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givemeanaccountalready · 7 months ago

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A Who-Swung-It Mystery: The Case of the Switch-Hitter (3/3)

1 / 2 / 3

Alright, it's time for the final segment of this god-forsaken theory. For those who have justifiably forgotten about everything I yammered on about months ago, the TL;DR is: Mikoto is the one who killed the blond guy we see in the beginning of MeMe, and John is covering for him.

God help me, I want this out of my drafts. Fingers crossed that I finish strong. In the first post, I reviewed the story of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde and discussed how Mikoto being the killer would subvert the evil alter trope. I emphasized that we should not treat Mikoto as completely good and John as completely evil, and then I used what we know of Mikoto and John's respective personalities and how that was reflected in how they bat. In the second post, I focused entirely on MeMe and its clear separation of the physical world and Mikoto's mindscape. I looked at lighting, lyrics, the left-right dichotomy established using Mikoto and John, and the tarot cards used.

The full theory is as follows:

Blond has blackmail material on Mikoto, most likely of John lashing out at others, and threatened to send it to Mikoto's boss if Mikoto didn't do as he said.

Mikoto is still unaware of John's existence, and so while he doubts whether the validity of the video, he understands that he stands to lose his current position and his career if it gets out. Hence, Mikoto's Trial 2 trailer line of, "DESTROY EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING! EVERYTHING!" The idea that the blond had blackmail would give way to Mikoto's motive for the murder.

In a fit of rage, he grabs the bat and performs the left-handed swing that cripples the blond. The right handed, overhead swing is the killing blow. John is the one who handled the clean-up after the fact, and his intervention is what allows Mikoto to tell himself that all he did was dream.

Personally, I think that Mikoto swung the killing blow, but I recognize that some may not be convinced. It is possible that after that left-handed swing, Mikoto realized the severity of what he had done, and the stress caused him and John to switch. This would give the blond time to crawl away like how we saw in MeMe.

Mikoto spoke his Trial 1 line from the teaser trailer, "My life... it wasn't supposed to be this way," just before John began to front.

John Doe vs Neoplasm: That's Not Him

In the first post, I mentioned my belief that the identity talking at the end of Neoplasm was John pretending to be Mikoto rather than the actual Mikoto speaking. While Mikoto gives off the, "I'm just a silly guy, just a normal bean living his best life," vibe, he treats Es's accusations seriously. In John Doe, Mikoto is adamant that he has done nothing wrong, and points out that Es could be jumping the gun by labeling him a murderer because Es knows about as much as Mikoto does about any murder. Mikoto tells Es what his impressions of his fellow prisoners are, and then he guesses that Milgram could have mistaken Mikoto for someone else. Es shoots back with:

"You're not lying. Milgram is always right. If both these statements are true, it's only natural to arrive at that conclusion [Mikoto repressed the memory of killing someone], isn't it?... To escape psychological stress, humans may repress certain memories as a coping mechanism... If I believe you, there's no other logical conclusion, since I still prioritize my faith in Milgram over your statements... A murderer without the memory of the murder"

Their words send Mikoto into a panic, and we meet John for the first time. And I'm now realizing that that last statement might be why Mikoto keeps insisting for Es and the audience to look at him and believe him in his songs. Es (and we, the audience) prioritized believing Milgram over him. Oh Mikoto, you tricky, little sneak, you~ When Mikoto switches back at the end of John Doe, he voiced his confusion over how he and Es suffered injuries and seemed to be somewhat aware that something happened that he doesn't remember, "Wait! You're covered in bruises too! What's wrong? What happened?" Mikoto sounds scared. Now, compare this to what we see in Neoplasm.

We can see that the Guilty verdict has taken a mental toll on Mikoto, even if John's existence interferes with Milgram's punishment. After Es chains him at the beginning of Neoplasm, Mikoto glumly admits, "Well, I mean... I do get it. I... go out of control while I'm asleep, right?" Mikoto tells Es that he knows he got into a fight with Kotoko because the others told him about it, and how he knows that Es and the prisoners are scared of him. He's miserable, but he still tries to laugh it off, which leads to him and Es discussing the habit. Es lays it out clearly: denial is Mikoto’s main coping mechanism. Mikoto even agrees with it, stating that he prefers to pretend that he’s fine rather than actually acknowledging how upset he is. Only this time, his coping mechanism is failing, and acknowledging that seems to trigger the switch with John. Throughout John's part of Neoplasm, John lets Es lead the conversation and gives short, vague answers regarding the murder. He manages to rattle Es, by demanding to know what their opinion on Mikoto’s culpability is, not what the law would say. John’s ‘parting’ words are, “If you forgive Mikoto… I’ll disappear… That’s right. I’ll have to disappear eventually, anyway… Disappear and take all of it with me. I… was born to protect Mikoto after all… Yeah, if it’s for Mikoto, I’ll do anything.”

Then the bell rings, startling Es. ‘Mikoto’ asks who the John they are referring to is, and then quickly assumes that it must be Es’s dog. He then goes on to try to guess the breed until Es interrupts him. Now, why bother calling attention to the allegedly final words of John and “Mikoto” asking about the dog. This “Mikoto” doesn’t display any sign of disorientation after switching back, and he also fails to comment on the loss of time, instead asking about Es's "dog." The disorientation isn't necessary, as we saw with that one timeline convo where Mikoto was shouting for John to come out, Mikoto didn't express any confusion about briefly losing time. It's the behavior that gets me. Before John began to front in Neoplasm, Mikoto was understandably upset and trying to understand his situation. He knows that he was losing time, and right before John and him had switched, Es and he were discussing how his coping mechanisms were failing him. Now Es is talking about their "dog," with no smooth transition in the course of conversation. "Mikoto" does not object or try to redirect what should be seen as the conversation going off-tangent. "Mikoto" doesn't ask what happened to cause this change, and instead cheerily asks about the dog. Maybe Trial 1 Mikoto would have done so, if only to get on Es's good side, but Trial 2 Mikoto is in physical pain from his fight with Kotoko (that he can't even remember), and emotional pain because of his Guilty Verdict and realization that something's wrong.

Mikoto may act happy-go-lucky, but he's a prudent guy with a knack for planning ahead so he gets what he wants. Am I really just supposed to believe he's going to dive headfirst into that silly bean act of his when he's beginning to put together the pieces of the puzzle known as his life? No! To quote Haruka, "It's weird." I genuinely think that this is just John pretending to be Mikoto, rather than Mikoto actually switching back. Why? To remind Es that Mikoto is just a harmless guy. And it being John, rather than Mikoto, at the forefront would explain why Double differs so dramatically from MeMe. Which brings me to my break down of Double.

Double's Unclear Boundaries between the Mental and Physical World

Genuine aside here: Mikoto is so much better at persuasion than John is. Had John not have interfered and attempted to manipulate the situation the way he had, I might have actually bought Mikoto's story that this all had he did was have a bad dream. Mikoto may be telling the truth in that he truly thinks that he just dreamed of killing the blond, but John is so bad at covering for him that I spent months writing, and then re-writing this damn post to prove John's lying and so is Mikoto. God, I love messy characters. And I mean that.

Back to serious mode, okay? While most of MeMe takes place in the physical world and then cuts to Mikoto's mindscape, Double seems to almost entirely be in Mikoto's mindscape. And where in the MeMe post, I sequentially broke down the most important frames, I think that here I want to call attention to the most important frames. I initially used Mikoto's eyes to track whether Mikoto or John was fronting. But as you'll soon see, Mikoto's eyes are hidden or otherwise obscured during what I believe are the key parts of the video.

The limbal ring is the dark ring encircling a person's irises, providing a clear border between the iris and sclera (whites of the eyes). Throughout Double, you can see that there is an orange spot below Mikoto's pupil and above the limbal ring. Occasionally, you can see the reflection of light in Mikoto's eyes, and when this light is on the limbal ring, it gives his eyes a bit of an orange glow, and this orange glow signifies that John is the one fronting. When the reflection of light is above Mikoto's pupil or otherwise not seen, Mikoto is the one fronting. I'm currently thanking God for giving me the foresight to not hold strong with the Trikoto theory, because the sake of my health depends on there only being Mikoto and John.

The first image is of Mikoto and the second is of John. Going back to the left-right dichotomy that these two have, Milgram has associated Mikoto's right side with himself and his left with John. And here, we are shown the eye identifiers for Mikoto and John on his right and left eye, respectively.

But wait! When Double opens, we see Mikoto's left profile (and his sense of joy leaving his body). And if you look at the frames where Mikoto lowers his head, you can see the orange dot in his eye and the light above his pupil until the screen shatters, distorting our view of his eyes. But, the lyrics and body language can tell us that that's John. But that's Mikoto on John's side of the screen. This breaks the left-right dichotomy! I have two possible explanations for you:

This scene is meant to represent John's 'birth' and so breaking the dichotomy does not matter because it has yet to be established.

The dichotomy Mikoto spent the first video creating actually does not matter because John just inadvertently revealed that Mikoto and John are two sides of the same coin. This scene signifies John witnessing Mikoto's distress and forcibly switching during Neoplasm, or some other stressful event before Milgram.

Both ideas are "fun" and fit with the lyrics to come. I think it is important to note that no lyrics are sung until the screen shatters and we see who we presume to be John sing, "I've got you / Leave it to me." We know that John sees himself as Mikoto's protector and that it is his role to relieve Mikoto's stress. Sure, it was probably meant to be John's 'birth' in response to a stressful event, but number 2 is a hell of a lot more fun and plays John's reactive personality (playing it by ear) against Mikoto's more shrewd and proactive one. The next forty seconds do not show Mikoto's eyes, but we can guess that this is most likely John based on how he acts. And the lyrics.

Mikoto prides himself in being considerate to others, while John will do what he thinks is best for Mikoto, others be damned. John ignores his boss's angry texts and when he finally answers the phone, he holds it far from his ear that Mikoto would have a hard time hearing any putdowns or guilt-trips his boss gives him. He indulges Mikoto's nicotine habit by smoking instead of vaping, and even worse, he smokes in an enclosed surrounding, not very considerate towards the mannequins, so going by behavior, this is John. The lyrics in the scene support this, "Keeping things at bay / you're doing your best / 'No, I need to do more..." / say what? You're gonna break / Me, the newborn, other you / I'll take it all on / Doesn't matter if you didn't wish for it / can't get rid of me now /Just the two of us / relieved, aren't you? / I'll protect you (us)" In addition to what we see, we can hear John's protective nature in the first half and then his more selfish, short-term thinking in the second. John seems to believe that so long as he takes care of Mikoto the way he sees fit, things will be fine and Mikoto will be grateful for it. The last line, "I'll protect you (us)" is telling in that it explicitly shows John willingly embraces this protector role, but that there is some self-interest in his motivation. John doesn't only protect Mikoto from the consequences of his actions, but also from those born of John's wrongdoings.

As Mikoto wakes up on the morning train, the screen cuts to Mikoto's right eye, where the light is above Mikoto's pupil and we can see the orange spot on his eye still. This is Mikoto, and he sings, "All I did was dream / and that's what you found GUILTY / 'He's a liar,' you said / and made me out to be a scoundrel, why?" Hey, doesn't that sound familiar to MeMe's, "I'm probably just having a bad dream / I need to wake up soon / Why am I here? / It must be a mistake / Take a good look at me / Until you find me" Y'know, I just ragged a bit on John for doing the, "That's a dog's name," bit twice and now Mikoto is pulling the bad dream bit twice. They really are more similar than either would like to admit, eh?

Back to the matter at hand. As the sunlight in the background overwhelms the shot, we can see the switch between Mikoto and John as John goes into, "Hey now, I saved you, right?" The screen goes black, and you can see John (the twin orange lights on his limbal rings gives him away) sitting on the night train, surrounded by bloody mannequins. John continues to sing, "So why in the hell are you crying?" and the shot closes in on his left eye, where you can see the light under the orange dot, on the limbal ring.

The next scene is of John shoving the mannequin into the train door and then smashing it into pieces with what looks like a left-hand swing. The bat definitely originates from Mikoto's left side, but it takes a downwards arc rather than level swing. We only see Mikoto's face, and therefore see the orange lights on his limbal rings signifying John is in control, after the orange-red blood is wiped away. But wait, that just means that John wiped away the blood, but it doesn't say with 100% certainty who swung the bat, and like I said, learning to bat left-handed is something Mikoto would do, not John. But judging by the confident, more demanding lyrics of that scene, "Cling to me, hoist me up as your savior / stand up and sing out your gratitude / that'd be good" I think we can reasonably assume that John swung the bat in this scene.

My first several versions of this draft asserted that this must symbolize whatever John did that was considered blackmail-worthy in the blond victim's eyes. I still think that this is supposed to symbolize that, but now I look at my theory #2 for why the left-right dichotomy is inconsistently followed throughout Double, and wonder, is this John's imitation of the murder? The first blow delivered to Mikoto's blond victim in MeMe came from a left-handed, level swing of the bat, and the killing blow was that over-the-head, downwards blow. This can't be the murder because it contradicts what we explicitly saw in MeMe, so it has to be the blackmail-worthy event. I think this has to be the blackmail-worthy event of John lashing out, but I can't entirely discount the idea that John just did a rushed version of the murder seen in MeMe by combining the two deadly swings of the bat into one. The lyrics can support this to a degree, because in order for John to take the blame and save Mikoto from punishment, John needs Mikoto, Es, and us to believe that John is bad but Mikoto is good. Mikoto needs to get with the program and sing his heart out to Es and us for that Innocent verdict.

You see why this took me forever and a half? John's definitely sloppier than Mikoto, but he's damn good at muddying the waters. I have to give him that much credit. In my head, it's about 60:40 that this scene represents the blackmail-worthy event against John putting on a show to ask, "BAM! See? Am I bad enough for you now? You'll forgive Mikoto, right?"

Next scene. Mikoto rides the morning train and pulls at his hair, but the lyrics hint that John is the one singing while Mikoto is in control, warning Mikoto that, "You're overdoing it / you're already broken." And then the screen cuts to the nighttime train, where we see a stressed Mikoto in the background, and John riding at the forefront symbolizing that John is control. John has decided, "But if you persist, I guess it's my job to keep things on an even keel, / Me, the other you / I'll take it all on," and we see John stand up with a bit of a smirk as he hefts the bat up with his right hand and smacks it against his left hand. This was some really nice imagery. We could not only tell that who was Mikoto and who was John, but it shows that while John knows Mikoto and his struggles, Mikoto really doesn't know that John is there. Mikoto really didn't know about his DID before Milgram.

There are two ways that I think you can read this scene as: A.) this takes place before the murder and depicts John switching with Mikoto and attempting to relieve Mikoto's stress through whatever avenue he deems appropriate, or B.) this is just more of John grandstanding to make himself look like a villain. A.) is much more likely than B.), but I want to put it out there, since I was hung up on the lack of left-right separation.

The phone call scene is another disorganized scene in that John is doing a fabulous job of muddying the waters. As established in Undercover, Mikoto's kill Es frame shows Mikoto performing a left-handed swing of the bat into Es's lower back. This is presumably the left-handed swing that crippled the blond victim, forcing him to use his hands to drag himself away from Mikoto rather than run, as seen in the beginning of MeMe. But the left-handed swing of the bat in the phone call scene is the second swing of the bat scene, not the first. The only, clear right-handed swing of the damn bat is shown first!

And as you can see, the orange light is on the limbal ring, so this should be John. And we hear Mikoto, "Oh, hello? Mom? It's been a while" as we smash cut from John swinging the bat to Mikoto talking on the phone. The orange splotch is hidden but the light is above his pupil, signifying that Mikoto is fronting, and this seems to be further supported by the soft-spoken tone. Smash cut again to the left-handed swing of the bat going into the mannequin's head. And of course, we cannot see the eyes, but wait, why is that smashing into the mannequin's head, when we know that the left-handed swing went into the victim's lower back? Why was it shown second? What the hell? All great questions. They still bug me, which is why I left this alone for chunks of time. I wanted to come up with answers, but I'm not nearly as confident during Double as I was with MeMe. Yet, Double is what convinced me that Mikoto did it. Let me finish the shots and I'll explain to the best of my ability.

The next smash cut after the left-handed swing is of that orange-red blood flying through the air. It cuts to Mikoto's right eye, and the orange splotch is still there. But, there is no light reflected anywhere in Mikoto's eye. Not above his pupil, not anywhere on the limbal ring, just the impression that Mikoto's eyes are opening as his phone call with his mother ends. Another smash cut to Mikoto's phone falling into his lap as the song goes back into full swing.

The number of smash cuts during the phone call scene and the following chorus make this the must jarring part of Double for me. It feels as if the animators purposefully mixed up the pieces for us. That right-handed swing cannot be the first blow, for three reasons: Undercover established that the left-handed swing was the first blow, all of that blood splatter spraying backwards indicates that that there was a prior hit, and John's arms are positioned as if he is drawing the bat back over his shoulder. The only logical explanation for this right-handed bat swing is that John or Mikoto has hit the victim at least once before this frame and is currently repositioning the bat to take another swing. This may be the first proper baseball batting we see, but it is not the first blow dealt to the victim.

The left-handed batting frame that we see next is not 100% what we saw in Undercover. In Mikoto's "Kill Es" frame, Mikoto swings the bat into Es's lower back. But here in Double, Mikoto or John swings the bat at about waist-level, but instead takes off the head of a sitting mannequin. Making it even more difficult, the right-handed swing takes place in the lit area while the left-handed swing takes place in the darkened train compartment. The music video does try to associate Mikoto with light and John with darkness, but it's not faithful to those associations. The two most egregious examples would be witnessing Mikoto's profile go from happy to despondent over a dark background at the very beginning of Double, and when John shoves the mannequin into the train door and sloppily smacks its head in (you can see the light outside of the train compartment). Hell, John's clear right-handed swing during the phone call takes place in the light as well. The dichotomy established in MeMe has been thrown out the window, and I'm mad about it because I spent the first two posts talking it up, only to toss it out.

John, I take back what I said in the last post. You might be a great accomplice after all. I still want to hold by my earlier assertions, but I can't tell if they're blinding me from seeing the full picture, or if the reason why I can't make sense of Double is because it's mostly told by John's perspective, and John is trying his best to take the fall for something Mikoto did, hence all of my stumbling.

This should represent the murder scene, but the scenes seem to be out of order. Mikoto calling his mother makes a modicum of sense because most people associate mothers with comfort and Mikoto is in hell right now. He seems to be on the urge of breaking as he talks to her. But Mikoto brushed off his mother's worries the same way he brushed off Kazui's concerns during one of the more recent timeline conversations. Maybe, Mikoto wanted to tell her and be comforted, rather than ignore the problem or fight back. Maybe Mikoto thought about his mom and what he last said to her during the murder and that's why it came up during Double's depiction of the murder.

It's speculation, I know. Back to the chorus. "I don't even know / the reason why I'm here / 'He's a liar,' you said / and made me out to be a scoundrel, why?" While Mikoto sings, he is sitting in the back corner of the subway train compartment, too far for us to get a proper look at his face. The windows are bright white and there's orange-red blood everywhere. Mikoto stands up when he notices the blood, and then the shot changes so that we can partially make out Mikoto's face. Mikoto is visibly sweating, and while we can see the orange patch on his eye, there is no light on the limbal ring or enough of his right eye in the frame to check to see if the light is above his pupil, marking this as truly Mikoto. I believe it's Mikoto, but I don't have proof other than the shocked demeanor. Mikoto asks why, and then the shot jumps back to reveal Mikoto standing in the bloody train compartment, but the windows are now dark.

My primary take of this three shot sequence is that this is Mikoto realizing the gravity of what he has done. It was pointed out to me that Mikoto is holding a baseball bat in the opening of MeMe, hinting at premeditation, but I can't find the picture. Maybe Mikoto just meant to frighten the blond with the bat, or maybe he did plan to kill the blond from the get-go. Either way, there's thinking of it and then actually doing it, and the shock shown here by Mikoto reflects that. Shock and horror over what he's done would be reasonable, and ties in with his, "My life... it wasn't supposed to be this way," line from the Trial 1 trailer. The cut from light to dark may signify that John is now fronting and dealing with the murder scene, but even so, Mikoto cannot entirely erase this memory. But since it's so horrifying and is coupled with John's intervention, it seems like a vivid nightmare rather than reality. I do really like the mirroring that's done in the first and third shots shown here, and I believe that it's significant, even if you disagree with my theory and interpretation.

Alright, Mikoto runs, and I can only have so many images in one post, so I'll make this quick. The orange lights on the limbal rings are faintly visible as Mikoto runs, hinting that this is really John, not Mikoto. If I had to make a conclusion, I would say that this is John. This scene may be representative of John panicking and rushing to clean things up before Mikoto switches back. It's out of character, but John is panicking because holy shit, Mikoto finally snapped and that's not what he's meant to do. Speculative, yeah. Next cut. Mikoto's back is to us as he stalks down the subway train compartment, so it's near impossible to tell who is walking. He's carrying and swinging the bat using only his right hand, like how we saw John do earlier in Double. The assured walk and then frustration expressed Mikoto swings the bat backwards with his right hand signals that this may be John.

Meh, I don't like it either. I do, however, like the ending frames where Mikoto's hands are bloodied. If you look at the first Mikoto, you can see the light at the top of his eyes, signaling that this is Mikoto. The blood is solely on his left hand, which is behind him and supporting him. There is no murder weapon. The camera pans up where we see John, with the faint orange light on his limbal rings, standing there with the same bloodied left hand, this time holding the bat.

I believe that the bloodied left hand ties into the fact that the left-handed swing was the first swing of the baseball bat. It's the guilty hand~ But more importantly, Mikoto is clearly panicked and using that bloodied hand to hold himself up, which I think supports the idea that Mikoto killed his blackmailer after the blond showed his proverbial hand. John is just standing there without much expression, which is unusual for what we know about his personality. He looks confused, but he is holding the murder weapon with the same bloodied, left hand. This may represent John taking the blame but just making stuff up as he goes along.

Cut again, and now both of Mikoto's hands are bloodied. The light is still at the top of his eyes, signaling that this is Mikoto. The last thing Mikoto does is try to smile, and then he breaks down and apologizes, smearing blood over both eyes.

So, yeah... sorry guys. Weak end to a strong start, I think. This isn't my best work by far. I still stand by the idea that John is trying to protect Mikoto by taking the blame, and even if the frames I chose don't support my theory 100%, I believe that all this conflicting information comes from John who is trying to deceive Milgram's song extraction device, but the best he can do is blur the lines. If MeMe was Mikoto's song, then Double is John's, and in John's active attempt to take the fall for something he didn't do, he pokes holes in the idea that Mikoto is passive.

#milgram #mikoto kayano #mikoto did it #who swung it #milgram theory #I’m so done #he did it #I know he did it #but I hate this stinking music video #started strong #ended weak #didn't even proofread this by the end #I'm tired boss

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jimplekins · 7 months ago

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Don't think i've ever talked abt this guy (W.D) properly bf but i thought i'd share his entry in a project im working on! (The Oc-ictionary!!!!! it's a catalouge of all of my utmv oc's and their backstories ect (though it's far from done)

#T.U.A has some zesty aaah upper management (price) damn #sorry if theres spelling mistakes proofreading is for the weak #oc garbage #utmv #gaster oc #tenebris universum archive #Why's he so big :0I #i actually need to post somehting that isn't oc content damnnn #ut oc

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tsfennec · 5 months ago

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... yes, Grammarly, I am Very Aware that I am a wordy person. You don't gotta drag me like this. 😔

#lolol #I do not actually find grammarly very useful at all #very much “I know more than you” @ its suggestions generally #and I definitely don't make use of the new AI features to help with composing things :P #but I do like to have it installed to keep an eye on what those kinds of tools are doing generally #because as an editor/proofreader people inevitably ask me what I think #(often homeschooling parents)#and it's helpful to have more specific knowledge to explain general weaknesses and strengths of it #(every time I am a bit 🙄 at the accuracy assessments specifically)#(because it Truly Does Not get colloquial/casual writing or how that often works in fiction)#but LOL are the statistics fun sometimes #😅#writing #writers #writeblr

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classyrbf · 3 months ago

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NOT GOOD ENOUGH! — TOJI FUSHIGURO

SYNOPSIS...after child birth, you don’t feel or look the same as before, brining on new insecurities and anger stirring within yourself

INFO...husband!toji x fem!reader, angst with a happy ending, mentions of child birth, weight gain, stretch marks, feeling ugly, body checking, just very insecure and upset reader, slight jealousy, toji being there for you, not proofread

OTHER...likes and reblogs are appreciated

toji notices how quiet you are when you both arrive back home from Shiu’s birthday party. You didn’t say a word to him on the drive back home and you aren’t speaking to him now that you walked through the door. All you do is head straight to your shared bedroom, heels clicking against the floor. He can’t understand what’s wrong, he’s trying his hardest to piece together what may have went wrong tonight but nothing comes to mind. He was hoping that this night out would be fun and special considering it’s the first time you guys have had alone time since giving birth to Megumi almost a year ago now.

But that frown on your face and the silent treatment makes a pit settle in his stomach because this isn’t you. He follows you to the bedroom where you’re sitting, turned away from him, taking your heels off. “Can we talk?” He breaks the silence, leaning against the wooden door.

“Not right now.” You clear your throat, avoiding any eye contact with him as you throw your shoes in the mess that is your closet. “Can you get out? I need to change.” You’re snatching clothes out the dresser, your tone flat and bored.

“Get out? You always change in front of me—”

“Just get out, Toji!” You walk over to the bedroom door, slamming it in his face and locking it. He stands there, confused.

But behind closed doors, you cautiously remove your dress that you’ve been so excited to wear for months now. Except, it didn’t look how you expected it to. The whole night, the moment you put it on, it just didn’t seem to look right. Your arms had extra fat, your stomach was chubby and everytime you sat down you could feel it hang over your underwear, and your thighs were squeezing against the fabric. But it wasn’t just the dress, it was everything. For weeks and weeks you’ve been feeling like absolute garbage, reminiscing over how you used to look before child birth. The dark circles were new, you the stretch marks on your stomach and thighs that seemed like they’d never go away. The brittleness of your hair, and your mood swings that had you questioning if you’re overreacting or not.

You felt ugly. That’s it. Inside and out. The way you looked and how you acted towards toji and yourself, it wasn’t you. And you would never blame your son over this, no, he was the most precious baby ever, and you loved him with all your heart. You just wish you’d had started taking care of yourself sooner. When you look in the mirror, you’re reminded that your husband can do so much better, thinking of all the attractive women that were trying to talk to him today at the party. You couldn’t help but compare yourself, how much better looking they were and how full of life they looked. Maybe he would enjoy someone younger and happier, instead of having to come home to a miserable, insecure wife who wouldn’t even let her own husband touch her.

You frowned, tears welling up in your eyes as you stared at yourself, the palm of your hand running over your stomach, feeling the loose skin. Your eyes drifted to your sagging breasts, thinking of how they only look good in a supported bra now. Tears. All you felt were the tears streaming down your cheeks, slipping on your baggy shirt and pants to hide each and every bad thing you thought about yourself.

“Mama, open the door. Are you crying?” Toji called from behind the door, twisting the handle back and forth like it would somehow magically unlock.

“I-I’m fine! I’m still getting dressed!” You wiped your tears, a weak attempt at hiding your feelings.

“Bullshit. Open the door, tell me what’s going on with you. Y/n, I swear I’ll break this damn door down. Please, open it.” You shuffled your feet across the floor, unlocking the door for him. He immediately stepped through, concerned eyes scanning over you. “Mama, what happened? What’s going on with you, hm?” He cupped your face, searching your glossy eyes.

You immediately broke, clutching onto him as you sobbed into his chest. “I’m sorry, Toji,” you hiccuped. His arms held you close, wrapping his warmth around you.

“Shh, shh. You got nothing to apologize for.” He kissed the top of your head, caressing his hand up and down your back. “Talk to me.” You shake your head, finding it embarrassing to even talk about, but he doesn’t take no for an answer. He cups your face again and forces you to look at him, wiping your tears away. “Did I do something?” He questions.

“No, no,” you sniffle. “I just…I don’t know how to explain it without feeling stupid.” It frustrates you to your core, having all these bottled up feelings inside of you but finding it so difficult to explain. It’s overwhelming, every single bit of it.

“You’re not stupid. Come here, sit down and talk with me.” He holds your shaking hand while guiding you to the bed, both of you sitting on the edge as you attempt to catch your breath.

“Tonight, I was excited to spend some alone time with you. I got dressed and did my makeup and hair, but…I didn’t feel comfortable or pretty or anything. I haven’t been feeling like that for a good while now, Toji.” Your voice cracks, hot tears brimming your eyes once more. “I look at myself and see how much weight I’ve gained, my stomach, arms, thighs, everything! And I hate it! I hate looking at myself because it makes me so angry and ugly. So, I get jealous and insecure when I see other women near you. Like tonight.” Your lip quivers, hiding your face in your hands. “And I’m sorry I took it out on you,” your voice breaks through the sobs, vision blurry. “I’m sorry that I’m not better.”

“What the fuck are you talking about, Mama? Better? You’re already fucking perfect.” He sits up. “Look at me.” And you hesitantly do so, frowning, your eyes puffy and red. “I don’t care about anyone else but you and our son. Our son that you gave life to, birthed him from your own body. You’re fucking incredible for that. So, no, I don’t give a damn about your weight or stretch marks or anything else your pretty little head is making you overthink about.” He grabs your hand, pressing a kiss to your knuckles.

“Toji…” you trail off. His words only make you more emotional, his reassurance providing you comfort and security.

“You’re beautiful no matter what. I married you. You didn’t marry me. I wanted you the second I laid eyes on you, mama, are you kidding?” He chuckles, making you smile in response. “See, there’s that smile.”

“Stop.” You stifle a laugh, covering your face with your hand.

“Never. You’re stuck with me. You’re stuck with me forever. I signed up for forever, okay? We could be all old and wrinkly together and I’ll still think you’re the most beautiful woman in this world. So, baby, please don’t beat yourself up because you don’t look like some fake ass super model or some random girl you see on the street. From the tips of your toes, to the top of your head, you’re all mine.” He presses a kiss to your cheek, then another and then another, before attacking you with kisses. “I’m so in love with you and so attracted to everything you do, you make it hard not to give you another baby. So incredibly sexy.”

“Toji!” You gasp in shock, laughing at him. “You horndog!”

“Can you blame me, huh?” You kisses your neck. “Seriously, mama, I apologize. I’m sorry that I didn’t realize sooner that you were going through this.” He holds you, pulling you beside him as he lays down.

“It’s not your fault. I’m sorry I didn’t talk to you, and explain my feelings. I thought it was something that would go away on its own—”

“I don’t wanna hear any more apologies from that mouth of yours. Next time, just speak to me. Pull me aside, vent to me, cry in my arms. I’d rather you do that than feel like this ever again. I should’ve been more attentive to you.” The pad of thumb brushes over your knuckles.

“I love you, Toji.” You snuggle into him, basking in his warmth. “Thank you.” He knew just how to make you laugh, how to take all those bad thoughts away and lock them up. You should’ve never hesitated to come to him, he’s always been there for you since day one.

“I love you more.” He presses a kiss to your forehead. “We still have the whole night to ourselves, let’s not waste it.”

“Oh, can we order some chinese? I’ve kinda been craving crab rangoon.” You raise brow at Toji.

He smirks. “Go and get the menu.”

#—☆classyrbf #jjk #jjk x reader #jujustu kaisen #jjk angst #jjk fluff #toji x reader #toji angst #toji fluff #toji x reader angst #toji x reader fluff #toji fushiguro x reader #toji fushiguro angst #toji fushiguro fluff #toji fushiguro x reader angst #toji fushiguro x reader fluff #jjk x reader angst #jjk x reader fluff #jjk toji

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sttoru · 4 months ago

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𝝑𝑒 𝐒𝐘𝐍𝐎𝐏𝐒𝐈𝐒. the ryomen sukuna has never in his thousand years of living apologised to any living being. so why does he feel the need to make it up to you after (unintentionally) hurting you?

tags. true form!sukuna x concubine!female reader. fluff, angst (hurt to comfort), suggestive. sukuna is an asshole but also not i guess. a little bit ooc. reader gets called ‘brat, woman’. not proofread. wc: 1.8k

sukuna has never felt the need to apologize. he’s never in the wrong if you ask him. apologising to someone he deems ‘lesser’ would be a sign of weakness.

yet the king of curses always has this secret need to make his favorite concubine feel better after (unintentionally) hurting her. you’ve got this hold on him that he will never acknowledge. although there are moments where he will indirectly show you that he regrets upsetting you.

it’s a quiet saturday evening and you’re relaxing in your bedchambers after eating your dinner. you didn’t go to the dining hall to eat with sukuna and the others. no, you made sure your head lady-in-waiting brought your food to your room.

sukuna and you got into a ‘little’ argument yesterday. you both spent the entire day and night alone instead of in each other’s presence, which is the norm. even the people around you have noticed the growing tension whenever sukuna and you would cross paths.

of course, the other concubines seized the opporunity to vie for sukuna’s attention now that his favored little concubine was no longer by his side. yet, their efforts proved in vain. sukuna had grown more irritable over the past twenty-four hours, his mind relentlessly preoccupied with thoughts of you—a fact that only frustrated him further. you weren't in the mood to speak with him again, so why did that bother him so much? It should have made him scoff, made him see you as weak and driven him to demand that you speak to him once more.

but all the king of curses can think about is how to get you to cling to him once more. as much as he says that it’s exhausting to have a needy 'brat' at his side all the time, your abscence makes him realise he secretly enjoys having you around.

snapping back into your own thoughts, you realise you’ve been staring at your cup of tea for the longest time. you sigh and get up from the table, your feet dragging over the tatami flooring. however a sudden knock on your doors causes you to stop in your tracks.

“come in,” you murmur, thinking it is one of your ladies-in-waiting with your dessert. but the silence that follows afterwards is nearly ominous.

you frown and sigh before going over to the shoji. you slide the screens aside, only to be met by a wall of muscles you know way too well. you tilt your head back and your eyes widen slightly at the sight of the one man you stubbornly refused to talk to.

sukuna looms over you, his massive frame dwarfing your smaller one. he invites himself inside, not waiting on a response from you. he steps into your room and turns around to face you. his dark red eyes narrow as he tries to decipher the emotions playing on your face.

you don’t say a thing. you don’t look at him. you don’t smile at him. you don’t move a muscle. no acknowledgment at all. sukuna hates it—it’s unusual for you to be so cold. your eyes dart to the floor and your bottom lip subtly forms a defiant pout.

sukuna scoffs. he’s made the decision to break the silence between you two first, coming all the way to your bedchambers to talk. he would never have done such a thing for anyone else—would have waited for them to grovel before him and beg for his forgiveness. and yet here he is, standing in front of his concubine, ready to confront the issues between them.

he feels pathetic and it angers him from within. he desires to command you to get on your knees and apologise to him, to obey him and forget what happened. however an annoying voice in the back of his head tells him to be patient with you.

“tch, what’s with the face?” sukuna's deep and commanding voice fills the spacious room. he doesn't go about it the gentle way—he’s still him after all. “y’re still sulking about that little thing? i thought i told ya to stop thinkin’ about it.”

hearing sukuna say the latter makes your heart ache and your eyes water from frustration. everything seems like it’s not a big deal to him—even when you’re clearly upset.

“that was not just a little thing, my lord!” you raise your voice just a little, surprising yourself as the words tumble out of your mouth before you can stop them. you swallow thickly and bite your lip. you've done it now, the thought echoes inside your head.

sukuna’s eyebrows raise in surprise at your outburst, not used to you raising your voice to him like that. although in an instant, his eyes flash with something dangerous. you may be his favorite and he may let you get away with a lot of things, yet there are boundaries. rules that even you must obey.

the king of curses would probably find it amusing to see you snap back at him, thinking you will achieve something with that, but today is not one of those days. the shimmering tension between you two has lead to him being more agitated than ever.

sukuna closes the distance between you two and reaches out to grab you by our jaw. his fingers curl tightly beneath your chin and force your head to turn, making you face him.

“you dare raise your voice at me, woman?” sukuna growls, his face mere inches from yours. his grip borders on painful and you wince at the ache in your jaw. he doesn’t let go and instead tightens his hold, “i don't have time for this fuckin' nonsense.”

sukuna releases you with a light shove. he takes a deep breath to try and calm down, to remind himself that he came her to clear things up. but it’s difficult because he’s never had to do this before. never had to listen to someone else, always expecting them to simply endure and move on whenever he caused harm.

you stumble a bit, rubbing at the your chin. you don’t get it; is sukuna here to make it worse for you? to rub it in? to remind you again of what he said to upset you? to make fun of you for being upset about it?

it certainly does hurt. you replay that moment again in your head. the moment when sukuna told you he could replace you with someone else whenever he desires. it is a fact. sukuna can do that whenever he pleases. but it stung to hear him say it so explicitly. to hear him say it to your face, as if that doesn't already keep you awake at night.

little did you know, sukuna didn’t mean to hurt you too much with that comment. he didn’t expect you to ignore him, to avoid him, all because of what he said. he simply said it because he was struggling with his own emotions—denying that he feels anything for you. he said it to remind himself that he isn’t getting attached to a human.

but that failed terribly. seeing you like this—your teary eyes glaring up at him with fear, hurt and betrayal made him feel an uncomfortable pang in his chest. something that resembled guilt.

“have a good night then, my lord,” you dismiss sukuna and turn away, your voice strained with emotion. you don’t want to start another argument with him.

the king of curses grits his teeth. there it goes again. ‘my lord’ — yes, it’s what most others call him, but not you. you always called him by nicknames he deemed foolish. ‘kuna, ryo or even dear. he strangely longs to hear your voice call him as such again.

sukuna stands there, trying to reign in his anger and other overwhelming emotions. he grabs your wrist and tugs you back to him, making you stumble and catch yourself against his chiseled chest.

he doesn’t know what to say—doesn’t trust himself to speak. he knows he’ll make it worse by speaking, knows he’ll rile you up even more. thus he chooses not to utter a word for a moment.

your eyes meet and you’re surprised when sukuna leans down to catch your lips in a kiss. your hands fist into the collar of his kimono, your mind telling you to back off. this man is dangerous—playing with your emotions like this.

telling you one thing, but contradicting himself with his actions. it’s extremely confusing yet also exhilarating.

you close your eyes and respond to his kiss with equal fervor. the pink-haired man groans against your lips, swiping his tongue over your bottom lip before biting on it. a habit of his.

sukuna’s large hands roam over your body as he presses you as close to him as possible. it’s like he’s reassuring you with his touch—melting away all your worries. it’s a manipulative tactic that somehow always gets you. or perhaps it’s just his way of apologising.

which of the two it is, will always be vague and unknown.

eventually, he pulls away, leaving you both breathless. you stare up at him with a huff before glancing the other way. you’re still sulking, still pouting.

sukuna rolls his eyes and easily lifts your body up into his arms. two of his hands settle on the back of your thighs, the other two grazing the side of your breast and waist. he carries you over to your bed and sits on the edge with you on his lap.

“y’re a fool,” sukuna clicks his tongue. his fingers slither up the exposed skin of your arm and against your cheek to flick your forehead. he gains a whimper from you which urges him to do it again.

you frown and rub at the tingly skin on your head. your eyes are still watery, lashes clumped together due to your tears. it’s almost cute. almost. “and you look pathetic,” the man in front of you adds with a condescending smirk.

you weakly smack sukuna’s chest, making his grin widen. there you go—there is the woman he knows, slowly making a comeback. slowly warming up to him again. slowly being playful with him once more.

sukuna sighs. to you, it may seem like a tired sigh, but in reality it’s a sigh of relief. he may not have solved this issue between you two in a normal, healthy way, but it worked out anyway.

“you’re mean,” your comment breaks the moment of silence. your bottom lip trembles and you look like you might just cry it all out. the frustration, the fear, the hurt, the relief—it’s overwhelming.

sukuna inhales briefly. he doesn’t respond to your little remark, instead, he holds the back of your head and presses your face into his chest. he holds your body against him, nestled warmly between his muscular arms.

you don’t protest at all. you close your eyes and breathe in his familiar scent, nuzzling your nose into his pecs. you know this is his way of making you feel betted so you will not complain.

an apology will never leave the prideful man's lips and you’ve come to accept it. this way of reassuring you counts as something at the very least.

it doesn’t matter who or what gets between you two, at the end of the day, you’ll find each other again. one way or another.

and that's all you need.

#sttoru writes.#jjk x reader #sukuna x reader #jjk fluff #sukuna fluff #jjk x you #sukuna x you #jjk x y/n #sukuna x y/n #jjk x female reader

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humanjarvis · 5 months ago

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blushing bandit: part 1

synopsis: you coax caleb into admitting his crimes against your laundry.

tags: sub!caleb, caleb steals your panties to get off, you make him admit it, fingering (main character to self), caleb praise kink, caleb whimpers again, teasing, sexual condescension, cum...licking? (off of panties) pairing: caleb x reader word count: 1.3k

PART 2

a/n: i told myself if i ever wrote panty sniffer caleb it'd have to be unique since it's done so much so i hope this is enough. sorry if not. [omg i’m proofreading rn and i am not the same person i was when i wrote this]

You’d been keeping a spreadsheet.

In the last four times that Caleb had done your laundry, four pairs of your panties had gone missing.

The first time, you’d shrugged it off. Meh, maybe the dryer sucked them in, you’d thought. The second was just a coincidence, and the third had had you this close to calling a repairman. But by the fourth? You suspected you were dealing with a repeat offender—a human one.

This wasn’t Caleb’s first time having a…fixation with your underwear. A few times prior, you’d walked past the laundry room to see him staring down at a small scrap of lace or cotton in his hands, frantically chucking them into the washer once he spotted you. Needless to say, you were so certain of his guilt that you didn’t even care to check his room—you were right, you knew, and he’d admit what he’d done by the end of the day.

Fifteen minutes before Caleb usually gets home, you crack your door open just enough to expose your bed. Climbing onto the mattress, you angle your panty-clad lower half to the doorway. The pair you’ve got on are simple: pink cotton with white lace borders. You honestly didn’t care which ones you wore—they just needed to be light enough to stain.

Spreading your legs, you slip your hand under the lace waistband, running your fingers up and down your slit. As you part your folds, you slowly slide your hand up to play with your clit, circling, flicking, and rubbing until you’re slick with arousal. Your movements are calculated, methodical. This wasn’t about achieving pleasure—that would come when you tormented Caleb later. For now, your goal was to soil your panties with cum.

When the front door opens, you quicken your pace, rocking your hips into the bed so it creaks and dropping distinct moans from your lips.

You don’t even bother to listen for footsteps—you know he’ll come. You know he’ll see.

As you feel yourself getting close, you swipe two fingers along your glistening folds before sinking them into your core, matching the rhythm of the other hand still playing with your clit.

The pressure builds and builds, but a glimpse of the shadow moving in the cracked doorway is what finally pushes you over the edge.

With a loud cry, you roll your hips through your orgasm, writhing sensually on the crumpled sheets beneath you.

After a heady moment, you remove your hands from your core and press them against the outside of your panties, making sure they’re wholly drenched for what you’re about to do.

When you look back up, the shadow is gone, and you know you’ve got him.

“How was your day?” you greet, barging into Caleb’s room with your hands behind your back.

With his broad back toward you, he freezes briefly before relaxing. “It was alright, nothing much happened,” he shrugs, still not turning to face you.

“Alright, huh?” you repeat. Clearly, he was in need of a little push.

“You wanna know what I did today?” you start, a saccharine excitement in your voice. “Today I went through the load of laundry you washed for me yesterday. Do you want to guess what it had in common with the three loads before that?”

Tensing, Caleb finally turns around, a noticeable tremor in his idle hands. “It...smelled like detergent?” he jokes lamely, offering a weak smile.

“Oh, cut the shit, Caleb,” you scoff, sauntering over to him. “I know. No excuses, no stupid jokes, no changing the subject. I know.”

A startled laugh falling from his lips, Caleb flits his eyes to the side before opening his mouth to respond. “Wh—”

“Shut it,” you intercept. “Now, I came in here to make a deal—an unfair deal, to be honest. It will benefit you much more than me.” Stepping closer, you grin at his wary expression before continuing. “If you admit you've been stealing my panties, you get to keep these. No catch,” you offer, waving your underwear, coated with the evidence of your earlier climax, in front of his face.

Caleb’s eyes pop out of his skull. Dumbfounded, he stands staring down at you, opening and closing his mouth like he’s glitching.

“Hmm? I thought you liked these,” you mock. Placing a hand on his chest, you push his dazed form onto the bed behind him. Chuckling, you crawl up his body, panties threaded between your fingers.

When you come face to face, you take his jaw in your other hand, angling it as if inspecting him. “Are you sick?” you pout. “Where’s your enthusiasm? Where’s the man who stole four pairs of panties out of my dirty laundry? One I could understand—to each their own—but four is just greedy, Caleb.”

Through his heaving breaths, all Caleb can respond with is a shuddering whimper. He looks up at you as if you’re about to smite him, and although you’re not, there’s something exhilarating about the visual.

“No answer? What a bummer,” you sigh dramatically. With a mischievous wink, you tighten your grip on his chin. “That’s okay, though—I think I can find him.”

Slowly, you bring the hand holding your underwear up to hover right over his face. “Is he…here?” you ask, lightly tracing the lace hem of your panties around his jawline.

At the contact, Caleb’s breath hitches, and he lets out a pitiful, incoherent noise.

“No? What about here?” you tease, now rubbing the fabric against his reddening cheek.

When he still doesn’t break, you click your tongue. “Still nothing?” you tut. “This guy’s a tough nut to crack. But don’t worry—I think I can find him right…here.” In one fluid motion, you grip Caleb’s chin and press your soaked panties to his face, the wettest patch directly over his nose and mouth.

Caleb's eyes roll back into his head before he gives you what you’ve been waiting for. Jolting his hand out to grab your arm, he presses the fabric harder against his face as he bucks up into you.

He inhales deeply before closing his eyes and, with his hand still wrapped around your wrist, pushes his tongue out to taste your leftover release.

Moaning, he opens his mouth to suckle on your panties, and you coo down at him. “Aw, there he is,” you say, caressing his cheek with your free hand. “Just needed some guidance, hm? Needed to know I wasn't mad at you for using my dried slick to get off.”

Whimpering through the material, he nods twice.

“Good,” you praise as he nuzzles into your hand. “But!” you continue, ripping the fabric from his mouth, to which he groans from the loss of contact.

“Remember what I told you. You can have these,” you say, dangling your underwear in his face and pulling away when he leans forward, “if you confess what you did.”

Violet eyes look up at you in panicked deliberation, and you can visibly see when his perversion overwhelms his pride.

“W-when I did your laundry the last few times,” he starts timidly, voice hoarse from disuse. “I took…I didn’t mean to, I swear. They were just there and they smelled like you and I couldn’t stop.”

“Couldn’t stop what, Caleb?” you prod, brow raised. “What did you do with them?”

You know what he did with them. But you want to hear it from him.

“…I used them,” he admits, voice dropping to a whisper. “I brought them back here and I smelled them and…tasted them…pretended it was you. So I could come.” When he stops, his face is flushed scarlet.

“Mm,” you hum, stroking his cheek. “That wasn’t so hard, was it? Thank you for telling me,” you praise, and he shivers under your touch.

“You’ve been so good for me—I'll give you what I promised,” you say, folding your ruined panties and laying them neatly atop Caleb's chest.

Shuffling off of him, you head for the door before looking back.

“And Caleb,” you call, “cotton cannot taste that good. Next time, just ask me for the real thing.”

PART 2

#iris writes #love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #caleb x reader #love and deepspace caleb #love and deepspace smut #lads #lads caleb #lads x reader #lnds #lads smut #caleb smut #caleb #caleb xia

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digonthis · 7 months ago

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Catered Audience- Pt. 4

Spencer Agnew x f!Reader

1.8k words

( ᴅᴍ ᴏʀ ᴄᴏᴍᴍᴇɴᴛ ғᴏʀ ᴛᴀɢ :] )

slow burn-ish, fluff, mutual pining, all that shit

part 1 part 2 part 3

tags (ily): @midnightdragonzero @stand-tall-pineapple @anarchisticedtea

‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧♡‧₊˚ ✩°｡⋆♡ ⋆˙⟡♡ ⋆˙⟡♡⋆｡°✩˚₊‧

Spencer loved the Smosh holiday parties… for the first hour.

After that it tends to become more exhausting than anything else. Everyone was either drunk, babysitting the drunks, or starting the next big office rumour thanks to stupid drunken actions taken out of context.

That’s exactly why, upon arrival, he snuck away to one of the smaller rooms in the venue, one with a tv that him and Alex had discovered the year prior, and ended up watching a movie after the boredom of the late-night party set in. This time, he was a little more prepared with clone hero on his laptop and the guitar controller he’d swiped from the office for the occasion. Once satisfied that the setup would bring a smile to Alex’s face a few hours from now, Spencer adjusted the collar of the ugly christmas sweater he’d been coerced into wearing and made his way into the party.

Music, lights, food, crowds of people, and a million selfies he was encouraged to join in on overwhelmed him immediately. Being on everyone’s instagram stories was a given for this kind of event, so he threw on his best photo smile and an awkward thumbs up. He soon found Alex, whose sweater was even uglier than his own. Through the regular slew of joking insults that they greeted each other with, Spencer swore he could see an irregularly cheerful smile always on Alex’s face, as if he had something planned that he couldn’t keep to himself for long.

Spencer let that be for now, turning his attention to Ian’s little opening speech. It was more of a stand-up routine really, poking fun at everyone while simultaneously acknowledging all the hard work and progress they’d accomplished this year. It ended with a toast, almost everyone had a glass of something bubbly in hand, and a ravenous applause. Alex nudged him gently, but Spencer paid it no mind. It was only after three or four nudges that he actually turned his attention to his friend, following his gaze again until it landed on a group of the girls standing a few metres away, toasting their own glasses. Angela, Arasha, Courtney, and… someone else. Facing away, he couldn’t make out who it was. Alex just kept looking at him with that stupid smile as gears refused to turn in his brain.

“Hey man, is that uh… the…”

“Yup.”

“Oh. Huh.”

That was all Spencer could manage, his brain short-circuiting as he realized that it was definitely her. Even from the back, he recognized her hair, and his ears picked up that familiar laugh, watching her shoulders shake at a stupid joke someone had made.

He quickly realized confirmation of identity would come very soon as she started to turn around, eyes flickering around the room. She seemed to be looking for something for just a moment before returning to the conversation. “Go talk to her.”

Spencer 's gaze snapped to Alex, appalled by his request. “I’m not gonna just- she’s a stranger!” “She knows you from the videos, i’m sure. She made you a cupcake.” Alex replied coolly, before draining his glass. Spencer stood and thought for a moment, trying to think of how he could start a normal conversation. Alex must’ve sensed his apprehension, grabbing another glass for each of them. “You’re the least awkward guy ever, you know. Just be normal. Chill.”

“Nah, I don’t want to freak her out. Especially after all the stuff in videos lately. I’m not worried about it, really. Let her enjoy the party…”

This was obviously a bit of an excuse, but Alex decided to let it slide. He saw the way Spencer was holding onto the drink he’d given him, eyes flickering to where she’d stood every few seconds. Thankfully, work parties at Smosh were always jam-packed with things to do, so it wasn’t long before some game or speech or tik tok filming would take his mind off of the unexpected party guest.

As expected, a few hours passed and Spencer had exhausted any energy he had to think about the girl. There were a few times they’d locked eyes, but neither had bothered to talk to the other. He usually kept an eye on where she was, just for his own peace of mind. For the last fifteen minutes, there was no sign of her, so he assumed she’d gone home. A twinge of regret hit him, just a little, for not just doing what Alex said and talking to her, but the guilt didn’t last too long as he remembered his setup from earlier.

Slipping away from the group he was standing in, long since tuned out of the conversation, Spencer made his way to the room he’d left the guitar hero in. Hearing soft music coming from the room, he silently cursed Alex for starting without him before shoving the door open in a playful huff, ready with a quip about patience before immediately choking on his words.

There she was. The girl who hadn’t left his mind for weeks, surrounded by empty cups of booze, high heels abandoned, dialled in and absolutely shredding Alice in Chains.

She was mumbling the words along too, and from the looks of the notes flying on the screen it was quite the tough difficulty setting. She kept up, eyes never leaving the screen as obviously experienced fingers hit the fret buttons and strummed away. She had the telltale blush of a drunk across her cheeks and nose, even spreading a little to her ears, and her eyelids drooped a bit every now and again before snapping back to high alert. To Spencer’s delight, the door wasn’t loud enough or in a position where she’d seen him walk into the room, so he took a moment to appreciate the sight.

The song ended before he’d figured out what to do or say, so he simply walked over and sat next to her, clapping along with the applause coming from the game. Her eyes widened as they finally met his, the grip she had on the plastic guitar tightening before she quickly pulled it off, offering it up. “I didn’t mean to mess with your stuff, I just haven’t played since I was in college and wanted to see-”

“Good song choice, do another.” He stated plainly with a gentle smile. She was obviously a little startled, but nodded before slowly putting the guitar back on. “I still want a turn after, though. Just need a minute to decide what to play...” Spencer added, adjusting his sitting position on the floor, intent to watch the girl and the screen at the same time.

She took a few minutes to scroll through songs, humming along to a few previews before settling on Nine Inch Nails. “I could never do the solo at the end as a kid, it always killed my hands…” She muttered, setting the difficulty to hard and settling her fingers on the keys as the beat started up.

She played the majority of the song with ease, but just as she said, the solo came around and she fumbled it immediately. Teeth dug into her bottom lip as the screen flashed red and the song abruptly ended, making her giggle nervously. Spencer, who hadn’t realized how invested he’d become until that moment, unclenched his fists and leaned back with a soft smile. “That shit was tough, I can’t blame you…” He mumbled, shifting a little. She began to pull the guitar strap off again, but he placed his hand on her’s for a split second before pulling away. “At least try one more time, you were close!”

It took a little convincing, but the drunken, glazed over look in her eyes turned to determination at his insistence and she booted the song back up again. He was now sitting ever so closer, His hip almost bumping hers as she dialled in on the song. Note after note, Spencer was painfully aware of the approaching solo, the alcohol in both their systems making the feat far more important than what it actually was.

Before he knew what he was even really doing, he had slid over to sit behind her. The pads of his fingers pressed to the tops of hers as he tried to find the frets, the notes started rolling in. He felt the way she tensed against his chest for a moment before leaning into him, now only focused on strumming as tipsy giggles fell from her lips. The song filled the silence of the room as Spencer handled the solo almost mechanically, gently pinning her fingers to the buttons, puppeting her through the tough stuff without problem.

He quickly released his hand as she whispered a quiet thank you, feeling her hands regain control, hard part was done. A quick nod of acknowledgement was meant to be his cue to slip away, even if it was barely in her peripheral, but he hesitated on moving out of her personal space as he noticed the gentle pressure on his chest hadn’t gone away. She was still leaning on him. He sucked in a generous breath, hoping his heartbeat wasn’t going any crazier than it already had been, and settled in to watch her play the rest of the song. He held his breath a little at her shaky ending, but let it out slowly with a smile on his face as she seemed to brighten up at finally finishing the track, giggling fit returning as she let her head fall back on his shoulder so their eyes could finally meet. “You’re pretty good at that, you know.”

Spencer could only smile and nod at first, looking away after a moment of taking in how pretty her eyes were up close. “I work on the games channel here, it’s kinda my job to be pretty good at that stuff.”

That only makes her laugh again, adjusting the guitar again and holding it up against her body. “Your turn now, only fair. Pick a song.”

His arms wrap around her carefully, taking hold of the controller and beginning to scroll through songs. He could only pray that it would be a little longer before Alex showed up to play with them, fully unaware that Alex had been the one to tip the girl off to the hidden game room in the first place. Nobody would be bothering them, that was for certain. As Spencer began the next song and the girl settled against his chest, the sting of biting his lip in concentration was the only way he could stay convinced this was anything other than a dream.

Her little hums and sighs as she watched the screen, the smell of her hair, the way he felt her tense and focus for difficult riffs and hum along to the lyrics she could recall… maybe he was dreaming, after all.

#spencer agnew #smosh games #spencer smosh #smosh #smoshblr #fanfic #fanfiction #proofreading is for the weak #smosh fanfic #smosh fanfiction #guys im like so happy people like this #sorry for slow updates #engineering student with no free time shackles me

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aomiiine · 6 months ago

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HE LOVES HIS OFFICER!

𐔌 . 𝑺𝑻𝑨𝑹𝑹𝑰𝑵𝑮 ⋆˚𝜗𝜚˚⋆ ୧ ──── PRAEDATOR! SYLUS + ENFORCER! FEM READER

W☆RNINGS. N!SFW/MDNI (18+) — cockhead pinching, hate fucking vibes, orgasm denial/orgasm delay, cock ring, handjob, cock slapping (once), feral sylus, tame(?) bdsm-ish vibes, restraints (chains obv), a bit predator/prey dynamic, slight praise kink (reader), might be ooc sylus but idc lol, switch m & f, overstim, hints of corruption (sylus -> you), quite heavy degradation (reader to him & him to reader. ie; slut, bitch, animal, etc.), that tongue scene lmaoaoa, kind of (not canon) improvised lore at the end, ‘kitten’ is used twice i think, all smut no plot, not proofread wordcount is 1.7k edited to 1.9k

TAGLIST. @tinycatharsis @jellysix @wonryllis @tsukkisukkii @wonuwuuuuu

author’s comment. thinking ab making a small event for valentines day w the lnds guys based on the new banner.. tell me what u think abt this one though! also, this is just me exploring these kinks so pls pardon me if they aren’t well written :’) Comments and reblogs are deeply appreciated !! <3

“As if the frenzy enhancer wasn’t enough, you had to put a fucking cock-ring on me when I’m already this fucking hard, you slutty minx.”

Chains clanged and rattled from Sylus’s writhing, hands balling to fists in his attempt to yank the metal cuffs off him. It was in vain, of course, but you couldn’t blame him. You were tasked to interrogate him by your superior but here you were—absolutely torturing his big cock by denying every single orgasm.

It was almost sad honestly. The way his dick curved to his belly, abs flexing with every ragged breath he took. His tip leaked what seemed to be a steady stream of pre-cum staining his stomach, his arousal making a mess of the white nest on his pelvis, swollen shaft throbbing like a fucking heartbeat in anticipation on what your next move would be.

“The cock-ring was a necessary measure taken for you to speak. Since your mouth wont tell me the information I need, maybe your stupid cock will,” you scoffed at his glower, landing a slap onto his stiff cock, earning yourself a hiss. His teeth gritted and bared at you in obvious agitation from the endless heat running through his veins and the frenzy enhancer.

“Maybe if you stopped being a cruel bitch and let me cum already, I’d fucking speak.”

“Information first, reward later,” you replied swiftly, hand reaching out to wrap around his needy dick, stroking him half-heartedly, not even bothering to pay a sliver of attention to his weeping tip.

“Oh, fuck you.”

“No, thank you.”

Sylus groaned loudly, wrists tugging on the biting metal cuffs hanging over each side of his head. His breath quickened, guttural moans rumbling from his chest from the lazy strokes you gave him.

Sylus felt utterly humiliated that he was being so damn sensitive at the weak jerks of your soft palm around his slick cock, his hips rolling to fuck into your fist. His ego was bruised, but he wasn’t one to dwell on it. Instead, he’d like to move on and have you kiss fuck it better.

“Do you not know how to stroke a cock, kitten? Is my little enforcer a virgin?” Sylus’s voice was low and husky when he spoke, hands relaxing on the chain to lean down forward, his large and tall frame looming over your smaller one just before you could retaliate his remark.

The shadow sylus’s figure casted over yours was undeniably intimidating—especially so when his nearly crazed eyes gleamed at you in a predatory gaze. His head dipped closer to yours, stray strands of his white hair falling over his eyes as he searched for your irises.

It took every will in your body to not flinch, refusing to show him a single shred of weakness to exploit. Except, Sylus merely grinned at your bravado, tongue darting out to lick his lips as if he was staring at prey.

“Scared of a little proximity, my dear enforcer?” The mockery in his voice grated at your nerves, your features contorting into a grimace on instinct.

“You animal,” you seethed, grasp on his cock tightening to a point bordering on pain. Your praedator gasped sharply, leaning away to throw his head back in relief when you began stroking him, fast.

Every deliberate flick of your wrist brought hot white pleasure to his strained body, eyes closing shut with nothing but deep, drawn out groans leaving his throat. The chains began rattling against, muscles flexing with effort when he felt himself nearing an explosive orgasm.

“Yes— oh fuck, yes, make me cum, you dirty bitch,” he grunted in a near whimper, hips rocking upward uncontrollably when your hand began focusing on his crown. Your index finger and thumb created a circle around the head to stimulate his glans continuously, pads of your fingers purposely rubbing over the sensitive frenulum.

“Calling me a bitch when you’re the begging to cum like a manwhore,” you tsked disapprovingly, quickening your strokes while your glared intense at his deep red cock, the cock-ring tight on his base to keep him rock hard.

You didn’t miss the way his slit continued to leak, his arousal betrayed by the way he kept producing natural lube for you to use. “At least I’m honest—agh—fuck! I wanna cum so bad, baby, please,” Sylus stammered, head hung low with droplets of sweat falling down his flushed skin.

You considered showing him mercy at his plea, truly. His cock was throbbing around your fingers, balls drawn up tight to his body with pent up cum—why couldn’t you just let the poor man cum his brains out already?

“I don’t know.. I’m not getting the information I want,” you uttered teasingly, not truly contemplating the thought. Even if you did, the answer would always fall on ‘no’.

You could see how Sylus was on the edge of cumming with how his legs quivered subtly, abdomen muscles flexing and relax with each stroke. His cock was steaming hot in your hand, warm with fresh cum flowing up to his shaft. Yet just moments before he was about to release, your ministrations ceased, two fingers stopping just below his glans to pinch his sensitive flesh, forcefully halting his orgasm.

“Motherfucker—I was just about to fucking cum all over your uniform, you—” he snarled, nostrils flaring with every intake of breath. His nose scrunched up briefly in pure infuriation, eyes closed as he leaned his head back, the corners of his lips twitching to a smile.

“When I get out these chain, kitten, I’ll get back at you so fucking good, you’ll be crippled for weeks,” he huffed in a scoff before punctuating his threat with a harsh tug on the metal cuffs restraining him to the metal bars of the cage, the chains clattering loudly. His throat was stretched and exposed for you to see, skin glistening with perspiration and Adam’s apple bobbing.

The sudden motion startled you, sending your heart beating faster than it already was. Your assigned praedator was unhinged, you knew that much from his files—but you didn’t expect him to be this unhinged.

Despite that, it sent your heart racing rather than falling into the pit of your stomach. You felt excited, fucking thrilled even. Your pupils dilated as if you just found your fix, like a cat setting its sights on its newest toy.

“Mmhm, sure,” you muttered with a faint yet noticeable tremble to your voice. It caught Sylus’s attention in an instant.

the sweat sheened praedator finally lifted his head, tilting to the side with intrigue glinting in those crimson irises. “Are you liking this, kitten?” He said with his now hoarse voice, smirk stretching more than it should. “‘S that why you decided to make this cage for me? Using this place as your personal sex dungeon? Yeah, I see it. The eyes of the depraved.”

Sylus’s eyes narrowed with sadistic glee, no doubt pounding with satisfaction at the thought of corrupting his righteous enforcer and throbbing with an ongoing orgasm, cock still held in place by yours unwavering fingers.

It took you a moment to regain your composure, still reeling from the shot of adrenaline he gave you. Eventually, you caught yourself again, inhaling deeply before dropping your eyes to his cock between your digits, shaft still pumping with kept cum.

With a bite of your tongue, you released him of punishment, letting his cum spurt out onto his stomach in ropes.

”yesyesyesss— mmph, god fucking damn it!”

His balls pulsed with his length as thick, hot stuttering streams of semen dripped to the floor, your hand not hesitating to wrap around his girth, pulling his stiff dick towards you and letting his cum make white messes on your dark coloured uniform.

“There, I let you cum.” You spoke sounding just as winded as Sylus who was basking in the mind-numbing relief of emptying his balls to the fullest after accumulating it all in his cock for what felt like hours.

“You did.. Yes, you did, you good girl,” he slurred, no doubt basking in the afterglow shameless, hips thrusting shallowly into your hand for the slightest bit of friction.

A brow twitched when you heard him call you good girl all of the sudden. Your lashes batted at him, lips parted in surprise until your head dipped once more, averting your gaze.

The cock-ring at the base of his dick was slid off him, his body chasing your heat as you pulled away and tucked his cock back into his pants, zipping him back up. You allowed him slump bonelessly with his hands tied up above his head, leaving him panting for air.

He must’ve said it ‘cause he was drunk of the high, not because he meant it, was a mantra you repeated in your mind to convince yourself. Regardless, you couldn’t deny how it sent goosebumps up your nape, hair standing at attention, couldn’t deny how a single fleeting praise made your throat go dry and breathing quicken.

“I expect full cooperation tomorrow morning, Sylus.” you blurted, focus moving back to him before you backed away a few steps and stormed out his cage, locking it securely behind you.

You practically sped walked out the prison underground, heading straight to the elevator leading back up to your office.

Once you were in the metal box, you fished for a handkerchief in your pocket, frantically using it to wipe the stains of his seed on the front of your uniform.

With quivering hands, your rubbed it off you the best you could to fade the colour so you could excuse it a spill of chemicals or something to your colleagues—even if that wasn’t what really happened.

Your little rendzvous with a praedator—a SSS ranked dangerous praedator at that—risked more than your job. You yourself could be detained for being suspected of having intercourse with a praedator. You’d be an experiment, again, for researchers to exploit if sex could turn you into a praedator.

But unfortunately, deep down, you knew you’d come back to him again. After all, nothing intoxicated you more than dancing with that red eyed devil tied up at your mercy.

Finally reaching your office floor, you got off the elevator, walking in a bee line past your busy colleague, eyes on the ground to avoid contact with any of them. You didn’t know if you could handle speaking or explaining (lying) about your situation to anyone right now.

you pulled on the back of your chair, taking a seat and immediately holding your head in your hands, rethinking your life choices—the one where you decided to change your occupation from Hunter to Enforcer. Your hands slid down your face, eyes falling to the handkerchief, a reminder of your earlier affair.

Only then did the events dawn on you, your entire body processing the audacity and brazen display you showed Sylus. Now you crumbled in the solace of your safe space away from his predatory gaze.

A hand came up to your mouth, lips capturing a finger to nibble on when your thighs rubbed against one another, making you realise how fucking drenched your panties were. That damn praedator had you this wet in a rut without laying a finger on you—how pathetic of you.

One thing was for sure, you’d call in leave early to rub this compiled arousal off quick—it didn’t matter if you had to wet your sheets with cum, you needed this feeling gone, asap.

#sylus x reader #sylus #sylus x reader smut #sylus smut #lnds sylus #sylus love and deepspace #love and deepspace sylus #lads sylus #l&ds sylus #sylus qin #Love and deepspace #love and deepspace x reader #love and deepspace smut #love and deepspace x reader smut #love and deep space #lnds x reader #lads smut #lads x reader

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maho6any · 1 month ago

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snow cream

Roommate!Jeong Yunho x F!Reader

summary: Six months of living under the same roof, and you barely knew the guy. You both always came and went, to and from your jobs and school, only ever interacting in the kitchen or the living room late at night when you wanted a glass of water or he wanted to watch TV. But when winter rolls around and the snowstorms get heavy, maybe somehow you could warm up to each other…

tags: snowed in, forced proximity(?), attempt at humor, fluff, mutual pining, hand kink (duh), soft mdom, petnames (baby, angel face, pretty girl, slut etc.), Yu LOVES touching you, handjob, nipple sucking, fingering, tension, unprotected sex (BOOOOO), lotus positon, he talks alot, multiple orgasms, aftercare, NOT PROOFREAD

wc: 7.2k

notes: sort of based around a nsfw audio I listened to a couple years ago LMAO.

tracklist: bad liar, poison, intro: singularity

“Reports are flowing in from the NWS about upcoming snowstorms, which are expected to reach record levels; the surrounding area is expecting up to 6 inches. Officials are closing roads and the district schools are shutting down until-”

“Just my luck, huh?” You switched off your phone and rested your head against your steering wheel with an exasperated sigh. You had seen the beginning of the snowfall that week, just light flakes here and there, but they weren't sticking.

But of course mother nature had to give a big fuck you and mess with your plans that weekend with 6 inches of snow. Roads were closing, and so were the stores, so you needed to be in and out before the snowstorm picked up.

You rubbed your temples before switching your car off, getting out, and walking into the grocery store with your original plan in mind.

You had planned to pick up some ingredients for some appetizers you were going to bring to one of your friends' birthdays, but you had frowned when they texted your group chat, saying the party had been cancelled because of snowfall.

That's what led you to the news, deflating your excitement. Instead of being here for groceries, you were here to stock up on supplies. And so was everybody else. The store was packed with people. Mothers are rushing and snatching boxes of cereal off the shelf. Dads are stocking up on batteries and jugs of water. The poor employees were at war with the panicking public. Quickly as you could, you grabbed a cart and picked up some essentials. Batteries. Toilet paper. Bottled water. Some nonperishables. While walking past the home section, you noticed a couple of displays where they were selling large fleece blankets.

You eyed them for a second, debating if you should get one.

Maybe two.

One for you, one for your roommate. Jeong Yunho.

You had met him on Craigslist whilst looking for roommate listings. You decided community college was best for your budget years ago, but you needed to find somewhere else to live. Soon. Living with your parents is not for the weak.

You spent hours on different websites, desperate to find somewhere close and affordable. Maybe also a roommate who has a low chance of murdering you in your sleep.

You stumbled across the listing one night, hope slowly dwindling at the awful market.

2 bedrooms. 2 baths. 600 per month. Cats are welcome. Email for more information.

Immediately, you jumped on it because there was no way you would be able to find anything cheaper than this, unfortunately. You emailed him all your information. About your job and schedule, and made sure to mention that you would like to bring your cat, Patches. About a week later, you had driven to the house to look around and discuss final plans and agreements. Along with you, you brought your cat so she could become accustomed to the new living space.

The house was cute and quaint, a little grey and white bungalow with a few bushes on either side of the steps that led up to the black door. A decent-sized front yard, neat and green, with a driveway with just enough space for two cars. Perfect.

When you met the person who posted the listing, you had pulled up to the house, parking your car behind another one already in the driveway. He was on the porch, in the process of carrying some bags inside the house.. When he saw you, he waved for you to follow him inside. He showed you to your room, talked about rent and policies. You both established some privacy rules, and he was petting your cat the entire time. He seemed to take a liking to her immediately. Yunho had you sign some things, and then that was it. Simple, fast, and easy. A few days later, you had moved your stuff in, and from then on, you and Yunho barely interacted.

He said that he’s usually at one of his friends' houses, at work or class, or in his room playing games. This was perfect for you; you enjoyed your privacy, and if you were being honest, you were nervous around Yunho.

He had this boyish charm to him that made your heart flutter; he was tall and spoke to you gently, as if he were too loud, he might scare you. He had dark brown hair that parted in the middle, with bangs that sometimes covered his eyes. And you couldn’t help but feel ashamed that your gaze always drifted to his hands whenever you saw him. Large and slender, the veins prominent like a roadmap.

He always made sure that you knew where he was going when he went somewhere with a text like “At friends,” or “Out drinking.”

Another thing you had noticed while living with him was that it was like he stole your cat from you. IF you couldn't find your cat anywhere, it was safe to assume she was in Yunho's room. She followed him around the apartment all the time, whenever he sat on the couch to watch TV, she was in his lap. Whenever he was in the kitchen cooking, she was perched on the counter watching intently.

One day, you came home and saw Yunho on the couch with her. Usually, she’d get up and greet you by rubbing her face against your legs. Instead, she stayed put, gave you a curt meow, and that was it.

You walked by the back of the couch and narrowed your eyes at her, mouthing the words “traitor” before retreating to your room.

You ran your hand over the navy blue fleece blanket that was folded next to a similar white one. Making up your mind, you dropped the blue blanket in your cart as well as the white one. After some more shopping, you checked out and began your drive home, the snow beginning to fall again.

Your mind wandered back to your roommate again. You're pretty sure he was at a friend's house right now, you just hoped he would make it home safe. Driving home through the snow was certainly a feat. Everyone on the road opted to go under the speed limit in hopes they wouldn't go sliding at a sharp turn. A blanket of white began to accumulate on the ground, and it was growing increasingly difficult to see through the snow swirling in the air.

After a grueling and stressful journey, you returned to the house safely. The yard was a pure, sparkling white, untouched like a fresh, clean blanket. You gathered your bags and stepped out of the car, trudging through the snow as it only continued to climb higher and higher. As you suspected, Yunho’s car wasn’t in the driveway.

You made it inside, the warmth of the heater immediately making you shed your jacket as you dropped the bags on the table. As soon as you did, your phone buzzed. You pulled it out to see a text from Yunho.

“Be home later.” Simple and quick. You thought for a moment whether you should text back. Your fingers began typing, and then you hit send.

“Be safe.” A second later, it buzzed again.

“Will do.”

You felt stupid for the way your heart clenched a little. You could count on three hands how many conversations you’ve had with him that lasted longer than a minute. Words are always fleeting between you two, always too busy for anything more than a good morning or an update on bills. But Yunho always responded to your texts with earnestness, replying fast and confidently. It was never anything deep, but whenever you asked what he wanted for dinner, he always responded with whatever it was he wanted, with a smiley face and a thank you.

He never really engaged in any more conversation than that, but for some reason, you could tell her cared more than he let on.

You put away all the things you bought, deciding to place the blanket you bought for Yunho on the couch so he’d see it when he got home. You cleaned up a little, because if you’re going to be snowed in, at least let the place be neat.

After some light cleaning, you had a shower and decided that for tonight’s dinner, you’d make some chili, so that way you would have leftovers for the upcoming days. Tonight was usually Yunho’s night for meals, but you were feeling froggy.

Connecting your speaker to your phone, you cleaned up your area and put on some music, getting ready to make dinner. You were in your zone, chopping tomatoes and browning the beef. The music flowed from your speaker, and the house was filled with a cozy feeling. You were an avid big light hater, so a few lamps and candles here and there set a soothing ambient lighting. The sun was setting, and the snow was picking up, the wind howling outside.

After another hour or so, dinner was done, and Yunho still wasn’t home. It was 8 pm. He’s usually out past 11, but because of the storm, you had assumed he’d be back earlier. You decided to shoot him a test, for your own mental fortitude. The snow had calmed, gentle snowfall dusting your windows.

“Are you on your way home? I made chili.” Send.

You waited a minute or two. No response. You rested your elbows on the kitchen island, waiting for his reply.

The three bouncing dots appeared at the bottom of your messages, and he was typing.

It stopped for a second, then started up again.

“Can you come outside?” Your eyebrows raised in surprise at such a weird question. You thought he was with his friends. He was typing again.

“Down the street.”

“Stuck in the snow.”

“Please.”

You were so confused. Quickly, you slipped on your coat and your shoes by the door. You slipped your phone in your pocket and opened your front door. The cold hit your face like a mallet, and immediately your nose started to burn. But it was beautiful outside. Fresh snow everywhere. It was dark outside well into the night, but the snow was so white it was like it provided a little glow of its own. Snowflakes flurried from the sky, landing all over your clothes. You stepped into the front yard, and half of your calf sank completely beneath the surface of the fluff.

You, albeit with some trouble, waded through your front yard and stepped out onto the icy street nearly losing your footing and busting your ass. The neighborhood was silent, not a soul in sight, the end of the street being swallowed in black emptiness.

But on the other end of the street, a lone car pulled off to the curb, headlights on as the snow swirled around the warm beams of light in a dancing flurry.

Beside it was your roommate, waving at you, bundled in a coat and scarf, grey sweatpants, and a desperate look on his face.

You started to walk towards him, doing your best not to slip and fall. “What the hell is going on?” You exclaim as you walk towards him. His tires were buried in the snow, and his windshield wipers were swaying steadily, clearing the flakes off the glass.

When you were about 6 steps away from reaching him, you began to lose your footing, the ice seeming slicker than before.

“Careful-careful-careful!” Yunho reached his hands forward and took a step in an attempt to catch you, but it was too late.

“Shit!” your feet slipped from underneath you and after a couple slips and slides fighting to stay up, you ultimately fell directly on your ass, a sharp pain shooting up your tailbone.

You groaned, hand reaching back and rubbing your lower back. Immediately, the wet ice soaked your pants uncomfortably, and you already knew you’d wake up tomorrow with a nasty bruise.

Silence fell as you sat in defeat and mulled your pain, but Yunho was oddly quiet. You raised your eyes to look at him. He had one hand over his mouth. His eyebrows were raised in shock, and his eyes slowly narrowed as he took you in.

“Laugh. I dare you.” You glared at him, wincing at the sharp pain crawling up your tailbone.

“Jeong Yunho, you are a child.” You rolled your eyes as he busted out into a fit of laughter, one hand on his car while the other stayed on his mouth. You turned and got ready to get up so you could hit him.

“N-No wait stop!” he shouted between fits of giggles, his arms coming down and trying to pull you up by your arms, while simultaneously avoiding your violent hands.

“I’m sorry, let me just- hold on- stop trying to hit me (Name)! I'm trying to help you.”

“Well then, stop laughing at me!” His own feet were starting to lose friction on this ice as he felt his body sway as he grabbed you.

“If you don’t stop moving, you’re gonna take us both down!” Yunho tried to manhandle you back up, but unfortunately he lost it and tumbled down right next to you, accidentally yanking you onto your back as he landed on his ass.

“Goddamnit...” Yunho laid back in the snow, seemingly giving up on trying to get either one of you on your feet. You giggled behind your hand as you looked at him, his hair all messy and dusted with snowflakes.

He glanced at you and sighed. “Go ahead. It's only fair.” You took that opportunity to laugh in his face, him lightening up and joining you.

When you both calmed down, you looked behind him at his car. “So what happened, you just got lodged in the snow?”

“Wow, real astute (Name). Did I also mention that it’s snowing outside? How crazy is that?” You moved to smack his shoulder at his smart alecness, but he dodged.

“Stop trying to hit me, and help me move my car.” Bewildered, you watch as he stumbled and tried to stand up, feet slipping here and there as he finally stood upright. Like a baby penguin

“Help you push the car?” You snorted and tried to stand up yourself grunting. “Yeah, that's like not happening. Especially on this ice. You’re just going to have to leave it here until some of the snow melts.” Yunho looked at you like you had just told him something outrageous.

“Are you serious?” He glared at you, noticing how you made no move to come over and start pushing the car. “Insane actually…” he mumbled to himself, rubbing the back of his neck in frustration as he watched the snow fall from the night sky.

“Listen, I made dinner tonight. It's chili. Come home for now, it's cold, and the snow will pick back up again soon. Come inside, and we can worry about this later.” Yunho stopped and seemed to think to himself for a second, before his eyes flicked over to yours.

He looked at you with a surprising gentleness, roving over your face before landing on your lips for a fraction of a second, so fast you didn’t catch it.

“Alright.” He threw his hands up in defeat. “Fine, let's go inside. It's okay. We can worry about it later.”

“That's what I said,” you chirped as you turned your back, beginning the slippery journey back to the house.

“I know that's what you said. I was just rephrasing.” Yunho followed behind, shuffling his feet on the ice so he wouldn’t have to pick them up and risk stepping wrong. It was silent on the way back, both of you too focused on not falling again.

You shed your shoes and coat by the door, turning to Yunho and pointing to the rug on the porch.

“Shoes.” You stated. Yunho looked down and removed his shoes, setting them next to yours.

Satisfied you opened the door, you hung your coat on the hanger in the foyer. “I just cleaned the house.” You mumbled to yourself, as if to affirm the reason you made him leave his snow-filled shoes outside.

Yunho followed behind, hanging his own coat and scarf on the rack. You sighed and fell on the couch, groaning in relief at the warmth that surrounded you.

“There’s chili in the kitchen if you want some.” You closed your eyes, basking in the warmth. The pine candle you lit made the house smell so comforting, taking in a deep breath, you heard Yunho’s breath hitch. When you realized he hadn't said anything yet, you peeked open an eye, only to catch him looking away from you.

His arms came up, smoothly directing his gaze down at his hands, fidgeting and playing with his fingers like he was bored.

He was almost caught, your shirt had ridden up when you laid on the couch, exposing your belly and the hem stopping right where your under boob began. Yunho’s brain nearly short-circuited at the sight, wondering what it would feel like to lie to you on his bed and drag his big hands up and down your waist, squeezing and kneading and feeling you…

He blinked, realizing he was much too far in his fantasy, expecting you to be looking at him like he was a pervert. Instead, he caught your eyes glued to his hands like they were the most interesting thing in the world. You blinked once. Twice. Before turning round and snatching up the remote, switching the TV on.

“Like I said, dinner’s in the kitchen. Help yourself.” Quickly gaining your composure like you weren't imagining his fingers inside of you, you switched to a cooking channel and sat on the couch, full attention on the screen.

“What's this?” Yunho tapped the back of the couch. “A blanket?” You didn’t look back at him, too embarrassed to show your face.

“Oh yeah, when I was at the store, I saw they were selling soft blankets, so I got you one.” You shrugged it off. When he didn’t respond, you assumed that he just went to the kitchen to eat.

A few more beats of silence, and you thought you were in the clear from your way too hot roommate, when his gentle, rich voice hit your ears like a truck, and you felt your core clench hard.

“Thank you (Name), you’re such a sweetheart. Thanks for always thinking of me.”

Like someone just shot you, you whipped your head around to see Yunho holding the blanket in his hands, towering over you, standing behind the couch. His fingers dipping into the soft, navy blue waves of fleece, his lips upturned in a soft smile, and his eyes filled with nothing but adoration.

He was going to kill you. His hair fell in front of his eyes as his hands slowly caressed the blanket he held, his posture was relaxed as his eyes remained fixed on you, and you swear you saw them flick to your lips for a second.

Your heart stopped and fell to your ass, immediately nervousness took over your body and you felt like a hot mess.

After a few seconds of silence, Yunho’s smile fell, and his eyebrows knitted, like he was frustrated. He leaned his head back and shoved the blanket in his face, groaning into it.

“Don't… look at me like that.” Yunho’s muffled voice spilled from behind the blanket in his face, and you went rigid. How were you looking at him?

“Well, I don't look at me like that either!” You exclaimed, your voice shaking slightly. Yunho moved the blanket from his face, butting on the back of the couch. His eyes locked with yours again. Every time you looked away, he stepped a little closer, until he was sitting next to you.

“Hey, uh. Back up maybe?” You chided, trying to hide how much of a mess he was able to make of you just by looking at you.

“No.” Yunho challenged, looking at you intently. “Stop looking away and look at me.” So you did, you gazed into his eyes and immediately felt weak. His pupils were BLOWN. His tongue poked the inside of his cheek, eyebrows cinched as he stared at you like he was trying to pin you to your spot.

He wasn’t saying anything, but he didn’t look like he was thinking either. He was just staring. You were starting to feel put on the spot, and you were about to make an excuse to go use the bathroom.

“You’re so fucking pretty,” Yunho whispered. You nearly choked on your spit, but his hand lifted and dragged his fingertips down the bridge of your nose with feather-light gentleness, along your eyebrow, along your jawline. Like he was mapping out your face.

“Yunho…” You whispered, afraid that if you spoke too loudly, it could shatter the atmosphere. The air was thick, and the wind outside howled as the snow picked up again. The house almost seemed too hot now, and frankly, a snowball to the face wouldn’t be so bad right now. Yunho gnawed on his bottom lip.

“How come you never talk to me?” You suddenly blurted it out, instantly regretting it when it slipped out of your mouth. Yunho, obviously taken aback by your question, paused his touches on your face. He let his hand fall onto his lap and quickly grabbed his hand again, encasing it between your own two.

“What I meant is! Like, why don’t we take or hang out more often? I mean that I would like to, not that you… I'm sorry, I don't know what I'm talking about.” Yunho watched as you stumbled over your words, a smile crossing his face again as he chuckled at your franticness.

“(Name), (Name), stop.” The hand he held in your grasp, gently pulled from you, now holding your wrist. Yunho lowered his head and looked at your hand. Keeping his head down, his eyes lifted to meet yours as his thumb pressed onto the pulse point on the inside of your wrist. His other hand came up to your face, cradling your jaw softly.

Your chest felt like it was going to explode, overwhelmed with how Yunho was so close to you, how he was touching you, how he was looking at you.

“You know, I feel bad. You just thought of me while out shopping and got me a gift, but I don’t have anything for you.” Yunho frowned, dropping his gaze back down to your hand, his fingers tracing lightly up the inside of your arm, drawing circles and stars into your skin.

You shrugged gently, trying to brush it off so you didn't seem like you were expecting something back, because truly you weren’t. You just wanted to get him something.

“It’s nothing, Yu, you don’t have to -“

“No, it’s not nothing! Don’t say that.” Yunho squeezed your wrist softly, bringing your arm up and pressing whispers of kisses from your pulse point up your arm, and back down again as he spoke.

“You’re always so thoughtful. Always checking up on me, making amazing meals for us, looking so pretty all the time.” You swallowed, your face quickly heating up at the praise, and the strain in his voice as he spoke. You struggled to find words to reply to him. You never realized how much he appreciated what you do, and frankly, you didn’t realize how much you did for him.

“I wanna give you something too.” His eyes flicked up to yours, searching for consent in your eyes. You didn’t say anything. Then you whispered a question, the doubt in your mind creeping into your words.

“Yunho… you don’t have to give me anything-” Before you could continue, he pressed a finger to your lips to stop you from talking.

“Buh buh buh. Stop. This isn’t for you. Well, it is for you, but it's for me too. I want to. I want to take care of you like you take care of me, (Name).” Yunho’s hand landed on your upper thigh, gently kneading it like he was trying to ease the tension, keeping his eyes on yours.

“Is that okay?” The slow, gentle rub on your thigh was comforting, however, not calming in the least. The tendons in his hands flexed as he stroked his hand about the expanse of your leg. He stopped when your thigh tensed, resuming when you opened your mouth to speak.

“Yes.” barely there, in a whisper.

“Words, angel, use them please.” Yunho inched closer to you on the couch, his other hand coming around to cup the back of your neck, bringing your face closer to his, his nose just barely brushing against yours.

His smell enveloped you, his bangs tickled your forehead as his staggering breath fanned against your lips.

“Yes.” You spoke louder, pressing a soft kiss against his lips, testing the waters. “Please.” You expected Yunho to chase your lips, but instead, he just smiled and leaned back.

“I knew it.” Your heart stopped. What's he doing?

“All this time since you moved in, I thought maybe I was a pervert.” He lifted his hand and gently pushed against your chest, urging you to lie on your back on the couch, your head on the armrest. He slowly crawled over on top of your body, one leg slotted between your thighs with his knee just barely brushing your core, his hands pressing against the couch by the sides of your head. He brought his face down to yours, space nonexistent between you two as his calm breaths mingled with your nervous ones.

His eyes locked on yours, shamelessly flicking to your lips every few seconds. “You’re always looking at my hands, baby. Do you like them?”

Your breath hitched, and embarrassment crept up your spine. Yeah, he had noticed. This wasn't a new fascination of yours. You had always been drawn to hands in a way, but his specifically. The long, nimble fingers, the prominent veins, and the sheer size of his palm.

Teasingly, he brought his hand up to your face, twisting his wrist to give you a good view. Slowly, he moved his hand down against your throat, his fingertips brushing against the side of your neck softly, up and down, trailing along your collarbones and between your breasts, down until they reached the hem of your shirt.

You watched with bated breath as he teased the hem of your shirt, rubbing it between his fingers, slightly lifting it and letting it fall back down.

“Want me to take it off for you? Undressing you like a gift, yeah?” A quiet whimper slipped from the back of your throat. His hand slipped under your shirt, flattening his large, warm palm against your stomach and caressing your skin gently.

Agonizingly slow, he dragged his hand up, taking his time mapping out your body, his other hand quietly lifting to cup the back of your neck again, pulling your head up to press your forehead against his. His eyes never left you as you felt his calloused fingertips brush against the underside of your breast, tracing light patterns around your areolas so softly it almost tickled. Your stomach clenched at the touch, letting out a breath you didn't even know you were holding.

“You're so soft, sweetheart. I’ve wanted to touch you for so long. Can’t believe you're letting me..” His large hand cupped your breast, softly kneading the mound.

His fingers twilled the hair on the nape of your neck, occasionally squeezing the back of your neck reassuringly, like he wanted you to know that he had you. He's gonna take care of you.

“Can you whine for me, honey? I love your voice.” You didn't need to hear that, as he slipped his hand from under your shirt, lifting the hem until it sat under your chin.

“Arms up.” Breaking from your stupor, you lifted your arms as he dragged your shirt over your head, tossing it somewhere in the dim living room. His eyes moved down and locked on your exposed breasts, your nipples hardening in response to the cold.

“There they are. So pretty.” Without warning, his lips crashed with yours, swallowing your whimpers while his hand found your breast again. Messy and slow, his tongue coaxing your lips open for him and slipping into your mouth. He moaned deep into you, his hand massaging your breast roughly as he lost himself in your mouth.

Every buck of his head he tried to push himself closer into you, like he was trying to melt into you, his lips relentless against you, sucking your plush bottom lip and nipping at your tongue teasingly.

Pulling away was hard for him; it almost hurt. He gave himself a moment to take you in. Swollen lips, blown pupils, and frizzy hair. A mess all for him.

His kisses trailed from the back of your ear down your neck and landed around your breasts. Kissing and soothingly running his tongue around them before latching onto your nipple. You closed your eyes and leaned your head back, focused on the feeling of his warm mouth enveloping your nipple.

Taking this opportunity, his other hand moved from behind your neck and landed on the waistband of your pants, undoing the buttons before slipping his hand past the waistband of your underwear.

Your eyes shot open again at the feeling of his finger tracing a slow deliberate line up your slit, gathering your wetness. You craned your neck to the side, draping your arm over your mouth and avoiding his hot gaze. Yunho clicked his tongue and with surprising ease let his finger press against your opening, sliding perfectly inside of you, his fingertip brushing against your G-spot softly.

“I’m gonna need you to look at me, baby, I can’t give you what you need if you aren't looking at me.” Your eyebrows furrowed, and you bit your bottom lip, ripping your arm away from your eyes and slowly focusing your eyes on him. And you almost wished you hadn’t.

His chest rose and fell in shallow breaths, pupils blown and hair tousled all around his flushed face. He gnawed on the inside of his cheek, his hand disappearing between your legs, his cheek pressed up against your breast, his tongue lolling against it, tracing lazy patterns around your areola. His eyes took you in, like you were the most stunning thing he had laid eyes on, which was the truth.

His eyelids fluted before his lips wrapped around your nipple again, kissing, licking and sucking as he started dragging his finger inside of you, curling it just right in that way that made your breathing hitch and your eyes roll.

“Yu-, fuck…” He nipped at your nipple, immediately soothing it with his tongue and pulling off of you with a slick pop.

“I’m trying so hard to be respectful…” He ground out the words like talking hurt his throat. You were finding it hard to focus with the attention he was giving your body, perfectly pressing your buttons and winding you up like a toy. Easily slipping another finger inside your cunt, you let a groan out deep from your chest, turning him on impossibly more.

“But baby, fuck you’re making this so hard for me…” He let his mouth wrap around your other nipple, massaging your hip with his free hand as he sloppily licked you up like candy.

“So good- wish I could eat you all day. I do…” he moaned between kisses on your breasts, switching between suckling them and biting. “I do. I really fucking do…”

Yunho’s fingers press inside of you harder, coaxing you closer to your orgasm. Unbeknownst to you, he was grinding his rock hard cock against the cushion of the couch, desperately trying to ease the pain from how hard he was feeling you soak his fingers like a slut. Your eyes watered, and you were finding it hard to breathe as his long fingers reached spots you never could. You thought back on the times you’d sit on your bed, trying so hard to reach an earth-shattering climax, imagining his fingers fucking you instead of your own. Nothing could ever compare to the real thing.

“Fuck baby, cmon get up. On my lap.” Hazily, you watched as he slipped his fingers out of you, sitting on the couch, legs on the ground. Impatiently, his big hands engulfed each side of your waist and lifted your body with ease to sit on his lap. You bent your knees on either side of his thighs, his cock pressed against your wet cunt.

He craned his neck up to look at you, immediately slotting his lips with yours. Working in tandem, his mouth devoured yours, swallowing you up like he needed you to breathe. One hand cupping your neck and pressing you as close as he could, while the other kneaded the flesh of your ass like a stress toy.

Without thinking, eyes closed as you let him fuck your mouth with his tongue, your hand slipped between your intertwined bodies, fishing his dick from out of his pants, hot and heavy in your hand.

His breath stuttered between his kisses, but his lips never left yours as you wrapped your hand around the upper half, your thumb brushing against the slit on his swollen tip.

He bit your lip accidentally at the stimulation, pulling away from your lips finally to look down at your hand wrapped around him.

His breathing quickened, and his hips bucked, chasing more of your touch as you teasingly played with him. You kept your eyes on his face, watching his eyebrows twitch and his eyes shake.

“Baby, you handle me so f-fucking well…” His moans were quiet, but so loud in the silence of your shared home, the snow howling just outside.

Your grip lowered, squeezing the base before dragging your hand up and down the length of him. His head lifted again, burying his nose in the crook of your neck, pressing desperate and wet open-mouth kisses on your collarbone, his barely contained whimpers falling against your heated skin.

“Off..” he groaned into you, but too lost in the feeling of him throbbing in your hand, you didn’t quite understand.

“H-huh?”

“Off, off- clothes off. ‘S so hot…” He shimmied underneath, shedding his shorts and nearly ripping his shirt off.

He grabbed the base of his cock, urging you to lift your hips so he could press his tip against you.

“Nice and slow for me, sweet girl, sit on it. Take your time, don’t wanna hurt yourself…” His eyes locked with yours as you complied with his request, slowly letting your hips sink down on him.

When his tip pressed in, that stupid, lazy boyish smile of his spread across his face, trapping his bottom lip between his teeth as his eyebrows cinched, focused on feeling you take him in like he was meant for you.

“There you go, slow… good, mmm, good fucking girl (Name.)” Your breath caught as you continued to lower your hips down onto him. Bottoming out with a groan, your hands gripped his shoulder, your nails digging into the blades.

You both sat there for a second, relishing the intimate feeling of just being connected. Your breaths mingled, and your thighs shook, his hands massaging your waist, squeezing your hips every time they slid back down.

When Yunho finally spoke, it was strained and so quiet you almost couldn’t hear it.

“Rock your hips. Grind on me pretty, take what you need from me. Make yourself feel good.”

You whimpered and squeezed your eyes shut, moving your hands to cradle his head. Cautiously testing the waters, you rolled your hips forward, his tip perfectly dragging against that sweet spot deep in your tummy. The moan you let out was borderline pornographic; nobody had ever been so deep in you, and the fact that it was Yunho was so overwhelming.

“Oh god…” You moaned, pressing your lips into his hair, gasping and whining into the soft locks. His hands gripped your hips and helped you move, pushing and pulling you, moving you back and forth on his cock.

“That's it… fuck, always knew you’d take me so well. Like me all in your guts baby, huh?” You nod against him, your breath hitching when he lifted you so you slid up his cock and back down. Effectivley using your body to fuck himself into you.

“Don't stop, keep rolling those hips, angel, do not stop.” His hand came up and gripped your throat, maneuvering your head down so he could kiss you again, groaning into your mouth as you did into his as he fucked you up and down on his cock, your hips contining to grind. With every thrust and every flick of his tongue, his fat tip constantly dragged against that spongy spot inside of you.

A smug laugh slipped past his lips as he watched how desperate you were to feel good, and he was feeling really good about himself as he watched you lose yourself on him.

“Yeah, ride it, baby, ride it…” He bucked his hips, smiling wider when your back went taught feeling the pressure inside of you, as he continued to fuck himself into you slowly, dragging your pleasure out as much as he could.

“This is all for you, for being so good to me all these months, for always being so fucking s-sweet and taking care of me…” He thrusted harder with every other word, like he was enunciating how much this meant to him.

“Thank you Yu- fuck, you’re so big thank you ngh..” He nipped at your bottom lip, giving your throat one more squeeze before moving his hand back down to your hips and forcing your hips to bounce on him a little faster.

“My pretty baby takes dick so well. I regret not fucking you sooner, coulda’ had this pussy a longgg time ago.” Yunho let his finger slip to your clit, rubbing in pressurized circles, dragging the sweetest noises from you.

You opened your mouth, trying to speak, but all that came out were strangled moans and staggering breaths. Yunho understood, though, pressing his lips against yours again.

“Cumming baby?” He whispered into your mouth, smiling when you nodded, unable to speak, too busy focusing on your impending orgasm. “Good, let go. Feel it and let go for me.”

Like the obedient slut you were for him, your spine straightened and you gasped, your orgasm hitting you like a fucking train, shotting from your toes and electrifying your body like you had been shocked, up through your stomach to your brain, making you lightheaded.

When he felt you cum, his hips stuttered in you feeling you clench like a vice and began to speed up. “Yeah, yeah, yeah- good girl, let me fuck you through it, let me get you through it.”

And thats exactly what he did, without letting up the pace, Yunho fucked into you without abandon, the slap of skin on skin echoing around the living room, mixing with your broken whines and his concentrated groans as he made you fall apart like shattered glass around his dick.

“T-too much–!’ you cried when he continued to bully inside you, his fingers still not letting up on your overstimulated clit. “Gonna c-cum again, Yunho!”

Yunho felt himself reaching his peak, but he would do anything to get you to cum again. With newfound rigor, he rolled his hips into you rough, meanly kissing you and sucking your tongue like he was searching for water.

“Again, angel, again. You can do it.” He moaned loudly into your mouth, his fingers opting to rub your clit slower, this time pushing upward, the pressure increasing tenfold.

Yunho twitched inside of you, feeling as you toppled over the edge again, the second orgasm so much more intense than the first. You couldn't breath, cumming two times so close together. Your thighs burned, and your head spun, vision blurring for a second.

Yunho groaned loudly, bucking his hips a few final times before spilling himself inside of you, continuing to roll his hips into you, riding both of your climaxes out.

You slumped onto him, hands at your side as you regained your breath, thighs sticky, and your body stuck to his. Yunho kissed along your shoulder, allowing you to regain your senses as he came down from his high as well.

Slowly, when you were finally breathing normal, he grabbed your waist and lifted you off of him, sighing as he watched his cock slip out of you, placing you back on the couch.

“Don’t move, I'm gonna go grab a rag.” Yunho stood up and walked down the hallway towards the bedroom. He came back a few seconds later, wearing a pair of sweatpants and carrying a black t-shirt, a pair of underwear, and a wet rag.

He sat down on the floor and gently grabbed your ankles to move your legs to face him, spreading them so he could clean between your thighs. He wiped the cold rag along your inner thighs and cleaned you well, before slipping the pair of underwear over your ankles and up around your hips.

“Here, put this on, it might get cold in here again since we’re not fucking like rabbits anymore.” You both laughed as he handed you the t-shirt. You brought it up to your face, inhaling. It was his, and it smelled like him. You felt fuzzy as you slipped it over your head, smiling when you looked down at him.

He was gazing up at you with nothing but love in his eyes, his hands rubbing absentmindedly along your calves, soothing your aching muscles and placing gentle kisses on your ankles, and up your leg to your knee.

“How are you feeling (Name)?” He waited for your response, his hand never ceasing the gentle massaging.

“Do I even need to say?” You smiled at him, and he smiled back, moving to sit next to you on the couch.

“Guess not, moaned loud enough to wake the neighbors.” Instinctively, you smacked his shoulder in disbelief before the words settled in.

Your smile fell, and a worried look crossed your face. “Was I actually?” He let out a hoot of laughter at your reaction.

“I was joking but you were pretty damn loud. It's okay though, cuz you sounded so pretty.” Yunho kissed along your neck, smiling when you twitched from the tickling feeling.

Suddenly, you remembered the dinner that was still in the kitchen, and you stood up and made a beeline for the kitchen.

“Come on Yu, I'm fucking starving and you made me forget I made dinner.” Yunho chuckled and stood up, following you to the kitchen to make himself a bowl.

With your food in hand, you sat on the couch together, with you lying between his legs, the back of your head lying against his chest as you ate together. The snow fell quietly, and the TV droned in the background as you basked in each other's presence.

“Does this mean you’ll come out of your man cave more now?” Yunho scowled at you and playfully flicked your forehead.

“Don't get smart with me, young lady…” he paused and smiled.

“Of course, gotta give my girl the attention she deserves, right?”

#ateez #ateez smut #jeong yunho #yunho #yunho smut #jeong yunho x reader #yunho x reader #jeong yunho smut #ateez fanfiction

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landopoet · 2 months ago

Text

dada's girl.

pairing lando x reader

synopsis an unexpected pregnancy, the journey through milestones and a race day with dada's girl.

warnings just some cute, long awaited norris family fluff <3

author’s note here's the dad!lando i promised heheh, hope you enjoy! special thanks to @clovermoters for always being there to proofread and help me get my creativity flowing with her ideas. highly recommend you check out her dad!lando (and other!!) stuff, it's as great as herself

₊ ⊹

Lando never knew he wanted to be a dad until 3:05 pm on a random Tuesday in June.

He was sitting on the couch, eating whatever you had started for lunch that day, before you started feeling ill and he had to take over. What you planned to be a delicious pasta dish for that day had turned into a burnt… something… on Lando’s plate. The guilt of ruining your food made Lando promise to buy you some takeout once you felt better.

You had gotten increasingly nauseous and felt weak nearly every day for the past two weeks, but Lando figured it was just the flu so he brought you tea and some chicken noodle soup (ordered in) every once in a while.

“Lando!”

Your voice echoed down the halls from you two’s bedroom and he paused his show before jogging over, ready to get you the world. What he saw when he opened the door made his heart swell— you looked like a shell of yourself, all pale and weak underneath the sheets.

“What do you need, angel?” He sat down next to you, gently placing the back of his hand on your forehead to check if you had a fever.

You sat up, taking his hands in yours before taking a deep breath. “I need you to buy me something.”

“Anything.” He nodded, paying attention. What he didn’t expect to hear was pregnancy test as soon as he answered you. “A what?”

“Pregnancy test,” you repeated. “Just in case. I don’t want to scare you into anything, but we also can’t be unprepared if that’s the case.”

“You mean if you’re pregnant,” he hums, completely lost in thought. “I, uhm, I gotta get a shirt on and I’ll go get you the, uh. The pregnancy test.”

Lando flailed around your bedroom like a headless chicken, looking for a shirt to pull over his naked chest, his hips already covered by black shorts. He tugged on a Quadrant hoodie and looked over to you, about to say something. You raised your eyebrows to encourage him, but he just turned around and ran out of your bedroom, closing the door behind himself.

He’s not even sure how he got to the pharmacy. All he remembers is calling Max frantically from the car on his way home.

“Dude, are you okay? You look insane.” Lando’s best friend laughed through the screen. When he noticed his curly haired friend simply glancing over at his phone with worry, Max furrowed his brows. “Seriously, what’s going on?”

“Isn’t it crazy how, like, someone peeing on a stick could potentially change your whole life? Like I know more goes into that and, like, stuff happens before the pee stick, but isn’t it insane to you?” Lando rambled.

“Mate, pee stick?” Max looked confused. It’s only when Lando held up the little pink box that he finally understood. “Oh, you think she’s pregnant?”

“No, she thinks she’s pregnant. I was watching Dexter and she just called for me, and then I’m-“

“Lando, breathe.” Max cuts him off. “It’s okay, you two are at a great place in your relationship right now to start planning for these things, if this turns out to be just a pregnancy scare.”

“Are we? I mean, am I even ready to be a dad?” Lando continued freaking out, the car already parked at the garage. “I’ve never even thought about kids, and this is just-“

“How about you go inside, go be there for her, and if it turns out that you will be a dad, then you call me and freak out, okay?”

Lando was about to bite off his whole finger with how aggressively he was nibbling at the skin around his nails. “Okay, I’ll talk to you later.”

It took him another ten minutes before he got himself out of the car. He was dreading it. He wasn’t sure what you were thinking about it, either, so he didn’t know whether or not his lack of excitement was because he was scared for himself or for you.

You knew he would never force you into anything you didn’t want to do, but motherhood? That’s not something Lando could imagine was easy to be in or get out of. Hell, he couldn’t imagine what the next nine months would be like for you. Especially with how he’s away for most of the time.

Maybe that’s what he’s most scared of.

He knows you’d be a great mum and he could be a good dad if he tried, but his career could interfere with this.

Lando liked how you would sometimes pick to come and visit him during race weekends, especially at Silverstone or Monaco, but what if that’ll have to stop and he’ll only get to see you a few days every month?

The fear of being a present but physically absent father shook him to his core.

He was still scared and trying to stop biting his fingers as he watched you open the bathroom door. “So?”

“We have to wait five minutes,” you told him before sitting next to him on the edge of the bed. He noticed your shoulders shake before you let out a quiet sob. “Sorry, I’m just-“

“Shh, it’s okay,” his arms instinctively wrapped around your body as he pulled you in, all the fear from his just gone the second you needed him. “I know you’re probably terrified.”

“Yeah,” you sobbed into his shoulder. “I know I should be happy, but I’m so scared.”

“You shouldn’t be anything other than you are, babe.” His hand came up to caress your head, like he knew you liked him to do. “I’m fucking scared to death right now, and I honestly feel better knowing you didn’t expect me to be happy.”

“No, I know. This could fuck up your whole career,” you pulled away, wiping your eyes. “I’m sorry.”

“Hey, no, what?” Lando’s face changed from worried to confused. “Don’t even think like that and don’t apologise. It’s kind of both of our fault if we’re having a baby.”

That’s when he saw you dart up from your seat and practically throw yourself towards the bathroom. He followed you closely, leaning on the doorframe to your en-suite bathroom, his bottom lip between his teeth as he anxiously nibbled at it.

Lando couldn’t exactly read your expression. He couldn’t tell if you were looking at a positive or a negative, your face was just frozen in the expression you had when you looked at it. “So?”

Your bottom lip quivered as you turned the little plastic stick towards him.

“We’re having a baby?” He took it into his own hands, hastily, eyes darting between the two lines on the test and the nervous look on your face.

“We’re having a baby.” You nodded, a sad smile decorating your face as you welled up in tears again.

Lando’s not sure what changed, but in that split second, he felt an overwhelming amount of joy pump through his system. His face erupted into a wide grin as he picked you up and spun you around.

“We’re having a baby!”

— november

The bedroom door opened to reveal your boyfriend with a small smirk on his face.

“What have you bought this time?”

He raised his arms in offense. “What do you mean? Why does me entering the bedroom have to mean that I bought something again?”

“Because you have that look on your face. The one that tells me you bought something, and I won’t know if it's a new car or a tub of ice cream until you tell me.” You rubbed your little bump as a thought came to your head. “Oh, ice cream. Could you get some? Caramel, please.”

“Yeah, sure, later. And you’re right,” Lando finally revealed what he was hiding behind his back. It was a small, turquoise, paper bag with a pacifier logo on it. “I did buy something.”

You watched closely as he dumped the content of the bag onto your bed. He lifted up each article of clothing one by one, showing you what he picked out with a proud smile on his face.

“Aren’t these cute?” He asked, glancing over at the laid out onesies, shirts and socks on the bed. “I got them for like four to six months, cause I heard they grow out of newborn clothes, like, immediately.”

“That’s sweet, angel,” you smiled at him. “But we don’t even know the gender yet and you’ve already bought the baby their whole wardrobe.”

“No, I know.” Lando nodded. “That’s why they’re all either green, yellow or papaya,” he said the last colour with a wiggle of his eyebrows, which made you roll your eyes and laugh.

“You’re lame.”

He leaned in to place a kiss on your forehead. “And you’re beautiful. What does baby want for dinner?”

Lando developed a habit of speaking to you through the baby now. It was honestly adorable— he’ll wake up in the morning, a hand softly caressing your belly as he asks how did the baby sleep, which in truth is asking how you slept. It was lame, but cute.

“Ice cream. Caramel.” You remind him. “And maybe some chicken with rice.”

“Ew, are you trying to be healthy?” Lando grimaced. “That’s like what I eat for race weekends to be all fit and stuff. You need to eat nutritious and filling meals.”

“Is chicken not nutritious or filling?” You crossed your arms, challenging him.

He shrugged. “I don’t think that’s what the baby wants.”

He knew your little tricks and habits. You would spend a little too much time on pregnancy blogs online, reading into their nonsense about how much or little you should eat, and what you should or shouldn’t eat.

You had already had some doctor visits and Lando had made sure to ask if you needed any dietary changes, to which your doctor said no. So, Lando knew that you being a health-freak again meant you were in your head, and he wasn’t wrong.

When you finally dropped your shoulders in defeat, he smiled softly. “Yeah. Baby wants fries and nuggets.”

“Coming right up,” he waltzed out of the bedroom, leaving you to fold all the new baby clothes and put them in the dresser Lando had built for them. It stood right next to the crib, of course.

Lando was a little over prepared at a really early time, but it made you that much more excited to see him become a father.

You know he’ll do great, even if he spends about half his money on baby stuff.

— august

It’s a few months after your daughter was born and you have yet to fully get the hang of parenthood.

She’s amazing— little Maryn Grace Norris, a head full of hair and the chubbiest little cheeks known to man. Lando fell in love with her the second he saw her, his eyes welling up in tears when they laid her on his bare chest for the first time.

And you fell in love with him all over again seeing how he carried Maryn in one arm and prepared a bottle with his other. He was tired, hair messy and a yawn left his system as often as a breath at this point, but still— fatherhood looked gorgeous on him.

Lando thought the same about you. His heart grew twice the size when little Maryn was born, and he admired how you immediately knew what to do to make Maryn feel content.

Since it’s already been a few months since her birth, you two decided to let friends and family come visit. The first two people who wanted to see little Maryn were Max and Pietra.

The pair came bearing many gifts, of course, and you had to put them all in the spare guest room since your bedroom had an abundance of baby products in it already.

You and Pietra sit on the couch, watching how Maryn slept soundlessly in your arms. There’s distant chatter from the kitchen where Lando and Max are discussing racing stuff and preparing dinner, so you three decided to head to the living room and watch a show.

“She’s so tiny,” Pietra softly tucked her finger into Maryn’s tiny palm. “Is she always this calm?”

“Most of the time, yeah. She gets fussy at night, but Lando’s always up with her.” You look towards the kitchen, a small smile on your face as you watch your fiance stir the pan. He’s always shirtless, because Maryn immediately calms down when she feels the warmth of his skin— something she probably would’ve gotten from you if it was genetic— and his back muscles were on full display.

“What?” Pietra notices your gaze lingering for a while and once she sees who you’re looking at, she snorts. “Are you thinking about another one?”

“Another what?” You snap out of your tiny daydream and turn to her. “Baby? No, definitely not.”

“Mhm,” she gives you a knowing look and takes a sip of her wine. “I’ll give it a year or two before we have another copy of Lando running around.”

“We’ll see,” you look down at the sleeping girl in your arms. She began to fuss a little, rubbing her nose with her fist and threatening to cry.

In a few more minutes, Lando waltzes into the living room with a new glass of wine for Pietra and one for you. “Non-alcoholic,” he says, placing the glass down in front of you. “Now gimme my girl.”

You gently lift her up and hand her off to Lando, and of course, the second her cheek lays against his bare chest, she’s calm again. Pietra’s eyes widened. “You weren’t lying.”

“I know!” You pick up your glass and take a sip. “He’s like magic or something.”

As Lando walks away back towards the kitchen, he briefly turns his head towards the two of you with a proud smile. “She’s just a daddy’s girl.”

Both you and Pietra roll your eyes before continuing your conversation.

— march

It’s the middle of the day and Lando was helping you get Maryn ready to go visit your parents.

The little one was now ten months old, babbling about things only she could understand, but Lando found it entertaining to have full-on conversations with her, as if she could respond in any intelligible way.

He was getting her dressed when Maryn started babbling again.

“Yeah? You like this dress, huh?” He smiles down at her. “I bet your grandma will love it, too.”

You were in the bathroom, curling your lashes when Lando suddenly called out for you. When you walked out into your bedroom, he was holding your daughter with a little glimmer in his eye. “She just said dada.”

“No way,” you gasp. When you’re close enough, Maryn reaches her arms towards you and you pick her up into your embrace. “Did you? Is my big girl about to start talking?”

She starts babbling again, poking at your face and playing with her fingers. In the midst of her babble, she says dada again, and your eyes immediately shoot to Lando. “I told you! I knew she’d be a dada’s girl.”

“That’s just unfair, I spend so much time with her!” You sigh in defeat before turning to your daughter. “C’mon, you got this. Say mama.”

Maryn just looks down at her fingers and how she’s grasping her own hands in an odd way. She babbles again, blowing raspberries as you lay her down on the changing table.

Lando walks up behind you and places a kiss on your shoulder, before harmoniously announcing, “dada’s girl,” as he walks away.

“I don’t know how you do it, Mar,” you look at your daughter again, a wide grin on her face as she continues talking to you in a language only her little mind can understand.

— june

Dulcet sounds of your favourite songs play through the kitchen as you prepare lunch for you and Maryn. Lando’s out to golf with Max, so you two decided to have a little girls day.

She’s playing in the living room when you turn around to the pans for just a minute. You can hear the pitter patter on the floor and assume it’s her tiny palms as she crawled over.

Maryn was a traveller, she enjoyed playing in the dirt and sand, and crawling through your backyard to find rocks and flowers. And she was a huge daddy’s girl. To the point where she would start crying if she hadn’t seen Lando in more than an hour.

Today, however, she didn’t seem to be too bothered by his absence.

When you turn around, you see her sitting on the floor in the spot between your kitchen and living room. “Are you coming to mama?” You kneel down and watch as Maryn begins crawling to you.

What you don’t expect to see is her stand up on two feet and steady herself, eyes focusing on you as she held herself up with a hand on the wall. She was determined to make her way toward your outstretched arms, and so she did.

Maryn took one step, and then another, and then three, four, five, until she slumped into your arms with a giggle.

“Oh my god,” you kiss her head as you pick her up. “Your dada will be so happy.”

As if on cue, the front door opens and Maryn’s head whips to the source of Lando’s cheery voice. He steps into the kitchen with a grin on his face, “my two favourite girls,” he kisses your temple and takes Maryn into his arms.

You decided to not tell him that she already took her first steps and instead let Lando experience them himself without expecting it. You’re not sure how long it’ll be till she decides to walk again, but you’re sure it’ll spark that same excitement in Lando’s chest as it did in yours.

It took her a few more days, and a week before her first birthday, to take her second-first-steps.

Lando was sitting on the couch watching an old race of his, you were in the kitchen preparing a snack for your little girl while she sat and played on the playmat in the hall between you two. Lando would glance over at her every once in a while to keep an eye on what she was doing, but Maryn has always been a calm girl so there was no worry there.

“What’s on the menu today?” Lando asks when you set down the plate on your coffee table. He has a habit of stealing a few bites of Maryn’s snack once in a while, which eventually made her understand that he was also hungry when she was, so she’d immediately share her food when he’s in sight.

You smack his hand away when he reaches over to take a cucumber off her platter. “Leave her food alone, she hasn’t even had a bite yet.” Lando sighs in defeat and looks at Maryn when you call her name. “Maryn, come have your snack.”

Lando’s heart skips a beat when the girl pushes herself up to stand on her legs. He softly touches your shoulder, “babe, look.”

Maryn lets go of the wall, her balance still off for the most part, but she reaches her arms towards you two and waddles a few steps over to the coffee table. Lando’s beaming and jumps out of his seat to pick Maryn up and spin her in the air. “My big girl can walk!”

You watch as Maryn erupts in giggles and Lando kisses her face, a warmth in your chest so big it could replace the sun.

— a year later

The paddock was buzzing with people and Maryn grew more and more anxious in Lando’s arms.

You walked beside them when Maryn tucked her head into the crook of Lando’s neck. “You okay?”

“Loud,” she mumbles, snuggling closer to hide her face from the sun. Maryn was now two and a half years old, and made her first paddock appearance today.

She had already met a few of the drivers and found them all incredibly funny, and all of them adored her. Maryn had grown into her personality— she’s curious, funny, caring and silly. She pulls funny faces when she notices someone’s sad, gives pieces of her food to you and Lando when she’s eating, makes jokes without even realising it and asks questions about everything.

The three of you make your way to the McLaren garage and all the engineers beam at the sight of Maryn.

“Alright, you two can stay right here while I go get ready,” Lando pressed a quick kiss to your lips and softly pinched Maryn’s cheek before making his way to where he needed to be.

Maryn watched as her dad walked away and gently placed her head on your shoulder. “Where is dada?”

“He has to change into his special clothes for the car, remember?” You look down at the curly-haired blonde girl and she nods an answer to your question. “He’ll be back in a bit, don’t worry.”

The little girl just huffs a sigh and takes a look around the garage from where she’s sat on your lap. She can see all the aunts and uncles who work with her dad, noticing how all of them are dressed in the same colour as her— a small LN4 shirt sitting baggy on her torso. Maryn smiles to herself, believing that they are all matching her.

“Mum?” Maryn glances up at you. You smooth a hand over her curls, knowing that whenever she says your name like that— soft, a little hesitant— she’s about to ask something important.

“Yes, love?”

“Why does dada have to go in the car?” she asks, blinking up at you with those green, wondering eyes that always seem to look right through to your heart.

“It’s his job,” you remind her, “he has to go fast and win the race. It’s kind of like a game.”

She rests her head against your chest, processing, as her tiny fingers play with the hem of her shirt. Then, in the smallest and most sweet voice: “Can I go fast too?”

You laugh softly, wrapping your arms around her, softly tickling her sides. “Maybe one day, but for now you get to sit with mama and watch daddy race.” Maryn giggles at that, leaning into your arms as she tries to wriggle out of your hold.

One of the engineers comes by and hands her a tiny headset, custom-made just for her. She squeals when she recognizes it— she’s seen Lando wear one just like that. “Look, mum! I match again.”

“You do!” You grin a smile as wide as your daughter and softly adjust the headset to sit more snugly. “You look just like your dad.”

As if summoned by the sentiment, Lando appeared back in the garage, now clad in his orange race suit. Maryn spots him and immediately sits up, bouncing a little in your lap. “Dada!” She waves with both arms and Lando makes his way over.

He picks her up from your lap with a soft peck to her forehead. “There’s my little racer,” he beams. “Ready to see me go fast?’

Maryn nods, enthusiastically. “Mhm! But, be careful, okay?” She curls into Landos’ embrace, awkwardly laying her head against his chest.

“Of course, baby,” he softly caresses her back in an attempt to calm her. “I promise only safe speeds today, okay?”

You watch the two of them, softly smiling as the paddock noise blurs in the background. When one of the engineers informs Lando that he has to go, the curly-haired racer hands Maryn off to you and places a kiss on each head of his girls.

“Go win this,” you tell Lando, smiling as he prepares to walk away. Maryn raises her arms in support, “go win, dada!”

“For my girls,” he nods, flashing the two of you a smile before tugging on his balaclava and disappearing further into the garage.

Soon after, the race is about to begin and the garage springs to life—monitors flicker with telemetry, voices crackle through the headsets and engines roar as the cars exit the pitlane. You pull Maryn closer on your lap and adjust the volume on her headset, making sure it’s just low enough not to startle her, but high enough to hear her dada’s voice filter through.

Her big, green eyes track every movement on the screens—all the colourful cars are displayed but she’s only looking for orange. When a McLaren appears on the screen, she narrows her vision to notice the helmet. She knows that uncle Oscar has a blue one, and her dada’s got a fleuro green.

Excitement erupts in her whole body when she notices the green helmet, “there! That’s dada!” She squeals with such awe, as if she can’t believe that the superhero on the screen is the same man who tucks her into bed and sneaks her cookies when you’re not looking.

You brush some curls away from her forehead and plant a soft, but proud, kiss on it. “Yep, that’s him. Look at him go.”

For the next laps, Maryn sits still, as if her movement could, in any way, make a difference in the race. She thought that if she sat still, her dada could focus and win, so she did just that. In all truth, she was completely captivated. Maryn didn’t understand a thing about racing just yet, but she knew enough to know that when the aunties and uncles in orange start leaning forward, narrowing their eyes at the screen, her dada’s doing something incredible.

And he was.

Lando gains a position, going from p4 to p3. A cheer breaks out in the garage and Maryn shrieks with joy, mirroring the smiles on everyone's faces.

“Did he win, mum?” she asks, looking up at you with curious eyes.

“Not yet, love, but he’s getting there.”

A few more laps pass and she begins to fidget, tired. You lay her against your chest and her thumb slips into her mouth like it does when she’s sleepy— a habit she formed soon after you took pacifiers away. Still, despite the noise of the garage lulling her to sleep, Maryn’s little eyes stay glued to the screen, watching Lando in quiet admiration.

Then, in the last few laps, when Lando’s another position ahead and fighting for pole, the energy shifts. The entire garage sits still— hopeful, waiting. Maryn’s eyes flutter shut, no longer fighting the sleep as your eyes stay focused and your heart pounds, watching as the gap between Lando and the car ahead shrinks corner to corner.

“Come on, Lan,” you whisper under your breath as you subconsciously caress the back of Maryn’s head.

And on the very last lap— through a risky overtake and a perfectly timed sector— he does it. He gains the position and lands himself in first place.

Maryn jolts awake at the noise of engineers cheering around her, and she quickly glances to the screen. “Mum, he won!” She grins widely, still sleepy but happy to be included once you tightly squeeze her into a hug.

“He did!” You laugh, blinking away a tear or two.

The cooldown lap passes in a blur of shared hugs and smiles, and Lando’s voice plays in the headsets, light and breathless. “This one’s for the two loves of my life waiting for me. I love you.”

You feel your daughter sigh happily in your arms, waiting patiently for when her dad joins you two. Once the team helps him out of the car, Lando makes his way back to the garage, flushed and sweaty, but beaming. He barely gets his helmet off when Maryn starts running in your lap, her feet not even touching the ground yet.

She wriggles out of your lap and sprints across the floor, arms raised for her dad to pick her up. Lando catches her mid jump, lifting her high in the air and twirling the two of them around before bringing her close.

“You went so fast!” She beams. “And you were so brave!”

“I had to be,” he mirrors the same smile that’s on her face. “You were watching.”

You join them when Lando walks over to you, heart full and eyes welled with happy tears. Lando leans in to kiss you and you meet him halfway.

“She didn’t take her eyes off of you the whole time,” you murmur against his lips.

“She's just like you, then.” He gives you a cheeky grin. You roll your eyes but still wrap an arm around his waist, hugging the two most important people in your life, surrounded by victory and love.

Maryn tucks her head into the nape of Lando’s neck, cheek pressed against his race suit as she softly mutters, “I want to be fast, too. Just like you.”

“You will be, princess. One day.”

—

It’s late by the time you get home.

Your little girl is barefoot the second she gets through the door, padding down the hall to her bedroom, in search of her stuffie and blanket. You and Lando follow more slowly, shoes off, bags dumped at the door, the post-race adrenaline now wearing off, but still faintly buzzing in your limbs.

Lando yawns as he drops down to the couch, one arm draped over the backrest as the other lays across his belly. “I think I aged six years today.”

“You say that after every race,” you laugh, making your way to the kitchen. You grab a glass of water and lean your back against the counter, watching as he runs a tired hand down his face.

Maryn returns with her blanket trailing behind her on the floor and a half-eaten bag of popcorn she must’ve hid somewhere in her bedroom. “Movie time,” she declares and plops herself down next to her dad like she owns the house. At this point, she kind of does.

Lando raises a brow at you, helping her pull the blanket over her legs. “You approve of this?”

“She’s almost three. She doesn’t ask for approval.”

Maryn hums contently as she rests against Lando in her usual manner— one arm draped across his stomach, cheek pressed against his chest. “You won today.”

Lando kisses the top of her head. “That’s right. And who cheered the loudest?”

“Me,” she mumbles through her best battle against sleep.

You cross the room and join them, tucking your legs beneath yourself as you sit next to the two of them. None of you say anything for a while, letting the TV play a replay of the race on low volume as you closely observe every move. Maryn eventually stills completely, asleep, face soft and peaceful.

Lando’s still absentmindedly playing with the ends of her curls when he says, “I used to think winning was the best part of this,” he nudges his chin at the TV.

“And now?” You raise a curious brow.

“Now it’s this,” he leans his head back against the couch, eyes half-lidded as exhaustion tugs at his features. “Coming home to you two. Even when there’s popcorn crumbs all over me and my back hurts.”

You shake your head with a laugh, softly nudging his thigh with your foot. “You’re getting soft, y’know.”

“Probably am.” He looks at you— tired but content—and adds, “still wouldn’t change a thing.”

#lando norris #formula 1 #f1 fanfic #f1 #lando norris fanfic #f1 x reader #lando x reader #formula one #lando norris x reader #ln4 x y/n #lando norris imagine #lando x you #lando norris fic #ln4 fluff #lando norris fluff #ln4 fic #mclaren #oscar piastri #mclaren racing

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jefth3kilr · 3 months ago

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Naruto boys and the strange things that turn them on 🍃🎋

includes: Kakashi; Gai; Jiraiya; Naruto; Sasuke; Kiba; Shikamaru; Lee; Gaara; Kankuro

warnings: nsfw (MINORS DNI) naruto and the other students are 18-19

not proofread! feel free to send requests! :))

Kakashi

being domestic….

kakashi is very used to taking care of himself; so he automatically takes care of you too. but the second you start caring for him, he’s popping boners left and right.

you did his laundry for him: he’s hard. you made him lunch: he’s hard. you wish him luck on his mission and kiss his cheek: he’s hard.

some days he doesn’t even end up leaving the house because he gets to caught up fucking you silly over the kitchen counter LMAO

also his books…

if you read his books without him knowing and then reenact a scene with him, he will lose his mind.

Gai

wearing his clothes…

like if he comes home to see you in his green outfit, or even just his vest or leg warmers. he’s going feral and bending u tf over.

also if you watch him train and compliment his muscles, he will lose it. he loves showing off his strength to you (he’s always picking u up and throwing you over his shoulder hehe) so when you praise him for it he gets weak in the knees.

Jiraiya

everything and anything turns him on…

he loves your perfume. if he smells it in public like at a store or something he will need to excuse himself to the bathroom to fix his ‘little’ problem.

your hair turns him on, your lips turn him on, your voice turns him, shit even your breathing turns him on.

You could just chilling with him on the couch, silently reading before you notice Jiraiya crawling inbetween your legs. “What are you doing?” you would ask, just to get a stupid response from him like: “you were breathing. it was hot.”

And trust, if you try to seduce him or show that you want him in that way, he will genuinely pass tf out.

when he’s really tired and his day has been shitty, just shove your tits in his face and play with his hair. pls 🙏

Naruto

Naruto actually feels quite bad when he gets turned on while you’re doing normal things. it makes him feel like a pervert, like Jiraiya LMAO.

but he can’t help it if you touch his ear or hair.

Naruto never knew he could be so sensitive to a touch like that. but if you brush his hair behind his ear, your finger tips grazing the outer shell of it, he’ll get weak in the knees for sure.

Also pull his hair…trust he likes that.

he also likes watching you train or fight. It turns him on seeing how strong you are. trust he’ll just have smug ass smirk while everyone watches you fight. he’ll probably say smth stupid like: “Yep, that’s my girlfriend.” sitting there with a nasty man spread or smth

also he definitely doesn’t mind if you boss him around. i mean sometimes he’ll pretend that it gets on his nerves (and it definitely did when he was younger) but now that he’s grown he loves that shit 🙏

Sasuke

i feel like sasuke is not a SUPER sexual person. the usual things that turn people on doesn’t really have much of an effect on him….that was until he saw you in a short nurses dress because you and your friends were having a costume party.

sasuke is actually super into like dressing up. Whether it be an outfit like the nurses one, or just a simple lingerie, he goes crazy.

I think that Sasuke likes the teasing foreplay even more than the actual sex part of sex.

like just sit on his lap and tease tf out of him in your little outfit and he’ll lose his mind.

if you ever walk past him in public, nonchalantly lifting your shirt just a bit so he can see the top of your thong…your getting bent tf over in the nearest bathroom.

Kiba

YOU BEING MAD. hear me out.

he will do anything in his power to frustrate you. He’ll tease you, mess up your work, slap your books out of your hands. literally anything to get you to be mad at him.

and his favorite part….when you finally yell at him.

Making him sit down and listen to your lecture. he’ll reply with a smirk and a “yes ma’am!” as he hides his massive boner lmao.

he secretly loves getting bossed around by you, it really gets him going. and he especially loves fucking you until your not mad anymore…

CALL HIM A GOOD BOY AND HIS TAIL WILL BE WAGGIN LMAO

Shikamaru

shikamaru loves lazy days…it gets him going when you act just as lazy as him.

usually your always busy, making him do chores with you and everything. but on those special days where your just as tired, he goes feral.

You’re wearing nothing but some fuzzy socks, little shorts, and his shirt. yeah he’s already gone. and if you want sleepy, lazy sex….he feels as if he died and went to heaven.

also: if you are smarter than him.

like if you win when playing your game against him or Asuna, he would have to hide his flustered face and growing tent in his pants.

he’s not too sure why, but he is really attracted to intelligence.

Lee

EVERYTHING BABE, EVERYTHING

Lee worships the ground you walk on, you are a goddess in his eyes. you don’t even need to do anything and he would be horny for you.

Though I don’t think Lee would ever initiate sex, he would be down for it literally any time you ask.

he really loves when you compliment his strength. like please sit on his back while he does push ups and praise him after each one. he would genuinely pass away lmao

yeah so there isn’t anything specific that turns him on, honestly just the thought that you want him makes Lee turned on

Gaara

like sasuke, i don’t think Gaara is a very sexual person. it quite rare that he want sex.

Though i do believe he LOVES making out. Just sit on his lap and touch each other all over while heavily making out and breathing in each other’s ear…SIGN HIM TF UP.

Though Gaara will get turned on if you try to seduce him. he would definitely be confused as first but after he knows what’s going on he gets all flustered and nervous hehe

Like if you’re leaning close to him, giggling and twirling your hair and stuff. It turns him on knowing that you want HIM of all people

Kankuro

like Kiba, he likes to piss you off.

He’ll purposely kiss you after you put on lipstick and smear the color, running away while laughing as you complain. He’ll smack your ass as you walk by and ‘not know what you’re talking about’ when you tell him to stop. He’ll scare you when you walk past, he’ll bother you, he’ll mess up your hair. But it’s not because he doesn’t like you, it’s quite the opposite.

He likes when you get mad at him. yelling at him and making him apologize or clean up his mess. he likes it trust 🙏

but Kankuro also secretly loved praise and being babied. Like grab his face gently, make him look up at you as your praise him for all his hard work. He would melt.

Thanks for reading!!! feel free to send requests!

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opheliabbarnes · 8 days ago

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mutualism, symbiosis & commensalism - bucky barnes

nerdy,roommate!bucky barnes x reader

summary. your roommate no longer has a sense of boundary. he follows you everywhere, shares everything with you, but maintains a strictly platonic friendship. sort of. until one night, when his mind takes him to a strictly forbidden place and he can no longer deny it. 18.5k words.

cw. college!bucky is such a fucking nerd and won't shut up about fish or whatever the hell. clothes stealer reader (happens sm i have to put a warning), perv!bucky if you squint with a magnifying glass. eventual smut! male!receiving. dry humping, sleepy grinding? unprotected p in v. nipple play. fish talk (yes i have to give a fucking warning for this) DURING SEX, among other things. unfortunately bucky is a psycho who wears jeans to sleep in this.. (req prompt at the end so it doesn't spoil anything :) !) minors dni

a/n: HAPPY 500 followers guys!!! thank u :3 alsooooo i accidentally made him autistic.... lowkey. erin says he's spencer reid coded! you'll see. i went SO OVERBOARD with this but anything for u guys! proofread by erin!

taglist: @54nboo @demiebarnes @kararchives

part ii. | masterlist

the kitchen smells like burnt popcorn and cheap ramen, but mostly like him – that mix of old spice deodorant, laundry detergent, and something uniquely bucky that clings to the faded band tee you're currently drowning in. his shirt. again. laundry day was yesterday, but you grabbed it anyway this morning, pulling it on over your sleep shorts before shuffling out to scavenge for coffee.

he's already at the counter, back to you, humming something off-key while scrambling eggs. his own worn sweatpants hang low on his hips, and his sleep-mussed hair against the weak morning light filtering through the dirty window.

"mornin'," you mumble, reaching past him for the coffee pot. your arm brushes his bare back.

he jumps, a little, turning his head. his eyes flicker down – just for a split second, landing squarely on the v-neck of his tee where it gapes slightly as you lean – before snapping back to your face. a faint pink tinges his ears. "mornin', sleepyhead. coffee's almost ready. eggs?"

"please." you pour your coffee, leaning against the counter beside him. you can feel his gaze again, warm and heavy, drifting down towards the way the soft cotton drapes over your chest.

it's not creepy, not demanding. it's just... there. like he can't help it. like you're the sun and he's a particularly helpless sunflower. you take a slow sip, hiding a tiny smile in your mug. "smells good. not like last time."

he grins, poking at the eggs. "hey, i maintain that charcoal is a valid flavour profile." his hand, holding the spatula, moves near your waist as he reaches for the pepper grinder behind you.

instinctively, his other hand comes to rest lightly on the small of your back. his palm is warm through the thin cotton. he doesn't move it away, just keeps it there, grounding, as he leans past you. "pepper?"

"always." you don't move either. the touch is familiar, constant. his thumb makes a tiny, absent circle against your spine. "did you finish that poli-sci reading? looked brutal."

he groans, shifting slightly, his hand slipping away as he turns back to the stove. you miss the warmth instantly. "nah. got sidetracked watching that documentary about deep-sea anglerfish. terrifying and fascinating. mostly terrifying." he plates the eggs and slides yours over. "you steal my good spatula again?"

you bat your eyelashes innocently. "who, me? never. maybe it's hanging out with my collection of your hoodies."

he laughs, a warm, rumbly sound that fills the tiny space. "collection? it's like a damn infestation. open my drawer, bam, one of my henleys is missing. look in the laundry basket, yep, there's my flannel snuggled up with your stuff." he points his fork at you, but his eyes are soft, crinkled at the corners. "you're worse than a sock gremlin."

"they're comfy!" you protest, shoving a forkful of eggs in your mouth. "and they smell like you. which is... nice." you shrug, trying to sound casual, but your cheeks feel warm. nice? understatement.

bucky's gaze drops to your mouth for a second as you chew, then darts away again, focusing intently on his own plate. the pink on his ears deepens. "yeah? well... s'okay, i guess. long as you don't stretch 'em out." he takes a huge bite, avoiding eye contact. "so... anglerfish. the males basically fuse to the females and become, like, permanent sperm providers. wild, right?"

you nearly choke on your coffee. "bucky!"

"what?" he looks genuinely confused, blinking those big blue eyes. "it's biology and fascinating stuff!" he gestures emphatically with his fork, oblivious to the slightly horrified, slightly amused look on your face. "think about it. permanent attachment! no more dating apps."

you stare at him. "you are... uniquely disturbing sometimes, barnes."

he just grins, wide and unrepentant. "keeps you on your toes." his eyes drift down again, lingering this time on the curve of your shoulder where the oversized collar of his shirt has slipped down. he seems momentarily mesmerized by the strip of skin revealed. "uh... you got... uh... egg. right there." he points vaguely near your collarbone with his fork.

you look down. there's no egg. you look back up, raising an eyebrow.

he flushes crimson. "or... maybe not. morning light. tricky." he shovels more eggs into his mouth, suddenly very interested in his plate.

later, you're crammed together on the tiny, lumpy couch, textbooks and notebooks spread everywhere. you're trying to decipher organic chemistry diagrams that look like abstract art, legs tucked under you, the worn fabric of his sweatpants (also stolen) soft against your skin.

bucky's beside you, ostensibly reading history, but you can feel the heat of his gaze more than see it. it's not on the book.

you stretch your arms above your head with a yawn. the hem of the stolen shirt rides up, exposing your skin above the waistband of the sweatpants.

bucky makes a noise in his throat. making you glance over at him. he's staring fixedly at your exposed stomach with the his book forgotten in his lap. he looks completely focused, utterly unaware of how blatant he's being.

you slowly lower your arms, letting the shirt fall back down. "see something interesting, pervert?" you ask, teasing.

he jerks like he's been electrocuted, snapping his gaze up to yours. panic flares in his eyes. "what? no! i was just... uh... contemplating the structural integrity of this couch! yeah.. because um, feels like it might collapse any second." he pats the cushion vigorously, avoiding your eyes, his cheeks flaming. "definitely not staring at your... stomach. nope. wasn't happening. would never."

you laugh, nudging him with your foot. "relax, bucky. it's just skin. happens to the best of us." you lean back, pulling your knees up, deliberately making the tee stretch tighter across your chest as you wrap your arms around your legs. "now, explain this carbonyl group nonsense to me again? you said it was like a greedy little atom?"

he swallows hard, his eyes flickering down to the stretched fabric for a nanosecond before he forces them back to your chemistry book. his voice is slightly higher than usual. "right. greedy. yeah. so... carbon double-bonded to oxygen... very needy..." he launches into a shaky explanation, his finger tracing the diagram, but you can tell his focus is shot. his knee is bouncing nervously, brushing against yours.

when he pauses for breath, you stretch again, this time letting your head fall back against the couch cushions, exposing the line of your throat. you sigh dramatically. "god, i'm exhausted. maybe i should just nap right here." you close your eyes.

you feel him shift beside you. the intense weight of his gaze is back, sweeping over your face, your closed eyelids, your lips, then drifting lower, lingering on the pulse point in your neck, the way the collar of his shirt hangs open. you can practically hear his thoughts stuttering. you keep your eyes closed, a small, secret smile playing on your lips. his breathing hitches, just slightly.

"you... uh... you can borrow my pillow," he offers hoarsely after a moment, his voice rough. "the one on my bed. it's... better. good for naps."

you crack an eye open. he's looking at you now, a mixture of earnest concern and something darker simmering just beneath the surface. completely oblivious to the effect he's having on you. his hand twitches on the couch cushion, like he wants to reach out and touch your hair, your cheek, but he doesn't.

"nah," you hum, snuggling deeper into the worn fabric of his shirt. "this couch is fine. and your shirt's pretty comfy too. like wearing a hug. you don't mind, do you? me stealing all your stuff?"

he stares at you, his eyes wide, soft, and utterly, adorably bewildered. the pink is back, painting his neck now. "mind?" he echoes, his voice barely a whisper. he shakes his head slowly, a dazed, tender look spreading across his face as his gaze drops once more, inevitably, to where his name might be printed across your chest, hidden under layers of soft, stolen cotton. "no. no, i... i kinda really don't mind at all."

the weirdness blooms slowly, like mold in the damp corner of the shower stall you both pretend not to see.

it progresses in the bathroom.

you're under the spray one morning, water sluicing through your hair as you work shampoo into a thick lather. the dorm bathroom is thick with steam, smelling sharply of your body wash and the damp tile grout. the curtain is a flimsy shield.

then, the door clicks open. no knock. just the familiar shuffle of bare feet.

"shit, sorry!" bucky's voice, thick with sleep or panic, cuts through the steam. he doesn't leave. instead, the distinct, unmistakable sound of a zipper fumbling open, followed by the splash of liquid.

he's peeing. in the toilet. while you're actively showering three feet away, separated only by a thin, damp curtain patterned with dubious sea creatures (his choice, obviously).

you crack one eye open, peering through the shampoo suds dripping down your face. you can see his silhouette. he's standing at the toilet, back to you. like this is a perfectly normal wednesday morning activity. sharing airspace while one pees and the other showers.

"hey," you call back over the rush of water, squeezing the suds from your hair. you don't pull the curtain tighter. you don't freeze. it's... bucky. "sleep okay?"

"m'here," he grunts, the sound of his stream steady. "s'okay. just... bladder emergency. didn't wanna wait. you don't mind, right?" he sounds genuinely curious, utterly oblivious. like asking if you mind him borrowing a pen.

you blink soap out of your eyes, a slow smile spreading despite the absurdity. "uh. no? i guess? as long as you aim."

"always aim," he states proudly, the splashing sound stopping. he grunts, the distinct sound of him relieving himself filling the steamy room. "weird dream. think i was being chased by a giant, sentient toaster." he shakes himself, flushes. "that and you hogged all the blankets again."

"liar," you laugh, tipping your head back under the spray to rinse. you turn slightly, giving your back to the water, knowing the movement shifts the curtain just enough. "you're the human furnace. i need fortifications against the heat." you feel the shift in the steam as he moves closer to the sink.

"excuses," he mutters. the faucet squeaks on, followed by the vigorous splash of him washing his hands. you can picture him, leaning over the sink, hair falling into his eyes. "you smell good," he adds, almost absently, over the running water. "like... vanilla. and warm."

you pause, rinsing your arms. his voice is closer. you glance sideways. the edge of the curtain isn't pulled completely taut. through the gap and the steam, you catch a sliver of him reflected in the foggy mirror above the sink. he's not looking at the mirror. he's angled slightly towards the shower, eyes fixed on the vague shape of you moving behind the plastic. transfixed again. utterly unaware.

"it's just body wash, barnes," you say, keeping your voice light. you deliberately reach for the conditioner, stretching, letting the water cascade down your side. the movement pulls the curtain open another inch. his reflection in the mirror doesn't move. "cheapest one at the drugstore."

"s'nice," he murmurs. the water shuts off. he grabs his toothbrush. "deep-sea anglerfish females secrete enzymes that dissolve the male's body once he fuses to her. except for his gonads. which just... hang out. providing sperm on tap. efficient, i guess. very brutal."

you snort, squeezing conditioner onto your palm. "christ, bucky. is that your idea of shower conversation?"

"what?" he sounds genuinely perplexed, toothbrush poking out of his mouth, foam starting to gather. he turns slightly, and his eyes land directly on the gap in the curtain. not on your face, which is obscured by steam and wet hair, but lower. on the curve of your hip, maybe, or the water sluicing down your thigh.

he stares for a solid three seconds, toothbrush frozen mid-scrub, before blinking rapidly and turning back to the sink, spitting furiously. "s'just science. find it very fascinating." he mumbles, pink creeping up the back of his neck, visible even in the steamy reflection. "brutal, but fascinating."

"so you've said." you reply.

there's a pause. you can practically feel him staring at the vague silhouette of you projected onto the damp curtain. his gaze feels like a physical weight, tracing the curve of your shoulder, the dip of your waist, blurred by water and fabric.

"deep-sea vents," he announces suddenly. "hydrothermal vents. spew out superheated, mineral-rich water. supports entire ecosystems in total darkness. crazy, right?"

you squeeze conditioner into your palm. "crazy," you agree, starting to massage it into your lengths.

he doesn't move. "just... thinking about tube worms. they have no mouth or gut. bacteria inside them make food from the chemicals. symbiosis. wild." his voice is closer now. he's definitely leaning towards the curtain. "you ever think about that? relying entirely on something else inside you?"

you snort, rinsing the conditioner. "can't say i have, bucky. kinda busy relying on this water not turning ice cold."

"right, right." he finally takes a step back. the floorboards creak. "s'pose i should... let you finish. unless you need... soap passed or something?" he sounds hopeful.

"i'm good, perv," you chuckle, pulling the curtain back just a crack to grab your towel hanging outside. steam billows out, and you catch a glimpse of him – shirtless, sleep-tousled hair, sweatpants , eyes wide and fixed on the strip of skin revealed by the parting curtain before snapping guiltily away.

"out."

"yep! going!" he practically trips over the bathmat scrambling out, shutting the door with a soft click behind him.

later that day, you're rummaging through your drawer, looking for a specific bra. bucky wanders in, already in his boxers and a shirt, toothbrush again in hand. he heads straight for the sink attached to the tiny vanity in your room.

"mnph gng t'brsh," he mumbles around the brush, leaning over the sink to spit. he runs the water, scrubbing vigorously.

you watch him in the mirror's reflection, arms crossed. "i see that. you know, most people knock before entering a room where someone might be changing."

you're standing near the closet, clad only in your underwear and another one of his stolen tees – this time a faded gray one with a peeling band logo. you've got a couple of bras draped over your arm, trying to decide.

he rinses his mouth, splashing water on his face. when he straightens, water droplets cling to his jaw, his eyelashes. he turns, leaning back against the sink counter, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand.

his gaze, clear and blue now, sweeps over you – the tank top, the bare arms, the line of your neck. it lingers for a beat too long on the dip of your collarbone before meeting your eyes. he seems utterly unconcerned.

"why? you were covered." he gestures vaguely with his wet toothbrush. "besides, needed to brush. minty fresh breath is vital. prevents cavities. also, statistically improves social interactions." he grins, foam still faintly visible near his ear. "see? science."

"science," you deadpan, grabbing one of his hoodies – the soft, grey one – from the pile on his desk chair. you pull it on over the tank top, drowning yourself in familiar fabric and his scent. "you're a nerd and absolutely impossible."

"am not," he protests, pushing off the sink. he walks towards you, stopping close. too close for just conversation. his eyes are fixed on the hoodie's zipper pull resting near your sternum.

"just... efficient. and scientifically minded." his hand lifts, almost unconsciously, like he's going to adjust the zipper or touch the fabric. he stops himself, fingers curling mid-air. "that's... my hoodie."

"observant today, aren't we?" you zip it up halfway, the heavy fabric swallowing you. "caught me red-handed."

he doesn't move back. his gaze drifts down the oversized front of the hoodie, lingering where it tents over your chest, then further down to where it engulfs your hips and thighs. his throat works as he swallows.

"s'okay," he murmurs, his voice lower now. "looks... warmer on you anyway." his eyes snap back up to yours, a flicker of that familiar, helpless bewilderment in them. "you cold?"

"a little," you admit, though the room is stuffy. the proximity, his focused attention, is generating its own heat.

he nods slowly, still not moving. "right." he seems to be wrestling with something internally. his hand twitches again. "you... uh... want my sweatpants too? the thick fleece ones? they're... extra warm." his gaze dips down your legs, clad only in thin sleep shorts below the hoodie's hem, then flicks back up, cheeks flushing. "purely for thermal regulation. obviously."

you bite your lip to stop the laugh bubbling up. "obviously. but i think i'm good. wouldn't want to completely deplete your wardrobe reserves. might have to go to class naked."

the image clearly hits him like a physical blow. his eyes widen, pupils dilating, and he makes that tiny strangled noise in his throat again, the one from the couch.

he takes a jerky step back, bumping into the edge of his desk. "right! yeah! good point! terrible idea! very... drafty." he rubs the back of his neck, looking anywhere but at you.

"so! uh... anglerfish documentary? part two? the males basically dissolve into the female's flesh, becoming a permanent gonad. efficient for procreation, right?" he babbles, desperate for a safe, horrifyingly biological topic.

"hey," you reply, holding up a black lace one. "this one or the plain beige?"

he glances over, toothbrush moving methodically. his eyes sweep over you – the hoodie hitting mid-thigh, your bare legs, the bras in your hand. his gaze lingers, not on the lingerie, but on the strip of skin between the hem of the oversized hoodie and the waistband of your underwear.

it's a familiar, warm weight. he doesn't look away, doesn't seem to realize he's staring at you while you're half-dressed asking about bras. his brushing slows.

"uh," he says, foam dribbling slightly. he quickly swipes it with the back of his hand. "the... black one?" it sounds like a question. his eyes drift back down to that exposed sliver of skin above your hipbone. "looks... sturdy?"

you raise an eyebrow. "sturdy? it's lace, bucky."

"right. lace. strong lace?" he finally tears his gaze away, focusing intently on rinsing his toothbrush, his ears glowing.

"s'just... structural support is important! it's physics, you know. you wouldn't want... uh... catastrophic failure mid-lecture." he spits, avoids looking at you as you pull on the black bra under the hoodie, the movement making the cotton stretch.

you catch him sneaking another glance at the way the fabric tightens across your back as you fasten it. he quickly grabs a towel and starts drying his face with unnecessary vigor. "so! did you see that article about the octopus that can edit its own rna?"

"nope," you say, pulling on soft sleep shorts. "but i'm sure it's horrifyingly fascinating."

"exactly!" he beams, dropping the towel, finally looking at you properly now that you're 'covered'. his relief is palpable, but his eyes still do that quick, automatic sweep – down to your bare legs and back up. "it can basically change its own genetic code on the fly.. adaptation! it's.. it's incredible."

it escalates to sleeping arrangements.

your bed is marginally less lumpy than his, so sometimes, after late-night study sessions that dissolve into whispered conversations and shared bags of chips, he just... stays. flops down beside you on the narrow twin mattress, claiming a sliver of space.

one such night, you're both on your sides, facing each other, knees bumping under the shared comforter. you're wearing his softest henley and a pair of your own shorts. he's in a thin white tee and boxers. the desk lamp casts long shadows.

"so the professor actually said that?" you whisper, stifling a yawn.

"swear on my ma's grave," bucky murmurs back, his eyes heavy-lidded but fixed on your face.

well, mostly your face. in the low light, his gaze keeps dipping. to your mouth as you talk. to the way the collar of his henley hangs loose, revealing the hollow of your throat. to the slight curve of your breast pressed against the mattress, outlined softly by the worn cotton. he seems mesmerized by the rise and fall of your breathing there. his own breathing has slowed, deepened.

"that's wild," you murmur, shifting slightly to get more comfortable. your knee bumps his thigh. your hand rests near your face on the pillow.

his gaze snaps to your hand, then slowly tracks down your arm, disappearing under the comforter.

he frowns slightly, a line appearing between his brows. "where'd your hand go?" he whispers, his voice rough with sleep and something else.

you wiggle your fingers under the covers near your hip. "right here, weirdo."

"oh." he blinks. his own hand, resting on the mattress between you, inches forward slightly. not touching, just... closer. his eyes drift back to the shadowed curve of your body under the henley.

"s'just... spatial awareness. important. in case of... nocturnal predators. or falling out of bed." he yawns widely, his jaw cracking, but his eyes stay open, fixed on that spot. "like... wombats. they sleep in weird positions. very adaptable."

"wombats?" you ask, amused. "really?"

"cube-shaped poop," he mumbles, as if this explains everything. his eyelids are fluttering shut, but his hand has crept another inch. his pinky finger brushes the side of your hip, just above the waistband of your shorts, where the henley has ridden up slightly. he doesn't pull away.

his breathing evens out, but his finger stays there, a warm, barely-there pressure. "very... fascinating..."

you wake up first. weak morning light filters through the blinds. bucky is sprawled on his back now, one arm flung over his head, the other... curled possessively around your waist. his hand is tucked firmly under the hem of the stolen henley, his palm resting flat and warm against the bare skin of your lower back. his face is relaxed in sleep, lips slightly parted, dark lashes fanned on his cheeks. completely peaceful. completely oblivious to the intimate territory his hand has claimed.

you don't move. you just watch him, a slow smile spreading across your face. his thumb twitches softly against your spine in his sleep.

when he finally stirs, blinking sleepily, his eyes focus slowly on your face, then drift down. he registers the feel of warm skin under his palm.

panic flashes across his face immediately, followed by a deep, flustered crimson that starts at his neck and floods his entire face. he yanks his hand back like he's been burned, scrambling upright, the comforter tangling around his legs.

"jesus! sorry! i— i didn't— must've rolled over or— i was asleep! deep rem cycle! probably dreaming about... uh... tectonic plates shifting or something.. yeah, continental drift. very... hands-on science!" he's babbling, avoiding your eyes, practically falling off the narrow bed in his haste to put distance between you. "gotta pee! urgent geological bullshit.. stuff.. bathroom!"

he stumbles out of the room, leaving the door wide open. you hear the click of the bathroom lock, followed by the faucet turning on.

later, you find him meticulously reorganizing the spice rack in the kitchen. you walk to him up silently, wearing another one of his shirts. you lean against the counter, close enough that your arm brushes his.

he stiffens slightly but doesn't pull away. his eyes dart sideways, down to the flannel where it hangs open over your tank top, then quickly back to the paprika. "uh. hey."

"morning, pervert," you say softly, a smile playing on your lips.

he flinches, the paprika bottle slipping from his fingers. you catch it deftly before it hits the counter. his eyes are wide, mortified. "i'm not— i didn't mean—"

"bucky," you interrupt, placing the paprika back in his hand. your fingers linger over his for a second. "it's okay." you lean a little closer, lowering your voice conspiratorially. "wombats are fascinating."

he stares at you, confusion mixed with panic in his eyes.

then, slowly, a hesitant smile spreads across his face. his eyes drop down again, drawn like a magnet to the open collar of the shirt you're wearing, to slight reaveal of your collarbone and cleavage.

he doesn't snap it back up this time. it stays there, heavy and completely, innocently captivated.

"yeah," he breathes, his voice rough. his free hand reaches out, not touching, just hovering near the worn flannel fabric covering your hip. like he needs to confirm its presence. like he needs to anchor himself to this thing of his that you've claimed.

"they really are." his thumb brushes the fabric, just once. "you... uh... want my last clean hoodie? think it's under my bed. smells... okay, i guess."

then the knock comes just after lunch.

a sharp rap-rap-rap that can only be steve. before you open, you scramble to shove a mountain of bucky's dirty laundry (mostly his, but suspiciously intermingled with your softer, smaller things) into the overflowing hamper when you pad to the door, barefoot, drowning in bucky's faded navy flannel.

it hangs past your hips, the sleeves rolled haphazardly to your elbows. underneath, you've got on sweatpants and, crucially, a pair of bucky's thick, grey wool socks bunched around your ankles, swallowing your feet whole.

you pull the door open. steve stands there, in a white shirt and jeans, a canvas bag slung over his shoulder. sam wilson is right behind him, already smirking, eyes instantly taking inventory.

"hey," steve says, polite as ever, though his gaze flicks down to the flannel sleeves covering your hands, then to the comically oversized socks. "bucky in?"

"bathroom," you say, stepping back to let them in. the tiny dorm feels even smaller with two more broad-shouldered bodies. "emergency anglerfish research, probably. or just... plumbing."

sam snorts, following steve in. his eyes sweep the space: the mismatched mugs on the counter, the textbooks piled together on the tiny table, the single, slightly battered armchair draped with another of bucky's hoodies.

his gaze lingers on your feet, "nice socks." he remarks, chuckling.

you wiggle your toes inside the woolly caverns. "they're warm. bucky runs cold." you shuffle towards the kitchen area. "coffee? it's kinda stale, but..."

"we're good, thanks," steve says, setting his bag down carefully. he glances towards the closed bathroom door, then back at you, a subtle question in his eyes. "so, uh... you guys been holding down the fort okay?"

"fort's still standing," you shrug, leaning against the counter. the flannel gapes open slightly at the neck as you move. you don't bother fixing it. "mostly. bucky tried to microwave ramen in the bowl yesterday. minor meltdown. literally."

sam chuckles, pulling out the desk chair and spinning it around to sit backwards. "sounds about right." he rests his chin on his arms folded over the chair back. "so. you two... you seem pretty settled in here. sharing space okay?"

it's innocuous enough. but the way steve shifts his weight, the slight tilt of sam's head... there's an unspoken probe beneath the surface.

"s'fine," you say, reaching for a mug anyway, needing something to do with your hands. "it's small. but we manage. laundry day's a battlefield, though."

"i bet," sam says, his eyes flicking pointedly from the flannel to the hoodie on the chair. "especially when the wardrobe lines get... blurry."

the bathroom door opens, cutting off any reply. bucky emerges, hair damp from splashing water on his face, wearing clean pants and a dark green henley. he stops short when he sees steve and sam. "oh. hey. didn't know you were coming."

"texted you," steve says mildly. "twice."

bucky pats his pockets, frowning. "phone's... uh... charging. somewhere." his eyes find you instantly, drawn like a magnet.

his eyes do their unconscious (and usual) sweep: down the flannel, pausing briefly at the cleavage exposed by your tank top visible beneath, then down your legs to the grey socks swallowing your feet whole.

he doesn't comment but shuffles further into the room, gravitating towards your spot by the counter. he leans against it beside you. "so. what's up?"

"just checking in," steve says. "brought those notes you asked for, buck. and sam wanted to borrow that history text."

"cool, cool," bucky nods, his gaze drifting sideways to you again. you're sipping the stale coffee, making a face. his hand twitches, like he wants to take the mug from you. because he usually does.

"careful, that's basically tar now. should've made a fresh pot before..." he trails off, realizing steve and sam are watching this exchange with unnerving stillness.

sam clears his throat. "so, barnes. she was just telling us how well you guys are cohabitating." he leans forward on the chair. "seems pretty... domestic. sharing clothes, sharing space..."

he gestures vaguely around the cramped room, his eyes landing meaningfully on the shared textbooks, the single hoodie on the chair, your socks. "you two... figure things out yet? lock it down?

bucky blinks. "figure what out? the laundry schedule? hell no, it's chaos. she keeps stealing all my—" he stops abruptly, eyes widening slightly as he glances down at your feet again. "—socks. and stuff. but it's fine. s'just stuff."

"yeah," you chime in, setting the mug down. "it's just practical. his hoodies are warmer than mine. socks are thicker." you shrug, trying for nonchalant. "we're roommates. sharing happens."

steve raises an eyebrow, the picture of polite skepticism. "roommates. right." he looks pointedly at bucky's hand, which has drifted to rest casually on the countertop behind you, his fingers almost brushing the small of your back where the flannel has ridden up slightly over your sweatpants. "looks... comfortable."

bucky yanks his hand back as if electrocuted, shoving both hands into his pockets. "it's a small counter! limited real estate.. we gotta maximize surface area utilization." he sounds flustered. "like... uh... meerkat burrows! very efficient use of space and communal living."

sam snickers. "meerkats, bucky? really? next you'll be telling us you stand guard duty while she showers."

bucky's flush deepens spectacularly, spreading down his neck. "what? no! i don't— i mean, sometimes the bathroom door sticks, and i need to pee, but it's not like—did you tell him about that? we don't—it's not like that!" he sputters, gesturing wildly between you and him. "we're just friends. you know, roommates! who share socks sometimes, and hoodies, and., and... couch space. very platonically!"

"extremely platonically," you confirm, nodding vigorously. you reach up absently to push a stray hair off your face, the movement making the flannel sleeve slide down your forearm.

bucky's gaze tracks the movement, lingering on your exposed wrist for a second too long before snapping back to sam and steve's expectant faces. "totally normal roommate stuff. he explains terrifying fish biology to me. i steal his comfiest clothes. equilibrium."

steve just hums, exchanging a long, loaded look with sam. the kind of look that says 'sure, jan' without uttering a word. sam's smirk widens into a full-blown grin.

"right," sam drawls, pushing himself up from the chair. "platonically sharing socks. got it. very... symbiotic." he walks over to the pile of books on the table, picking up the history text. "like those tube worms bucky's always on about, right? relying on each other? merging resources?"

"exactly!" bucky seizes the lifeline, his relief palpable. "symbiosis and mutualism! the tube worm provides a home, the bacteria provide food. it's efficient and very.. very fascinating might i add." he's practically vibrating with the need to explain, stepping slightly in front of you as if to shield you from sam's knowing gaze, though it puts him even closer to your side. "no unnecessary... entanglement! just practical biological cooperation."

"practical," steve echoes, his voice dry as dust. he picks up his canvas bag. "well. we won't keep you from your... cooperative sock-sharing endeavors." he nods at you. "always... interesting."

"likewise, steve," you say, offering a small smile.

sam claps bucky on the shoulder as he heads for the door. "keep up the good work, barnes. you know, defending the sock reserves and maintaining strict platonic boundaries." he looks at you, blatantly, over bucky's shoulder. "see ya. try not to stretch out all his hoodies."

"no promises," you call back.

the door clicks shut. a sudden silence takes over the room as you both stand there. bucky lets out a breath he didn't seem aware he was holding, then runs a hand through his wethair.

"jesus," he mumbles under his breath. "what was that about?"

"no idea," you say, turning to face him fully. you adjust the collar of his shirt, your fingers brushing the soft fabric. "weird."

"super weird," bucky agrees, his eyes dropping to follow your fingers' movement. his eyes are on the spot where your fingers touched the collar. then it drifts down again, inevitably, to the oversized socks. a small, almost unconscious smile touches his lips. "those are my warmest socks."

"told you," you say softly, taking a step closer. the flannel sleeve brushes his arm. "practical."

he doesn't move away. his gaze lifts, meeting yours. the bewildered softness is back in his eyes, mixed with a familiar, warm intensity as he looks at you, wrapped in his clothes.

"yeah," he breathes. "practical." his hand comes out of his pocket, hovering near your elbow, not quite touching the flannel sleeve.

"so... you wanna watch that documentary about naked mole rats? they live in complex underground colonies with a single breeding queen. very... structured and hierarchical."

you smile, leaning into the warmth radiating from him. "sounds horrifyingly fascinating, buck. put it on." you nudge him gently towards the couch. "and maybe grab me that last hoodie? this flannel's not the warmest."

the shared bed routine had become as natural as breathing. the unspoken agreement after late nights studying or watching documentaries about terrifying deep-sea creatures. bucky would flop onto your marginally-less-lumpy mattress, claiming the edge, and you'd burrow in, stealing warmth and space until the narrow twin felt like home.

tonight, though, is different.

as you finish rinsing the last mug, bucky clears his throat. he's been unusually quiet since steve and sam left, reorganizing whatever he could in the kitchen again.

"so," he starts. you already found it suspicious enough that he was more quiet than usual, not rambling about whatever anglerfish or naked mole rat fact. but now he's not meeting your eyes, focusing intently on aligning the cumin with the paprika. "thinkin' i might... crash in my own bed tonight."

you pause, the damp cloth in your hand dripping onto the counter. "oh?" you keep your voice light, neutral. "anglerfish migration patterns keeping you up? or is it the threat of me stealing the entire comforter again?"

he flinches slightly. "nah, nah. just... uh..." he scrubs a hand over the back of his neck, the motion tight. "got some... thinking. to do. about that poli-sci paper. complex geopolitical... stuff. requires solitude. deep focus. brainpower." he gestures vaguely towards his head. "you know how it is. can't have distractions."

distractions.

the word hangs there.

you, wrapped in his flannel, wearing his socks, smelling like his detergent and your vanilla body wash, are apparently now classified under 'distractions'.

the suspicion coils warm and low in your stomach. steve and sam's knowing looks, their probing questions about 'figuring things out'... had their visit rattled him that much?

"right," you say, turning to hang the cloth neatly. "geopolitical stuff. very serious matters. i wouldn't want to impede international relations with my snoring." you offer a small smile, trying to ease the sudden, awkward tension. "suit yourself, barnes."

he nods, still avoiding your gaze. "yeah. thanks. 'night." he shuffles towards his room, shoulders hunched slightly, looking like he's heading to a detention hall, not his own bed.

you watch him go, the worn flannel soft against your skin. the silence of the tiny dorm feels heavier, emptier.

he reaches his door, hand hovering over the knob. something tightens in your chest. not anger, not exactly. a quiet insistence. a refusal to let him retreat completely into whatever flimsy excuse he'd built.

"bucky," you call out, your voice soft but clear in the stillness.

he freezes, hand still on the doorknob. slowly, he turns. his eyes are wide in the dim light filtering from the kitchen, a flicker of surprise and... something else... apprehension? hope? you can't quite read it. he watches as you walk towards him, bare feet silent on the linoleum, the oversized flannel whispering around your legs, his thick socks swallowing your feet.

you stop right in front of him, close enough to feel his warmth. he tenses, looking down at you with full anticipation.

his gaze darts over your eyes, and lips. his hand drops from the doorknob. he looks frozen. and braced. but for what? an argument? a kiss? a hug? a question about his sudden need for solitude?

instead, you tilt your head, a small smile on your lips.

you rise onto your tiptoes. his eyes widen further, his lips parting slightly on a silent inhale. he doesn't lean in, doesn't pull away. he just... stops. exists. suspended.

your lips brush the warm skin of his cheek it's light, brief. the scratch of his stubble against your lips is a tiny shock, grounding the moment. you feel the faintest tremor run through him.

"goodnight, bucky," you murmur, face to face with him. the scent of him – laundry soap, sleep, him – fills your senses.

then, you drop back onto your heels. you don't look at his face again, not immediately. you turn smoothly, the flannel swirling, and walk the few steps back to your own door. you feel the weight of his stare on your back.

only when your hand is on your own doorknob do you pause. you glance back over your shoulder. he hasn't moved an inch.

he's still rooted to the spot, one hand half-raised as if to touch the spot on his cheek where your lips had been. his expression is utterly blank, wiped clean by shock.

his eyes, though... his eyes are wide, dark pools reflecting the dim light, fixed unblinkingly on you. the pink flush has crept back on his cheekbones, clashing with the paleness of surprise.

you give him one last look. a soft smile touches your lips – with no hints of teasing. just... there. acknowledging the silence, the flimsy excuse he came up with, the lingering warmth on his cheek.

then you turn the knob, slip into your room, and shut the door behind you. the soft click echoes in the silence of the hallway.

bucky stays frozen in place. there was a phantom pressure on his cheek where you kissed him. he can still feel the soft touch of your lips. slowly, he raises his hand, his fingertips brushing the spot. it tingles.

goodnight, bucky.

the words replay in his head, soft and final. completely at odds with the jolt the kiss had sent through his system. his heart hammers against his ribs, solo drowning out any thought of poli-sci or geopolitical strategy.

distractions.

'looks... comfortable.'

'platonically sharing socks.'

and of course, his own frantic babbling: 'symbiosis! mutualism! no unnecessary entanglement!'

the words crash over him now, stripped of their defensive humor.

platonic.

the concept feels laughable, absurd, standing here with the ghost of your kiss burning on his skin and the image of you wrapped in his clothes seared onto his retinas. the way you'd looked back at him...

that quiet smile...

his gaze drifts down to his own chest, covered by the green henley. he can almost see the imprint of where your head rested against him countless nights, smell the vanilla clinging to his flannel currently wrapped around you.

his flannel. his socks. his space you inhabited so completely.

he leans back heavily against his own door, the wood cool against his back. he doesn't turn the knob. he just stands there in the darkened hallway, staring at the closed door of your room, fingertips still pressed to the warm spot on his cheek.

solitude. deep focus. brainpower.

all obliterated by a single, soft kiss and the echoing, devastatingly simple words: goodnight, bucky.

the only complex geopolitical reality he can comprehend right now is the territory mapped by the feel of your lips and the terrifying and absolutely exhilarating sense that the carefully constructed walls of 'just roommates' had just developed a very large, very warm, very you-shaped crack.

he slides down the door until he's sitting on the floor, back against the wood. the cold seeps through his pants, but he barely feels it.

the echo of that kiss, the soft weight of your lips, the scent of vanilla clinging to the air where you'd stood... it's a loop he can't escape.

platonically.

the word tastes like ash now. he presses the heel of his hand harder against his cheekbone, trying to ground himself.

what was that? a thank you? a pity gesture because he'd clearly freaked out? a... goodnight kiss?

but just on the cheek.

friends did that, right?

steve gave peggy cheek kisses sometimes. but steve looked at peggy like she'd hung the damn moon, and peggy looked back like she knew exactly how to knock it down if he got out of line.

he thinks of the way you'd looked at him before shutting the door. not like peggy looked at steve. softer. warmer. knowing. like you saw right through his flimsy 'geopolitical' excuse and his frantic symbiosis analogies. like you knew exactly the chaos that single touch had unleashed inside his skull.

he groans, dropping his forehead onto his knees. the wool of his socks – his socks, currently on your feet, warming your skin – itches slightly against his forehead. the scent of his own laundry detergent is faint, overlaid with the phantom vanilla. it's maddening. he's surrounded by evidence of you, of this tangled, comfortable intimacy you've built, and one stupid visit from steve and sam has him scrambling like a startled crab.

why had he retreated?

the thought of climbing into your bed tonight, after their knowing smirks, after sam's pointed comments about sock symbiosis... it had felt suddenly, terrifyingly exposed. like admitting something he wasn't ready to name, or admit, even to himself. especially to himself. sharing your space, your warmth, your quiet breaths in the dark... it had become essential. vital. and realizing how vital it was, how much he craved it, how easily steve and sam had seen it...

it had scared him right back into his own lonely, colder bed.

except now he's sitting on the floor outside it, feeling like an idiot.

he hears a soft rustle from behind your door. the creak of your mattress springs. the muffled sound of you sighing. settling in. alone. because of him. because he'd panicked.

"idiot," he mutters against himself, the word muffled by his hands. a colossal, world-class idiot. he'd traded the warm press of you beside him, the scent of vanilla and sleep, the unconscious way your hand sometimes found his in the dark... for this. cold floor, a throbbing spot on his cheek, and a brain buzzing with the memory of your smile and the devastating simplicity of your 'goodnight'.

the silence stretches. the spot on his cheek still tingles. it feels like a brand. a claim. a question he has absolutely no idea how to answer.

painfully, he pushes himself up off the floor. he doesn't look at your door again. he just turns the knob to his own room, slips inside into darkness, and shuts the door with a soft, definitive click. he doesn't bother turning on the light. he just walks to his narrow, untouched bed and sits heavily on the edge.

he stares at the darkness of the wall. his fingers manage to find their way back to his cheek. the ghost of your kiss lingers.

symbiosis.

mutualism.

practical cooperation.

it felt like none of those things. it felt like the ground shifting. it felt like the start of something terrifyingly, wonderfully entangled.

and bucky barnes, expert on anglerfish, wombats and naked mole rats, had absolutely no field guide for this.

bucky's laptop screen lights up his face in the shroud of darkness. his poli-sci textbook lies open beside it, pages dense with terms like "diplomatic immunity" and "sovereignty disputes."

a notebook is splayed open, filled with his messy scrawl attempting to diagram the complex web of alliances in some obscure 19th-century conflict. he'd meant to dive deep. he'd promised himself solitude for geopolitical brainpower.

instead, his finger traces the edge of the laptop's touchpad, not scrolling, just... hovering. his eyes aren't on the screen displaying a dry academic journal article about resource allocation in contested maritime zones. they're unfocused, staring through the pixels. the phantom press of your lips against his cheek pulses like a live wire beneath his skin. every few seconds, his free hand drifts up, fingertips brushing the spot, as if confirming the memory is real.

"goodnight, bucky."

your voice echoes in his mind in the silence, drowning out the imagined drone of a professor lecturing about treaty violations.

"right," he mutters aloud, forcing his gaze back to the screen. he blinks rapidly. "so. uh. article vii, subsection c establishes the the framework for..." his voice trails off. he leans closer, squinting. "...mutual recognition of... fishing quotas?" he frowns, tapping the touchpad, scrolling down. "no, that's not... wait, where was i?" he rubs his eyes, gritty with fatigue. the words swim on the screen.

'fishing quotas' dissolves into an image of your bare feet swallowed by his thick grey socks, shuffling across the floor towards him.

'mutual recognition' twists into the feeling of your arm brushing his bare back in the kitchen that morning, the way his hand had instinctively settled on the small of your back, possessively.

the word 'framework' just makes him think of the way his flannel hung loose on your shoulders, the collar slipping...

"jesus christ," he groans, shoving the laptop away slightly. it whines in protest. he picks up a pen, determined.

"okay. notes. key points." he jabs the pen onto the notebook paper. "one: humpback anglerfish. melanocetus johnsonii." he writes it carefully. "characterized by extreme sexual dimorphism. male... parasitic attachment." he underlines it twice. "fusion of tissues. permanent... connection." his pen stops.

permanent connection.

like the way your laundry seemed permanently intermingled with his in the hamper. like the way his hoodies seemed permanently migrated to your side of the closet. like the way he felt permanently aware of your presence, even now, through two closed doors.

he shakes his head violently, as if trying to dislodge the thoughts. "focus, barnes. focus. the male provides sperm, the female provides... nutrients." he writes 'nutrients'.

it feels insufficient. hollow. what had he provided? warmth? hoodies? terrifying fish facts? what had you provided? vanilla scent. stolen socks. that devastatingly soft kiss. a home, in the middle of your chaotic dorm. he wasn't dissolving into your flesh, but something felt... fused. entangled. sam's smug voice: 'symbiosis. mutualism.'

"it's not mutualism!" he hisses at the empty room, the sound too loud in the silence. "it's... it's..." he searches his mental index. "commensalism! yeah! one benefits, the other is unaffected." he writes it down triumphantly. "you benefit from my hoodies and socks. i'm... unaffected." the lie tastes bitter. he stares at the word 'unaffected'.

he could still feel the exact weight of your head resting against his chest when you slept. the way his hand had fit perfectly under the hem of his own clothes on your back this morning. your lips on his skin. utterly, completely affected.

he slumps forward, resting his forehead on the cool surface of the desk. the edge of his textbook digs into his arm.

"naked mole rats," he mumbles into the woodgrain. "heterocephalus glaber. eusocial mammals. single breeding queen. non-breeding workers. soldiers." he lifts his head slightly. "workers dig tunnels. maintain colony. support the queen."

he thinks of making coffee while you slept. scrambling eggs. explaining carbonyl groups. was he a worker? were you the queen? the thought is absurd, yet weirdly compelling.

"no unnecessary... entanglement," he whispers, echoing his own desperate defense to sam and steve. but the colony thrived because of the entanglement. the structure depended on it.

his eyes feel like they're full of sand. he forces them open, glancing at the clock in the corner of his laptop screen. 2:38 am. he blinks. once. twice.

had it really been hours? the article was still on the same paragraph. his anglerfish notes consisted of 'melanocetus johnsonii' and 'commensalism (lie)'. the naked mole rat section just said 'workers? queen?' in red. the notebook page was covered in doodles – vague, swirling shapes that suspiciously resembled the curve of a shoulder under stretched cotton, and one tiny, carefully drawn wool sock.

a wave of exhaustion crashes over him, heavy and inescapable. the frantic buzz of thoughts – geopolitical frameworks, parasitic males, stolen hoodies, your smile, goodnight, goodnight, goodnight – suddenly dulls, muffled by sheer fatigue.

the phantom kiss on his cheek is still there, but it's a warm ember now, not a live wire.

"fuck it," he breathes, the words barely audible. not angry, just... surrendered. utterly defeated by the combined forces of poli-sci, deep-sea biology, and the overwhelming, confusing reality of you.

he shoves the textbook closed with a thump. snaps the notebook shut. slams the laptop lid down, plunging the room into near darkness, besides the faint streetlight glow filtering through the blinds.

he stumbles to his feet, joints stiff from sitting hunched for hours. he doesn't bother changing out of his pants and henley. he doesn't even peels off his socks and pads to the bed, the sheets cold and unfamiliar.

he hadn't slept here properly in weeks. it smells faintly of dust and old laundry, lacking the warm blend of vanilla, sleep, and you.

he flops down. he pulls the thin comforter up, shivering slightly despite the room's ambient warmth.

he tosses. turns onto his side, facing the wall. too hard. turns onto his back, staring up at the shadowed ceiling. too exposed. curls onto his other side, facing the door.

the door that leads to the hallway.

to your door.

he squeezes his eyes shut.

solitude. deep focus. brainpower.

what a colossal joke.

all he'd focused on was the absence of the soft sound of your breathing beside him. the space felt too big, too cold. he misses the unconscious way you'd shift in your sleep, your foot finding his calf. misses the weight of your hand sometimes brushing his in the dark.

"commensalism," he mumbles into the pillow, the word thick with sleep and futility. "total bullshit." he presses his face deeper into the pillow, trying to conjure the scent of vanilla, but finding only stale cotton.

"workers dig tunnels..." he trails off, his breathing starting to deepen, the frantic energy of the night finally leaching away, replaced by bone-deep tiredness. "support the queen... you're the queen... steals hoodies... best socks..."

his body finally wins the war against his whirling mind. the tension bleeds from his shoulders. his clenched jaw relaxes. the rhythmic rise and fall of his chest under the thin comforter slows, deepens.

the image of your smile as you shut your door, the lingering warmth on his cheek, the confusing knot of feelings steve and sam had yanked tight–they don't disappear. they just blur at the edges, softening as sleep pulls him under.

his last conscious thought isn't about treaties or anglerfish. it's a fragmented, sleepy whisper, barely audible:

"...shoulda stayed... your bed's less lumpy... an' warmer... smells like... vanilla... an'... mine..."

the cold sheets finally pull him under, but the dream isn't restful. it’s thick, warm, real. he’s in his own bed, but it feels different. softer. warmer. the scent isn’t dust – it’s vanilla, sleep, and…

you.

then, the mattress dips behind him. a soft sigh ghosts against the back of his neck, sending shivers cascading down his spine. warm arms slide around his waist under the thin comforter, pulling him back flush against a soft, familiar body.

"mmph... cold," you murmur, sleepy and sweet against his skin. your breath fans over the sensitive spot below his ear. your knees tuck up behind his, your body molding perfectly against his back. the unmistakable press of your ass, firm and perfect, snug against the growing hardness trapped in the front of his sleep pants.

bucky freezes. the weight of you, the heat radiating from your skin, the scent of your hair tickling his nose. a low groan rumbles in his chest, half-sleep and half-overwhelming sensation. it feels so incredibly real.

his body responds instantly, blood rushing south. his cock hardens, aching, against the curve of your backside. he pushes back instinctively, seeking more of that pressure.

"bucky..." you whisper, your voice husky with sleep... or something else? one of your hands slides down from his waist, fingers splaying low on his stomach, just above the waistband of his pants.

your hips shift, grinding back against him slowly, deliberately. the friction is exquisite torture. "s'okay... s'just me..."

he can't speak, but can only gasp, arching his back, pressing himself harder against you. his hand finds yours on his stomach, lacing your fingers together, holding you there. his other arm snakes back, finding your hip, pulling you impossibly closer. the thin cotton of his sleep pants and the soft fabric of yours are the only barriers.

you can feel his cock pressed between the cleft of your ass, feel the way his abs spasm beneath your fingers. you hum softly again and shift, creating a slow grind of your hips that drags his erection against your warmth. he groans a sound of pure need, fingers tightening on your hip and squeezing with the last bit of control.

"like that?" you pepper soft, open-mouthed kisses just below his ear, between the curve of his neck and shoulder. "feel how much you want me?" you take your hand further down, and burrow beneath the waistband of pants, teasing the trail of hair that leads down.

he bucks against you, and a choked sound escapes him before he can stop it. "shhhh.." you soothe. "let me feel you…"

he's on his back now, blinking up at the familiar ceiling, but the air is thick. the weak light filtering through the blinds catches the curve of your smile as you straddle his thighs.

you're wearing one of his tees – the faded gray one he’d been looking for yesterday – but it's rucked up, revealing your smooth skin, and the lace of your panties.

"look at you," you murmur, your voice is soft and comforting to his ears. your hands slide up his bare chest, feeling the thud of his heart beneath his skin and muscle.

you trace the lines of his pecs, of his abdomen. a smile plays on your lips as your eyes travels down his body, lingering where the thin sheet tents dramatically over his erection.

"all worked up over little ol' me?" you lean down, your hair falling like a curtain of sunshine and vanilla around. your lips brush his ear. "want me to help with that, sweetheart?"

he can only manage a whimper, his hips lifting off the mattress, seeking friction and seeking you. the sight of you above him, in his shirt, looking down at him with that mix of tenderness and seduction… it’s devastating.

his hands come up, trembling slightly, to rest on your hips, fingers digging into the waistband of your panties. "please..." he rasps, the word raw.

"please what?" you tease, rocking your hips ever so slightly against the hard ridge of his cock straining against the sheet. he cries out, head thrashing back against the pillow. "tell me what you need, bucky."

he can't form words beyond gasps and groans. his eyes are wide, desperate, fixed on you.

you smile, understanding. "okay," you whisper, leaning down to kiss him. his mouth opens under yours instantly. you taste the coffee from earlier. he moans into your mouth, his hands sliding up under the back of your shirt, exploring the warm skin, pulling you closer.

when you finally pull back for air, his lips chase yours.

"shhh," you mumble against him, placing a soft kiss on his jaw. "let me..." you trail kisses down his throat, over his neck, down to his chest. you continue lower, down the tense plane of his stomach, your fingers hooking into the waistband of his sleep pants and boxers. you pull them down just enough, freeing his aching cock, thick and straining upwards, a bead of precum already glistening at the tip.

you nuzzle the crease of his hip, inhaling the scent of him. "god, you smell good," you breathe. "all mine..."

then, without further warning, you take him into your mouth with soft, insistent pressure. your lips close around the swollen head, your tongue swirling around the sensitive ridge underneath. you sink down, taking him deep, until your nose brushes the coarse hair at his base.

he cries out, a strangled, animal sound, his hands flying to your hair, not pushing, just holding on for dear life as his hips jerk off of the bed.

"oh god!" he arches, spine bowing. "fuck, yes... sweetheart. so good. your mouth feels so fucking good..." his words dissolve into incoherent moans, mixed with gasps. the sensations are overwhelming: the slide of your tongue along his length, the suction as you pull back, the soft hum vibrating through his cock, the sight of your head bobbing between his thighs, framed by the stretched collar of his own damn t-shirt. it’s perfect. devastating. primal.

you look up at him, dark with desire reflecting the faint light. a drop of your own spit glistens at the corner of your swollen lips.

"you taste good, bucky," you murmur, your voice thick and husky, before sinking down again, taking him deep. your hand works the base of his shaft in perfect rhythm with your mouth, twisting slightly on the upstroke. "so good for me..."

the pleasure builds. it coils tight and hot in his gut. he’s panting, moaning your name, fingers tightening in your hair, lost in the sensation, the utter surrender to your mouth. the tension is unbearable.

"gonna... oh fuck... i'm gonna..." he chokes out, his body tightening like a bowstring. "please... don't stop..."

and you really don't. you take him deeper, humming softly, the vibration sends waves of pleasure through him. your hand moving faster, your mouth sucking harder. you feel him swell harder in your mouth.

"come for me, bucky," you murmur around him, the words vibrating against his sensitive flesh. "let go... give it to me..."

suddenly, very suddenly, he wakes up with a gasp that feels like drowning. his eyes fly open, staring wildly into the pitch-black of his own room.

not yours. his. cold. empty.

reality crashes down.

he's alone. tangled in his own thin sheets, drenched in sweat.

his cock is painfully hard, throbbing against the damp fabric of his boxers. all he can think of is your mouth, the heat, the vibration of your hum.

it was so vivid he was convinced it was real. he can still feel the weight of you on his thighs, hear your whispers, taste the sensation of your lips. he can smell vanilla in the stale air.

"no..." he groans, throwing an arm over his eyes, pressing hard, trying to erase the images of your head bobbing up and down on his cock.

but they're seared onto his retinas, imprinted on his skin. his hips buck involuntarily, grinding against the mattress, seeking the you that was just there.

a frustrated moan escapes him, his hand instinctively moving towards his aching cock before he snatches it back, clenching it into a fist. "fuck... fuck..."

he rolls onto his stomach, burying his face in the pillow, trying to suffocate the ache, the humiliating evidence of the dream tenting the sheets beneath him.

but the pillow smells like dust, not vanilla, not you.

it's wrong. all wrong. the feel of your hair slipping through his fingers is replaced by rough cotton. the echo of your voice saying "all mine" rings hollow in the crushing silence.

he flips onto his back again, staring at the ceiling.

the dream replays in vivid, excruciating detail: the feel of your ass against him, the sight of you in his shirt, between his legs, the wet heat of your mouth, the sound of you calling him 'sweetheart'... the desperate plea ripped from his throat: "come for me, bucky."

his friends' voices echo, taunting him in the back of his head: 'platonically sharing socks.', 'looks... comfortable.'

then his own useless, stupid, idiotic babbling: 'no unnecessary entanglement!'

entanglement? fucking entanglement? he's drowning in it. unlike the anglerfishes.

tangled in sheets sticky with sweat and pre-come. tangled in the feeling of you. tangled in a desire so deep and raw it scares the hell out of him.

the kiss on the cheek hadn't been a dismissal; it felt like a key turning in a lock he hadn't even known was there. and this dream... this wasn't platonic. this wasn't symbiosis. this was pure, unadulterated want. a need that clawed at his insides, a hunger only you could satisfy.

he grinds his teeth, fists clenching the sheets.

he tries to force his mind back to poli-sci, to anglerfish, to naked mole rat hierarchies. anything. but his traitorous brain conjures the slide of your tongue, the press of your hips, the command "give it to me".

his cock throbs in agonizing agreement, untouched and purely fucking desperate.

minutes crawl by. they crawl.

the sweat cools on his skin, leaving him clammy. yet the frantic arousal doesn't subside; it simmers, amplified by the silence, the loneliness in his own bed by his own doing.

he kicks off the tangled comforter, the cool air doing nothing to douse the fire in him. he can still feel the grip of your hand working his cock, the tight suction of your mouth.

"can't..." he mutters to the darkness, burying his head into his own hand, clouding him further into the darkness. "just... stop... thinking... stop..."

but he can't.

the dream is too vivid, the ache too real, the closed door down the hall too loud in its silence. the rationalizations crumble. the geopolitical strategies evaporate. the intricate biology of anglerfish dissolves into the simple, overwhelming biology of need–need for you.

the dream wasn't just a fantasy; it felt like a revelation, a glimpse of a truth he'd been desperately denying.

he sits bolt upright. the movement is sudden, decisive. he doesn't think. doesn't weigh pros and cons or ponder the terrifying implications. the coiled spring inside him, wound tight by the dream, by the kiss, by weeks of shared breaths and stolen clothes, by the agonizing absence of you in this cold bed, finally snaps. the denial is obliterated, burned away by the intensity of that stupid dream that felt more real than the empty room around him.

the word 'platonically' shatters like glass.

the cold floor stuns his bare feet, but he hardly notices it. bucky's already moving, propelled by something deeper than thought. he goes across the room, leaving his heart pounding.

the hall is dark, and lonely. his own door creaks as he pulls it open. he goes out, barefoot, in his boxers, and the thin shirt stuck to his sweaty back, gaze landing immediately on your door.

he doesn't think twice. he really doesn't think at all.

the dream is still too close, the selfish ache deep in his gut is overwhelming.

he walks the distance, the sound of his heart slamming still ringing in his ears, stopping right at your door. his whole body is trembling with cold, with adrenaline, with the raw, terrifying need of you. the image of your sleepy smile as you shut the door, the softness of your lips on his cheek, and pressure of the dream… it all fucking crashes together.

the knob turns easily under his hand. unlocked. because it's always unlocked for him. the click is deafening in the hushed hallway. he pushes the door open just enough to slip inside, the familiar scent of vanilla and sleep and you hitting him like a blow, instantly amplifying the phantom sensations that he still felt in his wake.

your room is darker than his, the blinds drawn tighter. it takes his sleep-dazed, and adrenaline-fogged eyes a moment to adjust. then he sees you.

curled on your side facing the wall, the thin sheet tangled around your legs. you’re wearing nothing but his old white cotton t-shirt–the one with the stretched neckline and the faded bleach spot near the hem. it’s ridden up high on your hips in your sleep, revealing the smooth curve of your ass, barely covered by a scrap of panties. one leg is bent, the other stretched out, the shirt bunched even higher on that side, exposing a long line of your high.

bucky freezes just inside the door.

the sight is devastating. achingly intimate. the stolen shirt, your skin exposed, the vulnerable sprawl of your limbs…

it’s a punch to the gut, worse than the dream, because this is real. the turmoil from the dream, the kiss, steve and sam’s knowing smirks, it all crashes over him again, like a chaotic fucking whirlpool.

entanglement, really? because he’s drowning further.

the image of your figure behind the shower curtain, the steam, him washing his hands while staring, transfixed… the feel of your thigh pressed against his on the lumpy couch, you stretching, the shirt riding up… you reaching for coffee in his shirt, the collar gaping, his eyes helplessly drawn. the sheer, constant, unconscious intimacy of you wrapped in his things, smelling like him, inhabiting his space like you belonged there. stupid anglerfish.

"fuck," he breathes, barely audible. his cock, already half-hard from the lingering dream and the shock of seeing you, throbs insistently against the confines of his boxers.

the sight of the fabric against your skin, the way the white cotton stretched tight over the curve of your hip… sends a fresh wave of heat pooling low in his stomach.

he wants to touch. he wants to run his hand up that exposed thigh, slip his fingers under your panties, feel your skin. he wants to bury his face in the curve of your neck where the shirt collar has slipped, breathing you in.

the conflict is physical, a war in his muscles. part of him screams to turn around, flee back to his cold, lonely bed. preserve the fragile fiction of ‘just roommates’. the other part, the part still vibrating from the dream, the part that craved your warmth even in sleep, the part that ached… it pulls him forward.

he moves silently, like a ghost drawn to a flame. he doesn’t think. he just needs. needs the warmth, the scent, the feel of you nearness, even if it’s torture. he stops beside the bed, looking down at your sleeping form. the turmoil rages: guilt, desire, confusion, a deep, bone-deep yearning that terrifies him.

"just… warm," he mumbles to himself, the justification flimsy even in his own ears. "cold. my bed… too cold." he swallows hard. "just… for a minute. just… to warm up."

slowly, carefully, he lifts the edge of the comforter. the mattress dips softly as he slides in behind you, his body instinctively curling to match the curve of yours.

he’s careful not to touch you at first, lying rigid and barely breathing. the warmth radiating from your back is immediate.

then, inevitably, he shifts. his chest presses lightly against your back. his knees tuck up behind yours. and his hip settle flush against the perfect fucking curve of your ass.

electricity shoots through him. the thin layers of his boxers and your panties, the worn cotton of his shirt you wore, felt like nothing.

the firm, warm pressure against his fully erect cock is immediate, intense. a low groan escapes him before he can choke it back, muffled against the back of your t-shirt. he freezes, terrified you’ll wake.

you don’t. you sigh softly in your sleep, a contented little sound, and shift back into him. your ass presses more firmly against his clothed cock. your body molds even closer to his. one of your hands drifts back, fingers brushing his hip before settling loosely against his thigh.

bucky stops breathing. the friction, even through the layers, is fucking agony.

the feel of you, soft and warm and trusting against him…

it’s everything the dream promised and more. because it’s real. he can feel the rise and fall of your breath against his chest. smell the faint sweetness of your skin. see the delicate shell of your ear inches from his lips.

steve and sam were right, the thought slams into him, clear and undeniable amidst the haze of arousal and panic. they saw it. they saw what he wouldn’t let himself see. the shared clothes weren’t just practical. the shared bed wasn’t just about comfort. the way he watched you, the way he craved your nearness, the way his hand always found your back, his gaze always lingered… it wasn’t platonic. it wasn’t symbiosis. it wasn’t commensalism.

the memory of you on tiptoe, pressing your lips to his cheek, the soft "goodnight, bucky," floods him. the look in your eyes before you shut the door.

"oh, fuck," he whispers, the sound filled with realization. he buries his face in your hair, inhaling. the movement presses his cock even harder against your ass, and he can’t suppress another ragged gasp. "oh, fuck…"

it wasn’t just liking his clothes on you. it wasn’t just finding you fascinating. it wasn’t just enjoying your company.

he liked you. really, truly, devastatingly liked you. wanted you. craved you. in ways that went far beyond stolen hoodies and shared fish documentaries.

the kiss hadn’t started it; it had just ripped away the blinders. this feeling – this overwhelming, terrifying, exhilarating warmth flooding his chest, tightening his throat, making his heart pound against your back–

this was it. this was the missing piece steve and sam had seen, the entanglement he’d so desperately denied.

and here he was, hard as steel against your ass, wrapped around you in your bed, drowning in the scent of you. the turmoil peaked, a mix of elation and sheer terror.

what now? what did he do with this? wake you? pull away? stay perfectly still and hope the universe implodes?

the warmth is a drug. it lulls the frantic edge of his panic into a heavy, drowsy thrum.

the realization – i like you, fuck i like you – is still there, but the physical comfort, the rightness of holding you, overpowers his fear.

his arms tighten around your waist, pulling you infinitesimally closer. his hips, moving on some deep, instinctual level he can’t control, gives a grinding roll against the perfect curve of your backside.

"jus’…" he mumbles into your hair, the words slurring against your scalp. "jus’ for a bit. s’cold… alone."

another slow grind. his cock throbs, demanding more. "feels better here… with you." he nuzzles the nape of your neck.bhis hand splays possessively over your stomach under the bunched-up hem of his shirt. his thumb finds the soft skin just below your navel. "so much better…"

you stir. a soft sigh escapes you. shifting, your legs tangling more with his, your hips pushing back slightly, unconsciously seeking the pressure, and warmth he’s offering. "mmm…"

bucky freezes for a split second. then, emboldened by your movement, he grinds again. deeper this time. a low groan rumbles in his chest, pressed against your back. "yeah… like that…"

you stir more. your hand, resting loosely on his thigh, flexes. your fingers curl slightly against his skin. your head tilts back a fraction more on his shoulder, exposing more of your throat. and then, so soft it’s barely a breath, muffled by sleep and the pillow, a sound escapes your lips.

"bucky…"

a name spoken in the deepest intimacy of sleep. so soft he might have imagined it, except every nerve in his body is screamingly attuned to you. his ears, pressed close to your head, perk up. his entire body stills, except for the frantic hammering of his heart against your spine.

did you…?

the memories flood back viewed through the lens of his newfound, terrifying clarity: your blurred shape behind the shower curtain, steam swirling, him washing his hands, staring, transfixed, babbling about anglerfish while his eyes traced the silhouette of your hip. you didn’t pull the curtain tighter. you’d smiled.

you stretching on the couch, the stolen tee riding up, exposing your stomach. his desperate lie about couch integrity. you’d laughed. called him a pervert, but with affection.

you reaching for the coffee pot in his shirt, leaning, the v-neck gaping. his eyes snapping down, then away, ears burning. you’d hidden a smile in your mug.

the kiss. the soft press of your lips on his cheek. the knowing look before you shut your door. the way you wore his clothes like armor, like comfort, like… home.

and now. his name on your lips, whispered in sleep, while he held you, ground against you, in your bed.

you shift again. this time, he's convinced you know what you're doing. a languid roll of your hips back against his hardness, and a soft, needy moan escapes you, deeper this time. it's unmistakable.

"bucky…" you breathe again, laced with sleep and something else… something warm and wanting.

you’re waking up. very, very slowly. but you’re not pulling away. you’re pressing back.

bucky’s breath catches when he realizes. the realization ignites into a wildfire.

he just reacts. his arms lock around you, pulling you impossibly closer. his hips surge forward, grinding hard against the soft swell of your ass, seeking the friction, the pressure, the you. "fuck… sweetheart…"

you gasp, a soft intake of breath. your body tenses slightly against his – not in rejection, but in startled awareness. the sleepy movements cease.

you’re fully awake now. he can feel the change in your breathing, the slight stiffening of your spine. but you don’t pull away.

you don’t push him off. you stay perfectly still, molded against him. the moment is filled with unspoken questions.

the silence stretches. you can feel his heart pounding now, echoing your own rhythm. his face is still buried in your hair, his lips pressed against the soft skin behind your ear.

"bucky?" your voice is a whisper, rough with sleep and something else… confusion? shock? or… anticipation? "what…?"

he doesn’t answer with words. his hips give another small, involuntary thrust against you.

the thin cotton of your panties, the worn fabric of his boxers, feel like the flimsiest barriers in the universe.

"cold," he rasps, the lie pathetic even to your ears. "was cold… alone. came… came to warm up." he grinds again, helplessly, driven by the ache and the feel of you pressed back against him. "you… you said my name…"

you turn your head slowly, carefully, on the pillow. your eyes meet his. sleep still clings to the edges, but awareness burns bright in the center. confusion wars with something warmer. his arm is still locked around your waist, his hand splayed possessively low on your stomach, the knuckles of his thumb brushing the sensitive underside swell of your breast where his shirt has ridden up.

"bucky?" you repeat. the sudden intensity of waking up wrapped in him. his hardness.. also undeniable. "i thought… thought it was a dream." your brow furrows slightly. "it felt like… like before."

he freezes, the grinding motion halted mid-push. "like… before?" his voice is rough with sleep and arousal and sudden sharp curiosity. he searches your face, inches from his own. "what d’you mean?"

you blink, the sleepiness making the words tumble out unfiltered. "yeah.. hmm.. last week. maybe the week before? woke up like this, you know? you holding me. felt so warm an' real. but then i woke up properly and you were gone. back in your room." you shift slightly, your hips moving unconsciously, seeking the pressure that had vanished in those dreams.

"thought i was just… imagining things…" you trail off, your eyes widening as the implications of what you’ve just admitted crash over your fully awake mind. the sleepiness evaporates, replaced by a dawning horror. "oh god. i didn’t mean—"

"you’ve dreamt about me?" bucky cuts you off, his voice dropping an octave lower. the words aren’t a question, they’re a statement loaded with disbelief. his grip on your waist tightens. "like this? holding you?"

your eyes are huge, locked on his. you can’t look away. crimson paints your skin. you give the tiniest, frantic nod. "y-yes. but… i didn’t… i mean, it was just… sleep stuff…"

he doesn’t let you finish. the admission shatters the last remnants of his hesitation. his hips, which had stilled, surge forward again. not a tentative grind this time. he presses himself hard against the covered curve of your ass.

"like this?" he grinds the words out, his gaze burns into yours, refusing to let you look away. "you dreamt me holding you… like this?"

a whimper escapes your lips. your body instinctively arches back into the pressure. "bucky…" it’s half-protest, half-plea.

"tell me," he insists. his hand, the one splayed low on your stomach, slides down. not far. just enough. his fingers curl around the soft curve of your hip, his thumb digging into the dip just above your hipbone. he pulls. firmly. guiding your hips back flush against his own, forcing you to feel the length of him grinding against you. "you dreamt me… grinding on you… just like this?" he punctuates the question with another roll of his hips, the movement dragging a moan from both of you this time.

"yes!" the word is forced out of you. your eyes are wide, filled with panic. "yes, okay? i did! i dreamt… i dreamt you holding me an' touching me," your breath hitches as his hand on your hip flexes, pulling you tighter against the insistent thrust of his cock. "i dreamt.. that.. your hands…"

his other arm, still wrapped around your waist, tightens. his knuckles press more firmly against the soft underside of your breast. "where?" he breathes, grinding again. "where did you dream my hands?"

you gasp, your head falling back slightly against his shoulder, exposing the line of your throat. your hips move now, not just accepting his rhythm but meeting it halfway. "everywhere," you whisper. "on my hips an' my stomach… higher."

the sexual tension, potent since he crawled into your bed. bucky's control frays. the image of you dreaming about his touch, combined with the feel of you grinding back against him the scent of your arousal mingling with the vanilla… it’s too much.

his hand on your hip slides lower, fingers slipping just under the elastic waistband of your panties, brushing the smooth skin of your lower belly. his thumb traces the edge of the lace where it meets your hip. "here?" he grinds outs. "did you dream my hands… here?" his knuckles press deliberately against the soft swell beneath your breast again. "or… here?"

your frantic nod is all the confirmation he needs.

the dam breaks.

the hand splayed low on your stomach slides down, fingers dipping beneath the waistband of your panties. his touch is hesitant, grazing the delicate skin just above the mound of your cunt.

you gasp, loud in the quiet room, your hips jerking back against his cock in a reflexive surge of need.

"here?" bucky rasps, wrecked. his fingertips trace the edge of the panties where it meets your heat. "you dreamt my hands… here?" his own hips grind forward insistently, pinning you against him. "tell me."

"yes," you whimper. your head presses back hard against his shoulder, your eyes squeezed shut. "god, bucky, yes… everywhere…"

the last vestiges of hesitation burn away in the furnace of shared desire.

his fingers curl, sliding lower, finding the slick heat already gathering at your core through the thin barrier. he groans, the sensation making you shudder. "fuck… you’re so wet…"

he presses the pad of his middle finger firmly against the soaked fabric, right over the swollen nub hidden beneath.

you cry out, your back arching, pushing your cunt harder against his hand, your ass grinding back onto his cock. "bucky! please…"

the "please" undoes him. his hand cups you fully through the panties, the heel of his palm grinding against you while his fingers press and circle the bundle of nerves.

his other arm tightens like a vice around your waist, holding you flush against him as his hips piston against your ass in a demanding rhythm.

the thin layers separating you feel like torture. you both need skin. you need him.

"like… like the anglerfish," he mumbles against your neck, his lips brushing your skin, tangled with desire and the frantic need to make sense of this overwhelming fusion.

"the male. he fuses an' tissues dissolve an' he becomes part of her. permanently." he grinds hard, his cock throbbing against your ass. "sharing everything. blood, nutrients, life." his hand moves harder against your cunt, feeling you shudder. "we’re fused. like that. shared clothes, shared bed, shared dreams…" he punctuates each word with a thrust of his hips, a press of his fingers.

"your scent’s on everything. my clothes are yours. you sleep in my arms. dream.. dream 'bout my hands…" he nips lightly at your earlobe. "permanent fuckin' connection, s’what it is. symbiosis. mutualism. fuckin’ fusion…"

you writhe against him, your breath coming in short gasps. "bucky, oh god, yes…" your hand reaches back, tangling in his hair, pulling his face harder against your neck. "like that. just like that. fused…" you grind back onto him frantically. "steve, and.. an' sam… they knew. they saw it."

"they saw. saw what i was too fuckin’ scared to see." his fingers hook into the waistband of your panties, tugging them down roughly over the curve of your ass, just enough. his palm meets your slick and bare heat. he groans, a sound of pure animal need. "oh fuck, sweetheart…" his fingers slide through your wetness, finding your clit bare, swollen, and desperate for his touch.

he circles it. "see? no unnecessary entanglement?" he scoffs, grinding his cock hard against the exposed swell of your ass. "bullshit. we’re entangled. tangled up in each other. clothes, beds, breaths. this…" he slips a finger lower, sliding easily into your tight and wet cunt.

you cry out, your body bowing to his touch, and your cunt clenching around his finger. "bucky! yes!"

he pumps his finger slowly, curling it, finding that spot inside you that makes you writhe against.

"naked mole rats," he pants, his own breath ragged, hips still moving against your ass. it catches you off guard but the sensations, his fingers, hand..

"whole colony relies on the queen. workers, soldiers, all connected… all for her." he adds a second finger, stretching you, feeling your walls flutter. "you’re my queen, you know? stealing my hoodies, ruling my damn bed, stealing my dreams…"

he presses his lips to your shoulder blade. "an' i’m your worker, your soldier.. makin’ coffee, scramblin’ eggs, fuckin’ guarding the shower door while you’re steamin’ it up…" he thrusts his fingers deeper. "jus' protectin’ what’s mine. protectin' what’s fused to me."

your moans turn into a series of whimpers, biting your lip to stay silent. you’re trembling against him, your cunt gripping his fingers like a vice, your ass pushing back hard, seeking more friction from his cock. "i'm yours. fused, tangled.. oh god, bucky- i’m… i’m gonna fucking…"

"let go, sweetheart," he rasps, rough with possession and awe. he presses harder on your clit, pumps his fingers faster. "come for me. come for your soldier. your fused, fuckin’ anglerfish."

he nuzzles your neck, inhaling your scent – vanilla, sleep, arousal, him. "we’re not jus' roommates," he breathes, the realization settling deep in his bones, warm and terrifyingly right. "we’re fuckin' fused. permanently."

a strangled moan rips from your throat as your body shatters. you shiver against him, your cunt pulsing around his fingers, your back arching against him, your ass grinding hard against his trapped, aching cock as wave after wave of pleasure crashes through you.

bucky holds you tight through it, groaning as he feels you clench and flutter against his fingers, "that’s it, my queen. take it, take fuckin' everything…"

the words are a vow. the final, irrevocable and inevitable acknowledgment of what steve and sam had seen all along. the platonic lie dissolved, leaving only the tangled, beautifully fused reality of you and him.

a long, trembling sigh escapes you as the last waves of your climax finally subsides. you're panting, limp against him for a moment. but the heat, the frantic energy buzzing between them, doesn't fade. it intensifies, shifts. your hand, which had been tangled in his hair, slides down his chest, over the damp fabric of his henley, lower... lower...

bucky groans. his cock throbbing painfully against your hip where you'd turned slightly.

he's still murmuring, the words tumbling out desperately streaming against your temple. "and the male anglerfish loses his eyes, internal organs, everything but the gonads, dissolved by her enzymes, just becomes a permanent sperm source, attached, fused, utterly dependent."

your fingers find the straining outline of him through his boxers. you palm him, firmly, feeling the hardness of his cock. bucky chokes, his hips jerking into your touch. "fuck."

"keep talking," you murmur, still breathless, but full of new determination.

you lift your head slowly. your faces are inches apart in the dimness. your eyes lock onto his. shifting, and turning fully onto your side now, facing him. your foreheads touch. your breath mingles with his. your hand never stops moving, rubbing him through the fabric.

"can't eat, can't see, just exists to provide, fused, symbiosis, extreme mutualism." his hips buck against your hand, seeking more friction. "oh god, sweetheart, please." he whimpers, eyes fluttering shut for a second, overwhelmed by the sensation and your proximity.

"more," you breathe. your other hand comes up, tracing the line of his jaw, rough with day-old stubble. your thumb brushes his lower lip.

"tell me more, bucky. about the fusion." your eyes drop to his mouth, then back to his eyes. the hand on his cock slips lower, fingers tracing the outline of his shaft through the fabric, dipping low enough to cup his balls.

he gasps, his head falling back against the pillow, exposing his throat. "the—the.. tissues integrate, capillaries connect, his blood flows into hers, nutrients, oxygen, and everything's shared." he's babbling, his voice cracking. "there's no separation. it's.. a.. complete biological union." his hips piston shallowly, helplessly, against your teasing hand. "sweetheart—i can't—"

your lips brush his, just the lightest graze. it's not quite a kiss. bucky whimpers again, louder this time. his eyes snap open, fixed on your mouth so close to his.

"keep talking," you whisper against his lips, your hand moves from his jaw, sliding down his chest, under the hem of his sweat-damp shirt. cool fingers find the hot skin of his stomach, tracing the tense muscles, dipping towards the waistband of his boxers. "tell me about the connection, bucky."

"is deep an'," he rasps, his voice shredded. his whole body is trembling. "irreversible permanent attachment, sustained by her, for—for life." he can feel your fingers hooking into the elastic. "oh fuck, please."

your hand slips inside his boxers. cool air hits his skin for a split second before your soft fingers wrap around his bare, aching cock.

bucky cries out, a sound of pure relief and overwhelming sensation. his back arches off the mattress, hips surging up into your grip.

you squeeze gently, your thumb sliding over the slick head, spreading the precum there. "shhh," you soothe, your breath warm against his lips. "keep talking, soldier. tell me." you start to move your hand, a slow slide up his length, then down, your thumb circling the sensitive head on each upstroke.

he's panting, words tumbling out in broken fragments, his eyes locked on yours, drowning in you. "circulatory systems are linked and shared heartbeat. they are.. one organism functionally." his hips move in time with your strokes, fucking your fist. "her needs dictate his existence, pleasure, sustenance—all from her."

you pull back, spit in your hand and tightens around his cock again. the slick sounds fill the quiet room. "is that what you are, bucky?" you taunt, still jerking his cock. "fused? existing for my pleasure? sustained by me?" you lean in closer.

"yes," he gasps, thrusting harder into your grip. "fused and.. yours! please, please."

"then kiss me," you breathe.

he surges forward, crashing his lips against yours. it's not gentle. it's desperate, claiming.

a fusion.

his mouth opens against yours, tongue seeking, tasting. you meet him with equal fervor, your hand never stopping its rhythm on his cock, the slick slide amplified by the meeting of your mouths.

he groans into the kiss, his hands tangling in your hair, holding your head captive as he devours you.

the dam breaks completely. the animal facts dissolve into incoherent moans, your name gasped against your lips, pleas and curses tangled together. "fuck, yes, sweetheart, don't stop—so good—fused an' yours—oh god."

his hips stutter, losing their rhythm, fucking wildly into your fist.

suddenly, pleasure detonates through him. he tears his mouth from yours, back arching off the bed as he comes. thick, warm cum spills over your fingers and onto his stomach.

he shakes, crying out for you again and again as the waves crash over him. his body pulls towards your grip. lost, fused, yours.

you hold him through it. your hand slowing down its movements on his cock, gentle and milking the last bits of tremors from him. your lips softly press damp kisses to his jaw, his temple, murmuring his name in praise. "my bucky, mine."

he collapses back onto the mattress, drenched in sweat and his own release.

he turns his head, lips finding yours again in a slow, deep, exhausted kiss, tasting salt and himself and you.

no more words about anglerfish. no more denials. just the shared breath, the tangled limbs, the entanglement you'd finally stopped fighting. fused. permanently.

his lips are soft against yours. the desperate hunger replaced by a deep exhaustion. all the anglerfish metaphors have dissolved into this quiet reality.

"bucky," you hum against his mouth, pulling back to see his eyes. they're closed. "look at me."

he forces his eyes open. his pupils are blown wide, swimming with a vulnerability. he lifts a hand and brushes his knuckles along your jawline, his touch so tender.

"fused," he whispers. "yours." his thumb traces your lower lip. "didn't lie about that part."

a soft smile touches your lips. "i know." you shift slightly, settling your head back onto his shoulder. your hand slides from his stomach to rest on his chest. "talked a lot about fish," you tease gently. "not much about... this."

he lets out a weak laugh, vibrating through his chest. "easier talking 'bout parasitic males than.. than.. feelings." his arm tightens around you, pulling you closer. "is scarier."

you trace idle patterns on the fabric covering his chest. "scary? what's scary?"

he's quiet for a moment. the only sounds are his breathing. when he speaks again, he says, "how much i like seeing you in my clothes."

you lift your head again, searching his face. "my stealing annoys you?"

"no!" the word bursts out, vehement. he flushes again, looking adorably flustered. "god, no. the opposite." he swallows hard, his gaze dropping to where the oversized flannel you still wear gapes open at the neck.

"it drives me crazy. see you walkin' around in my hoodie. my sleeves covering your hands. smellin' like my detergent, but also like you..." his metal hand flexes against your back. "makes me, i dunno, sit up and take notice." he risks a glance at your face, his eyes dark and intense. "makes me feel... possessive. in a good way."

warmth blooms deep inside you. "possessive, huh?" you tease, but your voice is soft. "like your socks?"

he groans, burying his face momentarily in your hair. "don't even get me started on the socks. seeing your little feet swallowed up in 'em. makes me wanna..." he trails off, shaking his head, a helpless smile touching his lips. "makes me feel needed. like i'm keepin' you warm. protectin' you. even if it's just from cold floors." he lifts his head, his eyes serious now. "it's stupid, i know. but it matters. you wearin' my stuff... it matters. it matters to me."

"it's not stupid," you whisper, touched by his raw honesty. you slide your hand up his chest, over his shoulder, to cup his cheek. "i like it too. feels safe. smells like you." you lean in, brushing your nose against his. "and i notice things too, bucky barnes."

his brow furrows slightly. "notice what?"

a knowing smile curves your lips. "how you stare." you let your gaze drift pointedly down, then back up to meet his eyes. "especially when i'm wearing just a tank top. or when your flannel slips." you deliberately let the collar slide a little further off one shoulder.

his gaze instantly drops, snagged by the exposed curve of your shoulder, the hint of the swell of your breast beneath the thin fabric of your tank top.

a fresh wave of pink floods his neck and ears. he looks utterly caught.

"i—" he stammers, trying and failing to drag his eyes back to your face. "it's... distracting. in the best possible way. impossible not to look. you're... god, you're beautiful. everywhere." his thumb brushes the exposed skin of your shoulder, sending shivers down your spine. "seein' you in my clothes. half outta my clothes... it scrambles my brain worse than any deep-sea pressure."

you laugh softly. "scrambles it enough to lecture me on fish sex?"

he groans again, but this time it's laced with amusement and affection. he finally manages to meet your eyes, his gaze holding yours with intensity, the embarrassment fading into something deeper, warmer.

"maybe," he admits, genuine smile finally breaking through. "but only 'cause—'cause i was tryin' so damn hard not to just grab you and kiss you. tell you how much i wanted you. how much more than just the clothes... or the shared bed. i wanted this." his hand tightens on your hip. "wanted you. all of you."

it's a different energy now. not frantic need, but a deep, resonant connection. his admission hangs there.

"i wanted you too," you whisper "more than i wanted to admit. 'specially when you'd get all flustered looking at me." you trace the line of his jaw with your finger. "all that talk of symbiosis, mutualism... it wasn't just about the fish, was it?"

he shakes his head slowly, his eyes never leaving yours. "no. it was... hope." he swallows. "hope that what we had... wasn't just roommates sharin' space. hope it was somethin' that fed us both. somethin' that kept us both alive." his thumb strokes your hip bone through the flannel. "somethin' permanent. fused."

"like the anglerfish?" you tease gently, but your eyes are serious.

"better than the anglerfish," he murmurs, leaning in, his lips brushing yours. "because we both get to keep our eyes. and our internal organs. mostly." he kisses you then, slow and deep and sweet, pouring all the unspoken feelings into the touch—the possessiveness, the need, the overwhelming affection, the sheer relief of finally being honest.

"and we both get this," he breathes against your lips when you finally part. "this is a choice. this... entanglement. together."

you melt into him, kissing him. your hands tangling in his hair, pulling him closer.

the flannel, his socks, the shared bed, the terrifying documentaries... they weren't just practicalities. they were threads weaving you together, a tapestry far more complex and beautiful than any biological analogy. and as his arms wrap around you, skin to skin, where the flannel has finally slipped completely off your shoulder.

the honesty in his eyes ignites a spark deep within you. the slow sweetness shifts.

his hand slides from your hip, up your spine, fingers tangling in your hair. it’s not rough, but it’s firm, possessive in a way. he cups the back of your neck, his thumb pressing gently just below your ear.

"closer," he rasps. "need you closer."

he pulls, guiding you towards him as he leans back slightly against the pillows.

you move instinctively, shifting your weight, one knee sliding over his hip, then the other, until you’re straddling his lap.

the thin fabric of your panties and his pants is suddenly too much, a frustrating barrier. his eyes lock onto yours as you settle over him. the line of his arousal presses against you, hard even through the layers.

"bucky..." you breathe, the word more a sigh than a name.

"yeah," he answers, his gaze dropping to your lips. "this. exactly this." his hand finds your waist, fingers splaying possessively, while his other hand remains at your nape, holding you steady. "forget the fish," he murmurs, leaning up to capture your mouth again.

this kiss is different. deeper. the slow exploration replaced by a shared urgency. his tongue strokes yours, a claiming touch that draws a soft moan from your throat.

your hands slide down his chest, fumbling with the buttons of his henley. he groans against your lips as your fingers brush his skin.

"off," he pants, breaking the kiss only long enough to yank the henley up over his head, tossing it blindly aside.

his chest is broad, beautiful in the dim light. your fingers trace the lines of muscle, the ridges of old wounds, before moving to the hem of your tank top. you pull it off in one swift motion, making your nipples tighten instantly.

his gaze rakes over you. "fuck," he breathes, his metal thumb brushing over the swell of your breast. "even better than i always imagined."

you lean down, kissing him fiercely, your hands busy with his waistband. he lifts his hips, helping you push them down, kicking them off.

the feel of him, hard and hot against your core, even through your panties, makes you shudder.

you break the kiss, scrambling back just enough to hook your thumbs into the waistband of your panties, pushing them down your legs.

he watches, rapt, as you shed the last barrier.

then you’re back, settling over him, skin against skin this time. the shock of contact—his hard length pressed against your wet heat—draws a gasp from both of you. he grips your hips, his fingers digging in, holding you still for a moment, forehead pressed to yours.

"god," he whispers. "feel that? feel how... connected?" his hips lift slightly, grinding against you, the friction exquisite. "like... like the fusion," he pants, his eyes searching yours, wide with awe and desperate need. "but mutual. reciprocal. both givin', both takin'..." he thrusts up again, harder this time, making you cry out. "not one dissolving. but both... feeding the fire."

you nod, unable to speak, rocking your hips against him, seeking more of that perfect pressure. his hand slides down your back, over your ass, urging you on.

"yes," you manage to let it out, despite it all. "like that, bucky. more."

he grips your hips tighter, guiding your movements as you begin to rise and fall against him, not taking him inside yet, just grinding, building the friction.

"the anglerfish fused for survival," he groans, his head falling back against the pillow, eyes squeezed shut for a second before opening to watch you, to watch where your bodies meet.

"this... this is more. this is our life." his hands slide up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "this is choosin' to be tangled. to be consumed..."

you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, increasing the pace, the slick slide of him against your clit sends pure pleasure up your spine. "bucky... please... need you..."

he understands. his hand slides between your bodies, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they find your entrance, slick and ready.

he guides himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against you. his eyes lock onto yours, questioning.

"now," you gasp, pushing down. "inside me."

a groan rips from his chest as you sink down onto him, taking him deep in one smooth stroke.

the stretch, the fullness, the sheer rightness of it steals your breath.

you stop, fully seated, trembling, adjusting to the feel of him buried inside you. his hands grip your hips, his knuckles white, holding you steady as he fights for control.

"christ," he chokes out. "you feel s'perfect. wrapped around me. so fuckin' tight..." his hips lift minutely, a shallow thrust that makes you gasp. "like—like the perfect symbiosis. mutual benefit. you... takin' me in..." another thrust, deeper this time. "...me filling you..." his eyes blaze with an almost primal possessiveness. "both thriving."

you begin to move, rising slowly, then sinking back down, setting a rhythm that makes him curse, his head thrown back against the pillow.

"yes," he hisses, his hands moving to your breasts, kneading, thumbs circling your nipples. "just like that. ride me, sweetheart. take what you need. give me what i need."

you lean forward, bracing your hands on his chest, increasing the pace, the slick slide of him against your clit sends pure pleasure up your spine. "bucky... please... need you..."

he understands. his hand slides between your bodies, his fingers surprisingly gentle as they find your entrance, slick and ready. he guides himself, the thick head of his cock pressing against you. his eyes lock onto yours, questioning.

"now," you gasp, pushing down. "inside me."

a groan rips from his chest as you sink down onto him, taking him deep all at once. the stretch, the fullness, the sheer rightness of it.

you stop, fully seated, adjusting to the feel of him buried inside you. his hands grip your hips, holding you as he fights for control.

"christ," he chokes out. "you feel s'perfect. wrapped around me. so fuckin' tight..." his hips lift minutely, a shallow thrust that makes you gasp. "like-like the perfect symbiosis. mutual benefit. you... takin' me in..." another thrust, deeper this time. "..me filling you... and—an' both thriving."

you begin to move, rising slowly, then sinking back down, taking him deep again. "oh god," you whimper.

"that's it," he rasps, his hands sliding up your sides, thumbs brushing the undersides of your breasts. "fuck, look at you. riding me. takin' me so deep." you set a rhythm, rising and falling, each descent making him curse, his head thrown back against the pillow.

"yes," he hisses. his hands move to your breasts, thumbs circling your nipples until they peak hard against his palms. "just like that. ride me, sweetheart. take what you need. give me what i need. fuck ... you feel incredible."

you lean forward again, taking his mouth in a messy, hungry kiss as you ride him harder. the angle allows him to hit that perfect spot inside you with every thrust.

the sounds of your breathing, the wet slide of skin on skin, the creak of the bedsprings, and your combined gasps and moans are the only thing you can hear. his hands roam your back, your ass, gripping your hips, and pulling you down harder onto him with every thrust upwards, meeting your movements.

"so fuckin' good," he groans. "so tight. so perfect. wrapped around my cock like you were made for it." he bucks up, driving deeper into you. "perfect fuckin' pussy. takin' every inch. milkin' me."

you gasp, the coil tightening unbearably. "bucky... harder..."

he obliges, his thrusts becoming more forceful, roughr. "look at me," he demands. you lift your head, meeting gaze. his hands leave your hips, sliding up your torso, fingers tangling in your hair, framing your face. he holds your head steady, forcing you to look directly into his eyes. the raw need, the possessiveness, the awe present.

"so fuckin' beautiful," he breathes, his thumbs stroking your cheekbones. "mine. all mine. look at you. ridin' my cock. takin' it so deep." his gaze drops for a second, down to where your bodies are joined.

"god, you've got the prettiest fuckin' cunt, my girl. so pink. so wet. stretched around me." he looks back up, locking eyes again. "prettiest sight i've ever seen." he pulls your head down, capturing your lips in a searing kiss, swallowing your moan as he pistons up into you, hitting that spot relentlessly. "my girl. my perfect girl."

the kiss is desperate, tongues tangling, fueled by the rhythm of your bodies. you feel him get harder and twitching inside you, his thrusts becoming more less controlled.

he breaks the kiss, panting harshly against your lips. "gonna fuckin' cum," he warns, his voice strained, ragged. "fused.. but—but gonna— fuckin' ... can't hold it ..."

"me too," you gasp, the coil snapping tight, ready to burst. the pressure builds, white-hot and undeniable. "c—cum with me. cum together... please, bucky—"

he sits up suddenly slightly, wrapping his arms around you tightly, crushing you against his sweaty chest as he thrusts up into you with deep, almost brutal strokes.

the shift in angle, the force, the feel of his chest against yours, his arms locking you in place—it sends you hurtling over the edge. a cry tears from your throat as the orgasm crashes through you, wave after wave of convulsing pleasure and your inner walls clenching and fluttering around him in pulses.

"fuck—yes, holy shi—" he moans, his own release triggered instantly by your heat and the tight, rhythmic clenching.

he buries his face in the curve of your neck, kissing slightly as his whole body shudders in pleasure while he empties himself deep inside you.

"yours—yours. god, fused an' yours..." he thrusts shallowly through the aftershocks, his cock pulsing within you, filling you with his warmth.

you collapse against him, feeling the beat of his heart against your chest, the hot spill of his cum within you.

he holds you close, his breathing slowing down from gasps to deep and satisfied sighs that ruffle your hair. his lips press kisses against your shoulder, your neck, your temple, his hand smoothing down your back in circular strokes.

"not just surviving," he murmurs with exhaustion, and utter contentment. his flesh hand cups the back of your head, holding you gently against him.

"thriving. definitely thriving." he pulls back just enough to look into your eyes. a soft, sated smile touches his kiss-swollen lips. he brushes a stray strand of hair from your forehead. "best mutualism ever."

fused wasn't just a metaphor anymore. it was a promise, and it was home.

req prompt. Can i request for a perv dormate/roomate bucky in college where he’s always staring at the reader’s boobs, he also has a crush on the reader and they got really close to each other that now she’s stealing his shirts and him not minding about it until one night he got a dirty dream about them then he woke up and look at her sleeping wearing his shirt with no bra and with just lace panties underneath. Maybe he climbed on my bed because he cannot resist it anymore and dry humped her until she woke up and they fucked…

part ii.

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