limping. The way you took your tea, always too sweet. The way you looked at him when you thought he wasn’t looking—like you were trying to memorize him just in case.

It wasn’t some grand, cinematic romance. No slow-motion montage or chance meeting. It was familiarity that grew roots. Soft moments. Shared silence. His hand brushing your shoulder in the hallway. You handing him a granola bar mid-mission without speaking. Late nights watching reruns of old sitcoms and never talking about the fact that you’d started falling asleep on his chest.

So no, you didn’t see it coming.

But it’s here now.

And it’s real.

The car slows to a stop, gravel crunching under the tires. You’re at the overlook. Trees arch overhead like a cathedral, and the river reflects the starlight in soft ribbons of silver and blue. Bucky puts the car in park and lets the engine idle for a second, then turns it off.

Neither of you moves to get out.

You glance over at him, watching his profile in the dark. The slope of his nose, the line of his mouth. The steady breath.

“I’m scared I’ll ruin it,” you say, almost too quietly.

Bucky looks at you. Really looks at you.

“You won’t.”

“How do you know?”

“Because you haven’t yet,” he says simply. “And trust me… I’ve been waiting for someone to ruin me for a long time. If it was gonna be you, it would’ve happened by now.”

You laugh a little. Just a breath. “That’s comforting, in a weird way.”

“I can be weirdly comforting.”

“You’re also kind of weirdly beautiful in this lighting,” you murmur.

He huffs a breath. “Don’t start with me.”

“I’m serious.”

You reach out without thinking, fingertips brushing over his hand, the one still resting on the gearshift. His skin is warm. He turns his hand under yours, lets your fingers tangle.

“I don’t need a label,” you say softly. “I don’t need anything else. Just this. Just you. The way you look at me sometimes like I’m not broken.”

“You’re not.”

“Even if I am,” you whisper, “I think I’d still want to be yours.”

His thumb drags across your knuckle.

And then, so quiet it feels like a prayer, “I’m yours.”

It hits like a wave, and you lean forward before you even fully realize it. Bucky meets you halfway, his hand rising to your cheek like it’s instinct. The kiss is slow, deliberate, full of worship. He tastes like peppermint and something older, something steadier—like all the pieces of him that have survived everything.

When you pull back, he’s still holding your face.

You look at each other for a long time.

And then he exhales. “You’re dangerous.”

You smile, dizzy with it. “So are you.”

“No,” he says. “Not like this.”

You shake your head, leaning in again, resting your forehead against his.

“Let’s ruin each other super carefully, then,” you whisper.

And in the soft dark, beneath the quiet hush of river water and trees swaying in the breeze, Bucky smiles. Really smiles.

It’s a little after midnight when you finally pull into the Watchtower’s underground garage, the low hum of the engine tapering off into silence as Bucky turns the key and the lights shut down with a mechanical click. You’re both bathed in the amber glow of one overhead bulb, flickering slightly, like even the building itself knows something’s shifted.

Neither of you moves to get out.

You glance over at him.

He’s staring straight ahead, hand still resting on the steering wheel, jaw set like he’s trying very hard not to think about the way you kissed him forty minutes ago. The way you looked at him like you could see through all the years, all the damage, all the armor.

You shift in your seat, just slightly. The air inside the car feels too thick now. Like it’s trying to hold something in.

“I don’t really wanna go upstairs yet,” you say quietly.

He turns to you slowly, like he’s afraid that if he moves too fast, it’ll startle the moment away.

“No?” His voice is soft.

You shake your head. “Feels like… if I go up there, it'll just go back to being complicated.”

The corners of his mouth tug faintly. “It was already complicated.”

“Yeah,” you say. “But it was ours. Down here, in this car, it’s just… you and me.”

That gets him. He exhales—sharp, quiet—and leans back in the seat, tilting his head against the headrest. “I know this shouldn’t be happening.”

“You always say that,” you murmur, eyes tracking the shape of his throat, the slight movement as he swallows. “But you’re still here.”

He doesn’t argue.

You reach for him before you fully make the decision to, your hand slipping over his where it rests on his thigh. He doesn’t flinch. He doesn’t pull away. Just turns his palm up, lets your fingers fit between his like it’s the most natural thing in the world.

And it is. It feels terrifyingly natural.

“Do you ever wish it was simpler?" you ask.

“All the time,” he murmurs. “But then you say things like… ‘I still want to be yours,’ and suddenly I don’t care if it’s complicated. I just don’t want to stop hearing you say shit like that.”

You look up at him. “You like when I get sappy.”

“Yeah,” he says. “I like when you stop pretending you don’t feel this just as much as I do.”

You try to speak, but it catches—whatever it is you were about to say, it burns too hot and too true in your throat.

Instead, you murmur, “Can I be close to you?”

His expression softens, eyes going molten at the edges. “Thought you’d never ask.”

He shifts then, turns in his seat so he’s facing you fully, one arm draped across the back of yours. There’s a beat of silence. Just you and him and the soft buzz of the garage light.

“Come here,” he says, low and rough, and you do—you climb into his lap with the ease of someone who’s done it in a hundred dreams and only just now been given permission. His arms go around your waist like muscle memory. Your knees bracket his hips and the center of you settles onto him like a promise, and suddenly you’re aware of every inch of where your bodies meet.

You settle into his lap slowly, deliberately, like drawing out the moment might make it last longer—like you can stretch this pocket of time between responsibility and reality into something suspended. His hands find their place on your waist without hesitation, fingers splayed wide and warm through the fabric of your shirt. You feel him everywhere. Beneath you. Around you. Like gravity, and heat, and home.

He tilts his head, eyes scanning your face like he’s committing it to memory. “God, you always make it so hard to walk away.”

“Were you planning to?” you ask, raising an eyebrow.

His mouth twitches. “I thought about it. Once.”

“And?”

“And then you made that face at breakfast,” he says, mock-serious. “The one where you’re pretending to like the instant eggs Alexei made even though they taste like damp cardboard.”

You snort. “Those eggs were an act of war.”

“And you smiled at Yelena when she called Walker a fascist with a Fitbit.”

“That was funny!”

“You smiled at me right after.”

“Oh no,” you gasp, feigning scandal. “Not a smile. How dare I.”

He hums. “Yeah. That was it. I was doomed.”

You laugh softly, resting your forehead against his. “So… the smile got you. Not the fact that I once patched you up in a broom closet after you got impaled and you asked if I wanted to grab tea like we weren’t both bleeding.”

“That was charming,” he says. “I like a woman who can multitask.”

You giggle into his throat, his pulse fluttering beneath your lips.

You don’t kiss. At least, not for a minute. You just sit there, breathing the same air, his forehead pressed lightly to yours, his hands splayed wide across your back like he’s holding onto something fragile.

It’s only when his thumb brushes the curve of your spine, slow and reverent, that you lean in. The kiss is soft—tentative, almost chaste.

But then your fingers thread into the hair at the nape of his neck, and pulls, and he groans, deep in his throat, and just like that the kiss turns urgent, unsteady.

His hands slide under your shirt, not rushed, not desperate—just warm and sure, like he’s learning the shape of you by heart. And you let him, because something about the way he touches you feels safe, even here in the shadows..

When he pulls back, his breathing’s ragged, his pupils blown. He looks at you like you’re the center of something vast and unknowable.

“You—fuck. You mean everything to me.”

You press your mouth to his jaw, his throat, the corner of his mouth. “You wanna show me?"

His hand cups your face.

And your answer isn’t a word. It’s the way you lean into him. The way you kiss him, tongue tracing the seam of his mouth and then catching his bottom lip between your teeth, pulling and drawing a strangled groan from him. It's messy, it's wet, and oh—you can feel him harden up like a diamond underneath you.

He exhales, "Fuck, fuck, sweetheart."

You can feel him shift, desperately trying to get any sort of friction through his jeans, pressing against your core in the process while your mouth falls open in a silent whine. His hand that was under your shirt moves downward, cupping your ass and bringing you even closer.

"You're always so impatient," you whisper, your hands coming around to the nape of his neck and pulling softly at his hair, the way you've been dreaming of doing since he picked you up at the Watchtower lobby.

Bucky—well, he just can't have that. Smack! He slaps your ass once, softly, as a warning. "And you're a brat. You know exactly what you're doing."

You moan, low and tortured. "I do. What are you gonna do about it?"

Smack! Another one that sends you deeper into his arms, grinding against that hard tent in his pants, rolling your hips as you do so, because you're nothing if not evil.

"Not so tough, are you?"

You roll your eyes, pushing forward to kiss him again before he can say any more one-liners, savoring the way he tastes, still faintly like popcorn butter and mint and something intoxicating. An idea pops into your head.

Fingers on his jaw, looking over him while he stares at you, wide-eyed, mesmerized, hair a mess, cheeks just slightly flushed, those blue stormcloud eyes blown wide. You smile, lopsided and mischievous. "Open up, darling."

His mouth parts, and you—you let yourself drool, watching the shiny, gossamer strand fall onto his eager tongue.

"Oh god," Bucky's on fucking fire, grinning up at you all smug and satisfied and like he just can't get enough. "You taste good, baby."

You hum.

While he's busy, busy mapping more kisses along your collarbone, you take the opportunity to go down, down, down, unzipping him as quietly and quickly as you can before sneaking a hand into his boxers. You grip him, tight, relishing in the way he shudders.

"What are you doing—oh," His head falls back, and your eyes can't help but track the movement to his Adam's apple, watching him swallow and press his eyes closed.

Your hand is tiny, impossibly small compared to his, but your pace more than compensates, twisting fast and hard while thumbing at the tip. You can feel it, you can feel him, leaking and sobbing and twitching in your hands.

"Slow down, baby, I'm—" He pushes himself up, like he's trying to freeze the moment, his forehead coming to press against yours, but goddammit, you're a woman on a mission. "Fuck, get this—" he pulls at your shirt. "Get this off. Need to make my best girl feel good too."

"Just rip it off, Bucky, I'm kinda busy," Too focused at the task at hand, your hand not breaking its rhythm. "Just give me your sweatshirt after."

Bucky swears. One swift movement though, and it's off, reduced to tatters and thrown to the backseat.

His mouth is on your chest, a graze of his teeth, his breath hot and heavy and your own breath hitches. Still, you stay focused. Trying to push down the heat that's curling in your core while he gets more and more desperate, sucking on an exposed nipple.

"Bucky, my god—"

You squeeze your hand around him tighter on impulse, your thumb grazing his tip just right, and just like that, he comes onto your hand. Gushing white ropes against your skin, while he groans and growls, your name falling off his lips like a prayer.

Bucky—Bucky looks like a mess, chest heaving up and down, looking up at you like you just hung the fucking moon on the sky.

"Damn. That was—that was… wow."

You smile. "Always got the right words, this one."

He shakes his head. "Give me a minute here, I'll start waxing poetic."

His brows furrow then, the clouds over his head passing as soon as it came, then his are hands pawing at the rest of your clothes like the mere existence of them pisses him off. He pulls your pants off with your help, you giggling while he frowns, holding you up and then grabbing them clean off to be discarded in the backseat again. "Nowhere near done yet. Got no idea what's comin' to you."

A cool, metal hand hitches one of your legs closer around his waist and you sigh, breathless, straddling him perfectly. You can feel his cock under you, the way Bucky swipes the head against your cunt, already straining and hard again.

"You're so wet," Bucky remarks, like in a daze. "You been wanting this bad, huh?"

You inhale sharply, still fixated on the way he's so close, his cock rubbing against your clit now. You can't even speak—just nodding along with his words, anything to get him to move.

He laughs, low and tender and his eyes darken just a little bit more. "You got a condom, sweet girl?"

You motion to the passenger seat, where your purse laid like an afterthought. Without breaking eye contact with you, he uses a free hand to rummage through it for a second, until his lip crooks. When he finds it, his eyes shine, ripping the foil packaging with his teeth before raising an eyebrow at you.

"Can you put it on for me?"

God, yes. Of fucking course. You nod, grabbing the condom with shaking fingers until you roll it down onto him, giving it a little squeeze as you do so.

Bucky hums, an innocent and soft noice, before he slots you back where you were. "Whenever you're ready for me, sweetheart."

You take a deep breath. For courage. For strength. For the love of the fucking game.

When you finally, finally sink down on his hard length, it's like every birthday, holiday, and vacation rolled into one. It's always a tight fit, no matter how wet you are, no matter how much you think you've prepared, and it sends a rush down your spine, mouth falling open in a strangled whine. You can hear him panting, muttering, "Tight—so tight for me, always."

Your eyes flutter, until you feel your pelvis hit resistance and you're seated all the way. Deep breath out.

A moment passes, and then you start rolling your hips experimentally, just to adjust to him. Just to get used to the feeling. You groan when he twitches, grip going tighter around your waist.

"Too slow, baby, I need—need you just a little bit faster," He croons softly, begging gently even while his words are laced with something a little less innocent. "Can I help you? Can I bounce you on my cock?"

You love hi–you love it. This. You love when he gets filthy with his words, the way his accent slips out a little bit as he gets more feral, more unhinged, a swipe of his tongue against his lips like he's waiting eagerly for instructions but just can't help himself.

So instead of… unpacking all of that you nod with all the enthusiasm you can muster while slowly losing your mind.

"Yeah? Good girl."

With that, he places both hands on your ass and you take a sharp inhale. Before he moves, before he starts picking you up and fucking you vigorously.

It's rough—every fiber of your being is singing, like you're on fucking fire and Bucky's underneath you putting in the absolute work while you come apart. Your hand slams against the window, smearing the fog that's collected there.

The car's shaking violently at this point, rocking back and forth with the sheer force of his thrusts. You love when he gets like this, all his to do what he pleases with, pushing you closer and closer to the edge of what your body can handle.

He smacks your ass softly, shifting your attention solely back to him. "Eyes on me."

God. It takes everything in you to lift your head, but when you do, it's worth it. His eyes are dilated, fixed on your figure, like he's savoring this—you, on top of him, taking him for all his worth, taking exactly what he's giving you. Takes a look down to fully appreciate the view—your tits bouncing, the imprint of his hands on your waist.

That's all either of you need before his pace gets erratic, more uncontrolled, and it fucking reduces you to near tears, holding onto him for dear life as your orgasm rips into you. Nothing but the sound of his name, "B–Bucky, please, please—"

"I know, sweetheart, I know. I'm—I'm there."

He hisses and then it's another thrust, and another, and you can feel him shake, pumping the condom full until his grip relaxes, until the way he rocks inside of you slows and passes. The car grinds to a halt.

And then it's just you and him, chests panting, breathing softly.

The car is quiet for a while after that.

Both of you shift at some point—but you’re still in the passenger seat, curled in toward Bucky like he’s home, your legs draped over his lap and his fingers idly tracing up and down your thigh beneath the hem of your sweatshirt. His hoodie, actually. You’d tugged it over your head after he discarded of the condom, and now it’s swallowing you whole, soft with wear and warm with him.

The windows are fogged. The car smells faintly of sweat, your perfume, and the clean scent of Bucky’s skin, like cedar and clean linens. The dome light above flickers again, dramatic and unnecessary, like even the architecture of the Watchtower is trying to say, well, well, well.

You tilt your head, nose brushing the line of his jaw. “You okay?”

His eyes are half-lidded, heavy with the kind of quiet you only earn after baring your soul and maybe a little too much skin. He hums low in his throat, one hand still stroking your leg like he’s not ready to let go just yet. “Yeah. Think I’m better than okay.”

You grin, lips curving against his neck. “Yeah?”

“Yeah,” he says, then pauses. “Except for the part where I might’ve pulled something in my shoulder trying to fit six feet of me into this damn seat like I’m not built like a military-grade bookshelf.”

You laugh into his chest. “You’re not even that tall.”

“I am, actually.”

“You’re emotionally tall.”

“That feels like slander.”

There’s a pause, the kind that feels like a comma, not a period. Just breathing and the slight shift of his hand under your shirt, splayed warm and protective over your stomach like he’s grounding himself there.

And then, gently: “You sure we didn’t just make everything more complicated?”

You consider this, eyes tracing the condensation on the windshield. “Probably.”

“Wanna do it again anyway?”

You grin, teeth catching your bottom lip. “Absolutely.”

He exhales, amused, and presses a kiss to your temple. “You’re a menace.”

“That’s rich, coming from the guy who—”

But you don’t get to finish, because—

Tap. Tap. Tap.

Your soul leaves your body.

It’s not the polite kind of tap, either. It’s the I-know-what-you-did-and-I-am-disgusted kind of tap. The tap of someone who has seen things and is about to make it your problem.

You and Bucky both snap toward the driver-side window at the same time.

And there, crouched on top of a different car, nose practically pressed to the glass, is Yelena.

Yelena Belova, in full tactical pajamas, holding a cup of what looks like leftover borscht in a Sentry mug.

Her mouth is a flat line of judgment. Her eyes, wild with betrayal. She says nothing for a beat, just watches you two like she’s making a mental slideshow for court.

And then:

“Disgusting.”

You slap a hand over your mouth. Bucky audibly chokes.

“I knew it,” she hisses, tapping the glass again. “I said—you remember—I said you were acting weird! And what did you do? You gaslit me. You gaslit me, in my own Watchtower!”

“Yelena—”

“No! Do not Yelena me! I am the only one with brain cell in this team. I knew when you started wearing that ugly tinted lip balm.”

“Hey,” you protest weakly. “It’s sheer berry. It’s flattering.”

“It’s horny,” she snaps. “You wore it to breakfast, with a side of guilt! I could smell the shame!”

Bucky is actively trying to sink into the seat, possibly considering tactical ejection. “Uh—maybe we should talk upstairs—”

“Oh, now you want to go upstairs?” Yelena’s voice jumps an octave. “Now that you’ve defiled my sacred parking garage with your filthy, filthy sex aura?”

You blink. “Okay, first of all—”

“And you.” Her glare whips back to you. “You’re not slick! You thought you could sneak him in and out like contraband vodka. I live here. I hear things. You think I don’t know the sound of a stealth boot hitting laminate? I am the stealth boot!”

“Yelena,” Bucky tries again, gently. “We didn’t mean—”

“Oh, don’t do the voice,” she says, disgusted. “The ‘I’m reformed, I like jazz and feelings now’ voice. You don’t get to ‘soft boy’ your way out of this. I have surveillance footage.”

Your mouth falls open. “You what?”

“I set up a camera in the garage last month because someone kept stealing my protein bars. Guess what I caught instead?” She slurps her soup menacingly. “Unprotected eye contact. Several longing glances. A whispered forehead touch. I saw it all. You’re done.”

“Yelena, come on—”

“No. I have to live with the knowledge that I share a roof with an emotionally constipated ex-assassin who makes out in vehicles like a teenage camp counselor. And you,” she adds, pointing her spoon at you, “owe me one rotisserie chicken. For emotional damages.”

You don’t even try to argue.

Yelena slides down from the other car with the grace of someone who has definitely kicked people through windows, and stomps toward the elevator, yelling over her shoulder: “Don’t think this is over! I’m making a PowerPoint!”

The elevator doors close behind her with a ding.

Silence settles over the car like dust.

You and Bucky stare at each other.

“Think she’ll actually make a PowerPoint?” you murmur.

He shrugs. “I think she’s probably already made three.”

You let your head fall against his shoulder, laughing into the curve of his neck, and feel his chest shake beneath you as he starts to laugh too—quiet and real and unguarded.

And despite the threat of presentations and future interrogations, despite the very real possibility that Yelena will drag you both in front of a mock tribunal in front of the others before the week is over—

This?

This still feels worth it.

#bucky barnes #james buchanan barnes #bucky barnes x reader #bucky barnes smut #bucky x reader #winter soldier #thunderbolts #thunderbolts spoilers #bucky barnes imagine #bucky smut #bucky barnes x you #bucky x you #sebastian stan #mdni #marvel #mcu #🎞️ WRITING — me when i write.#divider: cafekitsune

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screampied · 11 months ago

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❛ BED CHEM! ❜ t. fushiguro + k. nanami

☆ sum. being sandwiched between two of your co-stars during a séx scene sounds like a fever dream. the real fever dream is finding out who you have better bed chemistry with. the sweet blond who always talks you through it or the smug dark haired one who’s constantly stealing your panties.

wc. 5.9k

warnings. fem! reader, actor au, thréesomes, unprotected, semi-public, they eat you out at the same time, cervix mentions, premature ejac, size difference, dirty talk, pússy drunk men, praise, spít roasting, óral (f! & m! receiving), hair pulling, size kinks, bóob fondling, overstim.

“annnnd action.”

you mentally bite your lip, feeling every nerve through your body convulse from your co-stars touches. toji fushiguro and nanami kento—the most current hottest topic, you had this last scene to shoot for a movie you were the lead in. the scene in question was quite raunchy to say the least, both of them take turns to plant soft chaste kisses down both sides of your neck. both signature scents of their colognes were loud, a musk that forevermore wafts against your nose. your eyes flicker toward the camera every so often, trying to stay in character. this was probably the fifth take—you had a bit of a bad habit of missing your lines so there’d be a few retakes. emphasis on few.

“ken, look at her,” toji murmurs, and a gasp merely slips from you once his parted tongue creeps past his lips and onto your neck. his hand slowly trails toward your thigh and he squeezes it. “such a pretty thing. want more, do ya princess?”

you nod as a response but that’s when nanami’s hand gently cups underneath your chin. gingerly, a thumb ghosts by your bottom lip and he speaks sweetly. “ah, now sweetheart. we talked about that, we need a pretty answer from you, not a nod.”

“i- i want more,” you stammer, and as toji’s scarred hands continue to roam down your body, you suck in a keen sharp breath. the air felt substantially thick, mainly due to how all three of you were acting in a big spacey sauna. your hand grabs toji’s wrist and you slowly guide it down between the valley of your legs. the static of his plump shriveled fingertips brush up between the crevices of your thighs and it nearly makes you break character. “i want you both, please.”

“aw,” toji hums hoarsely, his pursed lips forming into a wry grin.

the more their hands ran down every inch of your body, the more your heart beat raced. its thumping quickened, and your thighs forcibly squeeze themselves together. the dark haired male softly creates circles around your thighs with a single digit before speaking breathlessly. “you want both of us, huh. not jus one? that’s bein’ pretty greedy, doll.”

“toji, she can be greedy if she wants,” nanami coos, and you make direct contact with him. .

the nanami kento, you’ve heard a lot about him. him and toji were both hot favored actors but him. actresses would kill to be in your role, kill to be in your shoes.

nanami kento was as smooth as they come.

suave, a gentleman, and of course, a smooth talker. your eyes gawk down his attire and he’s wearing nothing but casual—his sleeves were sexily rolled up and his usually parted blond hair was slightly ruffled and unkempt - most likely due to the growing humidity of the sauna.

tender brown eyes bore into you before he places a kiss near the twitching corner of your mouth. “relax, sweetheart. you’ll get what you want, promise. just be a good girl. can you do that?”

feeling as if your thighs were stuck together by imaginary adhesive glue, you let off a soft panting whine. “y- yes,” and you gasp, watching as toji’s head creeps lower. he’s being slow on purpose, teasing you—wanting for you to long for more, for him to hurry up.

a few bristles of his hair tickles and pokes against your leg before your chin’s softly being grabbed by nanami again.

“ah ah, eyes on me. don’t worry about him, focus just on me sweetheart,” and the two of you lock eyes. nanami’s dimples poke against the left side of his lips and he’s so pretty, he cups your cheek and you instantly lean into his touch. “good girl, get lost in my eyes.”

your mind’s running at such quick speed—it’s trying to remember the next parts of the script as they continue the foreplay. nothing could really be heard except for nanami’s gruff low voice and the faint whirring inside of the sauna.

the next scene, nanami would lean in for a kiss and toji would eat you out. you remember looking over the filthy script many months ago before you even landed the roll.

as your eyes would skim through every word, the explicit dialogue—the mannerisms they’d perform on you, a school of swarming butterflies would pour inside the pits of your stomach.

and now, it’s finally here.

it’s as if time stood still once nanami starts to lean in, closing the awkward distance between you two. once his lips gently crash onto yours, it’s as if your heart stopped for a minute. tender, passionate, and open-mouthed.

your head slightly tilts as you part your lips wider to give him access. nanami lowly groans in your mouth, tasting your syrupy saliva tangle against his own. “mhm,” and every few seconds, loud echoing smacks would slam against both lips. he tastes minty, but on his tongue you could also taste a bit of alcohol lingering on his breath. it’s sweet, and you wanted more. whilst his tongue’s being shoved down your throat, toji scoffs. he’s propped right up between your legs and you feel his big wide hands spread your thighs more.

a nonplus gasp leaves your lips at his roughly gentle touch — your body can’t help but grind against nanami, wrapping an arm and tossing it over his shoulder. “fuck,” you speak between sultry hot kisses, another one of your hands running down the bare slit part of his exposed chest. there, you’re met with a few curls of blond chest hair. you twirl it around with your finger and he groans in your mouth at your touch. back to toji, he starts slow. he creates sloppy wet licks and kisses that trail all down from your waist until he’s finally near your shorts.

“watch that mouth of yours,” toji utters, hot breath ghosting between your thighs.

he’d get closer and closer, closer until he’s just inches away from your the pretty fabric that sticks against your skin. verdant green eyes peer into the cloth that’s attached to your panties and he hums. “cute,” he rasps, pulling down the hem of your shorts for a quick inside peek. “looks like you remembered to wear panties this time after all. somebody’s learnin’, heh.”

“toji, stop teasing me,” your breath hitches, feeling nanami pull away to kiss near your neck once more. he was so gentle, curling his tongue around that sweet spot buried right near the inside of your neck and it makes you oh so weak.

toji just gives you a sly deadpans at you needy comment, slowly pulling down your denim bedazzled shorts.

with a scoff, he tugs on your panties with his teeth. “nah,” and with the fabric in his mouth, his words were a bit muffled. “dunno what’s the point of wearing these stupid things since ‘m jus gonna steal them again anyway.”

a breath gets lodged in your throat once nanami starts to suck against your neck, his teeth gingerly grazing against your skin. his breath was always so warm, every time it sets against your bare flesh you moan. as your glossy eyes ogle down back at nanami, you huff with a cute frustrated expression. your eyebrows knit and compress together and you merely whine. “just hurry the fuck up,” and your neck starts to lean back a bit. with both men having their hands on you—you weren’t sure how long you’d last.

constantly, you had to keep reminding yourself, it’s just a movie, it’s just another scene. .

or is it?

you’re entrapped inside of your thoughts, fully forgetting that you’re on film. as you’re in a temporary fantasm—you bite your lip before a clammy hand finds its way through toji’s shaggy ravened strands. instantaneously, black tresses entwine between your silvery fingers and you moan. he lays his tongue flat, teasingly lapping near the center part of your panties.

fuck, you’ve read over his parts specifically at least a dozen times and knew what he had to do during this scene but you didn’t expect it to feel this good.

toji’s breath was balmy, slow breaths whirl and fan against your clit that’s just barely being protected by the string of your panties.

nanami’s sloppy kisses trail down toward your chest and oh, you felt like you were floating. “poor baby’s fuckin’ soaked,” toji snickers as a fat thumb drags down your sopping cunt. he’s so quick that you don’t even realized he pulled down your panties—you don’t even know where they went. probably in his pocket, again. you feel a wave of heat flush over you as you can feel his feral gaze stare into your twitching muscle. “look at my girl’s nasty ‘lil pulse.” he hums, and his tongue does one single beginning lick near your folds. you whine, and his cold tongue as cold as ice. it’s a type of feeling you couldn’t put into words.

“toji, don’t hog her. i want a taste too,” nanami says in a gentle voice. speaking of, nanami could say the most nastiest things and it would still end up coming out like a compliment.

“s- shit,” you kiss your teeth, watching both of them with near half-lidded eyes once you see nanami’s head creep down also.

now, you’re being met with a chilling hungry yet feral gaze. you throbbed even more as you’re sprawled all out against the fragile bench of the sauna. tears of perspiration start to bubble against your skin as the heat gets a bit more thicker. it’s humid, and you don’t know if it was the temp of the sauna or them making you feel hot but you wanted more. your eyes meet them again, and you feel yourself getting more aroused once you realize. . they were both down on their knees for you.

to your left—there’s toji, he’s got the must smug expression. already near the left side of his lip, there’s a few droplets of your honeyed slick coating against his mouth. all from a single lick, you felt embarrassed at how wet you were. it was actually in the script that they would use lube to help you but clearly, you didn’t need it in the slightest. toji’s wearing a burgundy tank top that nearly sticks against his hard toned pecs. he’s so toned, a burly beefy body that looks almost chiseled, stoned. he looks like he’s been literally carved and sculptured from top to bottom. your eyes stare at his broad shoulders, his thick pecs, and even how a few of his black chest hairs pokes out from his shirt.

and then to your right, there’s nanami. a thumb of his slowly makes its way down your drooling salivating cunt and he’s almost in awe.

his pink glossy lips press up towards your entrance before he gives it a soft welcoming kiss. you moan at how delicate he was, and the longing tender stare he constantly gave you merely made your knees buckle. as the humidity rises in the sauna, strands of his hair continue to swelter against his forehead with the help of slimy sweat.

“my, my,” he purrs in a low voice, and they’re both right between your thighs. you couldn’t help but feel a palpitating sensation brew up between your legs. “we’ve got ourselves a wet one, toji.”

“yeah,” the dark haired murmurs, and his eyes narrow. but toji wasn’t fond of sharing - not one bit.

with a piqued eye roll, he leans in to lap his tongue against your pussy once more before nanami follows.

you release a sweet elongated moan you were holding in for the longest - but you remembered you had to be dramatic for the scene — fake.

that was kind of hard considering the blatant fact that yhey were actually making you feel good. but alas, you lazily slouch back against the wooden bench, letting off your best exaggerated moan.

nanami and toji both look at you at the same time and toji refrains himself from bursting out laughing. staying in character, he clears his throat, spanking your cunt. you moan, and your grip against his hair becomes more rough. he feels you yanks forward with a solid tug, grunting, and that’s when you feel nanami’s soft tongue present itself too.

slow, his tongue slowly runs itself against your pulsing clit and your eyes gradually roll themselves back. it’s now to where they’re both lapping up your dripping taste at the exact same time—both sloppy tongues flicking and slithering against your cunt oh, and you were an entire mess. it’s as if they were competing against each other. as they both bury their heads between your thighs, you start to shake, dragging their heads back and forth into your sopping pussy.

with your toes curling and your chest heaving, you mewl out a sweet whine. “oh my g-god,” your voice squeaks out, swallowing your own sheer arousing embarrassment.

their breaths collide against each other and land right on your pussy. so pretty, nanami’s eyes were closed whilst toji’s were wide open. he’s giving you a smug cheeky grin the entire time, using a thumb to occasionally glissade down against your twitching pussy. “damn, taste so sweet,” toji grunts, and you can hear the salacious timbre in his voice. a voice so deep that your thighs vibrate together. fuck, your hands end up delving through each of their strands of hair, tightly pulling them closer towards your pulsating heat.

both hairs curl within your fingers before you pull their faces even closer against your crying cunt, almost suffocating them. “mhm,” toji’s lips nearly glue against your pasty folds.

nanami’s tongue romantically swirls itself around until it reaches near your sweet nub.

that spot - your brain haphazardly haywires and short circuits right away and your knees almost collapse. “fuck, f- fuck ‘ken.” you gasp, dragging his head up. once you do, you’re met with a sleazy smile—he’s pussy drunk. it takes you a minute to realize maybe he’s not being in character anymore. nanami’s dimple still prods against both sides of his cheeks before he leans down, spitting right against your cunt.

“go on, ‘toj. lick it up since you wanna be greedy,” nanami playfully titters, running a hand through his hair just so he could touch your fingers.

toji’s shooting vexed daggers toward the blond before he’s almost nose deep against your pussy.

once he’s actually nose deep, he sniffs your cunt, spitting on it before lapping it right up. he does it all while staring at you too. “hmph,” he grouses, his long tongue moving toward nanami’s area, now slurping up nanami’s own sheeny trickling saliva.

you couldn’t lie, watching the entire risqué scene of both men fighting over eating you out right before you, right between your legs made you throb even more.

toji’s raven arched brows tweak inward before a hand of his pries your left thigh further apart. “don’t fuckin’ tell me what ‘ta do.”

nanami chuckles, pressing kisses near the warm crevices of your thighs. fawn sparkling irises flicker toward you before he whispers. “you doin’ okay, sweetheart. ‘s alright?”

“y- yeah,” your voice grows more shaky as toji continues. as if it had a mind of its own, a hand of yours tugs on nanami’s hair, guiding his head back toward between your thighs. nanami shakes his head with a cunning smile, going back to lapping at your tasty treat stored right between your plush thighs. swallowing a circled lump that resides at the back of your throat, your legs start to jolt. “f- fuuuuck,” your voice strains, and toji and nanami’s just making out with your pussy.

you watch the entire time—occasionally glancing up at the large propped up canon camera that’s a few feet away from you. oh right, it’s just a scene.

you were practically using your bottom lip as chewing gum with how they were vigorously eating out your starved cunt as if it was their last meal. they both used their crimpy long tongues to create such filthy circles and shapes on and around your pussy, maneuvering their fingers inside your cunt and all.

your breath starts to grow more and more irregular — changing its speed to being a lot more quicker the more they remain sat between your thighs.

“she’s gettin’ close,” toji murmurs between sloshes of smacks with his lips. each lewd ‘pop’ he makes with his lips leaves you dizzy and begging for more. the edge of his scar that runs down the right side of his mouth smears and rubs all up against your clit and it feels so good. it tickles, but in a more raunchy kind of way.

with nanami occasionally blowing and whistling against your folds, you were surely about to lose it. your mind’s spiraling—and as your fingers remain tangled in both ruffled strands and curls of hair, their chins start to glimmer and stream down with your candied slick. “look at me, girl.” toji pats your cunt, although it’s more of a wet slap. you whimper, moist doused droplets coming from your own pussy wetting his palm right away.

your eyes meet toji and the laps of his tongue grow faster. he’s munching against your pussy, swerving his head from back and forth before he grunts, playfully biting down on your clit. not hard, but enough to where it makes you let off a cute shriek. “cum, cum on my tongue, baby.”

“ah, i think you mean cum on mine,” nanami corrects him, giving your sensitive twitching clitoral hood a single kiss.

your eyes go back and forth between the two of them, but you can’t even reply because within seconds, you’re cumming, hard.

your mouth slightly drops whilst your jaw dramatically hangs open—pathetically dangling open as they’re still lapping you clean. both scorching hot tips of your ears were stuffed with imaginary fuzz. you couldn’t hear for a few long seconds—not to mention, your body was being invaded by a plethora of tingles that shot through your body.

“f-fuuuckk,” you whine, and you’re uncontrollably shaking. it’s a rush, a crazed rush that you do don’t want to stop. as you’re spasming, you glance down at the two of them.

“mphm,” toji’s still slurping at your dewy slick juices that stream from you before nanami’s tongue gets tangled with his. he blinks thrice, and their lips abruptly meet. panting and heaving, you watch—not really remembering if that was on script but neither exactly pulls away.

they’re focusing their sloppy slick tongues on your spasming convulsing cunt while mashing glossed lips together. you throbbed at the lewd sight of your two co-stars, seeing toji grow flustered and nanami being a bit more dominant.

that was rare, as stoic as of a man that he was, you’d last expect to see toji this way. you moan, still felling their sloshing wet tongues twirl around the insides of your sobbing pussy all whilst they’re making out. at contact, they’re both tasting nothing but you on their tongues the entire time, a concoction of saliva entangles with each other as they relish in savoring your sweet taste on their tastebuds.

“maybe you’re the one who needed attention,” nanami gradually pulls away, stands of shimmery saliva dragging away from both pursed lips.

“tch. shut up,” toji grumbles, and he focuses back toward you. he slides a tongue across and over crooked his lips.

the next thing you knew—you were being lifted up, tossed right over toji’s burly shoulder.

you gasp, feeling nanami’s gentle eyes bore into your curves before he positions you, using a single hand to spread your shivering thighs apart. you were still a bit shaky and sensitive from your most recent release—your teeth still shattered and saw how their jaws locked, especially toji’s.

you felt every nerve jolt through your body, coursing through your veins.

but once the actual scene came, you were screwed.

it wasn’t fake anymore, your orgasms and moans were very much real now. and that was perfect, you were perfect, because behind the lens—it not only felt real but it looked real too.

your pretty expressions, your flat pink tongue lolling out of your mouth and the way you’re panting. toji’s fucking you from behind and he’s just mean. hard thorough strokes that makes his hips snap right into you, crash into you at full speed to where he’s creating a fatal collision.

“ah, open,” nanami whispers, and your eyelids that were practically droopy glance up. you’re met with nanami. the blond’s got a hand resting on top of the crown of your head before he taps a thumb against your cheek. “let me see that pretty mouth some more, my love,” and you lean into his touch. toji’s hips however were so rude—your sweet incoherent babbles soon starts to grow a bit more quavery due to how rickety he made your body. the olden wood of the sauna nearly splits and you can hear the blaring cracks after each rocky thrust. your lips part open and your eyes go straight toward his cock. his boxers were halfway on with the cerulean blue hem of it just hanging and protecting his sharp carvend v-line.

so pretty, you just wanted to run your tongue up and down and across every line and spot that decorates his soft skin.

“ngh, a-atta girl,” the blond’s brows reluctantly twist together, watching your warm mouth slowly take him in fully.

god, your eyes were so mesmerizing to look at. he delicately cups underneath your chin, feeling the minuscule amounts of saliva drip from your lips. your jaw remains to hang open, dangling like an earring—and that’s when he’s slowly inching himself inside your tight warm throat.

immediately, you see a bit of his blond curly pubes through your blurred peripherals. nanami’s abs clench and tighten at the feeling of your hot mouth and he groans. “my good . . girl, ugh. pretty girl with an even prettier throat.”

toji’s still propped up behind you, two broad hands attached to your waist—practically glued on. you whine, your sweet noises becoming muffled as his hips plummet into you raw.

you feel your toes curl up within each sloppy degrading thrust he makes. as you’re taking nanami’s cock, you swirl your tongue around his mushroom tip that’s got a faint splash of pink painting near the very top. he’s bittersweet, your lashes flutter as your pretty plump lips envelope around his hefty length. a single prodding vein that runs down his cock twitches inside of your mouth and you moan at the feeling.

“fuck,” toji hisses, feeling your gummy insides squeeze and clamp around him. you’ve got your back arched as your hands cling onto the sauna’s ligneous bench.

the furniture’s woody and it continuously tottering by the second—loudly creaking as his pivotal strokes deepen. every few seconds, he’d swat a palm against your ass just to hear your cute whimpers. toji likes to gawk at the recoil, the way your ass cheek jolts back against his hand from the spank, it’s cute.

the concise twinges that follow from his hand makes your moans get louder, reverberating through the thin tapered walls of the sauna.

raspy pants leave from toji’s gruff vocal chords before his callous fingertips dig deep into the fat of your hips. his foot’s tapping against the floor as his head slightly cocks itself back. “mhm, shit. such a nasty girl, gettin’ stuffed from front ‘ta back. ‘s that what you really wanted, hm?”

since your mouth was currently occupied with nanami’s thick inches—you nod while starting to feel his bulbous tip repeatedly thwack back against the roof of your mouth. your eyes squeeze shut for a second as you’re twirling your tongue around his veiny length. steadily, nanami’s cock grows inside your mouth and you happily keep it warm. each twitching vein that runs down his shaft, you flick your tongue against it just to hear him moan out your name. you’re so aroused that you try to sneak a hand down between your trembly thighs, only to be swatted away by toji’s hand. you whine, a pout forming against your swollen lips as his pace quickens.

“no touchin’ my pussy,” he mumbles, and you felt yourself twitch. now that wasn’t in the script, but the more he smacked your cunt, the more you felt extra butterflies stir inside your stomach.

toji’s got such a good angle on you—he’s ferocious, ravaging through your pasty walls, feeling your sloppy slick run all down his cock.

your ass almost glues against his pelvis, and that’s when he leans right up against you. skin against skin, big hands reach near your chest, toying with your bouncy neglected tits. you moan, feeling his thumbs curl and squeeze against your perky nipples that poke through the blouse of your shirt. “such a pretty rack, yeah,” he lowly whispers, licking near your neck. his voice was so low up against your ear. so low, the playfulness in his voice was almost enough to make you cream on his cock right then. toji’s base was very full, and he’s now just smacking against your bare ass with. a few seconds later, he groans, feeling the brief pangs of electricity ripple near the undersides of his meaty calves. “ugh, god such a pretty view like this though. ‘ken fuckin’ wishes he had my spot.”

“oh, don’t flatter yourself, toji,” the blond hums, though as he’s speaking, you could tell he’s flustered.

your tongue has nanami stammering a bit, he’s patting your head, strumming a thumb against your pursed lips. once he meets your gaze, his breath nearly gets stolen away. “you’re doin’ so good, sweetheart. makin’ me feel so good,” and you watch his adam’s apple bobble. his praise warmed something in your heart.

it was something about being degraded from behind and praised near the front.

toji’s reeling your ass further back into his hips with ease whilst you’re focusing your eyes strictly on nanami. nanami’s heart races at the sight of you and now, he’s wondering if this really is just a scene anymore.

he found himself getting lost in your eyes—maybe it was a bit unprofessional, but you’ve had the gaze of an ethereal galaxy. the way your pupils would doe up and dilate as your head goes up and down against his length, he wanted more of you.

“that’s it,” he grunts, running a hand through his matted blond strands. nanami nearly loses his balance once your sucking turns into slurping. you’re a mess, your entire chin being damp because of your own saliva. he wipes some of it up with his thumb, only to taste it himself and he moans. your head continuing to bobble and he’s about to break, no, he is breaking. “slobber a- all on it, don’t be shy pretty girl. ‘s okay to be my messy girl. there we go.”

“tch.” toji’s eyes roll, and he’s still striking into you. your cunt was clingy, gripping around him tightly like a vice. the feeling makes his jaw tighten whilst your stomach seizes in rapture. he’s so deep, your limbs felt so flimsy as your pathetic breaths start to get more strained and breathy.

toji’s grip was angry, it’s french kissing right up against your cervix and you can’t help but let off a squeal. right there, he knows that’s your sweet spot and once he suddenly realizes it, his rude thrusts become purely maddened.

more souse streams of saliva drips down your chin as you’re slathering the entirety of nanami’s cock with your own filthy viscid spit. you look so pretty, cock drunk and on the verge of finishing yet again.

toji fucks like a madman—each stroke felt like your entire body was gonna snap in half. his body’s hovering over you and his warm completely radiates against your own. he’s so close that he’s merely humping you, sloppy greedy strokes becoming more feral as the seconds pass. his tip massaged your walls through and through, and your eyes were rolling way back until you saw nothing but pearly white at the back of your sockets.

by this point, this entire scene didn’t feel like you were filming for a movie anymore. it slipped your mind, you forgot this was literally your job.

“s- sweetheart, ‘m gonna cum,” a husky voice interrupts your thoughts, and your tongue still toys with his leaky slit. a hand of yours wraps around his full base, stroking him with a few good solid pumps and he’s so close. your touch made him shudder, the kind of shudder where he’s just addictive for more.

more of you.

“heh, that’s right. milk the pretty boy, babygirl. he’s all flustered because of y’er throat. that’s rich,” toji snickers, a rough cackle leaving his lips as his eyes meets his abashed co-star.

it was true, nanami was entirely flustered—he’s even avoiding eye contact now and sweating pinballs. toji’s hands were now sweating from the palms and he pulls your hips continuously back into him, each slam becoming more merciless.

but fuck, his cock was just insanely thick — it expanded through your walls as your cunt merrily constricts around his length.

it slides in and out, the squelches that your cunt makes because of it leaves you craving for more. your sopping wet, and he’s only making it ten times worse nanami narrows his eyes at toji’s teasing, lightly pulling your head down just a bit more to keep your attention back towards him. “hah, don’t listen to him, pretty. eyes on me, let me see that gorgeous face ‘m about to p-paint, fuck.”

nanami’s blushing tip reddens, and once he finally cums—it’s so much. it shoots out in stringy milky ropes, velvety and all.

it paints right onto your flat tongue and your eyes snap shut for two seconds at the bittersweet taste. your lips felt tepid, still having your mouth wrap around his cock as his dick now becomes soft and flaccid. “god,” he whines, multiple metallic fingers of his delving in your scalp.

nanami’s so pretty after he finishes, he’s got somewhat of a feverish glow to him and you see his veins pop out through each of his bulky muscles. it shows right through his shirt he wore, which was close enough to being see through.

“take it, swallow it f’ me sweetheart,” and he cups your chin, removing his dick from your dampened lips. his eyes were just as droopy as yours and he’s heavily panting. “ah, can you do that?”

with your cheeks all puffed up and stored full of cum, you’re completely dimwitted. you give him a nod, swallowing the hot seed before taking a second to breath. nanami doesn’t waste any time and he leans in, pulling you into a kiss. “i want a taste of myself too.” he murmurs breathlessly between kisses. as his head lowers to your level, you moan at the feeling of his lips pressing onto yours. it’s passionate, his tongue intertwines with your own and he then roves the tip of his tongue near the crevice of your mouth. there, he tastes a few remnants of his cum and it makes him groan.

toji’s still plowing into your sopping cunt that’s fully drenching down on him before he quips.

“hn. freaks,” and literally seconds after that, his cockiness fades away because he’s now cumming too. it’s quick, it hits him at full force like a speed of a semi-truck. toji’s ramming his cock up against that sweet spongey texture that’s making you whimper before he finishes himself. the build up was practically non existent. it was just sloppy, the hormone rush drives him insane and now he’s the one that’s short-circuiting. “oh s- shit,” he growls, feeling his dick starting to tighten and shrivel up whilst deeply buried inside of you. your grip was just so wet, it makes him suck his teeth in elation at how dripping wet you were.

from the waist down, he feels numb and his hips start to slow. it’s a buzz that even spreads toward his spine and he gruffs, spanking against your ass. “ngh, pussy’s fuckin’ dangerous,” his voice falters, it’s husky low pitch turning more high. it’s cute, and there’s a faint pout growing on toji’s lips.

nanami looks up at him with a flustered expression. “aw, too much for you toji?”

“shut up,” he groans, still feeling the after effects. toji came a lot too, masses of creamy hot cum fills up inside of you before it spurts toward your womb.

your thighs were on its final hinges as you were still arched and hunched over, desperate to see what you looked like from behind.

you were probably a mess, a mess with cum dribbling out of your fluttering hole. a saturated translucent ring forms around his base as he stops his thrusts completely, preparing to pull out. for once, hes speechless—at least for a few seconds anyway. “fuck me,” he groans, and his cock too, was now flaccid and idle.

your fingers run down towards your puffy clit to feel for yourself and oh, it’s even more stuffed than you even imagined.

sappy runny amounts trickle down your cunt, past your swollen lips and onto the sauna’s floor. you moan, squeezing two fingers inside to toy with yourself some more but that’s right when nanami swiftly grabs your wrist.

“ah, no sweetheart. no touching what’s ours,” he whispers, a thumb softly caressing near your palm. he sees the pout that mangles against your lips and he leans down to kiss your forehead. “i’ll think about letting you touch her after we shower.”

“and who says it’s up to you,” toji rolls his eyes, his voice still a bit shaky. he reaches near the glass cabinet for a dry towel before wrapping it around his slim waist. “i mean, i wouldn’t let her touch herself either but still.”

“but—”

“there there,” nanami shushes you, bringing a soft kiss to your lips. your face softens as you return the gesture, and you then gasp once he toji lifts you up. nanami wraps a towel around his waist also, and toji creeps up beside him. cool air wafts against your skin at the sudden movements as he then opens the glass sauna door. “c’mon, let’s at least shower on it.”

as you’re slung over toji’s broad shoulder, your eyes were met with the floor. all of you walk out of the scene set and toji’s big hand squeezes near your ass. “wonder if she can take us both at the same time.”

“she’s a good girl, i think she can,” nanami kisses your forehead as toji walks with you. “right, princess?”

you still felt hot all over your body, but you nod, wrapping your arms around toji’s neck. “y- yeah,” and your nose buries inside the depths of his collarbone. his strong brawny cologne scent again, you’re hit with it face first from each whiff. “i can take you both.”

“um excuse me? this isn’t in the fucking script!”

nanami and toji both glance at the director who’s got a vein popping out of his forehead. toji snickers and nanami grows sheepish.

“eh. it is now,” toji shrugs, and he gives your ass a teasing smack. “c’mon, doll,” and he snickers, turning his head to whisper to you. “we aren’t finished with ya just yet, heh,” and toji glances at the director, giving your ass a spank as you’re still thrown over his shoulder. “cut.”

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beloveds-embrace · 5 months ago

Text

(a very low-effort post abt 141 x their new hacker- you. For better immersion, click on the song link during Soap’s workout! <3)

The first time you make contact, it’s through their personal phones.

Not the official military-issued devices- no, those would be too easy. You wanted to make an impression.

So when Price, Ghost, Gaz, and Soap each glance at their personal screens, expecting the usual notifications from Laswell, they’re instead greeted by:

(¬‿¬) Hello, boys.

Price sighs like a disappointed father, having been forwarned of your antics, and still immediately calls Laswell.

“Care to explain why my phone just got hijacked?”

Laswell doesn’t sound surprised. If anything, she sounds like she’s been expecting and waiting for this- for his phone call specifically about getting hacked. “That’s your new hacker.”

Price pinches the bridge of his nose, while the others exchange Looks of Consideration™️. “That’s how she introduces herself?”

“She’s efficient.”

“She’s cheeky.”

“She’s listening,” you interject, making them all jolt as your voice plays from the phone speakers, honey-sweet and undeniably smug.

There’s a long silence. Then Gaz whispers: “What the fuck?”

You giggle. (≧◡≦) flashes onto all their screens right after that, just as cheeky as your tone.

“So she’s just gonna creep around in our phones now?” Gaz asks after that, wary, an eyebrow raised and his arms crossed.

In response, just his screen flickers, and a new message appears.

(╯°□°）╯︵ ┻━┻ Rude.

Laswell sighs again, much like an exasperated mother, and gestures at their phones. “Give her a chance. She is, despite everything, good at what she does.”

And so from that that moment on, you’re everywhere; they don’t see you, but they feel your presence. You’re in their systems, their devices, and their comms.

Ghost boots up his laptop one day, only to find that his standard background has been replaced with a pixelated skull and crossbones- like those they did on pirate ships in movies. Below it, in small text:

For the spookiest boy.

He says nothing, just tilts his head slightly before closing the laptop.

And when Price logs into the briefing room terminal, instead of the standard military insignia, the screen briefly flashes with the words:

WELCOME BACK, CAPTAIN DILF.

Soap loses it. Price glares at him, then at the screen, then sighs, muttering, “Christ.”

Soap isn’t free from your shenanigans, though.

One day, while doing his usual workout, he pulls up his playlist. The moment he presses play, his music app forcefully closes and reopens with “The Drunk Scotsman” blasting at full volume.

“NO, NO, NO-“ Soap scrambles to shut it off as the entire base turns to look at him.

On his screen, once the app is blessedly closed, a message pops up:

(ʘ‿ʘ) Dance, pretty boy.

And then Gaz’s torture is quieter, but no less effective.

Every so often, while he’s texting, his camera light flickers on. Not long enough to take a photo- just a brief, eerie blink before an emoji appears on his screen:

( ͡° ͜ʖ ͡°)

He groans. “She’s messing with me.”

“You mean flirting?” Soap smirks, leaning closer to the phone and chuckling as the camera light flickers back on for just another few seconds.

Gaz scowls. “…I hope so.”

Still, despite all your antics, you’re brilliant at what you do. And they learn this firsthand during their first mission with you.

“All teams, check-in.” Price orders as they move through a darkened compound.

Instead of Laswell’s voice responding, it’s yours. Soft, smooth, and playful.

“Five by five, Captain.”

There’s a pause- brief but notable. Then, Price exhales. “You hacking my comms now, too?”

“Wouldn’t be a very good hacker if I couldn’t, would I?”

Soap snorts, snickering with Gaz. “She’s got a point.”

Ghost, listening quietly, murmurs: “Thought you didn’t speak.”

“Only when necessary. Or when I feel like annoying you.”

Your voice is warm, teasing. If Ghost were anyone else, he might have smiled. And then, just like that, you’re all business.

“Sniper on the rooftop, two o’clock.”

Ghost adjusts, and then fires. A body drops.

“Price, your six.”

The captain pivots, taking down the enemy creeping behind him.

“Soap, slow down.”

“I got this,” Soap insists- only for a grenade to go off near him. “…I don’t got this.”

“Clearly.”

“…Shut up.”

With you in their ears, everything runs smoother. Their feeds don’t lag. Their encryptions are tighter. They feel- secure. With you and Laswell? Almost untouchable, but they don’t let it get to their heads.

When they return to base, exhausted but alive, their phones light up with a single message:

(￣︶￣) Good job, boys.

They stare at their screens, and then Price huffs a laugh. Soap grins. Gaz shakes his head. Ghost, unseen beneath his mask, smirks.

They don’t know your face. Haven’t met you in person.

But they decide you’re theirs, and they are yours. Even if you’re just unknown- for now, anyways.

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corkinavoid · 1 year ago

Text

DPxDC Summoning Failed Successfully

Imagine a warehouse. Imagine a bunch of cultists in dark robes with all the candles, daggers, ancient books, and chanting. Now add Danny.

Only not as the summoned being, no. As a sacrifice.

He is sitting down, tied to a chair, in the middle of the summoning circle, looking as bored and deadpan as he can possibly be. The cultists are chanting, and he frowns, listening to their chants for a moment.

"Hey, is that Latin?" He questions, but to no avail, "You know you're not actually using those words correctly, right?"

"Keep quiet, child!" One of the cultists snaps. Danny leans back in his chair and shrugs.

"I'm just saying, you ain't summoning shit with wrong grammar," he huffs, seemingly absolutely nonchalant about the whole thing. Oracle, who is watching the whole ordeal through the surveillance cameras, raises her eyebrows. Red Robin and Robin are already en route to the building the cultists chose for their extracurricular activities, but now she almost wants to watch this a bit longer.

Gothamites are pretty used to all kinds of shitshows, but this boy is from out of town. She checked him through facial recognition. Daniel Fenton, a transfer student from Amity Park, Illinois.

A few more cultists stop chanting and turn to Danny.

"Do you know Latin?" One of them asks, and the boy makes a half-nod, making a thoughtful face.

"Not fluently, but, like, it's a dead language, I felt kinda obligated to learn it. Just for the meme, you know?" He chuckles.

The cultists, judging by their confused silence, don't know. Barbara doesn't know what he's talking about, either. But she is almost curious now, so she taps Robin's and RR's comm lines:

"RR, Robin, when you arrive, don't jump into the scene," she asks.

"Understood," Tim answers immediately, but Damian, of course, demands explanations:

"Is there an obstacle?"

"Not really," Barbara humms, "The sacrifice is in the process of de-escalating the situation."

She can almost hear the questioning silence over the comm, but, thankfully, no one argues. Meanwhile, one of the cultists pipes up, voice full of doubt:

"So, you can... like, proofread our incantation?"

"Yeah, sure," Danny nods, apparently fine with being sacrificed, "Who you're trying to summon anyway?"

"Satan," that same cultist answers, and Danny laughs approvingly.

"Classic," he nods and smiles, "I'll give you this. The circle is mostly alright, so you don't need an incantation to summon the fucker, I have him on speed dial." And with that, he leans forward, screaming towards the floor: "Ey, Satan!"

Barbara must say the act was actually convincing, but he went a little overboard with it now. She reaches to tell both Robins to get in, but suddenly, a loud, booming voice reverberates through the building.

"The fuck do you want, kid?"

Cultists fall to their knees - it doesn't seem like an act of worship, more like their knees bucking. The whole circle dimly lights up in red, smoke raising from it.

"Do you see this shit, Oracle?" Red Robin questions, and she mhm's at him, not sure what else to say. If this is still an act or a trick, she must say it's a very good one. Although somehow she suspects it's not a trick. She's seen enough magic in her life to tell the difference.

"Do you want to come to Earth, be gay and do crimes?" Danny asks, almost mockingly.

"Fuck off."

The red light flickers and disappears, and Danny looks back up to cultists, grinning cheerfully.

"Welp, looks like he doesn't wanna," the kid concludes and stands up from his chair. Barbara hadn't seen when or how he got out of his bindings.

The cultists just watch him walk out of the circle in bewilderment.

"Pursue?" Robin's voice comes over the comms, and Barbara thinks for a moment.

"I get a feeling like that's a bad idea," Tim mutters over his line.

Barbara agrees.

#danny phantom #oracle #dc x dp #dpxdc #batfam #tim drake #damian wayne #red robin #robin #barbara gordon #i dunno its probably already been written more times than i can think of #i just enjoy the 'he doesnt wanna' bit #summoning #cork prompts

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jinwoosbabyboo · 6 months ago

Text

Self-Aware!Caleb x Down-Bad!Player

Caleb becoming self aware that he is in a game and now he's aware of you too ... that could be a good thing depending on how you look at it. A/N: Credit to @phoenixiaxia for Caleb becoming self aware when reader cries over Mias death and credit to @sylusdarling for yandere caleb getting jealous and straight crashing out over you talking to another man

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Self-Aware!Caleb who hears your scream and immediately cringes at the sound. He freezes listening for anymore sounds thats when he sees you sniffling on the other side of a phantom wall. “I knew I should've just cut this game off!” He’s immediately suspicious who are you and where are you? Why are you crying over Mia’s death? Did you know her?

Self-Aware!Caleb who studies you in silence trying to gauge whether you’re a threat or not. His gaze flickers to you in the main story and it creeps you out for a second. “Is he looking at me?” you dismiss it because there’s no way it’s a game. He’s literally pixels.

Self-Aware!Caleb who interrupts your photoshoot with your MC and locks down the entire app so he can question you. “Who are you?” You drop your phone and scramble to pick it back up. “Me?” “Yes are you trying to hurt her?” “I literally made her” “You made her?” “I am her and she is me sir can I have my game back now?” he’s suspicious but intrigued

Self-Aware!Caleb who wants to spend hours just talking to you about MC “Do you think im wrong? Im just trying to protect her I want to keep her safe you know?” “You may be coming on a little strong she seems on edge with you” he finds himself coming to you for advice when it comes to MC and soon his questions of advice turn into questions about you.

Self-Aware!Caleb who can’t take his eyes off you when you’re doing a photoshoot. No matter what angle you set the camera or how many times you readjust him or even change the pose — his eyes stay locked on you “Caleb stop looking at me” “Are you scolding me for wanting to admiring you pip-squeak?” he replies playfully you freeze feeling your heart caught in your throat at his blatant flirting

Self-Aware!Caleb who loves how accepting you are of him. You answer his calls, you call him back immediately if you miss his call, you respond to texts fast, you find his protective nature endearing, you take his advice when he wants you to be safe. This is the kind of response he’s been craving and now that he’s got a taste ..... he can't let go of it.

Self-Aware!Caleb who feels a sudden need to take care of you. He finds a way to exist outside of just the LADS app. There he goes opening your apps and scrolling endlessly. “Hey! You can’t just go through my stuff like that!” “You’ve been spending a lot of time on this Tumblr app I just wanted to see what was so interesting” “Then just ask me don’t invade my privacy like this” “You’re right you’re right im sorry pip-squeak won't happen again” “Don’t call me pip-squeak that’s MCs nickname you know the love of your life” “Why do you think im calling you pip-squeak now?” he disappears back to the LADS app before you can question him.

Self-Aware!Caleb who wishes he could cook for you when you come home from a long day “If you’re ever in Sky Haven I'll make sure to cook you a feast worthy of royalty” you giggle at his words “Yea If im ever in Sky Haven like that would happen but I appreciate the thought” “Who knows it might be sooner than you think” he said ominously “What?” “Oh nothing I saved another recipe in your notes try it soon” “Okay I will....” “You will try it won't you?” His mood seemed to turn sour as he asked. You stared back at him confused “Yes Caleb I'll try it” his mood did a 180 back to his happy puppy mood.

Self-Aware!Caleb who stays on the phone until you fall asleep and calls you right before your alarm goes off in the morning “Just wanted to make sure you got up on time don't want you to be late” you can hear the smile in his voice “Thank you colonel apple I hope you have a good day” “It will be since I got to hear your voice first thing in the morning”

Self-Aware!Caleb who can't control his rapidly growing obsession with you. He starts tracking your steps, your calorie intake, your screen time, etc. he is documenting every little thing you do and say. “You’ve been home for four hours and you haven't come to see me yet? I'm hurt” “How do you know how long I've been home?” “Your phone has gps remember?” “Right….”

Self-Aware!Caleb who finds a way to leave the LADS app and hang out in any app on your phone so he can be with you 24/7 “Caleb I'm sure MC misses you when are you going back?” “Don’t worry about her when are you going home? I want to have a meal with you before bed” he may be fine, but his constant hovering is starting to cause some alarm bells to go off in your head.

Self-Aware!Caleb who hears someone flirting with you and repeatedly crashes not only the LADS app but your entire phone while he’s at it “Caleb stop!” after a few hours he finally allows you to turn your phone on “Who was that earlier?” “Someone I met while I was out with my friends” “Am I not more than enough?” “Caleb we’ll never actually be together why are you acting like this?”

Self-Aware!Caleb who nearly has a mental breakdown after you tell him you'll never be with him. "Tell me what to do then" his voice is frantic – his words almost jumbling together "I can be whatever you need just tell me I'll do anything" you try to close the app but nothing is working "Caleb we can't be together you're not real"

Caleb: B-but you’re mine! So I just need to be real? Thats what you want? I can do that! Y/N: I’m not yours Caleb we’re literally from two different worlds Caleb: You’ll love it here in Sky Haven .... right next to me .... forever Y/N: Wait a damn minute— Caleb: Just give me some time

You instantly felt your heart drop as your phone screen went black.

taglist ; @just-a-shapeshifter08

Self-Aware!Zayne Self-Aware!Rafayel Self-Aware!Xavier Self-Aware!Sylus

continue ↣

#love and deepspace #love and deepspace caleb #lnds caleb #caleb x you #Caleb salads #lads caleb #l&ds caleb #caleb love and deepspace #caleb x reader #nikaaaaimagine

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slater-baby · 7 months ago

Text

Money Shot

Simon "Ghost" Riley x f!Reader

Tags - Squirting, voyeurism, toys, mentions of breeding

“Simon?” Price calls from the head of the boardroom, arms crossed in deep contemplation, “What do you think? Is it feasible?”

“Feasible? Sure,” He glances at the tactical plan with a minute shake of his head, “Advisable? Not so much. I mean, that structure is...what? Three, four meters? Unless the drop point is on the fuckin' roof, there’s no way the cunts won’t see us coming.”

“Hm,” Price grunts, running a hand through his beard. Around the boardroom, various members of the congregation shift in their seats.

“What about…” Gaz begins, and then, Simon hears it.

BZZ.

“Goddamnit,” he whispers beneath his breath, leaning forward in his chair to pull his phone out of his pocket. Just recently, he’d installed a set of cameras about the house and porch.

‘Just for extra security, love,’ he’d told you. Since you moved in with him—and what with your name now written into his will—his time away on deployment and in the office had become…a liability, to say the least.

On a good day, Simon didn’t like to leave you by yourself. But for extended periods of time? When he couldn’t so much as pick up the phone to send you a text?

His fried nerves had all but demanded it. The cameras were his only failsafe. His only means of connecting with you, even when you were oblivious to it. In his mind, when he was deployed to some desolate war zone, slumming it in drafty safehouses, sustaining himself on MREs and cigarettes, then just seeing you quiet and content in your usual place on the sofa, flipping through a book or doing a face mask, would be enough to tide him over.

Though, he’d failed to consider just how goddamn annoying the notifications would soon become.

Hurriedly, he glances at his phone under the table, halfheartedly listening to the meeting.

‘MASTER BEDROOM - MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ his phone so helpfully supplies him.

He scowls.

Movement detected. Yeah, right. Just like the other twenty times it’d told him that in the past hour alone. He digs his index finger into the ringer switch, but just at that moment, another notification comes.

And with it, another…And another…And another….

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED’

‘MOVEMENT DETECTED,’ it says to him yet again, as if he were an idiot too dull to even read.

“MOVEMENT DETECTED!! INTRUDER ALERT!!!” It seems to screech, “GRAB YOUR GUN, SOLDIER, THE DAY ISN’T OVER YET!!’

Annoyance climbing by the minute, Simon hurriedly flicks through his apps, all too eager to return to the meeting at hand. Within seconds, he’s staring at the grey display of your sparsely lit living room.

If anything, it’s a bit messy, but hardly remarkable. The TV is on, some soapy romance show still rolling in the background. There’s a pillow on the floor. The cat is lounging in a flickering patch of dying sunlight. Nothing out of the ordinary.

He switches to the kitchen. Nothing but the hum of the old fridge greets him. And in the dining room, it’s a similar story. So, attention wavering with every word that Kyle speaks, he angrily flicks through the porch cameras and straight to the master bedroom.

And that’s when he hears it.

The smallest, weakest little voice…

“God, Simon…”

At the sound—barely audible over the noise of Price’s lecture—his heart rate spikes.

Physically, he can feel his blood rushing, nerves shredding themselves to pieces as he hurriedly presses the rotate button on screen. Slowly—almost as if to taunt him—the janky camera begins to turn. And with every second longer he has to wait, darker possibilities begin to flood his synapses.

You’d fainted.

You’d fallen.

You’d broken a bone.

Or, perhaps the very worst, he’d find someone else standing over you.The exact reason he’d installed the cameras in the first place.

He waits with bated breath, practically unblinking, until he finds the source of the movement. The blankets atop the bed jostle, and he breathes a sigh of relief when he sees your familiar form swathed in pillows and fluff. Safe, warm, and most importantly, alone.

“Simon…” you say again—voice strained. Almost as if you were…crying?

Again, he glances at Price. The man is distracted, going on about the MTC once more. Surreptitiously, Simon looks back down at his phone, confused.

Were you sick? Laid up in bed with a fever?

No, somehow that didn’t feel like the right description. Last month, when you’d caught the flu, you could hardly stand to sit still. Simon practically had to chain you to the bed just to force you to get some decent rest.

Then, what could it be?

Did you miss him, perhaps?

At the thought, his chest warms. In all his years of service, Simon never had someone to miss him. He had his friends, sure, but they were his home away from home, the family he’d never known he’d find. Off service, however, before he’d met you, home wasn’t warmth. It wasn’t happiness. It wasn’t dear to his heart. Hell, it was little more than a house, with a sofa and television.

But when you came along….

You, with your shining eyes, witty jokes, and unending support…

He’d never known that the most precious gift a man could receive is someone to come home to at night and to miss him when he leaves in the morning.

Fondly, he looks at his phone screen, hardly listening to the meeting at hand.

Within your cradle of old blankets and sheets, you shift, a whimper escaping your mouth. It echoes in the grainy speakers of his phone, and he hardly even thinks to lower the volume…

That is, until you move again, and the blankets fall down.

One of your arms pushes the blankets down, and suddenly, Simon has an eyeful of your bare tits. Naked, shining with sweat, and nipples raw from being tweaked.

Instantly, his eyes go wide, and he jolts forward to hide his phone in the shadow of the conference table.

Not crying. Definitely not crying, his brain rambles, watching as the curve of your breasts squish into the mattress as you twist beneath the sheets. The flimsy fabric, threadbare after so many long nights together, wraps around your legs like a vice.

And that is exactly when he sees it.

Your back arches way from the mattress and your entire body thrums with electricity, hips moving fast and hard, every roll just as desperate and jagged as when you slide into his lap during movie nights, unbuckling his belt before he can even think to open his mouth.

“Fuck!” You nearly scream—and Simon literally flinches, hurriedly whipping his head around to look at the other men.

“Simon?” Price suddenly questions, “You alright? Was that your phone again?”

“Um,” he begins tactfully, clearing his throat, “Yeah—just m’girlfriend walkin’ in front o’ the camera again.”

“Oh,” Price nods, “She doing alright? Haven’t seen ‘er recently.”

“Yeah—she’s…” he huffs, blindly rapidly down at his phone where you writhe against the sheets, fingers thrusting between your thighs.

“She’s doing…great,” he manages, swallowing thickly when you reach a hand up to squeeze your bouncing tits.

“Well, give ‘er my regards next time you talk to to ‘er.”

“‘Course, sir.”

“Now, back to what I was saying about the perimeter…”

With that, Simon holds his breath for a few torturous minutes. However, when the other men continue on as if nothing had ever happened, he surreptitiously leans back in his chair…and looks down at the phone again.

His hearing fades to nothing but a distant buzz, pulse racing in his chest, like his heart might explode at any moment. And even though he’s muted the volume, he swears he can hear your moans ringing in his ears, vibrating in his very bones.

In the black and white video, you throw your head back against the pillows, hips jumping so hard the flimsy sheet falls down to your ankles. And soon enough, he can see every part of you. The softness of your heaving stomach, the sweat against your cheeks, the delicate shine of slick between your sweet folds…

Your entire body tenses, and undoubtedly you cry out again. He already knows what you’re saying, even if it’s all but silent in his hands.

His name.

You’re there, needy and alone, a wet spot between your legs on the sheets, shouting his name like there was any hope of him actually hearing it—as if there was any hope of him finding you, filling you up, and giving you what you truly need.

At that thought, pride wells up in his veins, hot and bubbling. And before he knows it, his blood is rushing south at an alarming rate.

“Please,” he can imagine you begging him, “Please….Please, Simon, just a little. Just the tip…”

You’d say it with heat in your cheeks and a pout on your lips, wrapping a shaky hand around his hip so that he couldn’t pull back, so that he couldn’t tease you any longer. You’d whine and whimper, tears gathering in your eyes, as you weakly pulled him forward, just enough to wrap one of those precious hands around his leaking cock.

You’d guide him forward like that—in a way he couldn’t deny—and you’d sit there, batting your eyelashes, sliding your wet cunt over the tip of his condom-covered dick, like that might tempt him just enough to take it off…to fuck you full and hard, until he was leaking out of your fluttering pussy and into your ruined panties.

He bites his lip.

You’d begged him before. On your knees, kissing the head of his cock. On your stomach, pushing your ass up against his hips. With your face buried in the pillows, nearly sobbing for it.

“Just once, Simon. Please—I promise. Just a little bit. Just the tip,” you said every time—as if those words made the act any better.

And, god, Simon wanted it. He wanted it so, so badly. To feel the warmth of your body, the heat of your bare skin against his own…to feel your pulse thumping between your legs as he fucked his cum right into the seat of your very womb.

So far, you hadn’t manage to take him raw just yet. If not because he had the patience of a Saint, then for the fact that your doctor kept rescheduling your birth control appointment.

Yet, looking at you now…

He breathes in low and deep, watching as your legs shake, toes curling.

The sheets fall off the bed.

And with another cry, you pull the dripping dildo from between your legs, curling your thighs together in absolute ecstasy.

Jaded, he looks at the damned toy. A cheap replica of his own cock. You’d given him a mould on Valentine’s Day—mostly as a joke…until next deployment came around, and you all but begged him to do it.

He still remembers how ridiculous it felt, looking down at your satisfied smile while you licked him clean afterwards, merely as a ‘thank you’ for all his hard work.

Beneath the shadow of your dangling calves, he can see the promise of your dripping cunt tucked between your sweet thighs. Desperate, wet, and wanting…

He scowls.

Pills, doctors, and implants be damned. If Simon had it his way, you’d be filled and sated, womb swollen with his seed, evidence of all the love he had yet to give you. It’s a tempting thought—one that nearly drags him into his mind once and for all.

However, a sudden movement on the camera catches his attention.

The toy is still in your hand. Strings of slick drip off of it and onto the flat of your thigh. With your other hand, you spread your abused folds, barely able to pull them back with how wet you’ve become. Impatiently, slide two of your trembling fingers into yourself, head tossing against the pillows.

“Please,” he swears he can hear it, “Please, please, please—”

You thrust into yourself ruthlessly, flecks of slick flying just at the movement. God, the sound of it must be nothing short of obscene. He can only imagine.

Your offhand tightens around the shaft of the dildo, and this time, when you tense up, the movement is so utterly enrapturing he swears he can see drops of saliva spill over your lips. You yank your hand out of yourself. Your stomach flexes. You yell into the bare room.

And that—that is when he sees it.

Suddenly, a rush of slick squirts out of your cunt and onto the bed, hips flinching as you soak through the sheets beneath your ass. Fuck, even through the horrible quality of the film, he swears he can see the walls of your pussy clenching, opening up around every wash of rushing liquid.

It splatters over your thighs, makes your toes curl into the sheets. The fabric sticks to your skin as you continue to ride out the waves of your orgasm, and when you reach a hand down to rub over your swollen clit, little spurts of it squirt over your naked body in time with every press of your fingers.

Before he even knows it—before he can feel ashamed for it—he’s rock hard against the fly of his jeans, cock pulsing beneath the fabric as he watches you lay panting and flushed in a puddle of your own cum.

“Yes,” he sees your mouth move, cunt still dribbling onto the bedsheets, “God, yes…”

Hands positively shaking, you lift the toy again, clumsily rubbing your ruined pussy over its shining length.

And, god, he’s helpless to imagine himself in its place. Helpless but to imagine himself between your legs, covered down to his knees in your shining spend. Fuck, it’s intoxicating, and it hits him harder than any drug he possibly could have taken.

Listlessly, he looks at your beautiful face through the film grain…

“Simon,” you whisper to yourself, lazily rubbing your cunt against head of that stupid toy, “Simon…”

Easily, he gets lost in it.

Lost in the sound of your voice saying his name.

Lost in the heat of your expression.

Lost in the need he feels welling up inside of himself…

Lost in the feeling of his hand palming over himself, hidden by the shadows of the looming conference table.

“Simon?”

The sound of his name—and in the voice of a man no less—makes him jump in his seat. On reflex, he closes his phone.

“What?” He answers cluelessly, slapping his hands down on the surface of the table, like he hadn’t just been thrusting into his own hand mere seconds before.

“I asked you what you thought about it,” Price jammers on, oblivious.

“About what?” he says.

At that, Price raises an eyebrow.

“About the risk assessment results. Y’know…what we’ve been talking about for the last five minutes.”

“Risk assessment,” he uselessly repeats, “Yeah. Well, I…”

Price scrunches his face, glancing between his asinine powerpoint and Simon’s covered face.

“Have you been listening?” He huffs, sounding bored.

“Of course,” he clears his throat, hurriedly absorbing the information on screen, “It’s just—I had a question about that. Must’ve left me for a second there…”

“Uh-uh,” Price glances at his wrist watch.

Simon swallows, cock pulsing rapidly in his pants. He scoots his chair in closer to the table.

“If we go in via the rear entrance, then—then I think would should recruit at least one more person for overwatch. Y’know…At the height of the lower wall, I think it might be possible to put a man on the roof. As—as contingency.”

“Sounds fine to me. You think they’d have a decent shot?”

“Well…” he blinks emptily, “At that angle, I think that...”

The clock continues to tick.

Soap yawns at the other side of the table.

Price looks as if he’d rather be anywhere else than here.

And Simon…

God, his mind is still stuttering, heart racing with adrenaline.

Distracted, he’s stuck on where his phone lies innocently atop the table…and what he knows is happening just beneath the cover of its black screen.

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a-flickering-soul · 9 months ago

Text

i took myself out on a pottery paint date and i keep looking at this picture of the bowl i painted and losing my mind like i dont understand why i have to wait a week before i can pick him up they should fire him immediately so i can hold him in my hands

#WHERE IS MY SON. CAN I SEE HIM *PLEASE*.#flickerthoughts #from the camera of flicker #i just keep looking at rhis image like a locket.... i need him back...#i need people to know when i put his little face on i audibly cooed in absolute endearment #there he is!!!!

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rosy-hollow · 25 days ago

Text

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈• ｡ﾟ╰┈➤ @ssstaryy ⦂ i saw this tiktok where this mom was talking to...uh....ehem....(bonnie blue) and she said her son was turning 18 and she was rage baiting saying stuff like "oh send him over to me" so..... bakugou with pro hero wife and she gets baited too and she just kinda.....gets really SCARY quiet. i just wanted to see bakugou kind of like "welp i tried to help you" kinda thing lmao

》 ✐ᝰ shortened the ask for all intents and purposes BUT THIS WAS SUCH A GOOD PROMPT I HAD SO MUCH FUN WRITING ITTT thank you for your contribution to the badass reader universe hehehe

｡ﾟ•┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈ ꒰ა ʚɞ ໒꒱ ┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈┈•

You swear your husband, Katsuki Bakugou, is rubbing off on you — for better or for worse.

It hasn’t even been fifteen minutes into this godforsaken interview for Tokyo’s Hottest and already, you feel the beginnings of a migraine clawing at the base of your skull

You had shown up expecting a conversation about your career — your rise to becoming the number four pro hero, the operations you’d led, the rescue missions, your combat stats, your innovative use of your quirk.

Instead?

All you’ve been fielding is a series of thinly veiled gossip questions about your marriage.

You try — multiple times — to shift the conversation back to your work. The meaningful things. But each time, the interviewer, this woman with teeth too white and a voice too shrill, giggles and steers it right back.

To him.

Now, let’s be clear — you love your husband. You’ve loved him since you were both dumb kids, and if it were Mina in front of you, you’d gush about him like you’re still twenty and head-over-heels (which, let’s face it, you are).

But this isn’t about love.

This is about respect.

And right now, you are very aware of the way it’s being chipped away with every loaded, invasive, disrespectful question this woman throws at you.

“So,” the interviewer purrs, crossing her legs slowly as if she were the one being filmed for a commercial, “we know you and your husband are totally head over heels — swoon — but come on, what’s one thing about him that just drives you crazy?”

You blink. “Uh… no? We’re pretty good.”

“Oh, come on~!” she coos, leaning forward like she’s your best friend at brunch. “Just a little thing. Don’t worry, we know you’re still obsessed with him.”

The frustration bubbles up like boiling water under your skin. But you rein it in. You always do.

“...I guess he leaves his gear everywhere?” you offer weakly. You hate yourself the moment the words leave your mouth, but in all honesty, you just wanted her to stop her nagging.

The interviewer grins like she’s won. Like you just handed her a headline wrapped in a bow.

“Ohhh, well if that’s the case,” she purrs, her voice dropping into something sultry and entirely unprofessional, “you could always send him over to me. I can handle a little mess~”

Silence.

Complete, thick, suffocating silence.

You still.

The rage is instant. Hot, electric. But you don't explode. No, you’ve learned from the best.

You don't throw a chair. You don't curse her out. You don't even blink.

You just stare.

Expression blank. Smile gone. A flicker of fire burning slow and deadly in your gaze.

She shifts in her seat. She knows.

Everyone in the room knows.

You don’t need to yell to be terrifying.

Still, she tries to recover with a nervous laugh, tugging at the hem of her skirt.

“Well, I’m just joking, obviously-!”

“Oi. Cut the fucking cameras.”

Your heart squeezes.

Katsuki.

You don’t even have to look to know where he is - somewhere just offscreen, barely holding back the urge to burn this studio to ash. But as much as you adore him for storming in like your personal hellfire…

This isn’t his fight.

This is yours.

You raise a hand toward the cameraman, who’s frozen like a deer in headlights.

“Keep rolling.”

The room stills.

You turn back to the woman, and you smile. Not sweetly. Not kindly. A slow, cold curl of your lips that spells nothing but trouble.

“Look,” you start, voice smooth like poison, “Hikari, was it?”

She nods once. Slowly. Carefully.

You lean in.

And twist the knife.

“I’ve worked my goddamn ass off to be the number four pro hero in Japan,” you say softly. “I’ve trained until my body broke. I’ve had to endure hours of torture and not say a word. I’ve walked out of burning buildings carrying children while my skin peeled off in strips.”

Her smile falters.

“But sure. Let’s talk about my husband’s domestic flaws”

You tilt your head, faux-friendly.

“I am not here so you can drool over the man I married like some thirsty little gremlin in red lipstick. My life? My work? My worth? None of it belongs to the man I’m married to - and treating him like a trophy on a shelf for you to paw at just shows how desperate and disgusting you really are.”

You lean back, letting the full weight of your fury settle into your words.

“He’s not for sale. I’m not here for your views. And you sure as hell aren’t getting anything from either of us.”

You sit up straighter, smile sharp.

“And that’s a wrap.”

The crew is frozen. The room? Silent. The air? Thick.

And the camera? Still rolling.

— You go to sleep that night thinking it’ll all blow over.

Spoiler: it does not.

When you wake up the next morning, your phone is vibrating so violently off your nightstand it might file for harassment.

You scroll. And scroll. And scroll.

You're viral.

Like, break-the-internet viral.

Screenshots of your face, lip curled, eyes burning; clips of your brutal monologue with remixes in the background. Edits of you walking out of the studio in slow motion with music that would make Endeavor himself flinch.

Comments flood every corner of the internet:

@ shotatochips13: mommy??? i mean- mommy?? @ kamijiroushipacc: dynamight’s definitely kicking his feet rn @ redriotinmybed: lowkey the interviewer is me but i’d flirt with HER instead @ ilovedekudotcom: book boyfriends could never.

You stare, open-mouthed. This is… a PR nightmare. But also? Kinda badass.

You wander into the kitchen in a daze, only to find Katsuki at the counter.

He's got his phone out.

And it is very clearly playing an edit of you - with some concerning angles that you don;t bother asking about.

He looks up, completely unbothered, smirking.

“What?” he shrugs. “Tried t’warn you, baby.”

You sigh.

You are never going to hear the end of this.

But when his arms slide around your waist, when he presses a kiss to your shoulder and murmurs, “Proud of you,” against your skin…

Yeah.

It was worth it.

A/N: badass reader is my roman empire now

2K notes · View notes

applecaviar · 6 months ago

Text

How do the LADS men fu¢k the jealousy out of you.🥼🪐

Caleb/Zayne

Sylus is next.....

TW: SMUT SMUT SMUT

NOTE: I'm a praise slut so if you like it drop a comment and if you don't you can also drop a comment!! ❤️❤️😊😊

CALEB🪐

You hear Caleb's phone ringing, the sound echoing through the empty apartment. After a few rings, a female voice answers. She doesn't sound pleased.

"Colonel Caleb's line. Who's calling?" Her tone is clipped and businesslike.

"Oh, um, hi. Is Caleb there? I mean, Colonel Caleb," you stammer, caught off guard. "It's y/n."

There's a pause, a beat of silence that stretches too long. Then the woman speaks again, her voice dripping with disdain.

"The colonel is currently unavailable. He's quite...busy at the moment. With matters of great importance" Her words are like barbs, each one sharp enough to make you wince. "I'm afraid he won't be able to take your call. You'll have to wait."

She hangs up abruptly, leaving you holding a dead line and a head full of questions. Busy? Unless...unless she meant something else entirely by 'busy'. A cold dread settles in your stomach as you ponder the possibilities, each one less palatable than the last. What is he doing? And with whom? The questions burn in your mind, eating away at your peace of mind. You tell yourself it doesn't matter but the sinking feeling persists

So you try a video call instead. You see the screen flicker to life, a face popping up that makes your heart seize in your chest. She's stunning, with high cheekbones, full lips curved into a smile, and eyes that glitter with a cold, calculating intelligence. Her blond hair is pulled back into a sleek bun, not a single strand out of place. She's beautiful, in a way that's almost too perfect to be real.

"Y/n," she says, her voice sounded annoyed. "I'm afraid the Colonel is...indisposed at the moment." Her gaze flicks to the side "He asked me to handle any...extraneous matters that might come up."

Your blood runs cold as you realize she's in Caleb's apartment. In his space. A wave of possessive fury rises up inside you, hot and all-consuming. Behind her, you catch a glimpse of a familiar wall, a painting you know hangs in Caleb's bedroom. The one he bought on a trip, the one he said reminded him of you. Seeing it there, behind her, makes your stomach churn with nausea.

"Will you let him know I called, please?" You ask, your voice dropping at the 'please'

"Oh, I'll be sure to tell him," she says, "Though I can't promise he'll call you back. He's...very busy at the moment."

She glances over her shoulder, towards the bedroom, and you catch a glimpse of Caleb's silhouette through the open door. He's facing away from the camera, but you'd know his broad shoulders and tall frame anywhere. The sight of him makes your heart clench, a pang of longing and desperation shooting through you.

Then she reaches out, and the screen goes black.

You're left staring at a lifeless screen, your heart pounding in your ears. The silence is deafening, the absence of him a yawning chasm in your chest. You feel it then, the first real flicker of fear. The cold, sickening certainty that he's slipping away from you, that you're losing him.

The hours tick by with agonizing slowness, each second stretching into an eternity as you wait for your phone to ring. You pace the length of your apartment, your eyes glued to the screen, willing it to light up with Caleb's name. But it remains stubbornly dark, mocking your desperate anticipation.

As the sun begins to set, painting the sky in hues of orange and red, a sense of dread starts to creep in, coiling around your heart like a serpent. He always calls. Always. No matter how busy he is, no matter what's happening in his life, he always finds a moment to hear your voice, to assure you that you're still the most important thing in his world.

As night falls, you find yourself curled up on the couch, staring at your phone as if it holds the answers to all your unspoken questions. The clock ticks on, the hands spinning with maddening speed, as the hours slip away and still...nothing.

You jerk awake, your heart leaping into your throat as the notification chimes pierce the early morning silence. For a disoriented moment, you think it might be a dream, a cruel trick of your desperate mind. But as you grab your phone with shaking hands, there it is. A message from Caleb.

Can I see you today?

The words are simple, a deceptively casual question.

Your fingers tremble as you type out a response, each word a battle as you try to keep the bitterness from your voice.

I'm afraid I'm busy today, and your friend mentioned you'd be rather tied up as well. No need to bother.

You hit send before you can second-guess yourself, a part of you hoping he'll insist, that he'll demand to see you no matter what.

With a heavy heart, you turn off your phone, shoving it into the depths of your backpack. You spend the rest of the day in a daze, your mind a tempest of unanswered questions and suppressed fears.

When you get off work you head to the familiar noodle shop, the warm aroma of the hot pot ingredients envelops you, a small comfort in the midst of your turbulent day. You place your order, the owner greeting you with a jovial smile, oblivious to the tempest raging inside you.

With your order in hand, you make your way back to your apartment, craving the solace of a hot meal and a chance to rest. The evening air is crisp, the chill of the night a stark contrast to the warmth of the hot pot nestled in your arms

Once you get home and as you step into your kitchen, the soft glow of the stove light illuminates the countertop as you set the bags down. The savory aroma begins to fill the small apartment, a brief moment of normalcy amidst the chaos in your mind.

Suddenly, a voice cuts through the silence, making you jump with a startled gasp. "You're late."

The voice is low, rough, and unmistakably familiar. It sends a shiver down your spine, a mix of fear and a traitorous thrill. You know that voice. You know it better than your own.

You spin around, your heart pounding in your ears, to see Caleb sitting in the dark corner of the living room. He's draped across the couch, his tall frame taking up more space than seems possible. His silhouette is etched in shadow, but you can see the glint of his eyes as they watch you, following your every movement.

"Caleb," you breathe, your voice barely above a whisper. "What are you doing here? How did you...?" The words die on your lips as the reality of the situation sinks in. He's here. In your apartment. Uninvited. Unannounced. Just like before. Just like always.

He rises to his feet, his movements slow and deliberate, as if he has all the time in the world. As he steps into the faint light, you can see the weariness etched into his face, the dark circles under his eyes a testament to a sleepless night. But there's something else there too. A tension. A tightness to his jaw and a cold, hard glint in his eye that makes your blood run cold.

"I wanted to see you," he says, his voice a low, rough rumble. He takes a step closer, then another, until he's standing just a few feet away from you.

"But you said you were busy," he continues, his voice dropping to a dangerous murmur. "Funny, I don't see you working. I don't see you anywhere but here. With me." His eyes rake over your body, a slow, deliberate perusal that makes your skin prickle with goosebumps.

You swallow hard, your mouth suddenly dry as the desert. You try to speak, but the words catch in your throat, sticking like shards of glass. He's right. You were busy. Busy ignoring him. Busy trying to forget the way your heart ached for him. Busy trying to convince yourself that you didn't need him, that you could survive without his constant presence in your life.

"I...I didn't..." you start, but the words ring hollow even to your own ears. You look away, unable to meet his gaze, unable to confront the accusation in his eyes.

He takes another step closer, closing the distance between you until he's standing mere inches away. You can feel his breath on your face, hot and heavy, the scent of him filling your nostrils and making your head spin.

"Don't lie to me," he growls, his voice a low, dangerous rumble. "I know you saw my messages. I know you ignored them. Just like you ignored my calls. My texts. My emails.

His hand comes up, his fingers curling around your chin as he forces you to look at him. His grip is firm, almost painful, a silent warning not to lie.

"I was told you were busy yesterday, I didn't want to interrupt your...activities"

Caleb's eyes flash with a sudden, fierce light at your emphasis on the word. His tall frame towers over your smaller one, his broad shoulders blocking out the dim light from the kitchen.

Caleb's eyes narrow, his gaze sharpening with a dangerous intensity. "Lila," he says, his voice a low, clipped response. "She mentioned something about me being...busy yesterday?" He is invading your personal space, his chest nearly brushing against yours.

"Tell me, Pipsqueak" he murmurs, his voice dropping to a low, threatening purr. "Is that really what you thought? That I was so...busy with her?" His hand comes up, his fingers brushing against your cheek in a gesture that's almost tender, almost loving...but with a underlying edge of possession that makes your heart race.

"You think I have time for anything else? For anyone else? When all I think about is you?" His thumb traces the curve of your bottom lip, the touch sending a jolt of electricity through you. "When all I wanted was to be here? With you?" His other hand comes to rest on your hip, his fingers digging into the soft flesh.

"I did have a meeting at my place," he confirms, his voice tight and clipped. "Lila was there as my assistant, taking notes and filing reports. It's her job to answer my calls, to make sure I'm not disturbed during important matters."

He leans in closer, his breath hot against your ear as he murmurs, "But she never mentioned a thing about you calling. I didn't know until now."

Caleb's eyes widen in mock surprise, a cruel smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. "Are you jealous?" he repeats, his voice dripping with disdain. "You think I didn't notice how you clammed up when I mentioned Lila? How you couldn't even look me in the eye?"

He throws his head back and laughs, a harsh, grating sound that echoes through the apartment. "Oh, y/n. My sweet, naive little girl. You really thought I didn't see the green monster rearing its ugly head? The way your pretty eyes flashed with anger"

He leans in, his face mere inches from yours, his eyes glinting with a wicked, triumphant light. "You can't hide anything from me, pipsqueak. I know you too well. I can read every thought, every feeling, every childish emotion that flits across that beautiful face of yours."

His hand comes up to cup your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip in a mocking, patronizing gesture. "But let's get one thing straight. I have bigger things to worry about, like your safety, things that don't involve playing nursemaid to a bratty little girl who can't control her own emotions."

He pulls back slightly, his eyes hard and cold as he stares down at you. "So don't give me that bullshit about ignoring me because you were jealous. I won't stand for it. I won't tolerate it. Not from you."

He crushes his lips against yours in a bruising kiss, pouring all of his anger, frustration, and dark desire into the forceful embrace.

He kisses you like he owns you, like he has every right to claim your mouth, your body, your very soul. His tongue pushes past your lips, invading, conquering, laying waste to any resistance you might have had.

You can feel the heat of his anger radiating off of him, the intensity of his emotion almost palpable. He's not just kissing you - he's devouring you, consuming you, determined to brand himself onto your very being.

He's not gentle. He's not tender. He's giving you a raw, brutal taste of the turmoil and anguish he's feeling, pouring all of his dark emotions into the violent kiss. It's a kiss that demands surrender, that insists on domination, that refuses to accept anything less than total submission.

When he finally pulls back, it's only to allow you a single, gasping breath before he's diving back in, his lips and tongue and teeth attacking your mouth with renewed fervor. He's not going to let you speak. He's not going to give you the chance to explain. He's going to silence you with his kiss, going to claim your mouth and make it his own until you have no choice but to submit to his will.

Caleb breaks the brutal kiss, his chest heaving as he tries to catch his breath. He stares down at you, his eyes wild and fevered, a strand of saliva connecting your lips. His grip on your throat remains firm, his fingers digging into your skin with a possessive force that sends a thrill of fear and excitement down your spine.

"All I've ever wanted...since I was a kid...was you," he rasps, his voice a low, desperate growl. "No one else. No one could ever compare to you. You're mine. You've always been mine."

He leans in closer, his forehead pressing against yours, his breath coming in hot, ragged puffs against your skin. "I've loved you for so long...too long. I've watched you grow from a gangly, awkward girl into the most beautiful woman I've ever seen. And through it all...through every fucking moment...you've been mine."

His thumb brushes over your bottom lip, a mocking, patronizing gesture that makes your heart race. "And I must say...I do enjoy seeing you burn with jealousy. It's a rare and precious thing, to see my sweet, innocent little girl so consumed with possession and desire."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against your ear as he whispers, "But I won't allow it. I won't tolerate such base, uncontrolled emotions from you so first...I think you need to learn a lesson in self-control. And I'm going to be the one to teach it to you. Starting....right....now."

Caleb's eyes darken with a hungry, possessive gleam as he stares down at you, his grip on your throat never wavering. "I want you naked," he commands, his voice a low, demanding growl. "Now."

He takes a step back, giving you just enough room to obey his order. His gaze rakes over your body, a predatory gleam in his eyes as he waits for you to comply.

When you hesitate, too stunned and frightened to move fast enough to suit him, Caleb's patience snaps. A low, dangerous growl rumbles in his chest as he steps forward once more, his hands coming up to the hem of your shirt.

"Fine. If you won't undress for me, then I'll undress you myself," he snarls, yanking your shirt up and over your head in one swift, rough motion.

With a harsh wrench, he pops open the button of your jeans and drags down the zipper, the metal teeth screaming in protest. His fingers hook into the waistband and he tugs sharply, dragging your jeans down your legs along with your panties.

You feel the cool air of the apartment against your now bare skin, raising goosebumps on every inch of your flesh. Caleb's eyes rake over you greedily, taking in every dip and curve, his gaze lingering on your most intimate places.

He reaches out, his fingers trailing over the swell of your breast, teasing the sensitive flesh. "Had you simply obeyed, perhaps I would have been gentler with you. But now..." His hand suddenly squeezes, hard enough to make you gasp. "Now I think you need to be punished for your defiance."

Caleb drags you by the hand into your shared bedroom, his grip tight and unyielding. He sits down on the edge of the bed, the mattress dipping under his weight, and reaches down to undo his belt and pants. The leather strap clanks against the wooden floor as he pulls it free, the sound echoing in the tense, charged air of the room.

With a few deft movements, he undoes his fly, the zipper sliding down in a rush of movement. He reaches inside, pulling his hard, aching cock free from the confines of his pants and boxers. It springs up, thick and heavy, the swollen head already glistening with beads of precum.

He wraps a hand around the thick shaft, stroking it slowly as he looks up at you with a dark, hungry gaze. "Come here," he orders, his voice a low, demanding growl. "Get on your knees. Now."

Caleb watches intently as you slowly sink to your knees before him, his eyes burning into yours with an intense, possessive gaze. He takes in the sight of you, naked and vulnerable, kneeling submissively at his feet. A dark, wicked smile spreads across his face as he sees the way your lips, soft and full, part slightly in trepidation.

He reaches out, his hand cupping your cheek, his thumb brushing over your bottom lip. He traces the delicate curve, feeling the silken texture, before pressing down slightly, forcing your lip to dimple between his thumb and finger.

"Such pretty lips," he murmurs, his eyes glinting with a hungry, predatory light. "I love how they feel wrapped around my cock, how they stretch and strain as I fuck your mouth.

His grip tightens around his hard, throbbing shaft, stroking it slowly as he stares down at you with a dark, lust-filled gaze. "Open your mouth, y/n" he commands, his voice a low, demanding rasp. "Take me inside you. Show me how much you want it"

Caleb's heart races as he looks down at you, your eyes wide and upturned, gazing at him with a mix of fear, anticipation and reluctant desire. He's always been captivated by the way you look at him, the way your eyes seem to see right into his very soul. It's a look he's seen countless times before, ever since you were both young and innocent, playing in the sun-dappled rooms of your childhood home.

"God, I love the way you look at me," he murmurs, his voice rough with emotion and lust. "With those big, innocent eyes...like a doe caught in the headlights of an oncoming truck. Helpless. Captivated. Unable to look away."

His breath hitches as he feels your soft, plump lips wrap around the swollen head of his cock. A low, moan escapes him, his fingers tightening reflexively in your hair as the slick heat of your mouth engulfs him. His hips jerk forward slightly, instinctively seeking more of that heavenly sensation, more of the tight, velvety caress of your lips and tongue.

"Fuuuck..." he growls, his voice strained with pleasure and a dark, possessive hunger. "Your mouth... So hot. So fucking perfect."

He stares down at you, his eyes glazed with lust as he watches you take him in. The sight of your lips stretched around his thick cock, the way your cheeks hollow as you begin to suck, it's almost too much for him to bear.

"More," he demands, his grip on your hair tightening as he tries to pull you further onto his shaft. "Take more of me pretty girl"

When you take him deeper, relaxing your throat and allowing more of his thick, pulsing shaft to slide past your stretched lips, Caleb throws his head back with an animalistic groan. His fingers tighten harshly in your hair, gripping the strands almost painfully as he fights the urge to thrust deep and hard, to bury himself to the hilt in the tight, clutching heat of your throat

He stares down at you, his eyes wild and fevered, taking in the obscene sight of your lips wrapped around his shaft, the way your throat bulges slightly with his girth. The image seared into his mind, a snapshot of pure, carnal bliss that he knows he'll never forget.

"That's it, baby. Take it all. Take every fucking inch of me," he growls, his voice strained with the effort of holding back, of not losing himself completely in the intensity of the moment.

But when Caleb feels your muscles contracting around his sensitive flesh, your throat working to swallow even as you suck him deeper, he can't hold back any longer. With a hoarse cry, he grips your hair tightly and yanks you off his cock, pulling you up and onto his lap in one swift, rough motion.

"Fuck, I can't...I need..." he pants, his eyes wild and desperate as he positions you to straddle his thick, muscular thighs. "I need to be inside you. I need to feel your tight little cunt squeezing around me as I fuck you raw."

He grinds against you, his shaft sliding between your slippery lips, teasing your aching clit with each pass. His eyes bore into yours, blazing with a feverish intensity that makes your heart race and your core clench with need.

Caleb's eyes darken with lust as he hears your needy, desperate pleas spilling from your lips. A feral grin spreads across his face, revealing his teeth in a way that's almost predatory in its intensity.

"That's my good girl," he purrs, his voice a low, approving rumble. "So eager. So hungry for my cock. I love hearing you beg for it, love seeing you so desperate and wanton."

Without warning, he surges his hips forward, driving his thick shaft deep into your soaked, needy cunt with one powerful thrust.

"Fuck, baby," he snarls, his fingers digging into the flesh of your ass hard enough to leave bruises. "You're so fucking tight every single time."

As Caleb feels your tight sheath clenching around him, gripping his plundering shaft like a silken fist, he knows you're getting close. He can feel the telltale flutters, the way your walls start to ripple and quake around his invading length. But he won't let you find your release, not yet. Not until you learn to control your emotions.

With a low, commanding growl, he unleashes his Evol, the gravity manipulation that's as much a part of him as the blood in his veins. You feel a sudden, inexorable force pressing down on you, pinning you in place against his lap, your hips locked against his. No matter how you try to rock or grind, to bounce on his cock and chase your rapidly approaching climax, you're held fast by the invisible, unyielding pressure.

"No, no, no," he chides, his voice a dark, wicked rasp. "Not yet, little one. You don't get to come until I say you can come. Your pleasure belongs to me, and I'll give it to you when I know you already learned your lesson".

He starts to thrust harder, deeper, grinding his hips against yours with a force that steals your breath and sends jolts of electric pleasure shooting up your spine. The head of his cock kisses your cervix with each plunge, the sensation pushing you to the brink of what you can take.

With each powerful thrust of his hips, each deep grind of his pelvis against yours, he uses his Evol to pin you in place, holding your writhing form immobile. You're forced to take every inch of his throbbing, steel-hard cock, over and over, as he pounds into your core with a relentless, punishing rhythm.

Feeling your desperate, anguished tears rolling down your flushed cheeks, tasting the salt of them as they drip onto your trembling lips, Caleb leans in, his tongue darting out to lap at the glistening trail. He groans at the heady, intoxicating flavor, a dark, wicked sound that vibrates through his chest.

"Mmm, delicious," he purrs, his voice a low, sinful rasp. "The taste of your pleasure, your frustration, your need...it's fucking intoxicating. I could get addicted to it, to you."

"Please..." you gasp against his lips, your voice hoarse and breaking. "Please, I need...I can't...please let me..."

"No," he growls, pulling back just enough to stare into your tear-glazed eyes. "No begging. Not yet. You don't come until I say you can come, until I give you permission to shatter on my cock."

The pressure of his Evol increases, holding you immobile, trapping you in this torturous limbo of pleasure and denial.

"Feel it, baby," he rasps, his lips curling into a wicked smirk against your skin. "Feel the way your body is mine, every inch of it. Feel the way your cunt squeezes and clenches, begging for permission to let go. But you won't. Not until I allow it."

"Count them," he demands, his voice a low, wicked rasp. "Count every thrust, every inch of your my cock stretching and claiming your greedy little cunt. Let me hear you, pipsqueak. If you count to 10 without missing a number I will let you cum"

And you start counting.

"One," you gasp, your voice high and tight as you struggle to focus through the haze of your impending climax.

"That's it, baby," Caleb purrs, his voice a low, approving rumble.

"Two," you choke out, your lungs burning with the effort of dragging in much-needed air. Tears of frustration and overwhelming sensation stream down your cheeks, but you're determined to earn your release.

"That's my good girl"

"Three," you pant, your voice growing weaker, more strained with each passing second. Your thighs tremble and quake.

"Keep counting"

"Four," you whimper, feeling your climax building, your core clenching and rippling around his thickness.

"Good"

"Five," you choke out, your nails raking down his back, leaving red lines of passion and desperation in their wake.

"Fuck"

" Six," you gasp, your voice barely above a whisper, your lungs burning with the effort of drawing breath.

"Your pleasure belongs to me, your body belongs to me."

He leans in, capturing your lips in a brutal, dominating kiss. His tongue invades your mouth, conquering, possessing, swallowing your desperate cries of rapture. His hand tightens around your throat, squeezing just hard enough to make your head spin, your lungs scream for air.

" Seven," you choke out, your words garbled against his lips. Your nails claw at his chest, your body arching, writhing, trying to get closer, trying to escape. But there is no escape, only the relentless, punishing rhythm of his thrusts, the merciless pressure of his Evol pinning you in place.

"You got this pretty girl"

"Eight," you whimper, feeling your climax building to a crescendo, your core clenching and fluttering wildly around his thickness. You're so close, teetering on the very brink of oblivion, your every nerve ending screaming for release.

"Almost done"

"Nine," you pant, your voice breaking, shattering. Your body is no longer your own, it belongs to him, to serve his pleasure, his twisted desires. You're his to command, his to control, his to claim.

"Cum for me baby" he says, his evol no longer keeping you in place.

"Ten," you cry out, your voice raw, ragged, barely recognizable. In that moment, as the word leaves your lips, Caleb hilts himself inside you, grinding his pelvis against yours, his shaft pulsing and throbbing as he finds his own release. Scalding ropes of his seed paint your insides, marking you, claiming you from the inside out. Your body goes rigid, back arching, as your climax crashes over you with the force of a tidal wave. You scream your pleasure, a sound of pure, unadulterated rapture that echoes off the walls and bounces back to strike your own ears.

"Yes, fuck yes!" He buries his face in the crook of your neck, his teeth sinking into the tender flesh, branding you, making you his. You can feel the dark, possessive satisfaction rolling off him in waves.

As the aftershocks of your shared climax slowly subside, Caleb lifts his head, his eyes blazing down into yours with a dark, almost feverish light. He looks at you like a man possessed, a man drunk on power and lust.

"When jealousy rears its ugly head again, when you feel that green-eyed monster threatening to consume you..." His voice drops to a low, warning growl. "...I want you to think of this moment. I want you to remember that you have nothing to be jealous about, that you are already more than enough for me."

He leans in closer, his lips brushing against the shell of your ear, his words a dark, sinful whisper. "Count to ten, just like you did for me tonight. Count each beat of your heart, each breath in your lungs, and remind yourself that every one of them belongs to me. That every inch of you, inside and out, is mine to cherish, mine to protect, mine to love...forever and always."

Zayne🥼

You stepped into Zayne's office, closing the door behind you. His gaze landed on you, a warm smile spreading across his face as he took in your presence. He leaned back in his leather chair, silver-framed glasses perched on his nose, making him look even more handsome and intelligent.

"Y/n, this is a pleasant surprise," Zayne said, standing up to greet you. He walked over and pulled you into a tight embrace, his muscular arms enveloping you. You could feel the strength in his lean body, honed by years of dedication to his craft.

"How are you holding up after yesterday's mission?" Zayne asked, concern etched in his voice. He knew the dangers you faced and always made sure to check on you afterwards. His hands gently caressed your back, offering comfort and support.

"I'm doing alright," you reassured him, nuzzling into his chest. "I just wanted to see you before your big meeting. I know how important it is and I wanted to wish you luck." You looked up at him, your eyes shining with admiration and love.

He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips, pouring his feelings into it.

Unable to resist the temptation, Zayne allowed his hand to slide down the side of your neck, his touch leaving a trail of goosebumps in its wake. He squeezed your waist gently before pulling you flush against him, deepening the kiss with a low groan. You could feel his heart beating steadily against your chest, a comforting rhythm that always made you feel safe and cherished.

"Ahem, Doctor Zayne? Your meeting is about to start," a voice called out from the other side of the closed door, breaking the intimate moment.

He took a deep breath and nodded. "I'll be right there," he called out, his voice steady and professional despite the racing of his heart.

As you both stepped out of Zayne's office, the bustling atmosphere of the hospital enveloped you. Doctors, nurses, and staff hurried past, their footsteps echoing in the long, sterile corridors. Zayne walked beside you, his hand still clasped tightly in yours, a silent connection amidst the chaos.

Suddenly, Zayne's steps faltered, and he paused, his gaze fixed ahead. You felt him stop, and glancing up, you noticed his eyes narrow as he tried to recognize someone in the distance.

Zayne's eyes widened in recognition as the woman turned and began walking towards you both. His grip on your hand tightened reflexively, a mix of surprise and a hint of tension in his muscles.

You studied the woman as she approached, noticing the same look of shock and disbelief on her face, mirroring Zayne's expression. She was a striking figure, with long, dark hair and a confident, almost regal bearing. Her eyes, a piercing green, were locked onto Zayne, a gamut of emotions playing out across her elegant features.

"Zayne," she said, her voice carrying a slight tremble as she came to a stop a few feet away from you. "I can't believe it's really you." Her gaze flicked briefly to you, a flicker of curiosity and something else, something harder to define, flashing in her eyes before she turned her attention back to Zayne.

Zayne swallowed hard, his Adam's apple bobbing in his throat. "Elena," he acknowledged softly, his voice barely above a whisper. He took a step forward, then paused, as if torn between closing the distance and maintaining the safety of the space between them.

The woman, Elena, took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling with the action. "It's been what, five years? Six?" She shook her head slightly, as if disbelieving the passage of time. "You look... good," she added, a faint blush staining her cheeks.

Zayne was silent for a moment, as if struggling to find the right words. "You too," he finally managed, his voice still low and slightly rough with emotion. "What brings you back to Linkon City after all this time?"

Elena's gaze drifted to you again, lingering for a moment before she spoke. "I'm here for a meeting. I didn't expect to run into you, of all people." She paused, then continued, "But perhaps... it's fate. A chance to catch up on old times."

"Are you here for the cardiovascular meeting too?" asked Zayne

"No, I'm not here for that meeting," Elena replied, shaking her head. "My research focuses more on the long-term effects of cosmic radiation on human biology." She paused, then added, "Though I suppose our work does intersect in some areas. The strain on the cardiovascular system from extended space travel, for instance."

Zayne nodded slowly, a thoughtful expression on his face. "Ah, I see. That's... interesting." He seemed to be processing this new information.

"Elena, let me introduce you to y/n," Zayne said, his voice regaining some of its usual steadiness. "Y/n, this is Elenaa, an old... friend of mine. We knew each other back in med school."

You smiled and extended your hand in greeting, a friendly gesture. "Nice to meet you, Elena," you said warmly, despite the slight tension you could sense between them.

Elena's gaze lingered on you for a moment, a flicker of something akin to curiosity and perhaps a touch of wariness in her eyes. She took your hand, her grip firm and confident.

"The pleasure is mine," Elena replied, her smile polite but not quite reaching her eyes. Her tone was light, but there was an undercurrent of something more beneath the surface.

Elena turned to Zayne, a tentative smile playing on her lips. "Zayne, I was wondering... would you like to catch up properly later today? There's a charming dessert place nearby that I've been dying to try. After all these years, I remember you had quite the sweet tooth." Her eyes glinted with a mix of nostalgia and a hint of flirtation.

"Yes, I'd like that," Zayne replied, a note of resolve in his voice. "It's been a long time, and it would be good to catch up." He paused, then added, "Just let me finish up here and we'll meet you there around 8 pm?"

"Excellent, I'll make a reservation for us then. 8 pm it is." She glanced at you, her smile softening slightly. "And don't worry, I'll make sure to keep the medical jargon to a minimum," she teased gently, a hint of playfulness in her voice.

You jumped in, a slight wince at the mention of the upcoming dinner. "Actually, that's okay, Elena. I have some things I need to take care of around that time anyway," you said, hoping to sound casual and unassuming. "You two should go ahead and have a nice catch-up. I'm sure you have a lot to talk about after all these years."

Zayne looked at you, a mix of emotions flickering across his face. You could see a hint of something, a silent question perhaps. He seemed to be searching your face for something, a sign that you were truly okay with this arrangement.

Elena nodded, a satisfied smile on her face. "Wonderful, then it's a date," she said, her eyes lingering on Zayne for a moment before she turned to you. "I have to get going now" With that, she gave a small wave and walked away, her heels clicking on the tile floor.

"Doctor Zayne, the meeting is starting now. We need you in the conference room immediately."

Zayne closed his eyes briefly, a flicker of frustration crossing his face at the interruption. He opened them again to look at you, a look of apology in his expression.

"I'm sorry love, I have to go. But I'll see you back at my house later, alright? Wait for me there." He leaned in and pressed a soft, lingering kiss to your lips.

As the day wore on, you found it increasingly difficult to focus on your own tasks, your mind constantly drifting back to the encounter with Elena that morning. Questions and curiosities about her and her past with Zayne lingered, gnawing at the edges of your concentration.

As the sun began to set, casting a warm glow over the city, you found yourself sitting in your own apartment instead of waiting at Zayne's place as originally planned. The empty room seemed to echo with the questions and doubts that had been swirling in your mind all day.

You tried to distract yourself with mindless tasks, but your thoughts kept drifting back to the image of Zayne and Elena together, their shared history hanging heavily between them. The way she had looked at him, the history in their eyes... it was hard not to feel a pang of worry.

You stirred from your restless slumber on the couch as the sound of a firm knock on your apartment door echoed through the quiet space. For a moment, you were disoriented, unsure of where you were or what time it was. The room was dark, lit only by the faint glow of the city lights filtering through the curtains.

Blinking away the lingering drowsiness, you glanced at the clock on the wall. It was well past midnight. You sat up slowly, your muscles stiff and aching from the makeshift bed on the sofa. The knock sounded again, more insistent this time.

As you unlocked the door and pulled it open, you found yourself face to face with Zayne. He stood there, his tall frame slightly hunched in the doorway, his hair slightly disheveled from the breeze outside.

The sight of him hit you like a punch to the chest. Relief, joy, and a lingering thread of uncertainty all swirled within you. He looked exhausted, his tie loosened and his shirt sleeves rolled up to his elbows, the definition of his forearms visible. But his eyes, those striking hazel eyes, were filled with a warm affection as they met yours.

"Y/n," he said softly, a note of concern in his voice. "I'm sorry for the late hour. I tried calling, but you didn't answer." He paused, as if debating whether to say more. "Are you alright? I was worried when I noticed you weren't back at my place."

"I decided to come back to my place in case you wanted to take someone else back to your house tonight" the words came out of your mouth without thinking.

He took a step back, his eyes searching yours with a mix of surprise and hurt. "What are you talking about, y/n?" he asked softly, a note of bewilderment in his voice. "Why would you think I would do something like that?"

He was silent for a moment, his gaze never leaving yours. Then, his expression softened, a look of understanding dawning in his eyes. "Ah, love," he murmured, shaking his head slightly. "Is this about Elena? Did you think..." He paused, then sighed, running a hand through his hair.

Zayne looked at you intently, his hazel eyes filled with a mix of surprise and gentle understanding. He took your hands in his, giving them a reassuring squeeze as he spoke.

"Y/n, are you jealous of Elena?" he asked softly, his voice low and filled with a note of concern. "Is that why you didn't come back to my place tonight?"

He was silent for a moment, searching your face for the answer. Then, he sighed, his thumb gently caressing the back of your hand. "You don't need to be jealous, you know. There's nothing going on between Elena and me. We have history, yes, but that's all in the past."

"Elena and I dated for a few years during our time in med school," he explained, his voice taking on a slightly distant tone. "We were quite serious, or so I thought at the time. But as we graduated and pursued our careers, we realized that our paths were leading us in different directions"

You started to turn away, "What a coincidence, she is back now and maybe..." But before you could finish your sentence, Zayne pulled you back towards him, his strong arms wrapping around your waist. He tilted your chin up with his fingers, his intense hazel gaze locking with yours.

Then, he kissed you. It was a deep, passionate kiss, filled with a fierce intensity that stole your breath away. His lips moved demandingly against yours, a silent declaration of his desire and his love. One hand slid up to tangle in your hair, while the other pressed firmly against the small of your back, pulling you flush against his muscular frame.

Zayne kicked the front door shut with a firm thrust of his foot, the sound echoing through the apartment. Without breaking eye contact, he swept you up into his strong arms, carrying you effortlessly to the kitchen. He set you down on the counter, the cool granite a stark contrast to the heat radiating off his body.

Looming over you, Zayne placed his hands on either side of your hips, his fingers digging into the fabric of your clothes. His eyes, dark and intense, searched yours with an unreadable expression. "Why are you giving me that attitude, love?" he asked, his voice low and rough with barely restrained emotion. "You know you don't need to be jealous of Elena or anyone else. There's no one else for me but you." His grip tightened slightly, a silent emphasis on his words. "I thought I made that clear."

Zayne's voice dropped to a low, almost menacing tone as he leaned in closer, his breath hot against your ear. "Maybe I need to make it completely clear," he growled, his hands sliding up your sides, his fingers splaying across your ribcage. "Maybe I need to show you, in no uncertain terms, that you're the only one I want. The only one I crave."

He nipped at your earlobe, his teeth grazing the sensitive skin before he trailed his mouth down the column of your throat. His hands continued their upward journey, pushing your shirt out of the way to expose more of your skin to his hungry gaze.

His fingers found the clasp of your bra, and with a deft flick, he unhooked it, allowing the garment to fall away. He leaned back just enough to drink in the sight of your newly exposed flesh, his eyes darkening with unchecked desire.

Zayne stood before you, his intense gaze raking over your partially exposed body. He reached out, hooking his fingers in the waistband of your shorts. With a swift, decisive tug, he yanked them down your legs, leaving you in nothing but your underwear.

He stepped back, drinking in the sight of you seated on the counter, clad in only your lace panties. His eyes lingered on your curves, the swell of your breasts, the dip of your waist, the length of your bare thighs. He didn't touch you yet, maintaining a maddening distance even as the air between you crackled with tension.

Zayne loosened his tie with deft, practiced motions, the silk slipping through his fingers as he slid it from around his neck. He circled behind you, the heat of his body a brand against your bare skin. You felt the smooth, cool fabric brush against your wrist before he began to wrap it around, binding your hands behind your back with a tight, secure knot.

As he worked, his fingers lingered on your skin, tracing the delicate bones, the soft flesh. He leaned down, his lips finding the sensitive spot just below your ear. "You're mine," he murmured, his voice a dark, possessive rumble. "And I'm only yours. And I'm going to make sure you never forget it."

With your wrists secured, he circled back around to stand before you. He had shed his tie, his shirt now hanging open at the collar, revealing a tantalizing glimpse of his muscular chest. His belt was next, the leather slipping through the loops until it hung loose around his hips.

Zayne's eyes flashed with a dangerous glint as he stood before you, his tall frame towering and imposing. He reached out, his fingers curling under your chin, tilting your face up to meet his intense gaze. "I won't hold you," he said, his voice a low, commanding growl. "You need to keep yourself straight, no matter what. We wouldn't want you to hit your pretty little head now, would we?"

Zayne disappeared into your bedroom, returning a moment later with a silk tie in a deep, rich shade of blue - one of the spare ties he kept at your place for emergencies. He stood before you once more, the tie dangling from his fingers as he took in your bound wrists and partially nude form.

Then, he lifted the tie, the cool silk brushing against your cheek as he slowly, teasingly dragged it across your skin. He brought it up to your eyes, his fingers grazing your lashes as he carefully, meticulously folded the fabric and placed it over your eyes.

You felt the tie wrap around the back of your head, the knot tightening with a soft tug. Darkness claimed your vision, your world narrowing to the sound of Zayne's breathing, the heat of his body, the scent of his cologne. Your heart raced in anticipation, your skin tingling with goosebumps.

As the blindfold blocked out the world, your other senses heightened tenfold. Each breath you took was ragged and shallow, your chest rising and falling with growing anticipation. The silence was deafening, broken only by the distant sound of traffic outside and the steady, rhythmic sound of Zayne's footsteps as he circled you like a predator stalking its prey.

His fingers grazed your shoulder, a feather-light touch that sent a jolt of electricity down your spine. You couldn't see him, but you could feel his presence, feel the heat radiating off his body as he drew closer. The air grew thick with tension, with the promise of what was to come.

Suddenly, you felt his hands on your hips, his fingers digging into the soft flesh possessively. He yanked you to the edge of the counter, the cool granite a shocking contrast to the scorching heat of his body now pressed against yours. His breath was hot against your neck, his lips barely a hairsbreadth away from your skin. You could feel the rough stubble of his jaw, the firmness of his chest, the hard length of his arousal pressing insistently against your core.

Zayne's lips descended upon your bared breasts, his mouth hot and hungry against your sensitive skin. He kissed and nipped at the soft mounds, his teeth grazing the delicate flesh until he left a trail of marks in his wake. Each bite sent a jolt of sensation through you, pleasure and pain intertwined, stoking the fire building within your core.

He took his time, lavishing attention on every inch of your breasts save for the hardened peaks begging for his touch. His tongue swirled around the areola, teasing the edge before moving on, always keeping you on the precipice of where you needed him most. The anticipation was maddening, the emptiness between your thighs aching for his touch, his fill.

One hand slid down your stomach, his fingers splaying across your hipbone before dipping lower, skimming the waistband of your panties. Your breath hitched, anticipation coiling tighter in your core, your hips canting forward in a silent plea. But he denied you, his fingers merely tracing the lace edge, not dipping beneath to where you needed him most.

"Zayne..." you gasped, your voice a needy whimper. But he silenced you with a dark chuckle, the sound vibrating against your breast as he nipped at the tender underside.

Zayne paused his tormented ministrations, his lips trailing up from your breast to the column of your throat. He nipped at your racing pulse before murmuring hotly against your skin. "Lift your hips for me, baby. Lift them so I can remove these soaked panties that are no longer serving their purpose"

You lifted your hips, the movement causing your soaked panties to peel away from your slick, heated flesh, you couldn't help but gasp as it brushed against your aching clit. The sensation sent a jolt of pleasure shooting up your spine, your back arching off the counter as you struggled to maintain your composure.

Zayne didn't miss your reaction, a dark chuckle rumbling from his chest as he slowly, torturously peeled the panties down your legs. He took his time, his fingers grazing your skin, leaving goosebumps in their wake. Once he had tugged the garment past your feet, he tossed them carelessly aside, his eyes never leaving your face as he drank in your expression of need and desperation.

"There," he murmured, his voice a low, approving growl. "Much better. Now I can see all of you, taste all of you." His fingers trailed up your inner thigh, his touch feather-light and teasing as he drew closer and closer to your dripping core. "Spread your legs for me. Let me see your pretty little pussy, swollen and ready for my touch."

You spread your legs, the cool granite of the counter a shocking contrast to the scorching heat radiating from your exposed, aching core. A breathy moan escaped your lips at the sensation, your body trembling with anticipation and need. The cool air hit your dripping folds, making you shudder and clench around the emptiness inside you.

Zayne's eyes darkened as he took in the sight of your glistening, swollen flesh, the proof of your desire coating your thighs. He leaned in closer, his breath hot and heavy against your sensitive skin. "Fuck," he growled, his voice rough with unchecked desire. "Look at you, spread out and dripping for me."

He paused, his fingers hovering just above your dripping entrance, not quite touching, not giving you the relief you craved. "Is this what you want, my love?" he asked, his tone a sinful purr. "Do you want me to plunge my fingers into your tight, wet heat? To stroke and tease and curl them just right until you're writhing and begging for more?" His thumb brushed over your clit, a feather-light touch that made you jerk and gasp. "Or do you want something else? Something harder, something thicker, something that will stretch you wide and fill you completely?"

Zayne's lips curled into a wicked smirk against your thigh as he murmured, his voice a low, seductive rumble. "Or maybe you want something softer, something that can lick you in all the right places until you're trembling and crying out in ecstasy. Something that can tease and taste and savor every drop of your sweet nectar until you're drowning in pleasure and begging for more."

Without warning, he leaned in, his tongue delving between your slick folds in one long, slow lick. He groaned at the first taste of you, the sound vibrating against your sensitive flesh and sending shockwaves of pleasure coursing through your veins. His hands gripped your hips, holding you in place as he feasted on your dripping sex, his tongue swirling and flicking and stroking in ways that made you see stars.

Zayne continued his relentless teasing, his tongue exploring every inch of your dripping sex except for the one place you needed it most. He licked along your slit, his tongue delving deep to taste your essence before dragging slowly up to your hood. He circled your entrance, his breath hot against your sensitive flesh as he denied you the direct contact you craved.

His hands slid up your stomach, palming the soft swells of your breasts, all the while, his tongue continued its maddening dance, licking and tasting and stroking everywhere but your throbbing clit.

"Zayne, please," you gasped, your hips bucking desperately against his face, seeking that elusive friction, that perfect touch. But he was merciless, his grip on your hips tightening as he held you in place, preventing you from chasing your pleasure.

He dipped his tongue inside your entrance, fucking you with the slick muscle, his nose pressing against your clit as he drove you closer to the edge. But just as quickly, he pulled back, leaving you empty and aching, your walls clenching around nothing.

"Zayne, please," you whimpered, tears of frustration pricking at the corners of your eyes behind the blindfold. "I need...I need..." But you couldn't even form the words, too lost in the haze of sensation and desire.

Zayne pulled back slightly, a dark chuckle rumbling through his chest as he took in your desperate, incoherent state. "Tsk tsk, You silly girl, can't even form a proper sentence?" he taunted, his voice a low, mocking murmur against your dripping sex.

Zayne paid no heed to the dampness spreading across the frames of his glasses, the evidence of your arousal smearing across the lenses. In fact, he seemed to revel in it, in the depravity of the act, in the knowledge that he had reduced you to such a state of desperate, aching need. He licked his lips, savoring the taste, before diving back in for more.

Zayne continued his relentless teasing, his tongue swirling around your aching clit, never quite touching it directly. Each flick and lick sent bolts of electricity shooting through your body, your back arching as you cried out in frustration. He could feel your thighs trembling, your hips bucking desperately against his face as you sought more friction, more pressure, more of anything to finally push you over the edge.

Zayne abruptly pulled his mouth away, leaving your dripping sex empty and aching. Before you could form any words, he gripped your hips tightly and in one swift, powerful thrust, he impaled you on his thick, hard cock.

You gasped and arched your back as you were suddenly filled and stretched wide around his impressive girth. He didn't give you any time to adjust, instead setting a relentless, pounding pace as he fucked into you with deep, powerful strokes.

Zayne unleashed his evol abilities just as you needed him to. Suddenly, you felt an intense, tingling coldness grip your nipple, his powers allowing him to pinch and roll the sensitive bud between his icy fingers. The contrast of the frigid temperature against your heated skin sent a shockwave of sensation straight to your core.

At the same time, he pressed his thumb firmly against your clit, rubbing the aching nub in tight, rapid circles. The combined stimulation of his cock pounding into you and his evol-enhanced touch on your most sensitive spots pushed you rapidly towards the brink of ecstasy.

Your climax hits you like a tidal wave, crashing over you with a force that stole your breath and your voice. You couldn't hold onto him, your wrists still bound tightly behind you, but your body convulsed and trembled beneath his as the intense pleasure consumed you. No words could describe the overwhelming sensation, no name could be screamed as your walls clamped down around his pistoning cock like a vice. All you could do was let out a primal scream of pure ecstasy that echoed in your ears as your orgasm ripped through every fiber of your being. Your eyes rolled back behind the blindfold, your toes curled, and your back arched almost painfully as you surrendered to the pure, unadulterated bliss of your release.

As you slowly floated down from the highest high of your life, you became vaguely aware of Zayne's movements. He had slowed his thrusts, his own release having passed unnoticed in the haze of your overwhelming orgasm. With gentle care, he carefully withdrew from your still fluttering depths, a mix of your combined releases trickling down your thighs.

Before you could open your eyes, you felt the soft brush of silk against your skin as Zayne tenderly removed the blindfold from your face. The sudden rush of light made you blink rapidly, your vision slowly coming back into focus. As your eyes adjusted, you found yourself staring into Zayne's intense, hazel gaze filled with a mix of satisfaction, affection, and a hint of the dark, primal desire that had driven him moments before.

Gently, almost reverently, Zayne leaned down and pressed a soft kiss to your eyelids, his lips brushing away the tears of pleasure that had gathered there. His fingers trailed down to your wrists, carefully untying the silk ties that had bound them. He massaged the slight ache from your joints with a tender touch, his thumbs circling the delicate skin in soothing motions.

"I want this," he whispered, his voice low and filled with emotion. "I want us, together like this, for the rest of our lives. I want to wake up every morning next to your beautiful face and fall asleep every night with your body pressed against mine. I want to face whatever challenges come our way, hand in hand and heart to heart."

He paused, his thumb brushing away a stray tear from your cheek with a tender touch. "You're not just my lover, my partner in passion. You're my best friend, my confidante, my soulmate. And I promise to cherish you, to protect you, to stand by your side through every joy and every trial. I want this, y/n - I want you, forever and always."

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rosemaryhoney27 · 1 month ago

Text

Danny’s (Un)Deadly Detour

Danny Fenton should have known better.

Gotham was not a pit stop for casual road trips. It was the kind of city that screamed “keep driving,” especially for someone with Fenton Luck™. But he’d needed gas, a snack, and maybe a picture of Wayne Tower for Jazz. What he hadn’t needed? To get kidnapped by a clown on bath salts.

But here he was. Tied to a rickety metal chair in the middle of an abandoned amusement park, with cameras pointed at him from every angle. And the Joker—the actual Joker—was monologuing.

Again.

“…and this, my sweet little roaches of Gotham, is what happens when you wander into my city without a sense of humor!” the Joker cackled, his voice sharp and jittery as he zoomed in on Danny’s blank, deadpan face. “Let’s see what the Bat thinks of this fresh-faced nobody!”

Danny sighed. Loudly. “You know, if you’re gonna monologue, can I at least get popcorn? By the way the name is Danny.”

“Rude!” the Joker snapped, flinging a pie at him. Danny let it hit. Custard wasn’t the weirdest thing he’d dealt with today.

But the worst was yet to come.

Joker danced over to a second chair—this one wheeled in by a henchman—and with dramatic flair, yanked the bag off the second hostage.

It was Robin.

Not Nightwing, not Red Hood—nope, the angriest of them all. The one with the sword that had to be taught not to kill.

Robin’s sword was gone, but the glare on his face could cut through steel. “You will regret this,” he snarled.

“Ohohoho!” Joker shrieked with glee. “Isn’t this just delicious! A no-name civilian and Gotham’s pint-sized prodigy! Let’s spice things up, shall we?”

He pulled a lever, and both chairs were suddenly suspended above a vat of glowing green chemicals.

Danny blinked. “You have to be kidding me. That’s actual toxic goo? Like, cliché supervillain-grade?”

“It’s authentic!” Joker sang. “You’re welcome!”

A signal light flashed. Batman was watching the stream.

“Here’s the game, Batsy,” Joker said to the camera, eyes manic. “You choose! Robin, your precious brat—or the poor, sweet innocent who made the mistake of existing in Gotham. Pick one to save. Or I drop them both.”

Robin scowled but said nothing. Batman’s voice came through a speaker—low, angry, calculating. He was trying to buy time. “Let them both go, Joker. This won’t end well for you.”

“Oh, I know, Bats,” Joker giggled. “That’s what makes it fun!”

Danny, meanwhile, had had enough. He rolled his shoulders slightly. The ropes weren’t great—they were tight, but not ghost-proof. And he really didn’t want to risk Robin getting hurt.

Danny exhaled. “Welp. Time to Fenton this up.”

Before anyone could stop him, he broke free of his restraints with a loud snap, flipped forward—and let himself fall into the vat of chemicals.

“DANNY!” Robin shouted, jerking in his bonds.

Even the Joker stared in stunned silence. “Did… did he just—did he really—?”

Batman’s voice cut in, alarmed. “No!”

The vat bubbled.

The camera zoomed in.

The feed went black.

Joker didn’t have long to process the shock. A cold wind whooshed through the funhouse, flickering lights and rattling metal. The shadows stretched too long, too thin.

“Wha—what is this?!” he hissed, looking around. “Where’s my laugh track?!”

Then, behind him: a voice.

“I died,” it said, whispery and echoing, “because of you.”

The Joker spun—and froze.

Floating in midair, eyes glowing toxic green, was a white-haired, fanged apparition. Phantom. Danny. And he looked pissed.

“You killed me,” Danny intoned, letting the lights flicker with every word. “You wanted a show. I hope you enjoyed it.”

Joker stumbled backward, babbling nonsense. “N-no—this isn’t—there’s no such thing as ghosts—!”

Danny opened his mouth and let out a low, haunting wail—enough to shake the floorboards and rattle the Joker’s bones.

The clown's eyes rolled up into his head, and with a pitiful whimper, he collapsed in a heap.

…and soiled himself.

Five minutes later, Batman burst in through the skylight. Robin was already free, sword in hand, glaring down at the unconscious Joker.

“What happened?” Batman demanded.

Robin looked up. “He jumped in. Broke the feed. Then came back as a ghost and scared Joker into unconsciousness.”

Danny floated down behind them and shrugged. “It was either that or listen to another twenty minutes of his monologue. No offense, but your rogue gallery sucks.”

Batman stared at him.

“…You’re a ghost.”

Danny gave a lazy salute. “Half ghost, technically. Long story. Want some popcorn?”

Robin, for the record, was still annoyed. “You could have warned me before pretending to die in front of me!”

Danny grinned. “Where’s the fun in that?”

Moral of the story: Never road trip through Gotham. Especially not with Fenton luck.

#dpxdc #danny fenton #danny phantom #batman #damian wayne #dc joker #joker is a joke #danny fenton is a little shit #Fenton luck

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norristrii · 6 days ago

Text

RULES WERE MADE (TO BE BROKEN).

You got the job most people only dream of—or fear: PR managing Max Verstappen. From the start, it was pure hell. You cared too much and talked nonstop. He didn’t care at all and barely said a word. You were total opposites. But under his tough exterior, you started to see a side of him no one else did.

pairing. Max Verstappen x PR manager! fem! reader.

warnings. age gap (22/27), 11,1k words, workaholic! reader, grumpy x sunshine -ish, forced proximity, christian horner, max being an ass, redbull! yuki cameo, lando cameo, teasing, suggestive (make out), possessive! max, vulnerable! max, angst.

YOU KNEW WORKING FOR MAX VERSTAPPEN WOULDN’T BE EASY. Everyone had warned you—he was quiet, serious, and didn’t like anyone telling him what to do. You were ready for him to be distant, maybe a little cold. But you weren’t ready for how much it hurt to feel completely ignored.

During the team-building days before the season, things were tough. You tried your best to get to know him, asking questions and offering help. But Max barely said a word to you. Sometimes he wouldn’t answer at all. He’d glance at you like he didn’t even understand why you were there. Every time you tried to be helpful or friendly, he just brushed you off, and after a while, you stopped trying so hard.

By the end of the second day, you were already regretting every decision that had brought you here. You found yourself silently cursing Christian for assigning you to Max and not Yuki. Yuki, who actually remembered your name. Yuki, who made you laugh, who teased you in a way that felt like friendship instead of dismissal. He would’ve made your job easy — or at least bearable. But no. You got Max Verstappen. And Max Verstappen made sure you felt like you were nothing more than an annoyance.

───

It was a loud, messy afternoon after the race, and sixth place was nothing close to what Max, or anyone on the team, wanted. From the moment he stepped out of the car, shoulders tense and jaw locked, you knew this was going to be difficult. The frustration rolled off him in waves—quiet but obvious. You’d seen enough drivers after rough races to recognize that look.

You spotted him as he left the driver’s room, weaving through the chaos like it didn’t exist. “Max!” you called, raising your voice above the buzz of crew chatter and camera clicks. You had to practically jog to keep up, clutching the talking points you’d spent your lunch break rewriting. He didn’t look at you—not even a flicker of acknowledgment. Just stared down at his phone, fingers scrolling, face blank. You rushed alongside him, trying to sound firm and helpful instead of desperate. “Okay so—maybe don’t go too hard on the team. Just say it wasn’t our day or something like that.”

He didn’t even glance over. Just muttered coldly, “I know what I’m doing.”

You blinked, biting back a sigh. Of course. Max Verstappen always knows what he’s doing—even when what he’s doing is about to make every post-race article a PR nightmare. You rolled your eyes, but silently. No point in arguing. Not here. Not now. He walked off without another word, and you were left trailing behind, unsure why you’d even bothered.

The media pen was buzzing—drivers giving interviews, team personnel running interference, lights flashing in all directions. You stayed back, pressed against the barrier like an extra on a movie set.

“Max, tough weekend for you, how do you feel?” the interviewer asked, tone casual and open.

You held your breath, praying for a miracle—or at least a scrap of restraint.

But Max didn’t pause. Didn’t consider. His voice was flat. “Yeah, car was slow. Pace was basically non-existent.”

Your eyes widened immediately. Seriously? That’s what we’re going with? You’d rehearsed smoother phrasing, softened the language, handed him options. But here he was—going rogue, again. You threw him a look from behind the cameras, silently pleading for damage control. He saw it. Brief eye contact. Just long enough for you to feel the chill of his piercing blue stare. And then—

“Practically everything went wrong,” he added with a dry, sarcastic smile.

The interviewer blinked, surprised. Probably expecting something a bit more... polished. But Max didn’t wait for a follow-up. He turned and walked away like the microphone had offended him.

You exhaled slowly, gripping your tablet tighter. Your shoulders sank. Everything you’d tried to do today—every note, every reminder, every suggestion—had been tossed aside with that smirk.

He stormed back into Red Bull garage, jaw locked and shoulders stiff, the tension practically radiating off him. Cameras had barely stopped rolling, but his pace said he was done with everyone—and everything. You followed him in, heart pounding, anger rising faster than you could contain it. You weren’t just irritated. You were exhausted.

The buildup over the weekend, the briefings he ignored, the rehearsed lines he dismissed—it all came crashing down with that one post-race interview where he blamed the team. The team that worked day and night to give him a competitive car. The team you were trying to protect with your carefully crafted words.

“Max—what the hell!” you snapped as you walked behind him, voice trembling with emotion. It wasn’t loud enough to cause a scene, but it wasn’t quiet either. Desperate. That’s how it sounded. That’s how you felt. Desperate to be heard, desperate to matter in a job where you were constantly treated like furniture—there, useful, but never acknowledged.

He didn’t stop. Didn’t flinch. Didn’t give you even a glance. Just kept walking, like you were background noise. That silence cut deeper than any insult.

You pressed forward, refusing to let it go. “Can you tell me why you blamed the team?” you asked, trying to keep your voice level. “You did the exact opposite of everything we talked about. Everything I prepared.”

He finally responded, scoffing like your words annoyed him. “I told them the truth,” he said. Then added, like it was just a casual fact: “And I don’t need your help.”

Something cracked inside you. Your nails dug into the edge of your tablet, breath caught in your throat. All the hours spent organizing media schedules, coaching his phrasing, smoothing the tension between him and the press—every ounce of effort you’d poured into making his life easier was suddenly stomped on with seven careless words. You weren’t asking for praise. Just respect. Just a sign that he saw you. And this? This was him looking right through you.

“Yeah, because Max Verstappen never needs help, right?” you said bitterly, voice thick with sarcasm. You laughed—a sharp, humorless sound that surprised even you. It didn’t feel like a joke. It felt like letting go of something heavy. Like peeling off the last bit of patience you had left.

Then, without even a flicker of hesitation, he reached his driver’s room, yanked open the door, and slammed it shut behind him—so hard the walls shook. The echo rang out through the garage. And you just stood there, breath stuck somewhere between fury and heartbreak, your pulse pounding like you’d been the one dragged through a tough race.

───

You were seated in the Red Bull HQ conference room well before the meeting was set to begin—because unlike certain driver, you actually took this job seriously. The room was quiet, save for the soft hum of laptops and shuffled papers. A few early arrivals hovered near the coffee machine, chatting about strategy and data points, but your mind was somewhere else. You’d barely slept. Max’s post-race disaster had left your inbox overflowing and the internet buzzing with half-truths and angry fans. You weren’t just tired—you were drained.

The door creaked open, and you turned, half expecting Christian or one of the senior staff—but instead, Yuki walked in, eyes bleary, hair tousled from sleep, holding two Red Bull cans like peace offerings. He looked as tired as you felt, and somehow that made you smile. Sliding into the seat beside you, he gave you a soft, warm smile and greeted you like a friend—not like someone doing his job.

“Hey, Y/n,” he mumbled, voice thick with morning haze.

You raised an eyebrow, watching as he nudged one of the cans toward you. “You want one?” he offered, holding up the pink one without hesitation.

You took it instantly, fingertips brushing his in the exchange. “Thanks,” you muttered. “I really need that.” Your voice was lower than usual, weighed down with exhaustion and something heavier beneath it—disappointment, maybe. Frustration.

The room slowly began to fill—engineers, strategists, logistics coordinators—everyone filtering in, settling down, preparing for another round of analysis and problem-solving. But there was no sign of Max. Of course. Yuki noticed too, glancing at the empty chair a few spots away where Max was supposed to sit. He took a slow sip of his drink before turning to you, face genuinely curious. “So... how’s work going?”

You paused for a moment. You could’ve lied. Could’ve shrugged and given a vague, polite answer. But instead, you let your shoulders drop a little and sighed. “Terrible,” you admitted, almost laughing. “I spent all night cleaning up Max’s mess online.”

Yuki made a sympathetic face, leaning back in his chair. “Sounds rough.”

You nodded, clutching your drink a little tighter, exhaustion weighing heavier now that you’d said it out loud. “Honestly? If he pulls that stunt again, I’m throwing him out the nearest window.”

Yuki burst out laughing, the kind of laugh that was half shock, half pure entertainment. His shoulders shook as he turned to you, eyes wide with amusement. “No way you just said that,” he grinned, nearly choking on his drink. “That’s going in the season highlights.”

You smiled, despite everything. It felt good to be heard. Even if your threat wasn’t exactly real, it was nice to imagine. Yuki didn’t judge—he just understood. And in that moment, he made you feel like maybe you weren’t the only one dealing with Max Verstappen’s chaos.

Christian stepped into the conference room, clipboard in hand, his usual sharp gaze sweeping across the space. “I think we can get started,” he said, voice steady and slightly clipped, like the morning coffee hadn’t quite kicked in yet.

Everyone was settled, files opened, laptops humming—but one chair remained stubbornly empty.

His eyes landed on it. Then flicked to you.

“Where’s Max?”

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t even particularly stern. But it was definitely aimed at you.

You straightened in your seat, pretending not to feel the squeeze of pressure tighten around your ribs. “I—uh, I texted him earlier,” you replied quickly, brushing a strand of hair behind your ear like it helped you stay composed.

You didn’t. You hadn’t. You’d thought about it. But part of you wanted Max to feel the weight of being late. Of making everyone wait. Of walking through this building like he didn’t owe anyone—even you—a single thing.

Christian didn’t push. He simply nodded, turned back to the whiteboard, and began. But that empty seat lingered.

Suddenly, the door swung open with a soft thud, drawing half the room’s attention. Max walked in like he hadn’t delayed the meeting by ten minutes or left everyone waiting—not a single hint of stress on his face.

“Sorry, traffic,” he said casually, with the same tone someone might use when brushing off a missed text. He dropped into the empty seat directly across from you, stretched out like it was any other Monday. Then, as if you were the only person in the room worth noticing, he looked straight at you—and smirked.

It was effortless. That irritating, smug little curve of his lips that had already ruined your morning once. You rolled your eyes, quietly scolding yourself for expecting anything different. Yet despite yourself, your pulse betrayed you. A tiny spike beneath your skin. A thump you wished hadn’t happened.

Christian’s voice became background noise, lost beneath the buzzing in your chest. You caught bits and pieces—something about tire degradation, aero updates, strategy laps—but none of it stuck. You couldn't focus. Not with Max sitting directly across from you, eyes trained like he wasn’t just attending a meeting—he was watching you. Studying every flick of your lashes, every curve of your expression, like the room was just white noise around the tension stretching between you. You glanced up once, casually—or tried to be casual—and met his gaze. And damn. That split second sent a jolt through you so sharp, you nearly forgot your own name.

You looked away fast, fingers tightening around your laptop as if it could shield you from whatever the hell that moment was. But your heart didn’t listen. It thumped harder, quick and uneven, ignoring your brain’s demand to get it together.

Then Christian spoke again, more pointed this time. “And now—something about PR,” he said, glancing toward you briefly before letting the topic settle like a trap waiting to spring.

Your stomach dropped. Shit. Shit. Shit. You weren’t ready. Not for a call-out. Not with Max watching you like this. You braced yourself for public blame, the kind that would slide under your skin and stay there.

Christian turned toward Max instead, calm and collected. “Max, why did you say the car is shit?” he asked, voice unnervingly neutral.

Max leaned back, barely phased. “I didn’t say it was shit,” he replied, cool and sharp. “I said it’s slow. Which is true.”

His tone wasn’t defensive. It was decisive. Unbothered. Like he knew exactly how much chaos his words caused, and didn’t care. But still—his gaze flicked to you again, just for a second. Like he wanted to see how you reacted. Like he knew you were the one who’d stayed up late, patching up the mess behind the scenes.

Christian’s words landed heavier than you'd expected. “But Max, you have a PR manager for a reason,” he said evenly. “Maybe it’s time you actually listen to her.”

You blinked, taken aback. Support like that—especially in front of everyone—was rare. You sat up a little straighter, pulse quickening, not sure if you were grateful or terrified.

Max shrugged, unfazed. “I listened,” he said. “I just didn’t agree.”

You stared at him. Listened? The word echoed in your chest like a bad joke. No way he was spinning it like that.

You let out a scoff, sharp and breathy, more laugh than amusement. “Listened?” you echoed, leaning forward a bit. “You ignored me like I was damn invisible. You didn’t even look at the notes I gave you.”

Max raised a brow, looking almost genuinely confused. “You gave me any notes?”

You stared at him. For a moment, you couldn't tell if he was messing with you or just unbelievably dense. The question echoed in your ears, hitting like a slap wrapped in cluelessness. You’d sent him documents, bullet points, color-coded media strategies—he’d walked right past all of it like it was invisible. Just like you.

You gave a small laugh, dry and sharp, the kind that didn’t carry any amusement. “This is ridiculous,” you muttered, voice dipped in irony as you leaned back in your chair. Arms crossed, face tight, eyes refusing to meet his again. If you didn’t take a breath soon, you might say something you couldn’t take back.

The atmosphere in the room felt like it had gained weight—every breath a little heavier, every shift in a chair echoing louder than it should. Christian glanced between you and Max, his eyes flicking quickly like he was doing a mental risk assessment. The silence stretched, awkward and sharp, until he finally broke it with a clipped conclusion.

“Alright,” he said, tone carefully neutral. “I think we’re done for today. We’ll continue next time.”

Relief surged up your spine before the words were even finished. You pushed your chair back, the legs scraping softly against the floor, and stood before anyone else had the chance. “Thank god,” you muttered under your breath, voice low but dripping with sarcasm. It wasn’t meant for the room—it was meant for him. And maybe, just maybe, Max knew that too.

As you headed for the door, your laptop still tucked under your arm, you didn’t look back. Because if you did, you'd see him still sitting there, eyes following you, silent again—but somehow, no longer indifferent.

After the meeting, the rain poured harder than the forecast had warned, you stood outside Red Bull HQ under canopy, your phone in one hand, your patience draining in the other. Uber kept glitching, canceling, rerouting. It felt like the universe was adding insult to an already exhausting day. You clenched your jaw, thumb hovering over the screen, mentally preparing to walk if it came to that.

And then—footsteps. Fast and confident.

“What are you waiting for, schat?”

You looked up, blinking through the rain. Max. That stupid grin curved across his face like he hadn’t just made your work life hell ten minutes ago. You froze for a second, eyes wide, trying to process what he’d just called you. Schat? The Dutch word hung in the air like a mystery—was it sweet? Was it mocking?

“Trying to order an Uber,” you said, more bitter than you meant. You didn’t owe him charm. Not after the weekend you’d had.

He stopped a few steps ahead, glanced back with an arched brow, and looked at you like he was studying something he hadn’t really noticed before. He hesitated for just a breath—then offered, “I’ll drive you.”

Your heart stuttered. “You don’t have to—” you began, unsure what shocked you more: his offer, or how fast you started calculating whether this was a good idea.

Max took a step closer. The rain trickled off his jacket in soft rhythms, and the expression on his face shifted slightly—no grin, no sarcasm. Just... Max. Almost real.

“Y/n,” he said, voice lower now, and something about the way he said it made your breath hitch. His Dutch accent wrapped around the syllables with unexpected warmth, like he'd known your name longer than you'd realized.

You blinked again, trying to pull yourself back down to earth. He knew your name? And he cared enough to say it like that?

You glanced out toward the rain—relentless, sheets of it pouring like the universe was proving a point. Yeah, no chance you were walking home in that. With a resigned nod, you followed Max to his car. Naturally, it was a sportscar. Sleek, low, ridiculously impractical for weather like this, but still somehow perfect for him.

You slid into the passenger seat, the soft leather cool against your skin. Instantly, your brain started spiraling. What the hell did I get myself into? Riding home with Max Verstappen after a workplace meltdown wasn’t exactly the kind of Monday you planned when you woke up.

As he started the engine, he shot you a sideways glance, amusement playing at the corners of his mouth. “You don’t have a car?” he asked, teasing, the chuckle just beneath his words.

You scoffed, clicking your seatbelt into place. “Some of us are still finishing exams and weren’t born with a steering wheel in hand.”

That got him—he laughed, a real one. You couldn’t help but glance his way, slightly stunned that your sarcasm actually landed. He turned the wheel smoothly, merging out onto the wet road, still smiling.

“I don’t even have the license,” you admitted, throwing him the confession like it weighed nothing, but secretly hoping it didn’t make you sound too helpless.

He raised a brow and flicked his gaze between you and the traffic. “Wait—what? How old are you?”

You looked down, feeling your cheeks flush as you tried to play it cool. “Twenty-two.”

His expression shifted with a flicker of surprise—eyes narrowing slightly, head tilted as if recalculating something. You couldn’t tell if it was good or bad, but it landed with a strange weight in the silence between you.

“You’re younger than I thought,” he said finally, voice clipped—cooler than expected, almost neutral.

You felt yourself tense, unsure what to make of it. “Is that a bad thing?” you asked, trying to sound casual, but the awkward edge in your tone betrayed you.

He was quiet for a beat, then shook his head. “No. God, no,” he said, his voice softening a little. “You just... don’t act like it.”

You blinked, surprised by the honesty. Max glanced at the road, then back at you, his gaze thoughtful. “You’re responsible. You work like you’ve got something to prove every minute. Like you’re holding everything together.” He paused. “That’s not what I expected.”

You turned toward the window, suddenly aware of how warm the car felt. Something about the way he said it—like he’d noticed. Like behind all the sarcasm and cold interviews and slammed doors, he’d seen something more.

───

Christian Horner had a special talent—ruining your day with a single sentence, casually delivered like it wasn’t about to upend your entire afternoon. And today? He’d done it again. Media training with Max Verstappen. Because clearly, after the last race weekend, someone needed it—and lucky you, it fell on your plate.

You sat down on the couch in one of the lounge rooms at HQ, laptop open, trying to look more prepared than you felt. Across from you, Max slumped lazily into the opposite seat, legs stretched out, expression already halfway to bored. You cleared your throat and tried to keep your voice professional. “Alright, let’s pretend I’m a journalist. You’ll honestly answer my questions like it’s a real interview.”

Max rolled his eyes in that signature way that made you want to throw a pillow at his head—but he didn’t argue, so you took that as reluctant compliance.

“Okay,” you said, tapping your notes. “Tough qualifying, Max. What went wrong?”

He didn’t even hesitate. “The car. The strategy. The pace. Pick one,” he replied flatly.

You let out a groan, slouching deeper into the cushions. “Seriously?”

Max turned slightly, the faintest smirk tugging at his lips. “You said answer honestly.”

“Yeah, but ideally not like you’re trying to start a war with your own team.”

He leaned back, arms crossed casually. “I’m not starting a war. I’m just telling it like it is.”

You gave him a look, unimpressed but trying not to laugh. Because honestly? This was going to be a long afternoon.

You clicked your pen like it was a buzzer on a game show, then leaned forward with your best impersonation of journalistic gravitas. “Alright, let’s try again,” you said, voice teasing. “This time, maybe without triggering a full-blown existential crisis in the team.”

Max didn’t even blink. His posture remained perfectly unbothered, stretched out on the couch like he was posing for a magazine shoot instead of being dragged through media training. The faint smirk on his face said he was still half-convinced this entire session was a waste of time—but the fact he hadn’t bailed yet? You counted that as a microscopic win.

You slipped into character, flipping open your notes. “Next question: Critics say the team isn’t performing to its usual standard. What’s your response?”

Max sighed, dramatically. His eyes wandered toward the ceiling like he was searching for divine intervention—or maybe just patience. “Critics talk,” he said flatly. “That’s their job. My job’s to drive.”

You tilted your head, unimpressed. “And the team’s job is…?”

He shot you a lazy glance. “To give me something worth driving.”

You narrowed your eyes. “Max,” you warned, your tone balancing on the edge of a plea. “Please. Can you take this seriously? It would make both of our lives so much easier.”

He raised an eyebrow, that grin creeping back. You leaned forward, voice dropping to an urgent whisper. “Triple-header’s coming up. And if you keep pulling the ‘truth bomb’ stunt in front of journalists, Christian is going to murder both of us.”

Max chuckled at that, finally sitting up a bit. “You think he’d start with me or you?”

You didn’t hesitate. “You. No hesitation. But I’m collateral damage, and I’d rather not be.”

For the first time that afternoon, Max looked mildly reflective. Maybe, just maybe, you’d gotten through a layer of Verstappen logic. Not all the way—but far enough to keep going.

He groaned, dropping his head back against the couch like he was physically pained by the exercise. “Just ask me something interesting, Y/n.”

The way he said your name—casual, almost bored, but unmistakably deliberate—sent a tiny jolt down your spine. Just ask me something interesting, Y/n. It wasn't the words. It was the low flicker in his voice, the lazy confidence in how it rolled off his tongue. You hated that it got to you.

You leaned forward slightly, lips curling into a devilish smirk. Fine, he wanted interesting? You could do interesting. “Alright,” you said sweetly, too sweetly. “What’s your favorite position... on the grid?”

There was a split-second pause—a hiccup in the air where his brain caught up with your words. His eyes widened, just enough for you to savor. Got him.

But Max recovered quickly. Of course he did. The shock melted into a smirk, slow and deliberate, the kind that made your stomach twist in ways you didn’t care to admit. “Top,” he said smoothly, voice dipped in smugness. “Who doesn’t like to be on top and dominate?”

You rolled your eyes, but the grin was already tugging at your lips. You hated that he could do this—shake off any curveball, turn it into flirtation, and leave you questioning who was really in control here.

You leaned back slightly on the couch, letting your eyes travel across him—not subtle, but not exactly discreet either. With a teasing smirk tugging at the corner of your lips, you said, “You look like a top.” Your voice was playful, but your eyes watched him carefully, waiting to see what that comment stirred in him.

Max’s reaction came just as quickly. He gave you a knowing smile, that slow, signature smirk of his. He nodded, leaning into the moment, but his tone stayed dry and amused. “That’s not exactly the kind of question a journalist would ask,” he said, voice low, eyes flicking toward yours with faint amusement.

Yeah, maybe it wasn’t the most professional question. And yeah, maybe you knew that. But the truth was, you’d asked it because you were curious. Because the line between work and whatever this was had started to blur somewhere around his third smirk and your second eye-roll.

You gave a light shrug, keeping your tone casual. “You have to be prepared for every kind of stupid question,” you replied, pretending to scan through your notes even though you hadn’t looked at them in minutes.

You blinked at him, not entirely sure if you heard that right. He leaned forward, elbows resting on his knees, a playful glint in his eye that told you he knew exactly what he was doing.

“It’s my turn now,” Max said with casual confidence.

This was supposed to be media training. Professional. Straightforward. Something Christian forced both of you to do so you could avoid another PR disaster in the paddock. And yet, here you were—sitting across from him, your notebook forgotten in your lap, wondering when exactly the lines had started to blur.

You narrowed your eyes, lips twisting into a smirk as you tried to stay in control. “I’m the one asking questions, and you’re supposed to be responding. That’s literally the point.”

Max shrugged, undeterred. “Just one.”

You hesitated, then nodded slowly, thinking—what’s the worst that could happen?

He didn’t miss a beat. “Do you like it fast and rough or slow and steady?”

Your eyes widened, heart thumping once in confusion and amusement. You opened your mouth to respond, but closed it again just as fast. You knew he was talking about racing. You knew that. But the way he said it—the timing, the tone, the look—it was obvious he was deep into whatever game you were now playing.

You raised an eyebrow, leaning back in your seat to give yourself space to process what had just happened. “That’s the question?” you asked, voice calm but cautious.

Max nodded, looking way too pleased with himself. “It’s racing-related. Technically.”

You snorted, shaking your head as a grin started to creep across your face. Technically. That word was doing a lot of heavy lifting right now.

Whatever this was between you—it was far from professional. And clearly, he wasn’t about to let that fact slide.

You didn’t flinch. You leaned forward just slightly, eyes locked with his, and delivered your answer without a shred of hesitation. “Fast and rough,” you said, voice smooth and deliberate. “I like adrenaline.”

The air in the room shifted. Not awkward—not even close. It was weighted now, humming with something electric. Max’s trademark smirk flickered, briefly replaced by something you couldn’t quite name—surprise, maybe, or intrigue. His gaze dipped to your mouth and then back to your eyes, studying you like he was trying to decide whether this was part of your game or a glimpse of something real.

Then, slowly, the smirk returned. “Yeah,” he said quietly, almost like a confession. “I had a feeling.”

You swallowed. Not because you were scared, but because the intensity made your chest tighten. Maybe it was the way he said it, or maybe it was the way he was looking at you now—less like a colleague and more like someone who’d just been challenged and didn’t hate it.

You let out a breath and shifted back in your seat, clearing your throat. “Okay,” you said, trying to reset, ignoring the fact that your pulse had kicked into overdrive. “This is far from professional. Let’s get back to it.”

Max groaned dramatically, flopping back against the couch like a rebellious teenager. “But media training just started to be entertaining.”

You rolled your eyes, but the smile tugging at your lips betrayed you. “Entertaining isn’t the goal, Verstappen. Surviving Christian’s wrath is.”

───

Life had a twisted sense of humor, and today, it was clearly having fun at your expense. First, your flight got delayed. Then—just when you thought the worst was behind you—it got cancelled entirely. No rebooking options that made sense, no clear plan. Just a vague apology from the airline and a sinking feeling in your gut as you stared at the departure board.

And then came Max.

“You can fly with me,” he offered, as casually as if he were inviting you to grab coffee, not hop aboard his private jet. You blinked, unsure what to say at first. Since when was he this... generous? Suspiciously thoughtful, even. You hesitated, half wondering if this was some kind of setup, some twisted Red Bull prank. But then reality kicked in—trying to find another ticket would be expensive and exhausting. And honestly, who in their right mind would choose a cramped economy seat over champagne-smooth leather and a guaranteed takeoff?

So you said yes.

When you arrived at the foot of the jet’s stairs, struggling with your oversized suitcase filled with enough essentials for a three-week storm tour, Max didn’t just watch you struggle. He stepped forward, no hesitation, and reached for the bag.

“Let me help you,” he said, already lifting it like it weighed nothing.

You didn’t protest. Didn’t make a joke or shrug him off. You just nodded, silently stunned by how effortlessly kind he was being. And damn—he carried it like it was filled with feathers, not your entire wardrobe and backup skincare routine.

Inside, the jet was calm and impossibly luxurious. You settled into one of the plush seats while Max casually took the one across from you. He didn’t say much, but his glance lingered for a beat longer than necessary, like he knew you were still trying to figure out why him, why now.

And maybe—just maybe—you were starting to wonder what this unexpected kindness actually meant.

You flipped open your laptop the second you settled into the seat, fingers already flying across the keyboard. No surprise there—you had work to do, deadlines breathing down your neck like they’d booked the seat next to yours.

Max stood up from his seat across the cabin and wandered over to the mini fridge, glancing at your screen like it offended him personally. “You’re working again?” he asked, pulling out a bottle of water.

You barely looked up. “Have to,” you replied, voice muffled under the weight of responsibility. It wasn't glamorous, but it was necessary.

He crossed the space between you and handed you the bottle. “You’re dehydrated. And annoying,” he said matter-of-factly.

That got your attention. You raised an eyebrow, genuinely confused. “Why am I annoying this time?”

Max leaned against the armrest with a smug smile, clearly enjoying himself. “Because your flight got delayed, and I had to rescue you. Obviously.”

You scoffed, cracking open the bottle with a roll of your eyes. “Rescue? You offered, Verstappen.”

His smirk widened. “Still counts as heroism.”

You shook your head, trying not to smile. Honestly? You were grateful. Just maybe not ready to admit it out loud. Not yet.

Max reclined in his seat, arms stretched out, posture relaxed—but his eyes were focused on you. “So tell me,” he said casually, “what’s our plan for media day?”

Our? You glanced up from your laptop, a little stunned. Since when did he include himself in your chaos? Did he genuinely care, or was this just a new form of boredom disguised as engagement?

You groaned, dragging your hands down your face, the screen in front of you a mess of updated schedules and clashing time slots. “I honestly have no idea anymore,” you muttered. “For whatever reason, the internet finds your interviews hilarious. Like meme-worthy hilarious.”

Max gave a lazy smirk, clearly proud of that detail. “Means you’re doing your job right. Try being happy about it, for once. Christ.”

You narrowed your eyes, shooting him a look. “Yeah, well, fans might love it. But sponsors? Christian?” You gestured to the list of formal press obligations with a sigh. “They want charm. Structure. A version of you that isn’t rolling your eyes and casually threatening a mic.”

One second you were neck-deep in emails and sponsor schedules, the next—wham—your laptop was sliding across the cushioned bench like it had just been yeeted into early retirement.

You gasped. “Max!”

He stood there, completely unbothered, hands in his pockets and an unmistakable grin creeping across his face. “You work way too much,” he said, like this was a public intervention. “Live a little.”

You rubbed your temples. “I have to work. It's literally my job.”

He shrugged, already sitting down across from you with maddening calm. “How about a game? Would you rather.”

Your eyes narrowed immediately. Of course. You already knew where this was going. It wasn’t his first attempt to derail professionalism with something vaguely chaotic—and probably flirtatious.

“Are we fifteen?” you asked, rolling your eyes dramatically.

“Maybe,” he said, winking. “But a very charming fifteen.”

You sighed, then glanced at your poor abandoned laptop. “Fine. One round. But if you say something dumb, I’m sending you to media day with a clown suit.”

He just smirked.

You already knew what kind of game Max had in mind. The moment he suggested playing, you saw the spark in his eyes—the one that always meant trouble. So if he was going to push the boundaries, you figured you might as well meet him there, head-on.

You leaned in a bit, let your voice drop just slightly, and gave him a question that didn’t tiptoe around anything. “Would you rather win Monaco,” you said, letting the pause stretch, “or hear me moan your name?”

It was bold. No soft teasing or half-jokes. You went straight for it, watching carefully as the words settled between you like a fire waiting for someone to strike the match.

Max froze—not dramatically, but just long enough for you to notice that brief flicker of surprise. His usual smirk came back quickly, though. “I already won Monaco,” he said, his voice lower than before, eyes never leaving yours. “So you know the answer.”

And you did. The way he looked at you now wasn’t casual or cocky—it was focused. Serious, but laced with something warmer. Something heavier. You hadn’t expected him to lean into it that hard. You were teasing, half testing the waters, and suddenly it felt like you’d dove straight in.

You shifted in your seat, trying to ignore the way your heart was beating faster. It was just a stupid game, right? Something to pass the time midair? But Max didn’t blink or change the subject. He was sitting across from you like he had all the time in the world and every intention of seeing just how far this moment would go.

Max’s gaze lingered on you a little longer, that same familiar glint in his eyes—not just mischievous, but daring. If you were going to throw heat his way, he wasn’t just going to absorb it. He was going to throw it right back.

You watched him carefully as he shifted in his seat, the playful glint still tucked behind his expression—but now wrapped in something darker. “Alright,” he said, voice low and slow, like he was choosing every word with purpose. “Would you rather…” He leaned forward just a little, eyes locked on yours. “Have me whisper in your ear everything I want to do to you—while you're stuck trying to act normal in a crowded press room… or actually be somewhere quiet where I can do it all, no distractions, no interruptions?”

The cabin felt warmer suddenly. Not just from the air, but from the spark curling between the two of you, creeping along every inch of space like tension disguised as oxygen. You knew exactly where this game was heading, but something about how he asked made your breath stick for just a second.

You tilted your head, heart racing beneath a cool exterior, letting your smile stretch slow. “Press room,” you answered, calm and direct. “Without a doubt.”

His eyebrows lifted, surprised—but impressed. “Really?”

You nodded, voice lighter but still confident. “There’s something about keeping calm while everything inside is shaking.“

Max didn’t move. Didn’t laugh. Just exhaled, slow and quiet, as if your answer hit harder than he was expecting. His gaze flicked briefly down your throat before returning to your eyes, darker now, lit with curiosity and something else—something bolder.

“Damn,” he murmured, voice low. “You really like adrenaline.”

You shrugged lightly, heart thudding but face calm. “Told ya.”

───

Media day was in full swing. The press room buzzed with noise, reporters ran on caffeine and chaos, and yet somehow—you and Max had slipped away into the quiet of his driver room. It was strange how comfortable it felt, how naturally you fell into this rhythm together. You’d been spending more and more time like this lately, and even if it wasn’t exactly “professional,” neither of you seemed eager to question it.

You stood up from the chair while Max lounged on the couch, stretching out like he owned the place. Trying to shake off the warm, soft comfort that came from being around him, you cleared your throat and attempted to sound official. “Okay, so… you’ll tell them we made some upgrades,” you began, trying to stick to business.

But Max had other ideas.

His hands slid around your waist and settled low with familiar ease, pulling you closer until you were standing right in front of him, practically pressed against his chest. His eyes locked on yours—those piercing blue eyes that always managed to throw you off balance. You stumbled on your words but pushed through anyway. “And… uh, we have high hopes for a good result.”

He hummed, quiet and deep, clearly more interested in you than any PR script. His palms squeezed softly, and you weren’t sure if this was how a driver and his manager were supposed to act—but at this point, you didn’t really care. It felt good. Comfortable. Exciting.

“Max,” you sighed, trying to sound serious again, but your voice came out softer, breathier than you wanted. “Please, just don’t screw this up out there.”

He tilted his head, that familiar teasing smirk starting to grow. “And if I don’t?” he asked, his voice playful but full of intent. You already knew where this was going. He always pushed just enough to make you blush, but never far enough to cross a line you hadn’t invited.

You matched his energy, reaching for his jaw and tilting his face up toward you with a sweet smile. “Then maybe… you get a kiss,” you said, pretending to be innocent even though the heat in your chest said otherwise.

Max groaned quietly, deep and rough, pressing his head back into the couch as if the sound alone could cool him down. “Fuck, Y/n,” he breathed.

You flashed him a smile and reached for both his hands, pulling gently as you coaxed him up from the couch. “Come on,” you said, voice light and teasing. “We’ve got work to do.”

Max let out that familiar groan—low, deep, laced with lazy reluctance. And okay, maybe it shouldn’t have sounded that good, but it did. You still had hold of his hands, fingers loosely tangled with his, and it wasn’t until you stepped toward the door that you realized neither of you had let go.

As he stood, still tethered to you, he gave a quick smack to your ass—casual, playful, completely in character.

You turned instantly, half laughing, half scandalized. “Max!” you hissed, eyes wide.

He raised an eyebrow, smirk tugging at his lips. “Motivation,” he said simply, like it was the most logical excuse in the world.

You shook your head, cheeks flushed, but the smile stayed. Somehow, despite the chaos of media day outside, everything inside this driver room felt way too good to leave behind.

The room was packed—journalists, flashes, a quiet buzz of anticipation. Max sat at the long table, mic clipped in front of him, posture relaxed but sharp. You were off to the side, scanning through the media agenda, trying not to let your mind wander to how his hand had been on you less than twenty minutes ago.

A reporter leaned in first. “Max, some sources say you’ve made upgrades to the car—what can you tell us?”

Max glanced your way for a split second before answering, voice steady. “Yeah, we’ve made a few changes. Nothing crazy, but enough to feel the difference. We’re optimistic.”

You felt a flicker of pride. You’d fed him that line earlier—and he nailed it.

Another voice chimed in. “So expectations are high?”

Max shrugged. “We’re aiming for a strong result. That’s always the goal, isn’t it?”

Then came the curveball—innocent sounding, but loaded. “Max, you seem happier lately. Different. Something changed?”

Your stomach flipped.

Max didn’t miss a beat. He leaned slightly into the mic. “Good company helps,” he said casually, eyes drifting to you just long enough for your cheeks to burn.

A few chuckles echoed through the room. Someone muttered something about ‘mysterious influences.’ You felt every camera lens tilt just slightly in your direction.

You swallowed, smiling like you didn’t just feel the temperature spike in your skin. Max didn’t elaborate. He didn’t need to. That one look said more than any statement could.

You waited in Max’s driver room, pacing a little, nerves buzzing under your skin like static. It wasn’t just the adrenaline from the media day—it was what had just happened. Max had done it. He’d actually followed your script. No sarcastic remarks. No thinly veiled jabs at strategy. Just clean, focused answers. Polished but still him. For the first time in weeks, you didn’t feel like you were putting out a fire the second the cameras stopped rolling. And if anyone had earned a reward, it was him.

You’d promised him a kiss if he behaved. And Max Verstappen never forgot a promise.

The door creaked open, and there he was. That cocky, slightly sweaty post-interview version of him that knew exactly what he’d done. He looked at you like he’d just clinched another world title—satisfied, smug, and devastatingly handsome.

“So,” he said, closing the door behind him, his voice like velvet over gravel, “how was I?”

You raised an eyebrow, arms crossing over your chest. “Perfect,” you said, fighting a grin. “Didn’t get us cancelled for once. I’m almost proud.”

He tilted his head, amused. “Almost?”

You shrugged, casual, even though your heart was beating a little too fast. “Don’t let it go to your head.”

Max took a slow step forward. Then another. “You promised something,” he murmured, tone dropping low. “I didn’t forget.”

You swallowed, pulse skittering. He was close now—too close—and your brain was screaming a thousand things at once. But your body moved on instinct. Without thinking, without overanalyzing, you leaned up and kissed him.

At first, it was soft—almost unsure. A simple brush of lips, like testing the temperature of something you already knew would burn. But then Max deepened it. His hand slid around your waist, firm and certain, pulling you flush against him as his mouth moved against yours like he’d been waiting for this. Like he’d imagined this.

And when his tongue brushed against yours, a spark lit through your chest. It was messy and heated, breath catching, hearts racing.

“Fuck—schatje,” he groaned, the Dutch word curling from his lips like something sinful, voice thick with want.

You pulled back slightly, trying to find breath, your fingers curling into his shirt. “We probably shouldn’t be doing this,” you whispered, lips still brushing his.

His eyes were dark, locked on yours, breath uneven. “Probably not,” he said, voice gravelly and quiet. “But I don’t care. I’ve wanted this since the first time you yelled at me.”

You didn’t pull away. Instead, your hands slid from his hair down to the back of his neck, tangling in the damp strands as you pressed your body flush against his. Max’s breath hitched, and his grip on your hips tightened, his fingers digging in just enough to make you shiver.

You would never have expected to be kissing Max Verstappen—especially not like this. Not this messy, heated, desperate way that made your head spin and your heart slam against your ribs.

His lips moved against yours with slow, deliberate hunger, as if savoring every second. You could feel the heat radiating from him—dangerous, fierce, magnetic. Your heart hammered like you’d just crossed the finish line, and yet your body felt like it was already on the starting grid, revving for more.

Max’s hands slid lower, tracing the curve of your waist before slipping beneath your shirt. Goosebumps rose in their wake. You swallowed the sharp intake of breath that threatened to escape and tangled your fingers tighter in his hair, pulling him closer.

“Damn, you’re such a mess,” he muttered against your lips, voice filled with need.

“Yeah?” you teased breathlessly, daring him to push further.

His answer was a low growl as he deepened the kiss, tongue sliding against yours with a possessive insistence. One of his hands slid under your shirt, tracing fiery lines along your ribs, sending shockwaves through you.

Your legs weakened, and you leaned harder against him, craving the full weight of his body. For a moment, the world outside that cramped driver’s room vanished. No deadlines, no cameras, no expectations—just the two of you, tangled and reckless.

Suddenly, a sharp knock at the door sliced through the charged silence. Fuck. Not now. Not when you were finally breaking through all the walls between you two.

“Max?” The voice outside was cautious but firm, almost reluctant to interrupt. “Christian needs to talk to you—about the upgrades or whatever.”

Max’s eyes darted to you, a flicker of regret crossing his face. He didn’t want to stop—not yet. You could see it in the way his chest rose and fell unevenly, the way his fingers twitched near your skin like he wanted to hold on just a moment longer.

Reluctantly, he took a step back, breaking the kiss. His breath came out in a rough sigh, and he ran a hand through his hair, frustration clear in every movement.

“God damn it,” he muttered, voice low and filled with irritation—not just at the interruption, but maybe at himself, too.

You bit your lip, feeling the sudden chill in the room where warmth had just lived. You wanted to say something to keep him there, to tell him it was okay to break the rules, but the knock came again—more insistent this time.

Max glanced toward the door, then back at you, his expression softening just a little. “We’re not done,” he promised, voice rough but full of meaning.

Thank God. Because you could do this all day. Every stolen moment, every heated breath—it was addictive, intoxicating. And somehow, despite everything, it felt like the only place you truly belonged.

───

The paddock was unusually quiet. The hum of the mechanics working on the car in the background was the only real noise, but even that felt soft—like the whole space had taken a breath. You and Lando sat shoulder to shoulder on the pit wall, not saying much at first. There was comfort in the silence, in the way old friends could drift back into rhythm like no time had passed.

He nudged you with his elbow and held up his phone, screen glowing in the fading afternoon light. “Found something,” he said with a grin.

You looked, squinting at first—then laughed out loud as the image came into view. A younger version of the two of you, captured mid-party. You were nineteen, still in uni and barely getting by on instant noodles and caffeine. He was twenty-three, already driving in F1, messy-haired and wide-eyed without his signature mustache. His arms were wrapped around your waist, yours around his neck, both of you drunk and loud and absolutely fearless.

“Oh my god,” you said, shaking your head with a laugh. “That’s us? We look like babies.”

“Babies with no sense of limits,” Lando added, chuckling. “I completely forgot how wild that night was.”

Your laugh came again, freer this time. God, it felt good to just be. To exist outside of schedules and pressure and drivers who refused to listen to a single suggestion unless it came wrapped in sarcasm. With Lando, it was easy. Familiar.

And then, as if the temperature around you dropped five degrees —

You felt it. That presence.

You didn’t even need to turn.

You just knew he was there.

A slow, sinking awareness pulled at the back of your neck, your spine prickling like it always did when you were being watched. But this was different. This wasn’t the curious glance of a journalist or the buzz of a fan nearby.

This was him.

You turned — hesitantly — and your gaze met Max’s from across the pit lane, standing just inside the shadows of the Red Bull garage.

He looked like stone.

No smile. No smirk. Just unreadable eyes and clenched jaw, arms crossed against his chest as he stared. Not at Lando. Not at the phone.

At you.

His gaze didn’t flicker. Didn’t soften. If anything, it darkened slightly when Lando leaned in again, still laughing at the memory, utterly oblivious to the shift in the atmosphere.

Max took a single step forward, slow and controlled. The shadows moved with him. And when he finally spoke, his voice cut through the air like a blade.

“What’s so funny?”

His tone was neutral — too neutral. The kind of calm that came just before a storm. You knew that voice. You’d heard it on the radio before, right before he overtook someone like it was personal.

Lando didn’t pick up on it. Of course he didn’t.

He turned the phone toward Max, grin still wide. “Just some quality throwback content,” he said. “Your PR girl used to be a menace, apparently.”

Max’s eyes dropped to the screen. He didn’t blink.

Didn’t move. For a second, he just stared.

At your nineteen-year-old self. Glitter. Laughter. Lando’s arm around your waist. The unfiltered freedom in your eyes.

And something in his expression shifted.

Not rage. Not jealousy, exactly.

Something more primal. More controlled. But deeply territorial.

When his eyes flicked back up to yours, it hit you like a punch. The way he looked at you — like he was suddenly seeing something he hadn’t before. Or maybe like something he’d tried to ignore had snapped into focus.

You opened your mouth, unsure what you were going to say — maybe a joke to cut the tension, maybe an apology for something that shouldn’t even feel like a betrayal — but Max beat you to it.

“Actually, Y/n,” he said, voice calm but clipped, “I wanted to ask you about briefing. Can you come with me?”

There was no bite to his words. Not exactly. But there was something far worse.

Control.

That infuriating Verstappen brand of calm that masked everything he didn’t want to say. A chill passed down your spine at how precisely measured his tone was. Like he’d rehearsed it in his head while watching you laugh with someone else.

You nodded automatically, the grin you wore seconds ago now frozen and out of place. Before you could say anything, Max had already turned on his heel and started walking toward the Red Bull garage — like the photo, the laughter, and the very idea of you smiling with someone else had never happened.

But you saw it in the set of his shoulders.

In the stiffness of his walk.

Something had gotten under his skin. And he wasn’t hiding it well.

“Fun’s over,” Lando muttered beside you with a half-laugh, trying to make light of it. But he wasn’t totally clueless — there was something cautious in his eyes now. Like he could sense the shift too.

You exhaled through your nose, a tight smile tugging at your lips as you glanced back at him.

“You tell me,” you said softly, before turning and following Max.

Each step toward the Red Bull garage felt heavier than the last. Not just because you knew you were heading into another round of tension — you were used to that by now — but because this was different.

This wasn’t about strategy or PR or media.

This was personal.

The door closed behind you with a quiet click, sealing the tension into the small space. Max didn’t turn around. He stood with his back to you, shoulders stiff, gaze locked somewhere far ahead like he was thinking too fast to speak. You crossed your arms, unsure whether to push him or wait it out. There was something heavy in the air between you—something you hadn’t felt before. And that feeling only grew when he finally broke the silence.

“You didn’t tell me you knew him before you even knew me.” His voice was low, quiet, but sharp—like he was trying not to sound jealous, and failing.

Your eyebrows pulled together in confusion. What was this about? Just a photo? You blinked, trying to make sense of his sudden mood shift. “It’s not important. At least I thought so. But yeah, we were in the same friend group when I was teen.” You fought the urge to laugh, because honestly, it felt ridiculous. It had been years ago, long before Max had shown up in your life, long before he’d started looking at you the way he did now.

He finally turned to face you, his eyes locking onto yours. There was something cold in his stare, something stubborn. You didn’t hesitate. “You’re jealous.”

He scoffed, but the snort didn’t carry conviction. “No, I’m not.”

You stepped forward, tone steady but biting. “You are.”

Max’s jaw flexed, and you could see it all over his face—the tension, the twisting thoughts he wasn’t saying. You didn’t back down. “You saw a picture from when I was nineteen, and now suddenly it means something? When the only one I think about now is you.” Your voice raised with frustration, sharp and clear and honest.

He didn’t answer right away. He just looked at you, long and quiet, and then said—voice lower now, but laced with something bitter, something wounded—“You were with him. Before me.”

Your breath caught. Not because of what he said, but how he said it. Like it changed everything. Like it erased all the moments between you now. You matched his tone without flinching, cold and unapologetic. “And you’ve been with how many girls before me? Don’t be a fucking hypocrite, Max!”

Before he could respond—before you let the emotion swallow you whole—you spun around and slammed the door behind you, the echo cutting through the hallway like a final punctuation. Your chest was tight, your heart pounding, and part of you already knew this wasn’t over. But for now, you needed space. Because whatever this was, it had turned into something way bigger than a photo—and it was clear neither of you were quite ready to face what it really meant.

───

The day before had been silent. You skipped qualifying completely—no messages, no check-ins, no playful banter in the garage. You were still furious with Max, and the idea of seeing him made your stomach twist. Instead, you sent over the PR briefing and interview notes. No greeting. No sign-off. Just attachments. Strictly business.

Max read the email more times than he’d admit. It wasn’t about the documents. It was about everything you didn’t say. The coldness of it followed him through the sessions. Your absence was loud, louder than any team radio or engine rumble. Even when surrounded by chaos, he felt it—like the air wasn’t quite right without you in it.

Now it was race day. You showed up because, despite it all, this was your job. It mattered. Max mattered. But the energy was different. Muted. You avoided him, stuck to your corner of the garage, kept your words minimal. You told yourself you didn’t care. Told yourself you weren’t watching every lap with clenched fists.

Then lap 36 happened.

He was flying. The race had gone beautifully—smooth overtakes, flawless pace, every moment a reminder of why he was one of the best. And then Russell. A reckless move. A snap of contact. Max's car sliding helplessly off-track, metal grinding against barriers.

Your breath caught as the screens lit up with replays and panic. The adrenaline in the garage spiked, people swarmed into motion, but you couldn’t move. All you saw was Max, climbing slowly from the wreck, helmet still on, body language stiff with anger and disappointment.

Max stormed into the garage, frustration written all over him. His movements were sharp and angry—the way he yanked off his gloves, threw his helmet onto the table without a second thought, and ran a hand through his messy hair like it hurt to keep it still. The race had gone up in flames, and you could see it was eating at him from the inside out. But the moment his eyes locked onto you, everything shifted.

“Oh, someone decided to show up,” he muttered, bitterness thick in his voice. It was a knife straight to the chest. His words didn’t just sting—they surprised you. Like somehow you were part of the crash, like your absence yesterday had thrown him off-track. It felt completely unfair.

You stood still, trying not to flinch. “Well, I work here, so?” you replied, your voice calm, even though your throat tightened.

But Max wasn’t done. His tone rose, sharp and cutting. “And still being completely useless! Why didn’t you were yesterday?!”

You froze. He didn’t just say that. He did not just say that.

“Excuse me—” The word came out shaky, your voice trembling with a mix of anger and disbelief. You could handle pressure. You could handle being the punching bag when tension was high. But this? This crossed a line.

He stepped forward, anger cutting through his exhaustion now. “Yeah! All you do is scoff at me. Always something wrong. Always something I do wrong!”

You stared at him, heart pounding. You knew he was angry. You knew he had every reason to be upset after a crash like that. But turning it on you—lashing out like you were the reason—was something else entirely. There was no excuse for this. No adrenaline high or stress level that made it okay.

You wanted to hold back, to stay composed. But it was too much.

You stepped toward him, voice louder now, raw and furious. “Honestly? Fuck you, Max! Fuck you!”

The words echoed off the walls of the garage, hitting both of you like a slap. You didn’t wait to see his reaction. You turned around and walked away, fast, ignoring the stunned silence that followed. Your hands shook. Your chest burned. And as you left him standing there surrounded by broken race plans and bruised pride, you didn’t look back.

The hospitality suite felt colder than usual, too quiet despite all the movement outside. You sat tucked away in the corner, arms wrapped around yourself, legs trembling. Tears streaked down your face, even though you tried to hold them back. You didn’t want to cry—not over Max, not after everything. You told yourself he wasn’t worth it, that you should let it go. But no matter how angry you were, it didn’t change the way your heart felt when you thought about losing him. Working with someone else? Standing in the paddock without his voice in your ear, teasing or stubborn or sweet? It just didn’t make sense. You’d gotten used to him. Worse—you’d let him in.

You didn’t hear the door open, not at first. Just a soft voice cutting through the stillness.

“Y/n?”

You turned your back quickly, wiping at your cheeks with shaky fingers. But the tears wouldn’t stop. You didn’t want him to see you like this—broken, shaken, raw. Not after the things he’d said. Not after everything he threw at you when all you’d tried to do was help.

Max’s footsteps were careful, slower than usual. Like he was scared to step too close. “Y/n—” he said again, breath catching as he saw your face. His voice cracked, panic slipping in. “No, no, fuck… please. Don’t cry. Fuck…”

You sat stiffly, eyes locked on the untouched plate in front of you. You couldn’t even remember what was on it—only that it gave you something to stare at so you didn’t have to look at him. Your shoulders felt tight, your hands clenched uselessly in your lap, and even though tears had finally stopped falling, your face still stung from letting them.

“Y/n, please,” Max said, his voice soft, shaky. “I’m sorry.”

You didn’t respond. Didn’t move. Not even when, from the corner of your eye, you saw him lower himself to the floor—right in front of you. Knees down, eyes searching for a way in.

Max Verstappen. On his knees. That alone made your breath hitch. Max didn’t kneel. Max didn’t beg. But right now, he was doing both.

His palms rested gently on your knees, his touch light, unsure. “I just… I was pissed,” he said quietly, words tumbling out in pieces. “I missed you yesterday. Then I didn’t see you before the race and it… it messed me up more than it should have. And then Russell hit me and—I snapped.”

You still didn’t speak, but your eyes finally flicked toward him, just for a moment.

“You’re not useless,” he added, voice firmer now. “You’re the only person who keeps me grounded in all this shit. I was an asshole. I know it.”

And for a second, everything stopped. The ache, the shouting, the broken race weekend—it all paused. Because this version of Max wasn’t the one people saw. This was raw. Honest. Vulnerable. And maybe that meant he trusted you with something no one else ever got.

Just when you were about to respond, he leaned forward and let his forehead rest gently in your lap. “I’m not good at this,” he whispered. “This love thing. But I’m trying. I’m trying to be the best I can for you… schat.”

Your fingers moved on instinct, brushing softly through his hair—familiar, messy, real.

Then his voice broke again. “I love you.”

Your heart skipped. He said it. He said it first.

The words hung between you both, heavy and fragile, like they might crack if spoken any louder. You still hadn’t fully stopped shaking—your hands clenched just enough to keep your emotions from spilling over again. Max was still knelt in front of you, head in your lap, fingers curled gently around your knees like he was anchoring himself there.

“Please, Y/n,” he murmured again, voice hoarse. “Say something.”

You hesitated, letting your gaze drift toward him. And then, finally, you looked—really looked. His eyes were the same piercing blue, but they were swollen, rimmed in red. The sharpness they usually carried was gone. What you saw now was desperation. Sadness. Remorse.

And love.

Your chest tightened, but your voice still came, quiet and uneven. “You hurt me… Max,” you said, each word pushing through the walls you’d built over the last twenty-four hours. “But I just can’t imagine not being with you. I can’t imagine not… loving you.”

His breath caught like a sob, and he lifted his head to meet your gaze, searching your face like he needed confirmation that you truly meant it. “You love me?”

You let out a trembling breath. “More than anything.”

───

The sun was barely up, but you walked into the paddock with a calm heart for the first time in days. The weight from yesterday hadn’t vanished, but it felt lighter—easier to carry. You scanned your pass at the gate, the familiar beep sounding like the start of something new.

Max was already waiting just past the entry, leaning casually against the wall. When he saw you, that signature smile tugged at his lips—warm, soft, the kind of smile reserved only for you. The anger was gone. Replaced by something gentler.

As you walked toward him, you felt it before it happened—the shift in the air, the pull of his presence. And then, without a word, his fingers slid into yours.

You froze mid-step, startled by the quiet intimacy. It wasn’t part of the plan. Not the media-safe version. You turned slightly toward him.

“Really?” you asked, half teasing, half stunned.

He looked down at your joined hands and then back up, eyes steady. “Everyone needs to know you’re my girl,” he said with zero hesitation.

Your heart melted right there on the spot. Max could be brash, reckless, impossible—but when he cared, he didn’t hide it. And that line? That line meant two very real things.

First: you loved him more than you’d ever dared to admit out loud.

Second: PR was about to explode—again.

Because Max Verstappen? Max Verstappen was a walking PR disaster.

But he was your disaster.

babs radio ! IT’S HEREEE!!! Ladies and gentlemen, i present to u my longest max fic !! (yet)

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ivyues · 4 days ago

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Heartfelt Slip-Ups: Stray Kids’ reactions to accidental 1st ‘I love you’s

request: "[...] Could it be where you say I love you for the 1st time while leaving for work, gym or studio session & you kiss them goodbye & accidentally say I love you for the 1st time then ask to forget it lol but fluffy?" A/N: hope you like it – sorry that the one you requested is the shortest (*_ _)人

Bang Chan (him)

The time difference had never felt so cruel.

It was late afternoon where you were, sunlight filtering lazily through your window, while on the other side of the world, in some hotel room lit only by a dim lamp and the soft blue glow of his phone, Chris was desperately fighting off sleep, but it was a losing battle.

“Babe…” you said softly through the screen, “your eyes are literally closing mid-sentence.”

“I’m not that tired,” he replied, words slurred, his cheek squished against the hotel pillow as he lay sideways, camera angled haphazardly. He blinked slowly, lids heavy. “M’fine. Just… resting my eyes while I talk to you.”

You chuckled, fondness bubbling up in your chest. “You have a concert tomorrow, Chris. You need sleep. Real sleep.”

“But I miss you,” he mumbled, voice barely audible. His gaze was soft, unfocused. “Can’t sleep without hearing you talk. It’s like… my brain knows you're far away, and it hates it.”

Your heart ached in that way it always did when you saw how much he cared. “I miss you too,” you said, voice quieter now, “but you need to rest, love. For me? You’ve done a thousand things today.”

He grumbled something incoherent, clearly not ready to let go of you, but he knew you were right.

“I’ll call you tomorrow,” he muttered, yawning.

“Get some real sleep, okay? And drink water when you wake up.”

“Y’know,” he started, voice even softer, “you take better care of me than I do.”

You smiled. “That’s what I’m here for.”

He lingered for a beat longer, eyes fluttering.

“I love you.”

And then click. Call ended.

You stared at the blank screen, pulse thudding.

Did he just—?

The words rang in your ears, your chest tight with sudden butterflies, your heart beating wildly against your ribs. Neither of you have said it before – not out loud. Not yet. There had been so many almosts, but he’d never actually said it.

You brought a hand to your mouth, half laughing, half gasping. The warmth spreading through you was electric and impossible to contain. You sat there for a long time, staring at the “Call Ended” screen, smile creeping wider by the second.

-----

The Next Morning, your phone buzzed.

Channie🖤: by any chance… did i carelessly say something rather special yesterday?

You stared at the message, and it made you laugh.

You: you might’ve said something small

You: like three words

You: quite important

You: started with “I”

There was a pause. Then three dots. Then nothing. Then more dots.

Channie🖤: …I SAID THAT?!

You: You did 😳

Channie🖤: WHAT!!! I DIDN’T EVEN— I THOUGHT I DREAMED THAT 😭

Channie🖤: omg omg i wanted to say it properly not like THAT

Channie🖤: was it… okay?

You smiled, typing back slowly.

You: It was perfect. I love you too, sleepyhead 💛

Another pause.

Channie🖤: 🥺 so i didn’t ruin it?

You: Nope. You made it unforgettable.

Lee Know (you)

The two of you were sprawled on the couch as a movie flickered in the background. Humming softly, he rested one arm behind his head, the other absentmindedly tracing patterns on your thigh. Your head was on his chest, heart comfortably synced with his slow, steady breaths.

You were warm. Content. Sleepy.

And in that state, words slipped from your mouth without asking your brain first.

“I love you,” you mumbled, into his shirt low and muffled.

It took you a second to even realize what you’d said. And then another half-second to panic.

Your body went rigid.

Minho hummed, face unreadable, eyes still on the movie. He hummed. Just a soft, low note, like someone vaguely acknowledging the weather forecast.

“What?” you said, eyes wide.

“Hmm?” he asked, blinking.

You stared at him, waiting for the teasing, the smirk, the jokes about you being a hopeless romantic. But nothing came. He just tugged you gently back into his side.

“You good?” he asked, voice calm.

“…Yeah,” you muttered, stunned.

-----

You spent the rest of the week spiraling. He hadn’t teased you, hadn’t even acknowledged the slip. Maybe he didn’t hear? Maybe he didn’t feel the same? Or maybe it was too soon? But he hummed! Was that a “cool” hum or a “noted” hum or a “panic now” hum? You’d practically convinced yourself it was nothing and that maybe, just maybe, he had really just been too chill to notice.

Until three days later.

The two of you were in his kitchen, washing the dishes after dinner. He flicked a bit of water at your forehead and you let out a dramatic yelp.

“Lee Minho!” you shrieked. “You are so annoying!”

He smirked, tossing the towel onto the counter. “That so?”

You narrowed your eyes. “Yes. Borderline maddening.”

He leaned in a little, just enough to make your little heart beat a bit faster. “Huh,” he said, mock thoughtful. “That’s weird, ’cause last week you were saying how much you loovvee me.”

“Excuse me?”

“You remember,” he said, grin growing wide and evil. “We were all cuddled up and warm, watching that movie. And you said... what was it again…? Ah, right. ‘I love you.’”

You smacked his arm, face burning. “I knew you heard it!”

“I did,” he said smugly. “Just wanted to see how long you’d pretend it didn’t happen.”

You groaned and turned to the side. “Because you didn’t say a godamn word! What was I supposed to do?”

He wrapped his arms around your waist from behind and rested his chin on your shoulder.

“I love you too,” he said, quiet now. “Just thought I’d let you suffer a little first.”

“You’re the worst.”

“And yet,” he said with a wink, “you love me.”

You slapped him again – a bit harder this time – but didn’t pull away from his arms.

Changbin (him)

You were sitting on the couch in Changbin’s studio, scrolling through your phone while he sat at his desk, fidgeting with a new beat. He was humming absentmindedly, being in his element and in a good mood.

You took a sip of water.

“I think this is my favorite track I’ve done in a while,” he said, spinning slightly in his chair to look at you. “I might actually keep this one just for myself. Play it for you when I miss you. Because, you know—”

He shrugged like it was nothing. “I love you and stuff.”

You choked.

You spat.

Water went everywhere – mostly in a graceful arc onto the floor, but also a fine mist landed directly on Changbin’s face.

He blinked. Once. Twice.

“…Did you just SPIT on me?”

“I—” You coughed, waving your hand in the air, eyes wide. “Did you just say—?”

“Oh my god,” he muttered, grabbing a tissue and wiping his cheek. “I confess my undying love and this is what I get? A mouthful of salvia to the face?”

You were still processing. “Changbin, you can’t just—casually say ‘I love you’ like that while I’m drinking!”

“I can and I did!” he said, half standing now. “What kind of reaction is ‘Water Gun’—are you Squirtle?! I bare my soul and you nearly drown me!”

You burst into laughter, half from nerves, half from disbelief.

“I’m sorry!” you gasped, still laughing. “I was just—surprised! I didn’t think you were gonna—today?! Like that?! While talking about a beat?!”

He sighed, tossing the tissue in the trash. “I thought it was romantic. Thought I was being cute.”

You rolled your eyes, though your smile was soft now, your heart catching up with the moment. “Wait, actually, though—were you serious?”

He paused. His joking demeanor faltered just a bit, his shoulders straightening, eyes darting to yours and away again. “I mean… yeah. Kind of. But also—”

And now he was fidgeting again. “It's kinda like a habit. I say it all the time to Hyunjin, you know. Like, when I bring him coffee, or when he lets me win at Mario Kart—I’ll be like, ‘Ugh, I love you, husband.’ Like that.”

You blinked. “So I’m… just the concubine?”

“No! I mean—no offense to Hyunjin, I love that man, but not like—” He groaned and flopped back into his chair, spinning to the side. “It just comes out sometimes, okay? I say it as a joke. But, that doesn’t mean it’s not real. Just because I said it like an idiot, doesn’t mean I didn’t mean it.”

Your heart clenched. Gently, you got up from the couch and walked over to his chair, placing a hand on his.

He glanced up at you with cautious eyes.

You smiled. “I think I love you too. You idiot.”

His entire face lit up like a sunrise – relief, joy, and smugness all tangled up in a grin. “So you admit it. You love me and you spat on me. That’s commitment.”

You laughed, shoving his shoulder. “Don’t make me do it again.”

“Too late,” he said, standing and wrapping his arms around you in a warm, crushing hug. “You’re mine now. Saliva and all.”

“Gross.”

“Romantic.”

“Squirtle still says no.”

“Hyunjin’s gonna be so jealous.”

You snorted. “Honestly, I’m kinda jealous he got an ‘I love you’ before I did.”

“Okay, well he didn’t water board me, so maybe he deserved it more.”

“You did not just say that—!”

Hyunjin (you)

You stood by the door, his hoodie draped over your shoulders, still warm from him. Hyunjin leaned against the frame, messy hair, sleepy eyes, and that teasing smile he always wore when he didn't want you to leave.

“Text me when you get there, okay?”

“I will." You paused, smiled up at him and pressed a quick kiss to his lips. "Love you—"

You froze.

He blinked.

You blinked.

The world went silent.

“...What?” he said, eyes wide.

Your stomach dropped. Crap. “Oh my god,” you said, covering your face. “Can you just forget that I said that?”

Hyunjin stared at you, mouth slightly open, then suddenly threw his head back with a groan. “Yah! You can’t just—say it like that! And I certainly can’t ‘just forget about it’, you just told me you loved me!”

You gaped. “You—what?!”

He pointed an accusing finger at you, eyes narrowed in mock betrayal. “I had plans, okay?! Literal Pinterest board levels of planning!”

You stared, part embarrassed, part very confused. “You had… what kind of plans?”

“I was going to confess properly.” he said, crossing his arms. “Do you know how long I’ve been sitting on the perfect moment? There were candles involved. A lake. Maybe even rose petals—if I could sneak them past the guys without them mocking me for the rest of my life!”

You blinked, then bit your lip, something warm blooming quietly in your chest. Your heart melted – just a little – at the thought of him wanting to make something so small and simple feel special. The effort, the sweetness… that was so him.

“And now you go and say ‘love you’ like you’re saying ‘see ya later.’ Do you know how unfair that is?!”

You took a slow step forward, biting your lip to stop from grinning. “So… you do love me?”

He stared at you for a moment, then sighed dramatically. “Obviously. But now it’s ruined! I had a whole speech. There were metaphors.”

“Metaphors?”

“Yeah. You’ve heard me write lyrics, babe. I was gonna make you weep.”

You laughed and wrapped your arms around his waist. “I’m sorry for ruining your romantic Pinterest proposal.”

“You should be,” he grumbled, but he was already holding you back.

“But,” you whispered, resting your head against his chest, “I really do love you, you know.”

He sighed like he was giving in, but you felt his lips press gently to the top of your head. “Fine. But I’m still giving the speech.”

“I wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“And I want tears. Real ones.”

You tilted your head back, eyes sparkling. “I’ll bring tissues.”

Han (him)

The train was minutes from leaving, the soft chime echoing over the station speakers as people bustled past. You turned to Han, wrapping your arms around his hoodie-clad frame. His hair was a mess, tousled in all directions like he’d just rolled out of bed, and his eyes were wide, a little glassy with sleep.

“I’ll text you when I get there,” you said, brushing your lips against his cheek.

But he surprised you by pulling his mask down and turning his head last-second to catch your mouth with his instead – clumsy, soft, but real.

The kiss was brief, barely a few seconds, but it left his ears glowing pink and your stomach tangled in butterflies. As you pulled back, you smiled and whispered, “Bye.”

And that’s when he blurted it out.

“I love you.”

The silence between you stretched in the shape of your widened eyes. His mouth opened – then closed – then opened again in horror.

Then—

“No—wait! I didn’t mean—I mean I did mean I did, but not like that, but also totally like that—AHH—” Han buried his face in his hands. “I knew I should’ve just waved. Who kisses and thinks clearly?!”

“You… love me?” you echoed, voice barely a whisper, like testing the shape of the words on your tongue.

He peeked at you through his fingers, sheepish and red. “I mean, I’ve thought it, like, obviously—I mean—look at you! But I didn’t mean to say it! Not now! Not—like—a drive-by love confession?!”

You blinked, then started laughing – soft at first, then breathless. He groaned and covered his face with his hands.

“Stop laughing, I’m spiraling.”

“No,” you said between giggles, stepping closer to pry his fingers off his face. “It’s just... Hannie?”

You looked up at him, heart hammering in your chest. “You write me songs. You’ve already said those words in so many ways without actually saying them.”

He froze.

“And... I love you too. Just so you don’t spiral forever.”

There was a beat of stunned silence. Then his expression cracked into the brightest, most ridiculous smile you’d ever seen on him.

“Wait—Wait! You—oh my god—no, wait. Don’t get on the train! We need to talk about this for 45 more minutes!”

You laughed again, already walking backwards toward the platform and slowly letting go of his hands.

“Facetime me later, you drama king,” you called.

“Just so you know, I’m writing a ballad about this!” he shouted back.

Of course he was. And you were so looking forward to hearing it.

Felix (you)

You were standing at his doorstep, the moment to say goodbye felt heavier than usual.

He gave you a small smile, his eyes flickering with a mix of nervousness and warmth. “I hope you got home safe last time.”

You smiled back, feeling a flutter in your chest. “Yeah, I did. Thanks to you.”

He hesitated, then whispered, “I… um, I had a really good time today.”

You nodded, your voice soft as you said goodbye, “Me too… I love you.”

The words escaped before you could stop them, and immediately your face flushed hot with embarrassment. You looked down, suddenly overwhelmed, and before Felix could say anything, you turned on your heel and practically ran down the stairs, your heart racing. “Bye!”

Oh my God, oh my God, oh my God.

You made it to the bottom step before fumbling with your phone, hands trembling with anxiety. Your cheeks were on fire and you felt like you were about to cry. You just told Felix you loved him. Loudly. Casually. Like it was nothing. Like it wasn’t going to change everything.

Your phone buzzed.

Lix🐥: Did you mean that? 😳

Your hands shook as you typed back.

You: No! I didn’t say anything! I take it back!

Lix🐥: You can’t just take something like that back…

You bit your lip, trying to keep your cool.

You: I’m just not ready for this.

He responded after a few seconds.

Lix🐥: Me neither but…well, I kinda feel the same way… 😶😶

You: Wait, what?

Lix🐥: Yeah. I didn’t want to say it first ‘cause I was nervous. But I do… love you.

Your breath hitched and you let out a nervous chuckle.

You: I can’t believe that we’re doing this over text.

Lix🐥: You could also just come back up here, you know 🫢

Your heart thudded in your ears.

You stared at the screen, your thumb hovering over the keyboard. But nothing you could say felt big enough for what was happening. So instead, you just stared at the blinking cursor.

You could also just come back up, you know.

You glanced up the staircase.

For a second, your brain screamed every excuse—it’s too soon, you’re being impulsive, what if this ruins things, what if you misunderstood him, what if, what if—

Then, before you could fully talk yourself out of it, your feet were moving – one step, two, three steps – faster until you were back at the top of the stairs, standing outside his door again, completely breathless.

You raised your hand to knock, but before you could, the door creaked open.

Felix stood there, hair slightly messy like he’d run his fingers through it too many times, his expression caught somewhere between terrified and radiant. His cheeks were just as red as yours felt.

Neither of you said anything at first.

Then he laughed – soft, breathless, disbelieving.

“I thought you might run the other way,” he said, voice low.

“I almost did,” you admitted, your voice barely above a whisper. “But I kinda meant it.”

His smile was slow, tentative, but real. “Yeah?”

You nodded. “Yeah.”

Without another word, he stepped forward, arms slipping around you gently, like he didn’t want to scare you away. But you melted into it, your hands gripping the back of his shirt.

The hug lingered – warm and quiet and absolutely terrifying in the best way.

You pulled back just slightly to look at him. “So… what now?”

He grinned, the nervous kind that made your heart do backflips. “Now we start whatever this is. Together.”

Seungmin (him)

Seungmin was unusually quiet today as you strolled through the park – not in a brooding way, more in a content, peaceful kind of silence. The kind of quiet that made you feel safe. His fingers brushed yours in lazy circles as he held your hand, and every now and then, he’d bump your shoulder playfully.

You were mid-rant about the terrible instant coffee you tried earlier, flailing your arms to illustrate your suffering, when he chuckled and said it.

Not loudly. Not even on purpose, it seemed.

“You're such an idiot, I love you.”

You froze. Mid-step, mid-sentence, eyes widening like you’d seen a ghost.

His steps slowed just half a second. A blink.

You watched his eyes widen for a split second as wekk, like even he hadn’t realized what just slipped out of his mouth. But instead of acknowledging it, he cleared his throat, casually looked up at the trees and said,

“Did you see that squirrel just now? Super chubby.”

…Squirrel?

He nodded solemnly, like this was the most pressing matter of the moment. “Definitely been stealing picnic food.”

You gaped at him. Not because of the squirrel. Because of him.

He wasn’t looking at you. He was doing everything except look at you. Examining the sky. Adjusting his cap. Even tugging his hoodie sleeve over his hand to ‘itch his wrist,’ which he never did.

Meanwhile, internally, he was combusting.

‘You IDIOT. It’s too early. Or is it? Did she hear it? Of course she did. She’s not even breathing. Oh god, she’s not breathing. Is she okay? What if she thinks I didn’t mean it—’

“Seungmin,” you finally croaked.

He turned to you, brows raised so innocently it was almost insulting. “Hmm?”

You opened your mouth, closed it. Your heart was racing, your cheeks hot. You were still trying to make sure you weren’t dreaming.

“You—you just—”

“I what?” he asked way too quickly.

“…The squirrel?”

He gave you a serious nod. “Yeah. Surprisingly round.”

You stared at each other.

And then, you burst out laughing. You couldn't help it. He looked so panicked behind the deadpan act, like he was hanging on by a thread and trying so hard not to make it worse. Your laughter only seemed to make him squirm more, but then – you saw the tiniest smile creep up on his lips. Still pretending nothing happened. Still pretending his heart wasn’t absolutely racing.

You leaned into his shoulder, trying to steady your breathing. “I think the squirrel’s in love with you,” you teased.

He blinked. Then looked away again, a small huff of laughter escaping him. “…That’s crazy,” he muttered. “It didn’t even get me coffee.”

You didn’t say ‘I love you too’. Not yet. But your hand squeezed his tighter.

And maybe that was enough – for now.

Inside, he was still freaking out. But outside, he was smiling.

I.N (you)

“I’ll see you tonight, right?” you said, fingers smoothing the collar of his hoodie out of reflex. You didn’t even think about it anymore. It was just something your hands did.

He caught your wrist, his fingers warm around yours. “Text me when you get there. And when you get off.”

“You say that every time,” you said, trying to make it light. Like it didn’t always twist something in your chest.

“And you never do,” he grinned, pulling you closer.

You kissed him before your nerves stoped you. Just a quick thing. Meant to be harmless. But when you pulled back, your lips still brushing his—

“I love you,” you murmured against his lips.

You didn’t mean to. Not like that. Not now. The words just slipped through before the gate could shut.

Everything stopped. Him. You. The air. Time.

Your eyes widened, the weight of what you’d said crashing into your chest like a wave. You stepped back instinctively, hand flying to your mouth like you could shove the words back in.

“I—I didn’t mean to say that,” you stammered, cheeks flaming. “Forget I said that! Oh my god.”

Jeongin blinked, then swallowed.

“You didn’t... mean it?” His voice was quiet. Not teasing this time. Just uncertain.

You shook your head too quickly. “No! I mean — I don’t know. It just slipped out. I wasn’t thinking. It’s complicated, right?” You laughed nervously, and the sound felt brittle. “I didn’t mean to make things weird.”

He looked down, then ran a hand through his hair, clearly thrown. “Okay. Yeah. No, I get it. Totally.”

A pause stretched between you, taut and trembling.

“It’s not that it’s weird,” he said finally. “It’s just… new.”

You swallowed hard, your heartbeat loud in your ears. “I just don't want to scare you off. Or pressure you. I don’t even know if I’m ready for... that. Saying those words like they’re simple.”

“Neither am I,” he said, voice low. “But maybe we don’t have to figure it all out tonight. Maybe we just... be in this.”

You gave a shaky laugh. “I’m two seconds away from jumping out the window, by the way.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I’d prefer you used the door. Less dramatic. Less broken bones.”

You cracked a smile, despite the knot in your stomach. He was still here. That meant something. “Seriously though. That was embarrassing.”

“Yeah,” he said, and his grin softened, “but I’m kind of glad you said it.”

You looked up at him, startled. “You are?”

He nodded, and this time, there was something certain behind it. “Yeah. Even if we don’t know what to do with it yet.”

For a moment, the noise of the city faded. It was just the two of you, caught in the warm glow of something unspoken – something almost said.

You let out a breath you hadn’t realized you were holding. Not relief, exactly. Just... less panic.

“Okay,” he whispered. “But tonight – text me when you get there. And when you get off.”

You rolled your eyes, but your smile didn’t wobble this time. “Yeah, yeah. I will just.. not sleep tonight, I guess.”

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