#i did not mean for this to turn out this way

[baby-yongbok]

STRAY HEARTS: RENT-A-BOYFRIEND

⤷ Agent Assigned: Han Jisung x afab!reader

⤷ Client Scenario: A fake date to get your friends off your back turns into the best hookup you’ve ever had and forgetting it was fake to begin with.

⤷ Case Warnings: oral (f.rec), unprotected sex

⤷ WC: 2.9k

♡ Stray Hearts File: 002 of 010

♡ Event Masterlist | ⋆｡‧˚ʚ Masterlist ɞ˚‧｡⋆

Your match is one minute away

You're watching the little dot inch closer on the Rent-a-Boyfriend app like you're tracking a DoorDash order. Honestly? Not that different. Except instead of delivering food, he’s here to rescue you from your meddling, very persistent, very single friends. 

The girls are already halfway into the first bottle of wine and arguing over which romcom to put on. Your roommate, Lacey, is on her third blind date pitch of the night. If you hear the words “he’s got a stable job and loves dogs” one more time, you're going to snap.

Just then, the doorbell rings. You rush to the door without an ounce of grace, and there he is.

Flannel, white tee, grey sweatpants with the possibility of no boxers underneath. He’s got messy hair and a lazy, charming smile like he woke up ten minutes ago and still somehow pulled it together. 

“There’s my sugar plum,” he says, voice low and way too confident for someone using that nickname and actually meaning it.

You blink. “I—what?”

He leans in, arms already wide like he wants to say ‘where’s my hug?’ “C’mon, babe, don’t be shy in front of your little friends. Let me in before I start whining.”

Oh, he’s a dork. A hot one. 

You step back, and to your horror—and reluctant delight—he wraps you in a hug. It’s firm with faux familiarity. “I’m going to regret this,” you mutter.

“You paid for premium, sweetheart.” He flashes a grin, slipping off his sneakers. “Regret’s not an option.”

Then he claps once—loud, sharp—you flinch, and he marches straight to the kitchen like he owns the place. Your friends fall silent as he walks in. It’s kind of impressive. Even Lacey, who once debated a cop over a parking ticket while clearly drunk, looks stunned.

Jisung gives them all a once over that just borders the line of inappropriate. “Hi. I’m Jisung. You must be the friends she complains about.”

You nearly choke. “Han.” 

He winks over his shoulder, already reaching for the wine bottle like it’s his. “She calls me Han when she’s pretending she doesn’t like me.”

“Because I don’t.” you say flatly.

“She lies.” he tells your friends.

He pours himself a glass and raises it like a toast. “It’s a pleasure for you all to meet me. I hope I feel some pleasure too.”

You scowl, rubbing the heel of your palm into your eye like a stressed out cartoon character. This is never going to work. You take a seat across from where he stands, trying to seem even remotely interested in your ‘boyfriend’. 

Lacey leans in, mouth twisted like she’s trying to smell bullshit. “So... how did you two meet?”

Han doesn’t miss a beat. “Not telling, the story is too close to my heart. I’m gatekeeping it. You’ll hear it at the wedding. I’m already planning my vows.”

Your entire soul leaves your body with a single scoff. “We’re not getting married,” you snap.

“Yet,” he replies, sipping his wine. “But I have plans for us.” He gives you a kissy face and your friends exchange a glance. He’s losing them. Or winning. It’s hard to tell.

You all move to the living room. Netflix is cued up and snacks are laid out. Han grabs a handful of M&M’s and mixes it with skittles as he drops down next to you like it’s instinct. You watch on, half horrified and half concerned. “What? They’re all going to the same place.”

His arm drapes over your shoulders with too much ease. His hand finds your knee. You glare at him sideways, but he just smiles—easy, casual chaos. 

Your friends settle in, finally picking a movie, some mid-2000s romcom with a predictably chaotic meet-cute. The wine is flowing and everyone’s stealing glances at you two.

The girls are talking through the movie. Gawking at the male lead and discussing whether or not matching with your boyfriend is cute or cringe. You don’t join in, you never really do anymore. Too afraid that one of them will use the conversation to pitch their brother’s best friend's cousin to you.  

Jisung is actually watching the movie. A third handful of mixed candies are shoveled into his mouth and you lean away, kinda over it all. He pulls you back in, casually tossing your legs over his lap like it’s muscle memory. And then he starts tracing patterns.

First your ankle. Then up, slow and unassuming, his fingertips running along your calf, your thigh, higher. You shoot him a look, but his eyes are glued to the screen. His hand, however, is absolutely not glued to a safe zone

“I’ve been tracking your pulse through your thigh this entire time,” he whispers.

You give him a look, his eyes stay on the screen.

He grins. “It tells me everything I need to know. That plus your slight flush are classic symptoms of falling for your fake boyfriend.”

“Or I’m just annoyed.”

“Or,” he says, pointing at the screen and finally looking your way, “Ryan Reynolds is on screen again and your hormones are betraying you.”

“That’s not even—oh my god, that’s Ryan Gosling.”

He blinks, shrugs and squeezes the plush of your thigh just a little. You lean into it. “Same tax bracket. Same jawline. Same vibe.”

You burst into laughter—sharp, real, too loud.

Your friends all glance over. “Everything okay over there?” One of them asks, eyeing Han as he tears into a twizzler.

“Yeah,” you say, clearing your throat and biting back your smile. “Just watching the movie.” But Jisung’s grinning like he won something. He leans closer, voice just for you now.

“You laugh like someone who’s kissed me before. Not an ex but maybe my future.”

Your eyes roll before you register it, “I am not your future and I have not kissed you.” You look at each other, he raises a brow. “You will.”

You try to glare. Try to resist, but he’s smirking and his fingers are brushing the inside of your thigh like someone told him just how you like it. “I could do it now,” he says, quiet, playful. “Seal the illusion. Really sell it.”

“You just want to kiss me.” It comes out softer than you meant for it to, your eyes drift just slightly down but his are already there, watching your mouth shamelessly.

“Desperately,” he whispers. “You’re too pretty to just pretend to date.” 

Your chest tightens, your lips part to say something a bit too flirty—and that’s when Lacey calls out, “He’s very… hands-on, huh?”

You both freeze.

Jisung lifts his hands like a suspect caught at the scene. “Guilty.”

“Dude,” Lacey mutters, “we’re still in the room.”

He doesn’t even blink. “Is it a crime to wanna fuck my girlfriend?”

The room stops.

Dead. Silence.

Your other two friends cough so hard they choke on their wine. Lacey makes a face halfway between oh no and oh he’s hot. Your jaw drops. 

“Han Jisung, shut up!”

He looks around, frowning. “It’s a valid question.” 

Then he’s standing before anyone else can say a thing, holding out a hand to you like he’s about to lead you onto a dance floor instead of to your bedroom.

“C’mon, sugar plum,” he says with a wink. “ Let’s leave the judgmental singles to their vino.”

You glare, whispering as you stand, “You don’t know where my room is.”

He shrugs, whispering back. “I’ll find it. Like I found your heart.” You let him pull you forward, trying not to smile. Your friends all make a sound like they want to say something… but what?

Just as you’re out of sight Han pauses, just loud enough that they can hear him “Uh… which room is yours again?”

You sigh. “This way, dumbass.”

He grins and follows. “That’s my girl.”

You shove him down the hallway. He still opens two wrong doors, calls your linen closet ‘cozy,’ then finally stumbles into your actual room. Once the door’s shut, you spin to face him, slapping his chest. “You’re the worst.”

“You paid for me,” he says, all teeth and mischief as he takes in your room. “I’m just doing my job.”

“Plus,” He looks back at you, still grinning “You’re wet.”

You blink. “I am not—”

He takes a step closer. “Babe, I am an expert. It is my job to know.” Your mouth opens to argue—and then his tongue slips over yours with your next breath.

He kisses you like a college guy getting laid for the first time in two weeks, and for some reason it works in his favor. As much as your brain screams to pull away… your body is okay with this. 

He kisses like he talks—fast, greedy, no filter. He's nearly sucking on your tongue before your brain can catch up, hands already gripping your ass like the clock’s ticking and he’s got something to prove.

You gasp into it. “Jisung—”

“Sorry. Sorry, you’re really pretty,” he pants, backing into the wall by your door. You follow, you don’t know why, but you do. “God, I’m so glad you picked me.”

You nearly make fun of him, tease him for really acting like a horny guy from a frat party but the soft grip of his hands on your waist makes your brain buffer. His eyes are already heavy lidded, asking for more. You lean in with permission.

This time he kisses you like he’s always wanted to. Like he’s known you for years and the opportunity finally fell in his favor. It’s deep, smooth, his tongue slides over yours like he really is an expert. Total difference.

Your hands fist into his flannel, pushing it down his shoulders and he turns, switching places with you. His flannel falls to the floor just as your back hits the wall beside the door. Your gasp sounds too much like a moan. 

“Do that again,” he whispers, then bites your lip. “Show me what other pretty sounds you can make.” he rolls his hips into yours and grinds—once, perfectly—and your mouth parts with an actual moan.

“There she goes.” His lips are back on yours in an instant. He moves you, walking backward and bumping into your dresser, your chair, a damn plant before finally landing you on the bed.

You’re breathless. Laughing like you can’t help it. “Are you always this clumsy?”

He lands with a soft oof on top of you, bracing himself on his forearms. His grin is wild and unrepentant. “Only when I’m trying to get laid by someone way out of my league.”

You snort. “I am pretty out of your league.”

“Ouch.” He feigns offence, kissing your cheek. Then your jaw. Then lower. “It’s a good thing I still have plenty of time to prove myself.”

You open your mouth, ready to tell him to shut up, but then he hooks his fingers into your shorts and drags them down your thighs without breaking eye contact, and your brain fizzles out.

He whistles low. “Damn. Did I just leave you speechless?” your brain still won’t work.

Your shirt goes next, flung somewhere past the dresser he nearly tripped over. His hands trace your sides, up your ribs, greedy but slow and warm. Unhurried for a guy who looks seconds away from combusting just from this alone.

“You good?” he asks, and it’s the first time he sounds truly serious. Gentle, even. “We can stop if you want—” You pull him down by the collar of his shirt and kiss him hard.

“That’s a yes,” he mutters, dazed.

Then his cocky college boy grin is back as he dips down between your thighs, kissing your inner thigh with a sloppy mix of tongue and teeth. You arch, your hand tangles in his hair as he shifts lower and lower.

“I have this playlist,” he says, licking a barely there stripe up your center, “of my moans. You can sample them if you want. Pick your favorite.”

You laugh, actually cackle, caught so off-guard your body folds in a little.

“That right there,” he murmurs, licking again. “That’s better than my entire playlist.” Then he finally puts his mouth on you. He doesn’t ease into it. No gentle warm up, no drawn out tease. His tongue is pressed flat against your clit in an instant, sucking and slurping so loudly you’re sure the girls can hear it over the movie.

“God—Han—fuck—”

Your hips jolt. Your fingers thread tighter into his hair and he groans against you like you’ve unlocked a new kink for him. You reach for the sheets, your fist twist in them just as his nose bumps over your clit and his tongue fucking turns shallow.

He pops up, chin shiny, eyes wide. “Say that again.” He grins. “Just wanna remember how it sounds. 

You grab him by the collar and yank him up. “Shut up and fuck me.”

“Yes, ma’am.” he kisses over your stomach, moving faster now that you’ve asked. Your shirt comes off, your bra goes next. His tongue traces slow circles over your nipples, then quick, playful flicks that make you arch with a sharp inhale.

Then he fumbles his sweats off—nearly falls over—and finally kneels between your thighs, breath heaving, cock flushed and hard and way more than you expected from a man who unironically called you sugar plum.

He pulls his shirt off and you pause. Stare. There are tattoos, two of them.

One sprawls across his chest on the right, black ink, script you can’t quite read in the low light, paired with a compass. The other stretches up his left side, dark bold lettering. 

Your eyebrows lift before you can stop them. “You have tattoos?”

Han freezes, shirt halfway to the floor. “Shit—do I need to put it back on? Is this a no tattoo household?”

“No, I just—” You blink. “You don’t seem like the type.”

He grins, cocky as ever, like you just said exactly what he hoped that anyone who saw the ink would. “That’s what makes them hot.”

You open your mouth to argue, but he’s already lining himself up. He thrusts in all at once, and whatever you were going to say dies in your throat, replaced by a moan so wrecked it barely sounds like you. 

“Swear to God, if you moan like that again I’m getting your name inked above my dick.” You choke on a laugh, but it melts into a gasp when he rolls his hips a little deeper.

“Deadass,” he mutters. “Right over the waistband, cursive font. Maybe a little heart if you keep clenching like that.” You dig your nails into his shoulder, a laugh shuddering through you and ending in another moan.

“Fuck,” he hisses. “You’re so tight. I need a minute. I’m malfunctioning.”

You whine, shifting beneath him, seeking friction. “Just move.”

“Ohhh, you’re a brat. Got it. I’ll remember that.”

He starts thrusting, holding your hips in place and watching himself disappear inside you before he just starts watching you. The way your eyes flutter shut, your mouth falls open with little whimpers and whispers. Missionary turns into a slow grind with your legs locked around him, deep in a way that no one else has ever been. You mean it when you mumble that you can feel him in your stomach. 

Then it gets sloppy. He’s flipping you on your side, holding your leg up as he slams in from the angle that makes both of you moan in approval. He’s the whining type, fingers digging into plush flesh and practically crying above you like a cat in heat.

“Baby,” he groans. “You’re gonna kill me.”

“You’re talking too much,” you manage.

He kisses your calf, more tongue than anything. “If you keep being bratty I’ll lick behind your knee just to see what noise you make.” 

You wheeze a laugh that’s interrupted by a whimper as he pulls out, turning you onto your stomach and pulling you up onto your knees. He drags his cock through your folds before sliding in again, harder this time, his hands gripping your hips like he's grounding you.

The moans coming out of him aren’t even human. High-pitched. Desperate. Pornographic.

“Fuck—jagi—don’t clench like that,” His rhythm falters for just a second “I’m tryna make it last.”

You’re no better, moaning into the sheets, legs shaking. “Han, my god.”

“Yeah?” he groans, rutting into you with a frantic rhythm. “Tell me. Tell me how good I feel.”

You start to speak, your lips part but only his name makes it off of your tongue before you’re coming. Hard. Legs shaking and knees slipping enough for him to have to hold you up while he fucks you through your high. Slow and shallow, dragging it out just right.

“That’s what I thought, baby.” He pulls out just as your high is dying down, panting as he strokes himself once, twice, and then—

His load is hot on your ass, his chest heaving and yours is no better. The air is too hot, your moans still echo into nothing.

“Shit,” he whispers. “Ten outta ten.”

You barely move, you’re dazed. Boneless. Then you feel fabric—his shirt—as he starts wiping you down with the gentleness of a man who’s definitely done this before.

You turn, blinking at him like he’s lost his mind. “Really? Your shirt?”

He throws it to the side and leans forward, kissing your cheek. “Boyfriend duties, no big deal. Now roll over, I’m offering complimentary cuddles.”

You sigh, rolling onto your side like your limbs forgot how to function—cause they did. He follows instantly, sliding in behind you and tugging you in like you belong there, like this wasn’t a paid performance. His arm drapes around your waist. He exhales like this is the best part. Like he means it.

He wiggles his brows. “Better leave me a good review or I’ll cry.” 

You huff a laugh, settling into him. “Three stars at best.” He gasps in fake offense, leaning in a bit closer and tickling you just barely. 

“That was at least a four star performance!” You start laughing again, full and unfiltered. Swatting his hand away and leaning further into his chest.

He smiles into your hair. “That one. Still my favorite sound.”

A/N: Is this my first solo Han smut??? I think it is...

I took FOREVER to do this. forgive me my, my chronic illnesses are being...chronic. but the event must go on!

mdni banner is by @anitalenia

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[maruflix]

SUKUNA RYOMEN: “THE ONLY PERSON IN THE WORLD WORTH KNEELING FOR.”

sukuna loves to see you cry—but he doesn’t like it when you turn away from him. (short 1.6k fic heavily inspired by a dream i had)

cw. female reader, true form sukuna, reader is sukuna’s wife, mean sukuna (he gets progressively softer), no beta we die as always

Sukuna knows he’s done something wrong when you refuse to meet his eye at the hallways. No greetings, no nothing. But you don’t voice it out loud, so he has no sure way of knowing.

He tests that theory and disappears for three straight days. When he returns, the estate is as still as a tranquil lake. He almost misses having random objects thrown at him; something you usually do when he leaves the estate without prior notice.

At dinner, your seat is empty. When he turns to Uraume, they just give him a solemn shake of the head. No explanations—like they knew something he didn’t.

When he walks the corridors, an uncomfortable silence stretches ahead—unpleasant, unfamiliar. You didn’t even bother to come out of your quarters.

This foolishness ends today.

Sukuna is fuming. He’s sent Uraume to relay the message that he’s looking for you but you never showed up. He has no time for your bullshit; if you won’t go to him obediently, he’ll come to you instead.

He walked to your quarters—only to find the door locked.

So he breaks it down.

“Wife.”

Sukuna is now standing in front of you, his full height casting a shadow over your sitting figure. You didn’t look up.

He can feel his patience thinning. “Woman.”

Even then, you ignore him completely, finding it more entertaining to play a game of shogi against yourself.

He reaches out a hand to your face but you smack it away swiftly.

Sukuna grunts in displeasure at your rejection. You may be his lover, but Sukuna Ryōmen doesn’t take kindly to disobedience. He moves forward, causing you to back away until you hit the wall.

You gasp when he slams his arms on the sides of your head, his other two arms clutching your wrist.

“Let go!”

But Sukuna merely tightens his grip. “Do you think you can avoid me forever?”

“Why do you care?”

Sukuna reels back, feeling the last threads of his patience snapping—almost. “What is with this attitude? If you have something to say to me, say it.”

“Last month,” you finally look at his crimson eyes, “I waited for you all night. You never came. I waited all night, Sukuna!”

He stares at you. What is this joke? He searches his memories, finally registering the events you’re talking about. He did fail to show up one night, and you’ve been frosty to him ever since.

“All this... over me skipping dinner?”

Stilling, you meet his incredulous gaze and glare at him. “It was our anniversary, bastard.”

Sukuna sighs, the puzzle pieces finally clicking together. He doesn’t know why you love to place such a huge significance over some dates — anniversaries, birthdays, what other godforsaken days, — when no matter the occasion, the ferocity of his love remains unchanged.

“I was preoccupied.”

“With Uraume?”

The sentence came out more accusatory than you planned. It causes your husband to raise an eyebrow, loosening his hold on you. Taking that chance, you immediately break free, crossing your arms in front of your chest.

“Ho,” Sukuna shifts, his lips stretching into a mean grin, “do I hear jealousy?”

“Fuck you.”

He grips your chin, forcing it upwards. “I will not have my wife insult me continuously. Let’s put that mouth into good use, hmm?” he leans down, his gaze fixed on your lips—

But you turn away, eyebrows knitted in defiance.

Sukuna feels his annoyance start to prick. “You refuse to kiss me now?”

No matter how hard you try to hide it, he can see it clearly—the slight shake in your shoulders, the wetness in the corner of your eyes, the faint pink on your nose.

You’re holding yourself back from crying.

His eyes narrow, “If you’re not going to even look at me, perhaps I should find Uraume instead.”

He doesn’t mean it, of course. The very notion that you thought of his relationship with Uraume as something more than master and subordinate makes him feel sick. Disgusting—

In front of him, your figure has begun to tremble, long eyelashes dampening with tears.

—but seeing you squirm is a delicacy like no other.

You don’t cry often, so when you do, Sukuna feels something dark flicker inside him. The thought that only he is able to make you feel things so greatly gives him a high.

“Come now, are you really crying over something like this?” Sukuna grumbles, pretending that your tears didn’t awaken something primal inside of him.

But it was weird: it usually takes more than that to ire you. Way, way more. He’d have to wipe out cities and slaughter hundreds of lives to get you to come to him with that disapproving look on your face.

Sukuna will admit that he loves it—your attention. But now, something is different. You’re still refusing to look at him, even going as far as to muffle your cries. Your whole body is turned away from him, like you want to get away.

That, he doesn’t love.

“Look at me.”

You stubbornly inch yourself away from him, sobs starting to escape from your lips.

There it is.

You cry so beautifully, it makes him want to ruin you. Yet, at the same time, he feels a surge of something uncomfortable—the more you sob, the more he has difficulty breathing.

Sukuna didn’t know he was capable of having a guilty conscience.

“Alright, alright. Cease this at once. Look at me.”

Sukuna wrenches your hands away from your face. The sight that greets him makes him feel it again—the irritating dread that crawls up his stomach.

Even with tears running down your face, you’re still glaring at him with those red, puffy eyes. He sees your lips, bleeding from how hard you were biting them. They quiver, and you almost bite them again—but this time, Sukuna is quicker.

His lips crashes onto yours with urgency. He can taste the metallic taste of your blood, a taste that he loves—but not this time, not this way.

His hands has moved to your palms, clasping them with a rare gentleness. He can feel the resistance leaving your body slowly as you melt against him.

“There’s my girl,” Sukuna grins when he pulls away, his breath still hot on your lips, “no more crying.”

“I still haven’t forgiven you.”

Sukuna huffs. He could just leave you to deal with your own anger, but he had a feeling that the consequences of him doing that would come back to bite him in the ass. “Do you wish to know why I failed to show up to dinner that time?”

“If you were meeting with another woman, I don’t want to hear it.” you say, looking away from him.

Being Sukuna’s wife is many things: exciting, intoxicating,—but easy, it is not. Sometimes you can’t figure out whether he truly loves you, not when he never says the words out loud. For him, love is worthless. Who’s to say you’re not another thing he picks up out of interest, only to throw away?

Sukuna stays silent, only moving to kiss you again with more force than before—like he’s giving you an answer. His big hands are still clasped over yours. For a moment, you consider forgiving him.

Then he bites your lip. Hard.

“Sukuna!” you jerk away from him, looking at him in disbelief.

“I will forgive you this once for spouting such nonsense,” Sukuna’s voice is low with warning, “there will be no next time.”

You look at him, wronged.

Sukuna sighs, running a hand through his salmon hair. “Is it not your birthday coming up soon?”

You tilt your head.

It’s only after the king of curses presents you with a large bouquet of peonies do you finally understand: he missed your anniversary because he was busy procuring flowers—for your birthday, no less.

It’s such an unfamiliar sight—an oddly domestic one, that you can’t help but let a smile crack through your features.

“I do not care for this ‘anniversary’ you talk about. I am more than capable of giving you the same amount of affection every single day. But the day of your birth, I do see some significance in,” Sukuna doesn’t notice the giddy smile on your face and continues with his explanation, “and while your taste in flowers are exquisite, peonies are not easy to get.”

“But still, you could’ve told me or something.” you pout, hoping he’ll console you, “I waited for hours like an idiot. The servants will think I’ve lost favor with you.”

Displeasure flashes across Sukuna’s face. “Who would dare to make such assumptions? I will have their heads immediately.”

“That’s not the point!”

The point is, Sukuna is growing tired of your stubborness.

He sighs and lowers himself on one knee, reaching for your hand and guiding it to rest against his cheek. He doesn’t miss the way your eyes widen at the gesture.

“Ha, you’re smiling now? I have not even said anything,” there’s no mistaking the teasing in his tone, “wife, do you like seeing me below you, begging to be forgiven?”

Yes, you almost voice out your answer. The smirk on Sukuna’s lips widens, his eyes studying your reactions intently.

“Feeling proud of yourself I see,” he mocks, “Well, you should be. You alone are the only person in this world I kneel for.”

His nonchalant straightforwardness sends shivers down your spine.

Sukuna glances up at you, “Now, are you still going to deny me of your affection?”

You immediately leap into his arms, letting his arms engulf you. Sukuna just chuckles, immediately knowing that he is forgiven.

He still does not understand the significance people put in certain days, or actions. What he does know is how much he hates it when you avoid him. So if all it takes for you to forgive him are some flowers and him getting down on one knee—well, he’ll gladly do so, as many times as you wish.

“I love you, Kuna.”

He doesn’t reply. But the content hum that vibrates through his chest gives you all the answers you need.

@goxjo it’s here :’) !!

[glamorizethechaos]

20/20 Vision

After finding out you’re pregnant with your second, you try and find a cute way to incorporate your son into the announcement. Only thing is, Jack is an idiot and doesn’t notice what’s right in front of him.

————————————————————————

Standing at the bathroom sink you glanced down at the test on the counter.

Positive.

You were so busy chasing around your red headed feral toddler that you hadn’t even realized you were two weeks late. You were loading the dishwasher the night before when the smell of old food hit you with a wave of nausea that was all too familiar. When you were pregnant with your son, you had a 9 month vacation from doing the dishes— the smell of the dishwasher always made you vomit without fail.

After finding an old test under the bathroom sink, you waited until Jack left for work to take it. The line showing up almost instantly. Fuck.

You hadn’t been trying but also hadn’t necessarily been taken any precautions either. Your son just celebrated his first birthday. He had just had taken his first steps. He was still so little. He tugged on your pants as he reached up for you in the bathroom. You picked him up and held him on your hip, your breath shaking and eyes burning with tears.

“I guess you’re gonna be a big brother, huh? You want a baby brother or sister?”

“Baby” he repeated, smiling and clapping at himself in the mirror.

When Jack came home the next morning, your son ran to him wearing a “Big Brother” shirt. Jack scooped him up, kissing him on his big chubby cheeks.

“Hey buddy, you been a good boy for mommy? Did you grow on me overnight big guy? You feel heavier.”

He set him down in his high chair before walking over to where you stood at the stove making pancakes.

“Pancakes? On a Tuesday? What’s the special occasion, mommy?” He asked, kissing your neck. You looked up at him and slightly furrowed your brow— almost enough for him not to notice. Almost. “What? What’s wrong?”

Was he serious?

You glanced at your son who was banging on his high chair tray and back at Jack.

He didn’t notice the shirt.

You tried to stifle a chuckle before kissing him and turning back to the stove.

“What? I can’t make pancakes on a Tuesday?”

“If I recall, when I asked for some pancakes two weeks ago the response was ‘that’s a weekend breakfast’ and told me I knew where the cereal was.”

You checked the clock.

8:14 am.

You started playing a game only you knew existed. How long would it take Jack to notice your son’s shirt?

The three of you sat at the table eating your pancakes as Jack told you about his shift. He wiped your son’s hands and face clean and brought him to the couch for what he called “father and son bonding time”.

Aka the two of them watched reruns of whatever sports game was on the night before.

“Can you say Go Steelers?”

“Ga teels!”

“That’s my buddy! Go Steelers!”

10:30 am.

Still nothing.

You sat with your boys on the couch, snuggling up together under your Phillies blanket Jack keeps saying he was going to burn in the fireplace. When your son started to rub his eyes Jack picked him up, bringing him into the bedroom for their nap.

Jack missed your son while he was working, and wanted to spend every moment with him when he was home. He’d never sleep if it meant spending extra time with you both, so you compromised by having the both of them nap together in the afternoons.

Watching the two of them sleep together made your heart skip a beat— thinking that in 9 months time another little addition would be joining in on their nap time and sports recaps.

2:30 pm.

Jack shuffles out of the bedroom holding your son, the both of them with curly bed head. You put a reminder in your phone to schedule him an eye exam. I mean sure he was nearly 50 but his eyes weren’t THAT bad, were they?

It was taking everything in you to not tell him to read your sons fucking shirt. God you loved Jack so much. He can catch a case of sepsis before anyone else but doesn’t notice the giant “Big Brother” shirt your son has been wearing ALL DAY.

“Wanna take him for a walk before dinner?” You suggested and Jack obliged “get him in the stroller for me?”

Jack buckled him into the stroller and the two of you walked through your favorite park. Full of laughing children, fountains, flowers, and people. An older couple passed by, the woman smiling at your son before yelling:

“Congrats honey!”

Jack cocked his brow, not sure what had just transpired.

“What was that all about?”

You simply shrugged and kept walking, you felt horrible not acknowledging the woman, but Jack still had NO idea.

Then it happened again. Two people passing by offering their congratulations, Jack stopped in his tracks and looked at you.

“Okay, what the fuck is going on? Did this kid win a Nobel Peace Prize for ending war in the Middle East with a game of peekaboo or something?”

5:00 pm

You stood over the stove once again, stirring the pot of sauce that had been simmering for most of the afternoon. You gave up.

“Hey Jack?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“Dinner is almost ready. Do you mind changing him out of his shirt, it’s new and I don’t want him to get sauce on it.”

“Ye-“

You heard him go quiet, and before you knew it he was standing on the doorway with your son in his arms. His face was pale and his eyes were almost unreadable.

“What’s this?” He asked.

“Nice of you to finally notice, dad!” You rolled your eyes with a chuckle. You wiped your hands on the towel draped over your shoulder and left to retrieve the positive pregnancy tests hidden in your sock drawer, all 5 of them. Each one representing your denial.

When you came back to the kitchen, Jacks eyes were glued to your son’s shirt, looking like he had just seen a ghost. Finally he glanced up at you, eyes trailing down to your stomach. You handed him the tests, each test with lines looking almost darker than the last.

“I was loading the dishwasher two nights ago and gagged. I realized I was two weeks late. Got the shirt after you left for work yesterday. ”

“I— I don’t— when did you put this on him?”

“7:30 this morning.”

“Bullshit.”

“I’m serious Jack. It took you…” you glanced at the clock “9 hours to notice.”

“Waitwaitwait, you mean to tell me— but we spent the whole day together! And the people in the park!”

“I felt horrible not acknowledging them! But the look on your face was too good, when it happened the second time I was dying inside.”

“And this guy! Little punk knew this whole time and didn’t tell me!” He bounced his son who was chewing on his dog tags.

He looked back up at you to find tears trickling down you cheeks.

“Hey— hey come on, what’s the matter?” He crossed the kitchen quickly, resting his hand on your hip.

“Are you mad? I mean is this what you want?”

“Why wouldn’t I want this?”

Your son reached for you and you pulled him into your arms.

“Our little guy just turned 1 last month, he’s still just a baby. We haven’t even talked about this. I just feel like it’s all too soon.”

“I mean sure, the timing isn’t exactly ideal, but if you think I’m upset or angry, you’re wrong. Scared? Sure. Unhappy? Not a chance.”

“So we’re really doing this again?”

“Looks like it…” he counted the tests on his hand. Picturing you taking one after the other.

“Then I guess I can ask you to load the dishwasher after dinner?”

[mishappeningss]

Heyooo,

Do you think you could do driver reader with other retired drivers like Seb, Jenson, Kimi, Nico and people like that? Like what would they think of her, what would the dynamic be?

she’d do ANYTHINGGGG to be able to go back in time and race w them :(

more about driver!yn

Sebastian Vettel — “She’s the storm the paddock needed.”

Sebastian Vettel isn’t even supposed to be in Monaco. He swore off race weekends — no media duties, no team consultancy, no press box nostalgia runs. But the moment he hears YN is starting on the front row, something inside him itches.

So here he is, leaning against the paddock railing with a soft smile, baseball cap low, sleeves rolled up, and a warmth in his chest that has nothing to do with the Riviera sun.

And there she is.

YN — hair braided, race suit tied at the waist, fireproofs clinging to her like a second skin, bottle of water in hand, muttering something brutal about setup balance and slow corners. She hasn’t seen him yet.

When she finally turns and clocks him, her whole face shifts — eyes widening just slightly, jaw tightening like she’s trying not to grin. Trying not show how giddy she is that her favorite driver’s here.

“Thought you were done with all this,” she says, walking over.

Seb shrugs. “So did I. But you’re hard to stay away from.”

“Dangerously charming, aren’t I?” she deadpans, already rolling her eyes, but her voice is too soft to mean it.

They stand in silence for a moment, watching the chaos of prep unfold around them. Mechanics scrambling. Reporters shouting. Engines screaming in the background. And still — peace, between them.

“How’s the car?” he asks finally.

“She hates me,” YN sighs. “But we’re working it out.”

Seb smiles, something proud and private in the way his eyes crinkle. “Sounds like most good partnerships.”

After the race — P2. Not the win, but damn close. Close enough to make the world pay attention.

Seb meets her just outside the garage, catching her before the interviews. She’s flushed and buzzing, hair frizzed from the helmet, adrenaline still bleeding through her skin.

“That was brilliant,” he says, and it’s not the usual post-race praise. It’s reverent. Genuine.

“You saw the lock-up?” she asks, already grimacing.

“Yes. And the save.” His eyes glint. “You’ve got instinct. You don’t drive like anyone else.”

“That a compliment or a warning?” she teases.

He leans in slightly, like he’s letting her in on a secret. “Both.”

user: seb vetttelll being her calm anchor in a world that’s constantly trying to knock her down??? i’m sobbing

user: when he said “both”… i ascended. i left my body.

user: if you think seb didn’t come back to the paddock just to see her race, you’re wrong and also boring

Kimi Räikkönen — “She reminds me of myself. Just louder, and a lot more sarcastic.”

Kimi shows up in Silverstone with no warning. No media fanfare, no pre-race announcement. Just walks in with sunglasses on, coffee in hand, and a team lanyard he probably stole from someone else.

And naturally, he heads straight for her garage.

YN looks up mid-briefing, squints, and blinks twice like she’s hallucinating. “Are you… lost?”

Kimi doesn’t flinch. “No.”

“Here to consult?” she asks.

“No.”

She tilts her head. “Then what are you doing here?”

He sips his coffee and shrugs. “Wanted to see if you finally learned how to brake after turn nine.”

YN grins, all teeth. “I’ll show you how I brake — through your kneecaps.”

Kimi smirks. “Good. Stay angry. It’s when you drive best.”

Later, she’s in her race suit, pulling gloves on slowly. There’s a storm coming — not weather, just her. Tension in her shoulders, jaw locked tight, heat in her eyes. The kind of energy that usually ends in a podium or a full-on brawl with another driver. Sometimes both.

Kimi’s still there. He doesn’t hover — he just exists near her, like a shadow with a sharp tongue and too much Finnish honesty.

“You ever thought of coaching?” she asks, adjusting her earpiece.

“God, no,” he says instantly.

She chuckles, tossing her head back. “Not even me?”

He raises one eyebrow. “You’d fire me in a week.”

“Fair,” she agrees.

Pause.

“…You’re still my favorite, though.”

He doesn’t say anything. Just reaches out, gently straightens the strap of her HANS device, and walks away.

On the pit wall — race ongoing:

Luca tells her about pushing harder in Sector 2. She snaps back with a sarcastic “I can’t push what’s already over the damn limit!”

The radio crackles again. And suddenly: Kimi’s voice. Calm. Dry. Perfectly timed.

“Then don’t crash. It’s annoying to watch.”

YN cackles mid-corner.

After she finishes P4, she storms into the garage, annoyed, sweaty, muttering about tire degradation and pit stop calls.

Kimi hands her a water bottle and says, deadpan, “Should’ve crashed. Would’ve been more dramatic.”

She flicks water at him.

He doesn’t flinch.

user: kimi showing up like a feral paddock uncle just to roast yn is PEAK mentor content

user: she said “you ever thought of coaching” and he answered like she offered him a job in hell i’m crying

Jenson Button — “I just remind her that she’s allowed to breathe.”

It’s the Canadian GP, and Jenson’s working punditry this weekend. He’s already had three segments where he talked about YN’s sector times like he was narrating a love letter. Not that he’d ever admit it.

Mid-FP3, he finds her leaning against the pit wall, helmet at her side, boots tapping against the concrete like she’s too full of kinetic energy to stand still.

He walks over, calm as ever.

“You’re overdriving turn 3,” he says without greeting.

“I’m testing the grip,” she shoots back. “And also proving a point.”

Jenson chuckles. “You always try to make a point.”

She raises a brow. “And?”

“And you usually do.” He nudges her boot lightly with his own. “But don’t forget to have fun. You used to smile more.”

YN pauses, eyes flicking up to his, and for a second, the sarcasm softens.

Then:

“I smile plenty. Just not when I’m surrounded by men with microphones who think I’m here for vibes.”

Jenson puts both hands up in surrender. “Hey. I am here for vibes.”

During Qualifying — Live TV Broadcast

“Okay, look at YN here,” Jenson says on-air, gesturing toward the screen mid-hot lap. “Watch the confidence on entry — no hesitation. It’s instinct. You can’t teach that.”

“Would you call her aggressive?” the co-commentator asks.

“No. I’d call her decisive,” he replies immediately. “She knows who she is. That’s dangerous in F1. And beautiful to watch.”

The fans melt.

After Qualifying,she finds him in the media pen, finishing a segment. Walks up behind him and says loud enough for the mic to pick up:

“So are we calling me beautiful or just my cornering technique?”

Jenson laughs, tilts his head. “Why not both?”

She grins — genuinely this time. It throws people off.

user: jenson calling her decisive instead of aggressive is EVERYTHING. this is what mentorship should look like. respectful. proud.

user: jenson and yn having mentor/older sibling banter while also looking like they’d rob you in matching sunglasses? ICONIC

user: “she used to smile more” “you usually make your point” “why not both?” STOPPP I’M GONNA START SHIPPING THIS

Nico Rosberg — “She’s chaos with purpose. That’s what makes her so dangerous. And so much fun to piss off.”

He corners her just after the drivers’ briefing in Monza. She’s already annoyed — the sim didn’t translate well, the car feels unbalanced, and some journalist just asked if she was “overcompensating” by being aggressive on track.

She’s two seconds from committing a crime when Nico appears behind her and says, way too casually:

“Still driving like you’ve got something to prove?”

She turns slowly. Narrowed eyes. Jaw tight. “Oh, I forgot this is your ‘I pretend to be insightful but I’m actually just trying to get a rise out of you’ era.”

Nico grins like a man who’s won. “I missed you too.”

Later, she’s mid-interview, giving calculated, smart answers, and Nico (with a mic, of course, because he’s media now) slides in beside her.

Nico asks, “So, YN, think you’ll ever learn to leave any space when overtaking?”

“Why would I? You didn’t.”

He grins in return. “Touché.”

“Thanks. I’ve got years of your footage saved. For research.”

The reporters eat it up. So does Twitter. He smirks. She glares. The chemistry is chaotic.

In private, though — it’s different.

She finds him on the balcony of the hospitality unit, staring out at the track as if he misses it.

Which, honestly, he probably does.

“You’re not that annoying, you know,” she says, arms crossed.

Nico looks over. “You’re terrible at compliments.”

She sighs, a little more serious. “You get it, though. The pressure. The performance. The branding. How they either hate you or want to own you.”

He studies her. “Yeah,” he says, softer. “I remember what that felt like. When the sport loves what you do but resents how you do it.”

Silence.

Then YN nods, once. “You’re still annoying, though.”

He grins. “There she is.”

user: WHY DOES HE ONLY TROLL HER. he doesn’t even acknowledge other drivers like this lmao

user: the way he called her out ON AIR and she just body slammed him with facts and footage. girl boss behavior

user: i’m sorry but they’re so enemies-to-mutual-recognition-to-rivals-who-flirt-through-insults. i’m sick.

[princessxmin]

BODY BODY BODY ! — LADS!MEN

[♕]: including — fem!reader, suggestive + fluff, rafayel being dramatic as usual. [౨ৎ] synopsis: the lads!men favorite parts of your body!

like these jewels? check out --> lads masterlist

SYLUS.

౨ৎ— hips & lips

There’s never a time where this man’s hand isn’t on your waist or near it—whether it’s cuddling in bed, walking together, or even just passing by you in the hallway. It’s instinctive. Like he needs the grounding. Like touching you reminds him he’s still tethered to something soft in a world that never lets him breathe.

His palm fits there too perfectly. Low on your waist, thumb brushing just under your ribs, or a little lower—resting at the curve of your hip like it belongs there. And maybe it does. He touches you like he owns the map of your body, and your hips are his favorite landmark.

He doesn’t always say much, but the way his fingers tighten ever so slightly when you're close? That says enough.

And then there’s your lips.

The amount of times you’ve been on the phone or doing something idly and this man swooped by silently, tipping your head toward him with two fingers under your chin, and stealing a kiss like it’s his right—it’s almost unfair.

One second you're mid-sentence, the next your breath is caught between the press of his lips—slow, deliberate, like he’s trying to memorize the shape of your mouth all over again.

And when he pulls away?

He always gives you that look. That quiet, smug little ghost of a smirk paired with the faintest tilt of his head, like he’s daring you to pretend you didn’t just forget what you were doing.

"Keep talking, sweetie," he’ll murmur, voice low against your cheek, already halfway turned away. "Don't let me distract you."

ZAYNE.

౨ৎ— shoulders & legs

Poor thing is like a Victorian man when he sees you wearing an off-the-shoulder top or a shorter-than-usual skirt. A sliver of skin alone is enough to distract his structured mind from regulated tasks. A glimpse of your collarbones and pink is dusting his cheeks, blinking twice as often, suddenly needing to "review something in his office."

You’ll catch him mid-sentence, eyes flicking to your bare shoulder like it personally offended him—and then immediately feel the guilt flood his face like he did something wrong. Which he didn’t. You’re just wearing clothes. He knows that. He just can’t seem to function through it.

Though for some reason when you wear a skirt his brain suddenly forgets that fact.

You could be sitting cross-legged across from him during a comfortable quiet moment, and it'll take him a full thirty seconds to realize he hasn’t heard a word you said. Just the way your skirt rides up slightly when you shift—how your thigh presses into the seat—has him clenching his jaw, doing mental math, trying to behave.

“Are you even listening to me?” you tease, smirking just enough to make him flinch.

He straightens like you caught him violating some dress code. “Yes my love. I mean—well, I was. Mostly.”

CALEB.

౨ৎ— eyes & boobs

It’s no secret that Caleb values eye contact more than anything—not just because he likes looking at your pretty eyes (though he’ll shamelessly admit he does). It’s the connection. The way it roots you to him. The way you can say everything without saying anything at all.

When you talk, he listens—not just to your words, but to your expressions, your blink patterns, the way your gaze flutters when you're flustered. He lives for it.

The cute look on your face when he redirects your chin with two fingers, guiding your gaze back to his? That’s his favorite. Every single time. “Eyes on me, pips,” he’ll murmur, soft but sure, the corners of his mouth twitching into a smile. “Say what you said again.”

That’s also why it absolutely ruins him when samantha and rachel get involved.

You’ll be mid-conversation, leaned a little too casually over the kitchen counter or adjusting your top while talking about something completely unrelated, and his gaze will drop for half a second—then snap right back up, like he’s caught himself in a crime.

He tries. Tries so hard to maintain eye contact. But his brain short-circuits. He gets all warm in the ears, coughs, shifts in place.

“My eyes are up here, caleb,” you’ll tease, and he’ll smirk, entirely unashamed. “I know, I know,” he says. “M'just... multitasking.”

He loves when you catch him staring, too. There’s no panic, just that confident little grin he does. The one that says yeah, I was looking—and I’m not sorry.

XAVIER.

౨ৎ— collar bone & thighs

Obsessed with your collarbone. It’s quite literally his favorite place to land whenever he's tired. You’ll find him curled against you, head nuzzled into the crook of your neck, arms wrapped around your torso like a teddybear. As if he's trying to melt into your skin.

He murmurs things there too. Half-asleep compliments. “so feel so soft star.” “I missed you.” His voice all gravel and warmth, his arms snug around your waist, nose brushing the soft slope of your collarbone like it’s the only place that feels safe.

Sometimes he kisses there without thinking—lazy, lingering kisses that trail up the side of your neck like he needs to remind himself you're real. Other times, he just stays still, breathing you in, like that soft little hollow between your neck and shoulder was made for him to rest in.

But your thighs? That’s where he really unravels.

You’ll be lounging on the couch or curled up in bed, legs stretched out, and suddenly his head is there—resting on your thigh like it’s a pillow. No warning. No explanation. Just… thud, and he’s settled.

One drag of your fingers through his scalp has him practically purring, you could almost see the tension leaves his bones as a comfortable sigh falls past his lips. “Comfy?” you ask, teasing.

“Mhm,” he mumbles, voice muffled against your skin. “Perfect.”

RAFAYEL.

౨ৎ— hands & neck

Lives for your touch, cupping his face, fingers trailing down his chest, running through his hair- god forbid you pull away from him for 3 seconds to grab your phone. Because now the world has ended.

"You don't need that right now, are you that bored by just spending time with me? Your boyfriend?" He'll pout for about three minutes before 'forgiving you' and crawling back all in your space like a touch starved cat.

Nuzzling his face into your neck, he lets out the loudest, most theatrical sigh humanly possible—like he’s been through something harrowing and soul-shattering.

“All I ever do is love you,” he grumbles into your skin, voice muffled but unmistakably smug. “And you abandon me for social media.”

You roll your eyes, but he doesn’t move—just burrows deeper into your neck, lips brushing lazily against the warm skin there, his breath soft and constant.

And then, a little quieter: “You smell good..cmere..”

Raf doesn’t even give you time to argue. One firm tug and you're pulled flush against his chest, his arms locking around your waist like he’s anchoring himself. No space. No distance. Just you, completely pressed to him, like he’s afraid you’ll disappear if he lets go for even a second.

He buries his face in the crook of your neck, inhaling your scent like a damn vacuum. “Mm… that’s better,” he mumbles against your skin, voice low and dangerously soft. “Could stay right here forever.”

® princessxmin all rights reserved. please to not alter, copy or translate my work !

[cece693]

TAMARANEAN TROUBLE (AND A JEALOUS BIRD)

pairing: nightwing x male reader synopsis: Meeting your boyfriend’s ex was never easy, especially when she’s a literal goddess. But turns out she’s way more charming than you anticipated—and your new friendship with her starts to drive Dick a little nuts.

You had expected to feel a little awkward meeting his ex. After all, how often does someone casually meet the woman who used to date the guy you’re currently in love with—especially when that woman was the embodiment of alien royalty, radiant warmth, and god-tier beauty?

What you hadn’t expected was how nice she was.

“So you are Y/N,” Starfire said, floating slightly off the ground as she smiled at you with a kind of sunshine-bright sincerity that made it impossible to dislike her. “It is a pleasure to finally meet the one who makes Grumpy-Wing less grumpy.”

You laughed a little. “I—uh—thanks? It’s great to meet you too.”

And it was. But damn, she was...everything. Kind, smart, powerful, beautiful. You'd seen the pictures of her and Dick back in their early days—smiling, shoulder to shoulder, picture-perfect in ways that belonged on magazine covers and cheesy soap operas. Even now, years later, they moved around each other like they still shared an orbit. Not romantic—not anymore—but familiar.

And as the three of you moved through the Titan Tower that weekend, helping out with some team reconvening for a threat that thankfully didn’t escalate, you couldn’t help the thought that rooted in your head like poison ivy.

Why did you guys even break up?

They had chemistry. A history. Years of shared battles, shared glances, and emotional highs and lows. And you? You were just the guy Dick dated now. The guy who sometimes stumbled through fight choreography, who needed more coffee than sleep, and who couldn’t fly—unless you counted being thrown by a meta.

You didn’t voice it.

Of course not.

You smiled and teased, joined in the banter. But the seed had been planted. Every time she touched his arm affectionately or burst into laughter at something he said, it watered itself.

And Starfire? She was always so genuine with you.

“You are most humorous,” she beamed after you cracked a joke. “Dick never laughs that way. It is endearing.”

You blinked. “Thanks. I think.”

One afternoon, while Nightwing was busy coordinating with Cyborg, you and Kory found yourselves lounging on a terrace overlooking the bay, bathed in sunset light and quiet.

“You seem troubled,” she said gently, sipping something fizzy from a glass she probably made sparkle with her fingers.

“Nope,” you said. Then: “...Okay, maybe.”

She tilted her head. “Is it the comparison?”

You froze. She was looking at you with those big green eyes, not with judgment, but understanding. That made it worse somehow.

“I—what?” you asked, a bit too fast.

She smiled. “It is a natural thing. I have known Richard since he was very young, but that is no threat to what you share. If anything…” she leaned in a little, voice low, mischievous. “You and he are very hot together. It makes me wish I had taste in better timing.”

You stared.

“I mean it,” she went on, her smile widening as she leaned back. “Your dynamic is delightful. You challenge him. He softens around you in ways he never did before. And aesthetically? Glorious. Your hair alone could inspire three songs.”

You snorted. “Are you flirting with me?”

“I am complimenting,” she said innocently. “Unless you are open to being flirted with. In which case, yes.”

That was how you and Kory became best friends and when Dick began to act funny. Not in the ha-ha kind of way—no, you’d take goofy knock-knock jokes over what he was doing now.

First it was subtle. He started appearing in rooms he had no business being in. You’d be lounging in the common room, scrolling through Kory’s latest intergalactic memes, and suddenly Dick would appear with a clipboard, muttering something about “inventory checks.”

“In the living room?” you’d ask, raising a brow.

“Important living room supplies,” he’d mutter, shuffling cushions and trying very hard not to glare at your legs draped across Kory’s lap.

Then it escalated.

If Kory threw an arm over your shoulders in the hallway, Dick would suddenly need to “discuss patrol assignments.” If you so much as laughed too long at her joke, he’d swing by like a vulture in a domino mask, kissing your temple in a move so obviously territorial, it practically growled.

Kory noticed. Of course she did. She was a warrior, a princess, and now, your best friend. She took great delight in making your boyfriend squirm.

“Hello, Dick,” she would purr every time he showed up mid-conversation. “We were just discussing how your partner’s biceps have grown. He is becoming so sturdy.”

Dick’s eye would twitch. “Great. Love that. Very…sturdy.”

You tried to hide your smirk. Tried.

It all came to a head one evening while you and Kory were testing out her new “Earth-style fashion experiment.” Somehow, this translated into you wearing a sleeveless mesh top and Kory bedazzling your boots while perched upside down on the couch.

Dick walked in.

Paused.

Looked at you.

Then said, “Cool. When’s the drag show?”

You and Kory wheeze with laughter.

“Oh come on,” Dick huffed, folding his arms. “You two are literally one hair braid away from running off together.”

Kory beamed. “Do you give us your blessing?”

“I—what?! No—that’s not—” He pointed at you, then her, then back again. “You’re doing this on purpose.”

You stood up, sauntered over, and poked his chest. “Doing what, Grayson? Having fun without you?”

“You’re flirting.”

“She started it,” you said.

“And he is adorably receptive,” Kory added.

Dick groaned. “Unbelievable. My boyfriend and my ex-girlfriend are best friends and now they’ve unionized against me.”

You grinned and leaned in, pressing a kiss to his cheek. “Hey. I’m still yours, y’know.”

He tried to stay mad. Really, he did. But the tips of his ears turned red, and his lips twitched upward despite himself. “Yeah. I know.”

Kory stood as well, looping an arm around each of your shoulders. “Do not worry. I will not steal your sparkly boyfriend.” She paused. “Unless you break his heart. In which case I will destroy you and then marry him on a moon garden beneath three suns.”

Dick stared. “That’s…oddly specific.”

“She’s been planning it,” you said, nodding seriously.

Kory winked. “I have the dress picked out.”

[secretsofafangirll]

thinking about clark and roommate reader...brain go brrrr😵‍💫

word count: 2235

//

they met in college in metropolis, both journalism majors with a minor in communication studies. they had a lot of the same classes and shared a lot of the same interests, so naturally, they ended up hitting it off really well.

after class they would go to a local coffee shop to study, playfully bantering back and forth. they would end up just staying out late in clark's car, neither of them able to hangout in the other's dorm due to policies.

eventually, y/n would crack a joke about "just moving in together" but clark thinks it's a great idea. he would stutter and flush in the cheeks but he gets the word across. he thinks you two should move in together.

you both start looking for places for rent, or even for sale, and you end up finding a place in the city. a two bedroom, one and a half bath apartment with a full kitchen. within two weeks you're moved in.

every night turns into a three hour dissertation about the whatever the fuck you guys want. "jaden from poli sci makes me want to gouge my eyes out with a spoon and eat them" all the way to "when i was little i was scared of the 'angels watching over me'" were topics you covered on the couch while 'friends' re-runs played lowly on the television.

as time went on, you two got more comfortable. those nights spent on the couch turned more than friendly. before, you would be on separate cushions but now he's laid out on the couch with a head on the headrest and your laying between his legs, head on his chest with his arm around your waist. he gives you 'goodnight' kisses and sneaks a hand under your shirt, tracing shapes into the soft skin of your back.

when you don't feel like cooking, he quick to order take-out, always knowing exactly what you like. he'd find himself feeding you the first bite, guiding the fork into your mouth, and laughing hysterically when food dangled from your mouth or sauce smears onto your face. seeing his face light up is the highlight of your day, so you don't mind.

when you do feel like cooking, it becomes an experience. clark gets home from class or the gym and finds you at the counter, vegetables on the cutting board. "what are you doing?", he would ask as he dropped his bag and hooked the keys on the rack. he would walk up behind you and look over your shoulder, leaning his hands on the counter beside your hips. "i'm building a lego set. what does it look like i'm doing, clark?", would be your sarcastic reply. he's just pinch your hip and blow raspberries into your neck in response. he would join you soon, only making things harder, as he was honestly bigger than the kitchen. "clark, honey, step out," you would point to the couch with a spatula. "wha-," he would complain, his face dropping. "step out," you'd instruct, not backing down. he respects you too much to disobey, so he would walk to the couch glumly. the food ends up being delicious and he makes sure you know.

"you're insane, y/n, i mean, really," he would moan as he scarfed your creation down. "what did i do to deserve you?" is what he's asking as he holds your head in his hands before he plops a kiss on your forehead, then both of your cheeks, and your nose. everywhere but your goddamn lips.

then comes relationship talk. by the time you're out of college, you start dating. or at least wanting to date. college boys aren't worth fighting for but men are, so you hit the town. it comes surprisingly easy for you to get guys; it's the guys that come that are the problem. of course, you would confide in your roommate about this. one night, after another failed date, you're laying in clark's bed beside him, propped up on an elbow, as he played with the t-shirt of his draped over your body.

"he was nice, don't get me wrong, but he was so small. i'm all for body positivity, but what the fuck is going on?" you would rant to him, "why does it feel like we were having an ozempic off the whole time? his waist was legit smaller than mine," clark would laugh, eyes crinkling and teeth gleaming. you would push his shoulder but you were smiling too, "i'm dead serious, he was so small. i just want a big man. like, a manly, big, strong man. is that too much to ask for these days?" you didn't even realize what you were saying but clark did. he always listened to every word you said, and he heard them too.

that night you fell asleep in his bed and woke up to his arm wrapped around your waist and his face in your neck. you didn't move and neither did he.

when you both start working at the planet, you only get closer, if that was even possible. you start staying up even later to piece sources together and get head starts or sprinting finishes on articles. when there's work gossip, you both can't help but indulge in that same cuddly position you always find yourself in. when you're actually at work, the same habits apply. your desks are right across from each other and you always turn around to talk to one another. at 3, like clockwork, he meets you at the coffee machine to make another cup and you guys chat for 15 minutes.

"those two...," jimmy olsen observes with lois, the two staring as you guys laugh at whatever inside joke you're telling. "those two...," lois would echo, shaking her head. "aren't they roommates?" jimmy asks, taking a sip of his own coffee. "yup," lois would affirm, bringing her own mug to her lips too, "it couldn't be written any better." jimmy would agree with a simple hum, "mmm, mmm."

one night, the work crew organized a night out. just a few of the best people are invited to a bar to relax and have some fun after all the hard work they do at the planet. y/n is in the shower, washing the office off, the glass door foggy, when clark barges in. they've both made it a habit of talking to each other when they're in the shower. you can't really see anything but a shape anyway (you can see clark's head over the top of it). "hey, y/n, where did you put my converse shirt? the small one that's black?" he would ask from the doorframe, watching your slender, blurry figure sway as you rinse your body. "small? dude that things, like, a large," you laugh, turning the water off. clark, on autopilot, hands you your towel and you step out carefully, skin damp and hair in a bun atop your head.

"yeah, whatever, it's small on me," he admits sheepishly, "anyway, where is it? i wanna wear it." he taps his foot impatiently, letting you push him against the doorframe with a hand on his chest as you walk past him.

"it's in my closet, hang on," you tell him, leaving wet marks on the ground as you walk to retrieve it.

"oh, so you weren't gonna give it back?" he teases, following you into your room, avoiding your steps. he plops down on your bed as you walk into your closet. you come out with his shirt and your own pair of comfortable clothes to wear while you do your hair and makeup.

"no, idiot," you tease back, throwing the shirt at him, which he catches with one hand. you pull a t-shirt on over your towel and allow it to reach mid-thigh before you drop your towel and pull on a pair of panties. "i was gonna give it back, but it just looks so much better one me," you smile as you pull your panties up your legs. his downward gaze and bitten lip don't go unnoticed by you. when you walk past him to go back into the bathroom, you grab his chin and give it a little squeeze. his eyes follow you all the down the hall.

when he's ready, he lays on your bed waiting for you to be done. "are you almost done?" he would whine, huffing dramatically every time he heard you dig for another product in your bag. when you finally finish your hair and makeup, you just need to get dressed.

"clark, i need your help," you say as you walk out of the closet. "should i wear this top," you point to the one you have on, "or should i wear this top?" you hold a different up and let him choose.

"definitely the one you have on," he says decisively and almost too quickly. what you settle on is a denim mini-skirt, a lace maroon tank top, with one of clark's old leather jackets over it.

clark drives there but he lets you play music. your knees are turned inward as he drives, doing air drums and guitar and singing the lyrics at him. he just smiles and laughs and adores you when you aren't looking. that night, one drink turns into six and, before you know it, you're drunk and feeling good and feeling trusting. lois becomes your first victim.

"I haven't had sex in soooo long," you tell her, and quite loudly as well to be heard over the music. "i think i need to fuck someone bad." she would just pat your back, "sure, honey," and guide you to clark, who typically became responsible for you when you were drunk. "she's talking nonsense, clark. you need to take her home," is what she tells him before running back to jimmy.

"clark!" y/n exclaimed, wrapping her hands around the back of his neck, reaching up on her tip toes, "my favorite person ever," you hum into his chest, feeling his strong arms wrap gently around your waist. he lets you hug for a moment before he peels you away gently. he pinches your chin to make you look at his face.

"you feelin' okay, sweetheart?" he asks, even though he knows the answer. when you only smile drunkenly with your eyes closed, he nods and politely excuses himself from the conversation he was having. he wraps an arm around your waist and pulls you tight into his side, keeping you close to him in the crowd. he had to park kind of far away, so when you make it outside and walk half a block, you start to whine. "what's wrong, baby?" he asks, the pet name feeling like second nature.

"my shoes," you whine, pulling on his wrist, "hurts," you huff like a child and stare up at him through your lashes. how can he say no to you? he thinks to himself. he wordlessly, and mindlessly, wraps an arm around your upper back and another under your knees and scoops you up. you don't even really react, it's just become so normal. you only mutter a drunken thank you and nuzzle into his firm chest.

he takes the two of you home, changes you into comfortable clothes (another one of his t-shirts and a pair of panties), takes off your makeup, brushed your teeth, and makes you a glass of water. he carries you to the kitchen while he makes your water and sets you down on the kitchen counter. he hands you water and watches as you take a sip, then set the glass down beside you. you beckon him over with the wiggle of a finger, which he immediately obeys.

"i love you, clark, you know that?" you ask gently, wrapping your arms around his neck and pulling him closer. he hums as he runs his hands up and down your thighs, pushing the long t-shirt of his that adorns your body higher. "i mean it, like, I really love you. so much," you smile, playing with his hair.

"i love you too, y/n," he agrees, wrapping his arms around his waist and at your lower back, "so much, sweetheart." he tightens his grip on your body and pulls you closer to him. he places a kiss to the top of your head and you wrap your legs around his hips, knowing he wants to pick you up. he hoists you up into his arms, hands holding you up under your ass. he walks with you in his arms, carrying you like you weigh nothing, and gently lays you down on your bed. he makes sure you're comfortable and reaches to turn off your lamp. you grab his wrist before he can.

"stay," you demand softly, giving his wrist a gentle tug. he looks down into your eyes, hunching down slightly, "please." at that soft plea, he obliges and slips into the bed beside you.

that night the two of you fall asleep with your head buried in his chest and his hands wrapped fully around your body. your leg is thrown over his hips and he has an arm wrapped over it with a hand under it. his other arm is under your abdomen, clutching you as close to him as he possibly can.

you're not just roommates anymore.

[woso-dreamzzz]

Grumpy

Grace Clinton x Sister!Reader

Summary: You're the most intimidating at camp

The strong silent type.

That's how your England teammates would describe you.

You were tall and bulky. You spent your spare time in the gym, somehow bulking up even further.

You were as quiet as a mouse but not in the cute way. You were more of a presence. The silence only served to unnerve people even more.

You were a rock between the sticks and your defenders could never quite tell if they preferred you silent or yelling instructions at them.

Either way, sometimes you looked like you would be more at home as a bouncer of a night club than a famous footballer.

Either that or in the ring.

Which isn't too far of a leap considering what you're looking like now.

Your presence is always known when you step into camp. The soft thud of your heavy boots alerts everyone in the lobby that you've arrived.

You're wearing the same thing as always. Black joggers and a Black t-shirt that has arm holes straining to contain your muscles. It's a wonder you're not wearing that retro motorcycle jacket you usually are but the weather has grown warmer and you probably don't want to overheat.

But that's not what has a few gasps of breath sucked in from the players and the staff.

Your lip is split. It's healing now, but it's still split and a black-purple bruise covers your jaw and part of your cheek.

You look like you've been in a street fight, not at all what you looked like a few days ago when you'd kept Liverpool's clean sheet against Chelsea.

You look like you had taken a glass bottle to the face and still won.

Briefly, Alessia wonders if you were actually in a fight but there's no bruising on your knuckles and you don't look like you're limping.

You nod in greeting to her before moving past to grab your room key, dragging your suitcase into the elevator behind you.

"She looks like she took a punch to the face," Ella whispers over dinner that night, glancing back towards you and immediately turning away when your gaze catches hers.

"The other person probably came off worse," Maya says back.

She also tries to glance at you but very quickly thinks better of it. It's not worth the chill down her spine if you meet her eyes.

"How do you think she did it?" Ella continues," One-two jab in the face? Or like just one massive knockout punch?"

"If it was a knockout," Alessia says," Then she wouldn't have been hit in the face too."

"Well maybe the knockout happened after the first punch," Ella corrects," Like she doesn't look the type to start fights. Only finish them. And I bet she finished that fight super quick."

"So the knockout punch then?" Maya twirls some spaghetti on her fork. "It was probably a knockout because she was probably pissed they got the first punch in."

"It does look nasty," Alessia says," Did you see how dark it was? I almost thought Sarina would send her home."

"Send her home? She's probably still the best goalkeeper in the world even if her eyes was swelled shut. Besides," Ella points her fork out her friend," You want to be the one telling her to go home?"

"Tell who to go home?"

Grace appears out of nowhere. It's her first camp and she'd taken her time in the dinner line, in awe of all of the choices.

She slides into the other seat next to Alessia.

Maya grins. "Old grumpy l/n over there?" She's careful not to make eye contact with you.

You sit alone at your own table in the corner like you normally do, glaring down at your food like it owes you money.

"Oh, y/n?"

Ella laughs. "You think you'll be close to her, Grace? Calling her by her first name?"

Grace frowns. "What do you mean? Why wouldn't I call her that?"

Ella and Maya are still laughing at Grace's confusion. Alessia seems to be the only that's noticed you've risen from your seat, the only one that's noticed that you're crossing the space, the only one that's noticed that you're standing behind Grace.

Your hand closes around Grace's shoulder.

She doesn't even flinch.

"Gracey-girl," You say in the same gruff voice that you always use.

The whole table freezes, spines straight and completely on edge.

"Mum was worried. You didn't text her to say you've arrived."

Grace lets out an awkward laugh. "But you did it for me?"

"Only after she called me all panicked and worried," You reply," You think you're grown-"

"I am grown."

"Then you need to do grown up things and not stress out Mum. You know she can't take much."

"It was an accident. I was just-"

"I know, Gracey-girl, but please, stop making my life even harder."

"That was an accident too. I was only-"

"No, no, wait!" Ella interrupts. Her mouth opens and closes wordlessly a few times as she points between you both. "I...What?"

You stare blankly at her for a moment and she wilts under your gaze until you turn to fix those disapproving eyes onto Grace.

"You haven't told them?" You ask.

"Told them what?"

"That we're sisters?"

"You're sisters?!" Ella's voice booms.

"I thought they already knew." Grace says.

"Why would we know? You don't have the same last name!"

"We're half-sisters technically," You say. Getting you to volunteer this information is usually like getting blood from a stone and even now your face is all twisted up like even saying this is painful to you. "Different dads which is why I have a different last name. Not that it's any of your business or that it makes me and Grace any less sisters."

"No, no," Ella hurries back quickly," Of course. Of course it doesn't."

You ignore her, turning back to Grace and your features soften a fraction. "Gracey-girl, it's fine. Just come to my room tonight, alright? We'll call Mum together and set her at ease. How about that?"

"Yeah, that would be good."

You nod once, a short bob of your head before you lean down to press a kiss to the top of your sister's head and walk away.

There's silence for a moment with all three of Grace's friends frozen in shock.

"You...She..." Maya takes a moment to regain her composure before speaking again," Do you know how she got that bruise and the split lip?!"

Grace's face grows red in embarrassment and she clears her throat.

"I tried to jump onto her back for a piggyback when we went to see our granny...And I accidentally knocked her into the corner of the dinner table."

[illumoria]

"Tell Me More!"

────────────────୨ৎ───────────────

⋆·˚ ༘ .⋆𖥔 ݁ ˖۶ৎ clark kent/superman x reporter/journalist!reader

content warning!!: fluff | talking to your charming co-worker about your silly little crush on a certain superhero

illi's notez: next part!

🏷️: @angel06babysworld @rafeysvenicebitch @chuuuchuuutrain @alize2007 | click here to be added!

masterlist! mini series masterlist!────────────────୨ৎ───────────────

The Daily Planet's TV screen was bright and loud, playing the usual news–something you were used to ignoring as you worked, but this time? Your eyes were practically glued to the screen.

"Superman saves the day once again" The news anchor woman's voice echoed, playing short clips of the superhero–"a red and blue blur " that lifted a derailed train like it weighed nothing, shielding a family from falling debris, offering a boy his baseball cap with a soft smile.

You were smiling without even realizing it, goofy–like you'd just been caught thinking about something you really shouldn't have.

And apparently you had.

"You're staring again."

You jumped slightly, turning around to see your co-worker behind you. Clark Kent. In all his dorkiness with a coffee cup in his hand.

"Clark..gosh, you scared me." You chuckled, sheepishly looking down at the floor, shifting your weight on your feet like a scolded puppy.

"Oh–sorry, I didn't mean to." He smiled sweetly, taking a step closer to you, his eyes drifting up to where yours had previously been.

"Superman, huh? Pretty...pretty good guy am I right?"

You let out a quiet huff of laughter, slowly shaking your head. "Pretty good guy" is definitely an understatement.."

Now he was the one smiling like he'd been caught red handed, hiding the slight curve of his lips with the rim of his mug.

"Are you a fan?"

"Clark, the entire world is." You smiled wider, forcing your eyes back on him, even though a part of you wanted to just sneak one last glance at the TV in front of the both of you.

It was different to hear it from you. He knew people liked him–who could hate a guy who saves people lives? But it..it was something else coming from your lips. Like you really meant it.

"You just–just seem particularly fond." He replied, taking a small sip from his coffee, his expression a mix of excitement and nervousness.

"Is that your way of calling me love-sick?' You mumbled, shooting him a suspicious look with your eyes narrowed, accusatory.

His brows shot up, his sentence coming out in a tumble of words. "W-what? No, of course not! I..I mean–unless you are?"

"I'm just..well I'm just saying that if Superman wanted to whisk me away in the clouds with him I wouldn't exactly resist. Who would?"

A surge of confidence sprouted in his heart, his nervousness melting into something else as he murmured a quiet, 'Tell me more.'

"Tell you more?–You seriously want to hear about my dumb crush on Superman?" You laughed, feeling your face grow warm under his gaze. His stare was intense and you felt as if you couldn't escape it. It was...an odd feeling. Especially since it was–well, it was just Clark. Clark.

He tilted his head slightly, his glasses gliding down his nose ridge a little. "Well, hypothetically..if Superman did–literally sweep you off your feet..what would you do next?"

You look back up at the TV, the superhero still on screen– like something out of a story book.

"I guess.." you trailed off, meeting Clark's eyes for a second too long before you suddenly backed off.

"This is embarrassing–I can't do it–"

"Oh come on!" He laughed, "not one thing you'd say to him? What would you say to Superman right now?"

"I ...like the way you lift..stuff?"

He made a noise as if trying to hold back his laughter, hiding his mouth with his mug as if that could make it any less obvious.

"Don't laugh at me, Clark! I'm very much on the spot!"

He brought his cup down, setting it onto a nearby desk. "Hey, how come you don't like it when I lift stuff?" His voice teasing–light and playful.

"You lift printer paper."

"Did you forget that one time I carried three coffee trays by my self?" He added triumphantly, his chest puffing out ever so slightly.

"And then you dropped two of them."

He chuckled under his breath, deflating a bit–a smile still on his lips "Tough crowd..."

Your eyes wandered back to the screen–than back to him, as if comparing the two silently. Letting yourself take in his features, studying him. It didn't last long of course, not when he turned his head only to see you already staring at him.

"You...sorta look like him y'know?"

His brows shot up, his teeth sinking into his bottom lip, holding back a smile.

"You think I look like Superman?"

"Same jawline..a little"

"Oh yeah?"

You rolled your eyes playfully, shaking your head. "Don't let it get to your head, Kent." You giggled, swatting his shoulder before walking back to your own desk, tabs of different articles already on your computer.

It was a silly thought that stuck in your head even as you typed away–Clark? Superman? No...they were too different. Were they?

You rolled your eyes, muttering to yourself under your breath as you typed.

"Great..now I have a crush on two guys I can't have."

Safe to say you definitely had a type.

line dividers: @/hyuneskkami

[slutty4jk]

KISS ME! | JJK › PART 3

Summary: You and Jungkook have known each other your whole lives. Childhood best friends turned almost something more. He’s charming, popular, and scared of commitment. You’re ambitious, guarded, and tired of being a maybe.

After one kiss changes everything, you realize wanting him isn’t enough if he won’t choose you back. But walking away is easier said than done.

University brings distance, jealousy, and new people. You’re ready to move on. He’s finally starting to realize he can’t. Not when it’s always been you.

pairing: childhoodbestfriend!jungkook x (fem) reader

genre: angst, hurt/comfort, slow burn, childhood friends to lovers, kinda toxic but delicious, mutual pining, fluff & eventual smut

rating: 18+ (mdni!!)

word count: 6.4k 💌

warnings: emotional whiplash, mutual pining, possessiveness, unresolved tension, brief semi-explicit sex scenes, cheating, ghosting, jealousy, heartbreak, toxic patterns, emotional manipulation, blurred boundaries, self-sabotage, car accident (mild injury), family confrontation, guilt, vulnerability, difficult conversations about infidelity and neglect and kissing... again

A/N: Don't be mad... shit it about to go down, I swear. lmk what you think about this part Happy reading! - Ivy ₍^. .^₎Ⳋ

Taglist: @akirawhore @amarawayne @jahnaviii @crazyovayou @niniythv @dollyunjinz @yungies @caaally @aestheticalime @flaneuseonthestreets @goldenko-97 @lachimolalajeon @buckylov3r @labbbaaa @bts123746 @chxiosworld @qu3t @littlecherri @alessiamargaux @lokislittlemouse-library @enchantingeagleengineer @jeoncasino @minnie-mouser22 @tinytangerineangel @yourlittleslutcums @httpjeonlicious @uaremyserene @intro-bts @glossyxiaoting

please like, reblog, follow & scream into the void for more! (˶ᵔ ᵕ ᵔ˶)

KISSME!MOODBOARD | KISSME!PLAYLIST | SERIES MASTERLIST ⭑.ᐟ

The door pretty much slams into your face, and you stumble back, rubbing your forehead. "Ow," you grumble, frustration rising.

Jungkook peeks his head into the room, seeing you standing there. "Oh, shit, my bad," he says, his voice laced with concern as he opens the door wider. He steps in, closing the door behind him and locking it like he always does.

It’s a habit at this point.

You stop rubbing your forehead, a big red mark standing out. "What do you want?" you snap, unable to mask the anger creeping into your tone. You didn’t mean to sound so hostile, but this dumbass just hit you with a door.

“Sorry. Your big-ass forehead got in the way," he chuckles, clearly trying to lighten the mood. He knows you’re upset.

You scoff, slapping his arm. “Not funny.” You grumble. "Seriously, why are you here?”

"First of all, hi," he says, almost matter-of-factly.

“That’s it? Hi?” There’s so much you want to say, yet nothing else comes out.

"Yeah. You didn’t say hi to me back there," he replies, raising an eyebrow.

“What are you talking about?" you ask, genuinely confused.

"When I got here," he deadpans.

"It’s not like you said hi to me.” Your heart is pounding, and you hate that he’s trying to act normal.

What is he doing here? Why did he follow you to your room when his girlfriend was just downstairs? Your heart couldn’t deal with so much right now; you wanted to hug him, cry, and ask him why he didn’t choose you, but you stood your ground, arms crossed over your chest as if you were protecting yourself. 

"You left before I could.” He countered that it was true, but he still could have said something first. 

"Yeah, but you know what I mean.” He could have said something a long time ago, two months ago, to be exact. He could have been honest with you from the start, but he wasn’t, and he didn’t put much effort into saying anything to you, not when his girlfriend had spoken to you first.

"No, I don’t.” Is he acting stupid, or is he really that clueless?

You let out a frustrated huff, your fists clenching. Seriously? Does he really not get it? "You haven’t messaged me or even reached out to me for what? Almost two months?”

"I... I thought you were busy," he says, guilt bleeding through his voice.

"You seemed busy.” You glare at him, hugging yourself, trying not to let your eyes linger on him too long. He looked too good tonight. Unfairly good. But you weren’t about to admit that.

Your gaze drops to your shoes, the same stupid Mary Janes you wore a year ago when you were in a similar position with him.

That slow, ugly burn of resentment twists in your chest, igniting everything you’d worked so hard to bury.

You’d imagined him showing up alone. Maybe with flowers. Maybe with that boyish smile he used to save just for you.

Maybe he’d pull you aside and say he was sorry.

He scoffs. “You know what? Maybe I was.” He hated when you got like this, when you made him guess what was wrong instead of saying it.

"With your new girlfriend?" You bite, your voice thick with frustration, lips twitching from holding it all in.

"Oh? Is that what this is about?” His tone sharpens. He’s reading you like he always does, like an open book.

"What do you think it’s about?"

"What do you want me to think it’s about?" he presses, his voice low, edged with mockery.

"You’re smart enough to realize," you snap, your arms crossing tighter across your chest.

"I'm flattered—"

"What'd you come here for, Jungkook?" You cut him off coldly. "Why leave your girlfriend downstairs and lock yourself in my room with me? Just to say hi?”

"I—"

"I," you repeat, mocking. "You what?" Your voice cracks open, sharp and exposed. 

He doesn’t answer, he doesn’t have to.

You just got played. And the worst part? You let it happen.

You were a fool to think he wasn’t talking to you because he was busy; he was just busy with other girls, and he never cared about you. 

"Don’t be like that," he says softly, a frown pulling at his lips. 

"Be like what?" you shoot back.

You saw them. You saw her speak with your parents and your family, fitting too perfectly into a spot that used to feel like yours. It made you sick. You wonder if she knows, if she’d still hold his hand if she did.

He stares at you like he can’t believe you said it out loud, like he’s shocked you're not playing nice.

"You don’t get to act surprised," you add, quieter. "You made it obvious.” 

He doesn’t respond. And the silence says more than he ever could.

*

(THREE MONTHS AGO) 

Jungkook didn’t know why he kept letting it happen.

He told himself it was a one-time thing. A slip, a mistake. But that lie stopped working after the third time… maybe even the first.

It kept happening. For almost a year now.

Every time he saw you, it was like a fuse lit under his skin. You’d look at him a certain way, and he’d lose all sense of reason.

He wanted you like he’d never wanted anything else: wild, stupid, and desperate. The way your body moved under his, how your hands tugged at his hair, and the way his name sounded on your lips.

It was enough to make him forget everything.

That night in your bedroom was no different.

Your legs were wrapped around his hips, pulling him in deeper, your breath catching with each thrust. His hands pressed into the sheets on either side of your head, his mouth at your throat, biting softly. Your nails scraped down his back, and he groaned at the sting. You closed your eyes and bit your lips, trying to keep quiet.

“Open your eyes,” he whispered, breath hot against your skin.

You did and it destroyed him. The look in your eyes, like he was everything you didn’t even have to say it. He could feel it in your body, in the way you held him, and in the way you trembled around him. Your lipstick was smeared, cheeks flushed, and lips parted in a silent moan. The little gasps you let out every time his hips met yours drove him insane.

“Kiss me,” you breathed.

So he did. Deep, slow and aching. Your tongues tangled, messy, and desperate, your fingers threading into his hair like you were trying to keep him there forever. His pace stuttered. Fuck. He was close. 

‘I love you.’ It almost slipped out. It was right there, on the tip of his tongue

Instead, he bit his lip and, buried his face into your neck, let it rot with everything else he didn’t know how to say.

“Fuck, Y/N… I’m about to cum,” he groaned, voice hoarse.

“Me too,” you gasped, thighs tightening around him.

“Shhh… Let me take you there.” He kissed you again and rocked into you harder, deeper, chasing that edge.

You cried out his name, your body tightening around him, clenching, soaking, milking every last bit of him until he was shaking.

 “Fuck,” he gasped, pulling out at the last second, letting his cum spill across your stomach in hot, messy streaks.

You lay there afterward, chest rising and falling, your hand reaching for his like it meant something and maybe it did.

You were soft and glowing and completely unaware. You didn’t know; you didn’t know he was still seeing other girls, didn’t know that this was killing him, and didn’t know that he didn’t want to stop.

That night replayed in his mind over and over; he’s never felt the want to say ‘I love you’ to any girl, so why was it that way with you? He wasn’t ready for that just yet, or at least that’s what he kept telling himself.

He wanted to experience different people, or that’s how he liked to put it. He didn’t believe that love lasted forever, at least not in that romantic way, so why should he even try? Once you started to get busy, he started coming up with excuses too. Maybe if he made you believe that you didn’t make enough time for him, he could let you down easily; maybe if you started to hate him, it would be easier for the both of you. 

It was stupid.

Then it happened; he went out with Sara one night. The bathroom was small and humid and smelled faintly of cheap vodka and vanilla body spray. The bass from the party outside thudded through the walls, vibrating the mirror. Sara pressed him up against the sink, her breath hot on his neck, her lipstick already smeared across his jawline.

Jungkook had been sleeping with Sara on and off for about two years; they both knew what they were getting into from the start, but it felt easy with Sara there weren’t many emotions involved besides hers.

Would it be easier to keep her happy than it was to keep you happy?

He thought about it before...he thought about it a lot. 

“What are we, Jungkook?” Sara whispered, bringing him back to reality, fingers grazing the waistband of his jeans. “You can’t keep pretending I’m just some girl you mess around with.” It was like she read his mind.

Maybe he had too much to drink; he couldn’t think clearly. He was letting his emotions take over. He thought about you and how he didn’t want to hurt you. He didn’t want to ruin whatever you two had left. He knew it was wrong from the very beginning to sleep with you, but he did it anyway, and he kept doing it because—

His thoughts moved like molasses. He wanted to answer, wanted to say something honest, but her hands were already unzipping him, pulling him out, stroking him slowly like she knew exactly how to shut him up.

His head thudded against the mirror behind him. He exhaled sharply, eyelids fluttering shut. He wanted to stop her, to say this wasn’t what he needed. Not from her, not here. But his body didn’t know the difference, it responded out of habit, not desire. 

She sank to her knees, murmuring his name like a promise.

He looked down at her red lips, wet eyes, and dyed blonde hair and felt… nothing.

Not the kind of nothing that meant peace. The kind that meant shame.

"I’ve waited two years for you. If this doesn’t mean something to you, then I don’t know what I’ve been doing.” she breathed, mouth brushing the head of his cock. “I want to be your girlfriend.” 

He should have stopped her, he should have pulled away. But instead he let out a breath and said it flatly, numbly, “Fine.” 

Her eyes lit up, like she won something. She smiled, her mouth wrapping around him like a reward. It was nothing. No rush, no heat, just a hollow act he’d let happen.

When it was over, she stood and kissed him sloppily, whispering how much she loved being his, he didn’t even kiss her back. He couldn’t. His stomach was already twisting.

She walked out first, giddy and glowing. He stayed behind, washing his face in cold water, staring at the stranger in the mirror.

The rest of the night was a blur of hands and lips he didn’t want, laughter that felt fake, and Sara’s constant grip on his arm like a chain. He needed air.

By the time he made it outside, the buzz was turning into nausea. He staggered toward his car, hoping the night would just erase itself.

But then he saw it, his car. The place he kissed you for the first time, the same angle, the same night sky. He closed his eyes and saw you, heard your voice, and felt the way your fingers curled around his hoodie, grounding him.

What’s happening? 

He got in his car, he needed to get home before Sara started looking for him. He thought about you on his drive home; his foot pressed on the gas unconsciously as if he wanted to get to you as quickly as possible, but he couldn’t go to your place, not after everything he’s done. He finally pulled into his neighbourhood; he wasn’t paying attention, though. Sudden bright headlights brought him back to reality for a moment before he swerved his car out of the way. 

Then, SCREECH.

CRASH.

His car slammed into a parked vehicle on the side of the road. 

Everything blurred. The sound of twisting metal, a flash of white, the jolt of his head snapping forward. When he opened his eyes, the windshield was shattered, and he could taste blood in his mouth. 

How embarrassing, he thought to himself. He didn’t even bother moving; he stayed put, hoping someone would come to see him.

Flashlights shone on his face. A panicked voice came soon after. “Jungkook?” She almost screamed, “Call 911, call his parents, it’s Jeon Jungkook.” 

He couldn’t think, and he couldn’t speak, all he did was shut his eyes.

The ER lights were cold and bright; his head throbbed. A nurse cleaned the cut above his eyebrow as he sat on a gurney, jaw clenched, heart pounding in a silent rhythm of regret.

The hospital smelled like disinfectant and loneliness.

Jungkook was lying on the hospital bed, head bandaged, arm covered in bruises. He had answered questions from the paramedics, the doctors, the police… all with the same dull voice.

“Had you been drinking tonight, Jeon?”

Yes. “No.”

“Is there anyone you'd like us to call?”

Yes. “No.”

He didn’t want to see anyone. Not even Sara, especially not Sara.

And yet, it was his parents who showed up first. His mother burst in like a storm, face drenched in tears, his father right behind her with a grave expression, as if the world had just collapsed. 

The moment they saw him, they started talking, but their voices blurred into the beeping of the monitor.

“What were you thinking?” his mother sobbed. “You could’ve died, Jungkook! How could you be so irresponsible?!”

He said nothing.

“They called us at three in the morning! My God, your grandmother... we haven’t even told her yet; she’ll have a heart attack!” She went on, covering her mouth with her hand.

“Are you on drugs? Have you been drinking?” His father cut in, his voice sharper. “What the hell is going on with you?”

He lowered his eyes. The words hit like knives, but he had no strength to fight back.

“Tell us the truth, Jungkook. What really happened?”

He opened his mouth, but all that came out was: “Nothing. I got distracted.”

His father let out a bitter laugh. “You got distracted? That’s it? After crashing your car, that’s the face you make, and all you say is ‘I got distracted’?”

Jungkook clenched his jaw. Everything hurt: his head, his body, and his soul.

“Do you know how many people die in crashes like that?” His mother spoke again, softer now, but with the same pain in her voice. “You could’ve killed someone.”

And that was the worst part. Because deep down, he wished something had happened to him. Something worse, something that would punish him for everything he had done.

“I want to go home,” he murmured, without looking at them.

“We’re taking your keys,” his father said finally. “The car is a wreck anyway. But even if it wasn’t, you’re done driving. Until you are proven more responsible, do you understand?”

Jungkook didn’t fight it, he was too tired. He nodded slowly. “Yeah… okay.” 

His mom sat beside him on the edge of the hospital bed, hands folded in her lap.

“You haven’t really been talking to us much lately,” she said quietly. “You’ve just felt… distant. Is something going on?”

There was no anger in her voice, just concern. The kind that made his chest tighten.

Jungkook kept his eyes on the floor, jaw tense.

He didn’t know how to explain it how everything felt like static lately. How he’d been walking around in a fog, barely able to string a thought together that didn’t end in guilt.

He knew they’d noticed. How could they not?

He nodded once, barely.

She didn’t push. Just reached over and gently ran her fingers through his hair, like she used to when he was younger like she still saw him as someone worth worrying about.

And somehow, that only made him feel worse.

“I… I’m sorry for worrying you,” he said softly, eyes still fixed on his hands. The words barely scratched the surface… 

 His mom drove him home the next morning.

She didn’t say much. Didn’t put on the radio. Just kept her eyes on the road, hands tight around the steering wheel like looking at him might crack something open.

And Jungkook sat there in the passenger seat, wishing the silence didn’t hurt so much.

He didn’t say anything. He didn’t know what he could say.

But deep down, he knew he missed you, he knew he was wrong. 

And he had no idea how to come back from this.

*

Sara showed up that week, pecking his lips in the hallway; he barely remembered that night with Sara until she brought it up later. 

By then, it felt too late. 

He apologized. Told her it had been a mistake. That he wasn’t ready.

But she made a scene in the parking lot, started crying, and he panicked.

Would it be easier to be with Sara than with you?

Maybe.

There weren’t so many feelings involved; maybe that’s why it felt harder with you.

He apologized, told her he didn’t mean it, and said he was just… joking? 

Her tears instantly stopped. “You shouldn’t make cruel jokes like that again.” she pouted.

Eventually, two months passed.

Sara was always around. Always calling, always kissing him, always talking like they were something real. She didn’t seem to notice how little he responded anymore, how his lips barely moved when she kissed him, or how his hands stayed limp at his sides.

To her, it probably felt like love. To him, it felt like being smothered with something he never asked for.

He’d been with her before. It used to feel easy, meaningless. But now? It didn’t feel good. It didn’t feel like anything at all.

He hadn’t had the guts to reach out to you. At first, he told himself he couldn’t, not without a car, not with Sara always around. But the truth was, he was scared. Scared of what you’d say. Scared of what it meant that he still missed you, even when he tried not to.

Then you texted him.

Just one message: I miss you ❤️

And he saw it. While Sara was curled into his side, tracing circles on his chest like she belonged there. His heart stopped. His fingers hovered over the screen.

He didn’t know what to say.

So he lied again.

Jungkook: Sorry. I fell asleep. 

*

Your birthday was coming up.

His mom mentioned it offhand something about a backyard cookout your mother had planned and how they were invited, like always. And just like that, his chest tightened.

He thought about it for days.

Would you be mad if he showed up? Would you even want to see him?

Part of him knew he didn’t deserve to. But the other part, the louder one, couldn’t stand the thought of not being there. Not on your birthday. He’d shown up every year since you were kids. Wouldn’t it hurt more if he didn’t?

So when he finally decided, he told his mom he’d go.

He didn’t tell Sara.

He couldn’t show up empty-handed. That much felt non-negotiable. He paced his room for hours, tossing ideas in his head. What could he bring you? What could he give that wouldn’t feel hollow? Something small, maybe, but real. Something that said, I still care. Even from here. Even after everything.

Then it hit him. The gift.

He ordered it the same night, quietly, before Sara could catch wind. She’d lose it if she knew. She never asked about you directly, but she knew. She knew there was something between you two, something she could never quite touch.

And that scared her.

The following week, he met up with the guys at the park for a game of basketball. He hadn’t invited Sara, but she showed up anyway, a pack of iced tea bottles in hand, a tote bag on her shoulder, and that too-bright smile on her face.

“Brought you something,” she said, offering him one of the drinks. “Figured you’d be dying out here.”

Jungkook blinked, then took it with a quiet “Thanks.”

She sat on the bench, legs crossed, sipping her drink between cheers. Her voice cut through the buzz of the court, bright, high, and unmissable. And for a second, Jungkook found it… kind of endearing.

No girl had ever done that for him before. No one had come just to watch him play, to clap when he scored, or to smile like it actually mattered. When he missed a shot, she scrunched her nose and stuck out her tongue, playful and dramatic. He let out a breath of a laugh. She could be sweet. When she wanted to be.

After the game, she walked over and looped her arm around his. “You did good,” she said, kissing his cheek before he could dodge it.

He gave her a short hug and a quick peck on the lips, mostly for show.

He stood by the sidewalk, waiting. His mom had said she’d come get him, not that he had much of a choice these days.

“Sara, don’t,” he muttered when she glued herself to his side like static cling. “I told you. I don’t like PDA.”

Or maybe… he just didn’t like her.

“I’m your girlfriend. What’s the point if I can’t even touch you in public?” She whined, kissing his cheek again.

He sighed but didn’t push.

His mom pulled up and rolled down the window. “Jungkook,” she called, eyeing the girl attached to him. “Who’s this?”

Sara didn’t miss a beat. “It’s so nice to meet you, Mrs. Jeon! I’m Kim Sara, Jungkook’s girlfriend,” she said with a too-sweet smile.

“Girlfriend?” His mom raised her brow but smiled politely. “Nice to meet you. I didn’t know he had a girlfriend.”

Sara’s jaw twitched just slightly. “Oh, well… it’s still new. We’ve been dating for two months now.”

Jungkook gave his mom a tight, awkward smile.

 There was a moment of silence before his mother decided to ruin his weekend with one question. 

“Did he invite you to his friend’s birthday party this weekend? It’s just a cookout. I can let her mother know Jungkook’s bringing a plus one.”

Sara’s grip on his arm tightened just a little. She looked up at him, a gleam of something sharp in her eyes.

“He didn’t say anything,” she said through a clenched smile. “But I’d love to go.” 

And that was that.

Jungkook sat in the passenger seat of his mom’s car, watching his life spiral out of control one passive decision at a time.

*

(PRESENT DAY)

What did you expect? An apology? Miracles? Something that said you mattered?

He shifts, uncomfortable. He finally decides to say something. "It’s not like that.”

"Then what is it like?" Your voice is rising now, shaking with something between rage and heartbreak. "Because from where I’m standing, it looks like you got a girlfriend, stopped talking to me, and now you’re trying to act like it’s no big deal.”

He runs a hand through his hair, eyes darting to the floor. "It wasn’t that simple.”

You take a step toward him. "It was. It was exactly that simple. You just didn’t care enough to say anything.”

He winces. It’s subtle, but it’s there.

And for a second, you almost feel bad.

Almost.

But then you remember the nights you cried alone. The hours you spent staring at your phone, wondering what you did wrong. Wondering why you weren’t enough.

"You didn’t just stop talking to me. You replaced me. Like I was nothing.”

His silence is deafening.

"You knew what this was. What we have," you say. Then correct yourself. "Had."

“You really threw all that away for her?” You can’t help but ask.

"We weren’t together," he says, too quickly.

"Right," you whisper. "But it still felt like it."

You look away, because looking at him makes your chest ache. Like your ribs are closing in. Like every breath you take around him costs too much.

He steps closer. "Y/N... just because it felt like it doesn’t mean it was real."

You slap his hands away.

Your voice trembles. "Then what the hell were we doing? Was it just a game to you?"

"No," he says. But it’s soft, barely audible. And it sounds like shame.

You take another breath, and it feels like swallowing glass. "You made me believe in something. You let me think there was something here. And then you just... vanished."

"I didn’t mean to," he murmurs.

"But you did. You did it anyway. That’s what matters."

His face falls. There it is, the crack. 

"Well, get out of my room then!" you huff, pushing the words out through clenched teeth.

"But I came here to—" 

"Came here for what? To tell me you’ve never really liked me? It was just a game, wasn’t it?” Tears well up in your eyes, and you feel like you're about to break apart. 

"No." He steps closer, voice quieter now, almost careful. "I just… wanted to wish you a happy birthday.” His gaze lingers on yours for a second too long. "You know it’s always been my favourite time of year. Ever since we were kids. Celebrating you has always mattered to me.” He admits 

"Okay? Thanks," you shrug, grabbing the door handle. 

The room feels suffocating now, the weight of the conversation too much for you to bear. He’s been showing the complete opposite the whole time.

 "Hey! Wait! I got you this," he says quickly, pulling out a small box wrapped in pink heart-covered paper. ”Open it." 

You pause for a moment, stunned by the gift, but you still take it from him, whispering a small, cautious "Thank you" as you slowly unwrap it. 

Inside is a delicate gold necklace: a single rose made entirely of soft pink jewels. Your breath catches. You blink, staring at it. You’d talked about this necklace for months, about how much you loved the design, how expensive it was, and how perfect it would look with your favourite outfits. But you never thought you’d actually have it.

Certainly not from him, to say the least. "You remembered," you whisper, voice smaller than you meant it to be. 

For a second, the anger you’ve been holding onto starts to loosen, replaced by something softer. Something closer to being seen, all you ever wanted.

 "Of course I did," he says quietly, stepping a little closer. "I know you’ve had your eye on it for a while. I saw it on your vision board…back when we made them together, remember? You went on and on about the gems, how bad you wanted it because it would go with, like, half your closet," he chuckles gently, a memory clearly replaying in his head. 

Your chest tightens, and it’s not anger this time. It’s something warmer. More fragile. 

"I just felt like getting you a gift. You deserve it," he adds, voice dipping low with something sincere. Then he pulls you into a hug, and despite everything, you melt into him.

The tension in your body slips away for just a moment. It’s safe here it’s familiar. "Happy birthday," he murmurs against your hair. "You look beautiful tonight.” He inhales the familiar scent of your perfume, intimate moments you two had spent in your room rushing back to him. 

He pulls back just enough to look at you, his arms still around your waist. His eyes search yours, gentle, quiet, and knowing. 

You swallow. "Thank you," you say, your voice barely above a whisper. There’s silence between you both, your eyes locked.

“I’m sorry I brought her here.” He whispers, You don’t say anything, you just stare at him. Would it be stupid to believe him? 

Finally, he takes the leap, kissing you fast and hard.

You freeze. For a heartbeat, you forget how to breathe. You should pull away you know you should but it’s like your body betrays you before your mind can catch up.

God, you missed him.

You didn’t realize just how much until right now. Until his lips are on yours, and the silence between you snaps like a rubber band. No Sara. No party. Just him. Just this.

And it’s wrong, every part of you knows it.

But you kiss him back anyway. Because for a moment, just one, you're tired of pretending it didn’t matter. That he didn’t matter. That he didn’t leave you aching for weeks, staring at your phone like it held answers.

His hands start to wander, slipping lower to your bum—

“Stop,” you gasp, breaking the kiss, breath catching in your throat.

You push him, not hard, but enough. He doesn’t let go. His grip tightens like he's afraid you’ll vanish if he loosens his hold.

“Jungkook.” Firmer this time.

He presses his forehead to your shoulder, voice raw. “I know. I know I shouldn’t be here. I shouldn’t have followed you.”

“Then why did you?”

There’s a pause. He pulls back just enough to meet your eyes, and for a moment, you think he might lie. But he doesn’t.

“I don’t know,” he says. His voice is low, cracked around the edges. “You think I don’t know I fucked up? I do. I just… I couldn’t help it. I had to see you.”

You shake your head. The anger flares again, burning right through the softness in your chest. “That’s not fair. You don’t get to show up and act like this. Not after everything.”

He doesn’t answer. Just lifts his hand, cupping your face like he’s holding something fragile.

“I missed you,” he says. Quiet, with shame.  Like it hurts to say out loud.

When he leans in to kiss you again, you turn your head, and his lips brush your cheek.

“Your girlfriend is downstairs,” you whisper. “What are you doing?”

Silence.

You see it flash across his face, Sara. The mistake he kept making, just to avoid facing the truth with you.

Still, he inches closer. His hands find your waist again, slow, desperate. His voice drops, rough and hungry:

“When has that ever stopped me?” The words settle like a bruise.

That sentence cuts something open.

You stiffen. And for a second, you see him not the boy you loved, but the one who let you cry alone, who kept you hidden while showing someone else off.

“Don’t,” you murmur.

“Hm?” He tilts your chin up again. “Besides, I don’t like her the way I like you.” His tone turns syrupy, dangerous, practiced, he leans in for another kiss…

and you kiss him back...again

Not because it’s right, not because you’ve forgiven him. But because you care too much. Because you’ve wanted this for so long it almost hurt. And deep down, no matter how much it broke you, a part of you always hoped he’d come back.

Some part of you still hopes he’ll choose you. for a moment, you let yourself believe it could mean something.

Still, deep down, you already know how this ends.

And you’ll remember that the second you pull away.

[sammyslittledoll]

･: there's always a first for everything

･: pairing : older!Dean Winchester x inexperienced!Reader. ･: warnings : sexual content. age gap, power dynamics, corruption kink, praise kink, reader's fist time riding Dean, p in v, cowgirl, unprotected sex, creampie. porn with some plot. 18+ only !! ･: a/n : this is such a self-indulgent fic, I really won't be surprised if it doesn't get much love.

You stand in front of Dean, nervousness and sheer need bubbling in your gut— hot and undeniable— as you twist your fingers together in a most pathetic and adorable way that has your boyfriend's lips quirking up at the corners even as he pretends to be engrossed in the local sheriff’s case file, open on his laptop.

“Somethin’ you need, sweetheart ?” he finally asks with a raised brow, after watching you open and close your mouth at least a million times, too shy to voice out why you’re really here. “I-I’m not—” you start, a red flush creeping up your neck before you decide it’s now or never. You grab the laptop from his hands, abruptly, and put it away before straddling him and pressing your mouth to his— sloppy, unpracticed and desperate. Dean groans into the kiss, his hands gripping your hips, before he pulls away. “Asked you a question, baby. I want words.” he says, a sadistic grin pulling at his mouth, his thumb brushing over your kiss-swollen lips. Your eyes widen, the self-consciousness you’d barely managed to will away now returning with full-force as his question leaves you grappling for words. You’d hoped your actions were enough for him to figure it out. You’d hoped desperately that he wouldn’t make you spell it out.

You were a virgin when you’d met Dean, the age difference between the two of you almost rivalling the vast gap in experience. So much so, that when the words ‘sugar daddy' left Sam in a joke, it made Dean want to punch his little brother. And despite your earlier insecurities, he really did love you— all sweet and shy, inexperienced and all his.

“I-I wanted to—” you stammer, your throat locking up at the prospect of having to say what you were about to, out loud. “I’m waitin’. ” Dean reminds you, his voice taking on a teasing lilt. “I thought we could- thought we might, I-I mean I w-wanted t-to…to have sex.” you finish lamely, your voice small and bashful, your eyes avoiding his. 

Despite the way Dean’s cock twitches so hard in his jeans from hearing those adorable words spilling from his shy, little girl, he can’t help but push you more. “Oh yeah, and why’s that?” he murmurs, his lips brushing your ear before he trails his mouth lower, pressing hot, open-mouthed kisses down your throat, making you squirm, your hands clutching at his shoulders as you whimper — half-embarrassed and half-turned on beyond reason. 

“Cause I’m horny!” you gasp, the words slipping out and making him groan. “Yeah, baby ? Need me to fill that tight little pussy, cause you’re all needy and desperate f'me ?” Dean whispers, filthy and hot, his hands urging your hips to rock against the bulge straining his jeans. “Yes!” you moan, your inhibitions melting away, just a little, under the friction of his cock— thick and oh so big, just waiting to stretch you open on its girth— grinding against the soaked lace between your thighs. 

You’re ready to lie back and let him fuck you stupid, like he always does, as you start to get off his lap but he pulls you back, startling you. You stare at Dean, confused. “Uh-uh, not today, baby. Show me how much you need me like a good girl.” he commands, pulling away entirely, his hands resting at his sides. 

“Wha- what?” you stammer, stunned at his words. “Dean, y’know I’ve never…” you say, letting him fill in the blanks. “Aww, yeah sweetie I know. I know you’ve never ridden a real man’s cock before but…there’s a first time for everything.”

You stare at him helplessly, your cheeks burning hotter as you pout, “But I don’t know how—”

He chuckles, low and rough, his voice dropping down to that patronising edge that has you clenching around nothing, “Well that’s too fuckin’ bad, ain’t it? You’ll have to learn or you could just go to bed right now…” he trails off, leaning closer before he adds, “empty and aching, dreamin’ about my cock for the next week... at least. Cause that’s your punishment for being a bratty, little girl and disobeyin’ me. ”

_

And that's how you ended up this way, a few minutes later.

You moan into Dean's mouth, slack and parted under yours as he pants from the way you're riding him with awkward little bounces— messy and uncoordinated but so fucking eager— unable to even take more than half of his shaft, from this position. You weren't even able to establish a steady pace, the pleasure becoming too overwhelming anytime you even came close to doing so, your thighs quivering from the second you sank down his cock.

Your clothes are on the floor, his boxers shoved down just enough to free his cock and he loves you like this. Soft and pliant, your palms warm where they're pressed against his chest for support, your lipgloss smudged across his mouth from your sweet little frenzied kisses and your thighs trembling from exertion even though it's only been about five minutes since you began riding him with hesitant little rocks of your hips.

"F-feels so good like- like this, Dean I can't—" you slur, your face buried in his shoulder from embarrassment, tears of overstimulation already running down your cheeks and sticking hot and wet against his bare skin. "You can, baby. Doin' so good f'me already, f-fuck." he groans, fisting your hair gently to pull your face up to his. And the expression he sees on it has him resisting the urge to blow his load right then. Your eyes are half-lidded and teary, your swollen lips parted in huffy little whimpers that have him twitching inside you with every slick movement of your tight little pussy wrapped around him, your face adorned with the prettiest fucked-dumb look he's ever seen.

And he knows, no experienced woman from his past who knew exactly how to ride him like a goddamn pornstar has ever made him hard the way his sweet, little girl's filthy innocence unravelling under his corrupting hands has made him. The pitiful sight of you trying so hard to please him even as your hips lose rhythm every time his tip kisses your sweet spot has him grunting out honeyed praises of "good girl." and "just like that." , repeatedly, his restraint barely held back with small bucks of his hips, so as to not overwhelm you more, as of yet.

Your moans are high-pitched and desperate when you stutter out, "M'gonna- gonna cum, De !"

Dean moans, his hips snapping upwards with renewed lust, forcing his cock deeper into your soaked cunt. "Yeah ? Already, baby ? Feels that good, huh ? " he pants, knowing he's not far behind. And you just nod, your moans turning into incoherent little cries of "yes!" as you cum, your hips stuttering and thighs giving out from the intensity of your orgasm.

Dean keeps pounding upwards into you through it, his thrusts turning sloppy when he grunts, "Sh-shit baby, so fuckin' tight, squeezin' me like that. M'not- not gonna last." He spills inside you, spurts of cum — hot and thick— filling you up till you feel like you could cum again, just from the feeling of him stuffing you so full of himself, it leaks back out around his shaft.

You're both spent and limp against each other, trying to catch your breath, his hand smoothing down your hair as he peppers obsessive little kisses across your face— flushed and radiating with that gorgeous just-fucked glow. You look up at him after what feels like hours of pure bliss wrapped up in his strong arms, your eyes filled sparkles that seem slightly bolder. And your voice is all shy and innocent when you whisper, "Can we try that again ?"

･: a/n : if you'd like to be tagged, please don't hesitate to let me know !! comments and re-blogs are highly appreciated !! and I'd love to hear all your thoughts on the fic and my writing so please let me know down below. and of course, my inbox is totally open to any thoughts <3. ･: taglist : @mostlymarvelgirl, @jayhalsteadfan-2417, @zenoxl, @iloveeveryoneyoureamazing, @castielsonlyangel, @bea-tween-the-pages, @y0inked, @butterphiiss, @bowxs, @gvf23, @halsteadwichester, @thatdezigirl, @doubledizzy22, @sunnyfuffly. Divider by : @enchanthings.

[imhalfplastic]

minghao as your brutally honest best friend

⊹ overview - pairing: minghao x f!reader

genre: best friends to lovers · humor · fake texts · witty banter themes: casual chaos, sharp wit, playful teasing, reluctant affection, unexpected sweetness, love disguised as sarcasm. cw: suggestive tone

ps: there’s a little something under the cut. make sure to check it out so you don’t miss the story’s context lol

from kai: hi friends 🫶 just a quick note: i've been super low energy these days bc a toothache decided to turn into a whole dental abscess (love that for me). i've got quite a few things ready to post (fics, requests, all of it) but i haven't had the headspace to revise anything or answer comments properly :(

so instead of leaving things too quiet im dropping this smau for now 💌 hope it keeps you company while i rest a bit. i'll be back soon (hopefully not with another plot twist from my teeth)

you weren’t exactly expecting minghao to suggest the aquarium for a date. it wasn’t like him to pick something like that or at least that’s what you thought until he hit you with the classic “i want good lighting for the inevitable photos where you pretend you’re not staring at me.” you almost rolled your eyes, but okay, that was fair.

he met you outside the building, hands shoved into the pockets of his jacket, hair still damp from the rain. he was smiling before you even reached him. one of those lazy, sideways smiles that looked like he knew something you didn’t. he didn’t say anything at first. just looked you up and down and nodded like okay. cool. she showed up. you rolled your eyes. he laughed.

inside, the light turned everything blue. it reflected off the glass tanks and rippled across his face when he leaned in to read the little signs, pretending to be more interested in the fish than he actually was.

"you think they’re on a date too?" he said at one point, pointing to two jellyfish drifting suspiciously close to each other. "you think they’re in a situationship" you corrected. "true..." he nodded, dead serious. "classic avoidant behavior."

you didn’t know what was weirder: the fact that minghao had picked the most romantic possible location and still managed to make it sarcastic or the way he kept hovering close. his shoulder brushing yours. the warmth of his arm when he let you loop your hand through it without a word. he never did that before, not like this. not without an offhand "ugh, you’re clingy" to deflect the fact that he was always the one standing too close.

but today, he didn’t pull away. he didn’t even try to be funny about it.

you caught him looking at you once, near the tank with the sea otters. you were squatting down to get a better view, probably saying something dumb like “why do they hold hands, that’s so cute”, and when you turned to look at him, he didn’t even flinch. just kept looking, like this was something he’d been doing for a while and only now got caught.

he smiled. not the usual teasing one. a quieter one. a little softer.

“what?” you asked.

he shrugged. “nothing. you just look really into this otter romance.”

you didn’t have a comeback for that, so you stood up and walked away, heart doing things it definitely should not be doing on a date that may or may not have been real.

you ended up in the gift shop because of course you did. and of course he bought you a stupid plush keychain of a stingray that he claimed “looks like your resting face.” you told him he was annoying and he just said “i know” and paid anyway.

the sun was going down when you left. the sky was pink and the pavement still wet and you didn’t even notice that you were still holding onto his arm until he stopped walking.

“you know this means we’re dating now, right?” he said casually.

you blinked at him. “what?”

“this. today. me choosing the most coupley location possible. buying you a gift. not roasting you the entire time, even though you wore socks with holes in them...”

you smacked his arm. “you weren’t supposed to notice that.”

he laughed. “i notice everything. i’ve been screening all your crushes for years, you just never asked.”

you stared at him. he stared back. no smile now, just something very real in his eyes.

“look” he said, voice dropping just enough. “i meant what i said. i’m the best option. and i like you. so unless you’re planning on fighting me about it…”

you didn’t say anything. you didn’t need to. your fingers found his, and he squeezed your hand like he’d been waiting for that confirmation all day.

“yeah” he said. “thought so.”

he walked you home after that. didn’t even let go.

[smutmind]

Sullyoon x BBC?

WHEN IT DOESN'T FIT BOOK 2 FT. SULLYOON

The halls of Korean International Academy smelled faintly of lemon floor wax and camellias blooming outside the windowpanes.

Sullyoon adjusted her cardigan and tightened her grip on the clipboard, walking two steps ahead of the new transfer. Her shoes clicked crisply along the marble floors, too loud for her comfort. She hated being a guide. She hated how stiff it made her feel, how hyper-aware she became of her posture, her tone, her every breath. But mostly she hated how conscious she was of him.

Damian.

He was tall. Not just in a numbers way, but in a presence way—all shoulders and stride, like someone who belonged in the center of a room. His skin was a deep, rich brown that contrasted cleanly with the academy's pale, sterile walls. He walked with one hand in his hoodie pocket, the other swinging loosely at his side, looking more amused than curious. There was a slow prowl in the way he moved, like someone who knew how to fill silence with tension.

She cleared her throat. "This is the language wing. Mandarin, French, Japanese, and Korean literature. Most of the international students stick to English electives their first year."

"Right," he said. His voice was smooth, low, the kind that made you feel like he was always half-laughing at something. "And you? You stick to rules, huh?"

She blinked at him, heart skipping. "I—I'm just doing my job."

"Yeah. You do it real well."

Her face flushed. She turned away quickly, pushing her glasses up her nose.

They rounded the corner into the music wing. It was quieter here, soundproofed walls and low lighting. The floors switched from marble to carpet tile, muffling her steps. A practice studio door stood half-ajar.

"That's Studio A. Usually locked unless someone's reserved it," she said, glancing back at him.

He leaned sideways, peering into the dark room. "Looks private."

She didn’t respond.

He stepped closer. Not touching. Not inappropriate. But his heat filled the narrow hallway. His eyes traced her frame, too slow, lingering at her thighs before meeting her gaze again. A small smile played at his lips—predatory, knowing.

She moved to step around him, and her balance shifted. She reached out to steady herself.

Her hand landed low.

Too low.

Right on him.

Hard. Thick. Warm through soft gray sweatpants.

She froze.

So did he.

Her eyes widened. Her hand jerked back like it burned her. "Oh my god—I'm sorry, I didn't mean to—that wasn't—"

He didn't say anything.

He didn't need to.

Because she looked. Not on purpose, but instinctively. And what she saw left her breathless.

The shape beneath the fabric. Heavy. Obvious. Stretching down his thigh like a challenge.

She stepped back, bumping into the opposite wall. Her breath came fast.

"I didn't mean to touch you. I lost my balance."

Still he said nothing.

But his eyes never left hers. Dark, unreadable, and utterly still. Like a cat watching a trapped bird.

She swallowed. Hard.

Images flashed in her mind. Late nights. Phone under her blanket. That first time she'd clicked on the video tagged BBC. Not knowing what it meant. Not until she watched. Not until she saw it. Thick. Big. Bigger than anything she'd imagined. She hadn't even touched herself that night. Just stared. Stunned. And terrified.

And now he was right in front of her.

And she'd touched him.

A sick twist of guilt and arousal curled in her stomach.

"You okay?" he asked finally, voice a little huskier. But there was something else there too—mocking softness, like he enjoyed watching her unravel.

She nodded quickly. "Y-yeah. Fine. Just. Um. You should probably see the gym next."

"Sure," he said. But he didn’t move.

Not right away.

When he finally did, he passed her slow. Deliberate. The air shifted with him. She smelled his cologne—clean, spicy, something earthy beneath. His shoulder brushed hers. Barely. But it was enough.

She stayed frozen, clipboard clutched to her chest like armor.

His voice came again, low and too close. "You touch everyone like that on campus tours?"

She choked on a laugh. "N-no. Just you."

"Lucky me."

He didn't laugh. Didn't smirk. Just looked at her a second longer than necessary before walking ahead.

She didn’t speak after that.

She just led. Stiff and silent.

But the heat between her legs throbbed all the way to the gym doors, chased by the rising burn of shame she couldn’t shake. And behind it all, under her skin, she felt his gaze like a second pulse.

Later that evening, the library felt colder.

Sullyoon sat tucked behind the language stacks, a single reading lamp casting a soft halo over her open workbook. Her pen hovered, motionless, above the margin. She hadn't written a word in twenty minutes. Her thoughts weren’t on verbs or grammar rules. They were stuck in a hallway. In the way her hand had moved without thinking. The heat. The weight.

And the shame.

She wasn't that kind of girl. She studied. She tutored. She sat in the front row, dressed neatly, always polite. Her image was spotless. It had to be.

And yet—

Footsteps approached, slow and even. Her stomach twisted before she even looked up.

"You always sit this far back?" Damian's voice cut through the quiet.

She glanced up. He leaned against the shelf, one arm crossed over his chest, the other resting on the top of the bookcase. His hoodie hung open, and the familiar, unreadable smirk played at his lips.

"It's quieter here," she said, her voice small.

He moved closer. Not enough to touch. Just enough to interrupt her air.

"You looked like you were thinking pretty hard."

She stiffened. "I'm studying."

"Sure you are."

She didn’t answer. She didn’t trust her voice.

Damian pulled out the chair across from her and sat. Slowly. Casually. Like he belonged there.

"You didn’t say anything the past few days," he said. "I thought maybe you’d run."

She shook her head. "No. I didn’t... I just had classes."

"And dreams, maybe?"

She flushed. Looked down.

"Don’t worry," he added. "I won’t tell anyone. About the hallway. Or the way you looked."

Her breath hitched.

"I didn’t mean to. It was... I wasn’t thinking."

He nodded slowly. "But you remember it. Vividly."

She bit her lip. Shame flushed through her chest.

"You work hard to keep it all clean, don’t you? Your image. Your record."

She glanced up. He was watching her, eyes steady.

"It matters to me."

"I know. And that makes this more fun."

She stood, heart pounding. "I think I should go."

But her legs didn’t move.

He tilted his head, watching her squirm. "You ever wonder what it would feel like to let go of all that?"

She stared at him. Terrified. Curious.

"You’re not dirty for wondering."

"I’m not like those girls."

"I didn’t say you were. But you are a girl. And girls get curious."

Her throat closed. The shame thickened. But her eyes never left him.

"You can walk out now. Or you can sit back down. No one will know either way."

She sat slowly. Her hands shook as she pulled her chair back under the table.

Damian leaned forward, lowering his voice.

"You don’t have to do anything. But I want you to tell me the truth. What did you feel in the hallway?"

She squeezed her thighs together.

"Heat," she whispered.

"And now?"

Her lip trembled.

"Confused. Scared. And... warm."

He nodded, gaze soft but unrelenting.

"Then you’re honest. That’s good."

He didn’t touch her. Just waited.

Slowly, hesitantly, her hand reached across the table. Hovered. Then dropped, brushing the fabric of his sweats. Her fingers flinched, but didn’t pull away.

Damian let out a slow breath, eyes never leaving hers. "That's okay," he said quietly. "You can feel. Take your time."

She exhaled, her face burning. Her hand settled lightly over him, not quite sure what she was expecting—but knowing she had to know.

The shape. The heat. The reality of it sent a wave through her stomach.

Then his hand moved—not to grab, not to pressure, just to rest gently over hers. His palm large, warm.

"If you want me to stop," he said, "say so."

She didn’t.

Her eyes stayed locked on their joined hands. On what her fingers were learning. On the fact that her body was trembling and she didn’t want to pull away.

He didn’t move further.

He just waited.

Sullyoon’s hand rested over him, fingers trembling slightly, the weight of his palm grounding her in place. Her chest rose and fell in shallow, uneven rhythm.

"Take it out," Damian said, voice low and certain. "Now."

She froze. "Damian... I—I don’t think we should..."

"You can think all you want," he murmured. "But your hand’s already there. And you’re not pulling away."

Her lips parted. A weak protest formed, but dissolved just as quickly.

"I shouldn’t be doing this," she whispered. "This isn’t me."

"No?" he leaned in, his voice still smooth but colder now. "Then maybe I should send the screenshots to the dean. The ones with your VPN glitching. Your little bookmarks. That video you watched twice in one night."

Her breath hitched. Her face drained.

"Thought so," he said. "Now be a good girl. Under the table. I want your hand on my cock."

Her body moved like it belonged to someone else. Her fingers slipped past the waistband of his sweats, warm skin against warm skin. No boxers. Nothing to buffer the shock of it. Her breath caught as she wrapped her hand around him bare.

He was massive. Thick. Too thick. Her fingers didn’t close fully. The weight of him stunned her.

"Jesus," she whispered.

"Bigger than the ones in your videos?" he asked, smirking.

Her eyes widened.

"Yeah, I know," he continued. "You think your search history’s private on school Wi-Fi? Cute. All that BBC porn—slow, rough, dripping. You’ve been prepping for this without even realizing."

She flushed deep red. Shame battled heat.

"Stroke it," he ordered. "Both hands. One's not enough."

She hesitated, then obeyed. Her hands slid up and down his shaft, barely managing the length. Her thumbs traced the ridge, unsure but compelled.

"Tighter," he growled. "It’s not gonna break. You want it, then handle it."

Her grip firmed. Her rhythm found shape. The heat in her belly burned.

"There you go," he breathed. "That’s what you came here for. Not studying. Not books. You wanted to see if the fantasy was real."

Her breath trembled. Her thighs pressed together beneath the table.

"Look at it. Feel every inch. Think you could fit that in your mouth?"

She shook her head slowly. "It wouldn’t... I don’t think I can."

"You’ll try when I say. But not yet. First, you earn it."

His hips started rolling gently into her fists. She felt him throb—thick, hard, heavy.

"Fuck. You keep going like that, I’m gonna paint you."

She looked up, panic flaring. "Wait—Damian, not on—"

He cut her off. "You’ll take it. Just like those girls you watched. Only difference is, you’re real. And I’m not faking it."

Her hands moved faster now, driven by something tangled between fear and reckless need. The wet sound of her strokes echoed faintly under the table.

"Pull it out," he grunted. "Face close. You’ll want to watch."

She obeyed, dragging the massive length into view. Her eyes locked onto the tip, flushed and leaking.

Then he came.

Hot, thick ropes exploded from him—across her cheek, into her hair, streaking her lips, her throat. The force shocked her.

It didn’t stop.

Jet after jet coated her chest, splashing across her pristine cardigan, soaking the front. By the time he finished, her clothes were drenched. The scent clung thick and heavy.

She gasped, stunned. Sticky. Marked.

Damian exhaled hard. "Holy fuck. That cardigan’s ruined."

She blinked down at herself. A mess. His mess.

"You like the mess?"

She swallowed hard. Then nodded. "It feels... wrong."

He smirked. "Exactly how you look. A perfect mess. Just for me."

She wiped her cheek, but her sleeve only spread it. A drop clung to her lip. She tasted it without thinking.

"Careful," he warned, voice hoarse. "That mouth’s asking for more."

She stood fast. "I need to clean up."

"Go ahead," he said. Then his eyes narrowed, voice like steel. "But you come back. Because the next time you’re on your knees, you won’t be using your hands."

Her breath caught.

"I’m going to fuck you, Sullyoon. Soon. And you’re going to take every inch."

She didn’t respond. Couldn’t.

She nodded, shaky and flushed, stumbling away.

But the throb between her thighs? It only deepened.

[scxrletivy]

Daylight - B.B.

Description: Bucky overhears someone say that you should be with Steve instead of him and spirals a little bit.

TW: a little bit of angst but other than that none, really.

Author's note: I hope you enjoy this story; it's a trope I've often seen on here and I wanted to give my take on it. I love writing angst for Bucky, but always with a happy ending because our sargeant deserves all the good things in the world.

Word count: 2.7k.

This story is my original work and I do not give permission for anyone to copy, share or repost it anywhere without my explicit consent.

Back in the Forties, James Buchanan Barnes was a confident young man. It came naturally to him, it was like an innate quality: whether it was charming any girl he’d meet, talk his way out of a mess or impress his superiors in the Army, it was clear to every single person he encountered that he exuded confidence.

When he had broken free from Hydra’s control and had regained his freedom, he felt like a completely different person; long gone was the bold twenty something, leaving in his place a hundred-year-old man who felt like his confidence had completely slipped through his fingers.

Therapy, the work he put in and being surrounded again by people who loved him and cared for him helped restore some of his confidence. But what truly moved the needle was your relationship; at first, he found it hard to believe that someone as sweet, beautiful and pure as you could ever even give him the time of the day. But with time and patience you managed to help him believe that he deserved you (actually, that he deserved all the good things in the world) and Bucky got some of his confidence back.

He felt capable and useful every time someone complemented his skills or decisions during a mission; he felt smart when the younger Avengers like Wanda or Peter were in awe of how much stuff he knew; he felt like a man he could be proud of when he realised that you loved him and were more than happy to be seen on his arm.

This, however, didn’t mean that the old insecurities never came crawling back.

Some days were harder than others; and lately it seemed that the number of hard days had increased, which had you worried. Bucky was the soldier, spy and former assassin, but that didn’t mean that you were unable to notice details. You were a person who cared deeply for those you loved and that meant paying attention to everything. You had realised that Bucky didn’t quite seem like himself and was reverting back to old habits: he isolated himself more than usual, passed up invitations to hang out with the group for movie nights and spent an unhealthy amount of time in the gym.

You were going to get to the bottom of this and find out what was going on with Bucky.

You entered the kitchen and saw Bucky sitting there, at island, nursing a cup of coffee.

“Hi baby, how did you sleep tonight?” You greeted him with a sweet kiss on the cheek.

“Alright, I guess…” he answered. “You, doll?”

You frowned. He was clearly trying to change the subject because you knew for a fact that he was not sleeping fine and he hadn’t been for quite a while.

“Are you sure you’re sleeping alright? You seem tired.”

Bucky got up, put his mug in the sink and kissed your temple.

“I’m sure doll, don’t worry.”

Then he turned around and retreated, probably to the gym.

You sighed. Things were worse than you expected.

The first step was going to talk to Steve. Your relationship with Bucky ran deep, but you knew that there were parts of him that Steve understood better than you and you were not above asking for help when it came to Bucky’s wellbeing.

It was a quiet afternoon and you knew exactly where to find Steve; he was in one of the smaller conference rooms looking over some data from the last mission he had gone on.

You knocked on the door and his head immediately shot up; he gestured you to come in.

“Hi sweetheart, is everything alright?”

You instantly smiled. Steve was always so sweet and nice with you; when you had joined the group, he had immediately taken you under his wing as if you were a little sister to him, exactly how he’d done with Wanda because that’s just who he was: he was always looking out for the people around him; he constantly told you how happy he was that you were with Bucky, because you both deserved the best and were made for each other. You knew you could count on him.

“Truth is… I don’t know,” you sighed and sat on the desk.

Steve immediately closed the file he was looking over and gave you all his attention.

“What’s wrong?” His voice was filled with concern.

“It’s about Bucky… he’s been strange lately, he’s quieter than usual and he’s retreating into himself. He spends a lot of time alone, he’s always at the gym and I can see that something is clearly wrong with him but he won’t talk to me, no matter how hard I try.”

Steve let out a sigh as well.

“I’ve noticed too. I’ve been meaning to talk to him, but it’s difficult, you know? I don’t want him to think that we feel like we have to walk on eggshells around him and worry about every little thing because we think that part of the Winter Soldier is still inside him. And I’m worried that if I go to him and ask him if he’s fine every time he seems off that’s exactly what he’ll think.”

“It’s a difficult situation,” you agreed, “but I want to help him. I want him to know that he can count on me, on us, that he’s not alone anymore, he doesn’t have to face his problems on his own.”

“I know sweetheart,” Steve took your hand, “how about we talk to him together? Try to be as gentle as possible, but make him understand that we are here for him.”

“Sounds like a good plan, Steve. Thanks.”

You two got up and he hugged you. You were glad to have him as a friend.

What you didn’t know, though, was that on the other side of the glass doors, Bucky was looking at the same scene and using it as further proof of the fact that Steve was a better fit for you than him.

It had started a few weeks before. Bucky was coming back from a walk around the neighbourhood, he entered the lobby of the Tower but stopped in his tracks before turning the corner and reaching the elevator when he heard some agents saying your name.

“I mean I agree that they’re cute and all but can you imagine having to take care of your partner like that? It can’t be easy to be with someone who has his past.”

“Oh, come on don’t be so mean… but you’re not completely wrong, she probably has to mind everything she says and make sure not to trigger him somehow. It must be exhausting.”

“Now you get me! I’m sure it’d be easier to be with someone like Steve, y’know?”

Bucky zoned out after that; he felt sick to his stomach. He had been feeling down in the past days, he didn’t know why, sometimes it just happened; and hearing those words, coming out of the mouth of people he shouldn’t have care about, was the nail in the coffin.

He retreated to the lobby and hastily got out of the building. He needed to clear his head.

After that day he began spiralling. Rationally, he knew that you and Steve were good friends and nothing more; hell, he was happy to know that you had someone in your corner who loved you like a brother, like Steve did. His top priority in life was making sure that you were always safe; when he wasn’t assigned on missions with you, but Steve was, he was able to go to sleep feeling slightly calmer knowing that you had someone watching your back like he would've done.

But jealousy and insecurity could be a rough beast to battle. So he began looking at your interactions with Steve and wondering whether the agents were right. Maybe he really was a burden to you, maybe you really did feel like you were constantly managing what you said and how you acted around him; hadn’t he been going down a panic spiral, he would’ve tried to remind himself that you worried about his well-being because you loved him, and it wasn’t a burden. But he couldn’t help but wonder. Steve was the sun and he had always been; he was a gentleman, he was able to keep a level head even in the worst situations, he played the peace-keeper because he wanted everybody to feel heard and cared for. He stood for what he believed him and was a role model for hundreds of thousands of people. A hero. And while Bucky had come a long way from his Hydra days, “role model” and “hero” weren’t exactly words he thought people would use to describe him.

So, were those people right? He watched you with Steve; how at ease you were, how brightly you smiled, how light-hearted your laugh was. Looking at him hugging you, in that conference room, he only had one thought in his mind: how safe you must feel in Steve’s arms.

He was holding you back from the beautiful and peaceful life you could have, that much was clear. But he loved you too much to hurt you and he’d rather break his own heart than keep you from finding true happiness. He was going to fix things. Or make a huge mess.

You and Steve looked at each other. Things were becoming worse. That morning Bucky had slipped out of bed before you had woken up; or so you thought: then, thanks to Friday, you had found out that he had gotten up at 2 a.m.; he hadn’t gone back to his room (which would’ve still been strange, since you basically shared your room at this point), no, he had gone to the gym.

You had barely seen him that day; he hadn’t had breakfast or lunch with you and every time you entered a room he seemed to realise that there was something extremely important he needed to tend to in another room. The fifth time it happened, you and Steve exchanged a look and silently decided that it was time to talk to him.

That’s how you found yourselves together in front of the door of Bucky’s room. You took a deep breath and knocked.

No sound came from inside.

You knocked again and spoke.

“Hi Buck, it’s me. Are you in there?”

After a beat of silence you heard footsteps and, finally, the door opened to reveal your boyfriend. Your heart squeezed when you saw him: dark circles around his eyes and a distraught look on his face.

His features softened a little bit when he saw you, but you didn’t miss the expression of hurt that flashed on his face when he saw Steve, which left the both of you confused.

“Hi buddy…” Steve spoke up. “Can we come in?”

Bucky didn’t say a word, but he stepped aside to let you enter the bedroom. He felt panic rising in his stomach; what was happening was very clear: you and Steve had finally decided to get together and were there to inform you of your decision. He wasn’t stupid, he saw the worried expression on your face: you were so nice, so lovely, and he was sure you didn’t mean to break his heart.

“Buck, we need to talk to you.” You began with a trembling tone.

He sighed. Better to rip the bandaid off.

“I know why you’re here.”

“You know?” Steve’s tone was surprised.

The thought of losing you felt like worse than any injury Bucky had experienced in his entire life; if he had to lose you, though, he was happy to accpet to be to someone like Steve. He was going to give you everything you deserved and more.

“Yeah, I know,” he took a deep breath, “you guys have realised you want to be together and you’re here to break the news.”

You felt your jaw fall to the floor. What the hell was he talking about?

Steve was too stunned to speak as well: he opened and closed his mouth a few times, but no sound came out. Bucky took it as his opportunity to speak up.

“I want you to know you have my blessing. It will be hard to see you guys together, I won’t lie, but I know you can be truly happy.” He turned to Steve. “You can give her all she deserves. Take care of her how I couldn’t…”

You broke out of the daze you had fallen in and shot up.

“What the fuck are you talking about?”

Bucky was taken aback. You rarely cursed and definitely never used that tone with him. He was about to answer, but you kept going.

“I don’t know what is happening in that head of yours, but you’re way off course, buddy. Break up with you and be with Steve? With your blessing? Jesus Christ.”

Steve took the opportunity to intervene, with a softer tone.

“What she’s trying to say, pal, is that there’s nothing between us. We’re not here to tell you we want to be together. We’re here because we’re worried for you and we thought we’d come talk to you together.”

Bucky’s face fell.

“Oh…”

“Yes, oh.” Your tone was calmer. You moved closer to him and put your hands on his shoulders. “How could you think I’d ever break up with you to be with Steve?”

He looked at you and in the blue of his eyes you saw all the pain he’d gone through in the last days.

It took all the confidence he had to open up, but he managed to speak.

“I overheard some agents talking about how difficult it must be to be in a relationship with me and how easier it’d be to be with someone like Steve… I guess I was in a bad place and it took very little to spiral.”

Steve spoke up and you turned to look at him.

“Buck, I’d never to anything like this to you. You know I care about her like a brother. That’s all there is between us.”

“Rationally, I know. I got carried away and I’m sorry I doubted you.”

“You don’t need to apologise, you know we're always fine. We could go on a run later and talk? I think you two need a little time alone.”

You both smiled at Steve, who put a hand on Bucky’s shoulder in a comforting manner and then left the room.

You took your boyfriend’s hand and led him to the bed; you sat, leaning on the headboard, and let Bucky lie his head on your thighs.

You were silent for a beat; it was peaceful, but you knew you needed to talk about what had happened.

“Buck, you have to know I’d never do anything like that. Because I love you more than I’ve ever loved anybody else. And you’re not a burden to me, you could never be… I love taking care of you and that’s what you do when you’re in a relationship, you worry for the person you love, you make sure that they’re fine and you share your problems.”

He looked up at you. There was nothing but love and adoration in your eyes.

He felt like he could finally breathe after all the awful thoughts that had been drowning him in the past days.

“I’m sorry I doubted you. I love you so much and I am scared of losing you. I know it won’t happen, but sometimes I worry I can’t give you all that you deserve.”

“You give me more than I could hope for, Buck. I’m lucky to have you, I couldn’t want anybody else.”

You gave him a sweet kiss.

“Next time you feel like this, you immediately come talk to me. And we solve it together, because now that we have each other there’s no problem in the world we’ll ever have to face alone. Or you talk to Steve, because you do have me but you also have many other people who care for you.”

Bucky closed his eyes and felt at peace for the first time in weeks; he had good people in his life and he wasn’t going to question it anymore.

[musingsofheaven]

MOUTH HABIT

summary: Johnny comes home to find you already overstimulated and curled up on the couch with a popsicle in your mouth. He knows what you need before you can say it and knows exactly how to take care of you. He just has to put his fingers in your mouth and his tongue between your thighs.

pairings: johnny storm x afab!reader

warnings: 5.5k words. mature themes. oral fixation. oral sex. (f!receiving) fingering. dacryphilia undertones. emotional dysregulation. praise kink. body fluids. (drool/cum) d/s dynamics. overstimulation. read responsibly.

note: in honor of my ongoing oral fixation smuts… i wanna add johnny to the growing collection. this is very soft dom!johnny and i love how it turned out. hope you will like it too. (reblog to support me!)

It started on Monday. One small thing after another, stacked and silent. A forgotten class quiz. The weird look from your professor when you asked to reschedule. Your phone screen cracked. Even when your shampoo ran out, it pissed you off and maybe it’s your fault because you didn’t remember buying new stock in the first place. When you walk in the hallway, you couldn’t forget the way someone hit your shoulder and didn’t even apologize. You also almost cried when the bus left five minutes earlier than the practiced and memorized schedule you already knew. Your charger sparked when it plugged in. A guy catcalled you while you were walking with groceries.

Tuesday didn’t give you time to recover. Neither did Wednesday. By Thursday, you were sucking the sleeves of your hoodie again. Biting the plastic spoon from lunch until it split down the middle. Swapping it for a straw that left soft welts in your lip when you clamped down too hard. Everything started buzzing- skin, scalp, joints- like your body was trying to say something but you wouldn’t let it. Couldn’t.

Friday brought the storm. He was gone again, called away two nights earlier. Something about being him in the Fantastic Four. You already know what it means. No updates. No text. No voice note, even though he always sends one. But not when he’s on the mission. You were left pacing the apartment like it could summon him. Fingers twitching. Gums sore. Too afraid to bite your nails again. Not with how raw your skin already felt.

Now it’s late. You lost count of the hour after the third shower. The last popsicle is already half-melted, clenched between your lips while you curl into the couch cushions, legs pulled up loosely and a blanket slipping off your knee. You keep sucking. It doesn’t help. He finds you like that. The door unlocks with the quiet click you’ve trained yourself to hear. You don’t turn your head. You don’t move at all.

“Hey.” His voice is rough. Not like something’s wrong- just tired. Just used. There’s a bag drop, a zipper tug, keys sliding into the table, and then the creak of old floorboards as he moves closer. Your eyes stay fixed on the carpet. One sticky drip from the popsicle rolls down your wrist. “Baby…” You flinch when his hand touches your shoulder. It’s not because you are traumatized by him or he’s hurting you. It’s also not because you don’t want him. It’s about your body being sensitive and turned up too high for days. You’re overstimulated and don’t know how to turn it down yet.

“I didn’t get a chance to text.” He says to assure you that it was not his intention to ignore you. His fingers gently trace across your back and it’s warm through the thin shirt you wore since last night. “Sorry, baby,” Your tongue shifts the popsicle further in. It scrapes the roof of your mouth too hard. “Hey. Look at me,” he mutters before he drops to his knees in front of you. His white tee is fitted enough to cling to his chest and a little damp at the collar because of sweat and wrinkled at the hem. There’s soot smudged across his jaw, and a faint gash near his knuckle that looks fresh.

One hand is placed on your knee while he moves closer to you. His eyes look down at your lips as his voice turns lower. “Baby. Come on. What’s going on in that head?” You try to answer. Something stutters behind your teeth, but the popsicle muffles it. Your jaw feels so sore you don’t even want to open it to answer him. He reaches forward to take it out of your mouth gently. Slide it from your mouth with two fingers. Clear saliva stretches, then breaks.

“You've been like this when I’m gone?” That’s when your face crumples. No sound. Just the kind of cry that folds everything inward. He doesn’t rush. Doesn’t freak. Just set the popsicle aside and lean in, palms on your thighs. His voice is soft and even now. “Want me to help you?” Your head jerks in a nod before your brain can catch up.

“You wanna feel good?” His thumbs trace lazy circles over your legs. “Let me help, baby. Just let me.” No answer leaves your mouth. Not right away. Not even when he tilts his head and waits for one. The popsicle’s long gone, set aside somewhere near the table, but the stickiness still lingers on your lips. He can tell. You haven’t blinked much. Haven’t breathed right in maybe hours.

The blanket shifts under your palms. One slow push downward and it falls off your legs completely, folding over the cushion beside you. You don’t break eye contact. Don’t say a word. The edge of your shirt lifts with the motion, and suddenly it’s all skin- your bare thighs, your stomach, the curve of your hip showing under the band of thin cotton. Just your panties. Nothing else. Because what for? You’d been alone and anxious.

This was comfortable. This was all your body could handle. Johnny takes a deep breath as if he saw the most softest thing in his life. Hand sliding higher from the knee up to your thigh. Knuckles are brushing the soft flesh inside. He doesn’t even look smug, considering he always looks smug. Doesn’t even look turned on. Just focused. Careful. One finger lifts the hem of your shirt, then lets it fall again like he’s checking if you’re still. “You want my help, baby?”

The question’s barely above a whisper. His thumb strokes your skin once. Then again. “I can make it better,” he adds, eyes tracking the lines under your eyes. “You don’t have to think. Just let me.” Still nothing from you. But your legs shift. Just enough. Not spread, not yet, but parted enough to breathe easier. Enough to let him fit his hands there without question.

He reaches for you again, this time higher. Two fingers lift toward your face. It’s slow and easy. His palm open. He waits. “You need somethin’ in there, right?” His voice stays low, coaxing. “It’s okay. Just this. I got you.” Lips part around his knuckles before he touches you. They slide in like it’s instinct, like your body’s been waiting for this exact shape. The moment they press against your tongue, your jaw trembles again- but this time, the tears don’t come.

Warmth seeps back into your mouth, your cheeks, your chest. “That’s it,” he murmurs, already pushing in further. “There we go.” His fingers move gently between your lips, never too fast, never choking. He watches you with that look again- not hungry, not impatient. Just still. It’s like he’s enjoying studying you- this very version of you today that welcomed him home. He also checks how deep he can go with you and how gentle he needs to be.

And then his free hand starts to trace the waistband of your panties and tugs it slowly. Not rough. Not rushed. Just curling his fingers under the side, soft and slow, sliding them down your hips, inch by inch, until the cotton peels away from your cunt. He doesn’t even look yet. Keeps his eyes on your mouth, the way you’re sucking his fingers like you’ll shatter without them.

“You’re okay,” he says. “I got you, alright? Gonna take care of it now.” Fingers stay hooked inside your mouth even as the waistband is tugged down and off completely. Damp cotton clings for a second before peeling from your skin, leaving a faint string of slick stretched between the gusset and your cunt. His hand doesn’t leave your lips. Still pressing into your tongue. Still curled against it like he knows you’d cry if he stopped.

Both hands wrap around his forearm just to make sure it stays. Nails bite in. Not hard enough to draw blood, but enough to show it matters. Your mouth sucks around his fingers harder than you mean to, like they’ve replaced breathing. The taste of salt and faint soot lingers in your throat. Between your legs, he shifts. Thighs fall open as his palms guide them, spreading you wide enough to let him fit.

His eyes lift- just once, just long enough to check if you’re still there. That you’re still with him. Then he dips his head and presses his mouth to your inner thigh. Warm lips drag over skin still trembling from hours of tension. He placed a kiss just above the curve of your knee first. His breath warms it before he moves higher. It’s slow and steady, he’s taking his time. It’s also like a silent thing between the two of you that you already did before.

The scrape of his stubble leaves your legs twitching. His mouth never breaks contact, like each inch of untouched flesh is a wound that needs sealing. Another kiss. Then another, higher. Tongue flicking at the crease just beside your cunt. It’s so close where you want him but it’s also enough to make your hips jerk forward. Fingers fall away from him just for a few seconds to brace yourself. You whimper around the ones still in your mouth.

His thumb presses under your thigh to hold it higher. His other hand slides under your ass for leverage as he leans closer, lips grazing the inside of your upper thigh before finally nosing between your folds. Mouth opens, tongue slipping out to taste you slowly. The first lick is lazy. He doesn’t rush. Just a flat drag from bottom to top, soaking you with spit, letting your pussy twitch under it. Then he does it again, slower. A warm breath follows right after, cooling the slick he left.

The fingers in your mouth curl just a little. Your eyes flutter shut. Knees try to close, but his broad shoulders pin them apart. When he kisses your clit, it’s gentle. Almost sweet. Barely a press. Then the tip of his tongue traces it in a circle, patient, like he’s memorizing the shape. The muscles in your belly tighten on instinct. A soft “mmphh” escapes with the next suck on his fingers. He grunts low when you squeeze around him again, like he feels every flutter.

One hand keeps you open. The other dips back down. His middle finger teases your hole without pushing in, just slicking up the entrance. Tongue flattens over your clit again, firmer now, sliding side to side. The pace builds slowly- too slow, really- but you can’t form a sound to complain. His mouth covers you completely, sucking just enough to make the nerves spark and sizzle, then pulling back again like he’s keeping count.

Tongue flicks fast- once, twice, then slow again. It makes your back arch. The fingers in your mouth get wetter the more you drool, the more your throat tightens around the weight of them. He never pulls them out. Just lets you keep them there like a pacifier. A tether. You hold his arm with both hands again, anchoring him in place. Like you’re scared he’ll stop if you let go. He doesn’t stop.

Keeps licking. Keeps kissing. Keeps tasting you like it’s all he’s thought about since his boots hit the apartment floor. When his tongue dips down to your hole again, he groans softly into it, tongue pressing forward like it wants in. Then he drags it back up with a hum that makes your clit throb. Another low sound escapes you- wet, desperate.

Your hips roll against his mouth without thinking. One more lick. Then another. Then a kiss, deep and open-mouthed, tongue pressing hard into the same spot until your whole body tenses, but still, he doesn’t let you come. He just keeps going. One hand stays in your mouth. Warm fingers resting heavy on your tongue, wet to the knuckle now, almost too deep.

Your jaw’s already started to tremble from the pressure, and he can feel it. That little shake. That soft, tired flutter of muscle while your lips stay wrapped, trying to keep him in. There’s drool starting to slick his wrist, and you don’t even try to wipe it. He’s never pulled away when it happens like this. Never once told you to stop. Below, his other hand works between your thighs.

Sticky, swollen, dripping so much it’s hard to stay still on the couch. Every pass of his fingers through your folds sounds wet, filthy. There’s no space to breathe down there- not with the way he moves. Not with how slow his tongue is, how he doesn’t rush. Just sucks so soft, circles the tip of his tongue around that throbbing knot like you’re not already crying from how long you’ve been waiting.

“I know, I know,” he mutters, voice muffled against you, a little rasped at the edges. His tongue flattens, slides up, and presses hard just under your clit before wrapping around it. “I know it’s too much.” A few more sucks. Slow ones. Languid, focused, greedy. His mouth stays latched while he talks. “Couldn’t get back sooner,” he says between licks. “Wasn’t allowed.”

Your hips twitch under his grip, and he drags two fingers down your inner thigh to hold you steadier. Doesn’t stop eating you. His lips are slick. The sounds echo inside your apartment- mouth on cunt, fingers in mouth, soft breath hissing between your teeth every time your throat tightens around the need to moan.

Another slow lick. Then another. “You waited for me?” he asks, more of a murmur now, the heat of it spilling straight into your pussy. “Didn’t fuck yourself once?” You blink hard. His hands are holding his forearms tighter. Nails digging into it that will leave moon marks. Not rough, but desperate. It’s the only way you can keep his hand up near your mouth. You’re not sucking anymore- you’re just holding him there now. Letting him press down on your tongue like he owns your mouth.

He groans low, just from seeing it. Shifts a little closer on his knees, enough to press his chest against your calves where they hang off the couch edge. Then he mouths at your clit again. “This is what happens when I’m gone, huh?” The question’s slow, almost cruel with how softly it comes. Every word makes your chest cave a little more. Not from pain- just from too much. You’d already been dripping when he came in.

Already overstimulated before he even opened the front door. “You wait right here, suck your popsicles, and cry for me?” He lifts his mouth to breathe, fingers slipping lower to rub just around your entrance, teasing. “And I wasn’t even here to watch.” Your pussy clenches, but he doesn’t push inside yet. Just strokes his fingers there, so slow it makes your toes curl against the cushion. Then he lowers his head again.

His tongue presses flat again. Stays there. Lips suck right around your clit while he rubs two fingers just beside your hole, never giving more than that. The pressure is thick, cloying, a little maddening. You make a tiny noise around his hand, and he moans against your cunt. “Don’t stop,” he says low, voice sliding down your skin. “Keep my fingers in, pretty girl. I need that.”

Your chest jerks up again, like air doesn’t want to stay inside. He feels it. “Don’t hide your sounds.” One more lick. Then a slow suck. Then a kiss right against your folds like he missed them. “Let me say sorry properly.” His tongue doesn’t stop after that. Tongue dragging slow, heavy, wet- he sucks on your clit with his lips slack around it, mouth lazy like he’s drinking from it.

One hand remains underneath your thigh to hold it up and keep pushing it open so you won’t close your legs. He’s pinning you down while you threaten to close your legs around his head. He groans straight up into your cunt every time your thighs twitch and squeeze together like he wants his head to be crushed. Like the pressure turns him on more.

But the hand there didn’t stay for long enough. He sneaks it between your legs to slip his finger inside without giving you any heads up. You know how thick his fingers are so it makes you jumpy when you feel it. The pace is just slow and sliding effortlessly to your pussy like it belongs there. No buildup, no teasing, just in and it stretches you open, warm and full, his knuckle curling shallow on the first thrust. Then again. Then deeper. “You’re dripping,” he mumbles against you, tongue circling in tight, wet strokes. “Still fucking leaking.”

Suction pulls hard at your clit when he says it. He keeps licking even when he talks, mouth not stopping, like the words are just coming out through it- tongue messy, lips shining. “Missed how this tasted. Didn’t even get to-” He swirls his finger deeper and hooks it inside. “-fuck you properly last time.” Saliva coats his fingers as you keep sucking them. Lips stretched around his middle and ring, jaw sore and mouth warm.

Your tongue moves around the knuckles, sloppy now. Not neat anymore. Not teasing. Just needy. His forearm flexes under your grip when you tighten your hold on him. It’s not about balance anymore- you’re not steadying yourself. You need him to keep his hand up, or you might cry if his fingers slip off your mouth. The need to keep him stay there and to keep fucking your mouth like this is beyond measurable. There's a drool at the corner of your lips that keeps leaking out of your mouth. It slips down to your chin down to your covered chest. You don’t care at this point if it will get soaked.

Your eyes are barely open. Knees twitch every time his lips close around your clit and suck, and you choke around his fingers each time his finger curls inside your pussy a little harder. “Don’t close,” he mutters, voice low and thick as he pulls back just enough to talk clearly. “Let me- let me see.” A breath lands warm against your inner thigh. “I like when it’s open.”

Tongue presses flat against you again. He doesn’t waste time, just drags it up the full length of your slit, slow and deliberate, finger pushing in deeper like he’s guiding himself with every lick. Another groan slips out when your legs threaten to snap shut again, but he shoves your thigh higher, forces it wider, and plants a kiss right above your clit like a reward.

“Still so fucking pretty,” he breathes. His voice sounds almost lazy now. Wrecked, but in control. Like he’s just settling in. “You gonna stay still for me? Hm?” The finger inside you moves again, gentle this time. His tongue presses down with it, and your whole body jolts. Every nerve keeps lighting up brightly like electricity that is plugged directly into his mouth and hands. You don’t stop yourself from moaning- you don’t even try to silence yourself when your mouth is already full. It’s full enough to get muffled, let out wet sounds, and hum that pulls out from your throat. Your hips are bucking twice and desperate for something harder, but you know this is what you can take right now.

Your pussy clenches down hard around his finger. “Mmph- fuhhck…” It’s barely a sound with how wide your lips are stretched, but it’s there. It’s needy. It’s messy. He hears it. Hears you struggling. And laughs once, dark and low, before sucking hard on your clit again, tongue flicking fast underneath.

“Can’t stop now,” he says to you. His breath is wet, voice coming through your cunt like a vibration. “You’re close.” Finger still pumping slow inside, curling each time like he’s looking for something deeper. The drag of his knuckle makes you twitch again. Your legs lift. Toes curl. “Let me stay here a little longer, baby.” Another kiss against your folds, mouth lingering. “Don’t close. Keep her open for me.”

The more you try to keep your legs open for him, the harder it shakes and the muscles harden. They’re refusing to cooperate. You could feel how it clenched up tight like instinct. It’s too much, too fast- your cunt squeezing around his fingers again while your thighs twitch around his head. Every small shift only smears your slick higher onto his wrist, every squeeze of his knuckle-deep fingers pulling a sound out of your mouth that isn’t even a real word anymore.

“Mm-hm. Try to keep ‘em open for me,” he says, voice rough against your clit, lips grazing it as he speaks. “Come on. Thought you wanted to be good.” Your eyes roll the moment he pulls his fingers back until they reach the tip of his nails just to thrust them deep again. Drool didn’t stop slipping past the corner of your mouth as you kept his other hand’s fingers on your mouth. Lips stretched enough to fit his two fingers, and your chin feels wet but hot and stringy at the same time. It’s slicking his wrist too.

A wet patch darkens your shirt where it soaks in. “Still suckin’? Even like this?” he murmurs. His breath cools your skin when he lifts his head just enough to watch your face. “What the fuck am I gonna do with you?” Thighs press tight against his cheeks, crushing in when his tongue flicks fast and steady at your clit, tip dragging back and forth while his fingers curl hard inside you.

The pressure makes you clamp down so suddenly that your body jerks forward, shoulders curling in while you fight to keep your hips from escaping the pace. But he doesn’t stop. A fresh gush leaks out of you when he fucks his fingers deeper, and all you can do is moan around his hand. “Mmfh- nnnhg- ah-! fuck, fuhh-”

You’re drooling too much to breathe through your nose, wet and messy and shaking all over as you try to speak through it. “Please- please don’t stop- don’t- hahhn, I’m- I can’t, I can’t-” His mouth stays locked over your clit, tongue stilling just enough to suck on it like he’s trying to bruise it, then flicks again when your hips jump under him.

Your thighs twitch like they’re going to close again, but this time, he presses them apart at the knees with one wide palm, holding you down as you start to tremble harder. “Let it out,” he says low against you. The heat of his mouth returns so quickly you flinch. “C’mon. Give it to me. Let me feel you do it.”

Pussy tightening around his digits and there’s a sudden snap in your stomach that sends heat climbing up to your spine. Wet pulses grip him as your clit throbs between his lips. The orgasm punches through your stomach like it’s tearing something open, and your whole body locks up back arching, legs clenching, jaw slack around his soaked fingers. You don’t even realize how hard you’re crying out until your throat burns from it.

Every breath afterward is broken. You’re shaking, moaning, sucking air in through spit-slick lips as you ride it out, hips grinding into his face like your body’s forgotten what to do without him. Tongue stays buried against your clit. Not flat anymore. He’s fucking into it now- short, thick motions, tip stiff and flexing like he’s trying to push in, like he thinks he can make you feel filled there too. That soft flicking you could almost ride has turned brutal, all hips and thrust, and he’s still fingering you while he does it.

Still fucking you open down there like his mouth isn’t already dragging everything raw. You buck up into his face, thighs shaking, cunt leaking. The mess is loud now. Wet noises every time his fingers pump in deep, then curl. His wrist rolls to chase your spot with every thrust and you don’t even realize you’re grinding down harder, letting him push in all the way just to keep feeling full. His fingers don’t stop. They slip faster, twist, spread inside you when you clench too tight.

He groans low like he feels it in his mouth- tongue shoving hard against your clit as he holds you still by your thighs, his hand gripping down so firm your leg jumps. Heat rises up your chest again. You’re still sucking on the fingers in your mouth, wet and glossy from drool, barely tasting skin through the pulse in your throat. You can’t breathe right. Can’t stop moving. His tongue won’t let up.

He lets out a low grunt against your cunt, hot and rough, then pushes his face in deeper like he wants you to cum again. Like he knows you can’t, not yet, but he’s gonna ruin every second trying. “Mmf- shit-” You break around the fingers in your mouth, words falling apart in your throat. “Too- fuck, Johnny, too much-”

Doesn’t slow down. He just curls his fingers deeper inside you like he’s trying to scrape the high out of you early. Tongue still thrusting against your clit, wet and stiff and relentless, hips barely moving now except for the small grind of his face against yours. He’s hungry. Eyes half-lidded, breathing heavy through his nose, lips slick with spit and cunt.

Your leg kicks. Doesn’t matter. He shoves your thigh back open, forces it wide with his arm so he can stay right there. All you can do is sob around his fingers while cumming. It feels like a drop off a cliff. Your thighs twitch and lock in midair, feet sliding down the bed with no grip, toes curling against the sheets, and he’s still- fuck, he’s still- he’s still sucking and fingering and licking you like you didn’t just gush on his face thirty seconds ago.

Shudders rack your hips in quick, wet jerks while your pussy clenches down on his fingers. They keep moving. One curls hard, stroking along that sweet spot that’s already sore and swollen. The other presses just under your clit, not rubbing it but keeping it trapped, stuffed, filled so deep you feel him all the way behind your belly button.

Muscles spasm from the inside out, dripping slick around his knuckles, and it just won’t stop. Warm gush pushes out again, thinner now, messier, pattering between your thighs while your pussy tries to squeeze it back in. But he pulls out. Pulls out with a wet suck and a slap of his palm flat over your inner thigh to hold it open.

Then his tongue replaces his fingers. It dips right in, mouth sealing over your hole like he wants to kiss the cum back in. Nose smushed tight to your clit while he slurps and swallows everything you spill. The sound is obscene. Wet, hungry, like he’s starving. Tongue curling as deep as he can force it, licking into the center of every twitch while more slick leaks down the curve of his chin.

Something breaks in your throat. Not a cry. Not a moan. Just a thin, cracked ahhh- lost halfway out of your chest. Teeth bite down hard on his fingers still inside your mouth, just to keep yourself from screaming. “Mmf- ngh, fuck,” slips past anyway, drooling around the knuckles you’re trying to suck through it.

Drool keeps flowing out of your mouth like a waterfall. It goes straight to your neck and sticks to your wrist where your hand is pressing tightly against your face. It even lands in the collar of your shirt. It’s warm and slick, and soaking the fabric. He groans into your cunt. That low sound from his chest sends another pulse through your pussy, another twitch of your thighs, another roll of your hips like you’re trying to hump his face even though your muscles aren’t working right anymore.

Still licking. Still swallowing. Still sucking your hole like it’s feeding him. You clamp your thighs around his head and whimper into his fingers, still biting down hard, not to hurt him- just to keep from falling apart again. Tongue glides through the mess he made, slow now. Not teasing, not hungry- just gentle, warm strokes to catch the last of your cum and drink it down.

He kisses your pussy like he’s calming it, sealing over your folds with one last soft suck that makes your hips flinch again. Everything’s still twitching, sticky, wet, and swollen. Too much. When he finally pulls away, your legs don’t uncurl. They stay loose over his shoulders, knees bent and trembling. Breath comes thin and shaky. The space between your thighs feels raw, slippery, stretched open too long. His face is soaked. Mouth swollen. Chin slick with the wet that’s still dripping down from your cunt.

He looks up and gives you the softest hum, lips parting so you can watch him swallow all of it. Then he climbs up your body. Palms brace on either side of your waist as he moves over you, slow and careful like he doesn’t want to press too hard. The moment his face gets close, your hand reaches up on instinct. Fingertips smear against the wet on his cheek while your eyes meet, and then he leans down and kisses you.

Mouth warm. Tongue lazy. He likes the taste of you. It’s salty and sweet, just right for him. Your thighs are squeezing against his sides as he kisses you deeper. It’s slow like he doesn’t want to stop. Like this is the after. Not the cleanup, not the end just this, the kiss. You whimper into it when he starts to pull away. “Shh,” he breathes against your lips, brushing hair off your forehead. “I’m just getting something to clean you up. I’ll be right back, okay?”

Still makes you whine. Makes your fingers curl in the sheets where he used to be. The second his weight leaves the bed, your body feels emptier, colder, too bare. Cunt still wet and throbbing with leftover sensitivity, lips fluttering like they don’t know if they’re done being used. He moves fast. Crosses the room, grabs tissue off the desk, then glances around like he’s mentally taking stock of everything he needs. Comes back with water, too, a small bottle already uncapped.

One of his hands wipes clean the slick from his mouth as he sits beside you on the couch. “Lift your hips a little for me,” he asks you in a low and soft voice. It’s like he’s talking to a patient. The tissue’s warm from his hand. He dabs between your thighs first, being careful not to touch your clit. Cleans the mess dripping from your hole, the slick sticking to your inner thighs, the smear near your ass. Switches to a fresh one and folds it carefully, using the clean edge to blot around your folds.

Each motion is slow, delicate, respectful- but it still makes your breath hitch when the paper drags over the most tender parts. “Doing okay?” he asks while working. “Mm,” is all you manage. Lips sticky. Throat dry. Muscles useless. He smiles. Leans over to press a kiss to your hip while he finishes wiping you down, then tosses the tissues aside and holds the water bottle to your mouth.

“Drink a little,” he says, thumb brushing under your chin. “Just a sip.” Plastic touches your lips. Cold water slides into your mouth, and you swallow with your eyes closed. A second sip. Then a third. He lets you go slow. “You were amazing,” he says after a beat. “I mean it. I’ve never- fuck, I’ve never seen anyone fall apart like that. So pretty, baby. You made a mess all over me.”

Your hand tries to cover your face to hide your face, but he’s faster and catches your wrist before pressing a kiss there. Moves it away just so he can see you better. One last tissue is used to gently clean the edge of your mouth where drool had dried during your orgasm. Another soft wipe across your cheek. Then he tosses the rest aside and leans back in to kiss your forehead.

“Come here,” he whispers, arms curling under you to help guide you upright. He doesn’t let you do anything. Just pulls you into his lap, sits you between his legs, and wraps his arms around your waist like you’re breakable. Chin rests on your shoulder while your cheek presses against his. You can feel his heart under your hand. Still fast. Still thudding, even now.

“I’ve got you,” he says, kissing your neck. “You did so good. Just breathe. Take your time.” Warmth blooms in your chest. Body still weak, mind still floating, but everything starts to settle. His voice makes it easier to come down. His arms, his hands, the soft rock of his lap while you lean into him- everything feels safe here. “I’ll take care of you,” he murmurs again, right next to your ear. “Every time.”

⠀⠀⠀

⠀⠀⠀twenty-twenty-five © addie / musingsofheaven.

⠀⠀⠀

[izzih22]

The Goodbye I Never Gave

CHAPTER SIX — BUILT TO SURVIVE, MADE TO BREAK

Note: I had to get this to move along a bit. You’ll see what I mean. But also… I’m sorry in advance.

The first week of basic training didn’t break her.

It hollowed her.

She barely remembered stepping off the bus just the screaming, the heat, the sweat in her eyes before her feet even hit the gravel. Her muscles weren’t ready. Her lungs weren’t ready. Her heart wasn’t ready.

Not for this.

Not for the pain.

Not for the silence that came after they took her phone. After they stripped away everything she used to be.

They gave her one minute.

One phone call. No more.

She dialed her dad with shaking hands.

“Hello?” His voice was already irritated.

“I made it. I’m here. I’m safe.”

A pause. Then: “Good. You better not screw this up.”

Something snapped.

Her throat burned.

“Fuck you.”

She hung up.

And didn’t look back.

That was the last time she spoke to him.

And the last time she spoke to anyone who loved her out loud.

Except Azzi.

But even that was only through ink.

⸻

She kept a small black journal hidden inside the lining of her duffel. Just like the one she had given Azzi.

The pages were all Azzi. Written in the dark, in the bathroom, under her blanket with a flashlight between drills. When her body ached. When her chest caved in. When she needed something to hold that wasn’t there.

Az,

This place is hell. Everything hurts. I’m bruised, sunburned, and starving. But none of that hurts as much as not hearing your voice. I miss you so bad I feel sick. I dream of you every night and wake up crying into my pillow. I don’t even try to hide it.

I think I’m disappearing without you.

⸻

WEEK TWO

Her hands were torn open from the obstacle course. Her ribs bruised from a fall. Her bunkmate passed out during drills, and Paige had to carry her back to base.

She didn’t cry.

She didn’t flinch.

She got back up.

But every night, she wrote like she was bleeding.

Everyone else has someone to call. Someone to wait for them.

All I have is this. This notebook. Your name in my chest. The memory of how you looked the last time I kissed you.

I don’t know how to survive this without turning into someone else.

And I’m scared that by the time I make it back… I won’t be someone you’ll recognize.

⸻

MONTH ONE

She stopped asking for breaks.

Started running harder. Longer. Lifting more than she was told. Holding planks until her elbows bled. Doing extra reps while everyone else collapsed.

Because she had something they didn’t.

She had rage.

And love.

And nowhere to put it.

She’d lie in bed at night, staring at the ceiling, jaw clenched. Heart pounding. Whispering Azzi’s name like it could keep her together.

They say not to have distractions here. That you have to bury your personal life to survive.

But I can’t bury you. You’re not a distraction. You’re the only reason I haven’t cracked open.

I miss your hands. I miss your voice in my ear. I miss knowing someone was waiting for me. Wanting me.

So I’m fighting for that. For you.

⸻

MONTH THREE

The transformation started to show.

Her thighs were thick with muscle. Her shoulders were corded steel. Her back rippled beneath her uniform.

But more than that she was getting noticed.

By the instructors. By her squad. By the women around her who started standing behind her in formation like they trusted her to shield them.

They called her “Point.”

Because she always led the charge.

She demanded more. Pushed harder. Took hits without blinking.

She sparred like she wanted to break something.

Sometimes she did.

⸻

She was offered early promotion to squad leader.

She turned it down.

Not yet. Not until she earned it the real way.

Because Paige wasn’t here to survive.

She was here to win.

⸻

MONTH SIX

She led the first night raid drill solo. Executed it flawlessly. Got saluted in the hallway the next morning.

Still, she wasn’t satisfied.

Still, she couldn’t sleep.

It’s your birthday today.

You’re eighteen. You should’ve been waking up to pancakes. To me carrying you into the kitchen and kissing you stupid before you even brushed your teeth.

Instead, I’m in a barracks on a freezing morning trying not to cry in front of my unit.

I kissed your name on my dog tags this morning. Whispered ‘Happy birthday, baby.’ I don’t know if it reached you.

That night, she broke the punching dummy’s head off during drills.

She was bleeding from her knuckles and smiling.

The sergeant just nodded.

“Get her a promotion packet,” he said.

⸻

YEAR ONE — DEPLOYMENT

They sent her to Eastern Europe.

Combat zone. Real firefights. Real loss.

She didn’t blink.

She volunteered for every mission. Every outpost. Every godforsaken mile of terrain.

She was the first to move when the bullets started flying.

She was the last one out when the dust settled.

Her heart beat for one thing: getting home strong enough to deserve the girl she left behind.

Az, I saw a baby today. Wrapped in a pink blanket. Her mom was crying and I don’t know if it was out of joy or grief.

All I could think was, if we ever had one…

Would she have your eyes? Would she say “Mama” first and point to you?

I ache for that future like it’s a person I lost. Like she was real and I killed her when I walked away.

⸻

YEAR TWO — PAIGE THE MACHINE

She wasn’t point anymore.

Now they called her Reaper.

She never missed. She never wavered.

Tactical lead. Clearance specialist. One of the youngest soldiers in her company to be certified for high-risk extractions.

Her eyes were cold.

But inside?

She was still that girl in Azzi’s bed, whispering “I love you” into the dark.

They gave me another medal. Everyone clapped. I didn’t.

I don’t care about the ribbons. I don’t care about the stripes.

I care about the way my body breaks down every night without your touch.

I care about the sound of your voice, and how it’s getting harder to remember.

I care that I’ve become everything my dad wanted.

Except I don’t have the one thing I ever wanted.

You.

⸻

THE AMBUSH

The air was too still.

That was the first sign.

Paige stepped through the narrow alleyway, weapon tight against her shoulder, breath steady, spine straight. Her muscles flexed beneath the weight of her gear, thighs solid, arms sharp, every inch of her carved from the training that had re-shaped her into someone unbreakable.

Or so she thought.

She scanned the rooftops, then the windows. Nothing moved. No birds. No wind. Just a silence so thick it pressed against her eardrums.

“Something’s off,” she muttered into comms.

The moment the words left her mouth—

Hell broke open.

A rocket tore through the sky and hit the convoy behind them. The force knocked her forward, gravel tearing through her palms as flames shot up where the lead vehicle had been.

Gunfire cracked from every direction.

Paige rolled, eyes locking on her team behind her. One was down. Another was pinned behind a supply crate. The third was frozen, shell-shocked, blood running from a cut above his eye.

She didn’t wait for orders.

She sprang up, crouched low, and returned fire precise, controlled, lethal. One shot. Two. A third. Targets down. Her aim was perfect. Her breathing didn’t stutter.

She was Reaper now. And Reaper didn’t flinch.

“Move!” she shouted, covering her teammates as they crawled behind the wreckage of the vehicle.

Another explosion hit close way too close. Her ears rang. Blood hit her cheek. She didn’t know whose.

She didn’t stop.

She slung her rifle to her back, sprinted toward the downed soldier, and hauled him up over her shoulder dead weight, screaming pain in her side, but she didn’t falter.

“You’re not dying here,” she growled, half to him, half to herself.

She didn’t feel the bullet that tore through her thigh.

Or the second one that grazed her ribs.

She just kept moving.

They made it to the evac point. Paige dragging the soldier with one arm, firing with the other, every step carved out of fury and survival and something deeper than either.

“Helicopter inbound in sixty seconds,” crackled the voice in her ear.

Sixty seconds.

She could make it.

She had to make it.

She turned to cover the rear just as another round of gunfire ripped through the street. She ducked, fired back, emptied her clip, slammed in a new one.

She was bleeding now. From her leg. From her side. But she didn’t let it slow her.

Not yet.

“Ten seconds out,” came the voice.

She waved her team toward the LZ, backing up with her gun raised, blood running down her neck now.

The helicopter blades roared overhead.

She saw the last of her team leap into the open hatch.

Then—

Pain.

Blinding, searing, screaming pain.

A bullet tore through her shoulder and spun her sideways, throwing her to the ground.

Her head cracked against concrete.

Her gun skidded out of reach.

The sky above her spun.

She couldn’t move.

Couldn’t breathe.

Her ears were ringing again. Or maybe that was her brain.

She blinked up at the sky and thought… this is it.

And the first thing her mind reached for wasn’t God. Or her squad.

It was Azzi.

Azzi’s laugh. Azzi’s hand in hers. Azzi curled up in her sweatshirt with popcorn in her lap and love in her eyes.

“Az,” she whispered, voice cracked and dry.

Her vision blurred.

She saw Azzi kneeling beside her… not really, but it felt real. Azzi’s face pale with worry, her hands pressing down on Paige’s side, trying to stop the bleeding.

“You’re okay, baby,” the hallucination said. “You’re okay. Breathe for me.”

Paige let out a sob, sharp and ugly.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m sorry I left you.”

The medic dropped to her side… the real one and started yelling something she couldn’t hear. Everything was muffled now. Far away.

They were lifting her onto the stretcher. She tried to resist. Her body convulsed.

“I can’t—” she gasped. “I didn’t say goodbye.”

Her hands clawed at the air, trying to reach Azzi.

“Please—tell her—tell her I tried. I was gonna come back. I swear—”

Her voice cracked.

The world dimmed.

“I love you,” she whispered.

Her fingers twitched. Searching for Azzi’s hand in a world that didn’t have it.

Then everything went black.

And even in the dark…

She was still whispering Azzi’s name.